Vassall Morton Part 23

"Why, what do you know about politics? You never had any thing to do with them. You are no more fit for a politician than for a fiddler."

"I'm glad you think so. If I must serve the country in any public capacity, I pray Heaven it may be as a scavenger sooner than as a politician. Who can touch pitch and be clean? I'll pay back your compliment, d.i.c.k. You are a great deal too downright to succeed in public life."

"I'll find a way or make one. But I tell you, colonel,"--and a shade of something like disappointment pa.s.sed over his face,--"if a man wants the people's votes, it's fifty to one that he's got to sink himself lower than the gutter before he gets them."

"Yes, and when the people have turned out of office every man of virtue, honor, manliness, independence, and ability, then they will fling up their caps and brag that their day is come, and their triumph finished over the d.a.m.ned aristocracy."

"You are an unbeliever. You haven't half faith enough in the people.

Now I put it to your common sense. Isn't there a thousand times more patriotism in the laboring cla.s.ses in this country--yes, and about as much intelligence--as in the rabble of sham fashionables at Saratoga, or any other muster of our moneyed sn.o.bs and flunkeys?"

"Exceptions excepted, yes."

"War to the knife with the codfish aristocracy! They are a kind of mongrel beast, expressly devised and concocted for me to kick. I don't mean the gentlemen with money; nor the good fellows with money. I know what a gentleman is; yes, and a lady, too, though I do make stump speeches, and shake hands all round with the sovereign people. That sort are welcome to their money. No, sir, it's the moneyed sn.o.bs, the gilded toadstools, that it's my mission to pitch into."

"Excuse me a moment, d.i.c.k," said Morton, suddenly leaping from his seat, as a lady pa.s.sed the window.

"A lady, eh! Then I'll be off."

"No, no, stay where you are. I'll be back again in three minutes."

He ran out of the hotel, and walked at his best pace in pursuit of f.a.n.n.y Euston, who, on her part, was walking with an earnest air, like one whose thoughts were engaged with some engrossing subject. He reached her side, and made a movement to accost her; but she seemed unconscious of his presence.

"Miss f.a.n.n.y Euston, will you pardon me for breaking in upon your reveries?"

She turned and recognized him, but her smile of recognition was a very mournful one.

"I have stopped you to take my leave,--a good deal more in short hand than I meant it should have been. I shall sail for Europe the day after to-morrow."

"Yes? Is not that a little sudden?"

"More sudden than I wish it were. I am not at all in a travelling humor. I have been too much pressed for time to ride out, as I meant to do, to your father's house."

"We are all in town now. My father came from New Orleans yesterday, very ill."

"I did not hear of it. I trust not dangerously ill."

"He is dying. He cannot live a week."

Morton well knew the strength and depth of her attachment to her father. He pressed her hand in silent sympathy.

"It grieves me, f.a.n.n.y," he said, after a moment, "to part from you under such a cloud."

"Good by," she replied, returning the friendly pressure. "I wish you with all my heart a pleasant and prosperous journey."

Morton turned back, wondering at the sudden dignity of manner which grief had given to the wild and lawless f.a.n.n.y Euston.

CHAPTER XXVII.

_Ham_. Thou wouldst not think how ill's all here about my heart, but it is no matter.

_Hor_. Nay, good my lord----

_Ham_. It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gain-giving as would perhaps trouble a woman.

_Hor_. If your mind dislike any thing, obey it.

_Ham_. Not a whit. We defy augury.

Morton's day of departure came. It was a comfortless, savage, gusty morning, an east wind blowing in from the bay. The hour to set sail was near; he should have been on board; but still he lingered with Edith Leslie. The secrecy on which her father insisted made it impossible for her to go with him to the ship.

Morton forced himself away; his hand was on the door, but his heart failed him, and he turned back again. On the mind of each there was something more than the pain of a year's separation. A dark foreboding, a cloud of dull and sullen portent, hung over them both.

The smooth and bright crusting with which habit and training had iced over the warm nature of Edith Leslie was broken and swept away; and as Morton seized her hands, she disengaged herself, and, throwing herself on his neck, sobbed convulsively. Morton pressed her to his heart, and buried his face in her cl.u.s.tering tresses; then, breaking from her, ran blindly from the house. He repaired to the house of Meredith, who met him at the door.

"You've no time to lose. Here's the carriage. Your trunks are all right. Come on."

They drove towards the wharf.

"I'd give my head to change places with you," said Meredith.

"I wish you could."

There was so much pain and dejection in his look, that his friend could not fail to observe it.

"You don't want to go, then? I have noticed all along that you seemed devilish cool about it."

"Ned," said Morton, "I never used to think myself superst.i.tious; but I begin now to change my mind. Heaven knows why, but I have strange notions running in my brain. My dog howled all last night; and not long ago, an owl yelled over my head, and that, too, at a time---- But you'll think I have lost my wits."

Meredith, in truth, was greatly amazed at this betrayal of a weakness of which, long and closely as he had known his companion, he had never suspected him.

"Why, colonel, I have seen you set out on a journey as long and fifty times as hazardous as this, as carelessly as if you were going to a dinner party."

"I know it; but times are changed with me. I am not quite the child, though, that you may suppose."

"If you have such a feeling about going, I would give it up. It's not too late."

"No, I haven't sunk yet to that pa.s.s." And, as he spoke, the carriage stopped at the pier.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters.--_Byron_.