The Brother Clerks; A Tale of New-Orleans.

by Мэри Эшли Таунсенд Xariffa

  After he had dismissed Quirk, the merchant every now and then turned his eye upon Wilkins' room door, as if he fain would enter there could he possibly do so without being seen. Unconsciously, as it were, Mr. Delancey had that morning missed the bright young brow and gentle eyes, which in all his moods never had failed to show him the respect of an obeisance and a greeting regularly upon his entrance. There was an uprightness and nobleness too, characterizing Guly's every deed which the merchant had not failed to observe, and which had created a respect and esteem for the boy even in that obdurate heart.

  Mr. Delancey stepped down from his high desk, and began to traverse the space between it and the long windows. But every turn brought him nearer and nearer to the little bed-room door, and at last, certain that he was unobserved, he laid his hand upon the knob and slipped in.

  If ever the merchant displayed his awkwardness, it was in a sick room; the knowledge of which fact, perhaps, made him so rare a frequenter of such places.

  As he stopped at Guly's bedside, with his long fingers pressed down among the pillows, the boy opened his eyes, and looked up in his face with a smile, expecting to see Wilkins or Arthur. He was greatly surprised at seeing his employer, but immediately extended his hand and said:

  "Is it possible 'tis you, Mr. Delancey? This is an unexpected pleasure."

  Mr. Delancey took the proffered hand in his, held it loosely for a moment in his bony fingers, as if unaccustomed to holding friendly hands, then let it drop back again upon the bed-clothes.

  "Why is my presence so unexpected? Don't you suppose I ever look in on sick clerks?"

  "I certainly hope so, sir; I scarcely expected it in my case; but I am very happy to be disappointed-sit down sir?"

  The merchant seated himself, and said:

  "So you got in a row last night."

  "In trouble, sir; most unfortunately. I hope that it is the last case of the kind."

  "Yes, bad to have your place empty-want all my men at their posts. Get about as soon as you can. Be up to-morrow, I 'spose?"

  "Yes, sir, God willing."

  "God willing! Do you always put that in?" said Mr. Delancey, half rising from his chair, then reseating himself.

  "Yes, sir, always."

  The merchant sat for a moment, with his cold eye fixed on his earnest face.

  "Invariably you say that, eh?"

  "Invariably, sir."

  "Humph! I don't!" returned the other, rising abruptly from the chair, and, without another word, he slipped out of the little door as cautiously as he had entered, and again took his seat at his desk.

  The day wore on with an occasional visit from Arthur, a frequent one from Wilkins, and numerous inquiries sent by all the clerks, who could not help but feel an interest in the young sufferer.

  By the increased darkness of the room, Guly knew the day must be most gone, and he lay looking upon the little table where one night he had seen Wilkins writing, with the quadroon standing behind his chair-that night which he had remembered so distinctly and pondered on so much.

  As he lay musing upon that event, his attention was attracted by a singular noise outside his door, and the next moment it was thrown open, and to Guly's utter astonishment the dwarf swung himself in upon his long crutches, with Wilkins, looking like a giant, walking smilingly behind him.

  "Here's a friend that's true to you, Guly; he misses you, you see, as well as the rest of us."

  "Hih! hih! Monsieur," chuckled the little man, reaching up and catching hold of Guly's fingers; "I have seen you nowhere to-day; I think you very sick or very dead. I get no picayune to-day, no bean soup. Hih! hih! Monsieur, I miss you very much."

  "You are kind, to come and see me, my poor friend. It seems very natural to see your face. You are welcome."

  "Me welcome?" squeaked the dwarf, climbing up with much difficulty into the chair Mr. Delancey had so recently left; "me welcome, Monsieur! Hih! that's mor'n has been said to me these many years-hih! poor deformed little devil that I am!"

  Guly heard a sound, a strange sound, something between a schoolboy snivel and a sob, and looking up, to his amazement saw a bright tear rolling down his visitor's wrinkled cheek, and his one eye, seeming to lie out farther on his face then ever, was glistening with more.

  "You have never told me your name," said Guly, hoping to divert his attention.

