I was not always a man of woe. --WALTER SCOTT. CHAPTER VII. IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN
Mr. Flint sips vino d'oro--The Stranger--The Letter--Mr. Flint Outwitted--Mr. Flint's Photograph--The Madman's Story--The wrecked Soul--How Mr. Flint is troubled by his Conscience, and dreams of a Pair of Eyes.
The same night on which Mortimer was writing in the books of Flint & Snarle, Mr. Flint sat in the library of his bachelor home, sipping a glass of vino d'oro; and as the bells of Trinity Church fell faintly on his ear, he drew a massive gold watch from his fob, and, patting it complacently on the back, scrutinized its face as if he would look it out of countenance. Then he yawned a couple of times and thought of bed. "There's a gintleman without, sur," said Michel, putting his comical head in at the library door, "there's a gintleman without, sur," and he emphasized the 'gintleman.' "What sort of a person, Michel?" "A very quare one indade. 'Is Mr. Flint in?' sez he. 'He is sur,' sez I. 'I want to see him,' sez he. 'Your kard, sur,' sez I. He stared at me a minit, and laughed. Then, sez he, without the least riverence for your worship, 'Give this to owld Flint!'" And Michel, exploding with laughter, handed Flint a knave of clubs very much soiled. "Michel!" said Mr. Flint, drawing himself up to his full altitude, "kick him down the steps!" "Thanks!" said a voice directly behind Michel, who had retreated to the doorway. The voice was so near and unexpected that Michel's crisp hair stood on end with fright. The door was thrown wide open, and a fine looking man, with the bearing of a sailor, stood between them. Mr. Flint turned as white as his immaculate shirt-bosom; and Michel, whose love of fun had got the better of his scare, regarded the intruder with a quizzical, inquiring air, peculiarly Irish. "Michel," said Mr. Flint, "you may go." That gentleman, not expecting such an order, hesitated. "Yes, sur." "Michel," said the stranger, "your master speaks to you." "Sure I heard him, sur." Michel left the room and carefully closed the door after him; but Flint, who knew his inquiring proclivities, opened it suddenly, and found Michel on all fours with his ear to the key-hole. The door was opened so unexpectedly that the listener did not discover the fact for the space of ten seconds. When he looked up and beheld his master, the intense expression of his face was superbly ludicrous. To say that he shot to the subterranean regions of the kitchen like a flash of lightning, does not border on fiction. The man laughed--it was a low, peculiar laugh, sadder than some men's tears. "Flint!" "Well." "Are you glad to see me?" and the man repeated his laugh. "No: you are a devil!" "I have been away three years, as I promised you." "Well, what do you want?" "Money." "Have I ever seen you when you did not?" "No, Flint, you never did. But you saw me once when I had an unstained soul--when I could have looked up to Heaven and said, 'I am poor, Father, but I am honest.' Have you enough money to pay for a lost soul? Oh Flint, I am a wrecked man! If it had only been murder--if I had killed a man in the heat of passion--but a poor innocent babe in the cold snow! The child! the little babe! Ah, Flint, I never see the white snow coming down but I think of it. Those eyes are always with me. They follow me out to sea. They haunt me in the long watches. One night, when a storm had torn our rigging to tatters, and we heard the breakers on the lee-shore, I saw her standing by the binnacle light, and, so help me Heaven! she had grown to be a woman. I fainted at the wheel. You heard of the shipwreck. How could a ship keep clear of the rocks and the helmsman in a trance? Forty souls went down, down! Hist! who said that? Not I. No, not I! I am a maniac!" "Don't go on that way," pleaded Flint, giving uneasy looks toward the door, which he regretted having locked. "Why?" "It is not pleasant." "What isn't?" "Your eyes--your words. What can I do for you?" The man's excitement lulled for a moment. He replied, carelessly: "I am not a chameleon; I cannot live on air; I can earn no money. The elements are against me--storms and shipwrecks follow me.... I have not found him yet," he said, abruptly. "Who?" "My boy." Flint turned aside his head, and laughed quietly. "I am tired of searching for him," said the man, sorrowfully. "I am not going to sea any more." After a pause--"I wish to live among the fishermen off Nantucket. You ask me what I want?" "Yes." "I want two or three hundred dollars to fit up a fishing-smack. Give me this, and I will not trouble you again. God knows I don't want to look on your face!" "And the letter--will you give me the letter?" "Yes; when I take the money." The man drew from his bosom several letters, and selected one more worn and crumpled than the rest. Flint's eyes fed upon it. "Of course," said Flint, "I have not such an amount in the house. I have a hundred dollars up stairs, and will give you a check for the remainder. Will that do?" "No and yes; but get the money, and I'll see." Flint left him alone. From a safe in his bed-chamber he took a small bag of gold, and caressed it for a moment very much as one's grandmother would a pet cat; then he filled up a check, and called Michel. "Run to the police station, Michel, and tell Captain L.----to send me three or four men." Michel shot down stairs, and his master followed him leisurely, patting the gold-bag lovingly at every other step. "Does he think," said Flint's visitor to himself, as the library door closed--"can he think I would part with this paper? He, so full of worldly shrewdness, so simple?" After awhile the door opened. "There!" gasped Flint, placing the bag on the table before the man; "the letter! the letter!" The stranger carelessly threw a rumpled paper toward Flint, who grasped it convulsively. His hand touched a bell-rope, and before the bell had ceased tinkling, a heavy measured tramp came through the entry. Four policemen entered the room in single file, with Michel behind them making comical efforts to keep step. "Arrest him!" cried Flint, hoarse with passion and triumph, "he has extorted money from me!" "Flint," said the man, walking toward him, "you know that's a lie!" Mr. Flint retreated behind the policeman. "This person," he cried, "is a stranger to me; he forced his way into my house and has threatened my life. Arrest him quickly, for he is no doubt armed!" "Gentlemen," said the stranger, turning to the officers, "Mr. Flint, I fear, has