CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.
Leaving Michael Rust buried in death-like slumber, the result of intense mental anxiety that had denied his body that repose which it required, we must turn to one destined to take an active part in the succeeding events of this history; and who, on that same evening, was employed in a manner directly the reverse of that of Rust. That man was Harry Harson.
Seated at a table in his own room, with every feature puckered up into a very hard knot, the combined result of thought, perplexity, and anger, he was poring over a number of papers, occasionally pausing to scratch his head, or breaking out into an exclamation of displeasure, not unfrequently accompanied by a hard thump on the table, as something met his eye which excited his indignation in a peculiar degree.
It was past midnight; three good hours beyond the time, at which he usually retired to rest. All indications of bustle and stir in the streets had long since ceased, and not a sound was heard, except the occasional tread of a belated straggler, hurrying to his home; the sharp ticking of the clock, and the plethoric snoring of Spite, who made it a rule never to go to bed before his master; and who, being a methodical dog in habit, and an obstinate one in disposition, could not be induced to depart from old usages. As each successive hour was heralded by the voice of the clock just mentioned, Spite rose, looked at the time-piece, then at his master, as if to say, 'Halloo! old fellow, do you hear that?' gaped; sauntered round the table, and resumed his former position, each time lessening the distance between himself and the fire, as its embers gradually crumbled to ashes. Still, Harson continued his occupation; tossing over, examining, and studying the papers and letters, in utter disregard of hints and admonitions. Apparently, he became more troubled as he advanced in his investigation. His brow contracted; his breath came thick and fast; the color deepened in his cheek; his eye kindled, and more than once he threw the papers impatiently on the table, and rising up paced the room with rapid strides. This occurred at intervals, during the whole evening, until finally, he came to a letter which caused his anger to boil over. Starting to his feet, and clasping his hands, he exclaimed: 'Good God! shall such things be? and wilt Thou not protect the innocent, and punish the guilty?'
'But why ask?' added he, suddenly: 'I know, that even now, through channels which were least dreamed of, justice is working its way to the light. Confirm me, great God!' added he, fervently, 'in my purpose of seeing right done; and grant that I may never swerve from my course, until that purpose is accomplished!'
Had the culprit against whom he uttered this invocation and prayer heard the muttered threat which succeeded it, and witnessed the kindling face and stern, determined eye of the person who had uttered them, his heart, had he been a man of ordinary mould, might have sunk; but as the culprit in this case was no other than Michael Rust, who had no belief in an hereafter; who entertained suspicion against all men, and who never yielded his point under any circumstances; it is possible that it would have produced no other result than increased watchfulness, increased determination, and bitter hatred.
'I have read of such schemes as these,' muttered Harson; 'but I never expected to have anything to do with them myself—never. Can there be no doubt that these came from Rust,' said he, turning them over in his hand? And is there no doubt that he is at the bottom of all this villainy? The letters certainly bear a different name from his; but such things are common; and Ned says that he can produce proof of it. They can scarcely be forgeries, vamped up to obtain money from me; for many of them were written years ago; and bear post-office stamps, whose dates correspond with the dates within.'
He stood at the table, thus talking to himself, and turning over the letters, until his eye rested on one written in a delicate hand, and indorsed, 'Mary Colton to Henry Colton.' Harson opened it, mechanically, and ran his eye over it. It was very short, and breathed a heart broken by some grief which was only alluded to, but not mentioned. It ran thus:
'My dear Henry: With all others, hope has darkened into despair; but I will not give up yet; I cannot. It would kill me, if I did. Go on, my dearest Henry; make all efforts. I feel that you have done all that can be done, and that all means have been tried without success; but even yet, do not cease; and I will pray for you, and bless you, for your disinterested kindness; and God will reward you.
'Yours, affectionately,
Mary Colton.'
"Disinterested kindness!" muttered Harson; "God will reward you!' Yes, 'Henry Colton,' God will reward you! Sooner or later, the reward always comes; and you'll get it. Yes, if I live, 'Henry Colton,' it shall be my especial business to see that you receive it!' 'But,' said he, looking at the clock, 'enough of this. It would almost make a young man gray to wade through the details of such villainy. An old man like me must spare himself. I've had enough for one dose; so I'll sleep on it, and take the rest in the morning. Ha! Spite,' said he, stooping down, and patting the dog; 'better be a good, honest dog, like thee, my old cur, than a man with such a heart as some have. The temper's a trifle, Spite; so don't be worried about your's, for your heart's right, my old dog! There's no double-dealing about you. I don't know whether God blesses an honest dog, or not; but I believe he does, in some way or other. Come pup, I'll not keep you up longer.'
