CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.
More than a week had elapsed since the rupture between Rhoneland and Rust; and during that period Jacob neither saw him nor heard from him. But in that interval he had become confirmed in his purpose of resistance; and had resolved, come what might, to risk any thing, rather than submit to the mental bondage which had hitherto crushed him. Steadfast in this purpose, he quietly awaited the movements of his adversary.
On one fine afternoon, the bright rays of a setting sun streaming through the window fell upon the face of the old man, as he was dozing in his room, and awakened him. Starting to his feet, and casting his eyes hurriedly about him, he exclaimed; 'I tell you no; I tell you no, Michael Rust. It shall never be! Ah Kate!' said he, looking about the room, and seeing no one except his daughter, 'it's you, is it?—only you? And I've been dreaming? Well, well; thank God it was no worse! It's strange I should have dreamed that Michael Rust wanted you, Kate, and asked for you. But no matter; kiss me, child. We've done with him. There's a comfort in that. We shall be quite happy—happy as we once were. Shall we not, Kate?'
Kate's lips quivered, as she pressed them to his forehead; and there was a busy little voice at her heart, which whispered a name, and brought up recollections that nearly choked her, as she said, in a low tone, 'Quite happy.'
'But Kate,' said her father, placing an arm about her waist, while he put back her hair with his other hand, and looked anxiously in her face, 'you don't say happy, as in old times.'
Kate was silent. What could she say, when her young heart was breaking? But at last she did say:
'It certainly will make me happier, much happier, than I have been, to know that you are once more yourself; that that evil, daring man has lost his influence over you, never to regain it; and that there is nothing to harrass you and break you down, as there once was. All this makes me quite happy. Indeed it does!' But there was that in her tone which belied her words, and Rhoneland observed it.
'Ah! child, child!' said he, shaking his head sorrowfully. 'I see it all. Ned Somers has much to answer for. I loved and trusted him. God forgive him that he meditated so vile a wrong! He was to me as my own son. Had he loved you, Kate, openly and honorably as a man should, and as you deserve to be loved, and had he asked you from me, I would not have said no, Kate. But he acted like a villain; and I've cast him off forever.'
Kate became very pale, and her voice grew thick and husky, as she asked: 'Father, will you answer me a question?'
'Yes Kate, a hundred,' said he, drawing her more closely to him. 'I'll sit here all day long, and answer you. Now that he is gone, I feel quite young and boyish again; and nothing gladdens me more than your voice. Now go on. What is it?'
The girl took his hand in both her's, and looking steadily in his face, asked: 'Who told you the tale which set you against Ned?'
'Who?' inquired Rhoneland; 'who? Why, he—Rust.'
'And have you never found, in the course of your dealings with that man, that he could forget or pervert the truth; or even invent a falsehood, when it served his own purpose?'
Jacob Rhoneland laughed to himself, in a low chuckling tone, and rubbed his hands. 'What, lie?—Rust lie? Bless you, child, he does that more than any thing else. Ha! ha! He's a deep one, depend on it.'
'And can you see no reason for his traducing Ned?' said she, the blood mounting to her face, as she spoke. 'Was there no plan of his, which Ned's presence here crossed, and which rendered it necessary to prejudice you against him?'
The old man pondered; looked at her, and then at the floor; and at last sank back in his chair, in a deep and unpleasant reverie; from which he was only aroused by a knock at the door. 'Go to your room, Kate. It's Enoch. I'll open the door myself.'
Kate had scarcely left the room, and Jacob had not yet risen to obey the summons, when the door of the apartment opened, and Michael Rust walked in, as quietly and serenely as if nothing had happened.
'Good evening, friend Jacob,' said he, bowing low, and speaking in his softest tone. 'I'm here again, you see. I could not give you up so soon. I could not let a trifling misunderstanding break off old friendship. I had'nt the heart to do it, good Jacob. There was a severe struggle between pride and friendship, but friendship gained the day; and I have come with an open heart to offer you my most humble apology, and to ask you to forget and forgive. I feel that I took an unwarrantable liberty with Kate; but I loved her, Jacob, and was hurried too far by my feelings. I was wrong, and you acted as a father should. Let us forget the past, and be as we were.'
Michael stretched out his hand, as he spoke, and even held it so, for some moments; but Rhoneland neither took it, nor looked at it, nor at him, nor uttered a word in reply; but with both hands resting on the top of his cane, which he had taken to assist him in rising, and his chin on them, sat looking out of the window, as if there were no other person than himself in the wide world.