  "No,'cause I never thort you cared to know it," returned the other, wiping his eye on the cuff of his coat. "The boys call me King Richard, because, as they say, he was stoop-shouldered like me, Monsieur. They daren't exactly call me humped for fear of my crutches, hih! hih! You can call me Richard, or Dick, or what you choose."

  "You musn't talk too much to Monsieur," said Wilkins, kindly; "he is too ill to hear much conversation-hurts his head."

  "Hih! no, I won't hurt him. A picayune, Monsieur: I've had no bean soup, to-day. Pauvre Richard!"

  Wilkins dropped a piece of silver in the claw-like hand, and went back into the store.

  The dwarf sat rubbing the dime on his sleeve, brightening it, and looking curiously at it with his one eye, as if to assure himself it was good-then disposed of it somewhere about his person.

  "Are you hungry, Richard?" asked the boy, eyeing him pityingly.

  "Oui, Monsieur, hungry and poor and friendless. Oh, Lord! but I've got a dime to buy bread now, hih! hih! hih!"

  "I am your friend, Richard; never go hungry when you are destitute. I am not rich, but I always hope to be able to give you a piece of bread, and you musn't call yourself friendless ever again."

  The dwarf hitched himself round on his chair, and fixed his great raw-looking eye inquisitively on the gentle face looking upon him.

  "Friend to me, Monsieur, such a horrid little ape as me? Hih! hih! can't think that."

  "Don't call yourself such names, Richard. The hand that made me, made you; and He has commanded us to love one another," said the boy, sweetly.

  "And you can love me, you? Hih! no, no, no, I wasn't born to be loved, only to be kicked round the world like a football while I live, and when I die to be kicked into a pauper's grave. Hard lot! deformed, friendless, wretched, poor. Nothing to love, no one to love me, hih! wonder what I was born for. Monsieur, what hurt you?"

  Guly smiled at the sudden transition in the dwarf's manner, and replied briefly that he had been hurt with broken glass.

  "Hih! that's bad. I must get down and go away-make you talk too much-'hurt your head.' Always hurt people's heads, I do-that part where their eyes are. Adieu, Monsieur."

  The dwarf, after some labor, reached the floor, and succeeded in tucking a crutch under either arm.

  "Hope you'll get well, Monsieur."

  "Be round to-morrow I hope, Richard; thank you."

  "Hope so. Adieu."

  "Adieu."

  He swung away, and reached the door, but hobbled back to the bed again, and raising his red, skinny fingers, took Guly's hand in his.

  "You meant what you said, Monsieur, about loving one another?"

  "Yes. Truly so, Richard."

  "And I may think of you as loving even me?"

  "As loving you, Richard. As loving you for one of the Great God's cherished works, sent here expressly to call forth our love, and awaken the dormant sympathies of our nature."

  "May that Great God, bless you, Monsieur. Hih! hih! Adieu."

  Once more he gained the door, and this time it closed behind him, shutting him out. And Guly fell asleep, with the earnest blessing of the poor deformed one brightening his dreams, and the holy words, "Love ye one another," ringing sweetly through his heart.

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  "Nor heaven nor earth hath been at peace

  To-night."

  Shakspeare.

  The Friday night, which had been set aside by Clinton for his meeting with Arthur, arrived. It came in "clouds, and storm, and darkness," with darting lightning and crashing thunder, and all the wild fierceness which ever characterizes a thunder-storm in that climate.

&
nbsp; Arthur had been nervous and ill at ease all day; a fact which all noticed, but which was attributed to anxiety on Guly's account, who, contrary to expectation, was still unable to be about.

  Evening came, the store was closed, and all the clerks were out, save Quirk, Arthur, and Wilkins, who still lingered within, talking of Guly, and commenting on the unusual wildness of the storm. Through the day, Quirk had managed to slip a scrap of writing-paper into Arthur's hand, which had been duly read, and destroyed, and both now waited an opportunity to act upon what it contained.

  Quirk quietly lighted a cigar, and, seating himself, turned good-naturedly to Wilkins, remarking:-

  "I suppose you know, old boy, that I got my discharge from these premises t'other day."

  "Indeed!" returned the head-clerk, coldly, striking a match to light a cigar for himself.

