XIV
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Il Penseroso.
XIV.
A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING
The Strange Visit – The Lawyer – Walter and Mr. Flint – The Clouds – A Strip of Sunshine – Mortimer.
About two hours after the incident related at the close of our last chapter, Edward Walters stepped from the door of Mrs. Snarle's house, waving his hand kindly to Daisy, who stood on the steps, and watched him till he turned out of Marion-street.
But we must turn back a little.
After leaving the Tombs, our friend went in search of Mortimer's residence, actuated by an impulse which he neither attempted to control nor understand – an impulse like that which had prompted him to visit the prison. He was led into the little parlor by Mrs. Snarle, to whom he represented himself as one deeply interested in the misfortunes of Mortimer, and desirous of assisting him. His own astonishment surpassed that of Mrs. Snarle, when he found her entirely ignorant of the arrest. While he was speaking, and Mrs. Snarle – who stood with her hand on the back of a chair, from which she had just risen – was regarding him with a vacant stare, Daisy stepped into the room, without knowing that it was occupied.
Edward Walters ceased speaking, and fixed his eyes on what, to him, seemed an apparition. He had seen that pale, pensive face in his dreams for years. It had followed him out to sea, and in far lands where he sought to avoid it. He arose from the sofa, and approached Daisy with hesitating steps, as if he were afraid she would vanish into thin air before he reached her. Daisy shrunk from him, and looked inquiringly at her mother. Walters laid his hand on the girl's arm.
"Sometimes," he said, looking her full in the eyes – "sometimes the mind wanders back to childhood, and we have visions of pleasant fields and familiar places. Something we had forgotten comes back to us in shadow – voices, faces, incidents! Did you ever see a snow-storm in your thought?"
Daisy started as if in sudden pain.
Walters watched the effect of his question with unconcealed emotion.
"Yes," said Daisy, lifting up her eyes wonderingly.
"I knew it," said the man, abstractedly, taking Daisy's hand.
The girl drew back in fear, and Mrs. Snarle stepped between them.
"My words seem strange, lady; but I knew her when she was a babe."
And he turned his frank face to Daisy.
"What do you know of me?" cried Daisy, grasping his arm eagerly.
"Everything."
"O, sir, do not deal in mystery! If you know aught of this child's life, in mercy speak!" and Mrs. Snarle caught his hand.
"I can tell nothing now."
And with this he abruptly put on his hat, strode into the hall and out of the front door, waving his hand to Daisy, who, as we have said, stood on the steps, and watched him till he was out of sight.
We will leave Mrs. Snarle and Daisy to their astonishment, and follow on the quick foot-steps of our marine friend, to whom that day seemed crowded with wonderful events.
It did not take long for Walters to reach Wall-street, where he disappeared in one of those many law offices which fringe that somewhat suspected and much-abused locality. On the door through which Mr. Walters passed was a tin sign, bearing, in gilt letters,
What transpired between him and that gentleman we will leave to the surmises of the reader. After being closeted for an hour in a room whose only furniture consisted of one or two green baize-covered tables, piled with papers, and a book-case crowded with solid-looking volumes, our friend turned his thoughtful face toward the office of Messrs. Flint & Snarle.
Mr. Flint looked up from his writing, and found Edward Walters quietly seated beside him. They had not met since the interview we described at Mr. Flint's house; and the captain's presence at the present time was not a thing to be desired by Mr. Flint. The visit looked ominous. Whatever doubts he entertained respecting its object were immediately dispelled.
"I read the arrest in yesterday's paper," said Walters.
Flint, with an effort, went on writing.
"And this morning I visited the boy in his cell."
"Well!" cried Flint, nervously.
"And I found my son, John Flint!"
Mr. Flint found himself cornered, and, like a rat or any small animal, he grew cowardly desperate.
"You found a thief, sir – a miserable thief."
We will do Mr. Flint the justice to say that he considered Mortimer in that light.
"I am not sure of that," was the calm reply. "A man may be in prison, and yet be no felon; and I should doubt the guilt of any man whom you persecuted. But I did not come here to quarrel. The boy is my son, and he must be released."
"Must be, Mr. Walters!"
"I think I said so."
Flint regarded him with his cold, cynical smile.
"John Flint, there is nothing I would not do to serve the boy. There is nothing I will not do to crush you if you persist in convicting him. I do not know that he is innocent – I do not know that he is worthy of my love. I only know that he is my child."
There was an agony in the tone with which these words were spoken that was music to Mr. Flint. He smiled that undertaker's smile of his.
