It was eleven o'clock in the evening when, heated and dizzy from the wine they had drunk, Arthur and Charley took their seats in the cars for home; with Mr. Clinton heavily reclining between them. They were a noisy trio, though an experienced eye might have detected readily that Clinton pretended to be much more intoxicated than he really was. When the cars arrived at St. Joseph-street he alighted, bidding his two friends a hearty good night, and saying, as he shook Arthur's hand:
"Hope to see you soon again, Pratt, [hic]-from this day for [hic] ward, consider me one of you."
And, with a stagger which threatened a fall, he left the cars, and disappeared round the corner. As he did so, he drew a ponderous key from his pocket, and holding it up between his eye and an adjacent lamp, regarded it closely, then burst into a laugh: "I'll have some fun with this yet, I reckon; I'll teach the governor to forbid my having any of the keys. By the gods! I'll bring him round with this, or die in the attempt," soliloquized Mr. Clinton, swinging the key between his thumb and finger.
"By-the-by," he added, suddenly thrusting it deep into a side-pocket, "I'll just stroll down Chartres-street, and see what the boys'll do when they find it out."
Mr. Clinton was evidently perfectly sober.
Whistling a tune thoughtfully, as he went, he reached Camp-street; when, taking the shady side, he struck into a run, which pace he kept up until he had crossed Canal, then he assumed a slow, careless walk; and as the moon had now risen, the lamps had been put out, and one side of Chartres-street lay in deep shadow.
To this side he kept, and when he had arrived nearly opposite Delancey's store, he stepped back into an archway, and remained quiet.
In a few moments he heard the voices of his late companions, and saw them coming down the other side of the street, leaning upon each other, and both evidently fully affected by the liquor they had imbibed.
As Charley gained the door, he sustained himself by holding with his left hand upon the door-post, while with the right he applied a small steel key to the key-hole.
"Why the devil don't it fit? Lend a hand here, Pratt, and see what you can do."
Arthur had seated himself upon the step, and sat with his head leaning on his hand, but he rose at Charley's bidding, and took the key.
"Why don't it fit?" said he, after looking at it a moment, intently. "Well, the reason is my trunk key don't fit this door, and I'd like to know how you came by it."
"Your trunk key! well, where's the other? Your trunk key! I guess so! Well, here's one that will fit," and he drew out a brass house-door key, and shufflingly applied it to the lock.
"Devil! wrong again. Pratt, stand up here, and help me."
"We'll never get in at this rate, Charley."
"I'll give you a lodging, if that's what you're after," said a voice near them, and a hand fell heavily on a shoulder of each.
"Nabbed, by gripes!" cried Quirk, suddenly turning round.
"But just look here, old feller, I'd like to know [hic] what for you arrest a couple-of gen'l'men for-as is decently [hic] to go home to bed."
"Breaking into a store is a new way of going to bed. You're my prisoners; so march along with you."
"Do you take us for thieves," said Arthur, startled into soberness; "we belong there, and were trying to use our pass-key."
"Let's see your pass-key, then."
"It's lost! I can find it neither in my own nor my companion's pockets."
"Good story, but won't go down, so trot along."
And the watchman, stepping between them, seized an arm of each, and hurried them off to the guard-house.
"Phew! that's more than I bargained for," said Clinton, stepping out of the archway, and looking after the retreating figures. "However, that's Grey that's got 'em, and I can make it straight by morning." So saying, he pressed his hand hard upon the ponderous key he held, and muttering, "Ah, a good time's coming," turned his steps toward the First Municipality.
CHAPTER VI.
Since noonday, Guly had sat in the darkened store alone. He could not go out in search of his brother, being ignorant of the streets; and besides, where in that great city could he have looked with any hope of finding him? When he returned from church, and found Arthur absent, he was not only surprised, but deeply troubled. Knowing what a stranger he was in that vast metropolis, the thought crossed his mind that in the proud and angry mood that was upon him, he might have wandered off, and lost himself. But an instant's reflection told him that any one would be able to give the direction of Mr. Delancey's store, and that Arthur, in such a case, would not be slow to make inquiry.