  "Yes, cleared out, within a fortnight, bag and baggage; all on account of that deuced little spree we had here the other night. By-the-by, Mr. Wilkins, I believe you have had a finger in this pie. How could you treat a fellow so?"

  "I told you I would report you."

  "Well, 'twasn't hardly fair, I vum. I didn't do more than the rest, but I suffer all alone. However, I don't bear anybody any ill will, and hope when we part it will be on good terms."

  "I hope so, I'm sure."

  "I've a bottle of prime old Port left of the other night; what say you to taking a drink this stormy time, to our future good friendship?"

  "I've no objections-most certainly."

  Quirk went to the other end of the store, and took a bottle and some glasses from under the counter. He filled three of the glasses, and handed one to each of his friends, and kept the other for himself.

  "Here's oblivion to the past, and brightness for the future."

  Wilkins smiled, nodded, and the glasses were drained to the bottom.

  At this moment Quirk caught sight of Jeff, who had just been in to see Guly, but who now stood with his great eyes fixed upon the group before him, with a mixture of wonder and sadness in his glance.

  "Ah, Jeff! oughtn't to forget you to-night. Have some?"

  "Don't care, massa."

  Quirk filled another glass to the brim.

  "Now, Jeff, you must give us a toast, or you can't have the wine."

  "Guy, massa, who ever heard of a nigga's toastin' white folks," replied Jeff, showing his whole range of ivories.

  "Must give us something."

  "Well, den, massa, if I must, I must. Here's hopin' you'll never be less de brack man's fren dan now you am."

  The negro's toast was drunk with a hearty good-will, Quirk only pausing, thoughtfully, to ask if he spoke in general terms of the colored race, or referred to himself singly; to which Jeff merely said "Yes," leaving the matter as obscure as before.

  When his cigar was finished, Quirk buttoned his coat to the throat, and, taking an umbrella, shook hands with Arthur and Wilkins, and proceeded toward the door.

  "You might stay, and share Arthur's bed to-night," said Wilkins, calling after him. "It's a dreadful storm to go out in, and he is alone, you know-Guly being in my bed."

  "Thank you," returned the other, "not to-night."

  "I wish you would," joined in Arthur; "that's a gloomy old room to be alone in, in such a noisy night as this."

  "Hope you ain't afraid of spirits," laughed Quirk. "I would really like to stay, but I have an engagement to meet a friend at the St. Louis bar-room to-night, and I ought to have been there half an hour ago. Good-night."

  He opened the door, and passed out, while a gust of wind and rain swept in through the opening.

  Arthur shuddered. "Really," said he, speaking to Wilkins, "I believe I am nervous to-night; I feel as fidgetty as an old woman; yet I have seen the time when I could glory in such a storm as this, and climb to the summit of old Cro'nest, on the Hudson, in its midst."

  "You have been dissipating a little of late, you know," returned the other, patting his shoulder; "that makes a difference. Then, you have, no doubt, been anxious about your brother, and that makes a difference. Perhaps Jeff had better take his bed to your room to-night, and lie there. He will be better than no company, with the lightning and thunder on such a spree about one's ears. What say you?"

  "But Jeff is needed here."

  "No, he isn't. He only lies behind that door in the capacity of a big watch-dog," returned the other, laughing, "to bark if he hears any one breaking in, and he hasn't had cause to do that since I've been here. Jeff, take your mattress to Master Pratt's room, and sleep there to-night."

  Jeff obeyed, glad himself to be near somebody during this fierce battle of the elements; and Arthur told him to go on up stairs with the light, and he would be with him presently.

  Leaving Wilkins smoking in the store, Arthur stole softly into Guly's sick chamber. A night-lamp was burning on the table, casting its mellow light faintly through the apartment, and displaying the sufferer's pale features, as he lay asleep, with his bright hair floating back upon his pillow.

  Arthur knelt by the bedside, and took one of his brother's burning hands in his, and bowed his head upon it. He uttered no word, heaved no sigh, but knelt motionless and silent-so silent that his heavy heart-throbs were audible. When he raised his head, tears were on his cheeks, and, as he bent to press his lips to Guly's, those tears fell down upon that fair, pale brow, and glittered there like gems.