What was it that bowed the bold, bad man, who had never yielded to him before?—who had trodden on his very neck, mocking his sufferings, jeering at his agony of mind; returning threats for supplications, and revilement for tears; and now brought him a suppliant to his feet? Was it that strange, mysterious feeling which sometimes tells a man that the hour of his fate is approaching, and that his time is measured? Was the coming storm flinging its shadow over his path, even before the bursting of the tempest? Did he feel the earth sinking beneath his feet; and was he glad to grasp, even at a decayed and shattered branch to hold him up? Or was it a part of a deeper policy; and was there yet something to be gained by clinging to his former dupe? It may have been a mixture of all these feelings; but certain it is, that there he was; the same thin, bowing, cringing hypocrite, with a tongue of oil and a heart of flint, endeavoring by soothing words and fawning lies once more to win back the man who had turned his back upon him. And equally certain it is, that a more unyielding, impenetrable, imperturbable piece of humanity he had never met with; for to all his fine sentences, allurements, and artifices of every kind, he received no reply.
'This tack won't do,' thought Rust. 'He won't swallow honey. I'll give him wormwood; but before that, one more attempt.'
'Jacob, my friend,' said he, drawing a chair nearer to him, seating himself, and sinking his voice; 'perhaps you think I meant ill about your daughter?'
The old man moved restlessly, but was silent. Rust saw that he had touched the theme which would arouse him.
'You were mistaken, my friend. Would that the intentions of all were as pure as mine.'
'Speak of something else,' replied Rhoneland, abruptly. 'I'll not hear you on that subject.'
'But you must,' said Rust; 'indeed you must, my old friend. Not that I would annoy you; but I came here for that express purpose; and must speak of her.'
Rhoneland looked keenly at him, and then at the floor, grasping the sides of the chair firmly; as if to restrain himself from violence, and Rust went on.
'I'm a man of few words, Jacob. Kate's a dear, sweet girl. I love her; she loves me. Will you give her to me for a wife?'
'It's false!' said Rhoneland, starting to his feet. 'If there be a single person in this world whom Kate hates more than another, it is you! Give her to you for a wife!' exclaimed he, in a bitter tone; 'give her to you—YOU! I'd see her in her coffin first! Go, Michael Rust,' said he, extending his hands toward him; 'your power is at an end in this house. Go!'
'Not quite, good Jacob!' said Rust, in a low, fierce tone. 'Not quite, good Jacob! I know what your plans are; what your hopes are. I know what Enoch Grosket can do; and in what he'll fail. He'll fail to vindicate Jacob Rhoneland. He'll fail to vindicate himself. He'll fail to overthrow Michael Rust. He and Jacob will soon be cheek by jowl with those whose good deeds have placed fetters on them. It's well, Jacob, it's well. We'll see who'll win the race. Pause, good Jacob, pause before you decide. I give you five minutes. With Michael Rust for a son-in-law, you are safe.'
Rhoneland grew exceedingly pale; and then summoning his resolution, said:
'I have decided. Though it cost me my life, you shall not marry Kate. Go!'
'Jacob Rhoneland, one word.'
'Not a syllable!' said the old man, grasping his heavy cane, and his face becoming purple with anger: 'viper! begone! If you darken my doors one moment longer, I'll fling you into the street!'
'Good-by, Jacob,' said Rust; but not another word did he utter, as he left the house. His face was ashy pale; his features pinched and sharp; and he gnawed his lip until the blood came from it. Regardless of his appearance; with his long locks hanging in tangled flakes about his face, he hurried on. Dead and corpse-like as his features were, never was a fiercer spirit at work, to give life and energy to human frame; never was there a stronger concentration of dark passions in a human heart. His pace was quick and firm; there was no loitering; no pausing at corners, to think; no sign of irresolution. Darting along the street where the old man lived, and striking into one of the wider cross-streets of the city, he followed it until it brought him into Broadway. This he crossed, and plunged into that labyrinth of narrow streets which run between that and the Bowery. Threading them, with the ready step of one familiar with their turns and windings, he neither paused to inquire his direction, nor to read the sign-boards; but even in the darkest and dreariest corners, his knowledge seemed certain and accurate. The twilight had darkened into night, and the streets were narrow; and as he proceeded in the direction of the more fated parts of the city, dim figures, which like bats were shrouded in holes and dark hiding-places in the day time, were beginning to flit about, yet he felt no hesitation nor fear. In the most gloomy and blighted of all these places, he paused, cast a quick suspicious glance about him, to see that none watched him, and then darted up an alley between two houses, so ruined and sagged that their gables met over it like a gothic arch. Groping his way along, he came to a door at the foot of a flight of stairs which terminated the passage. He did not pause to knock; but pulling a string, opened it, and ascended a pitch-dark staircase, which in like manner was terminated at the upper end by a door. At this he knocked loudly. He was answered by a gruff voice which inquired:
'Is that you, Joe?'
