About a fortnight from the time of their departure the two travelers reached a town in Southern Indiana, which we will call Madison. They had traveled leisurely, stopping at several places on the way. Cromwell had not ventured upon a second attempt upon the life of Robert Raymond. The first failure had left on his mind an impression of fear, and he resolved that he would not again attempt open violence. If anything was to be done, it should be by more subtle and hidden ways.
As for Robert, his first feeling of suspicion was entirely dissipated. He accepted Cromwell's explanation in good faith, and thought little more about the matter, but gave up his time and thoughts to the new scenes into which each successive day brought him. He had not got to like Cromwell, nor was there any chance that he would, but the two did not interfere much witheach other, but kept by themselves, so far as it could be done under the circumstances.
On arriving in Madison, a town of which Cromwell had formerly known something, they went to the Madison House, as the hotel was called, and entered their names.
The next morning Cromwell went round to the village drug store, kept by an old acquaintance, formerly a fellow clerk, named Leonard Grover.
"How do you do. Grover?" he said, as he entered the shop.
Grover surveyed him scrutinizingly.
"Don't you know me?" asked Cromwell.
"What! James Cromwell? How came you out here? And where have you been for some time? Sit down and tell me all about it."
The two took chairs, and Cromwell said as much as he chose to say.
"I have been employed in New York," he said, "but I got tired of that city, and came out here to see if I couldn't find an opening somewhere."
"You don't like New York, then?"
"Not particularly. At any rate, I have determined to make a change."
"Well, that is curious."
"Why curious?"
"I mean that while you are tired of New York, I am anxious to go there."
"You are? Why don't you then?"
"Because I am tied down to this store. If I could sell out to anybody for any decent price, I would start for New York, mighty quick."
"Then I suppose you are not doing well here?"
"Yes, I am doing well, but I don't think my health is as good here as at the East. Besides, I have some relations in New York, and that would make it pleasant for me to be there."
"What would you sell out for?" asked Cromwell.
"Do you mean business?"
"Yes, I have been thinking that if I could get a shop on favorable terms, I would buy one. Tell me what is the best you can do."
"If you will come in to-morrow, I will do so. I must take a little inventory of my stock, so as to see how I stand."
"Very well, I will do so."
The next day James Cromwell arranged to purchase the shop, with its present stock, at fifteen hundred dollars, cash.
"It's worth two thousand," said the proprietor, "but I am willing to sacrifice twenty-five per cent.for the sake of freeing myself. You get it dirt cheap."
"If I did not, I could not buy it at all," said Cromwell.
James Cromwell was authorized to draw upon Paul Morton for a sum not exceeding two thousand dollars, whenever he could make an arrangement to purchase a drug shop. Although he had agreed to pay fifteen hundred, he drew for the entire sum, and this draft was honored. In the course of a week all the arrangements were completed. The old sign was removed, and another put in its place bearing in large letters the name:
JAMES CROMWELL,
DRUGGIST AND APOTHECARY.
While these arrangements were in progress, Robert Raymond was left in complete ignorance of them. He spent the day in roaming over the neighborhood, with which he had by this time become quite familiar. It had occurred to him several times, to wonder why Mr. Cromwell saw fit to remain so long in a town which seemed to possess no especial attractions. He once or twice put the question, but was put off with an evasive answer, and did not repeat it.
But one morning as he walked through the principal street, he saw the new sign referred to above, going up, and he was struck with surprise.
"What does that mean, I wonder?" he asked himself.
Just at this moment James Cromwell himself appeared at the door of the shop. His hat was off, and it was evident that he was at home here.
"What does that mean, Mr. Cromwell?" asked Robert, pointing to the sign.
"It means that this shop is mine; I have bought it."
"But I thought you were only going to stay in Madison a few days? I did not know you intended to go into business here."
"No, I suppose not," said Cromwell, coolly. "I did not know that there was any necessity of telling you all my plans."
"Of course not," said Robert. "I do not wish you to tell me any more than you think proper of your affairs. But I was thinking how I should go back to New York, as now you will probably be unable to accompany me."
"Yes, I shall be unable to accompany you," said Cromwell, "but I don't think there will be any trouble about that."
"I am old enough to travel alone, I think," said Robert. "I have been over the route once with you, and I think I can get along well enough."
"You seem to have made up your mind that you are going back to New York?" said Cromwell, with a slight sneer.
"Of course. My guardian told me that I was to go on a short journey, and would return to my old school again."
"He did not tellmethat," said his companion, significantly.
"What did he tell you, Mr. Cromwell?" asked Robert, beginning to feel nervous and anxious, for he was very anxious of returning to his old school, where he had many valued friends.
"He can explain that best himself," said Cromwell, in reply. "Here is a letter which he told me to hand you when the time came that rendered it necessary."
He drew forth, as he spoke, a letter from the inner pocket of his coat, addressed to
Master Robert Raymond.
Robert opened it hastily, and read in the merchant's handwriting, the following:
"Robert:—Circumstances have led me to decide that it would be best for you to remain at the West for a time, instead of returning to your former school, as you doubtless desire. It is not necessary for me to detail the reasons which have led me to this resolution. As your guardian, I must use my best discretion and judgment, and it is not for you to question either. Mr. Cromwell will look after your welfare, and make all necessary arrangements for you, such as finding a school for you to attend in the town where he decides to establish himself. Of course, you will board at the same place with him, and be under his charge. I expect you to be obedient to him in all things. Your guardian,"Paul Morton."
"Robert:—Circumstances have led me to decide that it would be best for you to remain at the West for a time, instead of returning to your former school, as you doubtless desire. It is not necessary for me to detail the reasons which have led me to this resolution. As your guardian, I must use my best discretion and judgment, and it is not for you to question either. Mr. Cromwell will look after your welfare, and make all necessary arrangements for you, such as finding a school for you to attend in the town where he decides to establish himself. Of course, you will board at the same place with him, and be under his charge. I expect you to be obedient to him in all things. Your guardian,
"Paul Morton."
Robert Raymond read this letter with mingled disappointment and indignation. He felt that he had been treated very unfairly and that he had been entrapped into this Western journey under false pretences.
