The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, May 1844

LINES

ON SEEING MY SISTER FILL A LITTLE BEGGAR-BOY’S BASKET WITH COLD VICTUALS

BY R. S. CHILTON

 
Ay! fill it up, my sister dear;
His brothers all like him are gaunt,
And sister’s too; then do not fear
To choke the gaping mouth of want.
Fill up! his heart beats quick and high,
The tears stand in his sickly eye;
Poor, wretched, ragged beggar-boy,
He scarce can thank thee now, for joy!
 
 
The basket’s heavy; what of that?
His heart is light, he heeds it not;
His feet are cold and bare, poor brat!
But this has always been his lot.
He trudges on, or stops to steal
Quick glances at the dainty meal;
And then his purple lips do bless
The heart that pitied his distress.
 
 
At home, how will the meagre ones
Clutch at those broken bits of bread!
How will they banquet on those bones,
Like ravens feasting on the dead!
A dainty stomach would refuse
Such food; but ‘beggars cannot choose:’
They relish what the rich condemn,
But hunger makes the sauce for them.
 
 
Ah, sister! when the beggar-boy
Returns, think still on hunger’s pain;
Lighten his little heart with joy,
And fill his basket up again.
Who pities wretchedness does well,
But who relieves it, doth excel.
Then ever, till the common end,
Let Misery find in thee, a friend.
 

THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE

Harry Harson

CHAPTER XXVI

At the dead of the night, when all others were at rest, Michael Rust glided out of his office. It was a strange hour, but he had become a strange man. Through the silent streets he stole, with a step so noiseless that it awoke no echo. Along Broadway, passing where the city ended and the fields began, mile after mile he went. He met no one. Every house that he passed was as silent as the grave; excepting a solitary one, standing by itself, with a light shining through an upper window, as if some one kept watch at a sick bed. Sometimes the road ran between high trees, whose skeleton outlines stood grimly up between him and the stars, stiff and motionless. At other times, it coursed along dreary wastes; then again, it was buried in dense shadow; now ascending, now descending. At times he caught a glimpse of the distant gray river, gleaming in the darkness, with here and there the light on board some vessel at anchor, glittering like a star. In some places, where it was shut in by high banks, the road seemed inky black; and parts of it were so solitary, that even a stout heart might have shrunk from traversing it at that dreary hour. But Rust thought not of fear. What had he to do with that feeling, who sought only revenge and a grave?

It was yet night, when he reached a house in the upper part of the island, and near the river. Little except its dim outline was visible in the obscurity; and as he opened the gate, and passed beneath an avenue of tall trees which led to it, the darkness was such that he could scarcely see. But he was familiar with the ground, and without hesitation went directly to the door of the house. It was locked. He drew a key from his pocket, unlocked it, went in, and closed it after him. He groped his way along the entry, until he came to the door of a room, which he opened. A few embers were smouldering on the hearth, sufficient to throw out a dim light. Lighting a candle, which stood on a table, he drew a chair to the fire and sat down. The chamber was large, fitted up as a library, and filled with massive book-cases of dark wood, elaborately carved, which gave a sombre appearance to the room. Nothing that money could buy had been spared; for this was the home of Rust’s daughter, and that hard, reckless, griping man had been alive but to one feeling—love to his child. In her were garnered up all his affections, and upon her he had lavished all that his means could obtain.

For a long time he sat without changing his position, his eye fixed, his mouth compressed, his brow knit, not a sound escaping him. At last he started from his fit of abstraction, with a slight shiver; passed his hand once or twice before his eyes, as if to dispel something that clouded his sight; and said, in a whisper. ‘Can all this be real?’ The clock struck three. He rose, cast a stealthy glance over his shoulder, and taking the candle in his hand, held it up over his head, examining the room with a suspicious look, as if he momentarily expected some form to start from behind the heavy furniture. As his eye was wandering round the room, it rested upon a picture in a carved frame, which hung against the wall. He went to it, and held the light so that its rays fell full upon it. It was the portrait of a girl of about seventeen. Could the child-like, innocent face which gazed out from the canvass upon that fierce, passion-worn old man, be that of his child? Could aught so pure and beautiful have sprung from such as him? And worse than all, could she have lost that purity which was stamped on every line of her face?