He could but wait patiently, as there was no one near, either to accompany him in a search, or to give him advice. He seated himself to write to his mother, deeming that his time could not be more dutifully passed.
The letter was finished and sealed, and still no news of Arthur. Guly had seized his hat with the intent of going forth at all hazards, when the door of his room slowly opened, and Jeff's shining face was thrust in.
"Please, young massar, may I come in?"
"Certainly. Close the door."
The negro entered with a shuffling gait, holding a tattered straw hat in his hands, and with a bow and sheepish look stopped directly in front of Guly.
"Anything I can do for you, Jeff?"
"Well, I hopes you'll 'scuse my 'trusion, young massar, but I thought as dis was Sunday, mebbe you'd be reading dat big book yourself, and would let me hear you."
"To be sure, Jeff, to be sure. Whenever that big book is read you will always be a welcome listener, and whenever I have time I shall always be ready to read it to you."
"Oh, young massar, you is so good to de poor nigger-sometimes when I look at you, I can't help tinking you'se just some angel as has lost his wings, and a-waiting on dis airth till they grow agin."
"Hush, Jeff."
"Yes, massar; if you'se ready to read, I'se ready to listen."
Guly smiled at this misconstruction of his words, but opening the Bible he read aloud the fourteenth chapter of John; while Jeff sat with his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his palms, his large eyes fixed attentively on the reader.
When the chapter was finished, Guly took the different paragraphs, and in a simple but concise manner endeavored to explain all which was difficult for his listener to understand.
"Thar!" said Jeff, flinging his old hat emphatically upon the floor, as Guly ceased, "If that ain't as good as a minister, dis child guv it up, dat's all! Oh, young massar, if you'd just call a meetin' ob de clerks in dis store, and read and 'spound to 'em sometime in dis way, dar'd be a better set in old massar's bizness, to say the least."
"Your master's clerks all seem to be well-disposed young men, I'm sure, Jeff-I never see them commit a wrong."
"You'se too good yousef to see evil, sah; but mebbe de clerks is good when de Boss's sharp eye is on 'em."
"Oh!" exclaimed Guly, starting to his feet, and rapidly pacing the floor, "What a place of sin for a young inexperienced boy to be in, and under the influence of evil companions. Oh! my brother! my brother!"
"He'll be home by night-time, Massar Gulian, in my 'pinion. I'se jus sorry I told you, sah, since you take on so, but it just slipped out o' me like, an' I couldn't help it."
Guly drew a chair near one of the windows, and though he could see neither sky above or brightness below, he gazed out upon the brick walls before him, and his thoughts flew backward to the past. From that hour of reflection Guly rose up wiser and older. He felt how much depended on himself, and decided that henceforth his watchful eye should ever be upon the brother, who, though so much older than himself, required so much of tender counsel and care.
The sun was down when he again approached the table where Jeff still sat, turning over the leaves of the "Big Book."
"Massar Gulian, you look in your eyes as though you was gwine to pray. May I hear you 'fore I go?"
Guly bowed, and knelt beside his dusky friend; and as he prayed, the great white tear
s rolled over Jeff's cheeks, and fell down on the box by which he was kneeling.
The prayer was ended and Jeff rose to go.
"Good night, Jeff," said Guly, holding out his hand.
"Good night, young Massar; God forever bress your heart."
Left alone, Guly sat down to patiently await the termination of what he could not possibly avert; but the loneliness was so oppressive, the silence and darkness lay like such a weight upon his troubled heart, that he determined to descend to Wilkins' room, and if he were there to remain with him.
Having no light in his chamber, he opened the door, and slowly groped his way down the winding stairs. When he had nearly reached the foot he fancied he heard voices, and, surprised at such a sound coming from the direction of the head-clerk's room, he paused to listen; but the step on which he stood creaked loudly, and the voices ceased.