He looked up after he had finished reading the letter, saying:
"Mr. Morton has not treated me right."
"Why hasn't he?"
"He ought to have told me all this before we started."
"If he had, you would have made a fuss, and he wished to avoid this."
"I think it was mean and unfair," said Robert, hotly.
"Perhaps you had better write and tell him so," said James Cromwell, sneering.
"I shall write to him," said Robert, very firmly. "My father never would have sanctioned such an arrangement as this. Besides, I don't believe there is any good school out here."
"It is just possible that there may be somebody in Madison who may know enough to teach you," said Cromwell, with an unpleasant sneer.
Robert Raymond looked at him intently. He felt instinctively that he should obtain no sympathy in his complaints, and he became silent. He went back to the hotel and wrote a letter to Mr. Morton, in which he set forth respectfully his objections to remaining at the West. The letter reached its destination, but his guardian did not see fit to answer it.
James Cromwell did not remain at the Madison Hotel, but secured board for himself and Robert at a private house in the village, where the only other boarders were a gentleman and his daughter. The latter was about nineteen, passably pretty, and very fond of attention. Her name was Clara Manton. Her father was in ill-health, and for a year or two had been out of business. He was possessed of about fifteen thousand dollars, well invested, and the income of this sum in a place like Madison, yielded him and his daughter a very comfortable support.
When Clara Manton heard that they were to have two fellow-boarders, and that one of them was a young man, she determined, as she expressed it to her friend, Louisa Bates, "to set her cap for him."
"Would you marry him?" inquired Louisa, of her friend.
"As to that, I can't tell. I haven't seen him yet. He may be very disagreeable for all I know. But even if he is, I am going to flatter him up, and make him fall in love with me. Then, when he offers himself, I can take his case into consideration."
"Perhaps you'll fall in love yourself, Clara," suggested her friend.
"I am not very susceptible. I wouldn't marry a masculine angel, unless he had some money. I must find out how Mr. Cromwell stands in that way, first."
When James Cromwell first made his appearance at Mrs. Shelby's table, Clara Manton, who sat opposite, fixed her black eyes upon his face, and examined him attentively.
As James Cromwell's personal appearance has previously been described, it will readily be believed that Clara was not fascinated with the retreating forehead, ferret-like eyes, mottled complexion and insignificant features.
"He's horrid ugly!" she said to herself. "I don't think I ever saw a homelier man. The boy is much better looking. I wish he were the young man. There'd be some satisfaction in exercising my fascinations upon him. However, beauty isonly skin deep, and if Mr. Cromwell has got money, I don't know that I would object to marrying him. What I want is a nice house and an easy life."
It will be seen that Clara Manton was not one of the romantic girls of which heroines are usually made. In truth, she was incapable of any love, except self-love, and though she could counterfeit sentiment, she had none of the quality. She was very practical and calculating, and did not mean to surrender her freedom, unless she could obtain the substantial advantages which she desired.
In spite, therefore, of James Cromwell's personal deficiencies, she determined to exercise her arts upon him.
On sitting down to the table she was introduced by Mrs. Shelby.
"How do you like Madison, Mr. Cromwell?" she said, with great suavity.
"Pretty well, thank you," said Cromwell, rather awkwardly, for he always felt uncomfortable in the society of ladies, particularly if they were young, or in any way pretty or attractive. It might have been a vague idea of his own personal disadvantages that produced this feeling, but it was partly because he had had very limitedopportunities of becoming acquainted or associating with the opposite sex.
"I am glad you like us well enough to establish yourself here," said the young lady, graciously. "I hear you have gone into business in the village, so that we may hope to have you as a permanent accession to our village society."
"Thank you, Miss Manton," said James Cromwell, trying to think of something more to say, but not succeeding.
"Do you go back to the store in the evening?" asked the young lady, as he rose from the table.
"Yes, I think so. I am expected to keep open in the evening."
"But you have an assistant?"
"Yes."
"Then I advise you not to make yourself a slave to business. We shall hope for the pleasure of your company occasionally in the evening."
James Cromwell felt flattered, and looking full in the young lady's face, he thought to himself, "She is very pretty, and she seems to show me a great deal of politeness."
"Thank you, Miss Manton, for your kind invitation. I will accept it very soon—as soon as I think I can be spared from my business."
"You will be quite welcome," said Clara, graciously.
The young man might not have felt quite so well pleased, if he could have read what was passing in Clara's mind.
"He is not only ugly," she said to herself, "but an awkward boor. I don't believe he ever spoke to a lady before. However, he may be worth catching. At any rate, it will give me a little amusement to angle for him, and I will see if I can't make an impression."
"Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." So runs an old proverb. This was illustrated in the case of James Cromwell, who, ignorant of the real opinion entertained of him by Miss Manton, began, after a while, to conceive the delusive thought that she had taken a fancy to him. But we are anticipating.
Three evenings later, when supper was concluded, James Cromwell made no movement to go back to the store. This was quickly observed by Clara, who said, with a smile:
"You are going to remain with us, this evening, are you not, Mr. Cromwell?"
"If it will be agreeable," he said.
"Can you doubt it?" she said, with a look whichquickened the pulsations of Cromwell's heart. "I get so tired passing the evening alone. Papa gets hold of a paper or magazine, and I am left to my own devices for amusement."
She invited Cromwell to their private parlor, which was furnished with a piano.
"Do you like music, Mr. Cromwell?" she inquired.
"Very much, indeed," he answered, though the truth was he scarcely knew one tune from another.
"Perhaps you are a musician?"
"Not at all," he said, hastily, and in this statement, at least, he was correct. "Won't you play something, Miss Manton?"
"I haven't anything new, but if you don't mind old pieces, I will play for you."
She played a noisy instrumental piece, to which James Cromwell listened in silence, with very little idea of what was being played. His eyes were fixed rather on the young lady herself.
"How do you like it, Mr. Cromwell?"
"Very much, indeed," said Cromwell, hitching his chair a little nearer the instrument, and then coloring, lest the movement should have been observed.
