University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
RENEWAL OF OLD ACQUANTANCE.

“How do you do, Mr. Roberts?”

“Eh?”

“Don't you know me?”

“No, certainly.”

The crowd about the captain's office, having in good
time melted away, the above encounter took place in
one of the side balconies astern, between a man in
mourning clean and respectable, but none of the glossiest,
a long weed on his hat, and the country-merchant before-mentioned,
whom, with the familiarity of an old
acquaintance, the former had accosted.

“Is it possible, my dear sir,” resumed he with the
weed, “that you do not recall my countenance? why
yours I recall distinctly as if but half an hour, instead of
half an age, had passed since I saw you. Don't you
recall me, now? Look harder.”

“In my conscience—truly—I protest,” honestly
bewildered, “bless my soul, sir, I don't know you—
really, really. But stay, stay,” he hurriedly added, not
without gratification, glancing up at the crape on the
stranger's hat, “stay—yes—seems to me, though I have

not the pleasure of personally knowing you, yet I am
pretty sure I have at least heard of you, and recently
too, quite recently. A poor negro aboard here referred
to you, among others, for a character, I think.”

“Oh, the cripple. Poor fellow, I know him well.
They found me. I have said all I could for him. I think
I abated their distrust. Would I could have been of
more substantial service. And apropos, sir,” he added,
“now that it strikes me, allow me to ask, whether the
circumstance of one man, however humble, referring for a
character to another man, however afflicted, does not
argue more or less of moral worth in the latter?”

The good merchant looked puzzled.

“Still you don't recall my countenance?”

“Still does truth compel me to say that I cannot,
despite my best efforts,” was the reluctantly-candid reply.

“Can I be so changed? Look at me. Or is it I who
am mistaken?—Are you not, sir, Henry Roberts, forwarding
merchant, of Wheeling, Pennsylvania? Pray,
now, if you use the advertisement of business cards,
and happen to have one with you, just look at it, and see
whether you are not the man I take you for.”

“Why,” a bit chafed, perhaps, “I hope I know myself.”

“And yet self-knowledge is thought by some not so
easy. Who knows, my dear sir, but for a time you may
have taken yourself for somebody else? Stranger things
have happened.”

The good merchant stared.

“To come to particulars, my dear sir, I met you, now

some six years back, at Brade Brothers & Co.'s office, I
think. I was traveling for a Philadelphia house. The
senior Brade introduced us, you remember; some business-chat
followed, then you forced me home with you
to a family tea, and a family time we had. Have you
forgotten about the urn, and what I said about Werter's
Charlotte, and the bread and butter, and that capital
story you told of the large loaf. A hundred times since,
I have laughed over it. At least you must recall my
name—Ringman, John Ringman.”

“Large loaf? Invited you to tea? Ringman? Ringman?
Ring? Ring?”

“Ah sir,” sadly smiling, don't ring the changes that
way. I see you have a faithless memory, Mr. Roberts.
But trust in the faithfulness of mine.”

“Well, to tell the truth, in some things my memory
aint of the very best,” was the honest rejoinder. “But
still,” he perplexedly added, “still I—”

“Oh sir, suffice it that it is as I say. Doubt not that
we are all well acquainted.”

“But—but I don't like this going dead against my
own memory; I—”

“But didn't you admit, my dear sir, that in some
things this memory of yours is a little faithless? Now,
those who have faithless memories, should they not have
some little confidence in the less faithless memories of
others?”

“But, of this friendly chat and tea, I have not the
slightest—”

“I see, I see; quite erased from the tablet. Pray,

sir,” with a sudden illumination, “about six years back,
did it happen to you to receive any injury on the head?
Surprising effects have arisen from such a cause. Not
alone unconsciousness as to events for a greater or less
time immediately subsequent to the injury, but likewise
—strange to add—oblivion, entire and incurable, as to
events embracing a longer or shorter period immediately
preceding it; that is, when the mind at the time
was perfectly sensible of them, and fully competent also
to register them in the memory, and did in fact so do;
but all in vain, for all was afterwards bruised out by
the injury.”

