The door opened, and the tall form of the police lieutenant appeared, attended by two patrolmen. The patrolmen, on entering, looked directly at the prisoner, and seemed to recognize him. The police lieutenant appeared to be pleased with his success in finding the witnesses, after a hunt through several station houses; but he was not aware what importance the testimony which they could give had suddenly acquired. The witnesses had been searched for at the suggestion of Fayette Overtop, with the vague hope of making them useful in some way.
The coroner scowled at the witnesses, for he feared that they would prove the man innocent, who, in his opinion, was the murderer. Having adopted this theory at the outset, and staked the whole issue upon it, he felt a natural reluctance to give it up.
The lieutenant explained to the coroner that the two officers could probably throw some light on the prisoner's movements, the night of the murder.
The coroner administered the oath to both of them, as follows:
"Holeup your ri't'an'. You swear to tell truth, th'ole truth, nothin' but truth, s'elpyeGod. Kiss the book."
The men complied with these impressive formalities, and the coroner then proceeded to interrogate one of them--a strapping fellow with an intensely Irish face.
"Name?" said the coroner.
"Patrick O'Dougherty, yer Honor."
The phrase "Yer Honor" produced its customary gracious effect.
"Do you spell O'Dougherty with a 'k,'?" asked the coroner.
"Hang me if I knows!" said the O'Dougherty. "I niver spilt it. Spill it to suit yezself, yer Honor."
"Spell it in the usual way, with a 'k'" said the coroner, turning to the reporters.
"Your residence, Mr. O'Dougherty?"
"Me what?"
"Your residence. Where do you live?"
"Oh! it's fare I live yer want to know. In Mulberry street, near Baxter."
"You belong to the perlice, I believe?" asked the coroner.
"It's quare ye should ax me that!" replied the O'Dougherty, with an enormous smile.
"Because you have the perliceman's hat, club, and badge? You forget," said the coroner, patronizingly, "that courts of justice doesn't know nothin' until it's proved to them. As a coroner, I shouldn't know my own grandmother, until she swore to herself."
"'Tisn't that, yer Honor; but becos yer got me onto the perlice yerself. Don't yer 'member, on 'lection day, I smashed two ticket booths of t'other can'date, in the Sixth Ward, lickt as much as a dozen men who was workin' agen ye, an' din was put into the Tumes over night--bad luck to the Tumes, I say! Well, yer Honor, ye was 'lected coroner by a small vote; an', in turn for me services, ye got me 'p'inted--"
"Ah! oh! I remember, now," said the coroner, somewhat confused. "I did not know you in the perliceman's dress. Well, Mr. O'Dougherty, did you see the prisoner on the night of the murder?"
"I did, yer Honor. It was about twelve o'clock. I was sittin' on a bar'l in front of Pat McKibbin's store, corner of Washin'ton and ---- streets. I was watchin' the bar'l, yer Honor, becos Pat McKibbin had some of 'em stole lately, ye see."
"Could yer swear to him, Mr. O'Dougherty?"
"Could I shwear to me own mother?--Hivin rest her sowl! Bedad, I shud know him a thousan' years from now. Didn't he shtop and light his siggar at me poipe? And didn't his nose touch me own?"
"Did he look pale and excited?" asked the coroner.
"No, yer Honor; his face was red as a brick, an', though it was a cowld night, he looked to be warm wid fasht walkin'."
"Did he say anythin'?"
"No; he only axed for a light."
"Was his 'pearance 'spicious?"
"No, yer Honor, more'n yer own. No offince to yez."
"That'll do, Mr. O'Dougherty. Next witness."
"If you please, your Honor," said the smooth Overtop, rising, "you have accidentally omitted to ask one very important question. The prisoner stated, on his preliminary examination, you remember, that, when he stopped to light a cigar from the pipe of a policeman, he heard the sound of a fire bell commencing to strike. Miss Minford testifies, that when she was roused from sleep by the noise of her father falling to the floor, she heard the alarm for the Seventh District. McKibbin's store, at the corner of Washington and ---- streets, is more than half a mile from here. In view of these facts, I will, with your Honor's permission, ask Mr. O'Dougherty if he heard the fire alarm that night; and, if so, whether the prisoner was in sight at the time?"
"Shure, an' I heerd it," answered the O'Dougherty. "It was fur the Seventh District. An' wasn't this gin'leman here at the ind o' me poipe, jist when it begun to bang away?"
Overtop cast one triumphant glance at the jury, which was fully reciprocated by the foreman and four others.
"I have no more questions to ask, your Honor," said Overtop.
"Nor I," said the coroner, "as the witness's testimony has no great bearin' on the case, that I can see. What is jour name, Mister--er--"
"Thomas Jelliman," responded the second policeman, a stout, bluff, honest-looking fellow. He did not say "Your Honor," and thereby offended the coroner.