"I think I will sing you something," said Clara."I don't sing in public, but before an intimate friend I do not feel so bashful."
The words "intimate friend," slipped out so easily and naturally that she seemed unconscious of them, but they were intentional, and she glanced out of the corners of her eyes to watch their effect. She saw that Cromwell's eyes brightened, and the color came to his pale cheeks, and then she knew that they had produced the effect which she intended.
"She is certainly very charming," thought Cromwell, "and she is very friendly. I don't think I ever met a young lady so attractive."
"He's getting in love," said Clara to herself. "It'll be fun to see him when he gets quite carried away by the tender passion. I've heard of eloquent eyes, but I don't think his are capable of looking like anything except those of a ferret. Well, I'll see the play through."
She accordingly sang the well-known song, "Then I'll Remember Thee," putting into it as much meaning as possible, and occasionally glancing in a languishing manner at the young man, who sat uneasily in his chair, and began to feel all the symptoms of love. He sat as if spell-bound when she had finished.
"Why don't you compliment me, Mr. Cromwell?" she said, turning round, with a smile. "Do you know you are wanting in your duty, sir? Every young lady expects to be complimented, when she has done a young gentleman the favor to sing to him."
"It was because I was so charmed," said James Cromwell, with more readiness than might have been expected. "I was so charmed that I was incapable of saying a word."
"I am afraid you are like the rest of your sex, a sad flatterer, Mr. Cromwell," said the young lady, shaking her head, with a smile. "You don't expect me to believe that, now, do you?"
"Yes, I do, Miss Manton, for it is perfectly true," said James Cromwell, plucking up courage; "you sing like a nightingale."
"Do I? I was so afraid you'd say like an owl, or something else uncomplimentary. As you have behaved so well, I must sing you something more."
So the evening passed. The young lady paid assiduous attention to her visitor, and when they parted her task was accomplished. James Cromwell was in love.
Robert Raymond did not propose to rebel against his guardian's arrangements, however disagreeable they were to himself. He had written a letter to Paul Morton, and he hoped that his remonstrance would have some effect. But meanwhile he determined to accept his fate, and act in accordance with the instructions which had been given him.
There was a private school in Madison, kept by a college graduate, and to this school Robert was sent by James Cromwell. He found himself the most advanced pupil in the classics, and he soon found that his teacher's acquirements were far from extensive or thorough. Still he could learn by his own efforts, though not of course, as well as at his former school, and he resolved to make the best of it. Of his connection with the school nothing in particular need be said. He was regular in attendance, and was treated with a degree of deference by the teacher, who perceived thathis scholarship was sufficient to enable him to detect his own slender acquirements.
Meanwhile the flirtation between James Cromwell and Clara Manton continued. The young lady was always gracious, and so far as her manner went, might readily be supposed to have formed a decided inclination for her admirer, for such the druggist had now become. She had a certain dash and liveliness of manner which fascinated him, and he felt flattered in no slight degree that such a young lady should have singled him out as her favorite.
Desirous of appearing to the best advantage, he ordered a new suit from the village tailor without regard to expense, but it was beyond the power of any garments, however costly or showy, to set off the peculiar appearance of Cromwell, or make him look well. But Miss Manton smiled sweetly upon him, and he felt himself to be in paradise.
Occasionally the young lady went into his shop on some ostensible errand, and tarried to have a chat. James Cromwell's heart fluttered with delight whenever he saw her face at the door, and during her stay he could attend to nothing else.
One evening there was to be a concert in the village.
James Cromwell brought home tickets, and said diffidently, "Miss Manton, will you do me the favor to accompany me to the concert this evening?"
"Thank you, Mr. Cromwell," she answered, smiling graciously, "I will accept with pleasure. I was wishing to go, but papa does not feel very well to-day, so I had made up my mind that I must pass my time at home. At what hour does the concert commence?"
"At half-past seven."
"Will it be time if I am ready at quarter past?"
"Quite so."
"Then you may depend on me."
Strange as it may appear, it was the first time in his life that James Cromwell ever acted as escort to a lady in visiting a place of public entertainment, and he felt a degree of awkwardness because of that. But when Clara Manton appeared, she was so gracious and sociable, that all hismauvaise hautedisappeared, and he walked arm in arm with her, feeling easier and more unembarrassed than he had supposed to be possible. When they entered the hall he glanced around him with pride at the thought it would be perceived thathe was the chosen cavalier of such an attractive young lady.
Of the concert it is unnecessary to speak. It closed at a comparatively early hour, and the two wended their way homeward.
"Shall we prolong our walk a little?" he said. "It is still early, and it is very pleasant."
"Yes; that will be pleasant," she returned. "Papa is probably asleep by this time, and won't miss me. What a charming concert we had."
"None of them sang as well as you, Miss Manton," said Cromwell.
"Oh, now you are flattering me, Mr. Cromwell. I cannot permit that, you know," she said, playfully.
"No," he said earnestly, "I am not flattering you, Miss Clara. You are so—so—I hope you'll excuse me, but you are so beautiful and attractive that——"
"Oh, Mr. Cromwell!" uttered Clara; adding to herself, "I dare say he is going to propose. Well, it's just as well now as at any other time. How ridiculous it makes him look, being in love!"
Luckily unconscious of the thoughts that were passing through the mind of his companion,Cromwell burst out, "But it's true, Miss Clara. I love you; and I don't think I can live without you. Will you marry me?"
"I am afraid you have said such things to a great many other young ladies before. How can I believe you are in earnest?"
"No; on my honor," he said earnestly, "I never loved before. Do you doubt the sincerity of my attachment? Don't you think you could look favorably upon my suit?"
"Perhaps I might," she answered, coyly. "That is, in time. It is so sudden, you know. It is not more than a month since I first met you."
"But in that month I have learned to love you better than anyone I ever knew, Miss Clara. Can't you give me some encouragement? Tell me that I am not wholly disagreeable to you?"
"If you had been, would I have accepted your invitation this evening, Mr. Cromwell?"
"Then you do like me a little?" he said, overjoyed.
"Perhaps, a little," she said, coquettishly.
