CHAPTER XXXV.
"'Tis but the just reward of merit that
I give."
Old Play.
It was New Year's eve, and the brilliantly-lighted shops were thronged with purchasers of the innumerable articles exposed to tempt the purses of those able to buy. Any one who has been in New Orleans during the winter season, knows what a scene the thronged streets present on this night of nights.
Guly stood in the store-door, looking out upon the crowd of passers-by, when suddenly a liveried servant approached him from the mass, looked at him a moment intently, then thrust a small box in his hands, and disappeared. Surprised at the occurrence, Guly turned away, and waiting until the store was clear of customers, opened it. It contained an expensive gold watch, richly wrought and elaborately finished. Puzzled to know what it could mean, Guly was about to restore it to the box, when a small folded paper in the bottom caught his eye. It was directed to himself, and on unfolding it, Guly found but these simple words:
"To him who never sacrifices principle to profit."
Guly immediately remembered that the lady to whom he had pointed out the blemishes in her purchase, and thereby lost a sale, had never been in the store since; but that she remembered the occurrence distinctly and gratefully was evident. The boy had noticed the servant's livery and now recognized it, and hoped that this might afford him some clue to the name of his kind friend.
As soon as the store was closed he put his present in his pocket, and started forth to show it to Blanche. Arthur was so rarely in the store any more at evening, that he could not talk it over with him, and with light steps he hurried to the presence of the pretty brodeuse. She had become the light of the boy's existence, and he could dream of nothing else. He was young to love, but his heart was older than his years, and it gave out its affection with the strength of manhood.
"Oh! grandpapa, if you could only see Guly's gift, his New Year's gift!" said Blanche, enthusiastically, after examining it herself.
The old man smiled, and taking it in his hand, held it for awhile and returned it, saying it was very beautiful.
"And have you no clue to the giver?" said Blanche.
"Only what I told you."
"What did you say was the servant's livery?"
Guly described it.
"I remember a lady," said Blanche, musingly, "whose servants used to wear such livery as that. She was a dear friend of mamma's when we were rich, and they used to be just like sisters. Her name was Belmont-Mrs. Belmont."
"And what became of her?" asked Guly.
"Oh, she went to France just before all our troubles came upon us, and I suppose she is there still. She wrote once or twice to mamma, but she was too ill to answer the letters, and so it all dropped."
Guly put up his watch, and sat conversing with Blanche until the clock struck ten, when he took his leave, telling Blanche, as he pressed her little hand at parting, that it was the most delightful New Year's eve he had ever spent.
Blanche replied that she could say the same, and added that she supposed he knew Della and Bernard had returned.
Guly informed her he did not.
"Oh, yes," she said, "returned yesterday, and have taken a house in Esplanade Street, and are very happy I think. Della visited me, yesterday."
Guly expressed his pleasure at the good news, and left her, and returned home to dream of the mysterious donor of his New Year's gift and Blanche the brodeuse.
The winter glided pleasantly away; summer passed, and winter came again. Fortunately for the brothers, the first summer of their stay in the Pestilential City was free from epidemics of any kind, and they escaped all sickness, with the exception of a slight acclimating fever. All that Guly had to weigh upon his heart was Arthur's dissipation, which gradually grew worse and worse, and he dreaded lest one day he should have the pain of seeing Mr. Delancey discharge him.
Guly had retained the new situation which had been given him, and discharged its duties with honor to himself and to his employer. There was not a clerk in the store but what looked up to him with respect and affection, and since he had become head clerk there had never been a bottle of wine uncorked or a game of cards played under that roof. Mr. Delancey himself, with all his natural coldness and harshness of manner, could not conceal the high esteem in which he held him.
Guly frequently spent his evenings at Wilkins' house, and sometimes Arthur accompanied him; but he could not conceal from himself that those evenings that Arthur went with him were not the pleasantest, there being always a restraint in his presence, which was not felt when he was not there. Wilkins had always rejoiced at Guly's good fortune in obtaining his vacant situation, and loved to sit by him and talk over the past or chat about Blanche and the happy future.
The evening after the brothers had been visiting at Wilkins', Arthur passed his arm through Guly's, and said:
"I have quite lost my heart, Guly, with a pair of the brightest black eyes that ever shone; she's a pretty little witch, but I am afraid some one has stepped in before me, for I can't contrive to make myself agreeable, and every time I call she grows more and more distant. She lives but a little way from here; what say you to making a call with me? perhaps you could assist me immeasurably. What say you, will you go?"
It was not often now that Arthur make a confidant of Guly, and the younger brother was surprised to find him in such a mood to-night. He had, on his part, with a caution he could scarcely define, always studiously concealed from Arthur his visits to Blanche, and had not sought his confidence lest he might see fit to ask for his own in return; and he answered almost coldly:
"No, Arthur, not to-night. It is already late, and I hope you wouldn't think of calling upon any young lady at such an hour as this."
"Well, what can I do to pass the time between this and bed-time?"
"It is bed-time now, Arthur; but I'll tell you what to do. Mr. Hull has gone out to the opera to-night, and if we go back to the store we can be there by ourselves. Let's go and do what we have not done in a long, long time-sit down together like the two brothers we once were, and talk over old scenes, old friends, and old times; will you do so?"
