True womanhood a tale |
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| 11. | CHAPTER XI. |
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 | CHAPTER XI. True womanhood |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
Arthur was troubled. From what he had just seen with his
own eyes, he could not help thinking that Julia and Mr. Winthrop
Fay must have met before. They had come together as
perfect strangers; Julia, the shy, haughty, sensitive Julia, and
a middle-aged man of the law, by no means very prepossessing
in his appearance or manners. They are left alone together
a little while, not more than half an hour, and when he enters
the room without knocking, he finds them both standing up near
the door, — Julia trembling and pale, and the stranger holding
both her hands in his, very much as if they were saying in their
hearts, if not aloud, something mournful and hopeless. “Upon
my word, I cannot bear this! I had always thought Julia so
unlike other women,” said he to himself.
“And so she is, my young friend!” said Mr. Fay.
Arthur jumped. Poor fellow! he had been thinking aloud;
but somehow the oddity of Mr. Fay's remark, and the pleasant
smile about his mouth, began to reconcile him to the uncomfortable
companionship he had tried to escape from, by flinging himself
back into the farthest corner of the coach, and muffling himself
up in a cloak. “On the whole,” he continued, as he thought
over the whole scene afresh, and tried to overcome a fit of the
sulks before it should be too late, “I think I must put the passage
I saw into English verse, and show it to Julia, and give her
a chance for explanation, — stay!” — and out he whipped his
ivory tablets, and wrote, — unaware that he was murmuring the
words to himself, as they arranged themselves to the rhythm in
his mind, —
Are parted forever!
Never again to meet,
Never, oh never!
“Capital,” said Mr. Fay.
“Confound the fellow!” thought poor Arthur; “I wouldn't
be left alone with him for the world!”
“I do not wonder you were astonished,” continued Mr. Fay;
“but I will say this for your comfort, and forestall your question
— you need not deny it, Sir, I see it in your eyes — that I never
saw your cousin till to-day; that our strange intimacy grew out
of circumstances, which it is now high time for you to be acquainted
with. Had she yielded, you might never have known
what I am now about to communicate.”
Arthur stared, with a look of growing uneasiness.
“For then, as no prosecution could have been sustained, the
whole affair might have been allowed to die away, without coming
to the knowledge of your mother, or yourself; but as the
matter now stands, the government must proceed; she will be
summoned, of course, and we must depend altogether upon delay,
till we can get our witnesses.”
Arthur sat looking at his companion in blank astonishment.
Not a word of the whole did he understand. Was the man talking
in his sleep? or only thinking aloud, as he himself had been
doing but a few minutes before?
“How old is that cousin of yours?” continued Mr. Fay, in the
same low, distant, half-dreaming voice.
“Hardly eighteen, Sir.”
“Indeed! a most remarkable woman, Sir.”
“And of great personal beauty,” added Arthur.
“O, I dare say; but I was not thinking of her personal
beauty, Sir. I was thinking of her high principle, of her sound
judgment, and the clearness of her understanding. By my
faith, Mr. Maynard,” — fastening his eyes upon Arthur, — “that
woman is worth battling for. Do you smoke?”
Arthur laughed, in spite of himself, as he took the offered cigar,
and threw himself back into the seat, and puffed away for
two or three minutes, before he was reminded by his companion
that cigars need to be touched with fire, if one would enjoy their
aroma, or taste their flavor, in a cold, clear morning.
Arthur colored, and tried to turn it off with a joke; but Mr.
Fay gave no heed to the explanation, and straightway entered
to the end of the bank-note affair, and the negotiation
with Julia.
Arthur could hardly believe his own ears. What! his Uncle
George — that high-minded, honorable merchant, whose word
was never to be questioned — he charged with forgery — with
downright forgery! “Oh, preposterous!” he cried.
“Both preposterous and shameful! I agree with you; and
now, what is to be done?”
“If you please, Mr. Fay, that is just what I desire to know.
As for Julia, I hope you did not advise her to conceal herself?”
“How could I?”
“But you urged every consideration likely to prevail with a
timid, sensitive, devoted woman.”
“Very true; but that, my dear Sir, was all done, as I undertook
to do it, in my professional capacity. I meant she should
judge for herself; I meant, if she yielded, there should be at
least a plausible excuse, and a full knowledge of the consequences
to justify her; and if she refused, I meant her to
have all the glory; in fact, Sir, I was piqued into doing what I
did, in the way I did, by the smile I saw on your uncle's countenance
when I proposed tampering with her; I did not believe
the woman breathed, who, if left to herself — under such circumstances
—”
“Tampering, Sir! I do not understand precisely what you
mean by that word.”
“I dare say; it is a technical term, signifying little or much,
according to circumstances. In the case of your Cousin Julia, I
meant only, that while I put the facts before her, leaving her
to judge for herself, and taking care not to advise, nor mislead
her, I held it to be professional and proper to do just what I did,
as I did it.”