given you useless trouble. Michel, more glasses!" At this, that astonished individual went off like a rocket. "For the love you bear your good name, Mr. Flint", he continued, "look at the paper which you so innocently put in your pocket." An idea struck Flint, which caused him to turn pale. He tore open the letter; but it was not the one for which he would have given half his fortune. Oh! sagacious, wily, clear-sighted Mr. Flint! "You had better tell these gentlemen that you have made a mistake, Flint. But, before they go, they must have a glass of wine." Michel had failed to appear with the extra glasses; but the want of them was elegantly supplied by three silver goblets which stood on the beaufait. And poor, collapsed Flint! he could only bid the officers go, with a wave of his hand. They were alone. The sailor, with a scornful curl in his lip, stood by the chair of the merchant, whose dejected countenance, taken in connection with his white cravat, was delightfully comical. "Flint," commenced the man, "your verdancy is refreshing. Your sweet and child-like simplicity is like a draught of your old wine--it's rare, it's rare." If anything touched Flint, it was sarcasm. He stood in dread of ridicule, as most men do whose foibles and vices deserve lashing. "Edward Walters!" he cried, springing to his feet, "you have outwitted me. Well, you are a knave; it is your pride to be one. Your companions will shout to-night, in some obscure den of this city, as you tell them of your ingenuity, and you will be a hero among----" "Stop, John Flint! For sixteen years to-night my life has been as pure as a child's. The vices of passion and avarice have not touched me. I have borne a sorrow in my heart which shrunk instinctively from sin. During these years I have been poor, very poor." The man paused. "There is a link lost somewhere in my life--was I an age in a madhouse? Let it go. I have loved my fellow-man; I have lingered at the hammock of a sick mess-mate, and closed his eyes kindly when he died; I have spoken words of cheer when my heart was bitterness. I do not say this boastfully, for God's eyes are upon us all. I have done these things to atone for the one great sin of my life, which has stalked through memory like a plague. John Flint, I have had the misfortune to know you for twenty years, and during that time you never have, to my knowledge, performed a single act worthy of being remembered. You have a narrow, malicious mind; you have been tyrannical when you should have been generous; you have been the devil's emissary under the cant of religion. You call Jesus master, but you crucify him daily! There is your photograph, John Flint!" "You flatter me," remarked that personage, sarcastically; "but go on." "It is seldom that a rich man has the truth spoken to him plainly--the poor man hears it often enough. Consider yourself favored. You have called me a knave. I will draw some pictures, and I wish you to look at them: "Many years ago, a seafaring man who had just lost his ship in which his little fortune had been invested, returned to this city sick at heart, and weak from a wound which he had received in the wreck. He had battled many a year against misfortune, and his utmost exertions had barely found bread for his children. He owed money to a heartless and exacting man. He stood before his creditor and said, 'I am beggared, but I will work for you.' The merchant replied, 'Come to my house to-night, and I will find means by which this debt can be liquidated.' The sailor expected reproaches and hard words; so he was surprised at the softness of this speech, and his heart was full of gratitude. "That night he sat in the parlor of the merchant, who plied him with rare wines, until his mind went from him. Then he made a proposal to the sailor, who, if he had had his senses, would have felled him to the floor. The merchant had been appointed guardian to a motherless babe, which his brother, dying, begged him to love and educate. His ship on the sea, and the bales of merchandize in his warehouses, were not enough to feed his hungry avarice. He needs must have the little inheritance of the babe. Well, while he was speaking, making artful pictures in the eyes of his drugged dupe, the child ran into the room, and twined her arms around the neck of him who should have worshiped her. But he coldly unclasped the little hands and pushed her from him. John Flint, when that man, on Judgment Day, shall cringe before the throne of God, the Evil Angel will trample him down!" Flint was as white as the marble mantel-piece on which he leaned. Edward Walters stood a short distance in front of him; his eyes were fixed, and he spoke like one who sees what he is describing. "Then the man--the merchant--wrapped the child in the sailor's cloak. In a few minutes the sailor stood in the stormy street, with a frightened little heart throbbing against his own. The cutting sleet and snow beat in his face, and the wine made a veil before his eyes. It was a fearful night. Not a human form was to be seen; the street lamps were blown out, and the poor mariner drifted to and fro like a deserted ship. He had become mad; the strange events had eaten into his brain. He wrapped the babe closer in his cloak, and placed her in a doorway, out of the cold. He wandered from street to street, then he sank down in the snow. When his senses came to him he had been in a madhouse--God, how many years! Was it ten? The June wind broke through the barred window; it touched his forehead, and it was like a human hand rousing one from a dreamless sleep. One evening soon after, he stood before the merchant, who was sipping his choice cordials, as you were to-night, Flint, and the sailor asked for the child. The man replied: 'The child is dead; you left it in the cold, and it died, or you threw it into the river. I saw a body at the dead-house, weeks afterward, which looked like the child. You committed murder; it was your own act. Suppose you were to be hung for it!' Have I a good memory, John Flint?" And the man turned his wild eyes on Mr. Flint, who gave no other evidence of not being a statue than a slight tremor of his upper lip. "What did the madman say to the merchant? He took the cool, calculating villain by the throat, and cried, 'Write me out, in your round, clerkly hand, a full avowal of your guilt in this matter, or I'll strangle you!' The merchant knew he would, so he wrote this document with trembling fingers, and he signed it JOHN FLINT!" Then the sailor drew from