63. CHAPTER LXIII.
Nought's had, all's spent,
Where our desire is got without content.
'Tis safer to be that which we destroy,
Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
— Macbeth.
Morton walked the street, on the next day, in a mood
less grave than had lately been his wont, but in one of any
thing but self-approval.
“It is singular,” he thought, “I could never meet her
without forgetting myself, — without being betrayed into
some absurdity or other. I thought by this time that I had
grown wiser, or, at least, was well fenced against that kind
of risk. But it is the same now as ever. I was a fool at New
Baden, and I was a fool again last night, though after a different
fashion. After all, when a fresh breeze comes, why should
I not breathe it? when a ray of sun comes, why should I not
bask in it? But what impelled me to insult that wretch, who
I knew dared not and could not answer me?”
He pondered for a moment, then turned and walked
slowly towards Vinal's place of business.
“Is Mr. Vinal here?” he asked of one of the clerks.
“Yes, sir, he is in that inner room.”
“Is any one with him?”
“No, sir.” And Morton opened the door and entered.
Vinal sat before a table, on which letters and papers were
lying; but he was leaning backward in his chair, with a painfully
knit brow, and a face of ghastly paleness. It flushed
of a sudden as Morton appeared, and his whole look and
mien showed an irrepressible agitation.
Morton closed the door. “Vinal,” he said, “you need
not fear that I have come with any hostile purpose. On the
contrary, I will serve you, if I can. Last night I used words
to you which I have since regretted. I beg you to accept my
apology.”
Vinal made no reply.
“I saw Speyer in the street last evening, and tried to
speak with him, but could not stop him. He can hardly
have any other purpose in breaking his oath and coming here
again, than to get more money from you. Has he been
to you?”
Still Vinal was silent.
“I think,” continued Morton, “that you cannot fail to see
my motive. I wish to keep him from you, not on your
account, but on your wife's. If you let him, he will torment
you to your death. Have you seen him since last evening?”
Vinal inclined his head.
“Where is he now?”
“I don't know.”
“Has he left the city?”
“I don't know. I suppose so.”
“And you gave him money?”
Vinal was silent again. Morton took his silence for assent.
“When he comes again, tell me of it, and let me speak to
him. Possibly I may find means to rid you of him. Meantime
remember this. He has given your letter up to me.
He has no proofs to show against you, unless he has other
letters of yours; — is that the case?”
Vinal shook his head.
“Then, if he proclaims you, his word will not be taken,
unless I sustain it; and I shall keep silent unless you give
me some new cause to speak. I do not see that he can harm
you much without my help; so give him no more money, and
set him at defiance.”
Morton left the room; but his words had brought no
relief to the wretched Vinal. Speyer had shown him his
letter, and told him the artifice by which he had kept it, and
palmed off a counterfeit on Morton. He felt himself at the
mercy of a miscreant as rapacious, fierce, and pitiless, as a
wolverene dropping on its prey.
