 | The miser's heir, or, The young millionaire |  |
THE MISER'S HEIR;
OR,
THE YOUNG MILLIONAIRE.
1. CHAPTER I.
THE BROTHERS.
In one of those once suburban villages of New York,
which that ambitious metropolis has of late years travelled
up to and around, and has incorporated within its own ever-expanding
limits, lived the brothers Ralph and Hugh Werter,
men whose great strife through life had been, not one
of affection, but of avarice. Each thirsting to be rich, as
an abstract desire, had still the pleasure of the game increased
by emulation to outdo the other, and although no
direct animosity usually existed between them, they not
only did not assist each other over the flowerless road they
had chosen, but at times even cast obstacles in each other's
way. For a while their race was a tolerably even one, but
in later years the younger brother immeasurably outstripped
his rival, Ralph, who was too timid to take any
large ventures, and contented himself by hugging the estate
he had already amassed as closely as an extravagant wife
and three costly daughters would permit.
For some years “he held his own,” as he frequently
which seemed to him perpetually threatening the towering
fortunes of Hugh; but the heavy expenses which imperious
habit, and a more imperious partner, imposed upon him,
did not long allow him to make even this moderate vaunt.
Having ceased to progress, he found himself gradually retrograding
along the golden highway which he had so gaily
trod, seemingly under some spell which no effort could
break. An occasional convulsive attempt to retrieve his
lost ground only seemed to quicken his backward pace, and
although the hopes inspired by the habit of success never
deserted him, and he continually anticipated better things,
yet he could not fail to perceive that every passing year
left him poorer than it found him.
While time thus robbed him of its gold, it also soured
his temper, which had never been over sweet, and weakened
principles which had never been over strong. His face, not
naturally unpleasing, had grown rigid and wrinkled, and
his light-gray eye, with the capacity of unmeasured gentleness
of expression, had become hard and stone-like in its
aspect, emitting glances which chilled where they fell, and
seemed at times almost Medusan in their power to blast.
Hugh was a man of very different mettle. Bold, resolute
and energetic, he was quick to perceive and prompt to
take advantage of all offered opportunities for improving
his fortunes. The one idea of gain was constantly before
his mind—it was his first thought on awaking, it dwelt
with him through the day, it mingled with his visions by
night. Like his brother, he was a speculator in real estate,
and both being successful, they had, as has been said,
together climbed the dangerous steep of Fortune for a
while, but where Ralph had paused alarmed and looked
timidly back, Hugh had planted his foot more firmly and
aspired to loftier heights. Success followed him, preceded
Midas. He could not buy a farm so unpromising, a marsh
so deep, a hill so high, but that its value trebled on his
hands.
“It is sheer luck,” said Ralph.
“It is foresight,” said his wife; “and you might do the
same, if you could but see to the end of your nose.”
“Did not I buy a farm right alongside of his Clover
Hill purchase?”
“Yes—the wrong side.”
“Did not I buy a meadow where he got a marsh, side
by side, and lose thousands while he made tens of thousands?”
“Yes, but he bought where the city was coming, and
you did not,” replied his wife, sharply.
“How could I tell which way the city was heading?”
said Ralph. “It puts out one foot in one direction, and
seems to be going that way, and then it puts out another
foot in quite a different course and goes that way. When
this new street was opened leading towards my river farm,
and one block of stores and half a dozen straggling houses
were put up on it, everybody said—`Here comes the city
—this is the way she'll go,' and I went and bought a hundred
acres more at an enormous price; and there's the half-opened
street now, the stores going to decay and the houses
unoccupied, and the city has set out on her travels in another
direction.”
“Yes—yes—I know—”
“Precious little,” said Ralph, waxing angry, as he
thought of his failures; “you know enough to praise those
who win, and laugh at those who don't—and that's about
as well as the mass of mankind do.”
A taunting reply rose to Mrs. Werter's lips, which
would probably have been the beginning of a stormy tirade,
the current of her thoughts seemed suddenly to change.
“I am sure I am far from wishing him any ill,” she
said—“but such uninterrupted prosperity as his is very
unusual—and his time may come.”
“He has some large ventures at sea now,” added Ralph,
eagerly, “and quite uninsured.”
“He will lose nothing in that way—but I do know that
the poor man's health is failing, and that he takes no manner
of care of it, and seems to be quite unconscious that
anything is the matter with him—”
“He is so wrapped up in his schemes.”
“An interesting heir he'll leave to all his riches—that
shy, sickly boy. I suppose he'll have it all.”
“Of course, there's nobody else,” answered Ralph,
gruffly.
“Perhaps he might remember us in his will—”
“Never—and more than that he'll never make one. I
know Hugh well enough for that—but it will all go to Sidney
just the same—and an unjust law it is, too, when his
only brother is living.”
“And such an affectionate one, too,” added Mrs. Werter,
sarcastically.
“No matter about the affection. The law presumes affection
in all such cases.”
“The law presumes a very extraordinary thing, then,”
replied Mrs. Werter.
“I don't see that I am called upon to feel much love for
a selfish and grasping man, merely because he happens to
have had the same parents as myself—I don't dislike
Hugh, and I certainly remember the time when I used to
have a kind of brotherly feeling towards him.”
“Well—that is something, certainly,” replied his wife,
laughing, “I did not think your memory was so good.”
But Ralph's regard for his brother did not extend to
warning him of the danger to his health, which a few
months subsequent to the conversation just narrated more
than justified the predictions of Mrs. Werter. A sudden
failure of his strength, which had long been chiefly sustained
by his indomitable energy and ambition, gave the
first serious warning of a malady which thenceforth progressed
with rapid and resistless strides. Before his surprise
had deepened into alarm, while the syren Hope yet
sang of a speedy convalescence, the mysterious springs of
life suddenly failed, and the millionaire's possessions were
reduced to a shroud.
2. CHAPTER II.
THE GUARDIAN.
“He left no will—and as I am the nearest relation of
Sidney, I am the most proper person to be appointed his
guardian, you know,” said Ralph to his wife, a few days
subsequent to his brother's decease.
“Of course you are,” replied Mrs. Werter, with great
interest, “but perhaps he will prefer some one else.”
“The law does not regard the preferences of babies; he
has no right to choose for himself.'
“Ah! then indeed—”
“And I think I can make it appear, especially to
Esquire Hampton, that I am the most suitable person.
Hampton lives in one of my houses, you know, and wants
to buy it. I'll let him have it at his offer, if necessary—
not that I would use any undue influence, of course—
but it is quite right, you know, that I should be the guardian.”
“Oh, never mind about explanations. It is to be done,
that's enough—the shortest way is the best, only see that
you are quick about it. Somebody else might be stirring.”
Ralph was quick about it. There was no one to oppose
him. Sidney's mother had long been dead, and the poor
boy, only in his tenth year, had no proper appreciation
either of his great loss or of the vast change which it had
produced in his position in life. He scarcely knew what a
guardian was, and certainly had no conception as to the
mode of making one, and when, a few days after his
that legal relation to him, he received the intelligence with
but little interest or curiosity. Boy-like, he supposed it to
be a matter of course, and he dreamed nothing of the far-reaching
influences which it was to have on his future
destiny. Sidney was not what is usually called a bright
child. He was reserved and diffident, with a confiding and
affectionate disposition, and a temper of great mildness and
placidity. Suspecting no evil in others, and no merit in
himself, he was an easy subject for the yoke of any tyrant
into whose hands he might fall, and he was speedily supplied
with a master. His guardian took him at once into
his own family, where his first lessons were on the embarrassed
situation in which his father had left his property,
and the great and unrewarded trouble which the son was
destined to give his relations.
Sidney was sorry, and promised to do all that he could
to lighten the charge which his uncle had assumed. He
knew very little about his estate, for the avaricious father,
fearful of implanting spendthrift propensities in the breast
of his heir, had kept him as much as possible in ignorance
of the vast wealth which was to descend to him. This circumstance
unfortunately served Ralph as a pretext for
perpetuating the ignorance of the child; for what, he
argued, could be more proper in him than to pursue
towards the son the same plan which had been adopted by
his father. Did he not stand “in loco parentis” to the
boy, as the appointing officer had informed him, with great
gravity, and explained to him with great condescension?
It would go hard indeed with the guardian if he did not
even improve upon the lessons of his predecessor, especially
as he had the aid of a willing and hearty coadjutor in
the person of Hester—and it was not long before poor
Sidney, with a rent-roll of tens of thousands, had learned
under the greatest obligations to his uncle and aunt for
their gratuitous care of him. It was an easy task to rivet
these chains upon the mind of the unsuspecting child, and
although advancing years must, in spite of every precaution,
bring enlightment to his ward, Ralph doubted not that
he should in the mean time gain a complete influence and
ascendency over him.
In what particular way this great power was to be
wielded, he had perhaps not definitely determined, but his
own interests and those of his family were of course paramount
in his views, while his poor nephew, poor in the
midst of his vast wealth, was regarded as a mere cypher,
towards whom scarcely the slightest consideration was due.
There was one material element in the calculations of
the guardian which has not been named, but which, assuming
vast proportions at first in his mind, still grew by contemplation
until it became to him an absorbing theme of
thought. Sidney might die a minor, leaving his uncle the
legal heir to his estates. Until the age of twenty-one he
would have no power to make a will, and how great the
probability that before that time arrived he might fall a
victim to some of the many dangers and diseases incident
to childhood and youth. Ralph certainly did not bestow
any extraordinary care upon his ward's health.
“He must take his chance,” he said, when, six months
after the lad had become a member of his family, he was
seized with an epidemic then prevalent in the neighborhood,
“we cannot be calling a physician for every trifling
ailing. Hester will nurse him.”
Hester did. She gave him whatever he wanted. What
could be kinder? Some people believed that a patient in
a raging fever should not be allowed to drink very cold
water in unlimited quantities, especially if the sufferer were
Werter had no such scruples, and Sidney was not allowed
to suffer from thirst, or from too much company. He was
allowed to remain alone with his thoughts, and fever-phantoms,
through long days and nights, interrupted at rare
intervals by the hasty visits of his nurse, to whose sharp
inquiries after his wants, his feeble reply of “Nothing,
Aunty,” was ever satisfactory and ever the same. But
hydropathy triumphed, and the child recovered, with
enough of constitution left to carry him subsequently
through other diseases similarly treated. It would be
painful without profit to paint the details of suffering of an
orphan boy, without sister or brother, surrounded by and
confiding in those whose interests were all antagonistic to
his own—aye, to his very existence.
Sidney was a sufferer, but ere he had reached his thirteenth
year, there were signs of a coming release which no
guardianship could avert. It might be near, it might be
remote, but those strange eyes, now dull and hazy, and
now shining with a brilliant, meteor-like light, and the
transparent skin, tinted at times with the flush of doom,
seemed to proclaim it certain.
3. CHAPTER III.
CAPTAIN JAY AND HIS FAMILY.
The game of life may be compared to that of chess, in
which every correct move strengthens the player's position,
and facilitates his chances for another advance, while one
misstep leads to a succession of errors which prove in the
end wholly irretrievable. If the career of Hugh Werter
had exemplified one part of this proposition, as far at least
as pecuniary matters were concerned, there were not wanting
among his neighbors instances to confirm the other.
Among these was an individual related by marriage to the
millionaire, whose fortunes had been peculiarly adverse.
Captain Jay, whose wife was a sister of Mrs. Werter,
was a sea-faring man, who, as master of different merchant-vessels,
had beat about the world for a quarter of a century,
and had been a dozen times on the eve of making a
fortune, which had as regularly eluded his grasp. His
ship usually came in at the wrong time, or with the wrong
cargo, or he was caught out in a war, his vessel scuttled,
and himself taken prisoner; or when everything else went
right, his owners failed on the very eve of pay-day; for
all these vicissitudes had in turn befallen him, yet had
failed to discourage his sanguine, trustful, cheerful spirit.
But illness had compelled him to relinquish his maritime
pursuits, and at the age of fifty he had retired from the sea
without even a competence secured for the evening of his
boisterous life. Yet he had wealth beyond what mines
and merchandize can give, in a family circle of unusual attractions,
their affections was none the less warm, nay was the
warmer because he came empty-handed and sad of heart.
Mrs. Jay was an intelligent and amiable lady, of genuine
piety, who had imparted to her children, both by nature
and tuition, her own excellencies of character, and what
was of less moment, had transmitted to them also the extreme
beauty and grace of person which had in younger
years won for herself a general admiration. She was considerably
the junior of her husband, yet she was past her
fortieth year at the time of his withdrawal from his ocean
life, which was about two years subsequent to the death of
her sister, and eighteen months prior to the decease of that
sister's husband. Mrs. Werter in her life-time had made
many efforts to induce her grasping lord to assist her
brother-in-law, in his adverse fortunes, but always without
success, and when Hugh became a widower, he ceased all
intercourse with or recognition of a family whom he feared
would become importunate claimants of his aid. But he
entirely misunderstood the independent spirit of Mrs. Jay,
whose sense of personal dignity would have been less
wounded by sweeping the street-crossings than by becoming
a suppliant to a rich relation. She became a stranger
to her brother-in-law, which she regretted only because it
debarred her from all intercourse with the motherless boy,
for whom she entertained a real affection, and whose welfare
she had deeply at heart. Her own son was about two
years older than Sidney, and the cousins, although essentially
different in character and person, had become
warmly attached to each other before their intercourse had
been interdicted. The death of Mr. Werter would doubtless
have resulted in a renewal of Sidney's intimacy with
the family of his maternal aunt, had not Ralph been very
careful to perpetuate his estrangement from his indigent
since his mother's death he had not been allowed to speak,
and who, if ever alluded to in his presence, were always
spoken of in terms of disparagement. Addison Jay was a
singularly gifted lad, whose eloquence of face and figure,
rare mental endowments, and frank, kind nature might have
been considered as the harbingers of a distinguished future,
had his lot not been cast so deep within that chill vale of
poverty where Genius so often mourns its blighted hopes.
But at the age now spoken of he fortnnately knew little of
life's disappointments, and whatever clouds or sunshine
might be in reserve for him, he was as yet a light-hearted
boy, enjoying the golden hours as they passed, and ever
gladdening with his merry voice and radiant face the heart
of the fondest of mothers. Not less beloved, not less
lovely, was Lizzy Jay, the counterpart of her brother in
face and disposition, and almost his inseparable companion,
whose heart was a well-spring of all gentle and tender
emotions. Such was the family with which Capt. Jay
found himself surrounded on retiring from his ocean life, a
family almost of strangers to the hardy voyager, who for
many years had spent only one or two months annually at
home. But his memory had been kept alive in the hearts
of the children by the affectionate teachings of his wife,
who had never suffered his toils and hardships to fade from
her thoughts, and who through many long years had looked
continually forward to the time when he should be able to
enjoy in retirement the competence he would so dearly
have earned. What pictures of future happiness had she
not drawn?—how long and often had she felt the pain of
hope deferred?—and now, when her husband had grown
prematurely old with toil, he had come back from his
“voyage of life” to a home of poverty and almost destitution.
Fortunately he did not find a repining or desponding
wife, prepared to meet him with a doleful picture of their
destitute state, and with vain regrets for the fortunes they
had missed. They conformed at once to their altered position,
and did not make matters worse by seeking to keep
up appearances of a better condition than remained to them.
Capt. Jay did not hesitate to accept a clerkship in the
shipping house of his former employers, at a salary so
small, that nothing but the greatest economy and industry
on the part of his wife could have made it suffice for their
wants. Yet they were not unhappy, excepting in their solicitude
for the beloved children who were growing up around
them, and for whose future welfare there seemed to be no
provision.
Mrs. Jay had denied herself many things for the purpose
of assisting in giving Addison a liberal education, and although,
since her husband's changed fortunes, they were
obliged to relinquish this cherished design, the ambitious
boy had already advanced so far in his studies, that they
encouraged him to continue them in private, with a view
to some contingency which might yet enable him to attain
to the profession of his earnest choice—the law. Of this
coveted result, Addison himself never despaired, nor did it
even seem to his sanguine nature a task difficult of achievement.
At the age of sixteen he was fully competent to
take charge of a country district school, and it would be
difficult to portray the delight with which he received at
that age, from the legal inspectors of teachers, a certificate
of qualification.
“Now, mamma,” said the delighted boy, “only let me
find a school that I can keep six months in every year, and
I am a made man. I can study law, at the same time support
myself, and little Lizzie too, if necessary. So we are
off your hands.”
“Not quite yet, my son,” said his father, laughing.
“The school is to be found yet, you know.”
“O, I shall find one, father. There are plenty of them
in want of teachers, and I don't look so very young, you
know. I think I could pass for seventeen,” and Addison
unconsciously drew his fingers across his upper lip.
A smile from his parents, and a loud laugh from Lizzie,
greeted this gesture.
“There's nothing there, Addy. You needn't think it,”
she said. “Your face is just as smooth as mine, every bit.”
“I wish it was as handsome,” thought the pleased brother,
as he gazed affectionately at the sweet, smiling face
that was turned towards him. “But never mind the
beard,” he said. “I think I can contrive to get along
without that, for I shall always look as though I was just
freshly shaved, you know. But I am afraid there is one
thing necessary,” he continued, with a more serious air,
glancing at his clothes, and leaving it to the garments themselves
to finish the sentence, which they did by a very eloquent,
though silent, appeal to the eyes of all present.
There was no mistaking the fact. Addison's habiliments
were nearly threadbare, besides being of a forgotten fashion,
and Mrs. Jay could scarcely restrain her tears as she reflected
upon their inability to render her son the scanty
assistance of a new suit.
“If it was to be an evening school,” continued the lad,
thoughtfully, “I might manage with these; but no trustees
would employ such a scarecrow by daylight.”
“It would not cost more than fifteen dollars,” said Mrs.
Jay, hesitatingly, to her husband.
“But we owe twice that sum already,” replied the Captain,
with a sigh; “would it be honest to incur this debt,
with no certainty of being able to repay it?”
“Addison would himself pay it out of his first earnings—”
“Of course I would,” added the boy; “but I might fail
to get a school, after all, and then we should be in a bad
plight. I don't want papa to run any such risk as that—
for I know it makes him low-spirited to be in debt. I must
manage some other way.”
“O, mamma!” exclaimed Lizzie, with brimming eyes,
“what a pity that we should be so very, very poor, when
cousin Sidney is as rich as a prince, and never spends a
dollar either. If we had only a hundredth part as much as
he has, we could have nice clothes, and everything we
wanted, and Addison need not teach a school at all.”
“Hush, my child,” replied Mrs. Jay. “He who gave
wealth to your cousin assigned poverty to us. Can you not
say `His will be done?'”
“But I do think, mamma, that Sidney is very unkind to
us,” said the son. “Poverty is not a pestilence, that he
need be afraid to come near us; and I am sure he must
know us better than to think we would ask him for anything.
Only think of his utterly disowning us, merely because
he is rich and we are poor.”
“It is a sad spectacle indeed, to see so young a boy with
so much worldliness and selfishness; but we know not to
what influences he may be subject, or how far his nature
may be tainted with hereditary avarice, or warped by paternal
teachings. Let us be charitable.”
“Mamma never blames anybody,” said Lizzie, with a
flushed face; “but I do blame Sidney, and I will blame
him. He is a little, mean, contemptible boy, never to come
near Addison, who used to love him like a brother, and
would have given him every single plaything he owned,
just for the asking—and I remember very well when Addy
cried the whole day in the garden, because it was said we
were never to visit each other any more. And then, a long
time afterwards, when Uncle Hugh died, Addison and I
Siddy would come to see us again'—but he never, never
did, the bad boy,” and Lizzie, who had talked very fast
and excitedly, burst into tears as she closed, and put her
apron to her eyes.
There were more eyes moist besides hers, and even Addison,
who began to pride himself on his manliness, could
not refrain from emotion at the recollections she awakened.
“I remember it all very well,” he said, “and how, after
Uncle Hugh's death, we kept hoping on, week after week,
that he would come, or would send for us, until one day I
met old Jake, who lived with Mr. Ralph Werter, and asked
him about Siddy, and he said that Siddy had forgotten all
about us, and that his guardian was a cross old man, who
would set the dogs on us if we came there. Then I told
Lizzy, and we had another crying spell about it and gave
it up, and for years afterwards I never thought of Sidney
unassociated with his cross old uncle and the dogs, who I
thought were perpetually going about with him wherever
he went.”
“Well, I hope you have both freely forgiven him, my
children.”
“I hope so,” replied Lizzy, and then immediately added,
in a tone which implied anything but the forgiving spirit
she had professed, “I suppose he goes to a grand school,
and is preparing himself for college.”
“He certainly ought to do so, having such abundant
means,” replied Mrs. Jay.
“I don't think it is so,” said Addison; “for they say
he is closer than ever his father was, and that he will not
spend a dollar, if ever he can help it.”
“`They say' is a very uncertain authority, my child.
You should never repeat anything evil of another on mere
rumor, which is far oftener false than true.”
“Yes, but his own uncle and guardian says this. Papa
sits there very mute, but he knows all about it, for Mr.
Shaw was out at —ville last winter, on some business
with Mr. Werter, who told him these very words.”
“Did Mr. Shaw see Siddy, papa,” asked Lizzie, excitedly.
“He saw a sickly-looking, shabbily-dressed boy, who
was sent out of the room as soon as he entered,” replied
the father, “and when he inquired if that was Hugh Werter's
son, Mr. Ralph Werter replied yes, and added what
Addison has already told you. He also said, probably in
explanation of the boy's slovenly appearance, that he was
unwilling to have any of his money laid out for clothes,
and that they gratified his whims because he was in feeble
health.”
“It is a very strange story,” replied Mrs. Jay, “but it
may be true; I do not see what interest his guardian could
have in misrepresenting, as he gains nothing by his ward's
economy.”
“I do not think it very strange,” said Captain Jay. “It
is true the parsimony of parents is most usually followed by
prodigality on the part of their children; but it is often
otherwise, and when the taint of avarice does descend to
the next generation, it is sure to be with increased force.
The fact that Sidney has entirely forgotten you, Ellen,
and his cousins, shows that he can have but little generosity
in his nature.”
Mrs. Jay sighed without reply, and the conversation was
changed to its original theme, which, after much discussion,
resulted in a resolution to sacrifice an old cloth cloak of the
mother's, to furnish materials for the son's suit. She could
easily spare it, she said, for the winter was far off, and
would quite likely be a moderate one, in which case her
shawls would suffice very well; and if the season should
worst of it. Indeed, when she saw that Addison was very
reluctant to accede to the proposition, her asseverations
became so earnest that she could as well spare it as not,
that Lizzie began to wonder why she should ever have purchased
such a superfluous garment. The young man being
urged on all hands, consented to accept the gift on the
express condition that he should be allowed to replace it in
the fall, if he should be able to do so, of which he felt very
sanguine.
The cloak was of very fine material, and nearly uninjured,
and was of such ample dimensions that there was no
difficulty in getting the two most important parts of a gentleman's
wardrobe out of it, one of which of course was a
coat, and the other was—not. The expense was now reduced
to that of trimming and making, which in the hands
of an itinerant tailor, who transported his goose and pressboard
from house to house, and worked by the day, was a
comparatively trifling tax.
Addison, indeed, came out of his hands quite transformed,
and so very trim and handsome that Lizzie declared
it was a shame he should be a school teacher, and that he
ought to go directly and marry some princess, which she
had no doubt he could do, if he should have the good fortune
to meet one. If this event had occurred it could
scarcely have given her brother more delight than he received
a few weeks subsequently, from encountering a very
different person, that is to say, a grim old trustee of a
school district, in search of an occupant for the pedagogues
chair.
The boy's credentials were unexceptionable, his manners
were prepossessing, and although there was some demur to
his youth, he was finally accepted, with a warning that he
would have some boys to manage who were much older
girls, including one or two country belles. But as
the school was not to open until the second fall month, and
it was now only August, there was ample time to prepare
for these formidable perils.
The district in which the boy-tutor was thus early called
to labor was a few miles north of his native city, though
quite within its present bounds—a distance from which he
could easily walk home on the half holiday at the close of
each week, and spend the Sunday, as he gladly promised
to do, with his parents and sister. Resolved to acquit himself
creditably in his new avocation, he devoted much of
his immediate leisure to perfecting himself more fully in his
studies, and when at length the dreaded yet desired day
arrived, which devolved upon him his new duties, he entered
upon them with the ease and confidence of an experienced
teacher.
4. CHAPTER IV.
SIDNEY'S EDUCATION.
“The boy must have some education, Ralph, if it is only
for appearance-sake. He knows nothing but what he gets
from poring over a set of musty old books of his father's.
Mercy knows what there is in them, I don't.”
“But Sukey has taught him a good deal—”
“Out of the New Testament, which she can't read, but
which he reads to her, and she expounds by the kitchen
fireside; but that is not exactly the kind of learning which
will be looked for in the son of a millionaire.”
“It is the kind most likely to be serviceable to him, if
half what the priests preach and you pretend to believe is
true. Education is of but little value to a boy who is in a
hopeless consumption.”
“Who says he is consumptive?”
“Doctor Lee says there is no doubt of it; that only the
greatest care can avert his fate even for a few years, and
that it will be almost a miracle if he lives to the age of
twenty-one.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Mrs. Werter, for it need scarcely be
said that person and her husband were the colloquists, and
that Sidney was the subject of their remarks.
“Ah! twenty-one!”
There was an emphasis to those words which implied a
great deal—and the pause which followed was an expressive
one. It was interrupted by the wife.