"Well, what's yer bizness, anyhow?" asked the coroner, curtly.
"I should think you would remember that I was a policeman," said the witness, looking the coroner straight in the eye.
The coroner, taking a second observation of the witness, recalled him as the identical officer who had arrested him, one Christmas night, for drunkenness, and locked him up in the station house. This little occurrence was before his election to the dignified and responsible office of County Coroner.
"If you don't remember me," said the witness, "I think I could bring myself to your mind easy. On a certain Christmas night, not many years ago--"
"Never mind the particulars, Mr. Jelliman," observed the coroner. "Come to look at yer, I recolleck yer very well. Ahem! What do you know about this 'ere case, Mr. Jelliman?"
"Nothing, sir, except that I can swear to having seen the prisoner, on the night of the murder, at the corner of West and ---- streets. He was smoking a cigar, and walking fast. As he passed me, he said, 'A cold night, Mr. Policeman.' This made me notice him particularly, because it isn't very often that people throw away civilities on us. Just as he turned the corner below me, the alarm bells struck the last round for the Seventh District. They had struck three or four rounds. That is all I know about the affair."
"I have no other questions to ask, Mr. Jelliman," said the coroner, with great politeness.
The coroner was baffled. He had staked the whole case upon the theory of Marcus Wilkeson's guilt, and had made no attempt to procure other testimony than what would prove that supposition. He scratched his head and rolled his quid in a perfect quandary.
Another noise was heard on the stairs, as of several persons hurriedly ascending.
Then the door opened, and an excited group made its appearance. In advance was a slender young man, whose face was pale with debauchery. His clothes were rich, and had an unpleasantly new look. As he stepped over the threshold, he glanced coolly about the room, and, his eyes resting on the coroner, smiled.
"Ah, Myndert, my boy," said the coroner, "what are you here for?"
"Hang me if I know, Harry! It's the old man's work. He'll explain it to you."
Behind this easy young man came a strong policeman, who, immediately upon his entrance, received a nod of approbation from the lieutenant. Behind the policeman walked, with bended white head and tottering limbs, the venerable Mr. Van Quintem. The old gentleman was partly supported, in his infirmity, by the boy Bog. It was a touching sight to see the confiding trust with which the weakness of sixty-eight clung to the strong arm of nineteen. Bog hung down his head modestly, and blushed. He was not seen even to look at the little veiled figure which sat in the middle of the room. But young Myndert Van Quintem looked at it, and bowed with the deepest respect. The bow was answered by a faint nod and a delicate blush. Mrs. Crull observed the interchange of recognitions, and frowned to herself.
"Mr. Coroner," said the old gentleman, straightening himself, and coming forward with a quick step, as one who was about to perform an unpleasant task, and would hurry through it, "this young man is my son. God knows what love I have lavished upon him from the day that he was born, and with what ingratitude he has repaid me. But--but that is neither here nor there. I have come here to deliver him up to you as a prisoner--"
"As a prisoner!" echoed the coroner; and he and all looked amazed at this strange announcement.
"Why should it surprise you? It is a simple act of justice. I have reason to think that my son knows something about this murder" (here the old gentleman's voice faltered); "and my duty, as a good citizen and an honest man, requires me to surrender him. There are other affairs of a private nature between myself and my son--he knows to what I refer --which I am not prepared to make public at the present time." The old gentleman looked significantly at his son, who smiled calmly at him in return.
A chair was brought for Mr. Van Quintem, sen., and he sank into it. The young man seated himself in another chair which was handed to him by the attentive coroner himself.
"Now, Myndert, my good fellow," said the coroner, "if yer knows anything about this affair, fire away."
"Will the coroner be good enough to swear the witness?" asked Fayette Overtop.
"Oh! I'd quite forgot it." And the coroner mumbled his irreverent jargon.
"Two minutes are enough to tell you all I know, Harry," said the young man, in a sweet, effeminate voice. "I happened to save Miss Minford's life, a few months ago--she will give you the particulars, no doubt, if you desire them--and that is the way I made her acquaintance." (Here another respectful bow to the young lady.) "Since then, I have met her, quite accidentally, a few times, and--I do not pretend to conceal it--have gradually come to feel an interest--a brotherly interest, I may call it--in her." (The coroner smiled.) "Having learned from her that she was receiving her education at the expense of Mr. Wilkeson, and that that gentleman was a constant visitor at her father's house I thought it proper, as a sincere and disinterested friend of the young lady, to make some inquiries into his character. Judging, from the result of these inquiries, that his designs were not honorable toward Miss Minford--Mr. Wilkeson will pardon the expression, but I am under oath, and must tell the truth as to my motives--I took the liberty of writing a note to Mr. Minford, merely cautioning him against Mr. Wilkeson. I did not sign my name to the note, because I was not personally acquainted with Mr. Minford--in fact, never saw him in my life--and did not wish to assume the responsibility, disagreeable to every sensitive person, of interfering in another man's family affairs. The object of the note was to make Mr. Minford cautious. I presume no one will undertake to say that a father can be too cautious concerning the honor of a young and lovely daughter." (Another respectful glance at Miss Minford.) "I am aware anonymous letters are a little irregular, in the opinions of most people. But, when sent with a good motive, I really don't see the harm in them."