“Of course,” muttered Arthur.
“I understand you, Mr. Maynard; but when you know me
better, you will do me justice. Meanwhile — to return to my
story. I was about saying that I was piqued into doing more
than I might otherwise have done, by that smile I saw in the
Major's eyes; — your uncle is a Major, I believe?”
“Many years ago, and in the militia; in fact, I believe he was
a Brigadier at a very early age; but the title had been overlooked,
or forgotten, till it was revived here by General Talmadge,
who, I am told, never forgets any of these things.”
“And, as I have said before, I did not believe that a woman
lived, who, if she were left entirely to herself, would be capable
— under such circumstances — of withstanding the impulses of
her affection for a friend so dear, and so greatly wronged. You
must forgive me, Sir, and so must your mother; for I declare to
you, upon my honor, that what I did was against my conscience.”
“A capital reason, to be sure!”
“Not against my professional conscience — but against my
conscience, as a man. You understand the distinction, I dare say.”
“Indeed I do not.”
“Very well; when we have a good opportunity, I will endeavor
to enlighten you upon that subject.”
“If you please.”
“Meanwhile, that you may be prepared for the controversy,
which I foresee must come, sooner or later, I beg to ask if
the wear and tear of a professional, or other conscience, be not
taken into account, what on earth is to become of us? — always
in the market, as we are, to the highest bidder, getting our reputation
and our largest fees, not from good cases, but from bad
cases, and being, as Jeremy Bentham says, `the indiscriminate
defenders of right and wrong.'”
Arthur smiled, but was afraid to trust himself with a reply.
Here the carriage drew up; and Mr. Fay sprang out, and
calling to the coachman to wait, hurried through one of the back
entrances of a large building — followed by Arthur — into a
dark, low room, where they found a magistrate upon the bench,
in conversation with a gentleman, whose back was toward them.
“There is Mr. Fay himself,” said the magistrate; “and perhaps
you had better arrange it with him.”
The gentleman turned, bowed, and came forward to speak
with Mr. Fay. It was the prosecutor.
“Are you ready, Mr. Attorney?” said the magistrate.
“I believe so, your honor; but I should like to see the officer
before I decide.”
The magistrate assented, and Mr. Attorney slipped away
through a side-door, and after a short absence returned, saying
he was not ready, but if his honor pleased, would be ready on
the morrow.
Mr. Fay rose, with an air of unruffled serenity, and taking up
a folded paper, which the clerk had just withdrawn from a large
file, and laid upon the table before him, begged his honor to bear
with him for a few moments, while he ran his eye over the complaint;
after which he had no doubt of being able to arrange
the business with Mr. Attorney.
“Silence there! silence in court!” cried a subordinate, and
the low whispering of the scattered groups, which had come together
by threes and fours, in different parts of the room, died
away, and all eyes were fixed upon the judge.
Having read the paper through very carefully, dwelling here
and there on particular passages, and going back to compare part
with part, now looking at the date, and now at the return of the
officer on the back, without a change of countenance, though he
had detected a fatal error, as he believed, in the specifications,
and knew that the government, as the prosecuting attorney is
sometimes called, was watching him narrowly, Mr. Fay turned
to the judge, and begged leave to suggest that his client was
ready, and anxious to proceed.
The prosecutor smiled, and glanced at the judge.
Mr. Fay saw the smile and the glance, but continued with the
same quiet, natural, soothing manner, and without betraying the
least emotion.
“Yes, your honor, — ready and anxious for the investigation.
Hitherto a man of irreproachable character, — I might say, of
unquestionable character, — he has no desire to escape, or evade,
or delay the unpleasant inquiry. And I ask of the government,
and of your honor, that the investigation may not be delayed,
nor postponed, unless, in the judgment of my learned friend, it
should appear to be his unquestionable duty.”
“I cannot be ready until to-morrow, Mr. Fay; but, if my
witnesses are then here, I will agree to take it up the first thing,”
said the prosecutor, without lifting his eyes or turning his head.
“I cannot interfere,” said the magistrate, on seeing Mr. Fay
always permitted to manage their cases in their own way, and
must be allowed a reasonable time, of which, Mr. Attorney, you
are to be the judge; unless, to be sure,” he added, after a moment's
consideration, “there should be good reason for interference
upon other grounds. I do not think a day is too much for
the preparation of a case, which, if I understand it,” glancing at
the folded paper, “may involve questions of great magnitude, —
questions of international law, which are not only new, but of a
very serious nature.”
Mr. Fay appeared to acquiesce; but in the very act of sitting
down without further reply, he “let fall,” as it is termed, a careless
remark that, “perhaps, if the witness, or witnesses, were
not here, an arrangement might be made, by admission or otherwise,
which would save the time of the court, and promote the
ends of justice, while the apparent hardship toward his unhappy
client might be avoided.”