Saying this, he gathered up the papers, and placed them in a small box, which he locked, put under his arm, and followed by Spite, left the room, for the story above. He paused, and listened at a door at the head of the stairs; then turning the knob so as to make no noise, he went in. It was a small room, having a thick rag-carpet on the floor, and a dressing-table covered with white muslin, standing between the windows, whose curtains were as white as snow. In one corner was a bed. On a chair, at the side of it, lay a child's clothes; and in the bed itself was a girl, of about five years of age, with her light hair streaming over the pillow like a web of gold. There was little trace in her face of the outcast whom he had taken from the streets but a few weeks before; for the thin cheek had filled up, and the flush of health had succeeded the paleness of suffering and illness. Her eyes were closed, and their long lashes drooped over her cheek; but she did not sleep soundly; for once or twice she muttered to herself, as Harson bent over her: 'Come, Charley; we've been looking for you a long time. Come!'
'She's dreaming of the boy,' thought he; 'but be of good heart, my poor child; we'll find him yet.'
He leaned down, until his gray hair mingled with her bright locks, pressed his lips to her forehead, and went quietly out into the entry, where his presence was greeted with no little satisfaction by Spite, who had been shut out, and was becoming somewhat testy at being kept in the dark.
It was not long before Harson, with a thick counterpane up to his very chin, was sleeping as soundly in his own bed as Spite was under it.
What dreams hovered around the old man's pillow, or whether he had any, we cannot tell; but certain it is, that when the morning sun broke through a small opening between the window-curtains, flinging a long, thin streak of gold across the carpet, Harson was still sound asleep; and it is quite uncertain how long he might have continued so, had not the same ray of sunshine, in its passage across the room, fallen directly across the centre of the right eye of Spite, who had been drifting about the apartment since day-break; and who now vented his disapprobation of the liberty taken, in an irritable yelp.
Harry sat up in bed. 'What ails thee, pup?' said he, rubbing his eyes.
Spite, however, was not in a communicative mood; but walked to the door, and seating himself, surveyed the knob with great attention. Harson rose; threw on a dressing-gown, and going to the door, let him out, shutting it after him.
He then went to a basin, as portly and capacious as himself, dashed nearly a pailful of water into it; bared head, neck, and shoulders, and plunged them in. Out he came, very red in the face, with water dripping from nose, and chin, and eye-brows. Then in again he went; and then followed such a rubbing, and puffing, and blowing, and spouting, that he seemed like a young whale at his gambols. This ceremony being repeated some half dozen times, and the same number of towels having dried him, he proceeded to dress himself.
It might have been observed, however, that during the whole time, his thoughts were wandering; for he walked to the window, with some article of apparel in his hand, and stood looking into the street, in a state of deep abstraction; and then, drawing a long breath, continued his dressing, as if it had struck him that he was neglecting it. Then again he seated himself on the side of his bed, and sat for some minutes, looking on the floor.
'It's terrible, terrible!' said he, 'but it's not too late to remedy it. Thank God for that!'
Putting on one thing after another, sometimes upside down, sometimes getting his feet in his sleeves; then thrusting an arm in the wrong side of his coat; tying and untying his huge white cravat half a dozen times, and enveloping the half of his face in its ample folds; doing every thing wrong, and rectifying his mistakes with the greatest gravity, and without the slightest appearance of impatience, Harson finally found himself fully established in coat and jacket, with no other mistake than the trifling one of having buttoned the lower button of the last article into the top button hole. Having duly surveyed himself in the glass, to see that all was right, without having detected his mistake, he went out.
He stopped at the door of the child's room. His footsteps had apparently been recognized, for it was ajar; and a pair of bright eyes were peeping out to welcome him.
'Annie, is that you? Ha! child, you're a sad sleepy-head. You'll lose your breakfast. This won't do—this won't do. Spite was up long ago.' He shook his finger at the child, who laughed in his face; and then, flinging the door open, showed herself fully dressed.