"Nor I neither," said the coroner. "It strikes me they're correct enough when the motive's a good 'un."
"But, your Honor, when an anonymous letter is full of lies and slanders, I respectfully submit that it is a piece of cowardly malice, which the law ought to punish with the utmost severity." Fayette Overtop spoke with tranquillity and firmness, looking young Van Quintem directly in the eye, and making him quail.
The judicious phrase, "Your Honor," alone saved Overtop from an explosion of official wrath. "The Court can't allow these interruptions, Mr. Overtop," said the coroner. "Her dignity must be maintained. As for 'nonymous letters, whether it's right or wrong to send them, people will differ. The coroner and the jury is competent to judge for themselves. Go ahead, Myndert."
"As the first letter seemed to have no effect, I sent another, suggesting that Mr. Minford should inquire into Mr. Wilkeson's history in the little village of----, Westchester County, where he was born, and lived many years. I learned from Miss Minford that her father visited Westchester County one day, and presume that he made some important discoveries there; for Miss Minford told me, that, on his return, he had forbidden Mr. Wilkeson to come to the house. If there was any harm in putting Mr. Minford on the track to find out the real truth about the man who was a constant attendant at his fireside, I do not see it."
"Nor I neither," said the coroner. "The end, as the sayin' is, justifies the means."
"If your Honor pleases," said the facile Overtop, "we could easily prove that all the reports which Mr. Minford gathered in Westchester County, prejudicial to my client, arose from a confounding of another person with him. But, as this explanation would involve the disclosure of private family affairs, and also the reflection of disgrace on the memory of the dead, my client prohibits me from saying more on the subject. But all this, as none knows better than your Honor, has nothing to do with the case. We ask that my client shall either be proved guilty of the murder, or of some knowledge of it, or released."
Fayette Overtop here looked volumes of confidence at the jury; and five of the jury looked back volumes of agreement with him.
"Nobody can be in a bigger hurry than me, Mr. Overtop," said the coroner, with tolerable good nature. "These 'ere inquests, commencin' in the mornin' and holdin' on a good part of the day, are rather hard on a chap 'customed to his 'leven-o'clock drink. I have to make up for the loss by adjournin' early in the arternoon. Ha! ha! Now, Myndert, my boy, rush her through. You don't know anythin' about the murder, I s'pose. You were somewhere else on the fatal night, of course--and I can guess where. At Brown's, eh?"
Brown's was a notorious gambling house on Broadway.
"Exactly, Harry. I was at Brown's from nine P.M. to four o'clock the following morning. And, if I mistake not, there is a gentleman in this room who can swear to having seen me there, say from ten to eleven." Saying this, young Van Quintem winked hard at the coroner.
"You needn't mince matters," said the coroner. "I was at Brown's that night, and between the hours you name. Being a public officer, I sometimes look into Brown's, and a good many other places, too, to see that nothin' a'n't a-goin' on wrong. Ha! I partickly 'member it, because I accidentally lost about fifty dollars there that night. Ha! ha!"
"I think I recollect the little circumstance," said the witness, with a smile.
"Very likely. Ha! Now, Myndert, of course we all understand that you are innocent; but, to satisfy the public, I guess I'd better summon a few witnesses from Brown's, to prove you were there all night."
"I thought of that, Harry, and requested a number of my friends at Brown's to drop around here, and prove analibifor me. They were very much engaged at the time, or they would have come with me."
"They were playing faro," said the old gentleman, "and my son was gambling with them. Wretched young man, how often have I cautioned you against that vice!"
"The cautioning I don't object to," said the son; "but I consider it unfair to drag a fellow away from a streak of good luck. I was raking in the piles just as you and the policeman, and that mop-headed youth behind you" (he alluded to the boy Bog) "came down on me. Ah! I see the game is finished, and here they are."
Four men, of a highly correct appearance, dressed in quiet good taste, who would have passed in the Broadway muster for merchants of the severest practical variety, entered the room.
They nodded in the most gentlemanly manner to the coroner, and gave a friendly recognition to young Myndert.
"You may be willing to believe these polished scoundrels under oath; but hang me if I would!" said the old gentleman, with emphasis.
The four gamblers showed their even rows of white teeth pleasantly, and one of them replied:
"You are an elderly gentleman, Mr. Van Quintem, and the father of our young friend; and, of course, you are permitted to abuse us as much as you like."