Going cautiously on in the darkness, he reached the big desk, and further back saw a stream of light glimmering through the crevice of Wilkins' door. He evidently was at home, but unless his ears had very much deceived him, Guly felt certain he was not alone.
Not wishing to play the spy, the boy went forward, and was about to knock, when through the crevice of the door his eye fell upon a scene which again arrested his attention, and held him speechless.
Wilkins was seated at a low table, writing, apparently answering a letter, which lay open before him, written in a peculiarly beautiful and delicate female hand. The light of the lamp fell full upon his face, which was very pale; and his teeth were pressed hard into his under lip.
Behind him, with one hand clasped upon the back of his chair, stood a young girl; and though her features were of exquisite proportions and beautiful moulding, she displayed in the slight tinge of duskiness upon her skin, and the peculiar blackness of her large eyes, unmistakable proofs, to an experienced judge, of the quadroon blood in her veins.
Her hair was long, and of midnight blackness; and fell in thick, close curls over the graceful scarf which covered her shoulders. Her forehead was high and fine, her eyebrows arched and delicately traced-her nose free from all trace of her negro origin, and her lashes long and curving upon her round cheek. Her mouth was small, and the lips parted over teeth of the most perfect regularity; but in this feature, more than in any other, as she stood watching Wilkins, as he wrote, there was an expression of proud bitterness, which came and went over those exquisite features, like gleams of lightning.
As Wilkins finished writing, he carefully folded and sealed his letter, and handed it to the girl, without adding any superscription.
"There, Minny, give her that; but, remember how much depends upon your secresy. There's a day coming when you shall meet your full reward for all you are doing for us now."
"Yes, Mr. Bernard," she replied, addressing him by his first name, and speaking earnestly, "I think of that myself sometimes, and tremble."
"And tremble! What do you mean?"
"Nothing, nothing; no matter now. Give me a pass, and let me be gone! The great gun has fired two hours ago!"
"You are too white to need a pass, Minny."
"Ay! but I am a slave."
The bitter emphasis with which she uttered these last words sank deep into Guly's young heart, and was the first intimation to him that she was not of unmixed origin. She looked so purely beautiful, as she stood there with that shade of scornful sadness on her face, that the boy forgot the part he was acting in standing there, and remained with his large eyes riveted upon her.
"Here's your pass, Minny; but, mark me, it will not be claimed of you."
As he spoke Wilkins rose, and handed her the paper. She concealed the letter he had given her in her dress, then folded the pass between her fingers, and prepared to leave.
The head clerk had stood still until how, watching her with a strange, eager expression on his face; but as he saw her about to leave him he sprang suddenly forward, and throwing one of his huge arms about her waist, drew back her head with the other, and imprinted kiss after kiss upon her lips.
She struggled wildly, but silently; and at last, with an almost superhuman effort, freed herself from his grasp. She turned, as she did so, and lifting her small hand closely clenched, struck him furiously full in the mouth.
The blood gushed over his lips; and never, to the latest day of his existence, not even when he saw her lie cold and still in her coffin, did Guly forget the fearful expression in her pallid face, and the almost demoniacal glare in her black eye, as she marked the effect of her blow, and darted by him like some frightened bird, escaped from the spoiler's net.
He shrank further into the darkness as she passed him, and saw her rush toward the back part of the building, where the large windows descended to the floor. She flung one up hastily, and leaped through it to the ground.
The next moment he heard the swift pattering of small feet in the alley, and the rustling of a woman's dress, as if some one were running.
The head clerk had thrown himself upon a couch, face downwards, after he received the blow, and Guly seeing he had been unobserved, thought best not to intrude upon him at this moment; and with a quiet, cat-like tread, and trembling violently with the excitement of the scene he had witnessed, he groped his way back to his own chamber.
An hour passed before he ventured to descend the stairs again; and then he found Wilkins sitting as he had seen him in the morning, at the big desk, with his coat off, reading.
"This is a late hour for you to be down stairs, my boy! What has happened to make you so pale? Are you sick?"