'Wrong, Harry; wrong, wrong again,' said she, springing out, and addressing him in the familiar manner that he always liked: 'I am dressed.'
The old man took her in his arms, kissed her cheek, and carried her down stairs; and did not put her down until they were in the room below.
'Come, Harry, there's breakfast; and there's your seat; and here's mine,' exclaimed she, leading him to the table. 'Martha has got here before us,' said she, shaking her head at a demure-looking woman of fifty, in a faded cap, with a rusty riband round it, who was already seated at the table, preparing the coffee. 'Here, Spite—come here.'
Spite was not a dog given to the company of children. He was by far too old, and sedate, and dignified for that; but there were occasions on which he could unbend, and these fits of relaxation generally came over him just at meal-times, when he permitted the child not only to pat him, but even to uncurl his tail. Doubtless the sight of the creature-comforts which garnished Harry's table had its effect in producing this change, although it is possible the knowledge that the child devoted fully half of her time to supplying his wants, (a thing which his master sometimes neglected,) may have had its weight. Obedient at any rate to the summons, Spite hopped from a chair on which he had been seated, and placed himself at her side, watching every mouthful she swallowed, and licking his lips with great unction.
Harson's breakfast-table was, as the neighbors said, (particularly the poor ones, who now and then chanced to drop in at it,) enough to awaken an appetite in a dead man; and if dead people are peculiarly alive to hot coffee and mutton-chops, and hashed meats, and warm cakes, and fresh rolls, like snow itself, and all these things set off by crockery which shone and glittered till you could see your face in it; and table-linen without a speck or wrinkle in it, there is little doubt but that a vast number of departed individuals must have found their mouths watering at exactly half past seven each morning; that being the precise hour at which these articles made their daily appearance on Harson's table. But certain it is, that whatever may have been its effect upon them, it had little upon Harson; for he scarcely touched any thing, nor did he bestow his usual attention on those about him, but sat sometimes with his eyes fixed on the cloth, sometimes staring full in the face of the old house-keeper, who looked at the ceiling, and on the floor, and in her cup, and coughed, and hemmed, and fidgetted, and grew so red, and confused, and embarrassed, that before Harson was even aware that he was looking at her, to use her own expression, 'she thought she should have dropped.' But this was only of a piece with all the rest of his actions, during the morning; for to all remarks or questions, his only answer was an emphatic 'humph!' a species of reply to which he particularly devoted himself during the meal; and it was not until he observed the others had finished their meal that he hastily drank off his coffee at a draught, and rose from the table.
'You need not remove the things now, Martha,' said he, as the rattling of the crockery announced that this process was commencing. 'The noise disturbs me. I wish to be alone for a short time; and after that you can do as you please.'
The house-keeper made no reply; but went out, taking the girl with her, and leaving Harry to his meditations.
That these were neither pleasant nor composing, was quite evident; for after walking up and down with his hands in his pockets, and muttering to himself, he finally stopped short, and apparently addressing Spite, for his eyes were fixed upon him, and Spite returned the look, as if he supposed that he was being consulted, he broke out with:
'What am I to do? This matter on my hands; and Ned, poor Ned, kicked adrift by the old man, and Kate breaking her little heart about him; and her father quietly led by the nose to the devil. There's no doubt about it; that fellow Rust's at the bottom of it all; and no one except me to unravel this knot. God bless me! it bewilders my brain, and my old head spins. But Annie, Annie, my poor little child! if I forsake thee, may I never prosper! How now, Spite?'
This exclamation was caused by a somewhat singular proceeding on the part of Spite, who, after looking at him as if deeply interested in the tenor of his remarks, suddenly uttered a sharp bark, and bolted from his chair as if shot from a gun. The cause of this movement was soon shown in the person of a man dressed in a very shabby suit of black, with a beard of several days' growth, who stood just inside the door, and who, after a familiar nod to Harson, asked:
'Is all the family deaf except the dog?'
'When a man enters a stranger's house, it is but proper to knock,' said Harson, sharply.
'Did you want your house battered about your ears?' inquired the stranger; 'for I did knock, until I was afraid it might come to that. Perhaps you're deaf, old gentleman; if so, I'm sorry for you; but as for your d—d dog, I wish he was dumb. I can scarcely hear myself speak for him.'