Whereupon the prosecutor, being thrown off his guard, started
up with great earnestness.
“I will be frank with my learned brother,” said he. “Our
principal witness, — a witness without whom it would not be safe
for the government to go to trial, — is not here.”
“Has that witness been summoned, may I be allowed to ask?”
said Mr. Fay.
“No, your honor. She has left the city, and the officer has
not been able to find her.”
Mr. Fay had now accomplished the secret purpose of all this
manœuvring. He had found out that the principal witness,
without whom it would not be safe, as the government acknowledged,
for the prosecutor to go to trial, was a woman, and that
she had left the city. Of course, it could be no other than
Julia; but to make “assurance doubly sure,” he added, bowing
to the court as he arose, and then turning toward Mr. Attorney,
—
“I must be as frank with my learned brother as he has been
with me. The witness who cannot be found by the officer, I
have left within the last hour. Had proper inquiries been made
at the St. Nicholas, all the information required would have been
of purpose; cards of address were left, and the arrangements
had been going on for a week.”
“May I inquire of the learned gentleman, if the lady is now
to be found?”
“Certainly; and if it should be thought advisable, here is a
gentleman,” pointing to Arthur, “who is ready to go with the
officer at once; or, if Mr. Attorney insists upon it, we will undertake
to produce her in court, within two hours at furthest,
and without a subpœna.”
“My learned brother will pardon me, but I must be allowed
to say that, in my judgment, there seems to be something irregular
in all this procedure, — I might go further, and say something
very strange — very,” growing more and more eager and earnest
as he proceeded, and constantly appealing to the judge with his
eye, “the principal witness for the government avoiding process
—”
Mr. Fay smiled.
“Or, at any rate, leaving the city; the counsel for the prisoner
holding communication with her, and then offering to produce
her in open court, and without a subpœna! I must say,”
growing vehement and flushing up to the temples, “I must say,
it appears to me a very strange procedure.”
The judge seemed to think so too.
“My brother will not find it so very strange, I hope,” said Mr.
Fay, “when he comes to know all the facts, — the relationship
that exists between the parties; and is informed, moreover, that,
as counsel for the accused, I felt obliged to go over to the house,
where a widowed sister, and this beloved niece — the witness —
were living together, and were left almost alone, and wholly
ignorant of what had happened.”
Here the judge and prosecutor interchanged a look, which
brought Mr. Fay to his feet again, just as he was settling into
his chair.
“However, notwithstanding the relationship I spoke of between
the witness and the accused,” he continued, with great
seriousness of manner, “I can assure my learned friend that the
witness will not hide herself, nor fly; and that when she is
have the truth, and the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Yet more, — if the gentleman desires it, and thinks it would be
proper, — the witness will enter into recognizance forthwith, to
any amount required.”
The prosecutor seemed puzzled at first; but after a little consideration,
he answered, —
“If my brother will be so obliging as to say just what he
wants, perhaps we may be able to come to an understanding.”
“Certainly, nothing could be more reasonable. I propose,
then, to have the whole business arranged now. Let the prisoner
be called, and have the warrant read to him; after which,
if he pleads not guilty, we will waive the preliminary examination,
and give any amount of bail that may be required, for
his appearance hereafter in the higher courts, to answer the
charge.”
“What say you, Mr. Attorney?” asked the judge.
“What can I say, your honor? I do not see how I can help
myself. The government cannot oblige the accused to go to
trial, if he chooses to waive the examination, I suppose?”
“Let the prisoner be brought into court,” said the judge.
“Silence there! silence in court,” cried the constable. “Silence
there! silence!” repeated the door-keepers and subordinates, a
little further off. “Look to the passage-ways, and have them
cleared, Mr. Officer,” added the judge.
“Excuse me for a moment,” whispered Mr. Fay to Arthur,
who had been stealing nearer and nearer to him, in the progress
of their skirmishing, and was now just behind his chair. “I will
be back in two or three minutes;” and for the first time, a look
of triumph overspread his countenance, like sunshine, and as
Arthur himself acknowledged to Julia, his wonderful eyes flamed
outright, as he glanced at his young friend, lifted his forefinger,
and hurried away, a little in advance of the officer.
“Call the next case, Mr. Clerk,” said the judge. “And gentlemen,”
he added, as the court began to fill up, and the bar itself
was crowded with unprofessional eager listeners, all on tiptoe
with expectation, “you will see the necessity of being prepared.
must be no delay, under the great pressure of business now before
the court.”
While other cases were called, and arrangements were in
progress, Mr. Fay reappeared, and, after a few moments, the
Major followed, looking pale, as with watching, but untroubled
and self-possessed.
All eyes were turned toward him, and a low murmur filled the
large room, as he followed Mr. Fay, and was about taking a
chair at his elbow.