After the first start, the merchant listened with what
appeared more than ordinary interest. The other proceeded:

“In my boyhood I was kicked by a horse, and lay
insensible for a long time. Upon recovering, what a
blank! No faintest trace in regard to how I had come
near the horse, or what horse it was, or where it was, or
that it was a horse at all that had brought me to that
pass. For the knowledge of those particulars I am indebted
solely to my friends, in whose statements, I need
not say, I place implicit reliance, since particulars of
some sort there must have been, and why should they
deceive me? You see, sir, the mind is ductile, very
much so: but images, ductilely received into it, need a
certain time to harden and bake in their impressions,
otherwise such a casualty as I speak of will in an instant
obliterate them, as though they had never been. We
are but clay, sir, potter's clay, as the good book says,

clay, feeble, and too-yielding clay. But I will not philosophize.
Tell me, was it your misfortune to receive
any concussion upon the brain about the period I speak
of? If so, I will with pleasure supply the void in your
memory by more minutely rehearsing the circumstances
of our acquaintance.”

The growing interest betrayed by the merchant had
not relaxed as the other proceeded. After some hesitation,
indeed, something more than hesitation, he confessed
that, though he had never received any injury of
the sort named, yet, about the time in question, he had
in fact been taken with a brain fever, losing his mind
completely for a considerable interval. He was continuing,
when the stranger with much animation exclaimed:

“There now, you see, I was not wholly mistaken.
That brain fever accounts for it all.”

“Nay; but—”

“Pardon me, Mr. Roberts,” respectfully interrupting
him, “but time is short, and I have something private
and particular to say to you. Allow me.”

Mr. Roberts, good man, could but acquiesce, and the
two having silently walked to a less public spot, the manner
of the man with the weed suddenly assumed a seriousness
almost painful. What might be called a writhing
expression stole over him. He seemed struggling with
some disastrous necessity inkept. He made one or two
attempts to speak, but words seemed to choke him.
His companion stood in humane surprise, wondering
what was to come. At length, with an effort mastering

his feelings, in a tolerably composed tone he
spoke:

“If I remember, you are a mason, Mr. Roberts?”

“Yes, yes.”

Averting himself a moment, as to recover from a return
of agitation, the stranger grasped the other's hand;
“and would you not loan a brother a shilling if he
needed it?”

The merchant started, apparently, almost as if to retreat.

“Ah, Mr. Roberts, I trust you are not one of those
business men, who make a business of never having to
do with unfortunates. For God's sake don't leave me.
I have something on my heart—on my heart. Under
deplorable circumstances thrown among strangers, utter
strangers. I want a friend in whom I may confide.
Yours, Mr. Roberts, is almost the first known face I've
seen for many weeks.”

It was so sudden an outburst; the interview offered
such a contrast to the scene around, that the merchant,
though not used to be very indiscreet, yet, being not
entirely inhumane, remained not entirely unmoved.

The other, still tremulous, resumed:

“I need not say, sir, how it cuts me to the soul, to
follow up a social salutation with such words as have
just been mine. I know that I jeopardize your good opinion.
But I can't help it: necessity knows no law, and
heeds no risk. Sir, we are masons, one more step aside;
I will tell you my story.”

In a low, half-suppressed tone, he began it. Judging

from his auditor's expression, it seemed to be a tale of
singular interest, involving calamities against which no
integrity, no forethought, no energy, no genius, no piety,
could guard.

At every disclosure, the hearer's commiseration increased.
No sentimental pity. As the story went on,
he drew from his wallet a bank note, but after a while,
at some still more unhappy revelation, changed it for
another, probably of a somewhat larger amount; which,
when the story was concluded, with an air studiously
disclamatory of alms-giving, he put into the stranger's
hands; who, on his side, with an air studiously disclamatory
of alms-taking, put it into his pocket.