This explanation cleared from Harson's face every trace of anger; and silencing the dog, he said: 'I did not hear you; and yet I am not deaf.'
'Well, I made noise enough,' said the other. 'Is your name Henry Harson?'
Harson answered in the affirmative.
The stranger took off his hat and stood it on a chair; after which, he thrust his hand in his pocket and pulled out a letter. 'That's not it,' said he, throwing it in his hat; 'nor that,' continued he, drawing out a handkerchief, which he rolled in a very tight ball, and transferred to another pocket.
'I've got a letter somewhere, that I know. It must belong to the mole family, for I put it uppermost, and it's burrowed to the very bottom; d—d if it hasn't! Ah! here it is,' said he, after a violent struggle, bringing up both a letter and a snuff-box. The former, he handed to Harson, and the latter he opened, and after applying each nostril sideways to its contents, took a pinch between his fingers, returned the box to his pocket, and seating himself snuffed deliberately, all the while eyeing the breakfast-table, with a fixed, steady, immovable stare.
The thread-bare, poverty-stricken look and hungry eye of his visitor was not lost on Harson, who, before opening the letter, glanced at the table and at the stranger, and then said: 'It's early; perhaps you have not yet breakfasted, Mr., Mr., Mr ——'
'Kornicker,' said the stranger.
'Kornicker, Mr. Kornicker. If so, make yourself at home and help yourself while I look over this letter; no ceremony. I use none with you. Use none with me.'
It was a tempting sight to poor Kornicker; for there stood the coffee-pot steaming away at the spout; and the dishes, far from empty, and such rolls as he was not in the habit of meeting every day; but mingled with all his defects of character, was a strong feeling of pride which made him hesitate, and it is probable that pride would have carried the day, had not Harson, divining something of his feelings, added:
'Perhaps it's scarcely civil to ask you to the table, when I have left it myself; but I should not stand on a trifle like that with you; and I hope you'll not with me. Those rolls are excellent; try them.'
He said no more; but going to the window, broke the seal of the letter and commenced reading.
Left to himself, Kornicker struggled manfully; but hunger got the better of all other feelings; and at last, drawing his chair to the table, he commenced a formidable attack upon its contents.
'So you're with Michael Rust,' said Harson, after he had finished reading the note, going to the table, and standing opposite Kornicker.
Kornicker's teeth were just then engaged in a severe struggle with a roll, and he could do nothing but nod an affirmative.
'Who is he?' inquired Harson; 'what's his profession?'
Kornicker swallowed his roll, and kept it down by half a cup of coffee; and then said:
'As to who he is; all I know is, he's sometimes an old man; sometimes he isn't; sometimes he wears a red handkerchief on his head, and sometimes he don't; but who he is, or what he does, or where he goes to, or where he comes from, or who he knows, or who knows him, curse me if I know. That's all I can tell you, Sir. He's a mystery, done up in the carcass of a little, dried-up man, of a d—d uncertain age. May I trouble you for the milk?'
'Humph!' said Harson, in a very dissatisfied tone, at the same time passing the milk; 'and yet you are in his employ?'
Kornicker nodded.
'It's strange,' muttered he, 'quite strange.'
'D—d strange,' said Kornicker, burying his face in a huge coffee-cup, 'but true,' continued he, setting it down.
'True,' repeated Harson; 'true that you are in his employ; are in the habit of daily intercourse with him; attend to his concerns; see him constantly, and yet do not know who he is?'
'Partly correct, partly incorrect,' quoth Mr. Kornicker, pushing his cup away. 'I'm in his employ—correct. I know nothing of him; correct again. As to the rest—incorrect. Sometimes, I don't see him for weeks; sometimes I have something to do—often nothing. I never know when he's going, or when he's coming back.'
Harson stood quiet for some time. 'This is all very strange. Don't you know who are his acquaintances, or associates?'
Kornicker shook his head.
'Who comes to see him?'
'Nobody.'
'Do you never hear him speak of any one?'
'Never heard him name a soul, till the other day he named Enoch Grosket, and to-day you.'
'Do you know nothing of his mode of life, or intentions, or plans, or whether he's honest or dishonest, or how he lives, or where his money comes from, or what his family is?'