For a moment, even the judge appeared to be carried away
by the manly bearing of the accused; and the prosecutor himself
appeared a little embarrassed and astonished, and bowed very
low in reply, when Mr. Fay, leaning toward him in a confidential
way, and speaking in a whisper, though loud enough to reach
the bystanders and the bench, asked if the prisoner should be
allowed to sit within the bar where he might confer with his
counsel.
A stillness like that which settles upon the house of death followed,
as the Major took a chair by Mr. Fay.
“Is the gentleman ready, Sir?” said the clerk to Mr. Fay,
with an exceedingly deferential air.
Mr. Fay bowed, and the Major stood up at a signal from him,
as the clerk called his name, and then proceeded with the complaint,
slowly and distinctly, so that everybody heard it, and all
were astonished both at the nature and magnitude of the charge,
and then at the composure of the accused.
Having finished reading the complaint, a short silence followed,
and then a startling question, which poor Arthur was ill
prepared for. He felt it like a blow.
“What say you, George A. Pendleton, are you guilty or not
guilty?”
“Not guilty.”
“Are you ready for your trial?”
Here Mr. Fay interposed. “May it please your honor,”
said he, deferentially, and in a voice which seemed low to Arthur,
when he thought over the affair afterward, though it filled the
room, and secured the attention of all, “most of our witnesses
at a distance; and we propose to waive the examination here,
and give bail, if your honor will fix the amount.”
Something was here said by the prosecutor about notice and
justification, of which Arthur could make nothing, and then a list
of names was handed to him by Mr. Fay, and after a short consultation,
something was agreed upon, it appeared, and the judge
wrote a few words at the bottom of a printed paper, which he
handed to the clerk, and then, upon a signal from Mr. Fay, two
strangers came forward, and the oath was administered to one
and refused by the other, who wore a flapped hat and chose to
affirm, — and two or three questions were asked by the government,
and Mr. Pendleton stood up, — and Arthur was completely
bewildered. The Major smiled, as the amount of bail
was mentioned, and the prosecutor looked round upon the audience
and bar with a triumphant smile — glancing at Mr. Fay,
and then at the accused, and then at the bench, as if the question
was about settled forever — at least in the mind of the judge,
or he never would have required such heavy bail; but Mr. Fay
was unmoved, and straightway the clerk began to read over the
recognizance aloud, somewhat after the following fashion, “You
— a — a — and each of you — George A. Pendleton, a — a — a
— as principal, and you, William Bayard and Joseph E. Wentworth,
a — a — as sureties, all of the city and state of New
York, &c. &c., do hereby acknowledge yourselves to be held and
firmly bound to the people of New York, &c. &c., you, and each
of you — a — a — in the full and just sum of twenty thousand
dollars, &c. &c., well and truly to be paid — a — a — a, &c. &c.”
“Twenty thousand dollars!” exclaimed a gray-haired, sour-faced
old gentleman, touching Mr. Fay on the elbow.
“Twenty thousand dollars!” cried two or three of the junior
members, gathering about Mr. Fay, all whispering together, and
suggesting that, of course, he would apply to have the bail reduced,
— that such a thing had never been heard of, that unreasonable
bail was unconstitutional, &c. &c.
But Mr. Fay — the mysterious man — rather appeared to enjoy
the idea. Not the least objection was offered, — not a symptom
of uneasiness could be discovered; — on the whole, perhaps,
he should be able to find such bail, and for so large an amount;
and it was clear that Mr. Fay looked upon it as a feather in the
cap of his client, and calculated to neutralize any unfavorable
inference, likely to arise from the magnitude of the sum required.
On hearing the names of William Bayard and Joseph E. Wentworth
coupled with that of George A. Pendleton, Arthur looked
at his uncle for explanation; but a nod, somewhat perplexing
and hurried, was all he got in reply.
Nevertheless, he began to see his way out. For a time, as
the elder of the two was under examination by Mr. Attorney,
justifying under oath, as they called it, he was very much struck
by two slight circumstances. The venerable man, — venerable
in spite of his age, — for now he did not appear to be more than
fifty, wore his hat; and when asked to hold up his hand, flatly refused,
saying he affirmed. But while Arthur was watching the
procedure that followed, and recalling the conversation they had
together in Chambers Street, and afterwards at the St. Nicholas,
he was wondering at himself that he had never happened to
think of questioning his mother, when they were by themselves,
about Mr. Bayard, the early friend of his father, — and, as he
had much reason to hope, of his mother, — although he would
not acknowledge it, even to himself, till he knew more of the circumstances.
He had thought of doing so, times without number,
when he was away from her.
The question of bail being settled, Mr. Fay touched his client's
elbow, and beckoning to Arthur, told him he would find the carriage
waiting at the entrance.
The Major rose, and bowing to the bench and bar, slowly
withdrew; the crowd making way for him, and the eyes of bench
and bar following him, with evident interest and admiration.
