The Brother Clerks; A Tale of New-Orleans.

by Мэри Эшли Таунсенд Xariffa

  "And I may continue to be a welcome visitor here?"

  "Always, always."

  "Enough, Della. Farewell."

  "Adieu, mon ami!"

  The General's tall figure passed into the lofty hall, and Della heard the door close behind him. She hurried to a window, and watched him as he descended the steps and entered his carriage, then, with a feeling of reverential affection for that proud spirit and noble heart which an hour before she had scarcely expected to feel, she passed out of the parlor on her way to her own room. Traces of tears were still upon her cheeks, and her whole face still bore evidence of recent agitation.

  As she was about to ascend the stairs, Mrs. Delancey's maid met her, with the message that her mother desired an interview.

  "Say to my mother, that I beg to be excused for a few moments, but will be with her presently," said Della, proceeding up the stairs.

  The girl obeyed, but returned immediately, and over-taking Della on the stairs, said:-

  "Mistress says you must come instantly, Miss; that she wishes to see you before you go to your room."

  Dispelling, as far as possible, all traces of agitation, Della returned to her mother's apartment. The moment Mrs. Delancey's eyes fell upon her child's features, she held out her hand, with a bland smile, exclaiming:-

  "Ah, Dort, I see how it is, dear; couldn't get through with a proposal without crying a little, eh? Rather undignified, I must say, but perfectly natural for unexperienced girls, I suppose. Allow me to congratulate you."

  Della pressed the hand her mother gave, and made an effort to speak; but choked, faltered, and failed entirely, bursting into a violent fit of weeping instead.

  "Really, my child, you surprise-you shock me; if you can't behave any better now, what will you ever do at the wedding? Really, I am ashamed of you! At your age I had received seven offers, and never shed a tear!"

  "Perhaps you didn't accept them, Madam; and so, sever the ties which bound you to father and mother, and home," said Minnie, who had entered just in time to hear Mrs. Delancey's last remark.

  "That's true enough," returned the lady, as if she had not thought of the fact before. "Della, you can go to your room till you are more composed; I will tell your father what has happened, so your timidity will be spared that."

  "Oh, don't tell him anything, mamma; don't tell him this," sobbed Della.

  "Nonsense, Dort; worse and worse. Go to your room, and don't make your appearance again until you can come with a face more composed, and features not all swollen and distorted by weeping."

  Della obeyed, and her mother saw her no more that night.

  "Oh, Minny!" exclaimed the young girl, as the privacy of her own apartment was gained, and she threw herself, still sobbing, on the quadroon's bosom; "didn't you know before I went down that I never would accept him, that I never could marry him, never?"

  "Yes, Miss, I knew it."

  "Yet you implied to mamma, Minn, that you believed I had accepted him, and you know she thinks I tell you everything. Oh, Minny, you musn't tell falsehoods for my sake!"

  "I told no falsehood, Miss; I only asked your mamma a simple question, that you might get free, as I knew you wished to be."

  "But I know she thought you meant that."

  "It is wrong for people, to jump so hastily at conclusions."

  "But, Minny, you know you intended mamma should jump at that."

  "Well, Miss Della, don't chide me now about it; if it got you off without any more questions you are very glad, are you not?"

  "Of course, if it wasn't falsehood."

  "It certainly was not, Miss Della; now dry your eyes, and I will show you something."

  "A letter, Minn, from-from him?"

  Minny smiled, and nodded her head.

  "Bathe my eyes, then, and I won't shed another tear."

  Minny obeyed; and Della, with trembling fingers, tore open the letter, and perused it.

  "Is it good, Miss?"

  "Sweet Minny, read it yourself."

  The quadroon took it, and, as she stood behind her mistress, the tremor which seized her frame, when she looked upon that handwriting, was unseen and unthought of by any but herself.

  "Delightful, Miss Della."

  "Yes; now, Minny, put it with the rest."

  "You won't have it beneath your pillow then, for the first night?"

  "No, Minn; put it away. I am going to dream of General Delville, to-night, if I can-the best and noblest, and kindest man, excepting somebody you know, that ever I knew."

  "Indeed, Miss! I'm so glad he proved so."