With fixed and rigid features; with a hand that did not tremble, with a heart that scarcely beat, he contemplated the picture; and then, slowly, as if in a dream, replaced the candle, and took his seat. There was that at work within him, however, which banished bodily repose; for in one minute afterward, he was up and pacing the room, muttering and gesticulating to himself; the next, he went to a mirror, and looked at his own face. He started as he did so; for he had not seen it in a week; and in that time so altered and wasted had it become, with its long unshorn beard, and ghastly white complexion, that he could scarcely recognize it.

‘What a bird of prey the mind is!’ muttered he; ‘how it devours the body!’ He turned away, and once more his eye rested on the picture which hung against the wall. Some strange feeling seemed to spring into existence as he did so; for his breath came thick and hard; his heart beat, until its pulsations could be heard, loud and strong like the blows of a hammer; his hand shook, but at the same time, his brow darkened, and its look of anxious and half-wandering thought gave place to an expression that was perfectly fiendish. He muttered a few words; then taking the light, cautiously opened the door, and stole up the broad flight of stairs which led to the upper story. At the head of it was a door; he tried it; it was not locked but yielded to his push. It opened into a bed-room, luxuriously furnished with mirrors, and various nick-nacks, and articles of taste, such as a young and wealthy female gathers about her; and in the bed lay a beautiful girl, the original of the picture below, sound asleep, her long hair, which had become unbound as she slept, lying in loose tresses upon the pillow. How bright and beautiful she was! How gentle and calm her breathing was! And well might the stern old man, as he looked at her angel face, have misgivings as to the truth of Grosket’s tale. Rust’s hard features worked convulsively as he stood over his child, as if powerful feelings were tugging at his heart-strings; but it was only for a moment, for he choked them down; and going out, in the cautious manner in which he had entered, he closed the door and descended to the room below.

He resumed his seat; and although hour after hour elapsed, until day-light stole in the room, his attitude remained the same; until a servant came in to light the fire, and uttered an exclamation of surprise at seeing him. This aroused him; and rising hastily, he said, ‘I’m going out. Tell your mistress that I’ll be here at ten o’clock.’ He left the house; and after wandering up and down the road, he crossed the fields, until he came to the edge of the river, and when he had sauntered along it for some time, he sat down upon a rock, and commenced casting pebbles in the water.

How long a time he passed in this way, he could not tell, but it must have been several hours; for on looking at his watch, he found that it was late in the day. Suddenly, recollecting his message to his daughter; he rose and went directly to the house. He crossed the lawn in front of it; but before he had time to reach the door, a light figure sprang out, and his child’s arms were about his neck.

‘Dear father! it’s a very long time since I saw you!’ said she, putting back the hair which hung over his face, and pressing her lips to his cheek. ‘I’m very happy at having you here once more. But you are ill—very ill! What ails you?’ said she, suddenly, as she observed the inroads which the last few days had made in his whole form. Rust withdrew himself from her embrace, and without answering her question, said in a cold tone: ‘Come in the house.’

Though his words were simple, there was that in his manner (or it might have been the consciousness of guilt on the part of the girl) which caused her cheek to grow pale, and her step to falter; and she accompanied him to the library, with the silent and downcast look of a criminal. He took a chair, drew it to the fire, and pointing to another, said in the same cold tone: ‘Be seated.’

The girl obeyed without a word. At that moment a servant opened the door, and told Rust that a man was inquiring for him.

Rust got up, and went out. In the entry were two men. One of them, a powerfully-built fellow, of about five-and-thirty, with light hair and a prominent eye, asked, ‘Are you Michael Rust?’

Rust scanned him from head to foot. He suspected his errand; for he had seen him before, and he replied simply: ‘I am.’

‘Then, Sir, we’ve come for you.’ At the same time, the man produced a slip of paper, and tapped Rust on the shoulder. ‘Here’s the warrant, if you’d like to look at it, and the vehicle’s in the road there.’ He gave a nod in the direction.

Rust evinced neither surprise nor trepidation. He merely said, in a musing tone, ‘I should have stipulated for a longer time, for the lawyer has lost none.’ Then addressing the officer, he added: ‘My daughter is in the room. Before going with you, I should like to speak with her in private. You may examine the room, to see that there are no means of escaping from it.’

The man took him at his word; went in the room; glanced round without noticing the girl, who regarded him with some surprise; then went to an inner door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.

‘Are you satisfied?’ asked Rust.