“It would make a very great difference with us, if such
not?”
“Why do you ask?” returned her husband, gruffly.
“You know it would. It would make the difference of a
block of stores in the heart of the city—twenty-five first-class
dwelling houses—and, better than all, a farm of five
hundred acres, which in a few years will be all city lots.
Difference, indeed! Instead of being under a million dollar
bond to keep all this safe for another, and to account
for all the income of it to another, it would all be mine!”
Ralph spoke crossly, as if he had been wronged in being
already kept out of it so long, and he was doubtless vexed
also by the cant of his wife, whose real feelings he well
knew to be quite in accordance with his own.
“Mr. Temple would be glad enough to get Eloise then,
wouldn't he?—and even Ruth and Ann, backward as they
are, would soon become belles—”
“Yes,” replied Ralph, sneeringly, “poor Ruth's red
hair would have a beautiful auburn tinge then, and Ann's
squint would become a slight and rather interesting obliquity
of vision.”
“Poor children!” exclaimed Mrs. Werter.
“A pretty bill of expenses they have been to me, with
all their French and flummery—and they are as far from
being `settled' now as ever. But for some people's extravagant
notions, I might perhaps have been as rich a
man as Hugh was—”
“Why you don't mean to say I have spent—”
“Not a million—nor a hundred thousand—nor a quarter
of that—but when a man's family expenses nearly equal
his income, he don't dare to risk money in speculation.
Yes, I might have been as rich as Hugh.”
“And have been what he is now, perhaps. What difference
another way?”
“Hush, here he comes.”
A thin, small boy, with handsome though very pale features,
and a downcast look, entered the room, and approached
timidly towards Ralph, as if expecting some communication
from him. He had, in fact, made bold to petition,
on several recent occasions, that he might be sent
to school, and, though frequently repulsed, he had manifested
a mild pertinacity in following up his design which
he had never exhibited on any other subject, and he had
now come into his guardian's presence to receive an answer,
which he had reason to expect that morning. Werter's
principal objection to the measure was the danger that a
free communication with other boys might lead to Sidney's
enlightenment on the subject of his property; but this he
knew could not be long kept from the lad without something
like positive durance, and as the symptoms of his
ward's disease grew stronger, he cared less for the preservation
of the secret. His opposition to Sidney's request
had, therefore, diminished.
Public opinion would doubtless require that the boy
should have at least a show of education, and if some convenient
country school could be found, still farther from the
city than his own residence, where there would be no danger
of meeting pupils from town, he was half inclined to
permit his nephew to attend it.
It was Sidney's request which had given rise to the discussion
just related, and which, as has been seen, was diverted
to another subject, and one more interesting to the
speakers, without any decision of the point in question.
“Well, Sid, is it the school again you come about?”
asked Ralph, roughly.
“Yes, sir,” replied the lad, in a very faint voice, looking
at the chair which his uncle sat in, but not at its occupant.
“Don't you think it rather a foolish way to spend your
money? You can read and write pretty well now, can't
you?”
“I can read pretty well, and write a little, but there are
a great many things I don't know that other boys do, and
Sukey thinks I ought to learn.”
“O, Sukey thinks so, does she? But the expense? I
am not going to pay for it, you know. It will have to
come out of your own little property, and you will have so
much the less when you become a man.”
“I know that, sir,” repiled the boy, quickly; “but I
think I would like to go, if there is enough. Sukey says
that poorer boys than I go to school and learn everything.”
“Ha! Perhaps Sukey thinks you can afford it very
well?” inquired Ralph, anxious to know whether his nephew's
sable friend, who was an old slave of Werter's, had
given him any hints about his possessions.”
“Sukey said that I owned houses, but I told her she
must be mistaken, because you would know it if I did; and
she said of course you would, and perhaps she was mistaken.
Other people have told me such things sometimes,
too, but I knew they did not know as much about it as you
did, because you were papa's own brother.”
Ralph winced a little, but replied—
“Of course not; and then they know nothing about your
father's large debts, and the mortgages on his property.”
Sidney sighed, and said “Of course.”
“As to the school, I think you may go, if there is any
good district school near us—that is, north of us—not towards
the city, for the boys in that direction are very bad,
especially the city boys, whom I have often warned you to
have nothing to do with. I will inquire about the schools.”
“I have inquired all about them long ago,” answered the
boy, quickly, being afraid of another long and indefinite
postponement of the subject. There are two within about
a mile of us, one north and the other south. I could easily
go to either. The walk is nothing—not as far as I used to
go for the cows.”
“Go to the north one,” replied Ralph, quickly, as if
tired of the subject, “and let me hear no more about it.”
Ungraciously as this consent was given, it still gave immeasurable
joy to Sidney, who was not long in availing
himself of his new privilege. The few cheap books necessary
for his purpose were procured for him without demur,
and within a few days after the present conversation he sat
out, unattended and unencouraged, to seek the scene of his
new hopes and aspirations.
The courage with which he had started gradually failed
as he drew near the school house, and when he arrived
there, it was in a state of trepidation which for a long time
prevented him from entering the door. There was no one
to introduce him to the dreaded “master,” or to make
known his wants—all was to be done by himself, a bashful,
backward boy, with his heart in his mouth, and his tongue
he knew not where, so utterly unable did he seem to articulate
a word. But he made a bold push, and found himself
just inside the school-door, with a sea of faces all
around him, and a hundred eyes burning into him, and a
hive-like hum of many blended voices ringing in his ears.
For a few moments, as he stood clinging to the door-handle,
with neither courage to advance or retreat, everything was
indistinct and confused to his perceptions, but he soon became
conscious of a bright, mild face peering upon him out
of the mist, and of a voice of perfect kindness addressing
him.
“This is a new scholar, I believe,” said Addison Jay,
see you, my lad—please to walk this way.”
This unexpected kindness completed the tumult of Sidney's
feelings, which now found relief in a hysteric sob and
a gush of tears, so violent, that the considerate tutor was
fain to draw him aside to a retired seat, and leave him unquestioned
until he should recover his equanimity.
But so long did the little stranger's emotion continue,
and so frightened did he appear whenever the teacher drew
near him, that Addison thought best to leave him undisturbed
until the noon recess, at which time they were left
quite alone by the retiring scholars, for Sidney did not
offer to withdraw with the others.
Little did Addison dream, as he sat down by the trembling,
timid boy, who did not dare to look him in the face,
that this was his rich cousin, so rich, that his income for a
single month would have been positive wealth to the poor
teacher—that this was the cousin whom he had supposed
so haughty and selfish in his affluence, that he had discarded
his once loved relations because they were poor.
Commiseration for the little invalid was depicted in
every line of the speaker's face—but he spoke in a cheerful
tone, hoping to infuse some courage in the heart of his
almost voiceless pupil.
“So you are going to become one of my scholars, are
you, young man?”
“Yes, sir—if you please.”
“What do you study?”
“I don't know, sir—I—I have never been to school
before.”
“Is it possible—how old are you?”
“Thirteen, sir.”
“Thirteen? Are you sure? You are very small for
that age.”
Addison could not believe that there were but three
years' difference in age between himself and the backward
child he was addressing.
“Yes, sir, I am sure. I have been ill, but I am better
now.”
“Where do your parents live?”
“I have no parents, sir; I live with my uncle and aunt.”
“Ah! yes!” replied Addison, in a tone of sympathy,
but in a tone, too, that said he began to understand why
the boy's education had been neglected.
A painful conviction flashed upon the tutor's mind that
the poor object before him had been otherwise neglected,
if he had not even been the victim of positive cruelty—but
he did not feel at liberty to question him on these points.
“What is your name?” he said.
“Sidney Werter.”
“What do you say?” exclaimed Addison, in a quick,
loud voice, springing to his feet and surveying the child
from head to foot, with a look of the most intense astonishment.
But his voice and manner frightened his companion beyond
the power of repeating his reply, and for a moment
Sidney was ready to faint with agitation.
“Do not be alarmed, my boy—you said your name
was —”
“S—Sidney, sir—Sidney Werter.”
“And was your father's name Hugh?—and is your uncle
named Ralph?—and is he also your guardian?”
Addison spoke rapidly, anxious to make certain of the
extraordinary fact which was thus disclosed to him.
“Yes, sir.”
A tumult of mingled emotions crowded into the young
man's mind, as he stood for a minute in silence, gazing
upon his unfortunate cousin. Pity for Sidney, self-reproach
the wrongs which he felt certain he must have suffered
from his uncle, were prominent among these feelings—but
exceeding and surpassing them all, the strong tide of his
boyish affection for his cousin came rolling back upon his
heart, obliterating for the time all trace of other emotions.
“Sidney,” he said, with scarcely repressed emotion,
“do you remember when you were a little boy—before
your mother died—you had two little playmates, who were
your cousins—a little boy and a girl?”
“No—sir!” said the child, slowly, after a moment's
thought, and shaking his head in confirmation of the
dreary negative.
Unspeakable was Addison's pain at this reply.
“Oh! Siddy!” he exclaimed, with starting tears, and
seizing the wondering child's pale, thin hand, “is it possible
you have forgotten? Do you not remember a beautiful
garden, where you used to play with them, the flowers you
used to gather together, the butterflies you chased? Do
you not remember how you went strawberrying in summer,
and nutting in the fall?—and how you played blind-man's
buff on winter evenings in the large old kitchen?”
“I remember these things—a little,” replied Sidney,
with a perplexed look, as if endeavoring to recall the past
—“I know I had some playmates, but I have forgotten
who—for nobody has ever spoken to me about them. Do
you know them?”
“Ah, Siddy, Siddy, then you have quite forgotten your
Aunt Ellen, and your cousins, Addie and Lizzie.”
“Aunt Ellen—cousin Addie—cousin Lizzie—no—I begin
to remember. Oh, how long, how very long, since I
have heard those names. Did not cousin Lizzie have large
blue eyes, and a great many curls, and was not Addy a
tall, slim boy, very lively and full of fun?”
“Yes, you describe them well,” said Addison, with
breathless interest. “And your Aunt Ellen?”
“Oh, I remember her, a very beautiful woman, who
looked so much like the picture of mamma. Yes, I remember
now, and I know now how it is that I have not
thought of them in a great while. I used to love them,
but Uncle Ralph told me something bad about them, very
long ago, and would not let me go to see them; and afterward
I think he said they had moved away.”
“Is it possible that he could have so deceived you?”
“Why, sir, is it not true? Do you know them?”
In reply to this question, Addison briefly and eloquently
described to Sidney the character of his unknown relations,
saying but little of himself, but portraying his mother and
sister with the lavish language of affection. Hurriedly and
excitedly he told him of his cousins' great grief when their
intercourse with him was first interrupted—of their daily
hopes and disappointments, as they waited and looked for
a re-union with their loved playmate, and of the cruel message
mentioned by Lizzie, which had finally terminated
their hopes. He told him, too, how these his friends had
learned to believe that he was an unkind, hard-hearted
boy, who had willingly forsaken and renounced them.
Long before he had done speaking, the large tears were
coursing down Sidney's cheeks; but he seemed unconscious
of them, or of anything excepting the strange and affecting
story he was hearing.
The orphan boy, while possessing an eminently affectionate
disposition, had literally never known a friend since
his father's death, excepting the old slave who has been
named, and to whom he was strongly attached, and now
these tidings of relations and former friends, whose hearts
yearned towards him, and who were only estranged from
him because they thought that he did not care for them,
with new and strange sensations of bliss.
“And you know them, and will tell them all the truth,”
he said, as soon as he was able to speak—“and you will
take me with you to see them, if—if—” (a sudden cloud
came over his brightening features,) “if—Uncle Ralph
will allow me to go.”
“Sidney,” said Addison, still holding his cousin's hand,
“look at me. I am but a little more than three years
older than you, although I am so much larger. When you
were eight years of age, I was but eleven. Oh, Siddy,
Siddy, can you not guess?”
“That you are my cousin?” shouted Sidney, wild with
excitement, as he felt the arms of Addison, encircling him,
and drawing him closer and closer to his side. “O! how
very glad I am!”
The sobs of the boy, and the deep emotion of the young
man, for some time prevented further conversation.
When they became more calm, there was a world of questions
to be asked and answered on either side, and the
whole interval of recess elapsed before their reminiscences
were recounted or their explanations made.
After school hours the teacher accompanied Sidney part
of the way home, while they continued their earnest and
eager conversation, and planned schemes for the future,
full of bright and dazzling colors. How the tediousness of
teaching, and the weariness of study, were to be relieved
by their mutual companionship, and how blissful were all
their leisure hours to be rendered.
In some way, too, but how they knew not yet, they
hoped that Sidney might be permitted to accompany his
cousin in some of his weekly visits home, and renew the
long suspended intimacy of childhood with little Lizzie,
little now no longer, and with his aunt, who still cherished,
boy.
Addison did not learn, what would have greatly astonished
him, that Sidney was quite ignorant of his immense
wealth, and he marvelled that, while half the valuable
farms which lay on either side of their long road belonged
absolutely to his little companion, not a word was said nor
an allusion made by him to the subject. He felt scarcely
at liberty himself to refer to this topic while his cousin was
silent upon it, and even if he had been so inclined, there
was another and more pressing subject which demanded attention
before parting.
There was every reason to believe that, if Sidney's guardian
should learn who was his nephew's teacher, he would
not only at once withdraw the boy from school, but that
he would probably take other means to prevent their meeting
again. Although solicitous beyond expression to avoid
this dreaded result, Addison's frank and honest nature revolted
at the idea of using any deceit even for a good end,
and it became a matter of extreme doubt whether the important
secret could be kept.
Their chief hope lay in Ralph's indifference to his ward's
interests, and in the thought that he might neglect to make
any inquiries about the school.
“If he asks the teacher's name?” said Sidney, anxiously,
as they discussed this nice question of ethics.
“Tell him it is Mr. Jay,” replied Addison—“I do not
think he will suspect.”
“But, oh! Addison, if he should suspect, and should inquire
if it is my cousin—”
“Tell him the truth,” replied the young man, boldly,
“and trust to the great Source of Truth for the result.”
Addison's conscientiousness was not even quieted by
these resolves. He feared that he ought to instruct the
although unquestioned, and to be directed by him as his
legal guardian and adviser; but feeling certain that Ralph
had already wronged and deceived his ward, and believing
that he would not hesitate to do so again, when interest or
caprice dictated such a course, he thought that the plan he
had advised might be all that duty required.
The fear of distressing his cousin, the hopes of benefiting
him and making him happy, the many joyous hours
of future intercourse with him to which he looked forward,
combined to influence him in the resolution he had taken,
but could not carry him further.
Sidney's religious teachings had by no means been neglected,
for old Sukey was a devout Christian, but his moral
perceptions were less cultivated than his cousin's, and
he would have gone a little further, although not to the
telling of an untruth, to preserve his newly acquired happiness—but
he yielded readily to Addison's views, and a
deep sense of respect was added to his affection for his
cousin. The young companions parted about a third of a
mile from the home of Sidney, who proceeded the remainder
of the way alone, in great trepidation lest his prized
secret should be wrung from him. How eventful had been
the experience of the few past hours—how vast the teachings
of his first day at school.
5. CHAPTER V.
THE DISCOVERY.
To Sidney's great terror, on his arrival home, he found
his usually taciturn uncle disposed to be talkative, and inquisitive
in regard to his day's adventures. The boy
had tried every way to avoid meeting him, but when the
dreaded “tea-time” came, there was no longer any chance
to evade the interview.
“How did Sidney like his school?” asked Ralph of his
wife, after a pause in conversation, which had been running
upon crops and the weather—for Mr. Werter's principal
farm manager lived with him, and sat at his board.
“I don't know,” replied Hester, while Sidney's little
heart beat so hard that he really feared they would hear
it. “I don't know—you can ask him. I have had no
chance to do so, for he seems to keep out of the way, and
I think quite likely he has had a whipping.”
“What do you say, Sid? You do not seem quite as
delighted about it as you were a few days ago. How did
you like it?”
“Very well, sir,” said a faint and almost inaudible voice.
“What kind of teacher did you have?”
“Very good, sir,” replied the same half whisper, while
the poor boy's teeth fairly chattered with affright.
“Humph! `Very well and very good'—but you don't
seem much delighted, though. Is your teacher a man or a
woman?”
“A man—”
“A young man?”
“Yes.”
“What is his name?”
“Oh, Uncle Ralph,” said Sidney, desperately, seeking
a diversion of the attack, “when I was coming home from
school I saw the line fence very badly broken between the
north farm and Mr. Rice's pasture. There was nearly a
whole length down.”
“What do you say? Where was it? In what part?”
asked Ralph, with much interest.
“By the wheat field.”
“And why did you not tell me this before?”
Now Sidney had really reserved this piece of information,
which was strictly true, for the very use to which he had
applied it, and he knew not how to answer this question.
“Why did you not tell me sooner, I say?” repeated the
guardian angrily. “You have been home two hours.”
“Oh, because, sir—because—because—”
“Because you are a stupid, bad boy. Mr. Wells, this
must be seen to before dark, or the lot will be full of cattle
before morning.”
“I will go and fix it at once,” replied the farmer, hurrying
to finish his meal, and while various conjectures began
to be made as to how the accident, which was quite a
serious one in a farmer's estimation, had happened, and
whether through their fault or their neighbor's, poor Sidney
began to breathe freer and deeper, little heeding the
chiding which he had received, so that he had warded off
the dreaded, the terrible inquiry which had been begun.
But Miss Eloise had unfortunately heard the interesting
intelligence that Sidney's teacher was a young man, and
her inquisitiveness was now fully awakened.
“Is the schoolmaster handsome, Sidney?” she asked,
after her father and Mr. Wells had left the table.
“Oh, yes,” he replied quickly, thrown quite off his guard
by his delight at being able to answer one question freely,
and by the still greater delight of praising Addison. “O,
yes, very handsome—I never saw a handsome man.”
“Ah! a fine judge of beauty you are, I dare say,” said
Eloise, who began to imagine the teacher accompanying
his pupil home, staying to tea, and making himself generally
interesting. Handsome young men were quite the
kind of quarry she was in the habit of pursuing.
“Is he tall or short?” she continued.
“Quite tall—a good deal taller than I.”
“You, indeed! You pigmy! Why do you compare
him to yourself? You are a little boy.”
“Oh, I know that,” answered Sidney, coloring.
“Well, so this Mr. What's-his-name is both tall and
handsome. I suppose he is not very straight or graceful.”
“Yes, he is both,” answered Sidney, still quite unconscious
of the very dangerous curiosity he was awakening.
“But he dresses shabbily, and like a country bumpkin?”
“No, he does not—he dresses like a gentleman—and he
is perfectly clean and neat. His hands are as white as
yours.”
“Eloise,” said Ruth, laughing, “I think you will have
to go and call on Mary Dale soon. She lives near the
north school house.”
“Perhaps I shall,” replied the elder sister. “If I don't
others will. Mary Dale will have more calls than she ever
did before, you may depend on that.”
Although Sidney, as has been said, was not a lad of
quick perception, he could not now fail to see that his
cousin's remarks had not been mere badinage, as he had
supposed, but that she took a real interest in the subject
of her inquiries, and, in new alarm, he was about rising
from the table, when he was retained by further questions.
“Does this wonderful man `board around' like other
schoolmasters?” asked Eloise, in allusion to a well-known
country custom of quartering the teacher successively upon
all the families in his district, a week or two at a time.
“I don't know.”
“But wait a minute. I have forgotten what you said
his name was.”
Alas! the petard was again beneath his feet, and he had
no longer power to prevent its explosion. Tell a falsehood
he would not, and to hesitate would create suspicion.
With as careless an air as, in his agitation, he could assume,
he replied—
“Mr. Jay.”
“Jay?—Jay?” said Eloise—“it seems to me I have
heard that name before. Mother, do you know any Jays?”
“Yes, I know some Jays and some Jackdaws,” replied
Mrs. Werter, tartly. “Your father used to know a Mr.
Jay in New York—but he was a sailor, and the family
were quite low, and wretchedly poor. I don't know any
others, and I don't want to.”
“There is a very respectable family of that name in
New York,” said Eloise, in whose vocabulary the word respectable
meant rich. “I'll go and ask father immediately.”
“Oh, don't!” exclaimed Sidney, affrightedly.
It was a rash and unfortunate speech, and could not fail
to awaken suspicions.
“Why, what on earth is the matter with the child?”
exclaimed Mrs. Werter, now beginning for the first time
to manifest an interest in the discussion. “Why he is as
white as a sheet—come here, sir.”
Sidney obeyed.
“What is the reason you don't want Eloise to ask about
Mr. Jay?” she said, in a sharp, harsh voice, before which
more than all other dreadful things.
He did not answer.
“What is the reason, I say? Do you know anything
about this man more than you have told us?”
There was no response.
“Sidney!” shrieked Mrs. Werter, in a note of awful
warning: but still the boy remained speechless, and at the
next instant the red hand of the virago rose and fell with
arrowy swiftness, and with the sound as of an exploded
pistol ringing in his ear, the stunned child staggered backward
and leaned against the wall, which was less white
than his countenance. He did not cry, he did not speak,
but there was a look of despair and submission in his pale
face, which his mistress was accustomed to and understood.
“Tell me now!” she said. “Do you know anything
more of this man than you have told?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“He is my cousin.”
Despair has no deeper tone than that in which the
orphan boy uttered this sentence—a sentence which he
well knew would at once dispel the whole brilliant vision
which had so suddenly illumined his lonely heart.
“Your cousin! What, the son of old Jay, the sailor?”
“His father was a captain.”
“A captain, indeed! His father was a beggar, and so
is he. Ruth, go and send your father here directly. He
must know about this. You may go, if you want to.”
The last sentence was addressed to Sidney, who quickly
availed himself of the permission to leave the room and
withdraw to his own little dormitory, where he was permitted
to remain undisturbed until the next morning.
Undisturbed! Alas! what could add to the torture he already
doom, he knew that he should be separated from Addison,
perhaps never again to see him—never to know those other
dear friends whom he had hoped so soon to meet. It was
evening, and the bright stars were shining through the
clear, autumnal sky, affording the only light to Sidney's
room, and perhaps for that reason serving to draw his
thoughts upward, as he stood sobbing by the window, with
his raised hands upon the sash. His young spirit had
often wished to be released from earth, for that brighter
home of which he fully believed he was to be an inheritor,
through the great Mediator, but this night his heavenward
longings came upon him with increased intensity. His
faith was simple and sincere; and, although really approximating
nearer to innocence and virtue than mortals often
do, even at that tender age, yet his sense of demerit was
deep and abiding.
There was nothing mythical or mystical in Sidney's
views of Heaven; all was a solid and brilliant reality,
obscured by no clouds of doubt, dimmed by no shadows of
distrust. He gazed into the cerulean depths, and along
the glittering galaxies of stars, and believed that he saw
the exterior of that golden city, where saints and angels
walked—where his dear mother dwelt, and looked with
pitying eyes upon him, whenever sickness or suffering was
his lot. With such a faith, and with such feelings, he
knelt down and prayed long and earnestly, gazing through
blinding tears towards the material heavens, but seeing
through the sublimer vision of faith the radiant glories of
the eternal world.
Peace came in answer to prayer, and, after a night of
rest, Sidney arose prepared for and meekly expectant of
the tidings which he was not long in receiving, that he was
to see his cousin no more. His uncle professed to believe,
Addison's position as a teacher, and had practised deceit
and cunning to obtain permission to attend his school, for
the purpose of renewing his acquaintance with him, which
had been once positively interdicted. Ralph at least knew
that there was enough of the appearance of a plot between
the boys to counteract his authority, to justify him in
seeming greatly offended, and in the use of any harsh
measures he might choose to adopt to prevent their future
meeting.
He took pains to renew in Sidney's mind the prejudices
which he had implanted there years before against the Jay
family, whom he represented as in every way unworthy of
regard; but, although his broken-spirited ward heard him
in silence, his faith in Addison remained unshaken, and his
love for him unabated.
Nor would he believe any ill of the parents or sister of
his new friend, although he could imagine no reason why
his uncle should misrepresent them; nor could he conceive
of any person being so wicked as wilfully to malign and
slander a fellow being.
6. CHAPTER VI.
THE ARREST AND RELEASE.
Addison Jay sought his school-room at an early hour
on the morning after parting with his young cousin, and
awaited his arrival with contending feelings of fear and
hope. Long and often he looked down the road which led
to Mr. Werter's residence, and watched with painful anxiety
the successive appearance of his pupils in the distance,
thinking each new comer might be Sidney, and, when undeceived
by a nearer approach, again fastening his eyes and
hopes upon another more remote figure, only to be again
disappointed.
When the school hour came without bringing the object
of his wishes, he turned with a heavy heart to his duties,
foreboding the worst, yet not worse than the reality. For
a day or two he hoped against hope, that his cousin might
yet appear, and that only some temporary illness had
detained him at home; but, when forced to relinquish even
this belief, he boldly resolved to go to Mr. Werter's house,
and make inquiries after his missing scholar.
It required some courage for the boy-tutor to do this,
for from infancy he had looked upon Sidney's guardian as
a cross and severe man; and he smiled as he found himself
mentally picturing him again, accompanied by those fieree
canine attendants, which were the terror of his childhood.
He went, but it need not be said only to meet with the
coldest repulse from Ralph, whom only he saw, and whom
he met on his grounds before reaching the house. He
before he sneeringly replied—
“What do you teach in your school, young man, besides
deceit and disobedience to parents and guardians? I think
one day's lessons to Sidney will suffice in these branches,
for he is an apt scholar.”