"It seems to me, Mr. Van Quintem," said the coroner, "that you are rather hard on these gen'lemen, who, so fur as I know 'em, is of the highest respectability. Don't yer want to have yer son prove analibi?"
"I want to have him prove the truth, and that's all. And for that reason I wouldn't credit such evidence as these men will give."
"You would like to have me hanged, my dear father," said the son, mildly; "but I don't think you will be gratified in that amiable little desire. Eh, Harry?"
The coroner grinned, shifted his quid, put on his most serious official look, and said:
"No more of this 'ere jokin', if you please, gen'lemen. A inquest isn't zactly the place for fun."
He then proceeded to swear and interrogate the four new witnesses. They took the oath decorously, kissing the book in the politest, most gentlemanly manner. Their testimony was to the effect that young Van Quintem passed the night of the murder, from ten P.M. till four A.M., at Brown's, and was not absent one minute. They were able to corroborate the fact, by a reference to pocket memorandum books, in which entries such as "Van Q., debit $50," or "Van Q., credit $100," appeared at intervals. As to the general character of the house, upon which several members of the jury asked questions, they testified that it was a species of club house, where a few gentlemen of excellent reputation occasionally met for the purposes of innocent social intercourse. Games of chance were sometimes played at Brown's, to while away an hour; and betting was now and then done, in a strictly honorable and legitimate way. Several of the jurymen would have improved the occasion, to learn all about the internal management of Brown's; but the coroner decided that such questions were entirely "relevant" (meaning irrelevant), and suggested that, as there were no more witnesses, the case might as well go to the jury. The coroner had just consulted his watch, and found that it was four o'clock. He was aware, from the turn things had taken, that he had lost the verdict which he hoped to obtain; but that was no reason why he should lose his dinner. The coroner was not a man of energy; and, being foiled in his efforts to convict Marcus Wilkeson, he had no disposition to pursue the matter further. Besides, he had already achieved a large measure of profitable notoriety from the case; for he had been ridiculed and abused in most of the city papers; andthatinsured him, beyond all doubt, the nomination for and election to the State Senate, for which he was an aspirant at the next fall campaign. Under all these circumstances, the coroner was satisfied.
The jurors, receiving but a shilling a day, and being hungry and tired, were quite willing to wind up the case. After putting their heads together, whispering and nodding about five minutes, the foreman declared the following as their verdict:
"That the deceased, Eliphalet Minford, came to his death, on the night of the ---- day of April, 185-, from a wound inflicted on the head by a club in the hands of some person unknown to the jurors."
Overtop and Maltboy took the verdict as a matter of course, having anticipated it for some time. Marcus Wilkeson, who had been in a gloomy stupor for the past hour, and had expected the worst, looked up in surprise at this lucky dispensation of Fate. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he extended a hand to each of his faithful friends, by whom he was warmly congratulated on the happy issue of the affair. The jurors also came forward with their congratulations. Even the coroner said, "Well, Mr. Wilkeson, I did my pootiest to hold you, because I thought you was the murderer; but the jury doesn't indorse my 'pinion, and I gives in." Mrs. Crull, who had been watching Marcus narrowly, and was firmly impressed with the conviction of his innocence, came forward with a warm hand, and tried to think of a proverb suitable to the occasion, but could not. Patty Minford removed the veil from her face, and looked at her benefactor. She made a motion as if to rise and go toward him. Then an expression of doubt stole over her features; and Marcus, who observed her at that moment, knew that the vision of the night was still before her, and that she could not hold him guiltless though a dozen juries had released him. This thought touched Marcus with sadness, which all the congratulations of his friends could not disperse.
A faint cry was heard. Old Mr. Van Quintem had fallen from his chair, and would have dropped upon the floor, but for the strong arm of the boy Bog. He was in the act of rising from his seat for the purpose of offering his hand to Marcus, when the vertigo, from which he was an occasional sufferer, seized him.
"Poor old gentleman!" said Marcus, forgetful of all else, and rushing to the side of his venerable friend. Directing that the windows be opened, Marcus, aided by the boy Bog, bore the senseless form to the fresh, cool air. The grateful breeze, and a cup of cold water applied to his brow, soon restored the wretched father to a beginning of consciousness.
As he lay there, more dead than alive, in the arms of his two friends, the ingrate son, having lighted a cigar, looked coldly over the shoulders of the bystanders at the senseless figure of his father, and said, in the sweetest voice:
"Poor old fellow! He has only himself to blame for kicking up all this row. I told him it would be too much for his nerves; but he would insist on dragging me up here. I forgive him from the bottom of my heart."
The bystanders looked on in amazement at this speech.
The son continued: "I'm glad to see that he is in good hands. Upon my word, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to help a little; but I fear that, when the old man came out of it, and saw me over him, he would go off again. So I guess I had better leave."
