University of Virginia Library

54. CHAPTER LIV.

Morton's evening with Mrs. Ashland, and the story which
she told him, removed at least one pain from his breast. He
learned that Edith Leslie was not in fault; and that, great as
his misfortune might be, his idol was not turned to clay.

His friend's narrative, however, was very defective. She
could give results merely, not knowing, or suspecting, the
hidden springs which produced them; and Morton was left to
form his own conclusions. The following is a more explicit
statement.

Morton embarked for Europe, and the return steamer
brought, in due course, a letter to Edith Leslie. With the
next steamer came another; with the next, a third; all as
absurd epistles as the most exacting mistress could desire.
The succeeding mail was silent. She wondered and hoped;
but when the next arrived, and brought no tidings, her heart
began to fail. The winter wore away, and still no letter
came. She was living, at that time, with her father, at his
country seat. Leslie's health was declining, and when Vinal
returned from his short European tour, he consigned to his
hands the care of his affairs, and spent the greater part of his

time at Matherton; for he had a strong love for the home of
his boyhood.

Spring returned, and blossomed into summer; but nothing
was heard of Morton. The season ripened; the fringed gentian
sprang in the meadow, and the aster by the roadside;
but no word came. In the forests, the October frosts began
their gorgeous work. The ash put on its purple; the oak its
varied coloring; the sumach its blood-red glare; and at evening,
the sun went down in cold, stern splendors behind the
painted mountains. Dry leaves whirled upon the ground;
chill clouds mustered in the sky; and flakes of snow, the
harbingers of storm, were blown along the frozen road. Then
winter sank upon the landscape, and deeper winter on the
heart of the unhappy girl.

Time passed on, and the hope of Morton's return grew
fainter. Leslie, seeing his daughter's deep distress, made a
journey to Europe; but his search was fruitless. Meredith,
who spent a year on the continent, pursued the same inquiries,
but could trace his friend no farther than the town of Neuburg,
in Bavaria. Morton, before his departure, had made
his will, and in the ardor of his attachment, had left the
bulk of his property to his betrothed, distributing a comparatively
small residue among a number of poor relations, none
of whom had either the means or the worldly knowledge to
take measures for ascertaining his fate.

Meanwhile, Leslie had fallen into a decline; and there was
no hope that his life could be protracted beyond a year or
two. He became more than ever dependent upon Vinal, who
now assumed nearly the whole charge of his affairs, acquitting

himself with great ability, and, in this instance, with entire
faithfulness. A rickety manufacturing concern, which for
years had been a drain upon Leslie's purse, began, under
Vinal's control, to yield a good profit; and the former saw
all his resources quickened and replenished, as if by an infusion
of new life.

Vinal was mounting very high in the general esteem. His
polished address, — a little too precise, however, — his acknowledged
scholarship, his character for honor and integrity,
and his energy and capacity for business, commended him to
all classes. He passed current alike in ball rooms and on
change. Men of the world never doubted him; and, after
all, this confidence was not quite groundless, for Vinal, who
had a sage eye to his own interest, had embraced the maxim
that, in matters of business, a course of absolute integrity is,
under all ordinary circumstances, the only wise policy.

As, in process of time, the conviction of Morton's death was
confirmed, Leslie's old wish for a union between his daughter
and Vinal began again to grow strong within him. Some two
years after her lover's disappearance, he ventured to speak to
her of this favorite plan; but it was long before he dared
allude to it again. Meanwhile, Vinal's attentions had been
assiduous and constant, yet so tempered as to convey the
idea that he despaired of any other reward than the continuance
of her friendship. At length, however, certain of her
father's countenance, and assuming Morton's death as now
beyond a doubt, he began, with all possible delicacy and caution,
to renew his former addresses. He was not long in discovering
that his cause was quite hopeless, unless he could

produce some positive proof that Morton was no longer
alive.