Addison began an indignant reply, zealous to exculpate
both himself and his cousin from so unfounded a charge,
but he was cut short.
“You may go—I have other business to attend to, and
I do not wish to hear you.”
“But you do me great injustice, sir, and I wish to
explain.”
“I want no explanations—I advise you to go, sir. If
you cannot get scholars without going about enticing little
children—out of your district, too—then, perhaps, you had
better try some other business.”
“Mr. Werter!” exclaimed Addison, so swelling with
rage at this taunting and ridiculous accusation, that he
could find no words with which to reply, excepting one that
he would not use. He longed to call him by the comprehensive
name which so much falsehood deserved.
“You had better go,” repeated Ralph, with a cold sneer.
“Don't make it necessary for me to complain to your trustees,
and spoil your business, which seems to be none too
good.”
“I will go from the presence of such a paltry old
wretch,” said Addison, desperately, his fine eyes flashing
with the electrical light of wrath. “Any words that could
move a man, would be thrown away upon you. You may
do your worst.”
The young man turned away as he spoke, but Ralph,
pale with rage, stepped quickly after him, raising his cane
as he did so, and ordering him off.
Perhaps he did not mean to strike, but wished to impose
the indignity of the threat upon young Jay, and at least
seem to drive him away. But he mistook the spirit of his
visitor, who no sooner perceived the assault than he turned
quickly around and stood still, with a face of ashy whiteness,
it is true, but with features full of a warning expression.
Ralph read them not, for his upraised cane came down,
grazing the shoulder of the youth, while, so quick it
seemed almost simultaneous with the blow, the stick was
sent whirling through the air, and the old man was rolling
down the side of a steep hillock, upon the edge of which
they had stopped, and was received in a shallow pool of
water at its base. Addison had not struck him—nothing
could have tempted him to such an act—he had only
wrenched from him his weapon, while his assailant's catastrophe
was owing entirely to a misstep backward on the
hillside, combined, doubtless, with his own great agitation.
With the promptings of a generous nature, young Jay
instantly hastened to the side of his vanquished adversary,
but all offers of assistance were angrily refused, with many
threats of revenge.
Having satisfied himself that Werter was not seriously
hurt, Addison left him and returned homeward, not a little
grieved at an adventure so untoward, and which might
be used by his malicious opponent so greatly to his
detriment.
Poor, and without influential friends, he had made a
violent enemy of a rich and unscrupulous man, and what
amount of evil, both to himself and all whom he most loved,
might he not expect to result from his imprudence. He
feared the worst—and it came.
In his school-room on the morrow, in the midst of his
wondering and alarmed pupils, he was arrested by officers
He knew the tidings would speedily reach his parents,
and, fearful of the distress it would occasion them, he hastened
to write them a letter, detailing all the events of the
few preceding days, and treating his imprisonment as
lightly as possible, although by no means sanguine of its
speedy termination.
Astonishment and terror filled the hearts of Mrs. Jay
and her daughter when they received this letter, with which
the sobbing Lizzie was at once despatched to her father, at
the counting-house, who read the tidings with scarcely less
agitation. Capt. Jay hastened to his son, and was relieved
from part of his anxiety when he had heard the
whole of Addison's simple, truthful story, and knew that
he had committed no crime; but he dreaded the worst,
from the vindictiveness of his enemy, whose discomfiture
had been so signal and so mortifying. Never before did
he feel the galling chains of poverty so painfully as now,
when he reflected that he could not be accepted as bail for
his son, nor was it any easy matter to procure the heavy
security necessary for that purpose from other quarters.
Werter had filled the neighborhood with reports of a
cowardly and aggravated assault made upon him in an unprovoked
manner, and the totally different aspect of the
case related by the partial father was viewed with natural
distrust. The required bail in the action commenced
against Addison was very large, and when a long, weary
week had passed, the unfortunate youth was still the disgraced
tenant of a jail. Almost the only business acquaintances
of Captain Jay were his present employers, who had
also been the owners of the vessels which he had commanded
for many years, but they were sordid men, devoid
of all liberal and generous feeling. There were, indeed,
others among the many who had long known the worth of
their relief in this hour of trial, if they had been applied to
for that purpose, or had even known the valuable service
they could render, but the unhappy father, depressed by the
repulses he had met, knew not where to turn for aid without
the prospect of the same mortifying refusals.
Months must elapse before the trial could take place,
and Addison was in great anxiety about his school, which
he had begun to consider as his only means of self-support,
and which, in his present dilemma, became more important
to him than ever. He imagined his enemy trying to supplant
him in that quarter also, and seeking to wrest from
him his humble occupation. Harassed and chafed by this
apprehension, and by his disgraceful confinement, his
misery daily increased, sleep forsook his pillow, and his
health became impaired.
Mrs. Jay received some visits of condolence from her
friends, and among others from the wife of a wealthy
neighbor, who advised patience and resignation, while the
distracted mother was thinking how her visiter's husband,
with one stroke of a pen, could set her child at liberty.
As this sympathizing friend went out of her humble home,
elated with her own condescension, and the charitable visit
she had made, a bustling little woman entered, in a state of
great excitement, and sitting down almost breathless, fairly
pulled Mrs. Jay into a seat beside her.
“Now, quick!” she said—“tell me all about it. I'll
never believe a word of it. Only to think of the horrid
stories they tell about poor Addison.”
“What have you heard, Miss Kepps?” asked Mrs. Jay.
“It's abominable! and it's in the newspapers, too.”
“What did you hear?”
“Why that Addison had tried to commit a highway robbery—and
had knocked down old Mr. Werter, and nearly
when some one came and he ran away.”
“Is it possible they tell such stories about my poor
son?” said Mrs. Jay, in great agony—and Miss Kepps at
once set about soothing her, by assuring her that nobody
believed a word of it, and that she herself was ready to
prove that it was all false, for she knew it was quite impossible,
and she only wished they would call on her to be
a witness.
“But I fear they would not let you be a witness, as you
were not there,” replied Mrs. Jay.
“No matter for that; I could swear to his good character,
could not I? and I would swear it so strong that they
could not help believe me. Haven't I known him since he
was a baby? The dear little fellow! How many a jacket
have I made him, and how beautiful he used to look in
them, to be sure.”
Miss Kepps' excitement continued unabated, and Mrs.
Jay proceeded to relate to the kind-hearted seamstress the
real state of the affair as her son had described it.
“I knew it was so,” exclaimed the listener. “He did
nothing wrong at all, not a single thing, and I'm so glad
the old cur tumbled down the hill. I hope he got a good
sousing. Was the water muddy?”
“Rather yellowish,” said Lizzy, smiling through her
tears—“so Addison said.”
“I'm glad of it! I hope he got it in his mouth. But
now what I want to know is, what Addison is in jail for,
before he is tried or convicted, which he never will be?”
“Oh, because that's the law,” replied Lizzy, sobbing,
“unless he can get bail that he won't run away, before his
trial comes on.”
“Bail! what is that?” asked Miss Kepps, with a very
to do with the bail of a kettle.
“Why it means a surety. Some rich man who is worth
a whole thousand dollars has to sign a bond for his appearance
at court, so Addison says.”
“And do they have to pay the money?” asked Miss
Kepps, with great interest.
“Not if he keeps his word and appears, but if he runs
away the bondsman has to pay.”
“Well, why hasn't somebody signed something then, and
let him out?”
“Because—because they are afraid of losing their money,
I suppose. Papa has asked I don't know how many,
and they all make some excuse, even the rich Smiths.”
“Well, it's a burning shame and a sin, that it is. Can
a woman be bail?”
“Yes, if she has money.”
“Well then, I'll be a bail myself. I'll go right away
and do it.”
“But Miss Kepps,” exclaimed both mother and daughter,
“you have not a thousand dollars?”
“Hav'n't I, though? What do you suppose I have been
working for, twenty-five years, then? I'll go and draw
my money right out of the bank, and show it to the constables,
or whoever it is that has got him, and then I'll
sign any thing they choose, and Addison shall come out
—that he shall. I am not afraid of his running away.”
Mrs. Jay and her daughter were both in tears of joy and
gratitude, at this generous offer, which with some difference
of detail was really carried into effect, Miss Kepps being
accepted as bail, upon depositing her money with an officer
of the court.
That night Addison joined his family circle at home,
where the generous sempstress was present to participate
in the joy she had produced.
7. CHAPTER VII.
SIDNEY REMOVED TO THE COUNTRY.
Ralph Werter did not mean to leave his demoniaca,
work half done. The trustees of young Jay's school were
his acquaintances, and his not very distant neighbors, who
regarded him as a man of consequence, and desired to be
on good terms with him. They were unfortunately weak-minded
men also, who were easily influenced, and who did
not trouble themselves much about the justice of an act
which became convenient and politic.
Mr. Werter told them that a young man, who would attack
quiet old gentlemen, and roll them down hills, was not
exactly the right sort of person to be entrusted with the
education of children, even if he had the good fortune to
get out of jail, of which there was no present prospect—
and the trustees shook their heads and said they thought
so too. They said they were very sorry, and very much
astonished at what had taken place, because Mr. Jay
seemed like a very excellent young man, whom the scholars
all liked very much, and they did not know where they
could find a substitute for him.
But Ralph relieved them on this point also, for he knew
if they procrastinated and held the matter “under advisement,”
that Addison would soon be at liberty, and would
induce them to change their minds. He sought out, therefore,
an unemployed pedagogue, loaded him with recommendations
from people who knew nothing about him, and
sent him to be Addison's successor, which he immediately
greater grief of the large girls, for he was a cross-eyed and
cross-tempered man, with bandy legs and yellow hair.
The first day after young Jay's liberation he employed
himself in seeking counsel to defend him on his approaching
trial, and in laying the facts of the case before them,
and on the second day he repaired to his school district to
begin to earn the large fees which he had promised, and
which alone would absorb the wages of long months to
come. How great would be his ruin if the suit was decided
against him, and if he should be heavily amerced in damages,
he did not dare to contemplate, but strong in the
sense of innocence he hoped for the best, and he believed
it impossible for any ingenuity to torture his act of self-defence
into a crime.
Alas! he knew little of what malice and Mammon can
do with that great engine, the law, when a friendless victim
is to be crushed or a gilded villain is to be saved.
Addison intended to call upon the trustees and inform
them of his readiness to resume his duties, and give them
the true version of the affair which had led to his arrest,
but his way led past the school house, and to his great
alarm on approaching it, he saw that it was occupied, and
he heard the loud voices of recitation and command issuing
from the opened windows. Terrified at the new misfortune
which he believed had befallen him, he stopped by the roadside
until a dismissed class came rushing out, and were
soon gathered around him, the larger boys eagerly informing
him of everything pertaining to the unwelcome change,
while the smaller ones kept timidly aloof, as if they did not
consider the late master entirely divested of his official
terrors.
With a full heart the discarded tutor listened to the news
of his disgrace, and learned that Ralph was the direct author
earnest appeals of his pupils to come back to them, and
abandoning his now useless purpose of calling upon the
trustees, he turned sorrowing upon his homeward way.
His calamity may seem a light one, but it was not so to
the poverty-haunted and almost friendless young man.
The story of his dismissal would precede him wherever
he went, and those who knew nothing of his guilt or innocence
would judge of it by this act of his employers. It
would bar him from any similar engagement, wherever rumor's
baleful whisper could reach; and it would cut off
from him the very means which were absolutely necessary
to enable him to prove his innocence of the offence with
which he was charged. Hope abandoned him, and he returned
to his home utterly disconsolate, until reanimated
by the soothing and cheering voice of a mother, who could
not be quite miserable while she saw her beloved son, and
knew him to be innocent of crime.
Sidney, in the meantime, remained in entire ignorance
of everything which had happened to his cousin, since
their last interview, and after a few weeks had passed
away he was surprised to learn that he was again to be
sent to school.
Mr. Werter had a farmer cousin residing in the interior
of the State, several hundred miles distant from the city,
to whom he had resolved to send the boy, ostensibly for his
health and for the benefit of a neighboring academy, but
really for the purpose of keeping him away from his maternal
relations, as well as from other enlightening influences.
He accompanied him there, and thus fortunately secured
for the child a quiet and comfortable home, where he was
kindly treated and where his freedom from the domestic
tyranny to which he had so long been subjected, was in itself
no small measure of bliss. He had never fully comprehended
thrown them off, and in his new home he soon began
to exhibit something of the usual hilarity of childhood.
His distance from Addison was not a source of much sorrow
to him, because he felt that he was before as effectually
separated from him by the imperious will of his guardian,
as if oceans had rolled between them.
Besides he looked forward with glad anticipation to the
time when he should learn the mystery of writing, and
thus be able to communicate with his cousin, and keep up
an interchange of those friendly and affectionate sentiments
which he was sure they mutually entertained. He
longed especially to inform him fully of all the events
which had occurred to prevent his returning to school—
being very fearful that Addison might believe him in some
way at fault. With what delight did he anticipate his first
letter to his friend, and with what assiduity did he resolve
to pursue that one valuable branch of his studies which was
to place this new power in his hands.
Little did the artless boy dream what wily heads could
plot and guilty hands could execute of craft and guile to
disappoint and defeat his innocent and virtuous designs.
Ralph had foreseen this danger, and he took his measures
accordingly.
“The boy may become home-sick,” he said to the farmer,
who was an ignorant and unsuspecting man, “and may
wish to write to me or to some of his acquaintances. I am
sorry to say he has some bad associates, and, as his guardian,
you know it is my right and duty to know with whom
he corresponds. Make sure, therefore, that he sends no
letter which does not pass through your hands—and do
you direct it to my care and mail it yourself. Can you do
this?”
“O, very easily—I'll speak to Brock, the postmaster,
to take any there without my knowledge, which I don't
think he can do, for it is four miles to the nearest post-office.”
“But Brock might overlook it.”
“Not very well. There ain't more'n two letters a week
mailed at his office, and they say his wife and daughters
always keeps them a day or two, to peep into them, and
turn out the edges and try to read them.”
“Very well, I'll depend on you and Mr. Brock. It is
all for Sidney's good, you know.”
“Of course it is—lots of mischief these little fellows
would get into, if they warn't watched—cause they never
know what's for their good.”
Mr. Reed was very accommodating, because his city
cousin paid a liberal price for the lad's support and schooling,
and seemed to be acting the part of a guardian, who,
though a little strict and stern, was still watchful of his
ward's best interests.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
POVERTY AND ITS TROUBLES.
For three weeks Ralph's wrath burned hotly against the
poor tutor, and then other reflections began to mingle with
his dreams of revenge. A public trial might lead to incidental
inquiries in relation to other things, which he feared
to have discussed, and there was danger that members of
his own family, perhaps even Sidney, might be called upon
the stand as witnesses. This he knew would lead to some
strange and startling disclosures, and although he was
guiltless of any legal crime towards his ward—for he had
always been shrewd enough to void that—yet he knew
there was such a thing possible as “taking away his stewardship”
and placing another guardian over the orphan.
He had indeed no serious fears on this point, for he knew
well the vast vantage ground which possession both of the
office and the estates gave him over any other claimants,
and, besides this, he chuckled over the thought that,
although his guardianship could be annulled, his relationship
could not be. He would be the legal heir of his
nephew, if the latter did not live to the age when he would
be legally empowered to dispose of his property by will,
and he made confident calculations that the disease which
was so evidently at work in poor Sidney's system would
prevent his ever attaining to manhood. Yet he feared exposure
and disgrace—he feared the loss of a trusteeship
which was rolling its yearly tens of thousands into his
pocket, never, probably, to be accounted for, or inquired
it seemed) that Sidney, under other care and in a
milder clime, with the best medical aid, might be restored
to health.
In such a contingency his dreams of wealth would be
over, the gorgeous visions which he had so long gloatingly
contemplated would dissolve like the mirage of the desert,
and he would be left by its departing splendors a beggar
and a debtor, unable to account for the half of his liabilities
to his ward. To what extreme measures he might not
resort to prevent such a result, it is difficult to say, but he
resolved at least to leave nothing undone now that could
strengthen his position or ward off impending danger.
His quarrel with young Jay became a trifling matter in
his estimation, and he began heartily to wish that his imprudent
suit had never been commenced. For a while
after Addison's release on bail he indulged the hope that
he would run away, and he paid frequent visits to the city
and to his lawyer, in expectation of this happy result; but
there were no indications of any such design on the part of
his adversary.
Growing more and more solicitous to prevent the further
agitation of so dangerous an affair, he resolved upon a new
plan of action, by which he hoped not only to end the litigation,
but to remove the young man to so great a distance
from Sidney that he could exercise no further influence
upon him.
In pursuance of this plan he called upon an old Spanish
merchant, whom he knew to be connected with an extensive
house at Barbadoes, and with whom his own acquaintance
had originated, many years previous, under the following
circumstances.
Both Ralph and his deceased brother were Scotchmen,
whose first quest after Fortune's smiles had led them to
Barbadoes, without any satisfactory success in the great
object of their pursuit. When Ralph had resolved to come
to America, he procured letters of introduction to Senor
Rizzio, who was then a junior member of a southern mercantile
firm, sent out to establish a branch of their house in
the American metropolis, but who had since become a
very wealthy man, and a permanent resident of New York.
Hugh Werter did not follow his brother to New York
until several years after the latter had become established
there, and had reported to him the favorable aspect of his
own fortunes, and when he did so, he also brought letters
to the same Senor Rizzio, who had kindly assisted both of
these young men in their first efforts to obtain employment,
and the acquaintance which he had thus begun
between Ralph and the Spaniard had been ever since kept
up, although with no particular intimacy, and certainly
with no extraordinary demonstration of gratitude from the
obliged party.
It was natural that, in seeking for a foreign situation to
which he might exile young Jay, Werter's thoughts should
turn directly to Rizzio, as the man most likely to advance
his project, especially as he knew that the Spaniard had
already forwarded several of his American clerks to the
southern house. To Ralph's inquiries whether he knew of
any profitable occupation for an intelligent young American
at Barbadoes, he promptly replied in the affirmative.
“Perhaps you have a vacancy in your own house?”
“Yes, ever since the last fever season,” said the
Spaniard, shrugging his shoulders. “He must have a
good constitution who goes—the last two poor fellows I
sent out—”
“Went further, I suppose,” said Ralph, interrupting
other places besides Barbadoes, I believe.”
The Spaniard bowed.
“You take these things into consideration in your salaries,
I presume?”
“We will pay reasonably for a clever, active young
American, who speaks Spanish a little and can learn it
readily. The truth is, we want several of this description,
and it is very difficult to get them.”
Rizzio spoke frankly, and not like a man who was disposed
to drive a hard bargain.
“Very well,” said Werter, “I think I can help you to
exactly such a one as you want; but there are some reasons
why I do not wish the applicant whom I shall send you to
know that I am befriending him. May I depend on your
secrecy?”
“Certainly; I will not mention your name, if you desire
it; but about the fever?”
“Leave it to me to have that sufficiently explained to
him, if you please; for, since fear kills more than fever, it
is better he should not know the precise fate of his predecessors.
He has a good constitution, and will run but
little risk.”
“Perhaps you are right; I leave it entirely to you.”
“Do you ever advertise for such clerks?”
“We did formerly, but our advertisements never brought
us the right sort of people, and we gave it up.”
“Have you any objection to putting a single advertisement
in a morning paper to this effect?”
“Not in the least—it shall be inserted to-morrow, if you
wish it.”
“There are some reasons why this is desirable, and I
will be much obliged to you if you will have it done.”
Rizzio named the newspaper in which the notice would
puzzled at his singular mode of doing business, but really
suspecting nothing wrong.
Ralph next visited his lawyer, whom he now took fully
into his confidence, in relation to his anxiety to suppress
the suit and get the young defendant out of the country;
and having promised the attorney quite as liberal a fee for
success in this scheme, as he could obtain if the trial
were to take place, he found in him a ready and able
coadjutor.
It was no difficult matter for Mr. Attorney Boggs to
bring the morrow's advertisement to the notice of young
Jay, through the aid of a third party, nor to have a suggestion
made to him that it would be a most eligible post
for himself, if he were not under heavy bonds to remain in
the country. And when Addison, with a boy's love of adventure
and enterprize, sharpened by the very consciousness
of the legal restrictions imposed upon him, expressed
an earnest wish to go, it was an easy matter again for Mr.
Attorney Boggs' confidential friend to intimate that possibly
the plaintiff in the suit against him might be induced to
settle it on mere payment of the costs and an apology—or
something like that.
“I'll never apologize,” said Addison; “but if he really
thinks I knocked or pushed him down, I would assure him
I did not—I would explain—”
“And pay the costs?” said his questioner, quickly.
“I ought not to do that—but for the sake of this opportunity
to get into business, I would do so; that is, of
course, if my parents approved of my going.”
“I know Boggs very well, and will sound him on this
subject, if you wish.”
Addison was eager to assent, but he resolved to consult
friend for a day or two.
Captain Jay heard his son's scheme with incredulity,
believing neither in his ability to procure the situation,
nor in the placability of Ralph Werter, but expressing
his opinion that the opportunity was a golden one for
somebody to connect his fortunes with those of the rich
Rizzio.
Mr. Jay had been too much a traveller himself, and had
sojourned too much in all latitudes, to think seriously of
either distance or climate as an objection to his son's
accepting the place, if it should prove attainable; and
although Addison's mother heard of the project with great
alarm and grief, her anxiety for her son's welfare, and
especially for his extrication from his present troubles,
prevented her from opposing it.
Thus encouraged, and placing an increased value upon
the prize by reason of the doubts and difficulties which
lay in the path of attainment, Addison sought out the
friend of Mr. Boggs, and gladly accepted of his offered
mediation.
It resulted as might have been expected. Ralph proved
eminently placable, and everything was readily arranged,
contingent upon the success of the application to Mr.
Rizzio, which young Jay lost no time in making; and so
well had the way been smoothed before him, that even
there a first interview settled the engagement between the
parties.
Overflowing with delight, Addison returned home, carrying
both joy and grief into the family circle, but the first
great sensation was that of relief and pleasure at the release
from the impending prosecution, which had so long
threatened ruin to the impoverished family. A salary,
moderate at first, but to be increased each succeeding year,
himself, but to contribute materially to the assistance
of his parents, which had long been an object of his earnest
desire. Although greatly grieved to leave his friends, he
maintained a show of cheerfulness, and partly sustained
the failing spirits of his mother and sister, by the seeming
exuberance of his own.
He took much pains before leaving to ascertain where
his cousin Sidney was, in order that he might open a correspondence
with him; but his evil genius, who, unknown
to himself, was so adroitly guiding all his movements, contrived
to have him supplied with information on this point,
which was near enough correct to prevent suspicion, yet
erroneous enough to mislead.
He wrote a long and affectionate letter to Sidney, and
if he did not direct it to Kamschatka, he might as well
have done so as to use the address furnished him by Mr.
Boggs' friend, which that gentleman had received from
Boggs, and which the attorney, of course, had procured
from Ralph. Not content with this step, Addison exacted
from his mother a promise that, when Sidney returned
home, which he supposed would be within a few months,
she should take pains to communicate with him in some
way, and renew if possible the acquaintance and intimacy
of former years, for his heart yearned with pity for the sad
orphan boy, whom he knew to be poor and friendless, in
the midst of all his great wealth.
Thus Addison Jay went from home in his seventeenth
year, doubly the victim of deceit, following the phantom
of Fortune to a land where it soon might be transformed
to the hideous spectre of disease and death. Little did he
dream that five long years would elapse before he again
should see his native land, that an equal period of absence
would be Sidney's lot, that in the mean time his parents
Werter, relieved from the presence of those he most
dreaded, would rise to a higher prosperity, in the plenitude
of another's wealth, which he enjoyed unquestioned,
and from which he resolved never to part.
9. CHAPTER IX.
THE COUSINS AND THEIR TRIALS.
Five years! How much is comprised in that brief
phrase, over which the pen glides so easily! How strange
and varied were the experiences which that little interval
of time, now a mere point in the history of the past, brought
to the subjects of our narrative.
Ralph Werter had abandoned his country residence, and
had taken a stylish house in town, greatly to the gratification
of his wife and daughters, who, by dint of extravagant
dressing and costly entertainments had become known and
countenanced among the ton. His own taste was not naturally
for display, but he had suffered himself to be overruled
in this respect by his family, while his fondness for
being thought and called rich reconciled him to the cost of
such a reputation. He became known on `Change—he was
hand and glove with several millionaires—and was himself
considered by the community to be quite one of that golden
variety of the human animal. He was now more than
sixty years of age, and his experience had not been an
exception to the rule, that the heart in which avarice is
the dominant passion becomes more grasping with increasing
years—more deaf to the demands of justice, more
callous to the calls of pity.
His prediction of Sidney's early death had not been
verified, and he was at times alarmed at the tenacity of
life exhibited by his ward in the midst of a disease which
every year became more manifest. He was still confident
were possible that he should briefly survive that period, he
hoped to keep him in his present state of exile, ignorant
of his rights, and free from any influences which might
tend to thwart his own designs.
Sidney's own fortunes had been mild and genial with
the exception of that illness, which, while giving him but
little real pain or anxiety, seemed to be gradually wearing
away his vital powers. His home was a quiet and comfortable
one, where he had found some true friends, and
one beloved playmate, in a little daughter of Mr. Reed,
who became to him all that a sister could have been. He
never regretted his change of residence, and, but for his
desire to see his old friend Sukey, he would have preferred
never to return to his former abode.