After some time, Clara thought it polite to confess that she had herself no particular objections to him as a husband,—a confession which filled the enamored druggist with delight—"but," sheproceeded, "I cannot marry without my father's approval."
"But do you think he will object to me?" asked Cromwell, in dismay.
"Papa is a very peculiar man," answered Clara. "I never can undertake to say beforehand how he will look upon any proposition. Perhaps he may give his consent at once, or perhaps it may take considerable time to persuade him. I cannot tell. But whatever he decides, I cannot disobey him."
"Not if your own happiness depended upon it?"
"No," said Clara, who played the rôle of a dutiful daughter for this occasion; "I can't go against papa's wishes."
"May I call upon him, and ask his consent?"
"Perhaps that will be the best way."
"I will ask to-morrow."
"Is it necessary to be in such haste, Mr. Cromwell?"
"I cannot rest until I know. I cannot remain in suspense. Will you allow me to call to-morrow?"
"Yes, I think so," said Clara, coquettishly, "that is, if I do not change my mind during the night."
By such speeches as these she added fuel tothe flame of her lover's adoration, and increased his impatience to obtain a favorable decision.
When Clara returned home her father happened to be still up. He had become interested in something that he was reading, and this caused him to defer his hour of retiring.
"Well, papa," said Clara, taking off her bonnet, "I've got some news for you."
"What is it?"
"I've had an offer."
"An offer? Who from?"
"Oh, from that ridiculous druggist, Cromwell."
"Well, what did you say?"
"I referred him to you. He's going to call to-morrow."
"Well, what shall I say? Just give me instructions. Do you love him?"
"Stuff and nonsense, papa! As if anybody could! Such a ridiculous creature as he is!"
"Then I am to decline the honor of his relationship?"
"Not exactly."
"But you don't love him?"
"That is not necessary in marriage. Thank Providence, I am not sentimental, and never shall break my heart for love. When I marry I wantto marry a man who has got some money. Just find out if he's worth ten thousand dollars. If he is and will agree to settle half of it on me, I will become Mrs. Cromwell whenever he says the word. Otherwise, I won't. But of course, this must be your condition, not mine. I am supposed to be perfectly indifferent to money matters. I dare say I shall rail against you on account of your mercenary spirit, if he can't meet the condition, and comes to complain to me. You won't mind that, will you?"
"Not a particle. Rail away, if you think best. It won't break any bones."
"Well, I am rather tired, and will go to bed. Good-night, papa! Just let my suitor understand that you are inexorable, will you?"
"Very good. I understand you."
Clara Manton retired, and slept considerably better than her lover, whose suspense kept him awake half the night.
James Cromwell lost no time next morning in waiting upon Mr. Manton. He was in that state when suspense is intolerable, and he wanted to have his fate decided at once. Accordingly, soon after breakfast, he was introduced into the presence of Clara's father, whom he found alone. The young lady, considerately foreseeing the visit, had gone out for a walk.
Mr. Manton was sitting indolently in a rocking-chair, reading.
"Good-morning, Mr. Cromwell," he said. "Take a chair, if you please, and excuse my not rising. I am not young and strong like you, but an invalid."
It may be remarked that Mr. Manton's invalidism proceeded as much from constitutional indolence as from confirmed ill-health, and furnished him an excuse of which he was always ready to avail himself.
"Oh, certainly," said Cromwell, doing asdirected. "I have come to see you, Mr. Manton," he proceeded, "on important business."
"Indeed!" said his companion, whose cue was to assume entire ignorance until informed of the nature of his errand.
"You have a daughter," proceeded the young man, nervously.
"Yes, and an excellent girl she is," said Mr. Manton, warmly.
I am sorry to say that this was not Mr. Manton's real opinion. He and Clara, in fact, used to quarrel pretty often in private, and he had more than once styled her a cross-grained vixen and termagant, and used other terms equally endearing. He felt rather rejoiced at the prospect of having her taken off his hands, though, like Clara, he thought it prudent that his prospective son-in-law should be well supplied with the gifts of fortune, that there might be no necessity of contributing to their support from his own income. Of course, it was his policy to speak well of Clara to her lover, and not allude to the little defects of temper of which he knew rather more than he desired.
"Yes," said James Cromwell, fervently, "your daughter is charming, Mr. Manton."
"She is a good girl. It would break my heart to part with her!" said the father.
"You wouldn't object to her being married, would you?" said Cromwell, alarmed at this last statement.
"I suppose she will marry some time," said Mr. Manton. "No, I should not feel it right to interfere with her marrying, if she desired it. Far be it from me to blight her young affections."
"I love her, Mr. Manton. Let her marry me," exploded Cromwell, nervously.
"Really, you surprise me," said Mr. Manton. "You wish to marry Clara?"
"I should consider myself the most fortunate of men if I could win her as my wife," said Cromwell, who talked more freely than usual under the influence of the tender passion.
"You think so; but marriage will cure you of all that," so thought Mr. Manton; but he said:
"Have you spoken with Clara on this subject?"
"Yes."
"And does she return your love?"
"She authorized me to speak to you. If you have no objection, she will give her consent."
"It is an important matter," said Mr. Manton,slowly; "giving away the hand of an only daughter in marriage."
"I will do my utmost to make her happy," said the enamored lover.
"I have no doubt of it. To be sure I have not known you long; but I have formed quite a favorable opinion of you from our brief acquaintance."
This was hardly true; for Mr. Manton had designated James Cromwell as an awkward booby in familiar conversation with his daughter, and she had assented to the justice of the epithet.
"Thank you, sir," said Cromwell; "may I then hope for your consent?"
"Why, you see, Mr. Cromwell," said Mr. Manton, throwing one leg over the other, "there are several things to be taken into consideration besides the personal character of the husband. For instance—I hope you won't think me mercenary—but I want to make sure that you are able to support her in comfort, so that she need not be compelled to endure any of the privations of poverty."
"I have a good business," said Cromwell, "which is sure to bring me in a good income."
"Do you own your shop and stock up clear of incumbrance? Is it all paid for?"
"Yes, sir."