his pocket an old stained letter, and held it up to the light. He looked at it sadly, and then his mind seemed to wander off through a gloomy mist of memories, for his eyes grew gentle and dreamy. He spoke softly, almost tenderly: "John Flint, you never saw me weep. Look at me, then. I am thinking of an old country-house which stood in a cluster of trees near a sea-shore. It once held everything that was dear to me--my children. Three years ago I stood with my hand on the gate, and looked into the little garden. It had gone to waste; the wind had beaten down the flower frames; the honeysuckle vines were running wild, and there was the moss of ten years' growth on the broken chimney-pots. The rain had washed the paint off the house, and the windows were boarded up. There was something in the ruin and stillness of the place which spoke to me. Twilight added a gloomy background to the picture. I broke the rusty fastenings of a side door, and entered the deserted building. It may have been fancy, but I saw two forms wandering from room to room, and through the darkened entries; now they would pause, as if listening for foot-steps, then they would move on again, sorrowfully, sorrowfully. In the bedroom over the front door, I saw the shadow of a little coffin! She used to sleep there. Where were my children? Where was trustful old Nanny, that she did not come to me? The house was full of strange shadows, and I fled from it. I did not dare go to the village hard by. There were too many who might have known me. I sat down in the quiet church-yard where my wife had slept many a long year. I sat by a little mound on which a wreath of flowers had been laid--nothing remained of them but stems and the rotting string that had bound them. It had a peaceful look, the grave, and I wished that I had died when my mound would not have been made longer than the one at my side. What did the simple head-stone say? It said: 'LITTLE BELL!'--that was all!" The sailor grasped Flint's arm. "Only little Bell!--that was all. But it was all the world to me! What a tale it told! What a tale of weary waiting, and despair, and death! Did her little heart wait for me! Did she sicken and die when I did not come to her? Aye, it said all this and more. And my boy--was he living? was he searching for me? No, not searching, for close by my child's grave, a white stone had these words carved on it:" and the man repeated them slowly, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF OUR FATHER, LOST AT SEA. "Not lost at sea," he said, almost inaudibly, "but lost! Ah, I could have died in that quiet place, with the moonlight on me! But I was startled from my grief by the shouts of some men on the roadside, and I turned and fled. Have you looked at the picture, John Flint?" He spoke so mournfully, that Flint raised his little, sharp eyes, which all this time had been fixed on the carpet; but he made no reply. "I'll have none of your gold, man. I was weak to want it. Give it to the poor. The shining round pieces may fall like sunlight into some wretched home. To me they are like drops of blood!" And he pushed the gold from him, and went to the window. He saw the dim eyes of Heaven looking down through the mist--heard the murmurs of the city dying away, and the calm of night entered his soul. "May you be a better man when we meet again," he said, turning to Flint. "But the letter," cried Flint, fearfully, "you won't----" The sailor's lips curled, and something of his former severity returned. "Take off your sanctimonious cravat," he answered, "wrap charity around you like a robe, that you may be pleasing in God's sight. You sent some gold to convert the Hindoos--the papers said so. Why, man! there is a Heathen Land at your door-step! John Flint, good night!" The merchant stood alone. The night wind swayed the heavy curtains to and fro, and half extinguished the brilliant jets of gas. He threw himself into a chair, and a vision of the Past rose up before him--the terrible Past. The ghosts of dead years haunted his brain, and remorse sat on his heart, boding and mysterious, like the Raven of the sweet poet-- "That unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast, and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore!" That night, as we have said, he dreamt of two blue, innocent eyes, which once looked confidingly in his--of two infant arms which encircled his neck. Those eyes haunted him into the realm of sleep, where myriads of little arms were stretched out to him, and he turned restlessly on his pillow!
He trudged along, unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought. -- DRYDEN. CHAPTER VIII. MR. FLINT IS PERFECTLY ASTONISHED, AND MORTIMER HAS A VISION
The Light Heart--A Scene--The Sunny Heart--A Dream of Little Bell--A Hint.
Now that Mortimer Walters had destroyed the record of poor Snarle's guilt, he determined to be no longer a subject of Flint's authority. He had watched for months for an opportunity to become possessed of the forged cheque; and it was with a heart as light as a singing bird's that he tripped up the office stairs an hour before his time the next morning. Tim was sweeping out. Sleep had left no cobwebs in his young eyes; but when he saw Mortimer throw open the office door, humming a light-hearted air, he rubbed his eyelids with the sleeve of his dusty coat, as if it were a question in his mind whether or not he was dreaming. "My last day here!" said Mortimer gaily to himself. "Weary, tiresome old books! my soul has grown sick over you for the last time." He brushed the dust from off the dull-looking ledger, and went to work. "Won't I astonish him?" he thought, looking up; and he laughed so pleasantly that Tim, who was sweeping the rubbish into a dust-pan, suspended operations, and expressed his surprise in a somewhat dubious ejaculation: "I vum!" When Mr. Flint came in, he saw the same tall form bending over the accustomed desk that had met his eyes every morning for the last ten years; but he did not see the heart that was leaping with new life. And when, in his usual snarly way, he gave Mortimer orders to make up certain invoices, which would have employed the clerk till midnight, he opened a brief conversation which ended in his utter amazement. "You will render Bowen & Cleet their account current, and make up the pork sale; it has been standing open long enough. And," added Mr. Flint, "fill up bills of lading for the D. D. coffee." "I don't think I will," was the quiet reply. Mr. Flint did not believe his