Yet he had begun to entertain grateful feelings towards
his uncle for his kindness in providing him so pleasant a
home, and allowing him to remain so long unmolested in
it. His greatest trial was his separation from Addison,
and the improbability of his ever seeing him again, for his
uncle had been careful to have him informed of his cousin's
departure to the West Indies. Sidney's education had
progressed with rapidity, and he had within the first year
of his residence in the country written a long letter to Addison
at Barbadoes, and another to his cousin Lizzie at
New York, which epistles cost him a great outlay of time
and mental labor to perfect, and both of which met with as
warm a reception as he could have anticipated—for they
found their way in a few days into Ralph Werter's kitchen
fire.
Many long months he patiently waited and looked for
the answers to these burnt letters, rising daily with the
fresh hope that that was to be the blissful day when they
would come, and retiring nightly with the belief that it
with a similar result, extending the period of disappointed
expectations through another half year, and then gradually
abandoning the hope, and giving way to the sad thought
that he was forgotten and not cared for.
But the heart of childhood closed over these wounds—
other friends supplied the place of the lost, and the wronged
orphan was still happier than those who usurped his rights,
and happier, alas! than that unfortunate friend by whom
he supposed himself neglected.
Addison entered upon his new business with success, and
with entire satisfaction to his employers, but within three
months after his arrival out, the unhealthy season commenced,
and the approach of the dreaded fever began to
be heralded.
He was among its first subjects, and, narrowly escaping
death, he remained for weeks prostrated, and for months
enfeebled, by the severity of his attack. Nearly a year
elapsed before his strength was fully restored, and, rejoicing
in the belief that he was fully acclimated, he dauntlessly
awaited at his post the second arrival of the scourge,
but only to be again thrown upon a bed of pain, and again
to endure all his former protracted illness, and still more
protracted convalescence.
Disheartened by these sad experiences, he did not dare
to hope, when again restored, that his sufferings had secured
him any immunity for the future, and he began to
think of retreating before so great a peril, and returning
home, although with his purposes all unaccomplished. But
he was advised that his acclimation was now undoubtedly
complete, and that he might be considered as holding a receipt
in full from the Pestilence, which would faithfully respect
his claims to forbearance in future, and he resolved to
remain. Less sanguine, however, than before—less hopeful
elasticity of motion, and his merry, ringing laughter; but
for these changes there were other reasons besides his personal
misfortunes.
Sickness and increased poverty had come upon those
most dear to him, whom he had left at home, and whom he
had vainly hoped ere this to be able materially to assist.
Captain Jay had been obliged by illness, and nearly total
deprivation of sight, to abandon his business, which, slight
as it was, had been almost the only support of his family,
and now, when the chief means of their living was cut off,
its expenses were increased by the necessity of medical attendance.
Addison had heard from time to time, by letters from
Lizzie, of the progress of misfortune at home, and he had
gladly sent every dollar he could spare for their relief; but
with the most painful economy he could save but little out
of his income, which was greatly reduced by his own sickness.
He would gladly have withheld from his friends the
tidings of his own afflictions; but, as he could not properly
do this, he spoke as lightly as possible of them, and sent
no word of wail to hearts already stricken and desponding.
The four succeeding years were marked by no striking
event in his own experience, and by no favorable change
in the affairs of his friends, whose poverty remained unmitigated
and unrelieved, excepting by his own efforts. Regularly
and cheerfully, through all that period, his monthly
salary was remitted to his father, with the exception of a
sum barely sufficient for his own economical support; and
many of his young associates, more profuse of expenditure,
wondered at the seeming parsimony indicated by his style
of living. He mingled but little in society, and formed
but few acquaintances, but he made one friend, worthy of
the name, whose companionship was his solace in many a
by his own reciprocating regard.
Like himself, however, Edward Hazleton was an early
struggler against adversity, a buffeter of the waves of fortune,
which yet could never wholly wreck a vessel so buoyantly
freighted, for he was one of the most light-hearted
and merry of mortals. Care sat easily upon him, or rather
it never could be said to more than flit across his heart,
yet although never bemoaning his own hardships, he had a
ready appreciation and sympathy for the sufferings of
others. Two minds so congenial to each other could not
fail to harmonize and coalesce, affording to each that sincere
delight of which true friendship is ever the source.
Edward was the son of a widow lady who lived in retirement,
almost in seclusion, but whose few associates were
among the first class of citizens. Addison knew nothing
of her history excepting what observation taught him, that
some deep, abiding grief, probably that of bereavement,
was her lot. Her son was her life, her joy, her hope, the
great compensation for a great sorrow; and richly, fondly,
he fulfilled his blessed mission. Mother had never more
dutiful son; son never a more loving mother. In his
younger years she had used her most diligent efforts to bestow
upon him a good education, and now he richly repaid
the obligation, by using his acquirements for her maintenance
and comfort. Scanty means, indeed, were his as
yet, but his store of hope and joyous anticipations for the
future was absolutely boundless, and he fortunately succeeded
in infusing some portion of this feeling, tempered
by soberer reason, into the heart of his mother, who was
yet scarcely past the middle age of life.
But great as was the pleasure which Addison derived
from such a friend, he pined for those still more beloved,
and he dreaded daily to hear still sadder tidings of their
told him, and his only consolation for his prolonged absence
was the certainty that his earnings were a source of relief
for his parents and sister, though he little dreamed that it
was nearly all their support. Yet the sums he was able to
save and remit were not large, and he flattered himself
that he could gain at least an equal stipend in his native
city, and have the satisfaction of being near his friends.
This hope grew upon him as he contemplated it, until it
became almost a certainty in his estimation, and then he
resolved to go. Unspeakable was his delight, when this
resolution was fully formed, at the prospect of a re-union
with those so dearly beloved, and the only alloy which now
mingled with his cup of bliss was regret at parting with
Edward. The young friends, however, confidently hoped
to meet again, and agreed upon a correspondence, which
should in some degree lessen the pain of separation.
Addison stated his wishes to his employers, received from
them a reluctant but honorable dismissal, with a high testimonial
to his worth and fidelity, and a free passage home
in a ship about to sail for New York.
He embarked so soon after resolving to go, that there
was no time to send home tidings of his approach, so that
his return was entirely unheralded. Had it been otherwise,
something doubtless would have been done to conceal
from a first view of the beloved visitor the depth of that
destitution to which his friends were reduced, but now
there was no disguise.
Captain Jay, whose incapacity for business was total,
and apparently permanent, had taken a still more humble
house than his before unpretending cottage—he had parted
with the most valuable articles of his furniture, replacing
them with substitutes of commoner material—and everything
that partook of show or finery in the wardrobe of the
of subsistence.
These changes had chiefly been made during the first
two years of Addison's absence, before his established
health and increasing pay had enabled him to make any
considerable remittances home, and since that period those
contributions, with the scanty earnings of Lizzie, had been
the sole source of support. With what pain, yet with what
affectionate gratitude, the invalid father received these
monthly offerings of filial love—with what tenderness and
solicitude he regarded his toiling but uncomplaining daughter—words
are inadequate to tell.
Lizzie obtained work from a fashionable dress-maker,
which she was allowed to do at home, but alas! at those
sadly unremunerating prices which have ever rewarded the
labors of the “needle slave.” Often she saw her handiwork
upon flaunting and fashionable ladies of the neighborhood,
who in beauty and grace, and all the true merit of
womanhood, were immeasurably below the humble seamstress
who had contributed to their adornment. Not unfrequently,
indeed, had she labored for the Misses Werter,
unknown to them, and receiving but a pittance of the extravagant
sums which her principal charged for her work.
It was to such a home that Addison came abruptly and
unlooked for, changing it to a palace of delight, and rendering
all the loving little circle for a while forgetful that
they had any cause for care or anxiety.
It would be pleasant to linger in contemplation of this
scene of domestic bliss—to dwell upon the many subsequent
hours of enjoyment which, despite every privation,
were allotted to this guileless family; but other events
claim the attention of narrator and reader, and hasten us
from these alluring themes.
Addison was not long in learning the full extent of his
if he would not behold even a worse state of things than
already existed. He hastened to seek business, and while
none better was attainable, he sought and found employment
as a scrivener, an occupation for which his rapid and
elegant penmanship eminently qualified him, and in which
he had the advantage of being able to work at home. In
this labor he had the satisfaction of being able, by great
diligence, nearly to equal the amount of his former earnings,
and although he had adopted it only as a temporary
resort, yet when a year had passed away, he was still engaged
at his tedious and never-ending tasks, without any
better promise for the future.
His youth was passing away, his health was impaired—
he saw his beloved sister sinking under toils similar to his
own, and his heart at times grew sad and very heavy, with
its load of cares and bitter anticipations. He had made
frequent attempts to obtain business which might give some
increased promise for that far future which now stretched
with such gloomy prospect before him; but all his many
efforts to this end had been unsuccessful—for he was without
influential friends or patronage.
It was on an evening when he had returned greatly disappointed
from an application of this kind, which had given
more than its usual promise, and the failure of which produced
more than usual dejection, that the knock of a visitor
was heard at the door. Addison stepped quickly to the
door and opened it, admitting a young, slight man, who
advanced hesitatingly into the centre of the room, looking
by turns at each individual present, and then sinking silently
into a chair, as if overcome by fatigue or emotion.
He had removed his hat on entering, and a mass of chesnut
curls were clustering round a pale, white forehead, beneath
which eyes of unnatural brilliancy shone like meteors
fixed with a steady gaze upon Addison.
“You do not know me,” he said at length, mournfully.
Faint as was the voice, Addison started as if electrified
by its first tone, a look of transport illumined his face, and
he sprang to the side of his visiter, grasping each hand in
his own.
“Sidney! Cousin Sidney!” he exclaimed, “It is indeed
you. Speak to me, that I may make sure I do not
dream.
“It is Sidney!” said the guest, smiling through his
flowing tears. “Are you really so glad to see me? Then
I am happy indeed!”
A reproachful look from Addison said more than the
words with which he replied—
“Glad, did you say, Sidney?”
“You never received my letters then, or you answered
them, and they miscarried? Or there is something—some
excuse—some reason why for five weary years I have hoped
to see you, or to read one line traced by your hands, and
have been ever disappointed until now.”
Sidney spoke rapidly and with agitation.
“I have never received a letter or a message from you.
I have written four times to you, imploring you to answer
me, however briefly—I have thought of you, dreamed of
you, prayed for you, as if you had been my brother, and
yet, oh! Sidney, you can ask me if I am glad to see you!”
“Forgive me, Addison—I see it all—and all can be
explained hereafter. Let me see my aunt and cousin
Lizzie now,” and passing to the side of the mother and
daughter, who had remained almost breathless witnesses
of the extraordinary scene, he blushingly kissed them both
and said—
“I have thought often and much of you since my acquaintance
of you as could not easily be forgotten. Besides
which he told me you cherished a regard for me, and my
friends, Heaven knows, have been few!”
The young man spoke with ease and self-possession, and
in a short time all feeling of restraint was banished from
the little circle of relatives, who conversed freely and earnestly
together.
“And when did you return to your uncle's?” asked
Addison, “and how is it that he has consented to your
visiting us?”
“I have not yet returned to my uncle's, nor shall I until
to-morrow, if you can give me shelter for the night. I did
not reach the city until too late an hour to admit of my
going out to —ville this evening, and I thought the opportunity
a favorable one for seeing you.”
“Then you did not know that Mr. Werter had become
a resident of the city? How fortunate for us!”
“Uncle Ralph resides in the city! No, I did not know
it, and for once I am glad of my ignorance. How long
has this been so?”
“For nearly a year—and he is living in great style, I
assure you—quite one of the nabobs—keeps a carriage, and
is called a millionaire.”
“That is strange—I do not think he can be very rich.”
Addison looked inquiringly at his cousin, but there was
nothing in his countenance or tone of voice which indicated
any doubt or suspicion of his guardian; for Sidney still
remained as utterly unconscious of his own wealth as he
was on the day he left his uncle's roof. Mr. Reed could
not have informed him, if he had desired, for he himself
knew nothing more in regard to it than Werter had chosen
to tell him, and from that secluded spot where he dwelt,
the affairs of the great city and its inhabitants were almost
world. Ralph's quarterly letter, business-like and brief,
containing the stipulated remittance to the farmer, may be
said to be all that he ever heard or cared to hear from
New York. Sidney's relations, of course, could not suspect
so extraordinary a state of things, or they would at
once have informed him of what it was so very proper for
him to know, and, viewed in this erroneous light, much
that the young man said and did, of course seemed strangely
enigmatical. He could not fail to perceive the very evident
signs of a poverty so very nearly approaching destitution
as that of his friends, yet there was nothing in his
appearance or language to indicate that he thought their
fortunes different from his own, or that he had any power
to assist them. Nothing indeed could be more disinterested
than Addison's affection for Sidney, which, in its
inception and progress, had been uncontaminated by one
mercenary thought, but his parents could not fail to see
the great advantage which their unportioned children might
derive from the friendship and favor of their wealthy cousin,
and in their solicitude they almost expected to hear the
young heir giving some assurance of future patronage or
protection.
“Is it not strange,” asked Mrs. Jay, “that your uncle
did not inform you of his change of residence, when he
wrote for you to return?”
“He did not write for me to return, nor does he expect
me,” replied Sidney, with a more grave look than he had
before worn. “You may not have heard, and by this
light you may not, perhaps, perceive, that I am in feeble
health, and—and—perhaps I should say that I am seriously
ill. At all events, a physician who has frequently
visited me in the country, has earnestly advised that I
should spend the approaching winter in a warm climate,
my journey. Indeed, a recent severe attack of hemmorrhage
from the lungs so much alarmed him, that he would
not hear of my delaying my departure for the time necessary
to write and receive an answer from my guardian,
which would require about a fortnight, and so I have come,
although I have very little idea that Uncle Ralph will allow
me to go south.”
The pain which this alarming intelligence gave the listeners
prevented them from particularly noticing the closing
remark, which implied so complete a dependence on his
guardian, and submission to his control, and all seemed
anxious to cheer both the invalid and themselves with encouragement
and hope.
A southern climate would work wonders for him—the
sea voyage itself would cure him, if indeed he had any
serious illness, which they tried very hard to doubt, and
which Sidney, unwilling to distress them, did not re-affirm.
He did not believe himself incurable, but he believed there
was danger, although the term was scarcely appropriate in
relation to a change which he contemplated with so much
calmness, and at times with positive pleasure.
Their conversation was protracted to a late hour at night,
and ran upon numberless themes, yet strangely enough, it
did not lead to an elucidation of the great secret which had
so long been withheld from young Werter, although it often
seemed to approach that point.
If it had been possible for his relations to conjecture so
strange a thing as his ignorance on this subject, there was
enough in his language and deportment to strengthen a suspicion
once aroused; but, singularly enough, Sidney retired
to rest that night, and in the morning parted with his
friends, as unenlightened as he came.
Fortunately, however, he did not leave them without a
point he said he would not now be ruled, for however he
might defer to his uncle's opinion in some matters, he was
sure he had arrived at an age when he had a right to control
his personal movements and the choice of his acquaintances.
10. CHAPTER X.
HEALTH AND WEALTH.
Ralph Werter turned almost white with alarm when,
seated at his writing desk that morning, making out numerous
little quarterly bills for rent, in all of which his name
bore the suffix of guardian or trustee, his nephew was unexpectedly
shown into the room, and stood before him. His
first decided impression was that Sidney had learned all
that related to his affairs, and had come to demand his
rights, and with a confused and guilty look he brushed the
tell-tale papers aside, and thrust them into the desk before
rising to receive him.
Greeting him with as much show of kindness as he could
assume, he soon perceived to his great relief that his fears
were as yet groundless; and Sidney's pale, thin cheeks, together
with the story which he told of his illness, and the
cause of his return, soon restored his equanimity and his
hopes. He answered with words of sympathy, but with a
cold, calculating look, and he surveyed the lineaments of his
nephew as if he were reading the title deeds to his possessions.
In relation to the proposed journey, he said he would
consult his own physician, who would be a better judge of the
utility of such a step than any country doctor could be, but
the real object of his intended consultation was of course
very different from the assumed one. Could a warm climate
arrest a disease so far progressed? Was there any
danger that the patient's life could be protracted over the
sixteen months' interval which yet stretched between him
perplexed him, and which he wished solved before deciding
on so important a step.
That Sidney should go somewhere far away from home,
he was not only willing, but anxious, for he had been
greatly disturbed by his re-appearance at this particular
time, when there was so much in his own altered style of
living to excite inquiry and suspicion. Besides, his
nephew had frankly told him, much to his alarm, of his
visit to the Jay family, and while he was both rejoiced and
surprised that such an interview had not produced the
result he most dreaded, he resolved not to hazard a repetition
of the danger, if it could be avoided. Yet, to send
the invalid boy back to the country might seem cruel and
despotic to those who knew the object of his return to New
York, and might possibly prove impracticable from Sidney's
own opposition. He wished to avoid anything like a
conflict of opinion with his ward, now so nearly a man, for
he little knew how yielding and subdued was the spirit
which had been crushed by his own early training.
He should travel, then, as he desired—such was Ralph's
conclusion—if the physicians thought there was no cure in
travel, or in change of climate; and, until he went, his
illness would be a pretext for keeping him closely at home,
unexposed to the dangerous intercourse with the world.
As to his destination, if travel should be decided on, no
place could be named too remote to gain the guardian's
consent, for he well knew that the invalid might attain so
discouraging a distance from home that he would never attempt
to repass it.
Sidney met his aunt and cousins with a friendly feeling
and an entire oblivion of past grievances, and there was
some show of cordiality in their reception of him; but
Mrs. Werter manifested so evident a restraint and uneasiness
was, he could not fail to observe it. It did not seem
strange to him, however, for there was enough in the memory
of former hostilities to account for it—hostilities which
the recurring habit of boyish fear made him momentarily
anticipate were about to break out afresh. He grew shy
and sensitive again in her presence, and fancied that the
sharp voice which had been the terror of his childhood was
constantly about to interrogate him as to the reason of his
coming home, to denounce his folly and presumption, and
perhaps to order his return.
But there was one individual in the family of Mr. Werter
whose delight at Sidney's arrival was unalloyed, and
whom he was equally rejoiced to meet—it was the humble
slave, who had been the friend and religious tutor of the
child, and for whom his affection had been ever fresh and
sincere. He had brought her some little presents, which
she greatly prized as a proof of his remembrance, but he
found her pining for a greater boon than he could bestow,
which was freedom.
“If I am ever rich, Sukey—no, I do not mean rich—
but if I ever should have money enough to buy you, I
certainly will make you free,” said her young friend,
earnestly.
Sukey thanked him, but took little courage from the
promise. Her master, she said, had grown so rich now,
and she had served him so long and faithfully, that he
might well afford to let her go, and she thought, perhaps,
if Sidney should intercede with him for her, he might do so.
This commission the young man undertook, and faithfully
performed, although with no success—unless it was
success to infuse some hope into the heart of his old friend,
for Ralph did not seem inexorable, but promised to think
of it, and to grant the request at some time in the indefinite
that, if she were faithful and industrious, he would give her
her freedom before she died—but it was not convenient for
him to spare her just yet.
The fatigue of travel, and the earnest persuasions of his
guardian, retained the invalid within doors for two days
after his arrival, but he resolved that if the third day
should prove fair, he would again visit Addison, and in
order that there should be no concealment on his part, he
mentioned his purpose on the preceding evening to his
uncle. This circumstance hastened Ralph's intended
movements. He informed Sidney that he had made an
appointment with a physician to see him on the following
morning, in order to judge of the propriety of his proposed
journey, and he begged that he would not go out until
after the interview and examination. To this Sidney
could not object, and on the morrow he submitted patiently
to some half hour's questioning and inspection from a medical
man, who certainly was not Mr. Werter's family physician,
and who, although connected with the regular
faculty, and accounted a man of skill, had twice been under
the cognizance of a court of justice for certain malfeasances,
of which he had barely escaped conviction.
Dr. Brail's practice had long ceased to be a lucrative
one, nor could he now number any respectable families
among his patrons; he had been surprised, therefore, and
gratified at the present unexpected demand for his services.
He was a shrewd man, too—he knew something of the history
of the Werters, and added to his knowledge by a little
indirect questioning of Ralph, and he was not long in
forming a tolerably correct guess of the position of affairs.
When he had questioned Sidney, rudely and abruptly
enough, and had felt of him, and rapped him on the spine,
and on the chest, and had listened to his respiration, and
and told the patient he might withdraw, and he would give
his opinion to his uncle.
“You think he is in a consumption?” he said, quickly,
to Ralph, when the door had closed upon Sidney.
The questioner watched closely the countenance of the
old man, as he spoke.
“Yes,” said Ralph, in no tone of sorrow and with no
sign of emotion; “Dr. Lee pronounced him so years ago—
I am surprised that he has lasted so long.”
Brail perceived that another word might have been substituted
for `surprised' in his companion's reply, but he
asked another question before giving his own opinion, for
he wished to make sure that he was about to give welcome
tidings to his wealthy patron.
“Has he been long under Dr. Lee's charge?”
“Not at all—he has been living in the country, and before
he went from home we did not consider him ill
enough to need medical treatment.”
“Yet he was pronounced hopelessly consumptive by the
first physician in the city,” thought Brail, and his conjectures
became certainties.
“What do you think of him, Doctor? Do you too pronounce
him consumptive?”
“Most assuredly.”
“He is very desirous to go South. Some of his friends
also wish and expect it. Do you think it can materially
affect the result?”
There was an evident look of anxiety accompanying
this remark, and Brail saw it.
“You need not fear to send him,” he said, ambiguously.
“It will not hurt him?”
“Nor do him any good. It may add a few months to
story.”
“You feel quite certain of this?”
“Quite—there are some symptoms in this disease which
never deceive us, and although I am sorry to distress you,
yet the truth must be told.”
Ralph looked as if he could bear it, and Brail went away
with a liberal fee.
Sidney was immediately summoned and informed that
the physician approved of his going south, and that he
must prepare for immediate departure, as the autumnal
rains were about setting in, which would be most prejudicial
to him.
The guardian had fixed upon Cuba as the resort of the
invalid, because he knew of a vessel which would sail within
a few days for Havana, and hoped that the brief time
which it would allow his nephew for preparation would
leave him little or no opportunity for further interviews
with his maternal relations.
Sidney thanked his uncle for his kindness, and promised
to be ready at the required time, however soon that might
be, and then he hastened to see Addison, whom he found
in his home of poverty, diligently laboring as a scrivener,
while the beautiful Lizzie, at his side, was blinding her
young eyes over her endless tasks of needle work.
Household duties and the care of the invalid father employed
most of Mrs. Jay's time, but she still found many
hours to assist at Lizzie's needle labors, and was thus employed
when their occupation was interrupted by their welcome
visiter.
Their cordial greetings were scarcely interchanged, when
Sidney hastened to inform them of his intended journey,
and of his great regret at being obliged so soon to leave
his new found friends.
“And, oh! Addison,” he exclaimed, “if you could accompany
me, how happy I should be!”
Addison looked at his blind father, and at his toiling
mother and sister, with an expression that answered his
cousin's remark, and seemed to reproach him with selfishness.
“Of course you cannot,” he added, with a sigh; I did
not expect it, but I could not avoid the thought. Oh, if
there were but some way to accomplish this end; but this
dreadful poverty meets us at every turn.”
“But surely you are not going alone?” said Mrs. Jay.
“You are to have some companion or attendant?”
“I wish you were right; but I must go alone. It is
necessary to be economical, and I was indeed quite surprised
that Uncle Ralph consented to my going at all.”
“It is necessary for you to be economical, Sidney, did
you say?” asked the blind man, who, from his easy seat in
the corner, had been an attentive listener to the conversation.
“Yes, Uncle Jay.”
“And do you speak in earnest?”
“I assure you I feel very little like jesting to-day, uncle.
I am indeed in very sad earnest.”
The captain sighed, being now painfully convinced that
his nephew was really the young miser that he had been
painted, who, in the midst of untold wealth, grudged the
pittance necessary for his comfort and health. He did
not pursue his inquiries, but after a few moments' silence
Sidney mildly resumed.
“And now allow me to inquire, uncle, why you ask these
questions in so strange and earnest a way?”
Thus adjured, Captain Jay felt no delicacy in replying
more plainly.
“Because, Sidney, it seems to me very improper, not to
about poverty and wants. It shows a covetous disposition
and ingratitude to the Great Giver.”
“I do not know that I understand you, uncle; I know
I am sinful enough, but I really do not think I am very
covetous. I did not mean to complain, but I see no harm
in speaking of one's poverty.”
“Is it no harm for a rich man to call himself poor?—
for a man whose means are more than sufficient for all his
wants through life to talk of the necessity of being economical?”
“Most certainly; but how does this apply to me? I
am not rich—I have not the abundance you speak of—I
am literally and really a poor man!”
“Why, Sidney!” exclaimed Addison, who knew his
cousin too well to doubt that he was speaking sincerely,
“you really then believe all this! You do not know that
you are the owner of vast wealth, of which your guardian
has the possession?—that you are not an ordinarily rich
man, but a millionaire, with hundreds of tenants pouring
their golden tribute into your treasury? The house in
which your uncle resides, the magnificent block of which it
is a part—the large hotel opposite—are all entirely your
own, and form but a small part of your estate. How have
you been kept in ignorance of this?”
“Are you sure that it is true?” asked young Werter,
eagerly, and with unbounded amazement.