'No,' replied Rust.
'Well, if you ain't Joe, who are you? If you ain't got a name, peg away; for blow me, if I open till I hear it.'
There was a noise, as if the speaker, in conclusion of his observation, drew a chair or bench along the floor, and seated himself.
'Come Bill,' said another voice, 'this won't do. You'd better open it.'
A muttering from Bill showed that he thought otherwise; but the person who had spoken, apparently not heeding his disapprobation, got up and opened the door, giving to Rust as he did so a full view of the interior of the room.
At a table sat a man with coarse red hair, and a beard of several days' growth. He was a brawny fellow, six feet high, with a cast in one eye, which seemed to have been injured by a deep gash; the scar of which still remained, commencing on the very eye-lid, crossing one cheek, and his nose, and giving an air of sternness to features which needed not this addition, to express much that was bad. His companion, who had opened the door, was a man of smaller build, with broad, square shoulders, dark sharp eyes, narrow forehead, and overhanging brows, and a thin, tremulous lip; and though possessed of less physical strength than his comrade, looked much the most dangerous man of the two.
They both eyed Rust for a moment, without speaking, and then the larger of the two said to his comrade: 'Tim Craig, hand the gentleman a chair.'
'I don't want one,' said Rust abruptly. 'Have you seen Enoch?'
They both shook their heads.
'He'll blow on me, and you, and others.'
The two men looked at him, and then at each other, but said nothing.
'He's set himself up against me—me!' said Rust, his thin lip curling and yet trembling as he spoke.
'He's a dark man, that Enoch,' said Craig, in a low tone. 'There's no good in crossing him, Mr. Rust.'
'Crossing him! crossing him!' exclaimed Rust. 'He has crossed me. Who ever did that, and prospered! Ho! ho! Enoch, Enoch! you mistook your man!'
The two looked anxiously at each other, but did not speak; and although they had the thews and sinews which could have torn the thin form before them to shreds, it seemed as if they both shrank from him with something like fear.
'It has come to the death-struggle between us,' said Rust; 'one or the other must fall.'
'If you're the one?' inquired Craig.
'Others must go too,' replied Rust; 'they must.'
Craig gnawed his lip.
'If Enoch goes, he goes alone,' continued Rust. 'He must be out of my way; he knows too much.'
The men exchanged looks; but the larger of the two seemed to leave all the speaking to the other, merely listening with great attention, and occasionally favoring his comrade with a glance, whenever it seemed necessary.
'I have no time to stay now,' said Rust, turning to Craig: 'I've told you enough. Grosket is in my way. I must be rid of him.'
Craig put his finger to his throat, and deliberately drew it across it. 'You're a ticklish man to deal with, Mr. Rust. Is that what you mean?' said he.
'I say I must be rid of him,' replied Rust, fiercely. 'Are you deaf? Are your brains addled? Rid of him—rid of him—RID of him!' exclaimed he, advancing, and hissing the words in the man's ear, while there was something in his look and manner that caused even the bold villain he addressed to draw back and assume a somewhat defensive attitude. 'Do you understand me now? Law won't do what I want. I prescribe no mode; but Enoch Grosket must be out of my path.'
'You're growing red-hot, my master,' said the man, bluntly. 'But I must have what you want spoken out. Shall he be knocked on the head?'
'Hasn't he committed a murder, burnt a house, stolen, embezzled? I think I've heard of his having done something of the kind,' said Rust, earnestly.
'Of course he has. He's done 'em all, if you like. Bill knows something about them. Don't you, Bill?'
'Oh! yes,' said Bill, refreshing himself from a large pitcher of water. 'This 'ere vorter is very weak. Blowed if I ain't forgot what liquor smells like; and it's so long since I see'd a dollar, that bless me, if I think I'd know one. I'd have to go to some obligin' friend to ax what it was.'
This declaration of ignorance was accompanied by a look of consummate disgust into the pitcher, and another of a very peculiar character at Rust.
That worthy, however, seemed not unused to meeting with gentlemen in similar trying circumstances; for he gave both the look and language an interpretation which, considering the enigmatical mode in which they were expressed, fully met the views of the man who uttered them; and thrusting his hand in his pocket, he drew out a handful of silver, which he flung into the pitcher, and said:
'Perhaps that will improve the water.'