ears. "Mr. Walters!" "Mr. Flint." "You will fill up those bills of lading immediately." "I won't!" plumply. This caused Mr. Flint to sink in a chair with astonishment; and Mortimer went on writing. "Did you say that you wouldn't?" asked Mr. Flint, looking at him. "Yes, sir." "You did!" "My year," said Mortimer, leisurely, "expires to-day, and with it, I am happy to state, my connection with Flint & Snarle." Mr. Flint hunted twenty seconds for his lost voice. "You insolent----" "Sir!" cried Mortimer, turning to him abruptly, "until now I have borne your tyranny with meekness. We are no longer employer and clerk. We are man and man, with the advantage on my side. If you apply an insulting epithet to me, I shall pull your ears!" O Tim, how you rubbed your hands, you little villain! How your limbs seemed to be receiving a series of galvanic shocks from an invisible battery! How your eyes sparkled, and your proclivity for fight got uppermost, till you cried out, "Pitch into him, old boy!" "Go!" hissed Flint, through his closed teeth; "go!" that was all the word he could master. Mortimer passed out of the office. The genial sunshine slid from the house-tops, and fell under his feet; a thousand airy forms walked with him, and he felt their presence, though he could not see them. He wandered through the Park. April had breathed on the cold ground, and the green grass was springing up to welcome her. The leaves were unfolding themselves, and the air was full of spring. The fountain had thrown off its icy manacles, and leaped up with a sense of freedom. His dreamy eyes saw it all. The black shadows had fallen from him; he had left them with Flint; and a bright day had dawned within him and without him. Everything was tinged with iridescent light, for he looked at the world, as it were, through dew-drops. Happy morning--happy life! when one can put aside the trailing vines of painful memory, and let the warm sunshine of Heaven find its way into the heart. In this sunny mood he turned his way homeward. He passed Mrs. Snarle on the stairs with a smile; he heard Daisy singing in the sitting-room; and he sat himself down in the yellow light which streamed through the window of his bedroom, making a hundred golden fancies on the worn carpet: "The shadows of the coming flowers! The phantoms of forget-me-nots, And roses red and sweet!" His eyes made pictures; his fancy inverted the hour-glass of his life, and the old sands ran back! He floated down the stream of time, instead of onward. The sunshine grew deeper and broader, and filled the little room. Then it became condensed and brighter. Gradually it moulded itself into form, and little Bell, in her golden ringlets, stood at the side of Mortimer. Her white hand touched his shoulder, and he looked up--not in surprise, but with tenderness--with the air of a man who can gaze with unclouded eyes into the spiritual world and lose himself. "I knew you were near," he said, dreamily. "I thought you would come. You have something to tell me. What is it, my little Bell? Thus you stood at my side, thus you looked into my eyes, the day on which I told Daisy that I loved her. Thus you come to me whenever the current of my life changes, to love and advise me. What is it, Bell--dainty little Bell?" A sunny lip rested on his for a moment. "Be strong!" said little Bell. A cloud of sunlight floated around Mortimer, slipped down at his feet, and lost itself in the orange stream which flooded the window. "He is dreaming of Bell," said Daisy, as she bent over him--"dreaming of lost Bell!" And she closed the door after her softly. Then Mortimer's vision of sister Bell was a dream? Perhaps it was not. Perhaps this real world is linked more closely to the invisible sphere than in our guesses. It may be an angel's hand which touches our cheek, when we think that it is only the breeze. _?Quien sabe? Who can say that in sleep we do not touch hands with the spirits of another world--the angels of hereafter? And what may death be but an intellectual dream!--Who knows? Nobody knows. "But," suggests the gentle reader, "suppose you dispense with your Hamlet-like philosophy, and go on with your story, like the pleasant author that you are, instead of putting us to sleep, as you have your hero." Reader, the hint was merited.
"My eyes make pictures when they are shut." -- COLERIDGE. CHAPTER IX. DAISY AND THE NECKLACE
Our petite Heroine--How she talked to the Poets--The Morocco Case--Daisy's Eyes make Pictures--Tears, idle Tears!
Mortimer was still sleeping an "azure-lidded sleep," as Keats has it, when Daisy again came softly to the door. A pretty little woman was Daisy Snarle. She had one of those faces which you sometimes pass in the street and remember afterward, ever connecting it with some exquisite picture, or, if you happen to be in a poetical mood, a dainty bit of music. That face was very sweet in the coquettish red and white "kiss-me-quick" which used to shade it sunny mornings, when Daisy went to market--a very beautiful face when she looked up earnestly--a very holy face when she sat thoughtfully in her room at twilight. Her hair was dark chestnut, and she wore it in one heavy braid over her forehead. Her eyes were so gentle and saucy by turns that I could never tell whether they were gray or hazel; but her smile was frank, her laugh musical, and her whole presence so purely womanly, that one could not but be better for knowing her. Yet Daisy was not faultless. She had a wild little will of her own--none the worse for that, however. She could put her foot down--and a sweet little foot it was!--a temptation of a foot, cased in a tight boot--high in the instep, and arched like the proud neck of an Arabian mare, or the eye-brows of a Georgian girl. And then the heel of said boot!--But I daren't trust myself further. Daisy stood looking at Mortimer with her fond, thoughtful eyes. Soon she grew tired of this, and, placing a stool by his chair, sat down and commenced sewing. From time to time she looked up from her work and smiled quietly. "How he sleeps!" said Daisy, with a low laugh. "Will he be cross if I disturb him?"