“Nothing can be more certain—the whole city knows it
—and I never dreamed that you were ignorant of it. Your
father was a man of immense wealth, chiefly in real estate,
which has been greatly increasing in value ever since his
death.”
Sidney remained for some moments speechless with
emotion.
“Come with me, Addison,” he said, at length, hurriedly
and excitedly—“I wish to talk with you a few moments
apart.”
His wrongs, and the injustice of his uncle, were the
themes which he did not wish openly to discuss. Addison,
greatly indignant, earnestly advised that he should immediately
denounce his guardian, and apply to the court
which appointed him for his removal, and the appointment
of a successor, but the young heir thought otherwise.
“It might be difficult to prove,” he said, “either that
he has wronged me, or that he intended to do so—for the
mere fact of keeping me in ignorance of my wealth has
done me no harm. I have not been kindly treated, it is
true, but my wants have all been supplied. What can we
do then, or rather what can I do that I might not better
leave undone? Litigation with a man in legal possession
of my own property, and who could use that property freely
to support his position, would be protracted and of uncertain
issue, while, in my present feeble state, the agitation and
excitement of such a contest, and the necessity of remaining
in this severe climate to conduct it, might prove in the last
degree detrimental.”
“What, then, do you propose?”
“To be quiet, and neither proclaim my new knowledge
to my uncle, nor my former ignorance to the world. If I
should live to manhood, the brief interval that lies between
me and that point will soon pass away, and then I shall
have the unquestioned control of my property. Thence-forward,
whether I live or die, you, dear Addison, shall be
no longer poor. This golden mantle which seems to have
dropped so suddenly and mysteriously on my shoulders, be
assured, shall envelope you also in its folds—soon, perhaps,
you alone.”
“Say not so, dear cousin. Health and vigor shall yet
be yours, in that gentle climate to which you go.”
“And to which I must not go alone. You may be right;
but if you would inspire me with even the hope of recovery,
you must help me to invent some way by which you can
become my companion.”
“Heaven knows what pleasure this would give me, Sidney;
but it cannot be. My destitute and infirm parents
require my daily labor for their support.”
“But if some substitute could be found for this—if I
could procure money both for them and for you?”
“If they were comfortably provided for until my return,
beyond any contingency, I should, of course, be most glad
to go with you, as I am sure they would desire me to do.
But it is idle to talk of this, when your guardian will probably
give you but a scant supply of means even for your
own purposes.”
“He is to give me none, I believe, before my departure;
but he will pay my passage money, and give me a bill of
exchange on a mercantile house at Havana for what he
thinks I need. If I want more, I am to write to him.”
“Is it possible that he treats you so like a child?”
“And I thought him so liberal and kind in permitting
me to go! But his machinations are now all plainly visible.
It is only to separate me from you that he has consented
to my going South—and it is to avoid my taking
you with me that he has thus restricted my means. Doubtless
it was for this reason, also, he sent me to live in the
country almost immediately after my acquaintance with
you began, for he knew that in your society I could not
long remain in ignorance of my rights. What censure
could be too severe for such conduct? But we must have
patience; what we now want is money.”
“Yes, Sidney, and we shall continue to want it. It is
idle to hope for anything fair or liberal from such a man.”
“I hope nothing from him; but, Addison, I have read
of such things in other countries as minor heirs of large
estates raising money, at highly usurious rates of interest,
by giving their bonds redeemable at manhood, and pledging
their honor and their oaths for security. Could not such
a thing be done here?”
“I fear not. You can give no legal security.”
“I know it. Let the lender charge for the risk. We
can convince him that I will keep my word sacred if I can,
and that his only risk is on my life.”
“Such a thing is barely possible. I know a young lawyer
whose business has led him much among the money-lenders,
and who knows some of all grades, from the well-dressed
dealer who discounts your trebly-guarantied note
at thirty per cent., in his elegantly furnished office in Wall
street, down to the sallow and bearded Jew, who hides his
soiled bags of gold in the darkest basements of Chatham.
If there is any chance of this kind, Mr. Perth can show us
the place and the man.”
“Let us go to him without the loss of an hour. I must
sail in three days.”
They went at once, and having laid the facts and their
wishes before the attorney, anxiously awaited his opinion.
“I am sorry to discourage you,” he said; “but I think
the chance is really a very poor one. If it were merely a
case of minority, the funds might perhaps be raised,
although at a great sacrifice; but Mr. Werter's illness
would increase the risk so materially, that he probably
could not obtain the money at all—certainly not on any
but the most extortionate terms.”
“I will take it on any terms,” replied Sidney. “Show
me the man that will make an offer, however exorbitant.”
“There is but one among my acquaintance to whom it
would be of the least use to apply—that is Hakes, the old
clothes man; you know him, Jay.”
“Impossible—he is a beggar—”
“He is a rich man—not professedly a money-lender, but
well known as such to the very necessitous; for by others
his mode of dealing would never be listened to. He has
doubled several ventures lately, to my knowledge, and
might possibly listen to you—”
“Let us go to him at once,” said Sidney, hastily.
11. CHAPTER XI.
THE MONEY LENDER AND THE VOYAGE.
Hakes was found without difficulty, at his place of business,
a Chatham street cellar, the entrance to which was
hung with well-scoured suits of second-hand clothing, while
the interior was similarly decked on all sides with huge
piles of resuscitated garments. The old man, whose features
and occupation proclaimed him a Jew, and whose
speech told that he was a German, was sitting, spider-like,
in the back part of his den, watching for prey, and he came
eagerly forward at the first appearance of his visitors.
“What will you have, shentlemans?” he said, quickly—
but at the second glance he recognized the attorney, and
saw that he had mistaken the character of his customers.
“Ah, Meeshter Perth, I am glad to see you,” he said.
“You don't want any coats, I believe?”
“No,” said the young lawyer, laughing, “I want some
lining for coat-pockets, of the same kind I had for Mr.
Jones the other day, though not quite so high-priced.”
“Ah, Meeshter Perth, Meeshter Perth, you make hard
bargain with me; I am afraid of you, Meeshter Perth.”
“None of that gammon, David; I happen to know that
you have received your money back from Jones, and an
equal sum for profit, as agreed.”
“Oh, yes, I got it!” replied the Jew, elevating his eyebrows,
“but I scare very much first—I no sleep all day—
all night—but I got it. Mr. Jones ish a ver goot man.”
“Well, I have a much better customer for you now.
rich man—”
“Walk into my office, shentlemans,” said the Jew, leading
the way into a small back room, dimly lighted by a
single window, and redolent with the odor of musty clothes.
“Sit down, shentlemans; I am a very poor man, but I have
a leetle monish sometimes.”
Perth proceeded briefly and correctly to relate young
Werter's situation and wants, and naming a thousand dollars
as the loan required.
“Ah, no, no, no—tish great risk,” said the Jew, shaking
his head violently. “He die—I loosh my monish; he
live—become great man and forget old clo' man—den I
loosh my monish; no—no—no.”
“You shall not lose it if he lives; my bond, at least, is
binding, and I will guaranty that he keeps his word if he
can.”
The usurer eyed closely Sidney's innocent face, for,
sharper as he was, he knew the expression of an honest
man, and he seemed to hesitate.
“You will take ver much care of yourself,” he said;
“you will be ver rich man if you live.”
Sidney smiled, and said he was to sail in three days for
Cuba, for the benefit of his health.
“Ah, dat is goot for you. How much you give for tousand
dollars?”
“I am willing to pay liberally. What will you require?
Please to name your best terms at once.”
“Ah, it would be worth ten per shent. De risk is very
great.”
“That is moderate enough, Mr. Perth,” said Sidney,
aside to the attorney.
“Wait a minute—I don't think you quite understand
Mr. Hakes' ten per cent. How much do you say, David?”
“Ten per shent is ver small—de risk is great—I gif him
one tousand now—he pay me ten tousand when he ish a
man.”
“Is that the best you can do?”
“The ver best, Meeshter Perth—the risk is ver great.”
“You see it is of no use talking to a man with notions
like these,” said Perth, turning away. “Come, let us go,
I have no time to lose.”
“Stop, Mr. Perth, I accept these terms,” said Sidney—
“let the writings be drawn.”
“It is not possible you will make such a sacrifice, Mr.
Werter?”
“Why should I hesitate? My happiness depends upon
it—perhaps my life; and, large as the sum is, if I am
rightly informed, it is less than a quarter of the yearly income
of my estate. I accept the terms.”
“It ish ver little,” said the Jew, who seemed to be regretting
that he had not asked twenty instead of ten.
After an ineffectual attempt to obtain some mitigation
of the terms, Mr. Perth reluctantly closed with the Jew's
offer, the writings were forthwith drawn and signed, and
the money was counted down in gold, each piece seeming
to cling to the usurer's fingers, as if by some magnetic attraction.
“Tish ver much monish, Mr. Verter,” he said, as he
pushed the glittering pile toward him—I shall be a beggar
if I loosh it.”
“Not quite, David, with Col. R—'s bonds, and Madam
—'s diamonds in your strong box there,” replied
the attorney.
“Ah, Meeshter Perth, you are funny man,” returned
the Jew, with a pleased twinkle of his black eyes. “But
you are too sharp for me, Meeshter Perth. I make poor
bargain with you alwaysh.”
The borrowers departed, leaving the usurer chuckling
over his bonds, but not more delighted than was Sidney at
the treasure he bore away. He enjoined strict secresy
upon the lawyer in relation to the transaction, compelled
him to accept of a considerable fee, and gave him the promise
of a far more liberal reward, if it should ever be in his
power to bestow it.
As soon as he was alone with Addison he laid the hundred
golden eagles before him.
“These,” he said, “are for you; use them as you choose;
but fail not to be on board the ship on Saturday, equipped
for your voyage. Possibly we may not meet again till
then.”
“Not all this money—I cannot take it all.”
“Every dollar, and little enough it is for your wants.
Half of it, at least, you will have to leave with your parents
for their support, and the remainder is certainly a
small enough sum for yourself. I only fear it will prove
inadequate.”
Sidney was unyielding, and his cousin reluctantly acceded
to his request.
“But how am I to avoid the observation of your uncle,
who will doubtless accompany you on shipboard, at the
time of sailing? Discovery would be fatal to our project,
while he has you so completely in his power.”
“Most assuredly it would—you must avoid him by all
means; it certainly will not be difficult to keep out of his
way, especially if you are on board before we arrive. I
will leave it entirely to you.”
“I think it can be managed.”
Sidney accompanied Addison home, where he found little
difficulty in persuading Mr. and Mrs. Jay to sanction their
arrangements, at which, indeed, they rejoiced for the young
invalid's sake; for Sidney's own delight was so great, it
grieved to part with their son, the bountiful provision which
had been so unexpectedly made for them in his absence,
left them no excuse for refusal, and with many tears their
consent was given.
Uncertain whether he would be able again to see his relations
before his departure, Sidney bade them an affectionate
farewell, and lingered for a few moments with visible
agitation, as he held his beautiful and weeping cousin
by the hand. His heart was not unsusceptible, but he had
never suffered himself to think of Lizzie with a lover's feelings,
while his fell disease threatened to bring distress upon
all to whom he was attached, and most misery to those who
loved him most.
“We have met but twice, dear cousin,” he said, “since
childhood—perhaps we shall never meet again. I need
not ask you not to forget me, for I know your goodness,
and I doubt not that your friends, like mine, are few.
That I shall not forget you,” he added, smiling, “your
brother will be my surety, for he never ceases talking of
you, and I do not wish that he ever should.”
Cautioning Addison to be discreet in his movements, and
promising to call upon them again before sailing, if he
could do so without danger, he then withdrew and hastened
home, where his long absence had excited much uneasiness;
but as he began his preparations for departure with great
earnestness, he was not questioned in relation to his visit,
Ralph being well satisfied to hear no complaint or accusation.
Sidney had not been mistaken in his fears that he should
find no opportunity to repeat his visit, for his time was
continually employed in company with his guardian under
one pretext or another, until the morning of the day of
sailing. Then, after his trunks were packed and sent on
taking him to the vessel in his carriage, and Eloise and
Ruth, wishing, as they said, to see the ship and the dear,
romantic-looking sailors, and the Spanish Dons, who would
probably be passengers, were allowed to accompany them,
much to Sidney's alarm, who knew that the chances of Addison's
discovery would be tenfold increased.
There was no help for it, however; they all went, and
the Misses Werter boarded the ship with the air of people
who meant to know what was going on there, and in less
than ten minutes they were in every part of the vessel.
“There are no Dons here,” said Eloise, with a disappointed
air, after closely scrutinizing about a dozen undistinguished-looking
people in the cabin and on the quarter-deck.
“No, but I saw the handsomest sailor you ever set eyes
upon,” replied Ruth. “He has the most beautiful features
and complexion, and a fine figure. He is quite young, too,
and I do not believe he has ever been to sea before, poor
fellow. What a pity it is to see such a man in a blue
jacket and tarpaulin.”
“Where is he?” asked Eloise.
“Leaning against the capstan there—”
“Capstan? How do you know what a capstan is?”
“Oh, I asked him—just to see what kind of teeth he
had, and they are beautiful; but he is not very polite, for
he turned his head away as soon as he had answered.”
“Let us walk around that way,” said Eloise, “I can
make him talk, I'll be bound;” but the handsome sailor
seemed to have his eye upon his admirers, for no sooner
did he see them approaching the capstan, than he retreated
to the forward part of the ship, and when followed there,
he began, awkwardly enough, to climb the rigging of the
foremast, where, after ascending a short distance, he sat
equally afraid to descend.
There was no excuse for hallooing to a man above their
heads, and so the disappointed ladies gave up the chase,
and returned to the quarter-deck, not suspecting that they
had been intentionally avoided.
Sidney, meanwhile, was in great distress at the absence
of his cousin, for the hour of sailing had arrived, and preparations
were making for immediate departure, and his
guardian seemed determined to remain on board until the
anchor was weighed and the sails were set. He did not
doubt that Addison had been delayed, and that he was now
on shore, waiting for Mr. Werter to leave the vessel, in order
that he might safely venture aboard.
Slipping from the side of his relations, he hurried below,
explored every part of the cabin, knocked at the doors of
the few state-rooms without success, and then returned to
the deck in a still greater state of alarm, for as he ascended
he heard the merry song of the sailors, which announced
that the work of raising the anchor was already begun.
It seemed to him that his uncle never would go, and he
was in despair when he heard Eloise propose that they
should go down the bay in the ship, and return in the pilot
boat; but at this moment he heard a few bars of a well-known
tune whistled in the rigging, and his heart leaped
with joy at the sound. He dared not look in the direction
whence the cheering notes proceeded, but he felt certain
that he could not be mistaken in the signal, and a few minutes
later, Eloise's proposition being voted down, his persecutors
bade him farewell, and descended the ship's side.
It was not until the small boat which bore them away was
a long distance from the ship, that Addison descended from
the rigging and threw himself into the arms of his cousin.
He had not had an opportunity to inform Sidney of his intended
concealing himself in the ship, because the latter course
might have excited suspicion and inquiry, and he had expected
to be able, without difficulty, to apprise Sidney of
his presence.
That the voyage of Sidney and Addison was a pleasant
one, need scarcely be said. It was, indeed, amid the chills
of November that they started, but as they proceeded
south they seemed to be sailing back through the preceding
autumnal months, towards the summer which had long been
past, but which they soon overtook. Over gentle seas, beneath
sunny skies, and towards a genial clime they went,
happy in each other's society; happy in the bright hopes
and aspirations of youth, and in youth's ready forgetfulness
of all evils that are not present and apparent.
12. CHAPTER XII.
THE RETURN AND THE WILL.
When a sad story is to be told, the fewer words in which
it is couched the better for both narrator and listener.
Sidney passed a pleasant winter and spring in the balmy
land to which he had repaired, but although there was an
alleviation of the worst symptoms of his complaint, his
health could not be said materially to improve, nor to give
the least promise of ultimate amendment. Decay slowly
but surely proceeded with its work, at once beautifying
and blighting the fair fabric of which it had taken possession,
as autumn destroys the forest leaves, yet gilds them
ere they fall with hues that summer never knew.
Yet Sidney was happy. He did not cling eagerly to
life, nor cheat himself with the flattering hopes which consumption
ever whispers to those who are willing to be deceived.
He knew his doom, and calmly awaited it.
Calmly, did I say? Aye, strange as it may seem to those
who have never accompanied a Christian invalid down to
the gates of death, often with a positive rapture, such as
the hope of health never brought to the heart of a sufferer.
The heir of vast worldly estates, he saw them passing away
from him unregretted, for he felt that he had an inheritance
on high, in comparison with which earth's congregated
gold would be as valueless as its kindred dust.
Yet he did not talk much of death. Unwilling to distress
his cousin, whose care of him was unremitting, and
whose affection for him was unlimited, he listened to his
it, and concealed from him as far as he could whatever
tended to show the fallacy of his expectations.
Addison wrote frequently home, always coloring his
tidings with the roseate hue of hope, until the advancing
spring forced from him the painful admission that Sidney
was worse, nay was dangerously ill.
Yet he did not propose to return home with him until
June, if the Cuban climate continued salubrious, for he
feared the sudden changes and coldness of even the early
summer at the North, and when June arrived, he would
have chosen to remain still longer, had not their dwindling
purse given warning of the necessity of departure. If
Sidney had believed that a longer sojourn at the South
would increase his chances of recovery, or prolong his days,
he would, from a sense of duty, have written to his guardian
asking for a remittance, although he had little reason
to anticipate a favorable response to such an application.
He had believed it right to bring Addison with him, and to
conceal from his uncle the fact that he did so, when he had
reason to anticipate that his design would be frustrated if
discovered; but candor had not permitted him to continue
the concealment beyond his first letter home, which had
been written soon after his arrival at Havana. In this
communication he had frankly stated that his cousin had
accompanied him, and that he had done so secretly, because
he feared opposition to his design; but Sidney
expressed the hope that his uncle would see the propriety
of his having a companion and assistant in his feeble state,
and that he would not be offended at what he had done.
The reply to this letter contained a severe reprimand, and
little else, excepting a requirement, something like a command,
that Sidney should send, once a month, an account
of his health, and that he should apprise his guardian of
with, although not one of his six monthly letters ever
brought a response, and it was now with a heavy heart that
he anticipated his return to a home which so ill deserved
the name.
They took leave of Cuba and of the generous friends
they had found there, about the period of the summer
solstice, and embarked in a vessel bound for New York,
where they arrived about the middle of July, with no
amendment in the invalid's health. Before their arrival
Addison had earnestly besought his cousin not to return to
his guardian's house, but to accompany him to his own
home, where he would receive from Mrs. Jay and her
daughter all the attentions that a mother and sister could
bestow. But Sidney, much as he longed to accept this invitation,
could not consent thus to bring trouble and heavy
expense upon a family so nearly destitute, and whom he
might never have the ability to requite. Besides, he had
a nervous dread of his uncle, the result of early education
and long habit of mind, which in his present feeble state
he could not overcome. He did not dare openly to oppose
him—yet he faithfully promised Addison, that, if he were
not kindly treated, and that if the visits of his maternal
relations were not freely permitted to him at all times, he
would quit his guardian's roof, and take up his abode with
his beloved friends.
With this understanding they parted, Addison having
accompanied the invalid to the mansion of his guardian,
and then hastened to his own home, where so different a
welcome awaited him. He found his parents and sister as
well as he had left them, and was relieved to learn that
they had in no wise suffered by reason of his absence.
Their supply of money was as yet unexhausted, for they
had used it sparingly, and Lizzie had not ceased to earn
in again seeking occupation for what leisure he might have,
for he knew that soon all his time would be required in attendance
upon Sidney. For a few months he visited him
daily, always spending an hour or two with him, and often,
when the weather was sufficiently fine, driving out with
him, and stopping to make long calls at his own home,
where the invalid could enjoy the society of his loved relations.
But this was a luxury that could not long remain to poor
Sidney, for the winter was drawing nigh. January came
and went, and the sufferer's daily diminution of strength
became greater, and the signs of his speedy departure were
many.
About the middle of February, when alone one evening
with Addison, he called him more closely to him, asked him
to make sure that the doors were closed, and spoke to him
as follows—
“You know that I have abandoned all hope and all desire
of life, and therefore do not let it pain you, my dear cousin,
when I speak plainly of my approaching end. It is near,
very near—nothing can avert or long postpone it; and,
for my own sake, I should rejoice, like the freed prisoner,
if the great change could come to-day. But there is an
important consideration connected with this affair for you
and for your father's family. Addison, one month from to-day,
if I should live to see that time, I shall be twenty-one
years of age; on that day I shall have power to make a
will and to dispose of my property. I do not think my uncle
suspects that I have any such views, nor do I wish that he
should, for he would prevent me, I believe, by force, if he
could. He evidently considers himself already the owner
of my estates, which the law will assuredly give to him, if
I die without a will. But, Addison, as sure as I live to
shall the bulk of my property be transferred to you.
There are some other bequests that I wish to make, which
will dispose of a considerable sum, but the great mass of
the estate is to be yours. Do you understand?”
Addison had with difficulty repressed his sobs—he had
not restrained his tears, and he now raised his head from
his hands, and looked with streaming eyes into the face of
his cousin.
“Yes,” he said, hoarsely, and with choked utterance,
“I hear you, Sidney. Oh, would to God that this great
wealth could be used to bring back life and health to you.
How gladly would I see it lost in such a cause!”
“I believe you, Addison—nay, I know that you speak
the truth—you have been more than a brother to me, and
I should not die happy did I not look forward to meeting
you in the land of bliss. But do not speak of my recovery;
it is useless now, and other thoughts claim our attention.
Are you listening?”
“I hear you, Sidney.”
“Gold has been my curse—may it be a blessing to you
It has entailed upon me wrongs and persecutions, a childhood
of suffering, a youth of ignorance, a manhood of disease
and death. In my leisure, lonely hours upon this
bed, I have thought much of the past; I have recalled to
mind many events, partially forgotten, connecting links
that once seemed to have no relation, and with these shreds
of memory forming a picture of the past painful to contemplate.
Not painful, for my own sake, for my sufferings
are nearly over, and I have but trod the path of affliction
which my Heavenly Father designed for me, and which has
led me to Him; but oh, Addison, what memories will
cluster around the death-bed of him who by nature, and by
legal right, should have been the orphan's protector and
despise him, but only to pity—yet every consideration of
justice would impel me to wrest from him the wealth which
he so wrongfully holds, even if I could not confer it upon
the deserving and the beloved. Now listen to me, Addison,”
he continued, drawing from beneath his pillow a
paper which contained a few lines in pencil. “Time may
be precious with us a month hence, and we ought to be
prepared for action. On this paper is briefly stated the
disposition I wish made of my property. There is a large
fortune for Lizzie—wealth for your father—freedom and a
competence for dear old Sukey—a handsome remembrance
for my playmate Carry Reed—five or six bequests to public
charities—a considerable legacy to Miss Kepps—
another to my dear friend, who little dreams of such a
thing from me, the Reverend Mr. —, and all the untold
bulk of the remainder to yourself. Let my will be drawn
accordingly, and with the utmost secrecy, and on that first
hour when I have the legal power to execute it, fail not to
be present here, with counsel and with witnesses, to have
it completed. Did I say the first hour? Nay, the first
minute, although it be at midnight, and whatever obstacle
may intervene. That paper once signed, I shall willingly
lay down my pen and my life, at the same instant, rejoicing
that God has given me the power to be of some service to
my fellow beings.
Addison could not reply. Blinding tears gathered in
his eyes and fell upon the paper, which trembled in his
hand, and Sidney sought to relieve him by speaking further
of details.
“There will be no difficulty in making these preparations
with secrecy?” he asked.
“I think not.”
“Will not Mr. Perth be a suitable lawyer for our purpose?”
“Perfectly—I had already thought of him He is competent—shrewd
and trustworthy.”
“See that he is bountifully remembered if our plan succeeds—also
you will not forget my old creditor, the Jew.
Let a provision for him be inserted in the will.”
“It shall be all done as you wish.”
“Remember that you cannot be too secret in this affair
—I do not think that my guardian fears any such design
on my part—nay, I doubt whether he even knows that I
am so nearly of age. We must not awaken his suspicion.”
“I will have no confidants excepting Mr. Perth—not
even my mother or sister shall know of your design.”
“That is best; go now, dear Addison; this long conversation
has fatigued me, and I must take care of my
strength if I would see my purposes carried out.”
Addison kissed his cousin and withdrew, promising to
call again on the morrow, at his usual hour. He hastened
home, and as soon as his agitation had sufficiently subsided,
he repaired to the office of the young lawyer, and
after bespeaking his confidence, proceeded to lay before
him the business on which he had called.
“Will there be any difficulty in all this, Mr. Perth?”
he asked, after relating the circumstances.
“Not the least, if your cousin lives to sign the will,”
replied the attorney.
“I don't know, but it may be so,” answered Addison;
“but it seems to me that immense property can never be
got out of Ralph Werter's hands, although poor Sidney
should sign a dozen wills. I have a nervous dread of that
man.”
“But the great bulk of the property is not in his hands;
it is chiefly real estate, the title of which is absolutely in
present owner either conveys or wills it to him, or dies
without a will. You are not afraid that Ralph will run
away with the land, are you?”
“No, I do not think he is quite a magician,” said Addison,
smiling.
“If your cousin executes this will and dies, that moment
this property is as irrevocably yours as if you had owned
it a hundred years, and old Werter could never exercise a
moment's further control over it.”