  "Oh, yes, Minn, I can never tell you how noble and good he is; but, Minn, these letters-Bernard's letters-you are very sure you kept them all safe, perfectly secure?"

  "As the apple of my eye, Miss."

  "I have felt anxious about them sometimes of late, and have thought of offering to take care of them myself; but there's Madam Gerot in these rooms every week; I could hide nothing from her lynx eyes. I think I might do without a governess now-don't you, after having had a proposal from a General?"

  "Your mamma thinks she perfects your manners, Miss."

  "All nonsense! I never have any grace or manner when she is in sight. Minny, the truth is, I am prettier and more graceful when I am right here with you, than I would be with all the French dancing-masters and ornamental governesses in the world."

  "Bless your dear heart!"

  "Thank you, Minn; nobody ever blessed me save you and General Delville; he blessed me to-day in such a beautiful way, it went straight to my heart. Oh, if it is so sweet to be blessed by the rich, what must it be, Minny, to be blessed by the poor?"

  Minny was silent.

  "If ever I get out of fashionable society, Minn, I shall never court it again. It is a heartless sphere! I would sooner be a stone than human, with no humanity beyond flesh and blood, and that cast in a fashionable mould."

  "Your mamma is a fashionable woman, Miss, and seems very happy."

  "It is only seeming, Minn. She has more misery over an ill-fitting dress, an unshapely shoe, or an awkward glove, than you and I have in an age. I was born out of my sphere, I know I was; I ought to have been poor."

  "You may be, one of these days, Miss."

  "How so, Minn? What do you mean?"

  "Disinherited."

  "Oh, no! that will never be, I am certain."

  "But you'd not be unhappy if it should happen?"

  "Only for Bernard."

  "I am very happy to hear this."

  "Dear Minnie, you have so many foolish fears!"

  "It is better to think of these things."

  "True enough. Good night, Minn!"

  "Good night. You are going to sleep early, Miss?"

  "So as to have bright eyes in the morning, dear."

  Lonely, without her mistress, Minnie also prepared for sleep; and that night Bernard's letter was placed beneath her pillow, and her dreams were of him.

  Della, as she had hoped, dreamed of General Delville. All night long was his noble face before her, wearing that radiant expression which had illuminated it when he bade God bless her. Never afterwards, in all her waking hours, whether in joy or gloom, light or darkness, did Della cease to remember him as she dreamed of him there with the halo of that blessing circling him and her.

  Lightly as he had seemed to give her up, it had cost the General a more severe struggle than Della had imagined. He had truly loved her, old as he was, and had not loved lightly; but he could not take to his heart the heartless wife which she had frankly admitted she must be if he married her; and Della had, unwittingly, skillfully touched a tender chord, when she made the appeal to his feelings which she did. He had felt the force of her reasoning, and had been delighted with her frankness and her confidence; though it pained him to relinquish her, he was too much a soldier to display his wounds; and, though he parted from her nominally a friend, he was never more her lover than when he that afternoon called her his child and bade her adieu.

 
CHAPTER XXVI.

  Many and sharp the numerous ills

  Inwoven with our frame!

  More pointed still we make ourselves

  Regret, remorse, and shame.

  And man, whose heaven-erected face

  The smiles of love adorn,

  Man's inhumanity to man

  Makes countless thousands mourn.

  Burns.

  "Wretch!" cried Wilkins, striking at Quirk with his brawny fist, as he rose from the prostrate form of Guly-"Wretch, you have killed him!" and, seizing the offender by the collar, with the united force of foot and hand he hurled him into the street. The two other young men, who had drunk less freely of the wine, and were less excited, passed out also, expressing to Wilkins their regret at the unfortunate occurrence. Locking and barring the door, the head clerk hurried back to Guly's side, and lifted him gently in his arms. With the tender care of a mother, he bore him to his own bed and smoothed the golden curls from the wounded temple, as he laid him softly on the pillow. The old gush of love had swept back to Arthur's heart when he saw his brother fall at his side, and with throbbing pulse he implored Wilkins to fly for a physician leaving him to watch by Guly's pillow.