"The law must take its course," he said. "It is impossible to stop that."
"Not so. The examination takes place this afternoon. If you do not appear against him, Mortimer will be discharged. You have forgotten that I have the letter."
"Stop!" cried Flint, as Walters turned to the door, and he assumed his usual, fawning, hypocritical air.
"If I do as you wish, what then?"
"You shall have the letter."
"What assurance have I of that?"
"My word."
"Is that all?" said Flint. "Would you take mine, in such a case?"
"No," replied Walters, with delightful candor. "Your word is worthless. Mine was never broken. Do we understand each other?"
"Yes."
"There must be another stipulation."
"What is it?"
"You are not to mention my name to Mortimer. He does not know of my existence."
"I shall not be likely to meet him," returned Flint, a little surprised. "I thought you had seen him."
"I did – through the bars of his cell."
And Mr. Flint was left alone in no enviable state of mind. So absorbed was he in his disappointment, that Tim several times that afternoon whistled snatches from "Poor Dog Tray," with impunity.
The twilight came stealing into the room in which Mrs. Snarle and Daisy were sitting. The food on the supper table remained untouched. Neither of them had spoken for the last half hour; the twilight grew denser and denser, and the shadows on their faces deepened. Daisy had told her mother all – the search of the officers for the necklace, her visit to the Tombs, and Mortimer's protestation of innocence. Mrs. Snarle never doubted it for a moment; but she saw how strong their evidence might be against him.
"God only knows how it will end, Daisy."
"As God wills it, mother!"
As these words were said, a shadow fell across the entry, and a pair of arms was thrown tenderly around Daisy's neck.
"Mortimer!"
XV
Quin. —Is all our company here?
Mid-summer's Night Dream.
XV.
IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES
A Picture – The Lawyer's Note – Mr. Hardwill once more – The Scene at the Law Office – Mr. Flint Hors du Combat – Face to Face.
"Mortimer!"
That was all Daisy said.
The candles were lighted, the dim, sad twilight driven out of the room, and a happy trio sat around the supper table. Mrs. Snarle smoothed her silk apron complacently; Daisy's eyes and smiles were full of silent happiness; and Mortimer, in watching the variations of her face, all so charming, forgot the misfortunes which had so recently threatened him.
Daisy gave Mortimer an account of the unknown's strange visit; and, inexplicable to himself, Mortimer connected it in some way with his unexpected release.
Soon after Mrs. Snarle had retired, the lovers sat in the little room, which was only lighted by a pleasant fire in the grate. Wavering fingers of flame drew grotesque pictures on the papered walls; then a thin puff of smoke would break the enchantment, and the fire-light tracery fled into the shadows of the room.
It was a delicate picture.
Mortimer was sitting at Daisy's feet, playing with the fingers of a very diminutive and dainty hand; Daisy was bending over him; and as the glow from the fire came and went in their eyes, one could see that a long brown tress of Daisy's hair rested on Mortimer's.
What if their lips touched?
"O!" cried Daisy, drawing back, "a note was left here this afternoon, while you were in – "
"The Tombs," finished Mortimer, smiling.
"Yes," replied Daisy. "I was afraid to open it, though."
"Were you?"
"Yes," she said, laughing. "I thought it might be from that charming young lady whom you assisted to cross Broadway last month; and of whom you speak so pleasantly when I am the least bit out of humor."
And the girl looked at him quizzically with her impudent eyes.
Mortimer, by kneeling close to the fire, was enabled to read the note.
"That is strange – read it, Daisy."
Daisy read:
"Sir, – By calling at my office, No. – Wall-street, to-morrow, at 4 p. m., you will learn something of importance. It is necessary that Mrs. Snarle and her daughter should accompany you.
"Respectfully,"J. C. Burbank,"Attorney at Law."
About the same hour that evening, Mr. Flint received a communication of similar import, after reading which, he said:
"Hum!" and thrust the note into his vest-pocket.
Hum, indeed, Mr. Flint. There was something in store for you.
The next morning Mortimer bethought himself of his "Romance," and directed his steps toward the sanctum of Mr. Hardwill.
He found that gentleman talking with three new geniuses in pantelets, who were attempting to convince the great Pub of his mistake in refusing to "bring out" a pregnant-looking manuscript which the authoress was holding in her hand with a tenderness that was touching to behold.
When they had retired, Mr. Hardwill extended his hand to Mortimer.
"Sharp young man," he said, displaying his white teeth. "You didn't wish to appear anxious about your book; I was on the point of sending for you. You were to have called on me three days since. Well, sir, I like the story."