“I know this must be so, yet I am glad to hear you assert
it—I do not think I am so solicitous about it for myself,
as for my parents and sister, and for Sidney himself, who
will be so gratified. You smile, Mr. Perth, but I am quite
in earnest. I doubtless shall learn to love wealth, if it is
ever mine; but my present thoughts are not chiefly of
myself.”
“Is there any serious doubt of your cousin living a
month?”
“Yes, there is great reason to fear he will not last so
long, especially if he is not free from agitation. We must
use the utmost secrecy in this affair, for if it should become
known it would cause a commotion that might prove fatal
to him. I shall depend upon you.”
“You need not fear me—I shall leave nothing undone to
carry out your wishes fully and entirely.”
Addison departed, full of reflection upon the momentous
subject which he had been discussing. He went home,
and when he entered the paternal door and saw, as he
daily saw, the evidences of abject poverty, almost of destitution,
which surrounded him—when he saw the thin,
pale cheeks of his sister, worn with late hours of toil—the
anxious looking mother—the sightless father, feebly trying
to do some handiwork to aid in the general support—he
so near and so abundant. Unfortunately, Sidney's first
promise of enriching him, made before going to Cuba, had
also been accompanied by a restriction from speaking on
the subject, and it had always been a source of regret to
the affectionate son that he could not impart these anticipations
to his unhappy parents. Yet Captain Jay had not
overlooked the important fact that his nephew would have
it in his power, if his life should be spared a little longer,
to relieve their necessities, and if he had not spoken on the
subject, it was because he would not awaken hopes that
might be so easily disappointed. But he knew Sidney's
age, and as the time drew nigh which was to place such a
vast power in the dying boy's hands, he awaited with
increased interest the daily tidings of his condition.
Addison had nothing new on this point to communicate.
He brought to them as usual some message of affection
from the invalid, whom they were able to visit but seldom,
and related many particulars of his conversation on all
subjects but the forbidden one.
But although he was not at liberty to impart his secret
to his parents or sister, there was one friend to whom the
interdiction did not apply. He had talked so much and so
often to Sidney of his young friend Hazleton, and had read
to him so many of Edward's speaking letters, which bore
on every page the impress of his frank, earnest and generous
nature, that Sidney had long been accustomed to look
upon him as an acquaintance and friend of his own. He
had himself suggested what was but the echo of Addison's
thoughts, that if he should become rich, he would be able
to advance the fortunes of one whom, he said, he hoped
would fill his own place in the hearts and affections of his
relations; and when he knew that Addison was inditing a
letter to his friend, he even begged him to explain to him
out to him this golden hope.
All this Addison failed not to do, with much particularity
of detail, for the prospect of conferring so much happiness
on Edward and his mother, like the anticipation of
benefiting his own relations, was a temporary relief to the
gloom of his heart.
Two weeks passed away, and Sidney, daily failing, still
lived. Yet so strictly had his important secret been
guarded, that his uncle remained unsuspicious of it, although
constantly in fear that something would occur to
suggest the subject to his nephew's thoughts. He dreaded
the daily visits of young Jay, which he still dared not interdict,
lest so unreasonable a step should provoke inquiry,
and perhaps produce the very result he was so anxious to
avoid.
But he flattered himself that the cousins were both unconscious
of the momentous change which one short week
would work in the legal position of Sidney, unless a still
greater change was first wrought by death. If they were
aware that he would so soon be of age, they either remembered
it not, or they supposed that some tedious and difficult
legal process was still necessary to invest him with
his rights, and to enable him to transfer them to others.
Always accustomed to the impotency of wardship, Sidney
would not easily believe himself possessed of his new
powers, if, as was most improbable, the near view of death
should allow him to reflect at all upon the subject. Such
were some of the hopes with which Ralph fortified himself,
yet his chief dependence was upon the termination of his
nephew's days before the important hour which would give
to his pen more than the fabled power of the magician's
wand.
To this hope he had long been accustomed, to this anticipation
now heaping added anxiety upon his head, and when Sidney,
within a week of his majority, still lived, Ralph's
fears became goads of hourly torture, which allowed him
no interval of rest by day or night.
Some one, he felt sure, would think of the fatal subject,
if Sidney or his cousin did not; there would be some officious
medler to suggest it to them, and dissolve by a word
the golden visions of long years, in the very hour in which
they were turning to realities.
Sidney was visited by the family physician of his uncle,
who had been called to attend him on his return from the
south, when there was supposed to be no probability of
his surviving the autumn; and although Ralph would afterwards
gladly have consigned him to less careful hands,
there was no plausible pretext for a change, and with the
cowardice of guilt he feared and shunned everything that
might awaken suspicion against him. He had felt so certain
of success in his schemes without positive crime, that he
had resolved not only to avoid it, but to maintain a show
of kindness and generosity to his ward; but he now regretted
his timidity, and as he became more desperate, dark
and tumultuous thoughts took possession of his mind.
Addison meanwhile continued to spend the greater part
of his time, both by day and night, with his cousin, who,
on the third day preceding that which would complete his
twenty-first year, was pronounced by his medical attendant
to be within a few hours of his end. In the great grief
which this intelligence gave the affectionate and unselfish
heart of Addison, he entirely lost sight of the subject of
his own interest, until Sidney, revived from a temporary
exhaustion, himself reminded him of it.
“Do not weep for me, my dear cousin,” he said; “but
the will ready?”
Addison bowed, but could not speak.
“If I remember rightly about such things,” continued
the invalid, faintly, “it is necessary that I should read it,
or have it read to me.”
His cousin again replied with a gesture.
“This should be done as soon as possible—to-night or
to-morrow—that no time may be lost on the next day.
Will you see to it without delay?”
Addison promised compliance, and when he withdrew, it
was to seek Mr. Perth and make known Sidney's wishes,
although with little expectation that they would ever be
carried out.
“He is quite right,” replied the attorney, “and he evidently
thinks much upon the subject. The crisis is so very
near, that while there might be time to execute the will on
his birth-day, there might not be time to read it to him,
which is essential to its validity.”
“On what hour of the day can the will be executed?”
“The first. When the clock strikes the hour of midnight,
his birth-day is ushered in, and at that moment he
is of age. The law does not regard the fractions of days.”
“Are you quite sure of this?”
“Quite.”
“And when do you propose to read the will to him?”
“To-night. I will come late, when the family are retired,
and you must see to my admission.”
“I fear it will be of no avail. Dr. Lee thinks he has
but a few remaining hours, and there are yet two whole
days required for our purpose.”
“Physicians may be mistaken, like other people; let us
hope that Dr. Lee is wrong. I have heard of dying people
being apparently sustained for many hours by the mere
a great distance to see them. Perhaps this great hope,
which young Werter has so deeply at heart, may be the
means of keeping him alive. We all know what influence
resolution has upon our strength.”
“It may be so.”
“But do you hasten to return to him, and be careful
that he does not know the physician's opinion. Cheer him
all that you can, and depend upon my calling at twelve
o'clock.”
Mr. Perth spoke with decision and earnestness, and Addison
felt relieved that he was disposed to take the direction
of the details of the melancholy business. His own
heart was so depressed and sad, that he could not bring
himself to realize the importance of passing events to his
worldly interests, and it seemed to him like a crime to
be calculating upon accession to the wealth of his dying
friend. There was not a moment of all these painful, protracted
weeks when he would not with joy, nay with ecstacy,
have sacrificed all his pecuniary expectations to restore
Sidney to health; and the only relieving anticipation that
he found in his misery was that of seeing his dear parents
and sister, raised from their destitute state to comfort and
ease.
He hastened back to the bedside of his friend, resolved
to quit it no more until all was over. The patient remained
composed and quiet through the remainder of the day,
conversing but little, and only on themes of highest import,
and at night he was left to the care of Addison and the
faithful Sukey, who was unwearying in her attendance
upon him.
Ralph retired to his feverish and fitful rest with a slightly
increased sense of security, yet with many boding fears,
and while he slept, counsel and witnesses were surrounding
voice, his last Will and Testament, receiving his asseverations
that he understood and approved it all, and that all
was as he had dictated. Cautiously, slowly, completely,
all was done but the simple act of affixing the testator's
signature, which yet required an interval of twenty-four
hours to give it validity.
13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE MURDER OF SIDNEY.
Mr. Boggs was seated in his office on the ensuing morning,
lamenting the dearth of business, and the increase of
legal practitioners, when he received an unexpected call
from a busy, prattling little constable, who had frequently
thrown business in his way, and who received in turn the
lawyer's influence in retaining him in his official position.
“Ralph Werter is one of your men, isn't he?” said the
visiter.
“Yes, he has been my client.”
“And a pretty good one he must be—he is as rich as a
Jew.”
“Yes—and as close—but what of him? Speak, what
have you to say?”
“Perth was seen to come out of his house late last night
with one of his clerks.”
“Well?”
“Well, I have been thinking what it could all mean—I
don't know, of course, but there is something secret going
on. At any rate, I thought, if Mr. Perth was trying to
get away one of your clients, it was best for you to know
it, and be on your guard.”
The spy knew nothing of the state of affairs existing
between Ralph and his nephew, and had no remote suspicion
of the real bearings of his tidings. Not so with
Boggs, whose eyes kindled with a strange light for a moment,
suddenly changed their expression.
“Nonsense, Harvey,” he said; “it has been only a
friendly visit to the poor boy, who is lying very ill—at any
rate, if Werter prefers Perth to me, let him have him. He
is a miserly old fellow at the best.”
But no sooner had the constable withdrawn, a little
dashed by the reception which his intelligence had met
with, than the lawyer closed the book of reports, which for
appearance sake had been lying open before him, and,
taking his hat, started out. He knew enough of the position
of Werter's affairs to have his suspicions fully excited
by such a piece of intelligence as he had just received, for
Mr. Boggs, although not a man of talents, usually had his
few wits about him, and was quick at tracing the connections
and bearings of incidents upon each other. That
Hugh Werter's great estate had descended to an only son,
and that Ralph Werter would be the legal heir of the boy,
if the latter died before he attained the age of manhood,
he had long known; but he did not know Sidney's age, nor
the extremity of his illness, nor had he any reason to suppose
that there was any antagonism between the uncle and
nephew. But he knew Perth to be a shrewd lawyer, whose
actions usually had some meaning, and his visit to the invalid,
accompanied by one of his students, at once naturally
suggested to Boggs the idea of a will. This of itself would
not have excited his attention, any further than to awaken
his ire that he himself had not been called upon to write
the document, for he had no reason to suppose but that
the lad would bequeath his property chiefly to his uncle;
but the fact that the legal visit was at a late hour of the
night suggested the idea of secrecy and mystery. Something
might be occurring unknown to Ralph—something
which it would be of great service for him to know. The
He called forthwith to see him, under some pretext
of inquiry about rents, for it was easy to feign business
with so extensive a landholder, and he was shown into the
business room or office of the guardian, who was pacing
the floor with a look of uneasiness. Ralph had been accustomed
to look to the lawyer for assistance, and at the
first sight of him the idea of relief in some way from his
present difficulties suggested itself to him; but he immediately
dismissed the thought, for his trouble did not admit
even of a confidant. He, however, received the lawyer in
a friendly manner, listened, though impatiently, to his inquiries,
answered them hastily, and then waited to see him
withdraw. But Boggs manifested no such design.
“How is your nephew?” he asked, after a pause.
“Breathing his last,” said Ralph; “the poor boy is not
expected to live from one hour to the next.”
“Ah, is it possible?—in `articulo mortis'—well, we
must all come to it,” answered the lawyer, in a solemn
voice, but with a look of cold calculation in his eye, for he
was thinking how far this added confirmation to his views.
“He is not of age, I believe.”
Werter started as if he had received an electric shock,
but he partly recovered himself before he spoke.
“No—he is not.”
“Is Mr. Perth a relative or particular friend of your
nephew?”
“No—I do not think Sidney knows him. Why do
you ask?”
“Does not Mr. Perth visit him?”
“Certainly not.”
“Well, I had a reason, but it is of no consequence—
particularly if your nephew is not of age.”
“Boggs,” exclaimed the old man, with much agitation,
to tell me. Let me hear it, and instantly.”
“It is really of not the slightest importance, if, as
I said—”
“If me no ifs—tell me what you know, on pain of my
displeasure, or in hope of my reward, if you will. You
shall not be disappointed. Suppose my nephew is of age
—suppose that he becomes so to-morrow,” said Ralph,
desperately, “what then?”
“Then it was probably not for nothing that Counsellor
Perth and one of his students were with him late last
night, and were seen to leave your house long past midnight.”
“What do you say, Boggs?” exclaimed the old man,
whiter than the wall against which he leaned. “Do you
mean to tell me this is truth?”
“Yes.”
“But it cannot have been done—I cannot be mistaken
in the day—here it is,” he continued, taking down a very
old family Bible, which had belonged to the mother of
Sidney, and the leaves of which shook and rattled so under
his trembling hands, that he could with difficulty find the
place he sought—“there it is—the 16th of March!
They have made a mistake, Boggs—it won't do them any
good, hey?”
Eagerness is a faint word to express the manner in which
this was said and done—it was fierceness, almost madness
of tone and action—appalling the attorney with the magnitude
of the mine which he had accidentally sprung.
“It can't do them any good, can it?” repeated Werter,
grasping the attorney by the shoulder and looking fiercely
into his eyes.
“If you mean that a will executed by a minor can have
no efficacy,” replied the lawyer, with judicial deliberation,
But they may be only making preparations—the lawyer
may have been receiving his instructions how to write it.”
“That is it—that is it.”
“When did you say Sidney will be of age?”
“To-morrow. Oh, not till to-morrow, and it is almost
impossible he should live through another day.”
“Another day? But this is not necessary for their
purpose, if to-morrow is his birth-day.”
“You do not mean to say he can do any binding, legal
act until the day is finished, or at least until the hour
which completes his twenty-first year?”
“You are mistaken here, my dear sir. There is an
old legal adge, that the law does not regard the fractions
of a day. Your nephew will be of age at twelve o'clock
to-night.”
“Good Heavens! Is this so, Mr. Boggs?—in less than
twelve hours from this moment!—and everything is ready
in advance! They have been plotting secretly against
me; but I will disappoint them. My doors shall be closed
against them. Not a soul shall enter—and that young
traitor Jay shall quit my house directly.”
“Do no such thing—you will injure yourself. Besides,
Perth cannot be baffled in this way. He would have Sidney
removed at midnight, the very moment that your guardianship,
and consequently your control over him ceases.
Something else—”
A strange expression passed over Ralph's face—it was
momentary—it was like nothing the attorney had ever seen
or dreamed of before in the human countenance. Boggs
shuddered.
When Werter next spoke, it was with a change of tone,
and with something like calmness.
“We may be mistaken, after all,” he said; “I know no
the course which the law wisely points out for it, nor do I
believe he will. Besides, it is most probable he will not
live the day out; but if it proves otherwise—so it must be
—I must submit to fate.”
This sudden resignation of a man so recently maddened
with fear, excited the suspicions of the shrewd lawyer,
which were not lessened when the old man suddenly
broke up the interview, by pleading a business engagement.
No sooner had the visiter gone than Werter's carriage
was ordered, and before it was ready, his bell was rung
three times, to inquire why it was so long delayed. Hastily,
almost frantically, he paced his room, and those who
saw him pass to his carriage thought some sudden illness
had seized him, so blanched, were his features, so wild
the expression of his eye.
“To Grand street—drive fast,” he said, in a husky
voice, to the coachman, as the steps were put up and the
door closed, and at the next instant the vehicle was rapidly
rattling in the direction named; Grand street was gained, the
coach was dismissed, and Werter pursued his way on foot.
Far, much farther, than he had ridden, although that was
a long way, he went down Grand street to Cherry, down
Cherry to its most obscure quarter, and paused before a
door where a battered tin sign gave notice that a physician's
and surgeon's office was within. Ralph entered, passed
up a flight of stairs, and knocking at a door on the first
landing, was bid in a voice of no polite intonation to enter.
He obeyed, and in the dingy room, seated before a very
dusty table, which was dotted with half-filled vials and
gallipots, he saw the man he sought, and whom he had
sought once before, Dr. Brail. The physician, who rose
of middle age, shabbily dressed, but with an intelligent
aspect and gentlemanly manners. He handed Ralph the
rickety chair in which he had been seated, took another
still worse for himself, closed a large book in which he had
been reading, and in which he left a spatula to mark his
place, and then waited anxiously to hear the object of his
visiter's call, for that it was no common one he knew very
well.
“This is not the style of office you used to have in
Broadway, Brail,” said Ralph, with the air of an old acquaintance.
The physician winced. “No, not quite,” he said.
“And yet it seems to me there would be no difficulty
in a man of your talents establishing yourself there again.
Those old affairs are forgotten now, or rather they were
never known by one in ten of the present community.”
The slightest perceptible blush tinged the Doctor's
cheeks, as he replied, excitedly—
“Of course, they would be no impediment, not the
least—but poverty is the trouble now—destitution, pauperism,
almost. You know it very well, Werter; but if I
could once more get a start, I should be all that I ever
was, and more, for I have the benefit of more experience
and sounder judgment.”
“Certainly, and we shall see you driving your carriage
again, I do not doubt. I should advise you to take an
office in a fashionable quarter at once.”
“You mock me, unless you mean to aid me. Try me,
Mr. Dives,” continued Brail, smiling, but speaking earnestly;
“give me a furnished office, and trust me a year for
the rent, and lend me money enough to buy a few books,
and a suit of clothes, and see if I do not more than justify
this, and with very little risk.”
“I will.”
“Will you?” said Brail, grasping his hand and looking
eagerly in his eyes, to see if he was in earnest.
“I will. I will do this for you, and much more—if—”
“Oh,” groaned Brail, “I should have been a rich man
years agone, but for that short word.”
“You mistake—I will do all this for you to-morrow—
if I am able, if I have offices to rent, and money to lend.”
“Then I am safe, for everybody knows you are—or are
to be—one of the richest men in all this great city, and
certainly no one rents more stores or offices than you.”
“To-day!” said Ralph, in an emphatic whisper, and
drawing his chair closer to the physician, but to-morrow it
may be otherwise.”
“What do you mean? Surely your nephew—”
“My nephew, who you so confidently asserted could not
live a year, has lived sixteen long months—is alive now,
and this night he will be of age.”
Werter rose and examined the doors carefully, to see
that all were closed, and then returning, drew his chair
still closer to his companion's, and continued, still in a half
whisper—
“This is not the worst, Brail; I have this day learned
that he has been long secretly plotting with some vagabond
relations of his mother—a family of almost paupers—to
defraud me out of the whole property, and to will it to
them.”
“Is it possible?”
“It is too true! The will is already drawn, and ready
to be executed. I doubt not he intends to sign it this very
night, and so sly and still has the little hypocritical fellow
been about it, too, that I supposed he never dreamed of
by a man on his death-bed.”
“This is certainly alarming. How near does he seem
to be to his end.”
“Within a few hours; but he has lain just so exactly
two whole days. Day before yesterday, Dr. Lee said he
could live but a few hours—but he still lingers on. I believe
he is trying his best to hold out for this very purpose.”
“Does he suffer much?”
“A good deal—yes, a good deal.”
Werter again rose and examined the door, and this time
he took the precaution to lock it before he returned to his
seat.
“He suffers a great deal,” he repeated, emphatically,
looking with a strange expression into Brail's eyes, and
seeming to try to find or create a reflection of his own
thoughts in the physician's mind.
“Yes,” replied Brail.
“And I have been thinking, Brail—I have been thinking—that—that—Brail,
can I trust you implicitly?”
“Yes, Werter,” said the Doctor, laughing, “and I don't
think you have anything very dreadful to say, after all:
You are frightened at shadows. Speak out.”
Ralph's voice sunk to a low whisper as he continued.
“I said that he suffered a great deal. It would be a
mercy to—to—Brail, you understand me. Such things
have been done before now, entirely out of compassion to
dying men, when all hope was past, when nothing but suffering
remained—you understand?”
The Doctor again smiled calmly. No look of horror or
repugnance was visible on his countenance. He was one
of that class of men who can “smile, and smile, and be a
villain.”
“Yes,” he said, “I understand—I understood you some
time ago, and, as I said, you are frightened at shadows.
You wish to shorten your nephew's misery a few hours,
and save him from doing an act of injustice on his death-bed;
that is all, I believe.”
“Yes, that is it, that is it,” replied Ralph, eagerly,
“speak a little lower.”
“Well, there is nothing very dreadful in all that—you
can easily do it.”
“You, you mean.”
“No, I mean you—with my advice and direction. My
presence in his room at such a crisis might excite suspicion.”
Brail was shrewd enough not to put himself in Werter's
power. He preferred exactly the reverse of this position.
“Very true,” replied the old man, gravely. “But what
can I do?—what do you advise?”
“Nothing—I advise nothing. Mind, now, I know nothing
about your nephew; I don't know whether he is dead
or alive—I suppose he is dead, long ago, judging from the
condition in which I last saw him.” All this was said with
a broad smile. “But,” he continued, “I am going to sell
you a little medicine, and tell you its properties—that is
all I am going to do.”
Ralph shuddered.
Brail rose, went to a chest of drawers, took out a large
phial and a very small one, and filling the latter out of the
contents of the other, with a limpid, colorless liquid, returned
to his companion.
Werter drew back.
“Is it p—poi—”
“No—it is not poison, at least it is not called so. Taste
of it, it will not hurt you.”
Ralph hesitated, and the physician, still smiling, uncorked
the phial and put it to his lips. “A dozen drops
should feel invigorated by taking it, and new strength would
fill our whole system for a while, to be followed by extreme
lassitude.
“Yes.”
“But I would advise you not to give half that quantity
to any one who was very weak and low—for although it
would certainly strengthen the patient very much, the reaction
would be very sudden, and most certainly fatal.”
Brail smiled throughout this speech.
“You are certain of this?”
“I am quite certain.”
“You were mistaken once.”
“I am not mistaken now.”
“And it is not poison?”
“It is not poison.”
Werter wrapped the phial in a piece of paper, and placed
it in his vest pocket.
“There is one thing more,” he said. “You must come
to my house this evening, after dark—disguised, if you
choose—but you must come. You will be shown into my
room. You will be seen by no one but me. You will not
refuse me this?”
“I will come.”
And so they parted.
Ralph went home, still hoping to hear that his fearful
design was anticipated by natural causes, but still doomed
to be disappointed.
“He is weaker,” said Hester, who knew nothing of the
exciting information which her husband had received from
Boggs; “but he may live through the night.”
“What does he take?”
“Nothing but a mixture to allay his cough.”
“The same that stood in a tumbler at his bedside this
morning?”
“Yes.”
“He takes about a table-spoonful at a time?”
“Yes.”
“Does he take it frequently?”
“Yes—why do you ask these questions so earnestly?”
said Hester, with surprise.
“Earnestly? Did I?” said Ralph, coloring. “I did
not know it—it certainly is not important.”
His face was haggard as he turned from his wife, his
cold, gray eye wore its most stony expression, and his
white lips were closely compressed. He went into the room
of the patient, who was alone with young Jay, and was
asleep.
The room was darkened, and Addison sat near the head
of the bed reading, but with his face toward his cousin,
toward whom his eye momentarily wandered from his book,
to catch the first sign of returning wakefulness. The
watcher barely glanced at Werter as he entered the room,
made a sign for silence, and resumed his book. The old
man hesitated a moment at the door, and then advanced
softly, until he stood nearly behind Addison, and facing
his sleeping nephew. The sight of the former brought the
fire of a momentary rage in his eye, which quickly paled,
however, before the new master-emotion of his heart. At
his side, at Addison's side, within reach of both, stood a
small table, containing a tumbler about a third full of a
nearly colorless liquid, across which lay a silver table-spoon.
With his eye upon Sidney, yet watching for the
least indication of a movement in Addison, for both were
in his direct line of vision, Werter drew from his vest pocket
the small phial, from which he had already taken the precaution
to remove the wrapper, and uncorked it. Slight
attracted Jay's attention, who partly turned round and saw
Ralph, motionless, gazing with seemingly fixed attention
at his nephew. He resumed his book with closer attention,
seeming to feel partly relieved of his watch by the presence
of Ralph, who, without a moment's further hesitation or
faltering, extended the fatal phial over the tumbler, and
mingled its contents with the medicinal draught. Quickly
and silently the direful deed was done, and, while the patient
still slept the sleep of innocence and virtue—while
his friend still pored over the page of truth—the old man
went out from the darkened room into the broad sunlight,
despite all his fortifying arguments to the contrary, a self-convicted
murderer.
14. CHAPTER XIV.
THE PURSUIT.
When Mr. Boggs went from the house of Werter, it was
in no amiable frame of mind, and with no slight amount of
ire toward his former client, who had so unceremoniously
broken off the interview, with scarcely an acknowledgment
for the important intelligence brought to him by the attorney.
Besides this, there was something, as has been said,
in the old man's sudden transition from the wildest excitement
to a state of calmness and professed resignation—
something in that dreadful though momentary expression
of face which aroused the lawyer's suspicions. He could
not readily believe in the horrible idea which was suggested
to his mind, yet he could not divest himself of it. He was
not incapable of doing something in the cause of humanity,
and, besides this, he knew there was uncertainty where
this great wealth was going to alight, and whether Perth's
party might not prove the most able, and more willing than
Ralph had shown himself to be, to reward him for any services
he might render them. But what could he do? He
did not like to communicate suspicions which might have
no foundation, and the explanation of which might inculpate
himself as a spy, and a meddler in his neighbor's affairs.