  Wilkins acceded to his request, and, going out by the alley door, locked it after him, and dashed down the street in search of his own physician. The sound of his heavy footsteps, as they fell upon the pavement, rang far and near through the silent streets; and, as he sped on, their echo fell upon his ear fearfully, and sent a thrill of something like terror through his strong frame. He even slackened his pace, and strove to lighten his tread that the desolate sound might not thus sweep constantly after him; but his anxiety with regard to Guly was so intense that he found it impossible to go at a slower gait, and he went on, running strongly, his huge chest heaving with the unwonted exertion, and the big drops of perspiration standing out like rain-drops on his brow. Suddenly there came a low hum of voices to his ear, not unlike the murmur of a distant sea. Louder and louder, it came upon the midnight air, till, answering to the echo of his flying steps, came the distant cry of "Murder! stop him! stop him! Murder!" And the prolonged, terrific cry sent a panic through every limb, as for an instant the head clerk paused to listen.

  As by instinct, he comprehended all. He felt as fully aware as though he had been plainly told so, that the echo of his hurried pace had been caught by the quick ear of the night guardians, and he was pursued as a midnight assassin. Thinking that the safest course would be to hurry straight to the physician's office, where he was well known and where the statement he might make would be corroborated, he again struck into a run, and with all his strength endeavored to elude the pursuers, whose voices every moment fell more clearly on his ear.

  He felt in his great heart all the terrible consequences which might accrue to Guly if he should be captured, for there would necessarily be more or less delay in his again obtaining freedom.

  But, swiftly as he fled, he felt he was no match for the swift-footed pursuers behind him, and the cry of murder, and the sound of clubs upon the banquette, and the sharp, quick watchman's rattle, fell on his ear more startlingly clear every moment. Suddenly he thought to dart down the first dark street, and at the next block double on his pursuers. But his design had been anticipated, and as he dashed at a headlong pace round the corner, he found himself face to face with a posse of policemen, and a crowd of half-dressed coffee-house loafers, who are always abroad upon the first hint of an excitement.

  With a shout of triumph, Wilkins' arms were pinioned at his side; and despite all his prayers and entreaties, he was hurried away to the guard-house. He begged to be allowed to stop at Doctor C.'s office, and deliver him the message he had brought, assuring them that, would they but give him a few minutes' time, he could fully assure them of his innocence; but all in vain. An atrocious murder had been committed somewhere up town, and they had been chasing all night, they said, to find the assassin, who had escaped. They declared themselves "fagged out," and swore they must "chuck" somebody, and if he wasn't the right man he could prove it in the morning, and that was all they had to say; and, in bitterness of heart and anxiety of mind, Wilkins heard the heavy door shut with a short clang, and knew he was a prisoner! Wearily the night sped away; and, tortured with anxiety for the pale young being whom he had left senseless on his pillow, Wilkins walked the narrow precincts of his cell moody and disconsolate. For with all the evil of this man's strange nature, there were some pure and sparkling gems of good, which cast a radiance, bright and purifying, over the dark traits of his character. This love for Guly was one of these. Springing up, as it did, from among the rank weeds of sin and recklessness in his breast, it proved that he could appreciate the lovely, and knew how to cherish it. Then, his guardian care of Blanche, the brodereuse-where a thousand men would have but thought of evil, his sole care was to ward it from her. And now, as he walked back and forth across the heavily spiked floor, another ray of glorious and intense light shot from his great heart heavenward. It was a prayer! breathed there in the midst of the perplexities and troubles which surrounded him, earnestly, hopefully breathed for Guly; and if ever a prayer ascended to the "Great White Throne," accepted for its faith and sincerity, that one did, sent from the burning lips of Bernard Wilkins that night.

  Morning came, and he was taken before the Recorder, and though it required but little trouble to prove his innocence, it took time, and it was with a breast lacerated by a thousand fears that he found himself again at liberty, and turned his steps towards the store.

