The Knickerbocker, Or New-York Monthly Magazine, June 1844 Part 5

Ned took the proffered hand; at the same time pouring out a confusion of words, the sum and substance of which was intended to be, that he had taken no offence; that he knew Jacob was misled by others; that he was not only perfectly willing, but very happy, to make up the matter, and say no more about it; which no doubt was very true, for within six feet of him stood Kate, with her soft eyes fixed on his face, and her little mouth dimpled with smiles, as she observed how swimmingly matters were going on.

And could he be crusty and dogged? or could he cherish a grudge against _her_ father? The thing was impossible. The extended hand was grasped, and grasped warmly.

'Another thing I have to speak of,' said Rhoneland, relaxing somewhat at the cordial tone of Ned's feelings. 'It is but a short time since I learnt the full extent of my obligations to you, for the part you took in unmasking the character of Rust, and in obtaining from him a disavowal of charges against me, which, false as they were, were hard indeed to bear, and were breaking me down. I have not finished,' said he, raising his hand to prevent the interruption which Somers was endeavoring to make; 'let me complete what I have to say, and you may speak as much as you like, afterward. I will not thank you, for thanks are but words, and too often mean nothing. Is there any thing that I can _do_, to lessen my indebtedness to you?--or is there any way in which I can pay it off altogether?'

He stopped, and looked earnestly in Ned's face. The red blood dashed up to Somers' very forehead, and he could scarcely breathe for the thumping of his heart, as the idea crossed him that now was the time to ask for Kate; nor was his agitation at all diminished by casting a glance at her, and seeing her cheeks crimson and her eyes downcast, as if she antic.i.p.ated what was going on in his mind. It must be confessed, however, that had Rhoneland had no other clue to his wishes than that afforded by his words, he would have been very much in the dark; for although Ned attempted to speak out boldly, his lips trembled very much, and his voice was not as obedient as he could wish; and all that was distinctly audible was the girl's name.

'Why lad, what ails thee?' asked Rhoneland, unbending, as he observed the embarra.s.sment of his guest. 'You used to be as bold as a lion. Come here Kate,' said he to his daughter; 'this young fellow has lost his voice; can _you_ tell me what he wants?'

It was now Kate's turn to grow confused, and the color to deepen on her cheek; nor did she utter a word.

'Young man,' continued Rhoneland, in a grave tone, 'I did not send for you to trifle with your feelings. You love my daughter, and would ask for _her_, and you fear to do so lest the request should be refused. She is yours. Treat her kindly, and keep even a shadow of sorrow from falling upon her brow. If you do not, an old man's curse will rest upon you; and even though I be dead, and mouldering in my grave, where my voice cannot reach you, that silent curse will follow you.' He turned abruptly away, and left the room.

Ned Somers took Kate's hand in his; pa.s.sed his arm about her waist, and drew her to him in so singular a manner, that their lips could not but meet; and not only once, but at least some half-a-dozen times.

'So you're mine at last, Kate!' said he, looking into her very eyes, whenever they were raised enough for him to do so. 'Did I not tell you to cheer up; and that all would be well? Did I not say so; and wasn't I right? And now, Kate,' said he, in a less confident tone, 'your father, though a most worthy old gentleman, is somewhat whimsical, and might change his mind; so when shall _it_ be?'