While he hesitated and meditated, he had stopped
at a little distance from Werter's house, on the opposite
side of the street, whence he soon saw the rich man's carriage
emerge from the gateway, and pause before the front
door of the house. The hurried and nervous manner in
not lost upon one so accustomed to close observation as
Boggs, who became more than ever assured that there was
mischief on foot. Before he had time to reflect, the carriage
dashed past him—he caught sight of the livid face of
Ralph, and with intuitive impulse he rushed forward in pursuit.
He knew that there was a hackney-coach stand a
few blocks distant, and he cared not for the observation he
excited as he fairly leaped rather than ran towards it. A
dozen doors flew open as he approached, and jumping into
the first, he said to the driver, pointing to the flying
coach—
“Follow the gray horses wherever they go—keep near,
but do not pass them, and stop when they stop. Do you
understand?”
“Yes—a runaway match, I guess—we'll catch them.”
Boggs did not reply, and the driver, entering into the
spirit of the chase, jumped upon the box and applied the
lash to his drowsy steeds. There was no difficulty in attaining
and maintaining a sufficient proximity to Werter's
carriage for all the purposes of Boggs, and when the former
alighted at the corner of Grand street, the attorney
followed his example at a safe distance, and, discharging
the hackman, continued the pursuit on foot. Slower or
faster, as the old man went, but always on the opposite
side of the street, and about a dozen yards behind him, always
stopping when Ralph stopped, and looking momentarily
into the shop windows until he passed on. Thus Boggs
followed cautiously, shrewdly, and with a resolute determination
not to be baulked of his design. The farther Werter
went, the more certain was the attorney that he was
upon some evil errand; and when, at length, after his long
and circuitous walk, he turned into a door-way, Boggs immediately
crossed the street to read the adjacent signs.
eye, and flashed fourfold conviction on his mind—it was
that of Dr. Brail. He knew the name; for, although obscure
then, it had been notorious in the legal records of
the city, and he felt almost as well assured of the nature
of Werter's errand as if he had passed with him into the
office of the professional villain, and had heard the fiendish
conspiracy that was plotting there. Yet it was not easy to
resolve what to do. He wished to attain more certainty,
and he would not have hesitated to avail himself of any
place or position for espionage and eaves-dropping—but
there was none to be found which would not expose him to
detection. He accordingly recrossed the street, and withdrew
into an opposite door-way, where he could at least
watch the return of Ralph, and see if the physician accompanied
him, which circumstance, if it occurred, would afford
additional proof of intended crime. He had long to wait,
so very long, that he began to fear Ralph had gone out
some other way, when at length he made his appearance
alone, with an air of increased agitation, and started with
rapid steps on his return. Boggs took another course
homeward, meditating with much irresolution on his proper
course of conduct. He dreaded the rich man's wrath and
persecution—he feared to strike an ineffectual blow, which
would be sure to recoil heavily upon himself, and so great
was this apprehension that it nearly outweighed his hopes
of gain by befriending the clients of Mr. Perth, which hope
had been his principal motive of action.
The fate of the invalid, whose hours were numbered, and
could be but few in any event, was to him a matter of secondary
consideration, although he would gladly, for the
sufferer's sake, have prevented the impending tragedy.
After much irresolution, and a dangerous loss of time,
he concluded, like most shuffling men, to adopt a middle
it failed, might at least shield him from danger. He would
call at once on Perth, and, without committing himself,
would give him warning by hints and inuendoes, sufficient
to enable him to save Sidney, and to insure the success of
his own plans. But here again time was lost. The young
attorney was not to be found at once, and Boggs had half
an hour to wait for him at his offiee, while a clerk sought
for him elsewhere and brought him home.
“Let me see you alone, Mr. Perth, immediately, on business
of great importance,” he said, when his legal brother
entered his office. The clerks withdrew, and Mr. Perth
waited with surprise for a communication so singularly heralded,
from a man whose professional walk was entirely
different from his own, and with whom he was scarcely acquainted.
“What I have to say must be in the strictest confidence.
Will you receive it as such?” continued the visitor.
“Undoubtedly. But please to be brief and explicit,
for time is unusually precious with me to-day.”
“It is more precious with your dying client—”
Perth started, and looked alarmed.
“Do not fear me—there are others to be feared and
watched.”
“Speak quicker—plainer—for the love of Heaven.”
“Everything is known or suspected in relation to young
Werter's will, and it is to be defeated at every hazard.
Fly to your client, remain at his bedside—see that he
drinks nothing—tastes nothing—that comes through suspected
hands.”
“What do you say, Boggs? What warrant have you
for these dreadful hints, and to whom do they point?” exclaimed
the young man, with great amazement.
“I cannot answer these questions, nor is there time for
life is in jeopardy—perhaps it is already too late to
save him.”
“I will go this instant,” exclaimed Perth, unlocking,
with trembling hand, a private drawer, and taking from it
a roll of papers, which he deposited in his pocket.
“I do not know what cause you may have for these horrid
suspicions, but our design is known, and the worst is to
be feared. Will you go with me?”
“By no means, nor must my name be mentioned.” T
“I forgot. I will keep your secret. Keep mine.” T
So saying, Perth hastened into the street, called a hack,
and drove rapidly towards Werter's house. Reflection
brought increased alarm to his mind. It is difficult for a
virtuous man, unaccustomed to scenes of violence and
wrong, to realize the existence of great crime in his own
neighborhood, and among the peaceful walks of his own
daily life. He thinks of such scenes only as occurring far
away in some obscure place, and of the actors in them, not
as men bearing the common semblance of humanity, but as
half-deformed monsters, hideous and foul.
Thus Perth had never been awake to the real danger
which impended over Sidney, and even when the alarm was
first sounded in his ear, the thought that Addison was perpetually
at his friend's bedside, seemed a sufficient safeguard
for the dying boy. But now he feared the worst,
and he remembered that, like himself, young Jay would be
entirely unsuspicious of danger in the shape which now
threatened. Impatiently, almost insanely, he urged his
driver forward, for everything seemed to depend on gaining
a few moments of time. As he drew near the house,
he leaned from the carriage window and gazed earnestly
towards it. Ah! how his heart failed him, as he saw that
there was an unusual bustle about the premises. Neighbors
—domestics were conversing solemnly together in the court
—everything told him that he was too late. He leaped
from the carriage ere it stopped, but he stood paralyzed
where he alighted, for he saw Addison approach the door
with red eyes and with despairing countenance.
“Is he worse?” faltered Perth, as his friend came near.
“He is well,” answered Addison, solemnly.
“What do you mean?”
“He died half an hour ago.”
Long and constantly as Sidney's death had been expected,
the shock which it gave Addison, the violent grief
it occasioned him, were too great to admit of his at once
realizing any secondary misfortune. Mr. Perth did not
disturb his emotions by allusions either to his lost estates,
or to the still more agitating subject of his suspicions. He
passed into the house and gathered from others the particulars
of the solemn event, which all were discussing, and
which were not of an unusual character. The patient had
awakened from a long sleep, and seemed greatly refreshed
and unusually strong. He had conversed freely and distinctly,
asked to be allowed to sit up, and said that he even
felt as though he could walk. This unusual strength failed
as suddenly as it had come on—he went into a syncope,
and in a quarter of an hour ceased to breathe.
“Dr. Lee says it is quite common for people who have
been long ill to die in this way,” said Ralph, with an anxious
look at the attorney.
“Doubtless it is,” answered Perth, making the reply an
excuse for gazing into the eyes of Werter, and steadily perusing
their expression, until the guilty man turned suddenly
away, and went out of the room.
“Did he take anything after waking?” asked the lawyer
of old Sukey, who stood weeping by.
“Nothing, unless it was a spoonful out of that tumbler,
which he took every hour,” she said, pointing to the stand.
They turned towards the table, but the tumbler was
gone. Perth reflected a moment, and resolved to pursue
the inquiry no further at that moment.
His own ends were irretrievably defeated, and even if he
had it in his power to convict Werter of the crime of which
he suspected him, it could in no wise benefit Addison or
his friends. By an inexorable fiat, the law had transferred
Sidney's estates to his uncle, and even if that uncle were
to perish on the scaffold, the property would remain in his
family. Besides, by all appearances, Sidney had died a
natural death, and if there had been guilt, the evidence of
it had been carefully removed. Perth even doubted whether
Werter had consummated his crime, whether he had
not been anticipated by natural causes. It was, at all
events, no light matter to set on foot inquiries and investigations
involving so grave a charge, and he resolved to do
nothing until he had conferred with his informant, Mr.
Boggs, and had learned on what facts his suspicions were
founded. But when that wary attorney ascertained what
had occurred, his views underwent a sudden change. He
told Mr. Perth he believed he had been too rash, indeed he
said circumstances had since come to light which convinced
him he was entirely in error, and reminding the young
lawyer of his promise of secrecy, he begged him to think
no more of such an unfortunate mistake. Perth did not
believe him, but without his assistance, he had no pretext
for a complaint against Werter, and he at once abandoned
all thought of making one.
15. CHAPTER XV.
THE MURDER OF BRAIL.
It was not until Addison awoke to a sense of his entire
indigence that he realized the height of that hope from
which he had been dashed. All that he might have become,
all that he might have done for others—the name
he might have achieved—the renown he might have won—
all came now to his mind, to increase the bitterness of his
grief, to add to the depth of his dejection. The sight of
his loved parents and sister pained him, and the prospect
of a grateful reply to his letter to his friend added to his
misery. Life grew dark and distasteful to him, and it was
only with a great effort, inspired by a sense of duty, that
he shook off the torpor of gloom and resolved not to give
way to desponding inaction.
The rich man, meanwhile, breathed free and deep. His
golden goal was gained, and the prize had not turned to
chaff in his grasp. Relieved from the weight of the one
great fear which had so long and so heavily oppressed him,
his mind was not quick to take cognizance of any other
trouble. His guilt lay lightly upon his seared conscience;
he fully persuaded himself that he had committed no great
enormity, and when, despite his casuistry, his better sense
told him he was a murderer, he grew profuse in sudden
charities, with which he foolishly hoped to expiate his crime.
He kept his word with Brail, who saw himself speedily established,
not in a house of Werter's, for that might excite
remark, but in a fashionable residence, which served him
single horse and carriage, were all as he had desired, and
all equal to those of the most respectable of his professional
brethren. For some months he remained satisfied with
these things, but his exaltation increased his ambition, and
he soon began to calculate whether something more might
not be attainable from the same source which had supplied
him with so much. He had no scruples of principle to restrain
him, and he resolved to try the thumbscrews of fear
and threats upon his guilty benefactor. He took a fancy
to the house in which he lived, and thinking it best to secure
a title to it, before the time of his power had passed
away, he took an early opportunity of modestly hinting his
wishes to Ralph. The old man was slow to comprehend
him, but when he did so, it was with the greatest alarm—
for he knew that the petition was meant for a command,
and that the first yielding on his part might lead to a sacrifice
of half his estate. But he looked into the face of
his suppliant, which was full of fearful meaning, and he
dared not refuse. He temporized for a while, hoping to
evade the demand, but day after day it was urgently repeated,
not with any direct threats, but with a sense of
power and determination which Werter dared not withstand.
He yielded, the conveyance was duly made, and the dark
and clouded brow of Brail grew calm again.
Vain hope! to satisfy the cravings of a newly-awakened
avarice by temporizing concessions. Brail had gained
much, but he had resolved to be rich, and not many weeks
elapsed before he gave his thumbscrews another turn.
Part of Ralph's real estate lay in one of those then embryo
cities, which now stand vis-a-vis to the metropolis, on opposing
shores, rivalling its splendor, and Brail had set his
heart upon obtaining a tract of land in that quarter.
There was one farm, nominally such, fronting on the river,
independent—and he asked the owner for it as coolly as if
it had been an apple.
“Why it is worth a hundred thousand dollars,” exclaimed
Werter, with the greatest amazement and trepidation.
“I know it—that is just the reason I want it.”
“You certainly cannot have it,” replied Ralph, desperately.
“I certainly will,” returned Brail, smilingly.
Ralph expostulated, but Brail was firm.
“You have no power over me,” said Werter, for he could
not pretend to misunderstand his companion's meaning.
“I complied with your former request out of gratitude, not
from fear.”
“Perhaps I have no power over you,” replied Brail,
with a sneering smile; “we shall see. Poisons can be detected
in the human system months after death. Can I
not swear I sold it to you the afternoon of your nephew's
death, and that I was ignorant of the use you intended it
for?”
Ralph trembled. “You said it was not poison,” he replied.
“No matter what I said then—you had better mind
what I say now.”
“But you have been richly repaid already, and you
ought to be satisfied. See how easily you have acquired
your fine house.”
“Not more easily than you have obtained the whole estate—which
you ought to share equally with me. I am
moderate in asking only for the farm, and by —! I will
have it.”
“How do I know that even this would content you, if I
should yield?”
“I will swear it—I never will molest you more. I will
sell it, and quit the country, never more to return.”
“But this is one of the finest pieces of property I have.
I cannot give you this—ask something more reasonable.”
“Nonsense! you have a dozen equally good tracts; it is
not a tenth part of your wealth, and I have some peculiar
reasons for fancying this. I must have it, Werter.”
“Well, come and see me to-morrow about it,” replied
Werter, with a groan. “If I must, I must—but I am not
well to-day.”
“I will come to-morrow; but remember I am not to be
trifled with—nor put off long.”
Werter was in an agony of terror, but mingled with his
fear was a vindictive hatred of the accomplice who had so
suddenly become his tyrant and oppressor, and he heaped
execrations upon his own head for his folly in investing the
otherwise weak and obscure villain with so tremendous a
power over him.
All day, and all the long, sleepless night that ensued,
his thoughts were upon the harrowing subject, trying to
devise means to evade the threatened exaction. Morning
came, and his persecutor. There was a baleful glare in
the eye of Werter as he invited his visitor into his office,
which would have frightened a cautious man; but Brail
was too intent on his golden prize to notice it. They entered
into conversation, which was conducted in a nervous,
fitful manner by Ralph, who walked much about the room,
and passed frequently behind the chair in which the physician
sat, and which he had placed for him, before his arrival,
a few feet in front of a dark closet. This door, in the
course of his walks across the room, he opened twice and
looked in—twice he went to the windows and looked out.
Irresolution marked every movement; but at length he sat
if impressed by a new and sudden thought.
“It is useless to hesitate,” said Brail.
“I suppose it is; but there is one thing to be considered.
It would look a little suspicious for me to convey so large
a property suddenly to you, who are generally supposed to
have no means, or very little. We had better seem to bargain
about it for a day or two, and go together and see it,
which will give the affair more plausibility. Besides, I
want to see the land; I have not been on it in a year, and
I want to know what and how much I convey.”
“If you will go to-day—”
“This very afternoon.”
“Be it so, then; I should like to see it again myself.
At what hour shall I call?”
“Say two o'clock—no, I think a little later than that,”
answered Werter, after a moment's pause. “I have an
engagement—say at three, or rather at half-past three o'clock.”
“Will there be time?”
“Oh, plenty. We can go all over it before dark.”
“Very well, I will come.”
Brail departed, and Werter looked after him from the
door, until he was out of sight. Then he returned to his
own room, looked again into the closet, and passed again
to the window, whence he looked out and listened to the
roar of the street, as it ascended to his room, at times
making the very sash to rattle.
“I might have done it,” he muttered.
He passed the interval that elapsed before the hour of
the appointment chiefly alone, and when the time drew near
he made some strange preparations for his jaunt. The
weather was not cold, but he wore a large overcoat, one
pocket of which was protuberant with its contents, and he
carry.
“It may be damp before we come back,” he said, in answer
to an inquiring look of Brail; “I must guard against
the rheumatism.”
“Very true.”
Ralph was not quite ready when his visitor came, although
he had named so late an hour, and when at length
he was fully prepared to start, the carriage which was to
take them to the ferry was not in readiness. It was a mistake
of the coachman, he said, and another quarter of an
hour was lost, so that it was past four o'clock when they
drove off.
“There will be plenty of time,” he said.
“Oh, yes, plenty—fortunately I am not afraid either of
cold or wet,” replied the physician, who was in high glee.
They reached the ferry, and Werter sent his carriage
back. It would be wanted by the family before their return,
he said, and they could do very well without it on the
other side. The coachman inquired if he should meet
them on their return. No, the hour would be uncertain,
and it might be late—they would walk home.
Ralph walked slowly, after they had crossed, and it was
considerably past five o'clock when they reached the farm,
which, although fronting for half a mile on the river, was
at a considerable distance from the landing. There was a
tenant's house upon one edge of the tract, fronting on a
street which was laid out but not opened. Here they
called, at Ralph's suggestion, and remained a considerable
time to rest, so that the sun was nearly down when they
started to go over the grounds. They walked along the
river's side for a while and admired, at least Brail did, the
view of the city opposite, and the distant bay. He was in
excessive spirits, and by that singular illusion which so
his companion was as elated as himself. They wandered
on, Werter pointing out from time to time the intended
line of future streets which were to intersect the land, and
descanting upon its great value, a theme of which Brail
did not readily tire. The sun set while they were thus engaged,
and the gray shades of twilight began to envelope
the landscape, but Werter walked on slowly, and now his
steps were directed towards the rear of the tract, which
they had not yet visited. The land was nearly all cleared,
but there remained a considerable grove in that quarter,
which had been purposely left, and which, when thinned
out, Ralph said would be highly ornamental. It was quite
dense now, and as they approached it the voices of its varied
tenants came out in dismal union from its gloomy recesses.
The plaintive call of the whip-poor-will, the hoarse
croaking from the marsh, and the boding cry of the owl,
by turns reached their ears—while flitting bats crossed
their path, and now and then the nimble night-hawk darted
through the dusk, swallow-like in its swiftness, and in the
sinuosities of its course.
Still talking, they went on, almost to the edge of the
wood, when Brail suddenly paused.
“We don't want to go in there,” he said; “there's nothing
to be seen there.”
“It is our nearest way, and it is a very narrow strip.
We shall be through it in a minute—come on.”
Brail went on—he did not know that the wood was many
rods deep—that it was far from any human habitation—
but after a few steps he stopped again and said—
“You are mistaken, Werter; you have certainly lost
your way; the ferry lies in that direction. Come, let us
get away from all these horrid noises.”
So saying, he led the way rapidly in the direction he
Reluctantly and slowly he did so, talking but little, and
when they came near the tenant's house, he insisted on
again stopping in. They staid until it was quite dark, for
the sky was partly overcast, and there were some dense
masses of clouds skirting the western horizon, fragments
of which became detached at intervals, and rose slowly toward
the zenith. Werter looked out from time to time—
the sable curtain was spreading in every direction—the
stars one by one were put out.
“It is time to go,” said Brail.
“Yes,” answered a voice so hoarse that the first speaker
turned in amazement to see whence it proceeded.
The rich man's tenant proposed to accompany them to
the ferry, but Ralph declined the offer without thanks.
They knew the way, he said, and could go very well.
The night proved to be even blacker than they had anticipated.
An Egyptian darkness, almost tangible, overspread
the land, and when they were out of doors they
stood a moment quite bewildered.
“Why, Werter, we never can find our way,” said Brail.
“Yes, yes, we can, very well—wait a moment until our
eyes get used to it—come on, I know the way. We'll take
a short cut across the fields.”
“Across the fields such a night as this! Why you are
crazy, man—we should pitch into a dozen bog-holes, provided
we were fortunate enough to get out of the first
eleven. You are quite too sparing of your friends. I say
the man shall go with us with a lantern.”
“Stop, Doctor—I insist; it is quite unnecessary—I begin
to see very well.”
“Never you mind, I'll satisfy him; I'll pay him myself.”
So saying, Brail darted back into the house, and soon
lantern.
“I knew you would need me—you might as well have
accepted my offer at first,” said the man.
“We don't need you,” replied Werter; “give me the
lantern, and you may return.”
“No, I have been paid for going,” replied the man,
laughing; “and I must earn my money. I don't mind it.”
Further remonstrance was useless, and the party proceeded
to the ferry, which they were still nearly half an
hour in gaining.
There was a boat in the slip, and the bell struck the
first signal for departure as they reached the gate, where
Brail dismissed the attendant and then hurried forward.
Werter followed with quick step, the bell struck again, and
they were barely on board when the boat shoved off. Ralph
stopped at the end of the vessel, just inside the chain, which
had been put up, and which they had to take down to admit
of their passing. He did not replace it, but stood leaning
against the stanchion to which it was fastened.
“Let us go inside,” said Brail.
“Wait a minute—I am tired, and the air is refreshing.”
Brail was close by the old man's side, and they stood
talking for a minute, while the boat shot rapidly forward.
The water, the shore, and the sky, were all of the same
pitchy hue—no line of demarcation was visible—the plash
of the wheels and the closing in of the waves in their wake,
alone told what element they were in. There were few
passengers, and all but themselves had gladly gone inside.
“Your farm is about in this direction, Brail,” said
Werter, in the same unnatural voice which has before been
noticed, “off where you see that light.”
“Where? I see no light.”
“Stand where I do, and you'll see it. There!”
Ralph stepped aside, and his companion took his place
by the stanchion, about two feet from the extreme end of
the boat, and peered eagerly forward through the darkness
to catch sight of the beacon which designated his coveted
land.
A child's strength could have done it, but there was the
gathered desperation of two long days in the thrust which
came upon the doomed man. There was an oath, a shriek,
a plunge, and the dark waters closed over their victim.
The murderer held on by the rail, and peered over into the
gloom and listened!—but no sound came up from the murky
waves. The boat was going rapidly—the tide, more rapid,
was rushing seaward, and if there had been any hope for
a strong swimmer, a minute's delay of help would have
frustrated it.
Ralph waited that minute, and yet another—and then
he rushed into the cabin and gave the alarm of “a man
overboard.”
All rushed out, but it was some seconds before any one
had presence of mind enough to give notice to the pilot,
and then the boat went thrice her length before she could
be stopped. After much delay, a small boat was lowered
with lights, but with scarcely the shadow of a hope of rescue,
although the accident was supposed to have been coincident
with the alarm.
“Who was it? Was he a friend of yours?” asked several
of Ralph, around whom a crowd was gathered, and
who, without feigning it, was much agitated.
“Yes, it was Dr. Brail, an eminent physician of Broadway.
Many questions were asked, and many fictitious particulars
of the supposed accident were given by Werter, exciting
scarcely less sympathy for the seemingly distressed
friend than for the victim himself. Others were watching
some sound of hope and cheer from its rowers, but they
looked and listened in vain. After ten minutes' useless
quest, it returned, and the steamboat proceeded onward to
her dock, bearing with her many a saddened heart, but
none so miserable as the man who had succeeded in his
most earnest wish, and who boasted to himself of his safety
secured, and a hundred thousand dollars saved.
16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE NEW CLAIMANT.
Our history retrogrades to a point of time about three
months prior to the occurrence of the events last related,
and about an equal period subsequent to the death of Sidney.
No material change had taken place in the family
of Captain Jay, the night of whose affliction seemed even
darker now than before it had been irradiated by the meteor-like
light of a failing hope. They were human, and it
was perhaps impossible that they should not find their misery
aggravated by the great and unusual display of wealth
which the Werters now made, and by the supercilious airs
of the female members of the family, on the few occasions
when they met either Addison or his sister. Both had
been too frequently at their father's house during Sidney's
last illness to admit of being treated entirely as strangers,
yet such treatment would have been less uncivil and unkind
than their vulgar assumption of superiority, and their very
evident contumely for their impoverished acquaintances.
Mr. Perth had been sufficiently discreet and considerate,
never to mention to Addison his suspicions in regard to the
immediate cause of Sidney's death, for while such a communication
would have done no good, it could not have
failed to greatly increase the distress of the young man,
whose own hand had doubtless administered the fatal
draught. From this horrible reflection at least he was
saved, and as for the rest he strove resolutely to submit
unrepiningly to the manifest will of Providence.
He had now looked for some weeks for an answer to his
letter to Edward Hazleton, not with any pleasing anticipations,
but with a nervous dread of the effect of his premature
promises upon the mind of his sanguine friend. He
had indeed written a second letter to Edward, soon after
Sidney's death, but to this it was yet too early to expect a
reply.
It was on a day of unusual depression that the expected
letter came, and Addison hastened home to read it at once
to his parents and sister. Expressing his sympathy for
his friend as he broke the seal, he proceeded to read with
emotions easily imagined the following startling epistle:
“Extraordinary as was the intelligence contained in
your kind letter of the first of March, I have that to communicate
in return which I think you will acknowledge to
be still more astounding. So anxious am I to tell you
speedily all that I think I have discovered, and which your
letter has been the principal means of revealing, that I
must hasten to my story without the preface or introduction
which its important character would seem to demand.
“When you were here, you occasionally mentioned your
cousin, whom you then seemed scarcely to know, having
had but but a single interview with him since childhood,
but you never spoke of him by his family name, which, if
I thought at all on the subject, I supposed to be the same
as yours. But in your last letter, in describing the angelic
boy so soon to take his leave of earth, you call him Sidney
Werter! Heaven knows what cause I have to remember
that name—what cause she has, who, I assure you, Addison,
notwithstanding all my frivolity, is dearer to me than
my own life—my mother! But do not think I have built
the strange theory which I am about to disclose to you,
mention incidentally the Christian name of Sidney's uncle
and guardian, and the fact that he was once a resident of
Barbadoes.