Mr. Fay followed; and taking Arthur aside, warned him, in
a whisper, to look out for the evening papers.
The caution was understood and appreciated by Arthur, and
overheard by his uncle.
“Nonsense, Arthur!” said the Major. “Now that the bitterness
of death is past, why need we care about the newspapers?
Ten thousand thanks to you, my dear Sir,” he added, grasping
“I care nothing about the newspapers, I assure you. I never
did, for myself, where my conscience did not upbraid me; and
just now, as i mean to have the first telling of the story at home,
— where they might do mischief, — and before I sleep, I am
not afraid of them on account of my sister and niece.”
They had now reached the door; and as Arthur looked up, he
saw before him, not only Mr. Bayard, but in Mr. Bayard the
very man who had so puzzled and astonished them at the prayer-meeting
in Fulton Street. The plentiful white hair — like raw
silk — and the broad beaver, and the knee-breeches, and the
shoe-buckles, and the large gold-headed cane, were all of a piece
now; and he saw just how he had been misled; but before he
could speak to him, he had vanished.
“Can you dine with us to-morrow, Mr. Fay?” inquired the
Major, as they parted.
“No, my dear Sir. I am too busy just now; but I will run
over the first leisure evening, and have the talk I threatened with
you, Sir,” — nodding at Arthur.
“We dine at five; and if you will take a bed with us, you may
get back in season for your duties on the morrow, as well as if
you had remained over night, in your lodgings at the Clarendon.”
“Well, well; I dare not promise, and you must not look for
me; but come I shall, sooner or later, for I have something on
my mind.”
“Something on his mind!” thought Arthur, as they rode
slowly toward the ferry. “I shouldn't wonder! but perhaps the
gentleman may find, after he gets there, that other people have
something on their minds too.”
“Why, Arthur! — are you beside yourself?” said his uncle.
“Beside myself! how do you mean, pray?”
“Thinking aloud, — as if you were altogether alone; talking
to yourself, as to a stranger!”
“Did I?” — blushing and laughing, — “I am afraid you are
half right, Uncle George; for within the last few weeks I have
been charged with dreaming aloud, by mother and Julia, — and
even by Mr. Fay himself;” and then he told what had happened
on their way into the city.
The Major could not help smiling aloud, in reply, — for it was
no laugh; it was, at most, only a sort of inward rippling, like
that of hidden waters, making themselves heard, like subterranean
music, in a low, pleasant murmur; but Arthur was delighted.
“My good uncle!” he cried, with a burst of enthusiasm, “I
don't know when I have seen you look so happy!”
“No wonder! I have not felt so happy for a twelvemonth.”
“You are beginning to look like yourself once more; and I see
plainly that our new cottage-life is going to be our happiest life.
All we have wanted, to tell you the truth, Uncle George, was to
see you happy, — and then, of course, we should follow suit.”
“You are very kind, Arthur; and I hope to be wiser, and in
time happier.”
“I have heard you say, Uncle George, that no living man
has a right to be unhappy, — or to make others unhappy, — for
`why should a living man complain?' You are certainly growing
wiser, now; for, in the very midst of the terrible business we
have just got through with — I hope forever — you have been
more cheerful than at any time for the last year. Hitherto, and
up to the beginning of this month, when your arrangements were
completed, for giving up the house, and stealing away into the
country, you have appeared, most of the time, so changed, — so
unlike yourself, — so indifferent about everything that happened
either to yourself or others, — and at other times would appear
so bewildered, and so completely lost, — that we dreaded to hear
you speak, lest we should find — as we often did, after you had
got through, and we came to question you — that you might as
well have been overheard talking in your sleep.”
“Like my nephew, hey?”
“Very much like your nephew, in that particular, I must acknowledge;
but then — excuse me — I hope your nephew has
never looked to you as you have to us, day after day, like a man
going to his own funeral, and saying with a voice like a dirge,
half a dozen times a day, `how much we always have to be
thankful for!'”
“You are right, Arthur,” patting his nephew on the shoulder.
“I have been both wicked and foolish. It is very true that I
enough to be thankful for, if I would only bear it in mind; but
somehow, I am beginning to understand of late, as I never did
before, with all my preaching, — that preaching is one thing,
and practice another.”
All this, and much more, was said so cheerfully and so pleasantly,
— notwithstanding the settled seriousness of look which immediately
followed, — that Arthur was encouraged to go farther, —
much farther, — and even to question him, — though afar-off,
and with a feeling of uneasiness that grew more and more troublesome
every hour, about Mr. Fay.
“He managed that ugly business very much to your satisfaction,
Sir, — judging by your looks. I did not quite understand
his manœuvring, I must acknowledge; but then I saw that you
did, and I felt easy. All arranged beforehand between you, I
dare say.”
