Having gained this intelligence, she returned home, and once more shut herself in her chamber to meditate on this new posture of affairs.
CHAPTER X.
Craig was indebted to her father. He had defrauded him by the most atrocious and illicit arts. On either account he was liable to prosecution; but her heart rejected the thought of being the author of injury to any man. The dread of punishment, however, might induce him to refund, uncoercively, the whole or some part of the stolen property. Money was at this moment necessary to existence, and she conceived herself justly entitled to that of which her father had been perfidiously despoiled.
But the law was formal and circuitous. Money itself was necessary to purchase its assistance. Besides, it could not act with unseen virtue and instantaneous celerity. The co-operation of advocates and officers was required. They must be visited, and harangued, and importuned. Was she adequate to the task? Would the energy of her mind supply the place of experience, and with a sort of miraculous efficacy, afford her the knowledge of official processes and dues? As little on this occasion could be expected from her father as from her. He was infirm and blind. The spirit that animated his former days was flown. His heart's blood was chilled by the rigours of his fortune. He had discarded his indignation and his enmities, and together with them, hope itself had perished in his bosom. He waited in tranquil despair, for that stroke which would deliver him from life, and all the woes that it inherits.
But these considerations were superfluous. It was enough that justice must be bought, and that she had not the equivalent. Legal proceedings are encumbered with delay, and her necessities were urgent. Succour, if withheld till the morrow, would be useless. Hunger and cold would not be trifled with. What resource was there left in this her uttermost distress? Must she yield, in imitation of her father, to the cowardly suggestions of despair?
Craig might be rich: his coffers might be stuffed with thousands. All that he had, according to the principles of social equity, was hers; yet he, to whom nothing belonged, rioted in superfluity, while she, the rightful claimant, was driven to the point of utmost need. The proper instrument of her restoration was law, but its arm was powerless, for she had not the means of bribing it into activity. But was law the only instrument?
Craig perhaps was accessible. Might she not, with propriety, demand an interview, and lay before him the consequences of his baseness? He was not divested of the last remains of humanity. It was impossible that he should not relent at the picture of those distresses of which he was the author. Menaces of legal prosecution she meant not to use, because she was unalterably resolved against that remedy. She confided in the efficacy of her pleadings to awaken his justice. This interview she was determined immediately to seek. She was aware that by some accident her purpose might be frustrated. Access to his person might, for the present, be impossible, or might be denied. It was proper, therefore to write him a letter, which might be substituted in place of an interview. It behoved her to be expeditious, for the light was failing, and her strength was nearly exhausted by the hurry of her spirits. Her fingers likewise were benumbed with the cold. She performed her task, under these disadvantages, with much difficulty. This was the purport of her letter:—
"THOMAS CRAIG,
"An hour ago I was in Second Street, and saw you. I followed you till you entered the Indian Queen Tavern. Knowing where you are, I am now preparing to demand an interview. I may he disappointed in this hope, and therefore write you this.
"I do not come to upbraid you, to call you to a legal, or any other account for your actions. I presume not to weigh your merits. The God of equity be your judge. May he be as merciful in the hour of retribution as I am disposed to be!
"It is only to inform you that my father is on the point of perishing with want. You know who it was that reduced him to this condition. I persuade myself I shall not appeal to your justice in vain. Learn of this justice to afford him instant succour.
"You know who it was that took you in, an houseless wanderer, protected and fostered your youth, and shared with you his confidence and his fortune. It is he who now, blind and indigent, is threatened by an inexorable landlord to be thrust into the street, and who is, at this moment without fire and without bread.
"He once did you some little service; now he looks to be compensated. All the retribution he asks is to be saved from perishing. Surely you will not spurn at his claims. Thomas Craig has done nothing that shows him deaf to the cries of distress. He would relieve a dog from such sufferings.
"Forget that you have known my father in any character but that of a supplicant for bread. I promise you that on this condition I also will forget it. If you are so far just, you have nothing to fear. Your property and reputation shall both be safe. My father knows not of your being in this city. His enmities are extinct, and if you comply with this request, he shall know you only as a benefactor.
"C. DUDLEY."
Having finished and folded this epistle, she once more returned to the tavern. A waiter informed her that Craig had lately been in, and was now gone out to spend the evening. "Whither had he gone?" she asked.