--and she laughed again. "I wonder," she said, at length, "if a tiny song would awaken him?" So she sang in a gentle voice those touching lines of Barry Cornwall, commencing with-- "Touch us gently, Father Time! As we glide adown the stream." She sang them bewitchingly. The music must have stolen into Mortimer's dream, for he slept a quieter sleep than before. Miss Daisy did not like that, and pouted quite prettily, and shook her finger at him. "O, how tiresome you are!" she said. Then she sewed for ten minutes quite steadily. "I guess I'll arrange your books, Rip Van Winkle! and when you wake up, a half century hence, you won't know them, they'll be in such good order!" And facetious Miss Daisy broke out in such a wild, merry laugh, that an early robin, perched on a tree beside the window, ceased chirping, and listened to her. Her fingers grew very busy with Mortimer's books. Having dusted them carefully, she commenced to place them in an old black-walnut book-case, which must have had an antique look fifty years ago. And Daisy went on laughing and talking to herself in a most comical manner. "Here, Mr. Theocritus!" she cried, taking up that venerable poet, and placing him upside down, "I'll just set you on your head for absorbing all that stupid boy's attention one live-long evening, when I wanted to chat with him." An author is supposed to know everything about his characters; but I cannot tell why Daisy placed Mortimer's poet in such an uncomfortable position, unless she thought that the blood might run into the head of Mr. Theocritus, and cause him to be taken off with a brain fever! "And you, Mr. Byron," Daisy continued, "you're a very wicked young fellow! and I won't let you sit next to Mrs. Hemans!" so she placed Plutarch between them. "But you and Shelly," Daisy said, resting her hand on Keats, "you are different sort of persons; you are too earnest and beautiful to be impure; and you shall sit side by side between L. E. L. and our own Alice Cary. And Chatterton! poor boy Chatterton! I'll place you in that shadowy corner of the book-case, where the sunshine never comes!" So Daisy made merry or sad, as the case might be, over her lover's few volumes; and when she had arranged them to suit her capricious self, she kissed her hand to Tom Hood, and locked them all--poets, romancers, and historians--in the black, sombre old book-case. Our friend Daisy was in one of those playful, half-childish moods, which came upon her not unfrequently. Now she looked around the room for some other piece of useful mischief to do. She would turn over Mortimer's papers. Ah, what made her blush and laugh so prettily then? It was only a sheet of note-paper, on which Mortimer, in a dreamy moment, had written her name innumerable times--for know, good world, that true love takes the silliest ways to express itself. Now she was curious. She stood thoughtfully, with a small morocco case in her hand. The reader has seen it once in Flint's office. An undefined feeling stole over her; and it was some time before she thought of opening the case. She did so, however, and took from it a pearl necklace of rare design and workmanship. The necklace was in three parts, linked together by exquisitely carved clasps, from the largest of which hung a [Illustration: Cross] composed of smaller and more costly pearls. "How beautiful!" and she grew more thoughtful. Something within her recognized the jewels. It was not her sight, it was not her touch, but an intuitive something which is finer and subtler than either. "I have seen this somewhere--somewhere," she said; "but where?" And she closed her eyes, as if the sunlight blinded some timid memory that was stealing through her brain. Her fancy painted pictures of strange places and things. Now she saw a country-house, among cool, quiet trees; then a man dying--some one she loved--but who? Now she was in a large city, and heard the rumbling of wheels and confused voices. Now the snow was coming down, flake after flake, and everything was white; then it was night--dark, stormy, and dreadful--and she was cold, bitter cold! Some one had left her in the white, clinging snow, and she was freezing! Daisy opened her eyes. The snow and wind were gone, and April's sunny breath blew shadows through the open window. The house, the death, the storm--how were they connected with the string of pearls? And Daisy held the necklace on her finger-tips and wondered. "Somewhere, somewhere--but where?" Daisy could not tell where. "I may have seen one like it," Daisy thought. "Perhaps this was Bell's, and these stones may have rested many a time on her little neck. I wish I had known Bell!" With this she placed the necklace in the case again, and tears gathered in her eyes, she knew not why.
"Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean."
She laid the box in the place where she had found it, and thought she would not speak to Mortimer of the necklace; he might be displeased to have her touch it. Her gaiety had given place to sadness, and when she knelt by Mortimer's chair she could not help sobbing. Mortimer awoke and bent over her. "What, weeping, Daisy?"
Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die: You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year you must not die. He lieth still: he doth not move: He will not see the dawn of day, He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend and a true love, And the new year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go: So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go. He frothed his bumpers to the brim: A jollier year we shall not see; But though his eyes are waxing dim, And though his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die: We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die. -- ALFRED TENNYSON. CHAPTER X. ST. AGNES' EVE
The Old Year--St. Agnes--Keats' Poem--The Circlet of Pearls--A Cloud--The Promise--Mrs. Snarle continues her Knitting.