After a moment's hesitation, Arthur signified his consent, and they went into the store together. Guly raked up the dying coals in the stove, threw on some fresh anthracite, and they sat down side by side.
"Oh!" exclaimed Guly, laying his hand upon his brother's, "Arthur doesn't this make your heart bound? There is such a glow of home about it, such an air of other days."
Arthur sighed deeply.
"There is, indeed, Guly; this is a socialness which we have not shared before for months, and never may again."
"Why do you speak so despondingly, Arthur? The brightness or blackness of the future lies with ourselves, I am inclined to think; and since we can be so happy in each others society, why should we do ought to prevent our constantly having this enjoyment?"
"You never will, Guly; it is me, all me-I have gone too far to return. I cannot tear myself away from the bonds which are dragging me down to destruction; evil companions, strong drink, and exciting play. Excitement is now necessary to my existence. I cannot live without it. This is why we have no more of this kind of enjoyment. To-night I relish it because I'm in the humor; but as a general thing it is unbearable-too tame and prosy."
"Oh!" exclaimed Guly, "I have so often felt that the day we left the Hudson home was a fatal one for us. I had rather have staid there and toiled in the most humble manner, than to have ever heard such words as these pass your lips, and in my heart be forced to feel their truth."
"It is useless to repine, Guly. Perhaps 'tis all for the best. Sometimes when I have looked upon your calm and tranquil face, and noted the high principles which have governed your every action, I have felt as if I would give worlds to be possessed of the same; but again I have thought, perhaps you could not have been thus sustained had it not been for my fearful example, such a terrible, terrible lesson in itself of an undiscipline
d and erring heart."
Guly was silent. If this thought could afford his brother any consolation for the downward course he had been pursuing, it was not in his heart to deprive him of it, however much he might feel the reasoning to be false.
"I can never go back again," continued Arthur, "to what I once was. If this were possible, I might, perhaps, endeavor to reform; but I am so deeply steeped in sin, that its memory will be haunting me always, always; and it is useless for me to strive to do aught but drown life and memory in the same cup."
"Wrong reasoning, my brother, wrong reasoning," said Guly, impressively, laying his hand on Arthur's arm; but he could say no more, his heart was too full; and, lifting his head, he sat looking into the coals, struggling to keep down his rising emotions.
Reaching out his hand, Arthur clasped Guly's in his and held it closely. Thus they sat side by side once again, heart to heart, and hand in hand. The bright fire-glow played and flickered on their thoughtful faces as they called up old memories and thought of old scenes; while the coals faded and died out-fit emblems of the dreams they were dreaming.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
"Oh! how this tyrant doubt torments my breast!
My thoughts, like birds, who, frightened from their nest,
Around the place where all was hushed before,
Flutter, and hardly nestle any more."
Otway.
From this night, Arthur's course was more swiftly downward than ever it had been before. It seemed as if the last redeeming moment of his life was passed, and that some strong arm was hurrying him fiercely forward into the blackened pit of which he had dreamed one night long ago, when slumbering sweetly at his brother's side, his cheek upon his hand!
Every succeeding night plunged him deeper beneath the waves of that sea of dissipation upon which he had thrown himself. Theatres, dissolute balls, the gambling saloon and billiard table, each with their attendant quantity of exciting drinks, were his constant places of resort; and though Guly pleaded, and prayed him to renounce them forever, and come back to his old ways, 'twas in vain.
The Demon of Remorse was gnawing at his heart-strings for the crime he had committed, and pride, that fatal pride, was stinging him into silence and misery, withholding him from confessing, even to his Maker, his sorrow and repentance. He had given his right hand to the Evil One, and his left there was none to take.
Every morning, as Mr. Delancey's keen eyes searched that haggard and bloated face, Guly expected to hear him dismissed; but as yet that trial came not, and Guly felt that it was for his sake the merchant spared his brother, and the kindness sank deep into his young heart, never to be forgotten.
One night after the store was closed, Arthur sauntered up to Guly, and, laying his hand upon his arm, said:
"You remember the little black-eyed Creole I told you of one night some time ago?"
"The one you fancied had got your heart?" said Guly, kindly; "yes, I remember."
"Three nights ago, I proposed to her, offered her heart and hand, and told her, what was truth, that I loved her dearly, and, do you believe, she refused me flatly."
"She proved herself more prudent than you, Arthur. You should have known better than to ask a young girl to be your wife, when you have nothing, and will keep nothing, to support her.
"I'll risk the support," returned Arthur, with a short laugh, "if she had consented we could have managed to live, I fancy; and had we failed, we'd have called on our relations." Here Arthur cast a meaning, but half-mirthful glance at Guly, who, seeing that even then he was half intoxicated, shrunk away, not wishing to prolong the conversation.
"Do you know what I am going to do?" continued Arthur, again looking up.
"Nothing wrong, I hope, Arthur."
"You may think so. Since I can't get her by fair means, I'm bound to get her by foul; that's what I'm going to do."
