One Of Them

by Charles James Lever

The sense of his utter loneliness, often depressing and dispiriting, was now a sort of comfort to him. Looking to nothing but defeat, he was glad that there was none to share in his sorrows. Of all the world, he thought poor Clara alone would pity him. Her lot was like his own,—the same friendlessness, the self-same difficulty. Why should he not have her sympathy? She would give it freely and with her whole heart. It was but to tell her, “I am far away and unhappy. I chafe under dependence, and I know not how to assert my freedom. I would do something, and yet I know not what it is to be. I distrust myself, and yet there are times when I feel that one spoken word would give such courage to my heart that I could go on and hope.” Could she speak that word to him? was his ever present thought. He resolved to try, and accordingly wrote her a long, long letter. Full of the selfishness of one who loved, he told her the whole story of his journey, and the plan that led to it. “I have patience enough for slow toil,” said he, “but I do not seek for the success it brings. I wanted the quick prosperity that one great effort might secure, and time afterwards to enjoy the humble fortune thus acquired. With merely enough for life, Clara, I meant to ask you to share it. Who are as friendlessly alone as we are? Who are so bereft of what is called home? Say, have you a heart to give me,—when I can claim it,—and will you give it? I am low and wretched because I feel unloved. Tell me this is not so, and in the goal before me hope and energy will come back to me.” Broken and scarce coherent at times, his letter revealed one who loved her ardently, and who wanted but her pledge to feel himself happy. He pressed eagerly to know of her own life,—what it was, and whether she was contented. Had she learned anything of the mystery that surrounded her family, or could she give him the slightest clew by which he could aid her in the search? He entreated of her to write to him, even though her letter should not be the confirmation of all he wished and prayed for.

The very fact of his having written this to Clara seemed to rally his spirits. It was at least a pledge to his own heart. He had placed a goal before him, and a hope.

“I am glad to see you look cheerier,” said Quackinboss, as they sat talking over their plans. “The hardest load a man ever carried is a heavy heart, and it's as true as my name's Shaver, that one gets into the habit of repinin' and seein' all things black jest as one falls into any other evil habit. Old Grip Quackinboss said, one day, to Mr. Jefferson, 'Yes, sir,' says he, 'always hearty, sir,—always cheery. There 's an old lady as sweeps the crossin' in our street, and I give her a quarter-dollar to fret for me, for it's a thing I've sworn never to do for myself.'”

“Well,” said Layton, gayly, “you 'll see I 've turned over a new leaf; and whatever other thoughts you shall find in me, causeless depression shall not be of the number.”

“All right, sir; that's my own platform. Now here's your instructions, for I 'm a-goin'. I start at seven-forty, by the cars for Buffalo. That spot down there is our meetin'-place,—St. Louis. It looks mighty insignificant on the map, there; but you 'll see it's a thrivin' location, and plenty of business in it. You 'll take your own time about being there, only be sure to arrive by this day month; and if I be the man I think myself, I 'll have news to tell you when you come. This crittur, Trover, knows all about that widow Morris, and the girl, too,—that Clara,—you was so fond of. If I have to tie him up to a tree, sir, I 'll have it out of him! There 's five hundred dollars in that bag. You 'll not need all of it, belike, if you keep clear of 'Poker' and Bully-brag; and I advise you to, sir,—I do,” said he, gravely. “It takes a man to know life, to guess some of the sharp 'uns in our river steamers. There's no other dangers to warn you of here, sir. Don't be riled about trifles, and you 'll find yourself very soon at home with us.”

These were his last words of counsel as he shook Layton's hand at parting. It was with a sad sense of loneliness Layton sat by his window after Quackinboss had gone. For many a month back he had had no other friend or companion: ever present to counsel, console, or direct him, the honest Yankee was still more ready with his purse than his precepts. Often as they had differed in their opinions, not a hasty word or disparaging sentiment had ever disturbed their intercourse; and even the Colonel's most susceptible spot—that which touched upon national characteristics—never was even casually wounded in the converse. In fact, each had learned to see with how very little forbearance in matters of no moment, and with how slight an exercise of deference for differences of object and situation, English and American could live together like brothers.

There was but one thought which embittered the relations between them, in Layton's estimation. It was the sense of that dependence which destroyed equality. He was satisfied to be deeply the debtor of his friend, but he could not struggle between what he felt to be a fitting gratitude, and that resolute determination to assert what he believed to be true at any cost. He suspected, too,—and the suspicion was a very painful one,—that the Colonel deemed him indolent and self-indulgent. The continued reluctance he had evinced to adventure on the scheme for which they came so far, favored this impression.

As day after day he travelled along, one thought alone occupied him. At each place he stopped came the questions, Will this suit? Is this the spot I am in search of? It was strange to mark by what slight and casual events his mind was influenced. The slightest accident that ruffled him as he arrived, an insignificant inconvenience, a passing word, the look of the place, the people, the very aspect of the weather, were each enough to assure him he had not yet discovered what he sought after. It was towards the close of his fifth day's ramble that he reached the small town of Bunkumville. It was a newly settled place, and, like all such, not over-remarkable for comfort or convenience. The spot had been originally laid out as the centre of certain lines of railroad, and intended to have been a place of consequence; but the engineers who had planned it had somehow incurred disgrace, the project was abandoned, and instead of a commercial town, rich, populous, and flourishing, it now presented the aspect of a spot hastily deserted, and left to linger out an existence of decline and neglect. There were marks enough to denote the grand projects which were once entertained for the place,—great areas measured off for squares, spacious streets staked off; here and there massive “blocks” of building; three or four hotels on a scale of vast proportion, and an assembly-room worthy of a second-rate city. With all this, the population was poor-looking and careworn. No stir of trade or business to be met with. A stray bullock-car stole drearily along through the deep-rutted streets, or a traveller significantly armed with rifle and revolver rode by on his own raw-boned horse; but of the sights and sounds of town life and habits there were none. Of the hotels, two were closed; the third was partially occupied as a barrack, by a party of cavalry despatched to repress some Indian outrages on the frontier. Even the soldiers had contracted some of the wild, out-of-the-world look of the place, and wore their belts over buckskin jackets, that smacked more of the prairie than the parade. The public conveyance which brought Layton to the spot only stopped long enough to bait the horses and refresh the travellers; and it was to the no small surprise of the driver that he saw the “Britisher” ask for his portmanteau, with the intention of halting there. “Well, you ain't a-goin' to injure your constitution with gayety and late hours, stranger,” said he, as he saw him descend; “that's a fact.”

Nor was the sentiment one that Layton could dispute, as, still standing beside his luggage in the open street, he watched the stage till it disappeared in the distant pine forest. Two or three lounging, lazy-looking inhabitants had, meanwhile, come up, and stood looking with curiosity at the new arrival.

“You ain't a valuator, are you?” asked one, after a long and careful inspection of him.