"That is well—for a beginning. Now what property have you besides?"
"Why," said Cromwell, "I make about five hundred dollars clear from my ward, Robert Raymond."
"Indeed! that is handsome. Still, he is likely to be taken from you."
"I don't think he will."
"Still, it is not a certainty. It is not equal to property producing this amount of annual income."
"No; sir; but——"
"Hear me out. There is nothing so substantial as property invested well. A good income is a good thing, but if it comes from anything else it is not sure. Now I will tell you what my intentions have been when anyone applied to me for my daughter's hand, though I did not expect the occasion would come too soon. I meant to say, that is, provided the party was otherwise suitable, 'Are you ready to settle five thousand dollars on my daughter on her wedding day, and will you still have an equal sum left?' That is the question I meant to ask, and I will ask it now of you."
He leaned back in his rocking-chair as he spoke, and fixed a glance of inquiry on James Cromwell. He hoped that the young man would be able to answer in the affirmative, for if Clara could be well married, he would have his income entirely to himself, and he had about made up his mind in that case to go to Europe on a pleasure trip. This he could do without breaking in upon his principal if he went alone; but as long as Clara remained unmarried, he knew that he should be expected to take her with him, and this would involve more expense than he was willing to incur.
James Cromwell was taken aback by this unexpected difficulty.
"I am afraid my means are not sufficient to admit of my doing this, just yet," said Cromwell, reluctantly; "but just as soon as I am able I will agree to make the settlement you propose."
Mr. Manton shook his head.
"I am sorry," he said, and here he only told the truth, "that you are not in a position to comply with my conditions, for they are indispensable. You must not think me mercenary, but I don't believe in love in a cottage! As for Clara, she is a dear, unselfish girl, and she would think me mercenary. She never thinks of money, (I wishshe didn't, he mentally added,) and would as soon marry a poor man as a rich man. But I want to guard her against the chances of fortune. So I desire that five thousand dollars should be settled upon herself, so that if her husband should fail in business, and you know such things happen very often, she will have a fund to fall back upon. I am sure you will think I am reasonable in this."
"My business is a very safe one, and the percentage of profit is large," pleaded Cromwell, rather downcast; "and I think there would be no danger of that."
"Yes, of course, you think so. Nobody believes he is going to fail. But disasters come to the best business men."
"Then you insist upon your condition, Mr. Manton," said James Cromwell, in a tone of disappointment.
"I must," said Mr. Manton, with suavity. "Of course, I am sorry to disappoint you, but then the happiness of my daughter is the first consideration with me."
"Perhaps her happiness would best be promoted by marriage."
"She may think so now! but you may dependupon it that the happiest marriages are founded on a solid money basis."
"You haven't any objection to me personally, as a son-in-law?"
"Not the least in the world. My only objection arises from the fact that you are unable to comply with my conditions."
"Supposing, then, I should be able to do so in six months or a year, what would be your answer?"
"I should say, take her, and may you be happy."
"Then," said Cromwell, "I may tell you that, though I am not worth the sum necessary to secure your consent, I have a relative who has me down in his will for a legacy of ten thousand dollars. I don't think he will live long. Within a few months I may be worth the required sum."
"I hope you will, Mr. Cromwell," said Mr. Manton; "when that time comes, come to me again with your suit, and I will grant it, that is, unless Clara has formed another attachment during that time."
Cromwell winced at this suggestion, but he saw that he could accomplish nothing more with the father, and in rather an unsettled frame of mind he took his leave.
When James Cromwell alluded to the possibility of his receiving a legacy of ten thousand dollars at no distant date, it will be understood at once that he alluded to the sum promised him by Paul Morton in the event of the death of his ward. He had endeavored to compass Robert's death at Niagara Falls, but since his failure there, he had let the matter drop, partly from a timid fear of consequences, partly from the thought that even without this sum he was sure of a good income. But the unexpected condition imposed by Mr. Manton, again turned his thoughts to the question of Robert's death, and its pecuniary advantage to himself; and again our young hero was menaced by a peril by no means insignificant. James Cromwell was neither strong nor brave; but there is no one so powerless that his enmity may be disregarded, especially when it is unsuspected.
But Cromwell's timid nature shrank from the audacity of the crime which suggested itself to his mind. Besides, though he was fascinated by Clara Manton, he was not clear about settling so large a sum as five thousand dollars upon her. He would have done it if in his power, rather than lose her, but if he could obtain her on any easier terms he thought that it would be better. He decided, therefore, to see Clara herself, to communicate to her her father's answer, and prevail upon her, if possible, to marry him without her father's sanction.
Had he known Clara better, he would not have ventured to hope for success, but he was wholly unaware that the mercenary condition had been affixed by Clara herself. He fancied that she loved him for himself, and believed her incapable of being swayed by self-interest.
Chance, as he thought, favored him, for only a short distance from the house he met Clara, herself. She had left the house considerately, in order to allow him an opportunity to call upon her father, and was now returning.
"Mr. Cromwell?" she said, with affected surprise. "I supposed you were in your shop. I fear you are becoming inattentive to business."
"I cannot attend to my business until one matter is decided," said Cromwell.
"What is that?"
"How can you ask? Clara, I have just called upon your father. I asked his permission to marry you."
"What did he say?" inquired the young lady.
"He told me he would consent on certain conditions."
"Certain conditions!" repeated Clara, innocently. "What could they be?"
"He said that I must prove to him that I was worth ten thousand dollars, and must consent to settle half that amount upon you."
"I hope," said Clara, quickly, "that you don't think I had anything to do with such conditions?"
"No; I am sure you had not," said Cromwell; and he believed what he said, for no one, to look in the face of the young lady, would have supposed her mercenary.
"I hope you don't blame papa. He carries prudence to excess."
"No, I don't blame him. It is natural that he should wish to make sure of his daughter's comfort."
"And what did you say in reply?" asked Clara, considerably interested.
"I told him that at present my circumstances would not permit me to comply with his conditions."
"That's a pity."
"But that I was expecting a legacy from a near relative that may possibly fall to me very soon, which would remove every difficulty."
