Hope Mills Part 24

Fred opened it with languid indifference, and his eye wandered over the following lines:--

HAMILTON MINOR, ESQ.

_Dear Sir_,--On taking possession of Hope Mills, for business purposes, I find some personal property belonging to the late Mr. Lawrence. It may have a value for the family, and shall be at your disposal whenever you desire it. Respectfully yours,

JOHN DARCY.

"As soon as Hope Terrace is disposed of, the accounts can be audited and settled," said Minor in a sharp, business-like way. "The debts have all come in, and been paid dollar for dollar; though, if your father had been a prudent man, he would have made sure of something for his family.

No one expects estates to pay more than fifty per cent nowadays."

Fred rose, and crushed Jack Darcy's note in his pocket, holding himself proudly, while his cheek flushed.

"I am very thankful," in a clear, cold tone. "My father's life was pure and honorable, and no man can fling a stone at his grave. I would rather be penniless, as I am, than have it otherwise."

"Oh! very well, very well," sneeringly.

Fred walked out of the office, and turned into Broadway. The same curious, restless, hurrying throng. Where were they all going? Did they find room and work? How clearly the sun shone! The sky was so blue, with great drifts of white floating about,--strange barques on a mystical sea. In spite of the outside roar and rush, there was a solemn and awesome stillness within him. He began to feel how entirety alone he stood. A twelvemonth ago there were hosts of friends pulling him hither and yon, proposing this and that, laughing and chatting gayly. Where were they now? Not all weak and false, but the shadow of circ.u.mstances had drifted them apart. We do not always cease to love or like when separation ensues; and in this shifting, changing life, people drop out, yet are not quite forgotten. Some of the young fellows whom fortune had buffeted had found a place in active, stirring life: he, with his education, refinement, accomplishments, and talent, was merely a piece of driftwood. Sylvie Barry had been right,--he was a useless appendage to the world. Ah, no wonder she despised him! St.u.r.dy, honest Jack Darcy could find a place. His self-complacency was more than touched,--it was shattered, completely broken up. The present was blank and colorless, the future like a thick mist in which there penetrated not one ray of light. What did all his elaborate philosophies for him now?--art, that was to regenerate the world; science, that explained and refined, and found a place and a reason for every thing in the universe; man, the most important of all. And here he was, tossed aside like a weed. Who cared whether his nature was foul or kinglike? He was, in truth, one of the atoms floating about in s.p.a.ce, and finding no use or purpose. The world could go on just as well without him. Why, if he should drop himself over into the river, there would be only a ripple. He laughed, as if his personality was something that did not really belong to him, that could be put off at will, that was, in truth, answerable to no power. All of life, then, had been a lie!

He stumbled onward blindly. A sense of dreary mystery crept over him,--an utter hopelessness. He essayed to stretch out his hand to some pa.s.ser-by, but the careless faces mocked him. There was no strength or stay. He could not even cry out with his anguish,--it was a dumb, inarticulate voice. All his idols had been destroyed, and there was no G.o.d to cry to!

His last three weeks' salary had gone down in Bristol & Co.'s ruin.

There were some jewels to sell, a few more pictures, several sets of rare books, and--what then?

Starvation had appeared so utterly improbable in this great, thriving world, and here he was, almost face to face with it,--he who had never taken an anxious thought about any thing, who had felt as if he really honored money by the spending of it. A beggar! An object of charity to Hamilton Minor!

No, that should never be. He tried to rouse himself from his lethargy.

He went around to stores and offices where he was not known, and asked for something to do, as if in a curious masquerade. The same answer everywhere. Nothing! The sun went slowly down, the street-lamps were lighted. Every inch of his body ached with the long tramp and nervous exhaustion. He had eaten nothing since breakfast, but he was not hungry.

What if he did steal quietly over to the river, and end it all?

The desperation was hardly black enough for that. Somewhere near midnight he strolled home: how much longer would there be a home, he wondered?

He thrust his hand in his pocket, and the bit of folded paper struck sharp against his fingers, so he drew it out. Hardly the familiar school-boy scrawl: Jack used to hate writing, he remembered. This had a decisive force about it. How odd that business-like "John" looked!

"Jack!" He uttered the name aloud, and a thrill seemed to warm his frozen heart,--to stir emotions most contradictory. A sense of shame predominated, tingling his very finger-ends, crimsoning his pale cheeks, and stinging his soul with a sense of utter humiliation. He had prided himself so much upon the immaculate honor of his life, and lo! here he stood, self-convicted of one of the basest of sins,--broken faith. Not from any sudden, hot dispute, not from a knowledge of deception or any small meanness, but deliberate, well-considered treachery. It would have been manlier had he said to Jack, "Our ways lie apart, and in the future we shall meet so seldom, it is hardly worth while to keep up a pretence of friendship." He had skulked away instead, kept out of sight,--basely shunned the strong, tender soul that had helped to make a peevish boyhood sunny and bright.

Black as this ingrat.i.tude looked to him now, he experienced a strange and intense desire to see his olden friend once more. What was he doing at Hope Mills? Had he found a place?

The next morning's mail brought him a check for sixty dollars, for an article he had thought little of himself, and sent merely because he had happened to finish it, and was despatching his ventures out on the sea of chance. Then he went over to Mrs. Minor's: he had not seen his mother for several days.