“No, indeed; one might as well undertake to arrange a game
of chess beforehand. Nor did I know what he intended to do, or
rather, how he meant to play the game; for everything depended
upon the moves made by the prosecutor. All I knew was, that,
like young Morphy, when he sat down to the board, he meant to
beat; and knowing what I did of him, I believed he would beat,
— and almost took it for granted.”
“By this, am I to understand that you have nothing more to
fear? that, although you are under bail for twenty thousand dollars,
— a thing unheard of, as that old gentleman at my elbow said,
who appeared to be listened to with the greatest deference by
the brethren, — you feel no uneasiness whatever as to the issue?”
“None whatever. All we want is time — time; not so much
for myself though, as for others; and that we must have.”
“A wonderful man, that Mr. Winthrop Fay; wonderfully
clever, I mean; a great manager, and so smooth, and so plausible.”
“Yes, Arthur, and I am sorry you don't like him.”
“Don't like him, Sir! what could have put such an idea into
your head?”
“Poh, poh, Arthur, you can't deceive me. You are too open-hearted,
— you think too much aloud.”
“And talk too much in my sleep, hey?”
“Or at least, you talk too much to yourself, where you are
sometimes overheard, to make it an easy thing for you to mislead
them that know you, and love you.”
“Love me, Uncle George!”
“Ay, my lad, love you,” replied the Major, with great emphasis,
touched by the mournful earnestness of the question; “for
some do, — notwithstanding your faults, your waywardness, and
your changeableness, — and allow me to add, your most unreasonable
and capricious levity at times, which is undermining your
strength of character, and which, if not speedily overcome, will
break our hearts — there! — I have long wanted to say this,
and now, thank God! it is off my mind!”
“And on mine, I hope,” said Arthur, catching his uncle's
hand. “On mine I hope, forever and ever! How much I do
thank you for your plain dealing! You at least, understand
me, — and you, I dare say, love me, — and so does my dear
mother, and would lay down her life for me; and so would poor
Charles, any day; but — but” — and his voice faltered, and the
quaver went to his uncle's heart — “I have nobody else to love
me.”
His uncle made no reply; but a strong pressure of the hand
went far to satisfy the nephew that he was understood.
A short silence followed; and after they had crossed the ferry,
the Major went back to the business in hand, as if to pass away
the time, and turn off poor Arthur's thoughts from a painful subject.
“Not only a wonderfully clever man, and a great manager,
but a man of high principle.”
“Of high principle, Sir!”
“For a lawyer, I mean.”
“O, I understand. You separate the lawyer from the man,
I see, just as Mr. Fay would have you do.”
“Certainly. It is but fair, under the present condition of
things. I am no friend to conventional morality, but somehow, we
are all ready to slip into the traces when they are offered; and
if I happen to see a high-minded, honorable man saying or doing
as a lawyer, what he would never say, nor do, as a man, or doing
I, for one, feel obliged to make some allowances.”
“Allowances for what, Uncle George?”
“For the prejudices of education.”
“That is, if I understand you, for the prejudices of a professional
education.”
“Precisely.”
“But Uncle George — excuse me, — why should not the professional
education of jockeys, or gamblers, or horse-thieves, entitle
their prejudices to some consideration?”
The Major had been caught napping for once; and acknowledged
it, with a hearty laugh, the first for many a long month.
“And by the way,” continued Arthur, “do tell me who that
strange-looking Mr. Bayard is?”
“I am rather inclined to believe, my boy, that you do not require
to be told, if I may judge by your eyes. After the meeting
near Burton's Theatre, and the interview that followed at the
St. Nicholas, and especially after what happened at the Fulton
Street meeting the other day, you ought to feel somewhat acquainted
with him; and if you will ask your mother when you
are alone, and there is no danger of interruption, she may be
willing to tell you what I dare not.”
“Dare not, Sir!”
“Even so. But thus much I can say, and will say. He is
one of the worthiest men alive; and I am chiefly indebted to
him — perhaps altogether — for my present safety, though I
never saw him in my life, till we met in Chambers Street, and
was never acquainted with him, till this affair brought him to my
help.”
“How strange!”
“Yes, Arthur, it is indeed strange, very strange; and to tell
you the truth, I am perplexed and troubled, whenever I think of
what has happened, since he first fell in our way. Sometimes I
feel a sort of superstitious terror — almost as if I were haunted.”
“You, Uncle George! you, of all men living!”
“Nevertheless, the fact is not to be denied. There is a mystery
about the man, which I do not understand — which I cannot
possibly fathom. He knows too much about us — and much
willing to acknowledge. That he was an early and fast friend
of your father, and sorely tried in some way, by that friendship,
I know from your mother; but she chooses to avoid the subject
with me, and I am unwilling to question her, as you may do
without being troublesome, or appearing either curious or inquisitive.”