"What did he say then?"
"That when I received the legacy he would give me your hand, provided you were still willing."
The young lady cast her eyes upon the ground. She did not think much of waiting for dead men's shoes, and doubted whether her lover had any such relative as he referred to. In her own mind she looked upon the matter as at an end; and began to consider for whom she had better angle next. She did not, however, mean to say this to Cromwell, for she had no objection to keeping him dancing attendance upon her. It would gratify her vanity, and perhaps he might serve, unconsciously, to help her in snaring some other fish. She thought her best policy in the present case, was to remain silent, unless she was called upon to say something.
"What do you say to that, Clara?" asked Cromwell.
"I suppose it is fair," she said.
"No; it is not fair," he said, "to make me wait so long. I have a good income; I am careful, and not extravagant, and I know I can support you comfortably. Do not make me wait. Tell me will you marry me at once?"
"I cannot disobey my father," said the young lady, who had all at once become very dutiful.
"But do you think he has a right to interfere with your happiness?"
"He does it for my good."
"He thinks so; but do you agree with him?"
"Perhaps not; but I have always been taught to obey my father. I suppose he knows better than I what I ought to do."
"Surely, you are not afraid that I should be unable to support you comfortably?" said Cromwell, reproachfully.
"Oh, no," answered Clara. "I never think of money. My father often tells me that I ought to think more of it. As far as I am concerned, I should never think of asking whether you were worth one thousand dollars or ten."
James Cromwell listened to Clara as she spokewith assumed simplicity, her eyes downcast, and he was so infatuated by his love for her that he never thought of doubting her. In his inexperience of female wiles he was by no means a match for Clara, who was already, though yet under twenty, a finished female coquette. So he accepted her for what she chose to appear and the flame of his passion was increased.
"I am sure," he pleaded, "that if we were once married your father would not object. The legacy I spoke of is sure to come to me in a year or two, for my relative is very old and in very poor health, and there is no fear of his changing his will."
"I have no doubt what you say is all true," said Clara, though in her own heart she had very serious doubts; "but then it will not be very long to wait a year or two, as the money will come to you then."
"A year or two!" repeated Cromwell. "It seems to me like waiting forever."
"I am afraid you have not the gift of patience, Mr. Cromwell," said Clara, smiling archly.
"No; I have not in this case, for I do not think there is any occasion for waiting."
"But my father thinks so, unfortunately. Ifyou can succeed in persuading him to the contrary, you will find me ready to do as you desire."
"Then you are determined to abide by your father's decision," said Cromwell, in accents of disappointment.
"I must," said Clara, mildly, "however much my own heart suffers in consequence," and she put on the air of a victim of parental tyranny; "unless," she added, "I am able to make my father regard it in a different light."
"Promise me that you will try," said her lover, grasping her hand.
"I will do what I can," she said. "But, really, I must go now. My father will not know what has become of me."
With a sweet smile, she left him, and returned to the house. He turned, and went back slowly to his shop.
"Well, that's all over," said Clara, to herself. "I should be a fool to marry such a stupid gawky, unless he could settle money upon me. I don't mean to throw myself away just at present."
"Well, Clara, I have had an offer for your hand," said her father, as she entered his presence.
"Well?"
"I said what you told me, and found he could not comply with the conditions."
"So you refused the honor of a son-in-law?"
"Yes."
"That was right."
"He said he was expecting a legacy of ten thousand dollars in a year or two."
"All humbug, papa. I don't believe a word of it."
"You don't seem inclined to break your heart about the disappointment," said Mr. Manton, with a smile.
"No; he is the last man I would break my heart about, if I were fool enough to break my heart about anybody. I must look out for somebody else."
"And meanwhile?"
"I'll keep a hold on him. There might be something in the story of the legacy, you know."
"I see you are well able to look out for your own interests, Clara."
"So I ought to be."
Thus spoke the unselfish Clara Manton, who was above all mercenary considerations.
"There is no other way!" thought James Cromwell, as fresh from his interview with Clara, he returned to his shop. "The boy stands in my way. His death will bring me money, and then that man will give me the hand of the woman I love. There is no other way, unless Clara prevails upon her father to recall his condition."
But another interview with the young lady in the evening, dissipated any hope of this nature which he may have entertained. She reported that her father was immovable on this point, and that persuasion and entreaty had alike been in vain.
"I may soon be able to comply with your father's conditions," said Cromwell. "I have received a letter to-day, which informs me that the party from whom I expect a legacy, is in very feeble health."
"Perhaps there may be something in his story," thought Clara, and influenced by the doubt, shesmiled graciously, and said, "Let us wait and hope that fortune may favor us."
"Promise me one thing," asked Cromwell, "that you will wait for me, and will not admit the attention of any one else?"
But this did not suit the plans of the astute Clara. She by no means wished to compromise her matrimonial chances by binding herself to an uncertainty, and accordingly answered:
"I would willingly do as you ask, Mr. Cromwell, if papa were willing, but he has expressly forbidden me to bind myself by an engagement, or make any promise."
James Cromwell's countenance fell.
"After all," she added, with a smile, "is any promise necessary in our case? Do we not understand one another?"
These words and the smile that accompanied them, restored the cheerfulness to her lover. He thought he did understand Clara Manton, but in this, as we know, he was egregiously mistaken.
The next morning he received the following letter from Paul Morton. It was the first he had received from the merchant, and was in reply to one of his own written from Madison.
It was as follows:
"James Cromwell:"Dear Sir:—Yours of the 15th inst., informing me of your safe arrival at Madison and your determination to make that place your home, was duly received. The accident which you speak of as near befalling my ward at Niagara Falls did not surprise me. He is a careless boy, and I should not be surprised at any time to hear of his coming to harm from this cause. Of course, you will exercise proper care in cautioning him, etc., and then, should he meet with any accident, I shall exonerate you from blame in the matter. How is his health? I have at times thought he inherited the feeble constitution of his father. I understand also from the late Mr. Raymond, that his mother was an invalid, and it is hardly to be expected that he would have a very strong or vigorous constitution. However, I do not feel anxious on this point, as I am aware that you have a knowledge of medicine, and I have full confidence in your ability to take all proper care of my young ward. I suppose you have found a suitable school for him. I shall be glad to hear that he is doing well in his studies, though on account of his not very strong constitution, previously referred to, it may be well not to press him too hard in the way of study."Let me hear from you respecting Robert's welfare, from time to time. Yours, etc.,"Paul Morton."