The other again stared round the room: went to the window; looked out to see how high it was from the ground; said that he was, and then inquired: ‘How long?’

‘Ten minutes,’ was the reply.

‘Good!’ said the man; and with a knowing look at Rust, and a shambling bow to the girl, he went out, and seated himself on a chair in the hall, having taken the precaution to send his companion to keep an eye on the windows, which were within leap of the ground.

Rust returned to his seat. ‘Come hither, Ellen,’ said he.

His daughter rose, and came to him; but in dead silence.

‘Look at me. Am I much altered?’ inquired Rust.

The girl raised her eyes to his. They quailed before his stern, searching glance; but she replied in a low voice: ‘You’re very much altered; you’re wearing yourself out.’

A smile of strange meaning crossed Rust’s face. He turned, and pointed to the picture which hung against the wall.

‘Was that ever a good likeness of you?’ asked he.

His daughter glanced at it, with some surprise at the sudden question, and then replied: ‘I’ve often been told so, father—a very good one.’

‘They told you the truth. It was a good one; and now,’ said he, turning to her, and fixing his eyes on her face: ‘Do you think I am as much changed from what I was, as you are from what you were, when that picture was painted? Mark it well!’ said he, speaking quickly and earnestly, and leaning forward until his face almost touched hers. ‘Look at every feature. See what innocence, what purity of soul and thought is in every line of that face. An angel might have envied its innocence. There is a mirror,’ said he, pointing to the looking-glass; ‘Now look at yourself.’ He half rose, and his voice was cold and cutting as he concluded.

The girl grew red; then deeper and deeper crimson; then deadly, ghastly pale; the perspiration stood upon her forehead, and her eyes were blinded with tears; but she could not meet his glance.

His voice sank almost to a whisper, as he asked ‘Then what I have heard is true?’

The girl seemed absolutely stunned.

‘Be it so. Now you know the cause of my illness. Look at me. Look at this face, scored with wrinkles; these hollow cheeks, and this frame, broken down by premature old age. Look at them, I say, and you will see but a faint image of the utter, hopeless waste that has been going on in my heart.’

The girl made an attempt to speak; sank on the floor; and clasping his knees, pressed her head against them, and sobbed aloud. But Rust moved not. There was no trace of compassion in either tone or manner, as he continued: ‘From your childhood, until you were grown up, you were the person for whose welfare I toiled. I labored and strove for you; there was not a thing that I did, not a thought that I ever harbored, which had not your happiness for its aim; and to your love and devotion I looked for my reward; and as I brooded over my own guilty life, blackened as it was with the worst of crimes, I thought that it was some palliation to be the parent of one pure and spotless as you were. Well, you turned out as hundreds of others have done, and my labor was lost. I loved you as never child was loved; and in proportion as my love once was great, so now is my hate and scorn!’

‘Oh! my God!’ gasped the girl. She sank down as if crushed. Rust looked at her unmoved, and did not stir to assist her. She raised her hands to him, and said in a supplicating tone: ‘Father! as you hope for mercy, hear me!’

‘If I received not mercy from my own child,’ said Rust, sternly, ‘to whom can I look for it? I hope for it no where; I ask for it no where; I am at bay to the whole world.’

One of those dark, withering expressions which had once been so common to his features, but which his anguish had for the last few days in a great measure banished from them, swept across his face.

The girl wrung her hands, as she received his harsh answer. At last she said, in a broken voice: ‘Father, I am sadly guilty; but hear me, for God’s sake, do hear me!’

At that moment, the door was opened, and the officer’s head was thrust in.

‘Time’s up.’

‘I must have ten minutes more,’ said Rust.

‘You can’t.’

‘I must, I will,’ exclaimed Rust, sternly.

He tossed him a dollar, which the man caught in his hand with professional dexterity; and then, with a grin, said: ‘Well, if you’re so very anxious, of course you must be accommodated;’ and disappearing, shut the door.

‘You said that you were guilty,’ resumed Rust, turning to his daughter. ‘I know it. There’s but one more so. You know to whom I allude. What is his name?’

The girl grew very pale, and hung down her head in silence.

‘Who is he?’ again demanded her father, seizing her arm with a strong grasp.

Still she made no reply.

‘Be it so,’ said Rust flinging her hand from him. ‘Perhaps silence is best. Now, one other question. Where is he?’

She shook her head, and replied in a scarcely audible tone that she did not know.