During the third summer of the latter's absence, Vinal
went, for two or three months, to Europe, the state of his
health being the alleged motive. While in Paris, he tried to
find his former confederate, Speyer, but could only learn that
he was no longer in that city. On returning to America, he
told Leslie that he had inquired after Morton, on all sides,
without the least success, but had taken measures which, he
thought it not impossible, might in time lead to some discovery.
In various parts of Germany, there was, as he affirmed,
a class of travelling merchants and commercial agents,
who, from the nature of their avocations, had every facility
for making inquiries within the districts which they frequented.
He had taken pains, he said, to become acquainted with a
large number of these men, to whom he had stated the case
of Morton's disappearance, and promised a reward for any
information concerning him.

Some time after this, he told Leslie that he had had word
from one of these correspondents. The latter, he affirmed, had
heard that a young man, said to be an Englishman, had died
very suddenly three or four years before, in an unfrequented
part of Bohemia. The German declared himself ready, if
desired, to go to the district in question, and inquire into the
matter. Leslie was anxious that the inquiry should be made;
upon which Vinal, though seeming not at all sanguine as to
any result, gave him the name of his imaginary correspondent,
and advised that he should write to him. Leslie, however,
as Vinal had foreseen, desired that the latter should carry on

the correspondence. He accordingly wrote a letter, directed
to Jacob Hatz. This he showed to Leslie, and mailed it in
his presence, consigning it to a long repose in some continental
dead letter office. At the same time, he secretly despatched
another letter, directed to Henry Speyer; for he
had meanwhile discovered the address of this serviceable person.
This letter was as follows: —

Vinal, if he had dared, would gladly have forged such a
letter as he required, instead of trusting to another person;
but art or nature had not gifted him with the needful skill;
and he was anxious, moreover, to have the foreign postmarks
stamped upon it in form.

In due time, Speyer's answer came. He had neglected to
return Vinal's letter, as desired; but in other respects, his
performance gave his employer ample satisfaction. The latter
showed it to Leslie, who seemed convinced by it; while his
daughter, on reading it, abandoned at once the hope to which
she had hitherto clung, that Morton might still be living.

“I remember this Hatz very well,” said Vinal; “he
seemed to be a plain, honest sort of man, — an agent, I believe,
of a merchant in Strasburg. And yet the reward I
promised might have been too great a temptation.”

“Then,” said Leslie, “you would not receive this as a
proof of Mr. Morton's death?”

“No, I would not: that is, I should not but for one thing;
— it is so very much like Vassall Morton to be travelling
alone, on horseback, in an out-of-the-way part of the country.”

“Did you observe,” pursued Leslie, “what he says of figures
of an urn and ball cut on the gravestone?”

“I saw it, but did not observe it particularly.”

Leslie gave him the letter, and Vinal read the part referred
to.

“What can it mean?” asked Leslie.

“I can't conceive,” replied Vinal.

“It is the vase and sun,” said Edith Leslie; “the device
of his mother's family, the Vassalls.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Vinal, looking up with a face of mournful
interest, “you must be right; the same figures are
carved on the tomb of the Vassalls, in the old churchyard at
Cambridge.”

“They were cut,” pursued Miss Leslie, “on a garnet ring,
which he always used as a seal.”

“I remember his showing me that ring,” said her father,
“and telling me that it was older than the voyage of the
Mayflower. It was a kind of heirloom, which his mother had
left him.”

“Yes,” suggested the sympathizing Vinal, who had long
known that Morton used no other seal than this ring; “and
the device on it was supposed to be his armorial bearing, and
so cut on the gravestone, as it is on the Vassall tomb at
Cambridge.

All doubt of Morton's death was now dispelled. His betrothed
stored his image in her thoughts, as that of one lost
for this world; and Vinal saw the field clear before him.
Leslie was failing fast; and, as his life ebbed, his wish for
his daughter's marriage with Vinal grew and strengthened.
He urged her, daily, to listen to his suit; extolling his favorite's
talents, energy, acquirements, and unimpeachable character
— praises which she believed to be wholly just. Vinal,
on his part, seconded these parental efforts with most earnest,
beseeching, not to say abject importunities. The compassion
which he contrived to excite, an idea of duty, and an urgent
wish to gratify her dying father, at length prevailed with her;
and laying before Vinal the true state of her feelings, she
consented, on such terms to accept his suit.