Mortimer bowed.
"Did you read it all, sir?"
"I? Not a line of it," returned Mr. Hardwill. "I never look at anything but the size of the manuscript."
"Then you buy by the weight," said Mortimer, smiling.
"Not precisely. I never publish anything of less than four hundred pages. As to weight, I sometimes find a MS. of the right size altogether too heavy; but yours is not, my reader says."
"Your reader, sir?"
"Yes, I am a mere business man," quoth Mr. Hardwill, explanatorily. "I seldom read my publications. I merely sell them – sometimes I don't do that. I have a reader who looks over sizeable MSS., and I abide by his judgment."
"Ah!"
"He is a man of fine scholarship and literary attainments."
Mr. Hardwill might have added – "and has the sway of 'The Morning Rabid' and 'The Evening Twilight,'" but he did not.
Arrangements were made to publish "Goldwood," with the euphonious and "striking title" of "Picklebeet Papers." Now, whether "Picklebeet" was a vegetable in vinegar, or the name of some charming country-place, I cannot say; but "Picklebeet," whatever it was, had as much to do with the contents of the book as the biography of my reader's grandmother.
On what terms the "Picklebeet Papers" were published, concern neither the reader nor myself; but, while remarking, en passant, that the book, owing to some extraordinary freak on the part of the public, never went to a "second edition," we will fix the hands of the city clock to suit ourselves.
It is 4 p. m.
Without further preamble, we will lead the reader (mine, not Mr. Hardwill's) to Mr. Burbank's law office, at which place the threads of our story become somewhat disentangled. We are not sorry at this, (we doubt if the reader is,) for there is a satisfaction in rounding off a plot – in coming to the last page, where the author can write "Finis" – which no one but a scribbler may know. But this pleasure is not a little touched with regret, as he sweeps the carefully-moved images from the chess-board of his brain, and tells you in those five letters that the game is finished.
The personages in the law office are not strangers to us, if we except the lawyer.
Mrs. Snarle and Daisy, with their veils down, are sitting in the back part of the room, and Mortimer stands behind them, speaking in a low voice to Daisy.
Edward Walters is seated at a desk, the screen around which prevents him from being observed by the first-described group.
Mr. Burbank, a dark-eyed, large-mouthed man, occupies a table in the centre of the apartment, near which is a chair for Mr. Flint, who has not yet made his appearance.
This was the position of the parties on Mr. Flint's entrance.
The merchant gave the lawyer three bony fingers, bestowed a stiff, surprised bow on Mortimer, and glanced suspiciously around him, evidently not liking the company he was in.
Mr. Flint glanced inquiringly at the lawyer.
"As all the parties concerned in this meeting are present," commenced the devotee of Blackstone, "I will at once proceed to business. You are too much of a business man, Mr. Flint, to require a prelude to interrogations which will explain themselves."
Mr. Flint looked very doubtful.
The lawyer ran his fingers through a crop of shaggy hair with professional dignity.
"It is something over twenty years since your brother, Henry Flint, died, is it not?"
The merchant nodded.
"He left no heirs – I believe," continued the lawyer, with a delightful appearance of hesitation.
"He left one child," said Flint, nervously. Mr. Flint did not like the turn which the conversation was taking.
"Ah, yes! A daughter, if I remember correctly. Let me see, Maude Flint was the name."
(This slight dialogue caused Daisy's breath to come and go quickly.)
"Maude Flint!" she whispered hastily to Mortimer. "Listen! M. F., – the initials in the necklace!"
"I drew up the will at the time," said Mr. Burbank, thoughtfully; "but my memory has been tasked with more important things."
He turned abruptly to Mr. Flint.
"What became of this child – Maude?"
"Died," returned Flint, briefly, with an uncomfortable air.
"And the property – ?"
"Came to me – the child having no other relative," said Flint, rallying.
The lawyer was silent for a moment.
"Now, Mr. Flint, suppose I should tell you that your brother's child is still living, what would you say?"
"I should say, sir," cried the startled merchant, springing to his feet, "I should say, sir, that it was a lie! I see through it all. This is a miserable conspiracy to force money from me. Your plot, sir, is transparent, and I see that snaky individual crawling at the bottom of it." He pointed at Mortimer. "But it won't do!" he thundered, "it won't do!"
"Of course it won't for you to get in a passion. The man who gets into a passion," continued Mr. Burbank, philosophically, "never acts with judgment. And what is the use, Mr. Flint? I am acquainted with all the circumstances of the child's disappearance; indeed, I have a full account of them in your own handwriting."