‘When was he last here?’

‘About a week since.’

‘And when did he promise to return?’

‘On the same day,’ answered the girl, in a low tone.

‘And he has not kept that promise. The first of a series of black-hearted lies!’ exclaimed Rust, bitterly, speaking more to himself than to her. ‘In these cases, lies come first, and the truth last.’ He again addressed her: ‘Does he speak of marriage? and do you urge it upon him?’

‘I do, indeed I do!’ replied the girl, apparently anxious to hit upon something to conciliate the stern mood of her parent. ‘Often and often, I beg him to do it, and remind him of his promise.’

‘And what is his answer?’ demanded Rust, with a half-mocking smile.

‘He says that he cannot marry me just now, but that he will soon. He wishes to obtain the consent of his father, who is very ill, and cannot be spoken to about it; but that he will soon be better, and that then it will all be settled.’

‘How long has he been making these excuses?’

‘A very long time—a very long time,’ said the girl, sadly: ‘A month and more.’

‘How often did he come here at first?’

‘Every day,’ said the girl.

‘And now?’

His daughter was silent; for she began to see the drift of this cold examination, and it sent a chill to her heart.

Rust was satisfied; and he said in a half-musing tone: ‘The same stale, hackneyed story. She is on her way to where the first misstep always leads. Already he is wearied, and wants but an excuse to fling her off; and I—I—I—her avenger,’ exclaimed he with a burst of fierce impatience, ‘I am shackled; a prisoner, and can do nothing!’

He made a hasty step to the door, opened it, and beckoned to the officer to come in. As he did so, he shut it after him, took the man by the arm, and drew him to one end of the room:

‘I want a week,’ said he, in a quick tone. ‘I’ll give a thousand dollars to gain one week; and at the end of that time will surrender myself a prisoner.’

The man shook his head: ‘It can’t be done, Sir,’ said he.

‘What’s the reward offered for my apprehension?’

‘A cool five hundred,’ replied the officer.

‘I’ll double it to escape,’ said Rust, ‘or to gain a week, but a single week.’

The man shook his head. ‘Too many knows that we’re arter you. It wouldn’t do.’

‘But at the expiration of that time I would surrender myself, and you could secure the reward too.’

The man gave vent to a low chuckle; and placed his finger on the side of his nose, accompanying the motion with a sly expression, signifying an utter disbelief in Rust’s promises.

Rust gnawed his lip with fierce impatience, then taking the man by the arm, he led him into the hall, and shut the door.

‘I must speak out,’ said he, ‘and trust to your honor not to betray me. A villain has seduced my child. I want time to find him, and to compel him to make her his wife. Now you know why I ask a week.’

The officer at first whistled, then muttered something about its being a hard case; but concluded by saying, in a positive tone: ‘It can’t be did, Sir; I’m sorry for it; upon my word, I am; but I must keep you now that I’ve got you. I wish you’d given me the slip at first; but I can’t let you go now. It’s impossible—quite.’

Rust eyed the man, as if endeavoring to find in his hard features some loop-hole to his more kindly feelings; but apparently he met with no success.

‘Well, if it can’t be done, there’s an end of it,’ said he, abruptly terminating his scrutiny. ‘I’ve some other matters to speak of, and want a few moments more. I’ll not detain you long, and will call you when I’m ready.’

‘I’ll give you all the time I can,’ said the man, civilly.

Rust turned to enter the room, but as he did so he heard a quick step behind him; and looking round, found himself face to face with a young man of two or three and twenty, elegantly dressed, who eyed him carelessly, and then passing him, entered the room with the air of one perfectly at home. A suspicion of who he was flashed across Rust’s mind. That he himself was unknown to the other was not strange, for he had been so much absent, and when he visited his child it was at such irregular intervals, and for such short periods, that a person might have been even a frequent visitor at his house, without encountering him. Nor was there any thing in the outward appearance of the slovenly, haggard old man to attract attention. But the indifference of the other was not reciprocated; for Rust followed him, and closed the door after him, with feverish haste, as if he feared his prey might escape him. He observed the deep blush that sprang to the cheek of his daughter, at the entrance of the stranger; her guilty, yet joyous look as he addressed her; and above all, he perceived his careless, cold, indifferent reply to her warm salutation; and a feeling of revenge, the deadliest that he had ever felt, sprung up in his heart against that man; not so much because he had blasted the happiness of his child, as because he had torn from him all that he had clung to in life.

