CHAPTER XXV.
THE WARNING.
Two or three things occurred during the Autumn which had some influence upon the fortunes of Barton.
Five or six days after the trial, he received a letter, postmarked
Auburn, which read as follows:
"Beware of Greer.
Don't listen to him.
Be careful of your associations."
Only three lines, with the fewest words: not another word, line, mark, or figure on any side of it. The hand was bold and free, and entirely unknown to him. The paper was fine-tinted note, and Bart seemed to catch a faint odor of violets as he opened it; a circumstance which reminded him that a few days before he had found on the grave of his brother, a faded bouquet of flowers. There was perhaps, no connection between them, but they associated themselves in his mind. Some maiden, unknown to him, had cherished the memory of his brother, may have loved him; and had secretly laid this offering on his resting-place. How sweet was the thought to him! Who was she? Would he ever know? She had heard something of this Greer—there was something bad or wrong about him; Henry may have spoken to her about the man; and she may have seen or known of Greer's taking him home, and had written him this note of warning. The hand was like that of a man, but no man in Ohio would use such paper, scented with violets. How queer and strange it was! and how the mind of the imaginative youth worked and worried, but not unpleasantly, over it! Of course, if the note was from a woman, she must have written because he was Henry's brother; and it was, in a way, from him, and to be heeded, although Henry had himself been favorably impressed by Greer. The warning was not lost upon him, although it may not have been necessary.
A few days later, the elegant and leisurely Greer made his appearance; and after complimenting Bart upon his success in an easy, roundabout way, approached the subject of his call; and Bart was duly impressed that it arose from considerations of favor and regard to him, that Greer now sought him. The visitor referred to the rule among gentlemen, which Bart must understand, of course, that what he might communicate, as well as their whole interview, must be purely confidential. The agents, he said, were selected with the utmost care, and were usually asked to subscribe articles, and sworn to secrecy; but that he had so much confidence in Bart, that this would not be necessary. Bart, who listened impassively, said that he understood the rule of implied confidence extended only to communications in themselves right and honorable; and that of course Mr. Greer could have no other to make to him. Greer inquired what he meant. Bart said that if a man approached, with or without exacting a pledge of confidence, and made him a proposition strictly honorable, he should of course regard it as sacred; but if he proposed to him to unite in a robbery, house-burning, or to pass counterfeit money, or commit any breach of morality, he should certainly hold himself at liberty to disclose it, if he deemed it necessary. "If I am, in advance, asked to regard a proposed communication as confidential, I should understand, of course, that the proposer impliedly pledged that it should be of a character that a man of honor could listen to and entertain; of course, Mr. Greer, you can have no other to make to me, and you know I would not listen to any other."
During this statement, made with the utmost courtesy, Bart looked Greer steadily in the face, and received a calm, full, unwinking look in return. Greer assured him that his notions of the ethics of honor, while they were nice, were his own, and he was glad to act upon them; that he was not on that day fully authorized to open up the matter, but should doubtless receive full instructions in a day or two; and he had called to-day more to keep his word with Bart than to enter upon an actual business transaction. Nothing could be franker and more open than his way and manner in saying this; and as he was trained to keenness of observation, he may have detected the flitting smile that just hovered on Bart's lips. After a little pleasant commonplace talk of common things, the leisurely Greer took a cordial leave, and never approached Bart but once again.
At the Whig nominating convention, for the county of Geanga, that Fall, Major Ridgeley, who had, by a vote of the officers of his regiment, become its Colonel, was a candidate for the office of sheriff. He was popular, well-known, and his prospects fair. The office was attractive, its emoluments good, and it was generally sought after by the best class of ambitious men in the counties.
He was defeated in the convention through a defection of his supposed friends, which he charged, justly or otherwise, upon Judge Markham. The disappointment was bitter, and he was indignant, of course. Like Bart, when he thought a mishap was without remedy, he neither complained nor asked explanations. When he and the Judge next met, it was with cool contempt on his side, and with surprise, and then coldness, on the part of Markham. Their words were few and courteous, but for the next eighteen months they avoided each other. Of course, Bart sympathized with his brother Morris; although he did not suppose the Judge was ever committed, still he felt that he and all his friends should have stood by his brother, and apprehended that the Judge's dislike to him may have influenced his course. However that may have been, Judge Markham never approached Bart, who continued to act upon his old determination to avoid the whole Markham family.
His engagements took the Judge to the State capital for the winter, where, with his wife and Julia, he remained until the early spring, following; as did also General and Mrs. Ford.
Barton undertook the school in his mother's neighborhood for the winter, with the understanding that he might attend to calls in the line of his proposed profession, which grew upon his hands. He pushed his studies with unremitting ardor; he had already made arrangements with Mr. Ranney to enter his office on the first of the April following, and hoped to secure an admission in the next September, when he should seek a point for business, to which he proposed to remove his mother and younger brothers, as soon afterwards as his means would warrant.
His friend Theodore had gone away permanently, from Newbury, and the winter passed slowly and monotonously to Bart. He knew, although he would not admit to himself, that the principal reason of his discontent was the absence of Julia. What was she to him? What could she ever be? and yet, how dreary was Newbury—the only place he had ever loved—-when she was away. Of course she would wed, some time, and was undoubtedly much admired, and sought, and courted, by elegant and accomplished men, this winter, upon whom she smiled, and to whom she gave her hand when she met them, and who were permitted to dance with her, and be near her at any time. And what was it all to him? How sore, after all, his heart was; and how he hated and cursed himself, that he must still think of her! He would go forever and ever away, and ever so far away, and would hear and think of her no more. But when she came back, with March, he somehow felt her return, and Spring seemed naturally to come with her; and bright thoughts, and beautiful and poetic figures and images, would arrange themselves in couplets and stanzas, with her in the centre, in spite of him.
Then came sugar making, with life and health of spirit, in the woods. His brother was arranging to dispose of his interests, and had gone further West, to look for a new point, for new enterprises.