Kate's reply was so very low, that it reached no ears except those of Ned; but whatever it was, it is certain that on that day month they had been married a week, and were deep in preparations for a merry-making to be held on that very evening at Rhoneland's old house, which had been so furbished up and renovated, under the auspices of the young couple, that every thing in it seemed to s.h.i.+ne again. A party at Jacob Rhoneland's! It was a thing unheard of, and produced quite a sensation in the drowsy part of the town where he lived. Never had a household been in such a fl.u.s.ter as his was. What deep consultations were held to prevent the old man--who seemed to have grown quite cheerful and light-hearted, and chirruped about the house like some gay old old cricket--from meddling in every thing, and to throw dust in his eyes, so as to make him suppose that he was having every thing in his own way, when in fact he was having nothing. And then what a time it took, and what entreaties, to prevail on him to let the great wooden chest, studded with bra.s.s nails, which he never took his eye from, be removed to an upper-chamber, to make room for their guests. But Harry Harson, who was in the thick of all the doings, in and out a dozen times in an hour; rubbing his hands and enjoying the bustle, giving advice, suggesting this thing and that, and setting every thing wrong; managed to get the great chest out of the way, for he dragged it up stairs under Rhoneland's very nose, and in the teeth of his remonstrances; and depositing it in a little out-of-the-way room, very difficult of access, by reason of the angles and turns in the entry, and the size of the chest, told Rhoneland that if he wanted it below he might take it there himself; but that it was better where it was, and much more safe and out of the way; in which opinion Rhoneland finally coincided.

Betimes Kate came down stairs to receive her guests, looking so charmingly, and her eyes flas.h.i.+ng with such malicious brightness, that on meeting her in the entry Ned stopped to kiss her, and tell her that she was looking 'gloriously;' a performance and observation by the way, which he had already repeated half-a-dozen times in the course of the last hour.

By twos and threes the guests began to arrive, and went up stairs. There was a great clatter above, where they were taking off their things. It took a wonderful time to remove the hats and shawls; for although for a long time up they went, none came down. There must have been thirty a.s.sembled above stairs. At last Harry Harson, who was in the room with Ned and Kate, dressed in his best black suit, and looking as young and merry as any of them, vowed that he would not stand it, and sallied up stairs and sent them down in a drove. How bright and cheerful they all were! how the congratulations poured in upon Ned and Kate; and hopes for his future happiness, and that he might have a large fortune, and a large family to help him take care of it.

A loud sc.r.a.ping and jingling announced that the music was there, and put a stop to such flummery as conversation. The young folks were going into the business of the evening. The little stunted black fiddler with rings in his ears, was mounted on one chair; the big, fat fiddler, who fiddled with his eyes shut, was seated on another; and the goggle-eyed negro, with a self-satisfied face, who simpered on every body, and flourished the tambourine, was placed like an umbrella in the corner, to be out of the way.

The fat fiddler called out for the gentlemen to choose their partners for a quadrille. Then came the long premonitory screeching of the fiddle-bow across the cat-gut; then the slight, tremulous jingle of the tambourine, as if the goggle-eyed negro were dying to begin; then the bustling and hustling, and squeezing of the couples, until they had obtained their places in the dance. Then the scientific look of the fat fiddler, as he opened his eyes and surveyed the whole, to see that all was right; then the slight clearing of his throat, as he threw his head on one side, bellowed out 'right and left,' and forthwith plunged into the matter, might and main. Away he went, but fast and furious at his heels followed the little stunted fiddler; and loud above the din of both, rose the rattle of the tambourine. 'Right hand across! forward two; balancez; ladies chain; forward four; dos-a-dos; cha.s.sez to the right; cross over; all round;' here, there, every where, and all over--he was up to it all.

In vain the dancers fairly flew; the fat fiddler was equal to all emergencies; he never lagged; he was sometimes too fast, but never--no, not for a single instant--was he behind.

'Whew!' said he, as he gave the final flourish of his bow, and laying it aside, wiped his forehead on his coat-sleeve, and called for a tumbler of cold water. And thereupon the stunted fiddler and the tambourine made the same request; the latter suggesting that his gla.s.s might be tempered with a 'small spirt of gin,' without hurting his feelings.

In that dance, the lightest step and merriest voice was that of Harson, who led out the bride, and footed it there with the best of them; and who through the whole evening was bustling around the room, with a kind word for every one, and as much at home as if the house, and the company, and even the bride, belonged to him. And in fact, one or two of the guests--but they were unsophisticated people from the country--were for some time under the delusion that Harry was the bridegroom, instead of the quiet young fellow who was seen walking about the rooms, talking to the disagreeable old women, and getting partners for the ugly young ones, without their knowing it; but all in such an un.o.btrusive manner that he seemed quite a n.o.body when compared with Harson.