Rust walked to the fire-place, turned his back to it, and without uttering a word, faced the stranger, who eyed him from head to foot with a cool, supercilious stare; then looked at the girl, as if seeking an explanation.

The pause, however, was broken by Rust himself, as he pointed with his thin finger to their visitor, and inquired of his daughter: ‘Is that the man?’

The girl’s face became ghastly pale; her lips moved, but she dared not raise her eyes; for she could not encounter the keen, inquiring look which she knew was fixed upon her.

‘Answer my question,’ said he, sternly. ‘This is no time for tampering with my patience.’

His daughter attempted to speak. She trembled from head to foot; but not a word escaped her. So intense was her anguish, that it awoke a spark of better feeling in the young man; for confronting Rust, he said in a bold voice: ‘If you have any questions to ask respecting me, address them to me, not to her.’

‘I will,’ replied Rust, fixing upon him an eye that fairly glowed; ‘for you should best know your own character. Are you the cold-blooded scoundrel who, taking advantage of that girl’s confiding disposition, of the absence of her father, stole like a thief into his house; by lies, by false oaths, and damning hypocritical professions of love, won her affections; blighted her, and then left her what I blush to name? You wish the question addressed to you; you have it. I’ll have your reply.’

Withering like a parched leaf; shrinking as if a serpent were in his path; with a face which changed from white to red, from red to white, the stranger met these questions. But Rust’s eye never left his face. There was no trace of anger nor emotion, in his marble features. He merely said: ‘I want your answer.’

With a face heavy with guilt; with a voice that shook even while it assumed a tone of boldness; the stranger demanded: ‘Who are you? and what right have you to question me thus?’

‘Not much right,’ replied Rust; ‘I’m not even a rival suitor; I’m only this girl’s father. Perhaps you will answer me now.’

The other was silent. Rust turned to his daughter, and said: ‘This man has suddenly become dumb. Is this he of whom we spoke? An answer I must have, and a true one. Do not add a lie to the infamy which already covers you.’

The girl hesitated, and then uttered something in a voice so low as to be scarcely audible; but faint as it was, Rust caught the words, ‘It is!’

‘It is well,’ replied he, facing the stranger, and drawing his person up erect. ‘I have no time to waste in words, and will state what I have to say as concisely as possible, and will act as promptly as I speak. This is my only child. She was once unsullied, and I was proud of her: that she is not so now, is your fault. There is but one mode of repairing what you’ve done. Will you marry her?’

‘I certainly intend to do so,’ said the young man, with a guilty look, which gave the lie to his words.

‘I want deeds, not intentions,’ replied Rust. ‘What you do must be done now—before you leave this room. A clergyman resides within a mile. In half an hour he can be here.’

The girl clasped her hands joyfully, and looked eagerly at him; but there was nothing responsive in the expression of his face; and he answered:

‘I can’t see the necessity of this haste; beside, it would ruin all my prospects.’

‘You can’t see the necessity of this haste!’ exclaimed Rust, in a voice of thunder. ‘Ruin your prospects! What has become of her prospects? What—what– But no matter,’ added he, choking down a fierce burst of passion, and suddenly assuming a tone so unnaturally calm that it might have been a warning to the other that it was but a lull in the storm. ‘Michael Rust presents his compliments to his unknown friend, and begs to know if he will do him the honor of marrying, on the spot, his daughter whom he has polluted?’

He paused for an answer; his lips were deadly white, and quivering; and his eye glowed like a serpent’s. The young man quailed before it; but apparently he was only waiting for an opportunity to throw off the mask; for he answered boldly: ‘No, I will not.’

‘You had better,’ said Rust, in a low, warning tone. ‘Think of it again.’

‘You have my answer,’ was the reply.

‘Then take Michael Rust’s thanks!’ A flash and report followed; and when the smoke cleared away, the seducer was lying on the floor, stone dead. A bullet had passed through his head. The policeman rushed in the room.

‘If I could have had a week, I might have avoided this,’ said Rust, coldly. ‘As it was, I had no alternative.’

He rang the bell, and a servant came in. He pointed to his daughter, who was lying senseless at his feet.

‘Look to your mistress!’

Turning to the police men who stood by with blanched faces, he said: ‘Now then, I am ready!’