The Old Year had just gone by--the dear, sad Old Year! He died in the blustering wind, out in the cold! He lay down in the shadows, moaned, and died! Something has gone with thee, Old Year, which will never come again: kind words, sweet smiles, warm lips--ah, no, they will never come again! Hold them near your heart for love of us, Old Year! They came with you, they went with you! Kyrie eleyson! "I wish you could tarry with us," said Mortimer. "You were kind to us, merry and sad with us." And he repeated the lines, "Old year, you shall not die: We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die." "To-night, Daisy, will be St. Agnes' Eve, and if I sell my prose sketch to Filberty's Magazine, I'll be in a good humor to read you Keats' poem." Since leaving Mr. Flint's employ, Mortimer had entirely supported himself with his pen. His piquant paragraphs and touching verses over the signature of "Il Penseroso," had attracted some attention; and he found but little difficulty in disposing of his articles, at starving prices, it is true; but he bore up, seeing a brighter time ahead. He had been so occupied in writing short stories and essays, that his romance, which lacked but one chapter of completion, was still unfinished. Filberty's Magazine paid him so generously for the "prose article," that he could afford to devote himself to a task which did not promise immediate profit. He completed the novel at sundown that day; and after supper Daisy reminded him of his promise to read Keats' "Eve of St. Agnes." "I sometimes think," said Mortimer, as good Mrs. Snarle seated herself in a low rocking-chair, preparatory to a dose, while Daisy sat on a stool at his feet, "I sometimes think that this poem is the most exquisite definition of one phase of poetry in our language. Musical rhythm, imperial words, gorgeous color and luxurious conceit, seem to have culminated in it. And the story itself is so touching that it would be poetical even if narrated in the plainest prose. How surpassingly beautiful is it, then, worked out with all the richness of that sweetest poet, who, in intricate verbal music and dreamy imagery, stands almost alone!" Mrs. Snarle's head was inclined on one side, and the whole posé of her form was one of profound attention. She was fast asleep. The busy knitting-needles were placid in her motionless fingers; and Pinky, the kitten, was 'spinning a yarn' on her own account from the ball in Mrs. Snarle's lap. "Who was St. Agnes?" asked Daisy. "She was a saint who suffered martyrdom for her religious views during the persecution of the Christians in the reign of the Emperor Diocletian. But let us read the poem, which will make her more immortal than her heroism." Mortimer opened the book, and his voice touched the verse with new music for Daisy's ears. Now his tones would be low and sad, as he read of the old Beadsman, who told his beads in the cold night air, "While his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seemed taking flight for heaven." Then his voice grew as tender as a lover's, when he came to the place where Porphyro, concealed, beholds Madeline as she disrobes: "Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees." "How few poets know how to handle color!" said Mortimer. "Azure, red, orange, and all poetic hues are mixed up in their pictures like a shattered rain-bow! But how artist-like is Keats! His famous window scene has not been surpassed: "A casement high and triple-arched there was, All garlanded with carven imageries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, And diamonded with panes of quaint device, Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, And twilight saints and dim emblazonings, A shielded 'scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. "Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon: Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together pressed, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint: She seemed a splendid angel, newly dressed, Save wings, for heaven!" "Is it not exquisite?" asked Mortimer, looking in Daisy's face. She nodded assent. Mortimer fixed his eyes on a pearl necklace which gently clasped the girl's neck, and started. The cross undulated on her bosom, which rose and fell like two full white roses in the wind. "Where did you get that?" and Mortimer laid his hand on her arm nervously. "It was a freak," said Daisy, blushing. "Are you angry?" "Not angry, Daisy." "But you look so." "Do I? I am not. I grow unhappy when I see that necklace." "It was Bell's, then?" "Yes--no--don't ask me, Daisy." "Why?" A shadow came over Mortimer's face. That morning Daisy had been tempted to open the morocco case, and a desire to clasp the white necklace on her neck became irresistible. Something drew her to it, and the same feeling of mystery and longing which stole on her when she first held the circlet in her hand while Mortimer was sleeping, overpowered her. Almost unconsciously she fastened the gold clasp, and when the little cross sunk down on her bosom, her heart grew lighter, and she went over the house singing like a canary. She wore it the whole day, pausing at times in her household duties to admire the pearls. After a while she forgot its existence, and her intention to replace it before Mortimer returned. When Mortimer's eye caught sight of the necklace, Daisy was much embarrassed, for she could, in no intelligible way, account for having taken it. Mortimer was equally pained. He had unwillingly become possessed of the ornament, and saw no means by which he could return it to Mr. Flint without acknowledging that he had also taken the check. He dreaded to make so humiliating a confession, and, perhaps, he stood a little in fear of Mr. Flint's anger. The circumstance had caused him many moments of anxiety, and an unpleasant thought came to him, as he saw the purloined necklace on Daisy's innocent bosom. "But you are angry?" said Daisy, looking up with dimmed eyes. "No, pet." "Then you will kiss me?" said Daisy, in a most winning way. Mortimer did what most every one would have done "in the premises"--an act which was quite sufficient to make one break that part of the commandment which refers to envy. Surely a man would be inhuman not to, having once seen Daisy Snarle! "I am not angry, but pained; I cannot tell you why. I wish you to promise me something." "I will. What is it?" "That you will not doubt me, whatever may occur in connection with this necklace--that you will love me, though I may be unable to explain condemning circumstances, or dispel the doubts of others." "I promise that. But how strange," thought Daisy. "I am sorry that I was so childish as to take the necklace. Put it away, Mortimer, and forget that I did so." Mortimer's cheerfulness returned, and he commenced reading the poem at the place where he had interrupted himself. Just as he finished the last verse, telling how, ages long ago,
"The lovers fled away into the storm,"
Mrs. Snarle awoke with a jerk, and went to knitting as though she had been doing nothing else the whole evening--a harmless subterfuge peculiar to old people.
Of making many books there is no end. --ECCLESIASTES XII., 12. CHAPTER XI. MORTIMER HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GREAT PUBLISHER, AND MR. FLINT MAKES A DISCOVERY
H. H. Hardwill, Publisher--Criminal Literature--Alliterative Titles--Goldwood--Poor Authors--A Heaven for them in the Perspective--Flint's Discovery, and the Horns of his Dilemma.