And young Van Quintem sauntered cheerfully out of the room, in company with his four friends from Brown's. The coroner had been waiting at the foot of the stairs for them; and the party adjourned to the nearest drinking saloon, when the coroner, overjoyed at having got rid of a tedious and embarrassing case, stood treat for one round.
But who killed the inventor?
The papers and the police, after groping for weeks in search of the answer, turned it over to the solution of Time, with the comforting assurance that MURDER WILL OUT.
Mr. Augustus Whedell was a gentleman who had been living handsomely for three years on his wits.
There was nothing remarkable in Mr. Whedell's personal appearance, with the exception of his wig. It was his fond belief that this wig looked like natural hair; but everybody knew it was a wig across the street. He also wore a gold double eyeglass, which he handled as effectively as a senorita her fan. Most of his loans, credits, and extensions, had been obtained by the dexterous manipulation of that eyeglass.
Mr. Whedell twirled the dangerous instrument, and opened and shut it with more than his usual grace, one evening toward the middle of April. He was about to broach a disagreeable subject to his daughter, who, blooming, and exquisitely dressed, sat by the fire and yawned.
"My dear Clementina, you are now twenty years old, and ought to be married. Delays are dangerous. What do you think of Chiffield?"
Mr. Whedell spoke bluntly, and to the point, because he was addressing his own daughter, and also because short speeches suited his natural languor.
"He's a horrid dancer!" said that young lady.
"Granted. But when he does dance, he jingles money in his pocket."
"He's a perfect fright, pa. You won't deny that?"
"I won't deny that he is a plain, substantial gentleman. He has immense feet, and he is a little bald. What of that?"
"Oh! nothing," replied Clementina, in a tone that signified "Everything."
Her father caught the irony of the remark, and said:
"My dear child, I know the natural leaning of your sex to handsome men. You are like your mother there. But remember, they never have any money--as a general rule. I won't undertake to explain the curious fact. But fact it is, you will admit that."
"Very likely. But I hate this old Chiffield."
Mr. Whedell smiled, twirled his double eyeglass a few dozen times round his forefinger, and said:
"My darling daughter, listen, and you will appreciate the advantages of this match."
Clementina frowned, and bit her finger nails.
"My child," continued the fond parent, "I have always concealed my troubles from you. They can no longer be kept a secret. This house is not mine. Most of this furniture is unpaid for. The last month's bills at the butcher's, baker's, and grocer's are still due. I have exhausted my credit, and don't know where to raise a dollar. That is my 'situation,' as the newspapers say."
Clementina turned pale with amazement, and could not say a word.
"You are willing to hear me? I will explain further. Three years ago, my old friend Mr. Abernuckle failed. He owned this house, and, wishing to save it from his creditors, he had previously made a sham sale of it to me. I have occupied it free of rent. On the strength of this house, I got credit for furniture, for clothes, for our bread and meat. On the strength of this house, I have borrowed money enough to keep my principal creditors at bay. On the strength of this house, we occupy to-day a very fair position in society. On the strength of this house, I propose to marry you."
His daughter still looked on with open mouth, like one stupefied.
"But, to do this, no time must be lost. My friend Abernuckle has at last settled with his creditors at fifteen per cent., and wants possession of the house on the 1st of May. On that day this will be our home no longer."
There was a fearless pull at the door bell. "It is a creditor," said Mr. Whedell. "I will face him."
Mr. Whedell went to the door, and returned in a few moments. "It was the butcher," said he. "He had called twice to-day, and, not finding me in, takes this unusual hour to ask for a settlement. The old excuses would not do. What do you suppose I told him this time?"
"I can't imagine. Something dreadful, I suppose," was the shuddering reply.
"The man had to be got rid of. We must have meat. I was at my wits' end. So I took the liberty of telling him, confidentially, that my daughter would marry a wealthy merchant in a few days, and asked him, as a favor, to let the bill run on to the 1st of May. On that day he should positively be paid. The man grumbled at first, but finally said he would give me one more trial, and then went away. Neatly arranged, wasn't it, my dear?"
Mr. Whedell would have been delighted with one word of approval (even a qualified one) from his daughter, but she would not, or could not speak it.
"You listen attentively, my darling. I am glad to see it. This plan worked so well with the butcher, that I shall try it on with the upholsterer, the baker, the grocer, the tailor, and the rest of my long list of creditors. I shall stake all on the 1st of May. To save us from a grand explosion, and to obtain a roof for your head and mine on the 1st of May, you must marry immediately."
Miss Clementina Whedell, like many other people, had an unsuspected strength of character which only a great occasion could call out. "It is perfectly atrocious," said she, at length, "and I am making a grave sacrifice of my happiness; but I suppose I must do it. Are you sure this Chiffield is rich?"