Vinal had gained his point; but he had scarcely done so,
when his spirits were dashed by an untoward incident, the
nature of which may be guessed hereafter. And, as it never
rains but it pours, this reverse of luck was soon followed by
a second, of another kind.

One afternoon, returning from his customary constitutional
ride, he was in the act of turning the upper corner of a
street which slopes downward somewhat steeply till it meets
a main thoroughfare of the town. A small ragamuffin boy
was standing on the curbstone, with a blade of grass between
his thumbs, through which he blew with might and main,
evidently to startle Vinal's horse, whose head was within a
yard of him. He succeeded to his complete satisfaction.
Vinal switched at the youngster with his whip; but this only
made matters worse. The horse galloped down the street
at a rate which his rider's weak arm could not check; and,
at the corner of the main street, wheeling suddenly to the
left, he slipped on the wet pavement, and fell with a crash on
his side. Horse and man lay motionless, till a city teamster,
running up, raised the former by the bridle. Two or three
passers by came to Vinal's aid; but as they lifted him, he set
his teeth with pain. The horse had fallen on his left leg,
breaking it above the knee.

Vinal was timid to excess in time of danger; but he could
bear pain with the firmness of a stoic. While he felt himself
run away with, and at the moment of his fall, he had
been greatly confused. He no sooner saw that the worst was
over, than he rallied his faculties, and asserted his usual self-mastery.
His face was fast growing pale with violence of
pain; but he was quite himself again.

A crowd gathered about him, as he lay leaning on the steps
of the neighboring church.

“Shall we carry you to the — Hotel?” asked a gentleman.

“Yes, if you please. But first be kind enough to bring a
shutter. They will give you one at the school round the corner.
When a man is killed, drunk, or maimed, there is
nothing like a shutter. How do you do, Edwards?” — to a
man whom he recognized in the crowd.

“I hope you are not badly hurt.”

“My leg is broken.”

“Are you in great pain?”

“Yes; a bad business, I think. Will you oblige me by
seeing that my horse is led to the stable in — Street?”

The shutter was soon brought.

“Thank you. Lift me very gently.”

As they moved him he clinched his teeth again in silent
torture.

“All right. Now one take the shutter at the head, and
one at the feet. You'll find me a light weight.”

And thus, between two men, escorted by a procession of
schoolboys just let loose, Vinal was carried to the hotel.

The event justified his presage. He was forced to lie
motionless for weeks, suffering greatly from bodily pain, and
no less from certain anxieties which of late had harassed him.
Leslie, on his part, was in great distress at the disaster. He
felt, or fancied himself, near his end; and the wish next his
heart was to see the marriage accomplished before he died.
It was therefore determined that, notwithstanding the inauspicious

plight of the bridegroom, it should take place at the
time before fixed upon, four months after the beginning of
the engagement.

The ceremony was very private. None were present but
two or three friends of Miss Leslie, the dying father, borne
thither in a chair, the disabled bridegroom, and the pale and
agitated bride; for that morning, standing before Morton's
picture, a strange misgiving and a dark foreboding had fallen
upon her, and the sun never shone on a bride more wretched.
Her nearest friend, Mrs. Ashland, was at her side. She was
the only person, besides her father and Vinal, who knew of
her engagement to Morton, and, indeed, had been her confidante
from first to last. Soon after Morton's disappearance,
an accident had brought them together, reviving an old school
intimacy; and Edith Leslie, in her suspense and misery, was
but too glad to find a friend in whom she could trust without
reserve.

The rite was ended, and Edith Leslie was Edith Vinal.
Days and weeks passed; Leslie slowly declined, and Vinal
slowly recovered. She divided her time between them, passing
the greater part of the day with the latter, and returning
at evening to watch by her father's bed or rest within sound
of his voice. At length, three weeks after her marriage, on
a morning the horror of which remained scarred always in
her memory, Morton's letter from Genoa was put into her
hands; and the long-disciplined patience with which she had
armed herself, the religion which she had called to her aid,
all the guards and defences of her mind, were borne down,
for a time, by the resistless flood of passion, which, like a
river bursting its barriers, swept all before it.