But there must be an end even to the merriest meetings; and when they had kept it up until the night had got among the small hours, they began to drop off. And here, amid the adieus of departing guests, we will take our leave of the young couple; for it is far pleasanter to bid farewell to those whose friends.h.i.+p we have cherished when hope is strong and bright, than when care or disappointment has flung its shadow over their hearts.

CHAPTER THE LAST.

A few weeks had elapsed, and a small group were gathered one evening at Harson's fireside. It was composed of three persons beside Harson. The first was a man of about fifty; he might have been younger; and the heavy wrinkles which were scored across his forehead may have been the fruit of trouble and care, for they were almost too deep for his years; his mouth was firmly compressed, like that of one in the habit of mastering strong feelings; and the whole character of his face would have been stern, but for his dark, gray eye, which at times brightened up almost to childish playfulness. This was Mr. Colton, the father of Harson's protege, Annie.

The child herself was seated on Harson's knee, sound asleep, with her head resting on his breast. The only other person in the group was the wife of Mr. Colton. She was quite young, and had once possessed great beauty--the beauty of youth and happiness; but that was gone, and in its place was the patient look of one who had suffered much, and in silence. She spoke seldom, and in a low tone, so soft and musical that one regretted when the voice ceased.

'Your letter,' said Mr. Colton, in continuation of a previous conversation, 'put an end to all my plans respecting my poor niece. I had hoped to a.s.sist her; for knowing her father's hostility to her, I feared that she might be in want. Her death was a very melancholy one.'

He looked in the fire in deep thought, and for a short time a silence ensued which no one seemed inclined to break.

'I never saw her,' said his wife, after some moments; 'I think _you_ did.'

'Yes, once--at the trial,' replied he, uttering the last words with an effort, as if the subject were painful. 'She was very beautiful.'

'Did she resemble her father?' inquired Mrs. Colton.

'Perhaps I can settle that question more easily than any one,' said Harson, rising up, 'by letting you judge for yourself.'

He went to a small curtain which hung against the wall, and drawing it aside, disclosed a portrait of Rust's daughter--the same which Rust had brooded over with such mingled emotions on the night previous to the murder. The same childlike, innocent smile, played round the small, dimpled mouth; the same calm, thoughtful expression of intellect mingled with gentleness, shone out of the eyes. All was as it was when father and child last looked upon it--the criminal and her accuser. Every line was unaltered; but where were they? DUST! They had acted their part on earth; their love, their hate, their fears, their remorse, were past. The tide of time was hurrying on, bringing life and death, and hopes and fears to others, but sweeping from the earth all trace of their footsteps. To them forever, aye even until the last trump, time and thought, and care and feeling, had no existence!

Mrs. Colton's eyes filled with tears as she gazed upon the picture. 'She deserved a happier fate,' said she, in a subdued tone, as if she feared to disturb the spell which seemed to hang about it.

'It was ordained for the best,' replied Harson, in a grave tone, as he regarded the portrait with a kind of solemn interest. Then, after a moment, he added: 'That _was_ her, before want and suffering had laid their iron finger upon her. When I saw her, she was dead. She was very beautiful even then; but in the short time that had elapsed since her father's imprisonment, the work of years had been performed; she seemed much older and thinner, and more care-worn.'

'How did you get this?' inquired Mr. Colton, pointing to the picture.

'A friend of mine, the person who aided the girl in her last moments, accidentally learned that it was for sale, and begged me to buy it. He was too poor to do it, and I was willing to gratify him; and so the picture became mine.'

Mr. Colton looked at him for a few moments, as if on the point of making some remark, and then walked to the other end of the room and took a seat without a word. He was aroused by the child climbing on his knee, and putting her arms about his neck.

'G.o.d protect you, my child!' said he, laying his hand affectionately on her head; 'may you never know the misery which has fallen upon that poor girl!'