"James Cromwell:
"Dear Sir:—Yours of the 15th inst., informing me of your safe arrival at Madison and your determination to make that place your home, was duly received. The accident which you speak of as near befalling my ward at Niagara Falls did not surprise me. He is a careless boy, and I should not be surprised at any time to hear of his coming to harm from this cause. Of course, you will exercise proper care in cautioning him, etc., and then, should he meet with any accident, I shall exonerate you from blame in the matter. How is his health? I have at times thought he inherited the feeble constitution of his father. I understand also from the late Mr. Raymond, that his mother was an invalid, and it is hardly to be expected that he would have a very strong or vigorous constitution. However, I do not feel anxious on this point, as I am aware that you have a knowledge of medicine, and I have full confidence in your ability to take all proper care of my young ward. I suppose you have found a suitable school for him. I shall be glad to hear that he is doing well in his studies, though on account of his not very strong constitution, previously referred to, it may be well not to press him too hard in the way of study.
"Let me hear from you respecting Robert's welfare, from time to time. Yours, etc.,
"Paul Morton."
James Cromwell read this letter twice over.
"He's a crafty old spider," he said to himself. "Any one to read it would think that he was very solicitous for the welfare of this boy. It would be considered an excellent letter by those who did not understand it. I am behind the scenes, and I know just what it means. He means to blame me, because I didn't make a sure thing of it at Niagara Falls, and hints pretty plainly about some accident happening to him in future. He is impatient to hear of his death, that is plain, and no doubt he will gladly pay the amount he promised, as soon as he receives intelligence of it."
This reflection plunged James Cromwell into serious thought. Already predisposed to the foul deed, the artful suggestions of this letter tended to fan the flame, and incite him still more to it. Danger indeed, and that most serious, was menacing our young hero.
So James Cromwell, spurred by a double motive, veered more and more toward the accomplishment of the dark deed which would stain his soul with bloodshed, and in return give him the fleeting possession of money and the girl whom he loved.
Once resolved upon the deed, the next consideration was the ways and means of accomplishing it.
Should he use poison?
That seemed most in his line, and he regretted that he had not secured a supply of the same subtle poison which Paul Morton had purchased of him in the small shop on the Bowery. There was likely to be no one in that neighborhood who possessed a sufficient medical knowledge to detect its presence or trace its effects. But it was rare, and there was little chance of his obtaining it unless by sending to New York, and this would, of itself, afford strong ground for suspicion against him.
Then, as to the ordinary poisons, their effects upon the human system were too well understood, even by ordinary physicians, for him to employ them without great peril. He decided, therefore, to adjure poisons altogether. The fact that he was a druggist would render their use even more readily suspected than in the case of an ordinary person.
How then should he proceed?
This question was still undetermined in his own mind, when chance decided the matter for him.
One evening, while he was still pondering this question, and much embarrassed about the decision of it, he chanced to be returning home from a desultory walk which he had taken. Now, in the town of Madison, somewhat centrally situated, or at least one side of it was near the center of the town, there was a pond of about two miles in circuit. By the edge of this pond James Cromwell met Robert Raymond.
Instantly an idea came into his mind, as casting his eyes toward the pond, he saw a small boat tied by a rope round the trunk of a tree.
"Good evening, Mr. Cromwell," said Robert. "Have you been taking a walk?"
"Yes, but I have not been far. When did you come out?"
"About half an hour ago."
"By the way, do you know how to row?"
"A little."
"I was thinking that we might borrow this boat, and have a little row on the pond. What do you say?"
"I should like it," said Robert, promptly, for he had a boy's love of the water. "Shall I unfasten the rope?"
"Yes, I wish you would."
Robert at once sprang to the tree, and quickly untied the rope and set the boat free.
"All ready, Mr. Cromwell!" he cried. "Jump aboard, and I will get in afterward."
James Cromwell stepped into the boat, his heart beating quick with the thought of the deed which he meditated. His courage almost failed him, for he was of a timid nature, but the thought of the stake for which he was playing, renewed his courage, and he resolved that, come what might, that night should be Robert Raymond's last.
"Which of us shall row, Mr. Cromwell?" asked Robert.
"I will row first, and you may do so afterward."
"All right."
Cromwell took his place, and rowed rather awkwardly until the boat reached the middle of the pond.
"Shan't I take the oars now, Mr. Cromwell?"
"Not quite yet. I am going to row into that little recess over yonder. You can row back."
The outline of the pond was irregular. In one place there was a recess, surrounded by woods, within which they would be shielded from view. It seemed a fitting place for a tragedy.
When they were fairly within it, Cromwell said:
"Now you may take the oars."
Robert rose from his seat, and stepped toward the center of the boat. His movements were naturally rather unsteady. James Cromwell turned pale, and he braced his shrinking nerve. He felt that now was his time. Unless he acted now, his opportunity would be gone.
As Robert approached, he suddenly seized the unsuspecting boy around the middle, and threw him into the water. So suddenly was it done, that before the boy understood what had happened to him, he found himself engulfed.
Never once looking back, James Cromwell seized the oars, and rowed himself swiftly back. When he got on shore, he looked nervously out over the surface of the pond. All was still. Nothing was visible of Robert.
"He is drowned!" said Cromwell to himself, wiping away the large drops of perspiration from his forehead.
Such was the suddenness with which Robert had been hurled into the water that he had no chance to defend himself. He was scarcely conscious of having been attacked until he found himself in the water struggling for life. He knew nothing of swimming from actual experience, yet under the stress of necessity, and with death staring him in the face, he instinctively struck out, and managed temporarily to keep his head above water. But the shore was a hundred yards distant, and to reach it would have been beyond his unskilled strength to accomplish, if he had not luckily happened to receive assistance.