Mortimer looked up and read the sign--"H. H. Hardwill, Publisher." His heart half-failed him, and he stood looking in the large, book-filled window, with that romance which was to startle the literary world folded quietly under his arm, like any common paper. What kind of a man is Mr. Hardwill? he thought. Is he a large man, with a heavy watch-chain, or a thin, sky-rockety piece of humanity, dressed in black, and tipped off with red hair? Was he a cold, cast-iron man, like Flint? or a simple, sorrowful one, like Snarle that was? But this last idea melted of itself. How could the famous publisher resemble the poor, unobtrusive Snarle? He, Mr. Hardwill, who received notes from the great Hiawatha, and hob-nobbed with Knickerbocker Irving; he, who owned a phial of yellow sand, which had been taken from a scorching desert with an unpronounceable name, and presented to him by the Oriental Bayard; he, who chatted with genial Mr. Sparrow-grass--God bless him!--(Sparrow-grass,) and joked with Orpheus Stoddard,--he like simple Snarle? Pooh! "Is Mr. Hardwill in?" asked Mortimer. He came near adding, "the great publisher." The clerk, to whom his eyes looked, said he believed he was, and went on calling off from a slip of paper: "'Murdered Milkmaid,' two copies; 'Bloody Hatchet,' twelve copies; 'The Seducer's Victim,' thirty copies; 'The Young Mother,' five copies; 'The Deranged Daughter,' seven copies; 'Hifiluten and other poems,' one copy." "Can I speak with him?" ventured Mortimer, as the clerk, who was calling off the criminal literature, paused for breath. "'The Merry Maniacs,' ten copies--Yes, sir; but he's engaged. Wait awhile," continued the clerk, as Mortimer turned to go. "'The Wizard of Wehawkin,' six copies; 'The Phantom of Philadelphia,' twelve copies, etc., etc." So our author seated himself on a case of books, and looked at the wall of volumes which encompassed him. Somehow or another, it suggested the Great Wall of China and the Cordilleras. He could give no reason why. No more can I. Perhaps he felt that light literature, paradoxical as it may seem, is always heavy, and so his mind ran on the prodigious freaks of man and nature. After the clerk had finished calling off from the slip of paper, that promising young gentleman suddenly discovered that Mr. Hardwill was not engaged, and offered to conduct our friend into his august presence. Mortimer gathered up his heart, as it were, and his loosened manuscript at the same moment--"Her heart and morning broke together!"--and followed the clerk through an avenue of literature, to a snug inner office--that literary Sebastopol, which is forever being stormed by seedy poets and their allies, historians, romancers, and strong-minded Eves. Could it be possible? Was that middle-sized, dark-eyed, light-haired, pleasant-looking man the Napoleon of publishers? However, there was something shrewd in his dark eye, or rather eyes--for he had two of them--and a certain expression of the mouth, which seemed full of dealings with the world. "Is this Mr. Hardwill?" asked Mortimer. "Yes, sir. Will you be seated?" "I have a romance," commenced Mortimer, with hesitation, "which I would offer you for publication. I have written it carefully, and I think it possesses several new features----" Here his voice broke down, for he felt those dark, scrutinizing eyes in his face; besides, the intense attention with which he was listened to disconcerted him. Mr. Hardwill came to his relief. "What is the title of your book?" "It is called 'Goldwood.'" "That is not happy." "No?" "No," said Mr. Hardwill, "it should be something striking--something to catch the eye in an advertisement. For instance, the--the----" "Frantic Father," suggested Mortimer, quietly; and he gazed at the carpet to keep from smiling. Mr. Hardwill eyed him, and displayed his white teeth. There was a little satire in our author's remark which pleased Mr. H., who could not be hired to read the spasmodic books which he published. It was policy in him to cater for that largest class of readers whose tastes are morbid or inflamed, and he did so. Mortimer had thrown aside his timidity. He gave a concise sketch of the plot, touching here and there on some supposed-to-be felicitous incident, and grew so autorially eloquent over his romance, that the careful Mr. Hardwill requested Mortimer to leave his manuscript with him, saying: "I cannot give you much hope. I have more books ready for press than I can well attend to. If you will call on me the latter part of next week, you shall have my decision." With these words, spoken in an off-hand, business-like way, Mr. Hardwill made a bow, which said, as kindly as such a thing can be said, "You needn't stay any longer." Mortimer returned his bland smile frankly, and retired, though he would fain have called Mr. Hardwill's attention to that delightful and exciting scene in which Mr. Adine St. Clair meets Arabella Clementina after an estrangement of two weeks! but he didn't. He again threaded his way through the labyrinth of literature, and the last sound which fell on his ear, as he turned from the book-store into the street, was, "'The Ruined Cigar Girl,' twenty copies!" "What on earth could anybody want of a 'Ruined Cigar Girl,' or a 'Young Mother?'" and Mortimer laughed outright. The wand of Prospero is neither more cunning nor more powerful than the pen of a well bred author. It creates something out of nothing, (more frequently nothing out of something), changes time, place, and human nature; it lifts up the blue roofing of ocean, and gives you a glimpse of fish-life; and deeper still, shows you the coral forests of the Naiads, and their aquatic palaces. It draws back the curtain of cloud-land, and feeds your fancy with forms that never have been, and never will be; summons spirits from the air, and gives melodious voices to all vernal things. Pleasant magician that waves this wand! what curious people are walking in the chambers of your brain! What dreams are yours, and what cruel cuts this real world sometimes gives you! You have no right to be here, poor devil! You are somewhat misplanted; you belong to some sphere between earth and heaven, and not very near either. That such a place is provided for you I am certain. There it is that all your books will run through countless editions; there it is you can afford to hire some one to write your autograph for besieging admirers, and feed, as you should, "On the roses, and lay in the lilies of life." But I was speaking of pen-magic. It is not my present mood to do anything fantastical in that way. I only wish to give you a sight of Mr. Flint, as he appeared one afternoon some months after Mortimer had left his office. He was standing in that inner-room of his counting-house to which I have introduced the reader. I change my mind--he was not standing. He had just thrown himself into a chair, in which he did not seem at all easy. I take peculiar delight in placing Mr. Flint in uncomfortable positions. He was surprised, alarmed, and angry. He missed the forged check and the morocco case which he had watched so many years. That they had been purloined, he could not doubt, and his keen thought fell on Mortimer. The loss of the check troubled him; he liked to look at it occasionally, for Snarle's sake; but the necklace--that gave him strange alarm. "Snake!" he hissed, "you have crawled into my affairs, and I'll tread on you--tread on you and kill you! You stole the check to save Snarle's name; and the necklace--why