  As he had left the front door key inside, Jeff had as usual been able to open the store and put things in order. The clerks were many of them in their places, but he scarcely noticed any one; passing up between them, with long and rapid strides, he struck his foot against the door of his room, and the next instant stood at Guly's side. He lay as he had left him, on the bed, still wrapped in his white robe, pale and very beautiful. Wilkins bent breathlessly over him, and the blue eyes at that moment opened, and smiled a welcome upon him. Clasping his hands together with an upward look of thankfulness, Wilkins fell upon his knees beside the bed and buried his face in the covers, as if he would fain conceal the too vivid pleasure expressed in his features.

  A hand was laid upon his shoulder. He started, looked up, and met the gaze of Arthur.

  "Ah, yes, Arthur, I had forgotten you. How did you manage? What could you do?"

  "Finding you did not return, I suspected something had occurred, and dispatched Jeff after the nearest physician. He pronounced Guly's wound not dangerous, but recommended quiet for a day or so. You see he is doing nicely; he wasn't hurt much after all. As Quirk says, he is such a weakly affair, that it takes nothing at all to knock the senses out of him."

  "Then you have had a conference with Quirk, this morning, have you?" returned Wilkins, coldly. "Well, your very humane judgment is worthy of both of you; you can now go to your counter, sir, if you like, or seek rest if you are fatigued, as you choose."

  Arthur took his place in the store. Aided by Quirk's slurs and inuendoes, as soon as he saw Guly recovering he had experienced another revulsion of feeling, and really cherished a sentiment of anger, when he remembered that he had allowed himself to be so "bullied," as Quirk expressed it, by a stripling so weak and "curdy" as Gulian. He convinced Arthur, with his reckless reasoning, that in gambling for a little "innocent amusement," there in the store, they were but doing what all young men with any idea of fashionable pleasure did, and that Wilkins had no right to exert over them the authority which he did. That, as for Guly's wound, it was Wilkins' fault he had received it, and, altogether, they ought to have fought it out before yielding so easily. But though he had succeeded in leading Arthur to think that Guly was meddlesome and intrusive, he could not succeed in rousing his ire towards Wilkins; for Arthur was not so blind as to be unable to see that Wilkins was his truest friend. Still, there was a restless and undefined uneasiness in his breast, a fancy that his dignity had been insulted, yet
so vague was the impression left on his mind by the wily Quirk, that he could scarcely decide from whom he had suffered it, Wilkins or Guly; but with that unnatural perversity which sometimes enthrals the human heart, he was more than half inclined to think it was his brother, and cherished an indignant feeling against him, which even the memory of his pallid face as he lay before him the night before, with the blood slowly oozing from his wounded temple down the blue-veined cheek, could not dissipate; and whenever, during that long day, he went into Wilkins' darkened room to look upon the young form lying there, it was not in sorrow and love, but silence and coldness.

  When Mr. Delancey came to the store that day, which was at an hour later than usual, Wilkins joined him at his high desk, and held with him a long conference. The merchant had shown many signs of impatience during its pending, and no slight evidences of anger. As Wilkins turned away, Mr. Delancey sat looking down through the store for some time, leaning stiffly back in his chair meanwhile. The moment he saw Quirk disengaged, he called his name in his sharp, peculiar tone of voice, at the same time beckoning to him with his forefinger. Quirk flung down the piece of goods he was about folding, and a scarce perceptible pallor spread over his coarse cheeks, as, darting a malicious glance at Wilkins, he approached the high desk.

  "So, sir, you took the liberty to gamble in my store last night, eh?"

  "I wasn't the only one."

  "Hold your tongue, sir. You dare not tell me you didn't propose it?"

  "Mallory, Adams and Arthur Pratt joined me."

  "You knew the store's rules better than they. Do you know that I think any one that gambles will steal?"

  "Then your store is full of thieves."

  "The more need, then, of making an example for their benefit. Take your place, sir; you have a fortnight's warning to find another situation, and quit."

  With cheeks glowing with anger and fierce resentment, Quirk went back to his place, knowing there was no use in arguing the matter with such a man as Delancey; who had, in fact, acted entirely upon Wilkins' suggestion; whereas the others would no doubt have shared the same fate, had he acted upon his own. The head clerk had laid the whole matter before him exactly as it was, quietly throwing in his own advice and ideas on the subject, and there were reasons why Mr. Delancey didn't choose to differ very materially from what his head clerk said.