He was quite in the habit of going directly up to her room; but, as he neared it, he heard voices raised in no gentle discussion. Agatha stood in the middle of the room, flushed, angry, an open note in her hand; Mrs. Lawrence was weeping hysterically, while Irene sat pale and sullen, but her eyes gleaming with a dangerous fire.

"Very well: if you deliberately decide to take a beggar's portion, then, do not look to me for any further help," said Mrs. Minor. "This marriage would have afforded you every luxury; and you have thrown aside the chance, like a silly school-girl. Perhaps you _have_ some secret, favored lover!" and the glittering eyes might have annihilated a weaker woman than Irene Lawrence.

"If I had, I should go to him. I would live on crusts and a cup of cold water with him, rather than luxury," with a bitter, stinging emphasis, "and my own humiliation. The man would drive me mad, Agatha! Some day, yielding to an irresistible impulse, I should murder him;" and she gave a shrill, unnatural laugh.

Fred went over to her, and took her hand. His business in life was to be her champion, her defender, her support,--not only against this monstrous marriage, at which her soul revolted, but Agatha's sneers and flings, and the dependence a proud soul must naturally feel when the very bread turns to ashes in one's mouth. How it was to be done, he could not tell at that moment; but he drew one long breath of honest, hopeful manliness, and resolved to leave no stone unturned.

His mother wept in his comforting arms. She was very much shattered,--quite an old woman long before her time, made so by the follies of an indolent, enervating life. Like a pang the thought pierced his brain, that for these paltry results his father had given the strength and labor of manhood.

CHAPTER XVI.

THERE were a few faint hints of autumn in Yerbury. The air was warm, and freighted with the peculiar sweetness of over-ripe grapes and apples, of dried balsam and faded golden-rod by the wayside. The very air seemed to quiver with intense contrasts of color, the yellow beeches standing out in strong relief, the bronze-red of one great oak, the bluish-green of the spruce, and the tender tints of fading, long-armed larches, drooping in regretful sadness. Lights of silvery gray and russet-brown, pale gold and hazy purple, and a sapphire sky bending over all. The artistic side of Fred Lawrence's soul was touched as he had once fancied nothing this side of Europe could touch it.

For a moment a mighty rush of regret came over him. This magnificent place had been his home. Perhaps he would have been more than human not to have experienced a pang.

He wandered about for some time. It was too lovely to go in and explore those dusty, darkened rooms: this evening would answer for that. He paced the lawn, he lingered by the gate; he took a turn about the grapery, now used for profit by the thrifty farmer who had charge of the place. Then he turned, and went down the street. The bells were ringing for six. From his height above, he could see the laborers wending their way, the great chimney of Hope Mills. He would walk in that direction.

They would all be gone by the time he reached it.

The streets were indeed nearly deserted. In the shade here the wind blew a little chilly. Yes, it was just the same; but then, it would not be likely to alter in a year. Why, it seemed a decade almost, since the night he had come home to his dying father!

Ah, if they had been more to each other! Did he go about with a lonely spirit, Fred wondered, feeling the uselessness and insufficiency of the life he was leading? Had he been glad to lay the burthen down?

A sudden firm, manful step ran down the stone stairway with a cheerful ring, and a voice hummed a tune softly, as one sometimes does for a seeming accompaniment, when the mind is occupied with other things;--a tall, robust figure, with long arms, and a springy step, as if he might still leap a post, or jump the creek. He was rushing off, when, curiously enough, with no other motive than an impulse, he turned, and saw an almost motionless figure.

Whether he would send for the articles belonging to his father, or visit Hope Mills in person, risking a sight of Jack Darcy, or whether he would summon courage enough to ask for his old friend, were matters that Fred had put off for to-morrow's decision. Why he had wandered here at all, amazed him now; and he stood quite breathless at the unexpected apparition, without power to move or speak.

If he had still been in the high tide of prosperity, Jack would have pa.s.sed him by silently, but with no rudeness. Something in the bent head, the pale face, the general melancholy att.i.tude, came home to his heart,--his fresh, generous, magnanimous heart. He ventured a step nearer, he put out his hand.

"Fred, old fellow!"

The rich, full voice might have melted any heart. The frank, honest eyes lighted with wonderful tenderness: there was a glow and earnestness that could come only from a large, forgiving soul, capable of putting by its own sense of pain or any past discomfiture.

Fred Lawrence crimsoned to the very edge of his hair, to the farthest depths of his soul. He would have taken the hand: then he drew back with a gesture of self-reproach, as if he could tread his past sinful pride in the dust.

"Let's forget the bygones," the hearty young fellow began, "that is, if you would like to have it so," drawing back a trifle to give him his choice as a delicate woman might have done.

"Thank you, Jack," grasping the warm, firm hand in his own pale, cold one, and raising his soft dark eyes, so near to tears. Just now no other words would come.

Jack drew the hand through his arm. "I've thought of you so many times,"

he began, as if they had parted the best of friends. "It has been a sad year for many, doubly so for you."

"Sad indeed. O Jack!"

It was all uttered in the long tremulous swell of voice that tells the whole story.

"Yes."

With that, their friendship was renewed. Women might have fallen into each other's arms with expressions of penitence and forgiveness; but they had said their say, as was characteristic of both.

"Were you coming in?" and Darcy turned back as he asked the question.

"No: I only reached Yerbury an hour or so ago on a little business. Some remembrance of old time brought me hither."

"I am glad it did. Shall we walk down Main Street? Are you staying at Hope Terrace?"

"I shall be for a few days."