“I don't know that, Uncle George. After what you have
said, I should be unwilling to question my dear mother about
so mysterious a personage. `Every heart knoweth its own bitterness,
and a stranger intermeddleth not therewith.'”
“Judge for yourself, my dear Arthur,” continued his uncle.
“Your mother is not a woman to withhold from you, her beloved
son — her only son, and she a widow — any good thing;” and
then after musing awhile, he added, “but, as I have said before,
I do not understand the relationship he seems to bear to the
family. He knows everything we do, or have done, I believe,
since the day we first met; he has followed us, and watched
over us, from the hour when he detected in you that resemblance
to your mother, as if he had the deepest interest in our
welfare. He comes and goes — appears and disappears — like
a shadow, and without any good reason, so far as I can judge;
and yet, when most needed, he never fails to be found at my elbow
— and always in the very nick of time.”
“Just let me look at the ring I see there,” interrupted Arthur,
reaching out his hand. “No, no, not the ring on your watchguard
— the great ugly signet-ring you wear on the third finger
of your left hand.”
The Major was about drawing it off, looking somewhat puzzled
at the suddenness of the request, when Arthur caught his hand,
with a whimsical, half-serious look of alarm, and exclaimed,
“Not for the world, Sir!”
“What on earth are you at now, Arthur Maynard!”
“Why, Uncle George, you might rub it, or chafe it, you know,
in drawing it off.”
“Well, and if I did happen to rub it, or chafe it, in drawing it
off, what then?”
“Well, I wouldn't answer for the consequences.”
“What do you mean, Arthur?”
“Why, bless your heart, Uncle George. How do you know
but it may be a talisman?”
“Pshaw!”
“And really, I don't wonder you are troubled — and feel as if
you were haunted; I should be frightened to death, to be left
alone with such a monster; I should always wear a glove on that
hand, as you often do, I see — and sleep in it, and never take it
off, without taking off the ring with it, most carefully.”
“Poh, poh, have done with such nonsense!”
But Arthur was in no humor to have done with such nonsense.
How happy he did feel, to be sure! and how his countenance
lighted up, as he continued, with flashing eyes, —
“To tell you the truth, Uncle George, though I am not often
troubled with superstitious terrors, I shouldn't much like to have
a third party turn up all at once at my elbow, while we were
riding together by ourselves, just because you happened to chafe
that ring — a silver-haired man, with a flapped hat, and flaming
eyes, and a — a —”
“Oh, you are incorrigible! there is no stopping you, when you
once get agoing!”
“But I say, Uncle George, who was that other man — that Mr.
Wentworth — who happened in with our spectre friend, in the
single-breasted coat and breeches, and just in the nick of time?”
“Really, I do not know. There is another mystery which I
have been trying to clear up; but all to no purpose. When I
first heard the name, I was a little curious to know if he had anything
to do with that Miss Wentworth — or Aunt Marie, as they
call her — with whom we had the negotiation about the house.
You remember her, I dare say?”
“Remember her! — I wonder if I shall ever forget her! The
poor old chattering simpleton!”
“Have a care, Arthur! We may be sorry for all this, — we
may have wronged her much, — and, between ourselves, though
I do not know, yet I am strongly inclined to believe, that she and
this very Mr. Wentworth, if not relations, are at least well acquainted,
and acting together; for when I was about to inquire
of my friend Mr. Fay, who had a long list of names to offer the
Wentworth was, he stopped me with a touch and a look, which
called my attention to a door, in a distant part of the room,
where I saw the face of Aunt Marie herself, or I am very much
mistaken, pressed hard up to the glass, with her nose flattened,
and the door ajar.”
Arthur could not help laughing at the picture.
“But, although I do not know who Mr. Wentworth is, nor
how he `happened to turn up', as you call it, in the very nick of
time, this I do know, that no questions were asked, and that the
arrangements were all made between Mr. Fay and our phantom
bail, without consulting me. Ah! I had no idea we were coming
so fast. Stop, coachman! stop, if you please; what say you to
alighting, Arthur, before they hear the noise of the wheels, and
walking by younder pathway — which is not overlooked, you see,
by any of the windows — and going up softly, and taking them
by surprise?”
“With all my heart — here goes!”
And out he sprang, followed by the Major, and telling the
coachman to “be off, and drive slow,” without making any noise,
till he turned into the highway.
As they stood awhile together, considering how they should
approach the house without being observed, Arthur's attention
was suddenly arrested by a flash, and by the quick motion of his
uncle's hand as he adjusted the fur collar of his cloak; and he
exclaimed, with a start and a flourish worthy of almost any stage,
“This handkerchief did an Egyptian to my mother give!”
“There you go again!” said the Major, beginning to feel
somewhat annoyed. “What the plague are you at now? — I
should be glad to know.”
“Arthur pointed at the ring, and appeared to be gasping for
breath. The talisman! the talisman!” said he, “beware!”