Mr. Flint turned white.
"This letter, which I shall give you by and by," said the man of law, "divulges a plot of villainy which heaven happily thought fit to prostrate; and I'll prove the truth of what I say."
And the lawyer motioned for Daisy to approach him.
She did so, mechanically.
"This lady," said Mr. Burbank, smiling blandly, "is my first witness. Will you raise your veil?"
Daisy complied with the request, and looked Mr. Flint in the face. Flint turned his eyes on her with such earnestness that she shrunk back. Then he staggered to a chair, and exclaimed involuntarily:
"So help me God, it is Henry's child!"
Edward Walters rested his hands on the desk, and looked over the baize screen.
Mortimer stepped to Daisy's side.
"This necklace," he said, in a trembling voice, "I return to the owner. It was my misfortune to take it by mistake, and it is happiness to return it to one who does not require any proof of my innocence."
Daisy pressed his hand.
"Let me go!" exclaimed Mr. Flint.
"Presently, Mr. Flint. You must first witness the denouement of our little drama."
With this the lawyer turned to Mortimer, and handed him a paper.
"What this fails to explain relative to your father, you must seek from his own lips."
"My father! – his lips!" – repeated Mortimer, bewildered.
He opened the paper.
"My father! where is he?"
"Mortimer!" cried Walters, pushing aside the screen.
And they stood face to face.
XVI
Our revels now are ended: these our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind!
Shakespeare.
XVI.
THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA
Clap-Trap – John Flint – The Old House by the Sea – Joe Wilkes – Strephon and Chloe – Tim Enjoying Himself – Edward Walters and Little Bell – A Last Word.
It is an artistic little weakness we scribblers have of seducing our dramatis personæ into tableaux vivants, and deserting them abruptly. In a story of this kind, which depends rather on action than fine writing for interest, this species of autorial clap-trap is very effective, if cleverly done. So we will make no excuse for leaving nuestros amigos at the lawyer's office, and drawing a green curtain, as it were, on the actors of this humble comedy.
Some six years are supposed to have elapsed since the drop-scene fell on our last act.
From this out our story is rather a pantomime than a play. We give pictures and figures, instead of dialogues and soliloquies. Will the reader follow us?
I
Time has not touched Mr. Flint gently. His hair is grayer, his step more feeble, and his eyes have a lack-lustre look. His cravat is whiter and stiffer, if possible, than ever; and he looks more religious. God grant that he is so. But we doubt it. For to such as he, nor April, with its purple-mouthed violets, nor red ripe summer, with its wealth of roses, nor the rich fruit-harvest of autumnal suns, bring wisdom's goodness. The various months teach him no lesson. Let him go. He came like a shadow into our plot, so let him depart. He is not a myth, however, but flesh and blood mortality; and though we have only outlined his weakness – his love of gold, his cold, intriguing spirit – yet the sketch is such that, if he looks at it, he will have the felicity of seeing himself as others see him!
II
It is a day in June, an hour before sunset. The lanes leading to an old house situated between Ivyton and the sea, are fringed with pink peach blossoms, and the air is freighted with their odors. The violets, with dew in their azure eyes, peep from every possible nook; and those sweet peris of the summer wood, wild roses, are grouping everywhere. Surely Titania has been in this spot, breathing exquisite beauty upon the flowers, or, perhaps, Flora's dainty self. The blue-bells, these yellow-chaliced butter-cups, are fit haunts for fairies, and, perchance, wild Puck, or Prospero's good Ariel has been slumbering in them. But let us draw near to the fine old house which stands in this new Eden. It was here that we first met the little castle-builders – the child Bell and Mortimer. The place is not changed much. The same emerald waves break on the white beach; the same cherry-trees are spreading their green tresses, and the simple church-yard sleeps, as it used, in sunshine and shadow.
The house has been newly painted, and the fresh green blinds make one feel a sense of shade and coolness. The garden in front has been re-made with a careful eye to its old beauties. The white pebbled walks, the strawberry and clover beds, the globes of pansies, and the clambering honeysuckle vines, are all as they were years ago. Even the groups of wild roses, by the door, bud and bloom as if the autumn winds had never beaten them down.
We shall accuse the reader with having a bad memory, if he does not recognise Joe Wilkes in the stalwart form and honest face of the gardener, who occupies himself with tying up a refractory vine, which persists in running wild over the new summer-house. It is he, indeed – the whilome jailor of the Tombs, who has laid aside his ponderous prison-keys, and taken up the shovel and the hoe.