“Let me hasten then to lay before you, chiefly in my
mother's words, a painful secret in her history and mine,
which all our former intimacy has never tempted me to
divulge. About thirty years ago, two young men, of
Scotch origin, bearing the names of Ralph and Hugh
Werter, became residents of Barbadoes, and were engaged
as clerks in mercantile houses. They were brothers—
Ralph, the elder, being more than thirty years of age, and
Hugh six or eight years his junior. They brought recommendations
for integrity, they acquired a character for
shrewdness, they were gentlemanly in deportment, but the
elder had a reputation for sordidness of disposition, from
which at that time his brother was supposed to be exempt.
This opinion, alas! that I should say so, proved to be erroneous.
The same covetous nature was his, concealed
under more graceful and refined manners, and by a more
cultivated mind. After several years' residence in Barbadoes,
Ralph removed to New York, and it was about this
period that my mother's acquaintance with the younger
brother commenced. She was the only daughter of wealthy
parents, and that wealth was an attraction which numbered
the young foreigner among her admirers. He was an
urgent suitor, she was young, susceptible and confiding.
Addison, I am writing in breathless haste, for I see that
you anticipate the denouement. They were engaged—
they were married! Hugh Werter was my father! Sidney
is my brother!
“But how I shall I perform the painful task of narrating
a father's crimes—a mother's disgrace and wretchedness?
can only accomplish it by doing so in few words.
“My grandfather became a bankrupt—my father a fiend!
His love had been simulated—his hatred was real. He
abused and deserted my mother, before my birth, and followed
his brother to New York. Crushed with the weight
of her grief, when she found how utterly she had been deceived
in the man she loved, desertion added nothing to her
misery except a sense of shame. This, however, did not
endure. Resolute and proud of spirit, she rose above her
calamity, and looked with scorn upon those who could impute
disgrace where there was no crime. She did not follow
nor write to her husband; nay more, she indignantly
renounced his name, and assumed her former one, by which
both she and myself have always been known.
“I said she did not write to him, but this is not strictly
correct. In after years, when her parents were dead, and
she was reduced almost to beggary, for my sake, then a
child of eight years, she overcame her anger and pride,
and wrote to my father. She implored him to do something
for his child, to save him from destitution. She received
a letter in return—thank Heaven, she has it yet!—
enclosing a hundred dollars, and promising to send her as
much more, if she would send her most sacred promise that
she would never seek to find him nor write to him again.
For her son's sake, she eagerly made that promise, and
faithfully kept it. She received the additional sum, and
it was the means of our support until my mother found opportunity
of turning one of her accomplishments to account,
and obtained employment as a teacher of music. With the
most unconquerable energy, the most patient self-denial,
at a time when I, a giddy boy, could appreciate neither,
she supported us both, and educated me during a period of
eight years. Since then I have compelled her to desist,
at times I almost feel a sense of pain at our changed prospects,
which may leave me no longer the privilege of working
for so dear a parent. You understand, of course, what
I mean by changed prospects, for this is the brilliant denouement
to which all my story points. If Sidney's father
and mine were the same, as everything indicates, he—oh!
whisper it not while the dear boy yet lives—is illegitimate,
and I am the rightful heir to the great estate of which you
speak. Be not alarmed for your own interests, or those
of your friends, by this claim; for, if I should succeed to
the estate, my brother's intended will shall be faithfully
carried into effect, in relation to all secondary bequests,
while as to the great bulk of the property, I have not the
least doubt that you and I can agree upon a satisfactory
division of it, for we—my mother and myself—are quite
willing that you should have half, and I am not afraid that
you will ask for more.
“You will see that I speak of these golden prospects
with much confidence, and you will, perhaps, impute it in
a great degree to my naturally sanguine disposition, but I
have probably more reason for doing so than you imagine,
for I have already consulted eminent counsel here, who are
familiar with the leading principles of your laws, who say
our right is indisputable. We have the most positive proof
of the marriage, for not only has mother a certificate to
that effect, but the clergyman who officiated at the ceremony
is still living, and can be produced. I have written
this letter exultingly, because I supposed it most probable
that your own faintly-expressed hopes have been dashed
by the premature death of Sidney; but if it should prove
otherwise, and if you are already in possession of the
estate, you will perceive that you have little cause for apprehension.
“But I must reserve further particulars until I can see
you and communicate them orally, for I have innumerable
things to tell. We shall sail for New York within a few
weeks—my mother and myself; we shall bring with us the
clergyman of whom I speak, and we shall be prepared for
an immediate, prompt, and energetic assertion of our rights.
Until then, adieu, dear Addison; remember me as usual to
your parents and sister, with whom I seem to have been
long acquainted, and believe me to be your very sincere
friend.
It would be idle to attempt to paint the tumult of delightful
feelings with which Addison read, and with which his
parents and sister listened to the contents of this epistle.
They could scarcely believe that all was real, and it was
not until some parts of the letter had been twice or thrice
perused, that they began to partake fully of the writer's
sanguine hopes.
“There can be no doubt about the facts,” said Addison,
“for here he gives the full name of his father, Hugh Werter,
whom we also know to have resided in Barbadoes about
the time he mentions.”
“They must be very confident of success,” replied the
elder Mr. Jay, “as they are both coming immediately to
New York, at great expense, and evidently prepared to
spend all their little means in a vigorous prosecution of
their claim.”
“Edward must be a very noble and generous young
man,” said Mrs. Jay, “to be willing to surrender half of
the whole estate to Addison.”
“I will never take it,” replied the young man; it is his
by every right; he may give me a moderate fortune if he
chooses, but half would certainly be too much.”
“He knew you expected much more from your cousin,
and he does not wish you to be disappointed.”
“If he gives to father and Lizzie the fortunes which
Sidney intended for them, I shall not be much disappointed,
although my own portion were but a tenth of the remainder.
Even that, according to Mr. Perth's calculations, would
exceed a hundred thousand dollars.”
“That, certainly, would be no very serious affliction,”
said Lizzie, laughing; “I think most men would be able
to bear up under it.”
“Well,” said Capt. Jay, “there is a homely old adage,
which says that you must catch your fish before cooking
them. It is rather early to talk about dividing the property
yet.”
A hearty laugh greeted this remark, and the conversation
took another turn, for the joy of the happy circle was
not unmingled with other feelings, induced by the strange
intelligence they had received. They grieved at the idea
that any shadow of disgrace should fall upon the memory
of the dear young friend whom they had so recently lost,
or that any stigma should attach to the name of his longburied
mother; but they knew that, although Mrs. Werter
was never legally a wife, she was not only innocent, but
that she was entirely ignorant of her pretended husband's
perfidy, and they rejoiced that the discovery of these facts
had never been made until the wronged mother and her
son had both passed from earth. Now it could injure none
but the guilty.
Mrs. Jay certainly felt angry at the man who had so
unscrupulously allied himself to her confiding sister; but
she soon repressed these feelings, for she knew that indignation
was no proper emotion to entertain toward one who
had so long been a tenant of the tomb.
The interval that elapsed before the arrival of Mrs.
at home, they had already re-assumed) was one of much
suspense and anxiety to the family of Capt. Jay, for they
could not maintain their hopes at the elevated point to
which Edward's letter had raised them. Addison, however,
felt sufficient confidence in their coming affluence to venture
most of his small savings in adding some articles of luxury
both to their scanty furniture and to their plain apparel, in
order to give a better reception to their southern friends. It
was noticed, also, that in these purchases he was more particular
and more lavish in providing for Lizzie than for himself,
or his parents, and he spared nothing within his means
for his sister, excepting what he thought might be in bad
taste for their state of acknowledged poverty.
They came—sooner than they were expected—and were
met on shipboard by the delighted and half crazed Addison,
who conducted the whole party, including the venerable
clergyman, to the house of his father. The two families
did not meet as strangers, but as friends long known and
tried, possessing that mutual confidence in each other which
integrity and kindness ever inspire. If there was any
exception to the appearance of perfect cordiality between
all parties, it related to Edward and Miss Jay, between
whom, despite a continual effort of each to be friendly, there
was a very evident restraint existing. It began to wear
off, however, in a few days, and after that it vanished with
most amazing rapidity, for there was no resisting Edward's
perfect good nature and exuberant spirits, and it is believed
that Lizzie made no serious efforts to do so.
The young men lost no time in setting the machinery of
the law at work, in furtherance of Edward's claim. They
called upon Mr. Perth, and laid the facts of the case before
him, while he in turn, after assuring them that there could
be no doubt of success, if their proof was perfect, hastened
consultation. The result of these conferences was encouraging
in the highest degree, for the leading counsel
showed his confidence in the claim, by undertaking it with
a zeal and earnestness that always marked his ablest professional
efforts. A heavy looking man was Mr. Nott, with
an uneven but massive forehead, over which his straight
hair was always straggling, and under which a pair of
homely gray eyes at times twinkled and sparkled, and at
times seemed dull, hazy and unmeaning. But all New
York could not boast a more astute or learned lawyer.
Without being brilliant or ornate in anything, there was a
mental strength and power in the man, a sort of intellectual
momentum, which was almost irresistible; and many a
graceful orator, who had been opposed to him, had found
his fine rhetoric as useless in the contest as was the polished
scimetar of Saladin before the ponderous battle-axe of
Cœur de Leon.
Such was the man who took the management of Edward's
cause, and the very fact that he did undertake it, was a most
important step gained. But Mr. Nott did not rest satisfied
with the proof of which the claimants were in possession,
for although it was distinct and clear, he was unwilling
to trust so important a cause to a single witness or a single
letter.
“There must be other aged inhabitants of Barbadoes,”
he said to Edward, “who remember the marriage of your
mother, and who could now identify Ralph as the brother
of her husband.”
“I know at least two such, probably four or five,” replied
the young heir; “but I thought the clergyman would
be the most proper witness.”
“We must have them all,” said Mr. Nott.
“All? But the expense would be very great—I fear we
are not able.”
“We must have them all,” repeated the lawyer, dictatorially.
“As to the expense, it must not be thought of in
a case like this. A messenger must be despatched to Barbadoes
at once, and as we cannot compel these people to
come here, he must be empowered to offer them such pay
as will satisfy them.”
“Then I must abandon the case at once,” replied Edward,
wofully, “for I never can raise the necessary funds
for the purpose.”
“Nonsense, young man; give yourself no uneasiness
about it. Mr. Perth will manage it all; only do as he
says, and sign such papers as he presents to you. I should
not be afraid to advance a few thousands on this claim myself,
if it were in my line; but there are enough who will
do it, when they understand that—”
“That Mr. Nott brings the suit,” added Perth, smiling.
Mr. Nott smiled too, and a momentary expression of triumph
flashed across his features, such as he often exhibited
in the forum, but leaving no trace of its light upon his
homely countenance.
Edward implicitly followed his advice. He consulted
with his mother, who was able to name three individuals,
all of whom she was confident could testify clearly to the
particulars mentioned by Mr. Nott, and who, she was certian,
would gladly come forward to befriend her, when
needed, without other inducement than the payment of necessary
expenses.
The business progressed promisingly, for it was impelled
by a vigorous and resolute mind. The money was procured,
and a messenger was sent for the additional witnesses,
but although the formal preliminaries of the suit
were immediately prepared, Mr. Nott resolved not to unmask
fully ready.
Several months of inaction, therefore, elapsed, during
which the strictest secrecy was preserved in regard to the
movements of the claimants, and Ralph remained utterly
unsuspicious of the storm which was brewing around him.
It was during this interval that the tragedy already related
took place, and it was just when the hardened man
had once more accustomed himself to a sense of security,
that he was formally served with process in a suit designed
to dispossess him of all his wealth. He was not easily
alarmed by litigation, but the name of the plaintiff had an
ominous significance, and vague and terrifying conjectures
took possession of his mind. He had never known of his
brother's first marriage, and he little dreamed, when with
wiles and deceit he induced Addison Jay to seek a home
in Barbadoes, that this very movement was the incipient
link in a chain of causes destined to work his own ruin.
He flew to Boggs with the threatening document, and
tremblingly inquired its meaning, which in turn the attorney
sought at the hands of Mr. Perth, while Ralph anxiously
awaited at the office of the former the result of the inquiries.
When Boggs returned, he was in a state of great excitement,
but not apparently very miserable. Werter had
always been an unprofitable client to him, and yet he was
perpetually seeking him when he was in trouble.
“Edward Werter, the plaintiff in this suit,” he said,
“claims to be your nephew, and the son and heir of your
brother Hugh.”
Ralph laughed sardonically and contemptuously.
“Why what kind of foolery is this? Everybody knows
that Sidney was my brother's only child.”
“Did not you and your brother once both reside in Barbadoes?”
“Yes.”
“Did he not remain there several years after you came
to New York?”
“Yes—what of that?”
“Was there not a young lady there whose name was
Hazleton?
“Yes.”
“And a Mr. Enfield, a clergyman?”
“Yes, again. What do these questions mean?”
“It is alleged that your brother was married to Miss
Hazleton by the clergyman I have mentioned, who is now
here to prove it—that he deserted his wife and followed
you to New York, where he married again—and that now
his widow and his son, who was born after the father's
flight, are here to claim his property.”
“It is all false as the Koran, a trumped-up story—too
flimsy to deceive a child,” said Ralph. “No such people
are here. It is some plot of that young vagabond Jay, to
extort money from me.”
“But, Mr. Werter—”
“I tell you it is false,” he repeated, violently. “Are
you a lawyer, and yet so easily duped? Do you not know
that that villainous Addison went to Barbadoes, where he
has doubtless heard just enough about our once residing
there, and about Hugh's acquaintances, to admit of concocting
such a fool's story as this?”
“I know,” replied Boggs, gravely, “that I met a young
gentleman at Mr. Perth's office, who, he said, was the
plaintiff in this suit, and who bears as striking a resemblance
to your late brother as ever son bore to a father.”
Ralph turned pale.
“I feel well assured, too,” continued Boggs, “that Mr.
Perth did not lie to me, when he said that the Rev. Mr.
Enfield, and three other old residents of Barbadoes, were
marriage. They were his acquaintances and yours, and
were present at the wedding.”
The old man began to tremble, despite every effort to
seem unmoved.
“Did he name any of these people, besides the clergyman?”
he said, faintly.
“Yes—but I do not remember the names; one has been
a fellow-clerk of the bride-groom, and I think his name
was something like Talford.”
“Talford!” said the old man, rising and grasping with
emotion. “George Talford? And he is now here?
Why, Boggs, this is most extraordinary—a deep-laid plot,
eh?”
He looked anxiously to the lawyer for a word of encouragement.
“Counsellor Nott is not the man to engage in plots,”
replied Boggs, coldly.
“But you don't really think that there is anything in
this story?”
“I really do think, Mr. Werter, judging by the character
of the men engaged in the suit, the simplicity of the
story, the connection of all its parts, and the great resemblance
of the complainant to your brother, that you have
the strongest ground for apprehension.”
Werter's courage seemed entirely to have deserted him.
If such was the opinion of his own lawyer, he thought, what
would the unbiassed say. The conviction, indeed, was
forced upon his mind that the story must be true, and he
began to recall some hints of Hugh's, made many years
before, which must have had allusion to this very affair,
while unfortunately for him there was no basis of integrity
in his brother's character, on which he could found a contrary
hope. He had been none too good for so criminal an
the human mind, when in imminent peril—to brave speedily
its fate, and know the worst. He induced Boggs to go
immediately and learn where Mr. Talford could be found,
and when the name of his hotel was brought to him, he
hastened to call upon him. The southerner was a man of
about fifty-five years, and Werter was much his senior, yet
although Time had wrought great changes in each since
they had last met, they recognized each other without introduction,
and almost the last hope of Ralph forsook him
when he became certain of the identity of Talford, and
heard from his own lips the errand on which he had come.
The whole plain and truthful story he heard, of events long
past and well known to many, but never before known to
himself. He heard the names, too, of Mr. Talford's fellow
witnesses, whom also he well remembered as his brother's
young acquaintances, and as men who would be likely to
be present at his marriage, and he was told that he might
have an interview at any hour when he chose to seek it
with Mrs. Hugh Werter and her son, his nephew.
He did not choose it. He went home in a sort of stupor,
produced by the shock he had received, and from which
when he emerged, it was only to a keener sense of anguish.
Several weeks elapsed, during which nothing could be done
in defence of the suit brought against him, excepting to
employ able counsel, and then await in painful suspense the
law's slow delay. In the mean time his depression daily
increased. In prosperity, his conscience had seemed utterly
seared, but in the gloom of adversity the giant phantom of
remorse arose, and became, as it were, his mental shadow,
ever near him, dark and silent, yet ever repeating in dumb
show his past deeds, as the natural shadow mimics those
of the present. His last dreadful crime was yet but of
recent date, and while he shudderingly contemplated all
mind. He had heretofore considered himself free from all
danger of detection, but with the cowardice of guilt he now
fancied he saw accusation in every eye that gazed upon
him. That suspicion which he imagined he soon created.
He started so strangely and looked so alarmed whenever
the death of Brail was mentioned—he related the occurrence
with such unnecessary minuteness of detail to all
questioners, and yet with such frequent variations and inconsistencies,
that dark and as yet unwhispered surmises
arose. Neighbor looked into the countenance of neighbor,
to read the reflection of thoughts which neither dared to
utter, against a man possessing all the power and prestige
of great wealth; for, although the pending suit was known
to many, very few knew its serious import, or believed in
the validity of the claim. Yet some one, bolder than the
rest, ventured at length to ask whether Werter could have
any reason to wish the death of Brail. This inquiry being
once started, the whole subject of the physician's sudden
rise from obscurity, and his intimacy with Ralph was discussed.
Yet no key to the mystery was discovered. But
Brail had not died quite friendless. He had left a widow,
a woman of a naturally coarse and harsh mind, who had
become assimilated to her husband during his many years
of sin and suffering, and who, if not a participant in his
crimes, was often cognizant of them. She had known of
her husband's first visit to Sidney, for there was nothing in
that act which he was desirous to conceal, and she had also
known of Werter's visit to Brail on the day of Sidney's
death, although she could only guess its object. She did
guess it, however, with tolerable shrewdness, and without
any great regret, when the fortunes of her husband underwent
so sudden and marked a change without any assignaable
cause, excepting the favor of Werter. Of the peculiar
the coadjutors in crime, she was unapprised, but she could
not fail to perceive that Brail had acquired great power and
influence over the millionaire.
True affection belongs to gentler natures than hers, yet
she had no small attachment for her husband, and when
his tragical death occurred, her grief was very violent, and
probably prevented any tendency to those suspicions which
the circumstances might so naturally have awakened. But
a subsequent period of calmness gave rise to reflection,
dark doubts suddenly arose in her mind and grew daily in
magnitude, until her conjectures seemed to approach to
certainty. With these thoughts, came a strong desire for
revenge, of which her nature was fully capable, yet she
dared not make an accusation which could only be rendered
plausible by explanations which must cover both herself
and her deceased partner with infamy. But when suspicions
took shape in other minds, and grew into rumor and
reached her eager ears, it re-awoke her slumbering frenzy,
and her heart throbbed with as stern a determination for
revenge as inspired the Scottish Helen, when her husband's
betrayer prayed wildly and vainly for his forfeited
life.
That night she visited Ralph Werter at his own house,
in his private room, and a scene of wild altercation ensued,
of denunciation and remonstrance, which, although its import
was then unknown, was heard by listeners in other
streets, and was long remembered by many.
“To-morrow!” were the parting words with which the
maniacal woman left the presence of the appalled and
quailing man. “To-morrow!” she repeated, in shrill tones,
from the street, as she rapidly fled from the house. “To-morrow!”
mocking Echo answered from the court, and exulting
fiends seemed to Ralph to reply from the air.
But there was no to-morrow for him! That night the
wretched man fled from his house, and, as subsequently
appeared, after several hours of irresolute wandering about
the docks, found a watery grave in the same stream which
but a few weeks before had received his victim.
17. CHAPTER XVII.
CONCLUSION.
The circumstances attending the rich man's death could
not be concealed from the public, however anxious his
wretched family were to hide them, and as one detail after
another came to light in the suicide's history, the verdict
of public opinion soon fully convicted him of both his previous
crimes. His family, although thus covered with obloquy,
made for a few months a desperate resistance to the
suit instituted against them, for the wealth which they still
wielded enabled them to do this, but the cause could not
long be kept from trial, and the proof was too overwhelming
to admit of parrying or rebutting. Werter's fate, and
the general belief in his guilt, may have had something to
do with the promptness and evident pleasure with which
the jury rendered a verdict wresting the great estate from
his family, but that verdict was rendered on strictly legal
grounds. It was sustained, too, despite all efforts for revision
or reversal, and in less than six months from the time
that Edward landed in New York, he was in full possession
of his property. Mrs. Werter, of course, was entitled to a
life-estate in one-third of the lands and tenements, but
there was no division between mother and son. The young
man, with his parent's hearty consent, promptly and with
alacrity proceeded to the fulfilment of the promises which
he had made in his letter to Addison, very greatly to the
astonishment and delight of some of the recipients of his
bounty, who knew nothing of his intentions. He procured
for Sidney to sign, and which had been read to and approved
by him, and every bequest which it contained was
sacredly regarded, with the single exception of that to Addison.
“We cannot afford you all the remainder,” he said,
laughingly, to his friend, “but I have directed Mr. Perth
to make out a conveyance to you in fee, of one undivided
half of all the residue, after enough has been sold to make
the legacies good.”
Addison remonstrated with great earnestness. “It was
foolishly romantic and absurd,” he said. “Such a thing
was never heard of.”
Edward cared nothing for that.
“Let it then be heard of now for the first time,” he said,
“that a man should keep his plighted word, and give a superfluous
half of his wealth to the friend to whom he owes
it all. But for you, Addison, I should never even have
known of my rights, much less should I have acquired them.
Besides, were not your first thoughts given to my advancement,
when you believed you were to be the possessor of
this wealth?”
“I did not mean to give you half.”
“Nor was there any reason why you should. You owed
me nothing; I owe everything, under Providence, to you.”
“But your proposition would make me richer than yourself,
for my share would be equal to both yours and your
mother's.”
“That objection shall be obviated then, so as to make
your interest and mine strictly equal, and that must satisfy
your scruples. Indeed, Addison,” he added, after a brief
pause, and coloring a little, “we are all likely to be one
family, and my gift to Lizzie will prove rather a form than
become my wife.”
“You may do what you will with me then,” replied the
delighted brother, who had hoped for, but had not felt certain
of this event; “but I assure you that the titles of your
lands and tenements shall rest so loosely in my hands, that
they shall return to you or Lizzie at all times, at the least
shadow of a bidding.”
“And we will not hesitate to ask, when we want them.
So let it rest there.”
This arrangement was immediately carried into effect,
nor did the lawyer, Mr. Perth, by whom all the necessary
documents were written, and who had in so many ways
served Addison and his friends, fail of a rich remembrance
from the young capitalists. He became also the agent of
both in the management of their estates, which of itself secured
to him a highly lucrative business.
Suddenly and brilliantly the sun of prosperity had arisen
upon the night of affliction which had so long involved the
pure-hearted and unrepining family, and dazzling as were
its rays, they gave promise of as much permanence as ever
pertains to this world of change. To none was the transition
so entire and so perfect, as to the beautiful daughter
of Captain Jay, whose charms of person and youthful elasticity
of heart remained unimpaired, and the first freshness
of whose affections were accorded to her generous and deserving
suitor. Nor is it any hyperbole to say that that
suitor prized the gentle heart he had won, incomparably beyond
all else that he had gained by his visit to the American
metropolis. Wealth may take wings, or may cease to
confer pleasure, but true affection is an acquisition of the
soul, and partakes of its undying character. There was no
reason for any material delay of so auspicious a union, nor
was it long deferred. Lizzie became a bride, and accompanied
desired to make some business arrangements preparatory
to taking up his residence in New York. He had also
friends there to be remembered, and to receive some of the
overflowings of that golden treasury, which he valued the
more highly because he could impart it, and because he had
learned the truth of the Gospel maxim, that it is more
blessed to give than to receive.
Addison employed part of his time during their absence,
in preparing a house for the residence of both families, for
they had determined to live together, and he had ample
leisure to gratify a refined taste in the adornments of that
home which was to receive and to surprise his returning
friends. There was also something else to show them, on
which he had bestowed still greater attention, and which
had cost him countless tears, less of grief than of gratified
affection. It was a monument to Sidney, on which the
rarest powers of art had been bestowed to symbolize the
purity of his lost friend and the fervency of surviving love.
“This should have been my work,” exclaimed Edward,
in a tone of self-reproach, as with his weeping bride he
bent over the tomb of his unknown brother. “But Addison
anticipates me in everything that is good.”
Little remains to be told of this eventful history. The
wife and daughters of the wretched man, whose machinations
had caused so many vicissitudes both to himself and
others, did not long remain in New York. They removed
to a Western State, not by any means in a destitute condition,
for the new heir had not suffered any very strict inquisition
to be made for past receipts. A considerable
part of Ralph's great income had been regularly re-invested
in real estate, but whatever else remained to his family,
either in money or moveables, they were allowed to retain
and carry with them to their new home, whence no reliable
Captain Jay and his wife lived to participate for many
years in the happiness of their children, and although the
former never entirely recovered his sight, enough of vision
returned to him to enable him, a few years subsequent to
Lizzie's marriage, to discern dimly the fair features of yet
another bride, who called him father, and for whose excellence
the word of his ever-truthful son was sufficient guarantee.
Addison was married, and it need scarcely be said that
one who could inspire affection in so noble a heart was also
capable of appreciating and rewarding it.
| The miser's heir, or, The young millionaire | |