"Now, you are my own dear daughter!" said Mr. Whedell, tossing his double eyeglass up and catching it, as was his custom when exulting. "Your question is a prudent one, and worthy of you. I am happy to inform you that Chiffield is worth one hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
Clementina smiled faintly, though she tried to look like a martyr.
"I learn this from the tax rolls. When Chiffield first began to call here, and showed a profound interest in my conversation, I knew that he was after you, and I thought it best to look into his resources. The tax rolls, which are the best possible evidence, show that he has ten lots in Harlem, with a cottage tenement on each of them, and several acres now rented to German gardeners in the Twelfth Ward. These are rated in a lump at seventy-five thousand dollars, which is a low estimate. So much for the real estate. Now the personal property of Upjack, Chiffield & Co. is valued on the same tax rolls (which always understate it) at three hundred thousand dollars. Suppose Chiffield to own a one-fourth interest only, and there you have the item of seventy-five thousand dollars more. Grand total, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. A nearer figure would probably be two hundred thousand dollars; but I will not build castles in the air for you. Chiffield is only forty--which is, in fact, young. He is healthy and energetic. The firm are making money. He will yet be a millionnaire. Confess, now, that I have chosen wisely for you."
Here another decisive pull at the door bell. Mr. Whedell answered it in person. Returning, he merely said, giving his double eyeglass a fillip, "The furniture man. Have fixed him for the 1st of May. So far, the plan works well."
"But are you sure, pa," asked the discreet Clementina, "that Mr. Chiffield will offer himself?"
"Positive; because he has always been so very attentive to me. When men flatter, and study the hobbies of the father, they are after the daughter in earnest. Mr. Chiffield's very figure--the cut of his jib, so to speak--is that of a marrying man. Only you must give him some little encouragement. Not keep him at a distance, as you have hitherto done."
"But he may not be anxious to marry before the 1st of May. Then what?"
"Poor thing! how little you understand mankind! He will marry you at twenty-four hours' notice, if you will let him. All men are alike impatient and unreasonable in such matters. It is the women who hold back--after they are safely engaged."
"La, pa! how knowingly you talk!"
"I flatter myself I know something of the human species," returned Mr. Whedell. "Ah! another ring. Too faint for a creditor. Mr. Chiffield, perhaps."
The conjecture was correct. But with Mr. Chiffield came Matthew Maltboy. They had arrived on the door steps at the same moment, coming from different directions.
Mr. Whedell received Chiffield with his heartiest grip, and inflicted only a mild squeeze on the hand of Maltboy, whose appearance at that time he considered decidedly unfortunate. The father thought he had observed in Clementina signs of preference for that corpulent young lawyer. He was pained to see that Clementina barely extended the tips of her fingers to Chiffield, while to Maltboy she gave her whole palm with great cordiality. Not only this, but she encouraged Maltboy to take a seat by her, and commenced talking with him of the opera, of balls, of new music, of fashions, of the last novel, rattling away on these subjects as if her whole soul were wrapped up in the discussion. It was almost a monologue. Maltboy's part consisted of "Yes;" "I think so too;" "We agree perfectly," and adjectives of admiration occasionally thrown in. That musical voice! He could have listened with rapture to its recital of the multiplication table.
Mr. Chiffield and Mr. Whedell had settled themselves on atête-à-tête, and, after some cursory observations on the weather, commenced talking of finance--a theme of which neither of those gentlemen ever tired.
"So money is getting tighter?" said Mr. Whedell, after a pause to digest the awful truth which Mr. Chiffield had imparted to him. "Now I shouldn't be surprised, sir, to hear of failures before long, and in quarters where the public least expect them."
If Mr. Whedell's double eyeglass had been astride his nose instead of swinging in his fingers, he might have noticed a faint paleness blending with the deep yellow of Mr. Chiffield's complexion. That gentleman replied, a little more quickly than was his wont:
"A few small, weak houses may go down, perhaps, but the strong ones will weather the storm easy enough. If our establishment could live through 1847, it is in no danger now."
"And such was the good fortune of Upjack, Chiffield & Co., I well remember," said Mr. Whedell.
Mr. Chiffield bowed his gracious acknowledgment of the handsome historical allusion.
"How is Erie, Mr. Chiffield?"
"Looking up."
"Sure of it?"
"A leading Wall-street man told me, this afternoon, it would advance three per cent. this week. I have a slight interest in watching it," said Mr. Chiffield, smiling.
"So have I," said Mr. Whedell, smiling also.
Daring their conversation, and the remainder of their financial dialogue, Mr. Whedell kept one ear, and occasionally one eye, inclined toward his daughter and the favored Maltboy. If there was a hint conveyed in those side glances at his daughter, she either did not notice it, or did not choose to take it. Sometimes Mr. Chiffield looked in the same direction, but casually, as it were, and without one sign of impatience visible in the depths of his calm brown eyes. Mr. Chiffield was not a nervous man.