'Nothing,' said Kornicker. 'Indeed it never struck me till now how much there was to know on the subject, and how little conversant I was with it.'
'Shall I tell you who he is?' asked Harson.
Mr. Kornicker replied, that any information in his then unenlightened state would be acceptable.
'Well, then, he's one of the veriest villains that ever disgraced human nature. He's ——'
'Come! come! none of that! hold up, old gentleman!' interrupted Kornicker, sitting bolt upright; and grasping the handle of a coffee-cup with a somewhat hostile tenacity. 'I've just been eating your bread, backed by not a little meat, and no small quantity of coffee, and therefore am under obligations to you; and of course, a quarrel with you would be greatly against my stomach. But you must recollect, that Rust is my employer. What I eat, and drink, and snuff, comes out of his pocket; and although he was small in some matters, yet he helped me, when it required a good deal of salt to save me; my fortunes were not only at an ebb, but they'd got to dead low tide. I'm bound to stand up for him, and I'll do it. I've no doubt he's the d—dest rascal going; but I'll not hear any one say so. If I do, damme. So no more of that. Come, come,' said he, after a somewhat hostile survey of Harson's person, 'you don't look like the man to make a fellow regret that he's broken your bread.'
Quizzical as was the look of Kornicker, and vagabond as he seemed, there was something in the open, blunt manner in which he defended even Rust, that found an answering note in the bosom of Harry, and he said:
'No, no, I am not. You're an honest fellow; but I suppose there's no harm however in wishing you a better employer?'
'No, not at all,' said Kornicker, after a minute's reflection; 'I often wish that myself; but,' said he, with a philosophical shake of the head, 'some people are born with a silver spoon in their mouth, and I wasn't one of them; mine must have been iron; and I'm rather inclined to think that there must have been no bowl to it, for it always held mighty little.'
There was a mixture of comicality and sadness in the tone in which he spoke, which left Harson in doubt in what strain to answer him. At last he drew a chair to the table; leaning his two arms upon the back of it, and surveying his guest attentively, he asked: 'What's your business, if I may be so bold?'
'Law,' replied Kornicker, leaning back. 'I'm the champion of the distressed; see widows and orphans righted, and all that sort of thing. It's a great business—devilish great business.'
'And is Michael Rust a lawyer?' inquired Harson.
'No, I attend to that part of his concerns. He's a mere child in matters of that kind; but devilishly wide awake in others; but come, old gentleman,' said he, suddenly breaking off, 'I'm to thank you for a breakfast; now let's have an answer to the letter. It's time to be off.'
Harson glanced at the letter, and then said:
'Do you know the contents of this?'
'Not a word of them,' replied Kornicker.
'Nor what it's about?'
'No. Rust is neither confidential, nor communicative,' replied Kornicker. 'So, what you've got to say say in writing. I don't want the trouble of thinking about it, or trying to recollect it.'
'Humph!' said Harson. 'There's nothing here requiring a great stretch of either. He wants me to meet him at his office, on very particular business; a request somewhat singular, as I never laid eyes on him in my life.'
'Quite singular,' ejaculated Kornicker.
'But I know much about him; and that leaves me no desire to be more intimate with him. What do you think of it?'
'I think you're in luck,' replied the other; 'you're the first that ever was asked inside the door since I've been there. Several very nice, pleasant fellows of my acquaintance, have dropped in occasionally, and although his office is nothing to brag of, d—n me if he didn't invite them to air themselves in the street, and not to come back! It was quite mortifying, especially as I was there at the time.'
'What did you do?' inquired Harson.
'You've never seen Rust, you say?' said Kornicker, in reply to the previous question.
Harson answered in the negative.
'Well, Sir, if you had, you wouldn't ask that question. I looked out of the window, and held my jaw—that's what I did; and that's what I'd advise you to do in the same trying circumstances. But come, Sir, give me the answer.'
Harson, after a moment's thought, said: 'It isn't worth while to write. Tell him I'll come, or send some one. You can remember that?'
Kornicker replied that he thought he could; and taking up his hat, and shaking hands with Harson, and favoring Spite, who was examining the quality of his pantaloons, with a sly kick, he sallied out toward Rust's office.