"For pity's sake, my brother, if the girl is good and innocent do not wrong her; there are enough ready to gratify your idle whims, without robbing the pure and happy of their peace. Where does she live?"
"Perhaps you think I'll tell you that, and have you play the defender? Ah, I've got my senses yet."
"How did you get acquainted, and where?"
"How? By my own natural conversational powers, which called out hers. Where? In the street, in the first place, where I was so fortunate as to meet her just as she had dropped one of a number of parcels of herb medicine she was carrying. I had the pleasure of picking it up for her, and of relieving her of some of her load. Thus I found out where she lived, and then took it upon myself to call again; but she hasn't seemed to like me from the first-hang her pretty eyes; but I'll be revenged for her refusal-see if I'm not."
"Let me beg of you to give up this cruel idea, Arthur. Shame upon you for harboring it for a single moment."
"Pooh!" said Arthur, scoffingly, "it's no use talking, I shall embrace the first opportunity."
Guly turned away heart-sick; he felt it was useless arguing the matter, and knew that had not Arthur been half intoxicated at the time, he would never have given him so much of his confidence; for he rarely now took an opportunity to say anything to him unless it was when extra draughts of wine had taken all restraint from his tongue.
It being the busy season of the year, Guly had of late been so confined to business that it had been impossible for him to slip away and visit Blanche as he had done formerly. Occasionally, he had written her a note and sent it by his friend the dwarf, making such errands the occasion of a round remuneration to the miserable cripple.
He would always hobble his way back after performing the errand, although the walk was long, to say to Guly: "Hih, hih, Monsieur, but she's a beauty, one of her pretty smiles is as good as a picayune to me; bless her heart; I think, Monsieur, she make you very happy one of these days when you both get old enough for the priest to pronounce you man and wife; hih, hih, that I do."
These were honest words; the dwarf meant every syllable of them; and the reward he received in Guly's bright smile, and sometimes an additional bit of silver, had nothing to do with calling them out, however joyfully such tokens were received.
The second evening after Guly's conversation with Arthur, the former stood in the store door waiting anxiously for the customers to leave that he might "close up" and visit Blanche. Arthur had already gone out, and he felt a nervous and anxious dread for which he could not account, and which made him all the more eager to be free. As he stood thus, he felt some one sieze the hand which was hanging at his side, and looking down, beheld Richard the dwarf.
"Hih! hih! Monsieur, very long walk, very much tired. She looks more beautiful than ever to-night, though she sheds very much tears. She say to me to-day, when I went by: 'Come to me to-night, Richard, grandpapa is very ill; I may have a message to send by you.' So to-night I went; I tapped at the door with my longest crutch, she come out, cry very much, and tell me give you this."
Guly took the little note the dwarf handed up to him, and hastened up to the light to read it.
It merely stated that her grandpapa was very, very ill, and begged him to get word to Mr. Wilkins and sister Della, who were her only friends, beside himself, and old Eliza who gave her medicine for her poor sick grandpapa.
After he had read the characteristic and simple little note, Guly slipped a piece of money into Richard's hand, thanking him warmly for the service he had done him, and the little man swung himself away, talking pleasantly to himself as he went.
It was late before it was possible to shut the store, but the moment he could do so, Guly did; and then with a sinking heart took his way to Wilkins' house. Della and Wilkins were sitting by the grate when he entered, while Minny sat on a low stool just in front of her mistress, with one fair round arm thrown caressingly over Della's lap. It seemed too bright a picture to be disturbed, and Guly, who had entered unannounced, stood looking at it a moment before he did so.
The moment he told his errand, Della begged Wilkins to go and do a
ll he could, to take Minny with him, and to give Blanche her dear love, and tell her she would have gone herself had she not felt too much indisposed.
Minny tied on her hat, threw a light shawl about her shoulders, and started away with Wilkins and Guly at a rapid pace. The moon was shining brightly, and as they walked briskly on, their shadows fell long and slender, marching on before them. They had approached within a few blocks of the house, when Guly's attention was attracted by the appearance of some dark object on the opposite side of the way, going slowly along in the shadow of the buildings, and evidently seeking concealment.
With his curiosity awakened, he pointed it out to Wilkins, and bidding Minny seek the shelter of an adjacent doorway, they crossed the narrow street to discover if possible what it was. As they approached, the object moved more quickly, but they soon drew near enough to see it was a female form, borne in the arms of a stout negro, and Arthur. As they passed an opening between two houses, the moonlight streamed down full upon the upturned face of the girl they were carrying, exposing her features clearly to Wilkins and his companion.
"Blanche! my own Blanche!"
Uttering these words, Guly sprang wildly forward. Arthur, finding he could not escape, turned short round and met him face to face.
The brothers grappled; all of Guly's meekness and forbearance was merged in the base insult which had been offered her he loved, and he seemed for the time gifted with almost superhuman strength. The struggle was brief; and Arthur was flung heavily upon the pavement. In an instant Blanche, whom Wilkins had released from the negro's grasp, was weeping on his bosom. With an effort, Arthur managed to pick himself up, and slunk away into the shadows, leaving Blanche with her defenders.
The Brother Clerks; A Tale of New-Orleans. Page 24