“Confound the boy! I have no patience with you! What is
there in that ring to amuse you so much, and to set you raving
in this way, whenever you happen to be in the humor for a frolic,
— unreasonable, or untimely, or otherwise?”
“Dear Uncle George — how do I know?”
“Be serious, Arthur, if you can, for five minutes.”
“One question first, and I will do anything you say. I have
always wondered at your wearing that strange-looking, unshapely
abomination where everybody can see it, and must see it; and
almost always carrying that hand ungloved.”
“Pshaw!”
“A vow, perhaps?”
“Arthur!”
“Look here!” — taking his uncle's hand, and lifting it so that
he could the better examine the odd fashioning of the signet, as
if he had never seen it before, — “intertwisted green serpents, —
loathsome and scaly, — with carbuncles for eyes!”
“Rubies, — not carbuncles.”
“The wickedest eyes I ever saw — out of a woman's head!”
“Come, come, Arthur; we may find your mother and poor
Julia much more uncomfortable than we have supposed.”
“True; but —”
“But what, pray?”
“I do wish I knew where you got that ring, and what on earth
it is good for? I have always wanted to know.”
“Upon my word, Arthur Maynard, I hardly know what to say
to you. You never know where to stop.”
“You haven't answered my question, though, my good uncle.”
“That ring, Arthur Maynard, once belonged to your father!”
Somewhat alarmed at the cloud he saw gathering upon the
forehead of his uncle, and at the solemnity of his manner, the
poor boy grew pale as death; and so serious, that his lashes were
glistening, before the answer was finished.
“Once it contained a drop of poison so deadly, that if this little
spring were touched with the point of a knife, and the smallest
portion of the drop reached the tongue, it was death, — instantaneous
death; — it were safer to be bitten by the deadliest of
living serpents; the asp, the rattlesnake, or the cobra-capello.”
Arthur grew paler and paler; and but for the hand he continued
holding by — under pretence of examining the rubies —
he would have staggered.
“And that ring,” continued the Major, “your father withdrew
from the secret drawer where it had lain for many a year, only
the day before he breathed his last, and sent it to me; charging
I have already done by a will, made the very next day after I
received it, on my return from South America; — and to say to
you, at a proper time, that your father owed his life to that ring.”
“God forgive me!” exclaimed poor Arthur, trembling from
head to foot. “I have had my suspicions, — I have seen my
mother grow pale, when she looked at that ring, — I have seen
you wear a glove upon that hand, in our presence — a large unsightly
glove — and more than once have I seen your handkerchief
or napkin flung over it, when we were at the table; and as
Julia knew nothing about it, and my dear mother never mentioned
it, I determined to find out for myself. Can you forgive
me?”
“With all my heart, Arthur. But beware! ask me no more
questions about the ring. Hereafter, when the greater mystery
involved comes to be cleared up, I may have something to communicate,
which, if told now, might hinder your sleeping.”
Arthur stood abashed and silent for awhile.
“One question more,” said he at last, “only one, dear uncle;
and that ring shall never be mentioned again by me while I
breathe.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Have you any good reason for believing that it ever belonged
to Tippoo Saib?”
“Before I answer that question, allow me to ask if you ever
heard such a thing suggested?”
“Uncle George, I must be frank with you. In a rough draft
of my father's will, drawn a few weeks before his death, mention
is made of Tippoo Saib's ring. It is there called a signet; and
the box which contained it was never to be opened but in your
presence; and afterward, when the will itself was drawn, as the
signet was not mentioned, I was a little anxious to know what
had become of it.”
“How much better to have come directly to me, and put the
question, dear Arthur.”
“Perhaps; and yet, I was unwilling to appear inquisitive
about such a trifle; and but for the mystery, and the name of
Tippoo Saib, I dare say I should never have thought of the
man like you must have a strange reason for wearing so ostentatiously.”
“Well, then, that you may have no more of these unhallowed
misgivings to keep you awake, or spoil your sleep, dear Arthur,
I will acknowledge to you, that your father always believed that
the `little monster,' as he called it, had once belonged to Tippoo
Saib, who carried the drop of poison just here — touching the
serpent's head — as being of little value, instead of concealing it,
as other Indian princes did theirs, in their costlier ornaments,
brooches, or dagger-hilts, or bracelets, which were more likely to
be taken away; so that, if they should happen to fall into the
hands of the British at Seringapatam, death would always be
within their reach, — death instantaneous and certain, as by a
thunderbolt. And the story goes, that this ring was found upon
Tippoo Saib's hand, as they pulled the body out from underneath
a heap of the slain, by a Sepoy, who hawked it about the
British camp after the surrender, and that it came into the possession
of Colonel Boyd, afterwards General Boyd, of the American
army, who brought it with him on his return to America, and
gave it to your father for a keepsake.”
“Enough, dear uncle; I am satisfied.”
| CHAPTER XI. True womanhood | |