Assistance being received, the stranger's manner assumed
a kind and degree of decorum which, under the
circumstances, seemed almost coldness. After some words,
not over ardent, and yet not exactly inappropriate, he
took leave, making a bow which had one knows not
what of a certain chastened independence about it; as
if misery, however burdensome, could not break down
self-respect, nor gratitude, however deep, humiliate a
gentleman.

He was hardly yet out of sight, when he paused as if
thinking; then with hastened steps returning to the
merchant, “I am just reminded that the president, who
is also transfer-agent, of the Black Rapids Coal Company,
happens to be on board here, and, having been subpœ
naed as witness in a stock case on the docket in Kentucky,
has his transfer-book with him. A month since,
in a panic contrived by artful alarmists, some credulous

stock-holders sold out; but, to frustrate the aim of the
alarmists, the Company, previously advised of their
scheme, so managed it as to get into its own hands those
sacrificed shares, resolved that, since a spurious panic
must be, the panic-makers should be no gainers by it.
The Company, I hear, is now ready, but not anxious, to
redispose of those shares; and having obtained them at
their depressed value, will now sell them at par, though,
prior to the panic, they were held at a handsome figure
above. That the readiness of the Company to do this
is not generally known, is shown by the fact that the
stock still stands on the transfer-book in the Company's
name, offering to one in funds a rare chance for investment.
For, the panic subsiding more and more every
day, it will daily be seen how it originated; confidence
will be more than restored; there will be a reaction;
from the stock's descent its rise will be higher than from
no fall, the holders trusting themselves to fear no second
fate.”

Having listened at first with curiosity, at last with
interest, the merchant replied to the effect, that some
time since, through friends concerned with it, he had
heard of the company, and heard well of it, but was ignorant
that there had latterly been fluctuations. He added
that he was no speculator; that hitherto he had avoided
having to do with stocks of any sort, but in the present
case he really felt something like being tempted. “Pray,”
in conclusion, “do you think that upon a pinch anything
could be transacted on board here with the transfer-agent?
Are you acquainted with him?”

“Not personally. I but happened to hear that he
was a passenger. For the rest, though it might be
somewhat informal, the gentleman might not object to
doing a little business on board. Along the Mississippi,
you know, business is not so ceremonious as at the
East.”

“True,” returned the merchant, and looked down a
moment in thought, then, raising his head quickly, said,
in a tone not so benign as his wonted one, “This would
seem a rare chance, indeed; why, upon first hearing it,
did you not snatch at it? I mean for yourself!”

“I?—would it had been possible!”

Not without some emotion was this said, and not
without some embarrassment was the reply. “Ah, yes,
I had forgotten.”

Upon this, the stranger regarded him with mild gravity,
not a little disconcerting; the more so, as there was
in it what seemed the aspect not alone of the superior,
but, as it were, the rebuker; which sort of bearing, in
a beneficiary towards his benefactor, looked strangely
enough; none the less, that, somehow, it sat not altogether
unbecomingly upon the beneficiary, being free
from anything like the appearance of assumption, and
mixed with a kind of painful conscientiousness, as
though nothing but a proper sense of what he owed to
himself swayed him. At length he spoke:

“To reproach a penniless man with remissness in not
availing himself of an opportunity for pecuniary investment—but,
no, no; it was forgetfulness; and this,
charity will impute to some lingering effect of that unfortunate

brain-fever, which, as to occurrences dating
yet further back, disturbed Mr. Roberts's memory still
more seriously.”

“As to that,” said the merchant, rallying, “I am
not—”

“Pardon me, but you must admit, that just now, an
unpleasant distrust, however vague, was yours. Ah,
shallow as it is, yet, how subtle a thing is suspicion,
which at times can invade the humanest of hearts and
wisest of heads. But, enough. My object, sir, in calling
your attention to this stock, is by way of acknowledgment
of your goodness. I but seek to be grateful;
if my information leads to nothing, you must remember
the motive.”

He bowed, and finally retired, leaving Mr. Roberts
not wholly without self-reproach, for having momentarily
indulged injurious thoughts against one who, it was
evident, was possessed of a self-respect which forbade
his indulging them himself.