Bill made no other response than a broad grin; and then said in a more business-like tone:
'Well, about that murder, and house burnin', and all that. What do you want?'
'I want proof of it against Grosket, if he did it.'
'In course he did it,' replied the man, with a knowing look.
'Well, bring me the proof of it, and bring it soon. You know where to find me.'
He turned on his heel, and even before they were aware that he had left the room, he was on his way through the street.
His course was now to his old den. When he reached it, he found even that paragon of clerks, Mr. Kornicker, absent. This was a relief; for he was too much excited to care to have any witness of his appearance.
'It struck seven as I passed the town-clock,' said he. 'It wants an hour to the time fixed. I'll wait.'
Although it was dark, he flung himself on a chair, without striking a light, and sat for some time in silence, tapping the floor with his foot. But rest was not the thing for his present mood; and he soon started up, and paced the room, muttering to himself. At last the clock struck eight. The lights, which shining from the windows in different parts of the building, somewhat relieved the gloom of his room, were extinguished one by one, and it became pitchy dark. Rust lighted a candle; placed it on the mantel-piece, and stood looking at it for some moments. He heard a step on the stairs; but it ascended to the floor beyond, then descended, and went out in the street. He looked at his watch; it was but five minutes after eight. 'God! how slow the time went!' Perhaps his watch had stopped. He put it to his ear: tick, tick, tick! There seemed an interval of a minute between every stroke. 'Five minutes past eight; ten minutes more, and she will be here,' muttered he; 'and then I shall know the worst.'
He put the watch in his pocket; and looking at the ceiling, attempted to whistle; but it would not do. His blood was in a fever. Hark!—was that a footstep on the stairs? No, it was only the tread of a person overhead. Hist! what's that? He stood stock-still, and listened. There was a slight shuffling noise in the passage; and then a faint tap at the door.
Rust sprang forward, and opened it. A female, muffled in an old cloak, stood cowering on the outside.
'Ha! it's you at last!' exclaimed he, in that abrupt, energetic manner, which suited his character better than his more usual tones. 'What news?'
The woman, either to gain time, or because she was really exhausted, staggered to a chair, and turning her face to the light, revealed the features of Mrs. Blossom.
'Ah's me! ah's me!' said she, leaning back, and sighing heavily. 'It's a wearisome way I've come, old and feeble as I am—old and feeble, old and feeble—a very wearisome way.'
There must have been something in the look of Rust, who stood before her with his black, glowing eye fixed on her's, that was peculiarly startling; for she paused in her whining, and turning to him, said:
'What do you look at me so for?'
'Is there no reason for it?' said Rust, in a low voice. 'Is there no trust betrayed? Have you done all that you swore to do?'
Mrs. Blossom, hardened as she naturally was, and as she had become, by long following a pursuit which requires no little assurance, was not without some signs of trepidation at this question.
'No, no; I haven't. I swear I haven't,' said she.
'I placed two children in your charge,' continued Rust, in the same low tone. 'They were never to leave it, except for one place—the grave.'
Mrs. Blossom's wan features grew paler, as she whispered: 'Not so loud, Mr. Rust, not so loud.'
'As you please; I'll whisper,' said Rust, suiting the action to the word; and speaking in a whisper, yet so distinct and thrilling, that each word seemed to come like a blow. 'I placed two children under your charge; and unless I required them, and unless they grew ill, and died, they were to become what you are. Where are they? I want them.'
Mrs. Blossom looked hopelessly about her, as if she meditated an escape; but seeing no chance of any, she cast a deprecating eye at Rust, shook her head, and said nothing. Rust went on in the same strain:
'They were with you two months since; going on gloriously; travelling at a hand-gallop to the grave. I have heard strange stories of them since. Are they true?'
Still the woman was silent.
'Answer me!' said Rust, his fury gradually getting the mastery of him, and his voice bursting out loud and clear. 'Where are they?'
Mrs. Blossom clasped her hands and looked at him, but uttered not a word.
'Where are the children? Answer me!' said he, starting to his feet, and darting up to her, his eyes perfectly blood-shot with fury, and the foam standing round his lips; 'the children, I say—the children! God d—n you!—do you hear me?'
Mrs. Blossom cowered down in the chair, and made one or two futile efforts to speak; her thin blue lips quivered; but no sound came from them; while a kind of idiotic smile fixed itself on her features.
'The children, I say!' exclaimed Rust, gnashing his teeth with rage; and seizing the woman by the shoulders in his paroxysm of fury, he shook her until she reeled and fell to the floor. 'What have you done with them? Answer me; or by the God of Heaven I'll crush you beneath my feet!'