"No, sir, but I am troubled."
And Guly stepped toward him, and laid one hand upon the desk, while he related to Wilkins all that he had felt with regard to his brother, since he parted from him in the morning.
"Tut, tut!" said he, shaking his head as the boy finished, "this is a bad business. If I had not thought you were together somewhere, I would have been with you. I'm afraid your brother has got into bad company, which I should be sorry enough for, I promise you."
Wilkins spoke this in a tone of such kindly sympathy, at the same time laying one hand gently upon the golden head beside him, that Guly's overwrought feelings could no longer be restrained; and the tears gushed thickly from his eyes.
"Don't," said Wilkins, tenderly, "don't! This will doubtless be the last time he will wander off in this way-he is impulsive and yielding, and you, who are less so, must guard him in future."
Cheered, though not convinced, by Wilkins' words, Guly once more sought his own room. He had never pressed that pillow alone before, and with a desolate and heavy heart, the golden lashes were allowed to droop, and the boy fell into a troubled slumber.
Through a narrow chink in the roof above, a moonbeam stole, and nestled down beside him. It lay there in Arthur's vacant place like the gleam of an angel's smile; and all it fell upon was purity and beauty. The night wore on. The boy slept, the moonbeam faded, and troubled dreams and desolate darkness alone remained behind.
CHAPTER VII.
Della.
The city clocks were tolling midnight, and the moon rode high in the heavens. In one of the most elegant houses Apollo-street could boast, sat a young girl. The room in which she was sitting presented a scene of almost oriental ease and luxury. There was the rich carpet, giving back no echo to the tread, the gorgeous divans, into which the form sank as into down, the glittering chandeliers, the rare and exquisite vases, statuary, birds, books, and all that the capricious, self-willed spirit, which presided there, could wish to draw around her. The lights in the chandeliers had been extinguished; and save that which crept in from the moon, and that emitted from a small night-lamp, burning behind its alabaster shade, the room lay in soft shadow.
The long windows descended to the floor, and opened upon a balcony, from whence was wafted by the slight night-breeze, the delicate fragrance of the jasmine, mingled with that of rare roses, and other choice flowers. At the lower end of the balcony, a flight of steps descended to the gard
en, where the music of a tinkling fountain fell refreshingly on the ear. This part of the grounds was protected by a high brick wall, thickly overrun with luxuriant vines, which entirely concealed a small door, long left forgotten and unused by the proprietor of these princely domains.
This door opened into an adjacent court, little used save by the domestics, and thence egress was easy to the street. Seated upon a velvet cushion, the fair occupant of the apartment gazed eagerly out upon the garden-door. One slipper of small size and delicate hue lay a little distance from her, as if it had been cast impatiently from the unshod foot. Her brow was pressed against the window-sash, and every rustle of the vine-leaves, every whisper of the night-wind, had caused her to start violently, and called forth some low ejaculation of impatience or vexation.
"Past twelve, and not here yet!" she exclaimed, drawing from her belt a small French watch, glittering with jewels, and glancing at the hour with a frown.
"Ah! Dieu! what can have happened now? I shall be asleep before many minutes, unless-"
At this moment there came up from the garden a harsh grating sound, as of some one cautiously turning a key in a rusty lock. The listener started to her feet, and laid one hand upon her heart. There were light steps upon the stairs-a cautious tread upon the balcony-and Minny, the Quadroon, sank at her mistress's feet.
"So, child, you've come at last! Where have you lingered this long, long time? I am most distracted with watching for you, and my head aches terribly."
Minny lifted up her pale face, with the black hair falling in strong contrast around it, and the angry glitter not yet gone from her brilliant eye.
"Lady, I have lingered nowhere unnecessarily. You bade me be cautious, and it takes time to take stealthy steps. Besides, I was obliged to wait before I could approach him, and then-"
"Enough, Minny! and then he gave you a letter for me. Give it me, girl, quick!"
The Brother Clerks; A Tale of New-Orleans. Page 4