“That is my business,” answered Mr. Oakly, looking daggers. “If there is such a woman here I must speak with her.”
“Then go round to the other door, and knock that down too,” replied the woman. “Eh, maybe you are one of her husband’s relations. I’ve heard tell he had powerful rich ones.”
Mr. Oakly turned away without deigning reply to this half interrogatory.
“Eh,” she continued, her voice becoming shriller and shriller, “and a plaguy proud set you are, I’ll be bound. You can ride in your coach, can you, and let your brother, as maybe he was, die on straw. Ho-oo-t!” she shrieked, her face inflamed with anger, as she found her taunts unnoticed, “ho-oo-t away with you off my door-steps—did you ever hear of Dives and Lazarus? Your gold wont keep your back from scorching, old Dives. Faith I should like to have the basting of you myself!” Saying which she boxed the ears of the nearest unlucky wight who stood grinning with the rest at her eloquence, and then giving him a shake, which nearly sent his head off, she slammed the door, and retreated.
Her last words were inaudible to the person they were intended for. Glad to escape from such a virago, he had hastily bent his steps around to the back entrance of the domicil. Here he knocked several times, but as no answer was given, he ventured at length to lift the latch, and enter.
It was a low, dark room in which he found himself, little better than a cellar. I fancy it would have been impossible even for those who dwell upon the charms and romance of poverty, and who, with well-fed stomachs, in slippered ease, on Turkey carpets, descant so eloquently upon this theme, to have found aught charming here. The floor was broken and uneven; two low windows, which could only boast of three whole panes between them, the rest being patched with paper, or their places supplied by rags, through which the rain had forced its way, and now trickled in long streams across the floor. There were two chairs, a low bedstead, miserably furnished, a pine table, and some few articles of crockery and cooking utensils of the poorest kind.
Upon an old quilt, thrown down upon the floor in one corner of the room, two little children, entwined in each other’s arms, were sleeping. At this sight the knees of Mr. Oakly trembled, his teeth chattered, and for a moment he leaned for support against the wall—for a voice seemed whispering in his ear, “Look wretch! thy brother’s children—this is thy work!”
And perhaps it will be as well here as elsewhere, here, in the scene of that brother’s death, to relate the events which led to so sad an end.
In Mr. Alfred Oakly’s summary of his brother’s life, there was some truth, but not the whole truth. John was the favorite of his father; for beside that his mind was of a much higher order than his brother’s, his disposition and deportment were also far more amiable and respectful. Mr. Oakly preferred not sending both his sons to college, so he very wisely resolved it should be the younger, as one whose talents would most honor the expense. This excited the envy and jealousy of Alfred, and from that moment he resolved to work his brother’s undoing. It happened that at the same college—and in the same class with John Oakly, was a wild, dissipated fellow of the same name, who was continually getting into disgrace. Accident furnished Alfred with this clue, which he determined should lead to his desired wishes. By degrees whispers of misconduct began to reach the father’s ears. Then came letters to corroborate these rumors, filling the heart of Mr. Oakly with sorrow. Letters, too, were continually being received, demanding money, which, if forwarded, it is unnecessary to say never reached its destination. Mr. Alfred took good care of that; for, of course, the letters his father received, purporting to be from his brother, originated in his own wicked mind, while those actually penned by John, as also his father’s, were suppressed by the same crafty power.
When Alfred first originated this scheme, it is probable he had no idea its success would result in so much misery; his desire was as much to be revenged on his father, for his partiality to his brother, as upon his brother for being the object of that partiality; but when once he had entangled himself in the meshes of deceit, he could not break through without sure detection of his wickedness. The father and son met but once after the latter went to college. He was then received with coldness and reproaches. Conscious of his innocence, John was too proud to make any explanations, and left his father’s roof in bitterness. Soon after Mr. Oakly went abroad, as wretched as his son, leaving Alfred in sole charge of his business. The constitution of John was never strong; and no doubt the unmerited treatment of his father hastened the work of disease. He commenced the practice of the law, but in pleading his first cause, unfortunately ruptured a blood-vessel, and was borne from the court-room to his lodgings in apparently a dying state. Through the kindness and careful nursing of the lady with whom he boarded, he at length partially recovered; or it may be that the beauty and gentleness of Louisa, her only daughter, contributed somewhat to his restoration. Certain it is, a mutual affection sprang up between them, and, though in no situation to marry, the death of her mother a few months after, by which Louisa was left alone and destitute in the world, brought the event about.