Matthew Maltboy was so perfectly free from selfishness at this moment, that he would cheerfully have spared a few words from Miss Whedell's delightful monologue for the gratification of his late rival ("late" was now decidedly the word, in Maltboy's opinion) over the way. In the exercise of his large charity and compassion, he pitied that unfortunate, sadly disappointed dealer in dry goods.
This pity, as Matthew used to say in after days, was thrown away. At the end of a brilliant description of a new set of quadrilles which Miss Whedell had danced at a sociable the night before, that young lady said, "Excuse me," and crossed the room to a what-not in the corner, and searched for something among a pile of magazines and pictures. The thought that she was making efforts to please him, tickled Matthew's vanity. While she was overhauling the pile, Mr. Whedell left his seat by Chiffield, and took the one just vacated by his daughter. Matthew received him with the diplomatic courtesy due to the parent of one's enchantress, and made a well-meant if not novel remark on the state of the weather. Mr. Whedell mildly disputed his proposition (whatever it was)--for Mr. W. was always disputatious on that subject--and then passed to the consideration of national politics. "The one topic natually suggests the other," said Mr. Whedell, "for they are equally variable." This was one of the father's few standard jokes; and Maltboy always laughed at it with the heartiness of a future son-in-law. They then grappled with the great theme in earnest.
Clementina, having found what she sought, glided to the chair which her father had relinquished, and said, coquettishly, "Now I have come to entertainyou, Mr. Chiffield. You were speaking of Niagara Falls, the other day. Here are some photographs of them, taken for me on the spot." She handed the pictures to Mr. Chiffield. That gentleman took them with a profound bow, glanced over them, and said, "How elegant!" "What rich scenery!" "How tasty they are got up, a'n't they?" "This is the showiest picture;" "Here's a neat one," &c., &c., &c. Mr. Chiffield had contracted the use of a certain class of highly descriptive adjectives in selling dry goods. Clementina watched him narrowly, and thought how nicely she could manage this heavy fellow.
"How many times have you been to the Falls?" she asked, when Chiffield had shuffled through the photographs twice.
"Three times," said Chiffield, telling a white lie; for he had seen them at morning, noon, and evening on the same day. "And how often have you visited them, Miss Whedell?"
"Oh! so often I can't remember. My last visit was early last autumn. Oh! pa, did we go to Niagara Falls before or after our trip to the White Mountains?"
"After it, my child," replied the father, who maintained a cocked ear toward his child. "Don't you recollect we went from the Falls to Lake George, and stayed there till the first week in November? That was the year we omitted Newport and Saratoga, for a wonder," he added, conveying the idea, in a look to Mr. Chiffield, that such an omission was a marvel in their annual experiences.
"You love the Falls, I suppose?" said Mr. Chiffield.
"Oh! not much. I think they're dreadfully overrated." Clementina was determined not to be won too cheaply.
"So I think," said Chiffield, delighted to speak his real sentiments this time; "though everybody is obliged to praise 'em, because that's the fashion."
"But, though the Falls a'n't much, I must say the balls and hops are delightful. The fresh air there seems to give one strength to dance all night without a bit of fatigue. I bought these pictures because they show the hotels and other places where I have had such delicious dances."
Chiffield execrated dancing, because he had large feet, and legs slightly bowed. He moved in the cotillon or waltz with a certain elephantine ponderousness and sagacity. Therefore she tantalized him with these reminiscences.
"You see the Clifton House, there, on the Canada side? One night I danced eight waltzes, six polkas, four quadrilles, three fancy dances, and wound up, at five o'clock, with the German."
"Wonderful!" observed Chiffield, not knowing what else to say.
"Perhaps you think I was tired? Oh! not a particle. Next night we had a little hop on Table Rock. It was got up on short notice, but perfectly charming, I assure you. There were only two fiddles, and sometimes the noise of the Falls would almost drown the music. The fiddlers had to scrape so hard, that they gave out about three o'clock, and we had to give up the dancing, and go home, very much disappointed."
"Unlucky, indeed!" interjected Chiffield.
"But the next night we had two extra fiddlers. They relieved the other two at midnight, and then we danced till daybreak. Oh! such a glorious time. Next year, when I heard that a part of Table Rock had tumbled into the horrid river, I could have cried."
"It was a great shame, indeed!" said Chiffield.
"Isn't this view of Suspension Bridge natural?" she asked
"Amazing!" said Chiffield; and he ventured to add that he considered that bridge to be a great triumph of human genius.
"I dare say it is. But I didn't think of that. I was only going to tell you how the gentlemen of our Table Rock party tried to hire the use of the bridge one night to dance on. The owners wouldn't let it. Mean, weren't they?"
"Contemptible!" replied Chiffield.