Before his amiable intention, however, could be carried into effect, Mrs. Blossom had recovered her wits, her feet, and not a little of her usual spirit; and turning upon him, with eyes flashing as brightly as his own, she said:
'They're gone, Michael Rust; gone, gone! Do you hear that? Gone, where when you next see them you will wish the undertaker had measured them before. Gone, gone! ha! ha! You won't see the lambs again. So much for striking an unprotected female, Michael Rust. That for ye! that for ye! THAT for ye!' And she snapped her fingers in the face of the disappointed schemer, and left the room, slamming the door loudly after her.
Rust clasped his hands, as she went out, and raised his eyes to heaven.
'Gone!' repeated he, in a low tone; 'gone!—both gone! And I—I?—what will become of me? Is it for this that I have toiled and slaved for years; that I have stooped to meanness and dissimulation; have steeped myself in crime, and have had felons and miscreants of every dye for my associates? For years have I been on the rack: no more quiet hours, or peaceful dreams; no more love from those of the same blood; but cursed, hated; hated with the worst hate, the hate of one's own kindred; my schemes thwarted, my hopes blighted; a felon; my dearest hopes crumbled to dust; these two children restored to their rights; Kate married!—and I, I, where shall I be? God of Heaven!' exclaimed he, dashing up and down the room, 'shall these things be? Shall I fall?—shall they triumph? Never! never! Be yourself, Michael Rust!' said he, in a choked voice; 'be yourself! be yourself! This has happened from trusting others. Rely on yourself, Michael; be cool, Michael; and then thwart them—thwart them!'
He paused and stood in the middle of that room like a statue. Slowly and by degrees every trace of excitement disappeared from his features, until they had assumed a sharp, rigid, fixed look; and then, he said, pursuing the same theme: 'Thwart them; thwart them, Michael Rust! Work, toil, cringe, lie, steal, murder—aye, do any thing—but thwart them, thwart them! Good Michael Rust, don't suffer yourself to be a by-word in their mouths! And if you fail, Michael, die fighting. There's something noble in that. Be it so; be it so!' said he, in a stern, abrupt tone. 'They've driven me to extremities. Nothing but desperate measures can save me. Desperate measures shall be tried. Does success require a life? Well, well; the world's overloaded; it shall have one. If I attain it, it will be another's; if I fail, it will be my own: the grave is a quiet resting-place; a better one than the world, when a man's foiled in all his aims. But I'm weary, I'm weary!' said he, in a low, desponding tone; 'my head's dizzy, and my brain confused, by the troubles which have come so thickly upon me to-day. I must rest.'
Drawing a chair to the table, he seated himself upon it; bent his head down upon the table, and exhausted by the excitement of the last few days, which had taxed even his iron frame beyond its powers of endurance, he soon slept heavily.
[THE SEASON OF DEATH.]
Oh! thou resistless and relentless power!
Mighty, mysterious in thy every form:
Unbidden thou com'st to mar the natal hour,
Stealing the heart's young pulse, with life scarce warm.
And thou art there where the green vine is turning
Its gentle fragrance from Love's rosy bower;
And thou art there where silent stars are burning,
Sweetly and calmly, o'er the bridal hour.
And thou art there where young Joy in his mirth
Presses his cup to lips of human wo,
And thou art there where Pleasure hath its birth,
Following its footsteps wheresoe'er they go!
And ah! where art thou not, mysterious Death!
The young, the fair, the pure in heart, are thine;
Beauty, and love, and power, these all have breath
But for thy conquering; and hope divine,
And bliss, and sweet affection, and the tear
That sparkles in the eye of love; the sigh
That moves soft pity in the soul sincere,
All, all are thine, O Death! for all must die!
Passing like blossoms from the earth away,
All that of life or being hath its share;
The heart hath scarce its hour of hope to pray,
For thy cold hand, O Death! is everywhere!
Edmund Brewster Green.
New-York, September, 1843.
[THE MEMOIRS OF COUNT ROSTOPTCHIN.]
WRITTEN IN TEN MINUTES.
A lady one day said to the celebrated Count Rostoptchin that he ought to write his memoirs. The next day the Count handed her a little roll of paper. 'What have you here?' asked the lady. 'I have obeyed your commands,' replied he; 'I have written my memoirs; here they are.' The lady was not a little surprised at the promptness of the performance; and hastened to peruse the following morceau, the caustic wit and piquancy of which will remind the reader of the keen satire of Voltaire.