Unknown to James Cromwell, there had been a spectator of his dastardly attempt to drown the boy who had been placed in his charge.
The spectator was an odd character; an old negro, who years ago had built for himself a rude cabin in the shadow of the woods. He hadformerly been a slave in Kentucky, but had managed to escape from servitude, and built himself this cabin, where he lived by himself. He supported himself by working for any one who needed help on the farm or in the garden, and cooked his own food in his simple dwelling.
When he saw the boy flung into the water he was standing on the bank, unobserved on account of his color. He recognized Cromwell, for he had been to the drug store only a day or two previous to buy some medicament for the rheumatism which he occasionally suffered from. He knew Robert also.
"What debble's work is dis?" he said to himself. "What's he goin' to kill de boy for? Can't let de poor boy drown, no way."
As he spoke, he flung himself into the water and swam with vigorous strokes toward the place where Robert was struggling.
"Hold up a minute, young massa," he cried, for in his freedom he preserved the language of former days, "hold up a minute, and I'll save yer."
Robert heard this, and it gave him courage to struggle longer. In a short time the negro was at his side and seizing him by the arm, turnedand headed for the shore. It was soon reached, and the two stood side by side, both dripping with moisture. Had James Cromwell turned back he might have discovered the rescue, but he did not dare to do so until he reached the opposite side, and then there was nothing to be seen.
"What's all this mean, young massa?" asked Cato, for this was the name of the negro. He had brought no other with him, but one was quite sufficient for his modest requirements.
"I don't know," said Robert. "The man that was with me suddenly seized me round the waist, and flung me into the pond."
"I saw him do it," said Cato. "What made him?"
"That's more than I can tell, unless he is crazy," said Robert.
"Is dis de fust time he try to drown you?" asked Cato.
Robert started as the force of this question dawned upon him. He recalled the scene at Niagara Falls, and the narrow escape he had from a horrible death at that time. He remembered that he had been forcibly pushed by James Cromwell on that occasion, and only saved himself by clutching hold of him, while the latter did notpull him back till his own danger seemed imminent. At the time he accepted Cromwell's explanation, but now, since this second attempt had been made, he could not shut his eyes from the fact that Cromwell had sought his destruction. What could have been his motive was to him a profound mystery.
"No," he answered, "he tried to push me over Niagara Falls once, but I thought it was an accident then. I don't think so now."
"You lib with him?"
"Yes; my guardian placed me with him."
"He's a wicked man. Don't you go nigh him again."
"I won't," said Robert. "I shouldn't feel safe with him. But I don't know where to go to-night."
"Come to my cabin!" said Cato. "It's a poor place for the likes of you, young massa, but it's better dan sleepin' out in de woods."
"Thanks, Cato," said Robert, for he knew who it was that had saved him. "I will accept your invitation, gladly. Lead the way, and I will follow."
The negro's hut was near by. It was small enough, being only about ten feet square. Onthe floor was spread a blanket over some straw, and Cato signed to Robert to lie down. But first he advised him to take off his wet clothes. He gathered some sticks and made a fire for the purpose of drying these.
Robert lay down on the rude bed, and though excited by the peril through which he had passed, and by the thought that James Cromwell had been guilty of such an atrocious attempt, nature at last asserted her supremacy, and he sank to sleep. When he woke the sun had already risen. The first sight upon which his eyes rested was the black face of his companion bending over him. He did not immediately remember where he was, and cried, raising his head, "Where am I?"
"Here, young massa, in Cato's cabin," said the negro.
"Yes, I remember now," said Robert.
"Did you sleep well, young massa?"
"Yes, Cato. I slept soundly. Only don't call me young master, for I am not likely to be any body's master, except, perhaps, my own."
"Just as young massa says," said Cato, rather inconsistently. "Here's your clothes, just as dry as can be; only don't get up till you get rested. There's plenty of time."
"I'm rested now, Cato, thank you," said Robert.
He sprang from his couch and hastily put on his clothes. He found that through the kind services of the negro they were quite dry, though his shirt-bosom and cuffs presented rather a limp appearance, the starch having soaked out of them. This was, however, a minor calamity, to which he paid but little attention.
When he was dressed he turned to go away, though he hardly knew where to direct his course.
"Stop," said Cato. "Cato have breakfast ready in a minute."
"Do you mean that I am to take breakfast with you, Cato?"
"Yes; young massa will be so kind."
"I think the kindness is all on the other side," said Robert, laughing. "Yes, I will accept your invitation with much pleasure; particularly as I don't know where else to go for any."
Cato appeared to consider that a great favor had been granted to him in acceptance of the invitation, and he set to work zealously to prepare a meal of which his young guest might partake.
He had a small stove in his cabin in which he generally kept a fire, for being used to a warmclimate, it was easy for him to stand a degree of heat which would have baked a white man. Nor was he a mean cook. Indeed, while in Kentucky, he had officiated for a considerable time in his master's kitchen, and had not wholly forgotten his ancient skill.
In the course of an hour, Cato produced a breakfast consisting of hot hoe cakes and fried eggs, which not only had a very appetizing flavor, but stood the test of eating, remarkably well. Robert's peril of the previous night had by no means injured his appetite, and he did full justice to the breakfast provided. Cato gazed with much satisfaction at the evidences of his young guest's relishing the repast provided, and appeared to regard it as a personal compliment to himself.
While Robert was eating he was considering his future plans. As to going back to James Cromwell, he decided that this was out of the question. His life would not be safe. He determined that it would be his proper course to return to New York, and report to his guardian the character of the man in whose care he had placed him. He hoped then to be allowed to go back to school, and resume the studies which had recently been interrupted. Had he known that his guardian was atthe bottom of the plot which had so nearly culminated in his death, he would have decided differently; but of this he had no suspicion.
He had in his pocket the sum of ten dollars, which, though soaked in water, he was able to dry; and this, though insufficient to defray his expenses, would at least start him on his journey. As to what he might do, after this was exhausted, he did not know, but he was buoyant in hope, and he felt that it was no use to anticipate trouble. Enough to meet it when it came.