did you steal that? Was it valuable? Yes, that is it. I'll grind you in the dust. I'll put you in a prison, and let your brainless father look at you through the bars!" This humane idea caused Mr. Flint to rub his dry hands, and chuckle violently. "But"--here Mr. Flint's countenance fell. "If I do this, won't Walters ruin me with that unfortunate letter? O, I was a fool to write it; yet he would have murdered me if I had not." And Mr. Flint thought and thought. To obtain the letter was impossible. Walters might have left the city; even if he had not, there was a method in his madness which Flint knew he could not circumvent. He could not lose such a chance of crushing Mortimer as presented itself; and yet to attempt it while Walters had possession of the letter was unwise. Mr. Flint was in a brown study. He walked up and down his sanctum solemnly, neglecting to watch Tim and the book-keeper who had succeeded Mortimer. An half hour passed, and still he continued his walk and reverie, without any visible intention of stopping. His face lights up; he rubs his knuckles with ecstacy. He has got it! got it at last. He will have Mortimer arrested; he will have Mortimer's name suppressed, or give the newspapers a fictitious one. This will shield him from Walters, whose heart he will wring some of these days. Ah! that will be revenge. It may strike the ingenious reader as strange that Mortimer, having charge of Flint & Snarle's books, never came across his father's name. This would have been the case, and somewhat interfered with our novel, if Mortimer, when he applied for a clerkship with the firm, had not given Mr. Flint all the particulars of his life. For reasons best known to himself, Mr. Flint took every opportunity to strengthen Mortimer in the belief of his father's death, and every precaution to keep Walters from meeting him. Once, indeed, they stood face to face in the office; but, taking into consideration the number of years they had been separated, and the circumstances under which they met, it would have been most strange if a recognition had taken place. As to Mr. Snarle, being profoundly ignorant of Mortimer's early history, he could throw no light on Mortimer's mind; and everything worked to Flint's satisfaction. Every circumstance seemed to mould itself to his will. There is an evil spirit, and a very powerful one, that holds the wires which move some of us puppets. The good are made to take the humblest seats in the world's Synagogue, and the wily and the evil-hearted are clothed in purple, fed on honey, and throned in the highest places. There will be a surprising revolution some of these times. As Mr. Sparrow-grass would say, a revolution is "a good thing to have in the country."
Why, true, her heart was all humanity, Her soul all God's; in spirit and in form, Like fair. Her cheek had the pale, pearly pink Of sea-shells, the world's sweetest tint, as though She lived, one-half might deem, on roses sopped In silver dew; she spoke as with the voice Of spheral harmony which greets the soul, When, at the hour of death, the saved one knows His sister angel's near: her eye was as The golden pane the setting sun doth just Imblaze, which shows, till heaven comes down again, All other lights but grades of gloom; her dark, Long rolling locks were as a stream the slave Might search for gold, and searching find. -- FESTUS. CHAPTER XII. WHAT DAISY DID
The Arrest--Doubt and Love--Daisy and the Necklace--The Search--The heart of Daisy Snarle.
In an upper room of a miserable, dingy house which faced the spot where the old Brewery used to stand, Edward Walters sat one January evening reading the Express. There was one paragraph among the city items which he had read several times, and each reading seemed to strengthen a determination which had, at the first perusal, grown up with him. "Right or wrong, I'll do it!" With which words he folded the paper, and placed it in his pocket. Daisy, too, read the paragraph that night, and the blood rushed into her cheeks, then left them very pale. It was simply a police report--such as you read over your morning coffee, without thinking how many hearts may be broken by the sight of that little cluster of worn-out type. A young man, no name given, recently a clerk in the house of Messrs. Flint & Snarle, had been arrested on the charge of stealing a case of jewels from his employers. Daisy, with dry eyes, read it again and again. Dark doubt and trusting love were at conflict for a moment; for doubt had pride for its ally, and love was only love. But the woman conquered. Mortimer, who had been arrested early in the forenoon, found means to send Daisy a note, in which he simply said--"I am charged with stealing the necklace, but I am as guiltless of the crime as you, Daisy." Mrs. Snarle came in the room while our little heroine held the note in her hand. "Mother," said Daisy, averting her head, "Mortimer will not come home to-night." With this she threw the note into the fire, and left Mrs. Snarle alone, before the good lady asked any questions. "That's very odd!" soliloquized Mrs. Snarle, briefly. "You tell me that you are innocent," said Daisy, looking at a small portrait of Mortimer which hung over the fire-place--"I do not question, I only believe you!" And then Daisy did a very strange thing, and yet it was very like Daisy. She untied the brown ribbon which bound her dark lengths of hair, allowing them to fall over her shoulders; then she braided the string of pearls with her tresses, and brought the whole in a beautiful band over her forehead. And she looked like a little queen with this coronal of jet and pearl shading her brows. Daisy next picked the jewel-case to pieces, and threw the minute shreds into the street. This was scarcely done, when the door-bell rang impatiently. The girl peeped from the window. The two men at the door-step were not to be mistaken. Daisy's fingers trembled as she undid the fastenings of the door. "We have orders to search this house, miss," said one of the officers, touching the vizor of his cap respectfully. Daisy choked down a sob, and led them with an unnatural calmness from room to room. Every place in the little house was investigated, but in vain; no necklace was to be found. Yet twice the breath of one of the searchers fell on the pearls in Daisy's hair. The two officers left the house in evident chagrin. When they had gone, the girl sat on the stairs and sobbed. Happily for her wishes, Mrs. Snarle had been absent during the search; and thus far had been kept in ignorance of Mortimer's disgrace. But Daisy could not hope to keep it a secret from her long, for they both would probably be summoned as witnesses in open court. The thought of giving evidence against Mortimer went through Daisy's heart like an intense pain. It terrified her, and her warm little heart was floating on tears all day. The cloud which had fallen on her seemed to have no silver lining; all was cold, black and sunless. But there is no mortal wound to which some unseen angel does not bring a balm--
"There are gains for all our losses!"
Daisy remembered Mortimer's words: "Promise that you will not doubt me, whatever may occur in connection with this necklace--that you will love me, though I may be unable to explain condemning circumstances, or dispel the doubts of others"--and the words came to her freighted with such hope and tenderness, that her sleep that night was deep and refreshing. Doubt had folded its wings in the heart of Daisy Snarle.