The words were intended to be inaudible, but they reached the ear of his wife, who going up to him, and laying her hand on his arm, said in a low voice: 'Come, come, George, do not give way to these feelings. You must not be gloomy.'

He looked at her sadly, and then placing his finger on his heart, said: 'Is not what has been going on here, for years, enough to wither to the root every feeling of cheerfulness, so that it should never again put forth a blossom?'

'Hus.h.!.+ hus.h.!.+' interrupted his wife, in a whisper; 'if you _have_ suffered, you have gained at last what you have always prayed for; while _he_, the one who caused it all, has paid the penalty of his misdeeds. Remember what his fate was.' She pointed to the picture: 'Remember too, the fate of his only child. George, George! his punishment has been terrible, even in _this_ world!'

'You are right, Mary--G.o.d forgive me! I'll think of it no more. _He_ and I were nursed in the same arms, and watched by the same fond mother. From the bottom of my heart I forgive him. It would be sacrilege to her memory, for me to harbor an unkind feeling toward even a stranger, if she had loved him.'

He was silent for a moment, and then addressing Harson, enquired:

'Who is this Mr. Kornicker?'

'A poor fellow, with little to help him through the world but careless habits and a good heart.'

'What character does he bear?' inquired the other.

'Such as might be expected from his position,' replied Harson; 'full of flaws, but with a vein of gold running through it. Nature has given him fine feelings, and fortune, unluckily, has placed him in a situation where such feelings are impediments rather than otherwise. But he is a n.o.ble fellow for all that.'

'Where can he be found?' asked his guest.

Harson probably antic.i.p.ated the object of this inquiry, for he said with a laugh:

'He has been taken care of; he has been placed where the means of livelihood and competence are in his grasp, if he will but work for them.

And what is better yet, he seems disposed to do so, although not much can be expected of him at first. I do not think,' added he, 'that it contributes to the happiness of a young man, with a long life before him, to be altogether idle. I will do all that I can to help him; but he must work. It will be more easy for him as he gets used to the traces.'

The stranger acquiesced in this remark, and then added: 'I will take his address, nevertheless, for I must see him when I return to the city, which will be very shortly; but you seem to have antic.i.p.ated me in every thing.

Even the lawyer, Mr. Holmes, declined to be paid for his services. He said that _this_ was not strictly a business matter, and that what he had done was out of friends.h.i.+p for you, and that I had better pocket the fee and drop the subject; at the same time, he said he was going to dinner, and asked me to join him, which I did, and a very pleasant time we had of it.'

A good-natured laugh was indulged at the peculiarities of the old lawyer, and many stories told of him, and of others who have figured in this history. Nor was it until the little clock over the mantel-piece seemed to give a very vehement wag of its pendulum as it struck twelve, and Spite, who had been asleep in the corner, bounced up, alarmed at the lateness of the night, and barked vociferously, that they dreamed of going to bed.

The strangers were Harson's guests that night; and the old man, having escorted them to their room, and wished them good night, was himself soon in bed and asleep.

Bright and early the next morning, they were astir; for they were to leave the city, and Harson was up and ready to see them off. It was a fine morning; the trees were just beginning to put forth their spring leaves, and the gra.s.s in the public squares was looking quite fresh and green, as they drove down to the wharf, where the steamer lay, whizzing and puffing, and groaning as if in mortal pain, and tugging at its cable like some shackled sea-monster struggling to escape to its home in the deep. Early as it was, crowds were hurrying to and fro; carts driving up and unloading; porters staggering along with trunks and bales on their shoulders; carriages das.h.i.+ng up at a gallop, filled with people afraid of being too late, and going off more leisurely after the pa.s.sengers were deposited on the wharf. People were bustling hither and thither, elbowing their way to one place, merely to find out where to elbow it to the next; friends were bidding each other adieu; and in particular, a stout lady from the country, in yellow ribbons, from the upper part of the boat was sending a confidential message to her family and friends by a gentleman who stood in the crowd some sixty yards off.