  Dashing away these traces of what he deemed his weakness, Arthur passed out of the room, and shaking hands with Wilkins, as he bade him good-night, mounted the winding stairs, and entered his own chamber.

  "Massa Pratt," said Jeff, turning on his mattress, as Arthur entered the room, "you don't think as how your brudder's gwine to die, do you?"

  "Die! Heavens, Jeff, no! What put that in your head?"

  "Don't know, sah! don' know nuffin' 'bout it."

  Arthur slowly undressed, and placing his clothes near the bedside, lay down upon his pillow.

  "Jeff, do you ever expect to get to sleep in such a tumult as this?"

  "Guy, massa, guess I does. Neber was so sleepy afore in all my life. 'Spect it's dat wine dat makes it; I don't often git sich drinks as dat. Massa Quirk mighty good just on de ebe of lebin de business. Yah! yah!"

  In a few minutes Jeff was asleep; and his loud breathing was audible, even above the howling of the storm. Arthur lay still for half an hour, restless, and with ear strained to catch the faintest sound coming up from the store below. But all was still, and he rose up, and dressed himself, throwing over his other garments a cloak, which he wrapped closely about him, as if preparing to breast the weather. He laid his hand on the small door, leading down the steep staircase into the court, and was about to pass forth, when, with a sudden impulse, he dropped the cloak from his shoulders, and opened the door leading down to the store instead. Arthur could not go out upon his mysterious errand, without casting one more look upon his brother's face. Perhaps he felt it might possibly give him strength to resist temptation, or might urge him to forego some premeditated evil; whatever it was that prompted him to seek his side, he obeyed it, and in a moment stood in the door of Wilkins' chamber. The light of the night-lamp revealed the form of the head clerk lying stretched upon his bed, sound asleep, and breathing heavily; one of his strong arms encircled Guly, and his broad breast pillowed the boy's head.

  Arthur looked at them earnestly, fearless of their waking, for he had seen (what none of the rest observed) Quirk sprinkle into Wilkins' wine, as also into Jeff's, a few grains of a drug, intended to make their slumbers deep; and Guly, he knew, slept an invalid's sleep, heavy from weakness and exhaustion. After gazing at them for awhile, Arthur stepped to the table, and extinguished the lamp, then drew the door close after him, and groped his way back up stairs. Again he wrapped the cloak about him, drew his cap over his brows, and went down into the court. He paused once more, as he opened the alley-door with his pass-key, and turned his eyes back toward the spot he was leaving. The darkness was impenetrable, but h
e gazed earnestly back as if all were distinctly visible, then closed the door behind him, and went shudderingly forth into the tempest. He had crossed that threshold for the last time bearing in his breast a crimeless-soul, and he felt it instinctively.

  Gaining the street, he hurried on till he had reached the saloon where he had seen Quirk and Clinton the night after the lost bank deposit. He hastily inquired of Quibbles if either of his friends were there, and on being informed that Quirk had just come in, he desired to be shown to his presence, and found him in the same room they had occupied before, smoking and drinking there by himself.

  "Come at last, eh, Pratt? All snug?"

  "All asleep-Jeff in my room, as you suggested."

  "Good! Now for Clint."

  "But what was the use of all these preliminaries at the store? I scarcely understand."

  "Oh, you're a little springy as yet; after to-night you'll understand more about these things. Clinton will explain everything when we get there. Now, if you're ready, come along."

  They went out together, Arthur first swallowing several glasses of wine, for the purpose, as he said, of keeping his spirits up.

  The walk to Clinton's house was a long one, and on such a fierce night as this, particularly disagreeable; swollen gutters, slipping pavements, and deluged streets, rendering it next to impossible to keep one's footing.

  Arriving, at last, at the door of a small but neat domicile, Quirk rapped, and they were admitted by a small black girl, who showed them into a pleasant little apartment, lighted cheerfully, prettily furnished, and tastefully arranged. A table stood in the centre of the apartment, and Clinton was sitting by it when they entered, reading to a young and pretty woman, who was busily engaged with her needle, and rocking a cradle, containing an infant son, with her foot.