"We should have had it nicely swept and lighted. The breeze coming down the river would have been beautiful, and the awful noise of the Falls wouldn't have been too loud for the music. But we almost made up for our disappointment. Next night, the gentlemen hired the 'Maid of the Mist'--the little steamboat, you know, that you see in this picture--and we sailed round and round below the Falls all night, dancing all the time. We went so near the Falls twice, that I got quite wet with the nasty spray, and caught cold; but that didn't prevent me from dancing all the next night, at the International. You have a good view of the house in this picture."
"Tasty," said Chiffield.
Mr. Whedell and Maltboy had not lost a word of this conversation, though they had been mutually boring each other with complex sentences about national politics. Happily, the discussion required no mental effort, and left them both free to hear and make mental comments on the dialogue that buzzed across the way.
Mr. Whedell regretted that his daughter should expatiate with such vivacity upon a subject that must be extremely disagreeable to a gentleman of Mr. Chiffield's large figure and steady habits. To the cultivated judgment of Maltboy, it was evident that the young lady was trying to amuse Chiffield merely for the purpose of annoying him (Maltboy). Experience had taught Matthew the best kind of cure for this species of female perversity. He determined to leave the house, and thereby show that he was not to be trifled with.
Availing himself of a pause in the dissertations on national politics, Maltboy pulled out his watch and consulted it. "Why!" said he; "nine o'clock! And I was to be in Fourteenth street by half past eight. Only intended to drop in just to see how you were. You really must excuse me, Mr. Whedell." Matthew rose as he spoke, to show that his mind was made up, and remonstrances would be useless.
"Don't go. Put off your other call," ejaculated Mr. "Whedell, at the same time rising, and thereby indicating a perfect acquiescence in the departure of his guest.
"You are in a hurry," said Miss Whedell, calmly, but without objection in voice or eye.
Mr. Chiffield looked calmly at his rival; and none but a skilled student of physiognomy could have discovered a gleam of triumph in his dull, yellow face.
Maltboy was disappointed in the calm demeanor of Miss Whedell; but, strong in his purpose, he walked toward the door, followed by the father. As he passed into the entry, he bowed coldly to the lady of his heart, and drew from her a scarcely perceptible nod.
At this moment, a valuable thought occurred to the paternal Whedell.
"My dear Maltboy," said he, closing the parlor door, "excuse the abruptness of the question; but could you lend me a couple of hundred?"
The question was indeed abrupt, but not altogether unexpected. Mr. Quigg had apprised Maltboy of Mr. Whedell's financial weakness; but the infatuation of the ardent young bachelor had led him to disregard that warning. He was fully prepared to say, "Yes, with pleasure," and he did say so.
"Thank you," said the gratified parent. "Only want it a few days." Mr. Whedell was too great an adept in the art of borrowing, to waste words of tedious explanation and gratitude, which only produce an impression that the borrower does not mean to pay. He accepted Maltboy's reply as a matter of course.
"If not too much trouble, could you give me a check to-night?" asked Mr. Whedell. "Have a payment to make before bank hours to-morrow."
"Most readily, my dear sir," replied the amiable Matthew. "Have you pen and paper convenient?"
"In this room, Mr. Maltboy," said his host, ushering him into a little apartment at the end of the entry, which contained a few books, and was passed off upon a credulous world as Mr. Whedell's library. The gas was lighted, writing materials were produced, and, in less than three minutes, Matthew Maltboy had put his name at the bottom of a check on the ---- Bank, for two hundred dollars. He did so smiling, and with a full consciousness that he had sustained a dead loss to that extent. But he was always too good-natured to deny a friend; and, in this particular case, he felt that he was buying a perpetual free admission to the house, and a usufructuary interest in the fascinations of Clementina. The idea of marriage with that young lady had never occurred to him. He never troubled himself with problems of the future.
"All right," said Mr. Whedell, folding up the check carelessly, and putting it in his pocket. "Shall I give you my note?"
"Oh, no!" said the willing victim, blandly. "Hand it me any time, at your convenience."
"Can return it within a week," responded Mr. Whedell; "but, on some accounts, the 1st of May will suit me best, if perfectly agreeable to you."
"As you please."
"We will call it the 1st of May, then. I regret you are in a hurry, sir. But remember, we are always happy to see you here."
With this pleasant remark ringing in his ears, and fully compensating him for the loss of his two hundred dollars, Maltboy hastened home, but did not tell his friends of his adventure; but he smoked and mused over it agreeably, and was totally unmindful of the truth announced by Mr. Quigg on New Year's day, when speaking of this same Whedell, that "somehow debtors always give the cold shoulder to creditors, as if the creditors owed the money."
Mr. Whedell, left to his own society, flattered himself that he had turned a rejected lover to a good account, and entered his library and sat down in the cold, that he might not, by his presence, mar the harmonious progress of the courtship upon which so much depended, in the parlor.