Round the Block Part 21

Marcus Wilkeson's temperament was of that unfortunate nervous sort which is thrown off its balance by the slightest shock. His frame trembled as he put on his overcoat and hat; and, when he looked in the mirror, he noticed that his face was paler than usual, and his eyes were gla.s.sy.

"Pooh! what a sensitive fool I am!" said he.

He walked hurriedly to Mr. Minford's, and mounted the long, creaking staircases, two steps at a time, tormenting himself all the way with vague apprehensions of evil.

When he entered the room, without knocking (as was his custom of late), he found the inventor standing in front of his machine, with bare arms, hard at work. Marcus nervously said, "Good morning," and stepped forward to shake him by the hand, but stopped when he saw that Mr. Minford averted his face, and did not move.

"I wished to show you a letter which I received a few minutes ago," said the inventor, still not facing Marcus, but busily filing off the rough edge of a bra.s.s wheel fresh from the mould. "There it is, on the table."

Marcus caught up the letter, and read the following:

NEW YORK, Wednesday Forenoon.

MR. MINFORD:

RESPECTED SIR: Allow a true friend and well wisher to ask a few questions. Who is this Mr. Marcus Wilkeson that has suddenly taken such an interest in your family affairs? What is his private history? Why is he relieving you from all trouble and expense in the education of your beautiful child?

What are the man's _real_ motives? Would it not be well to spare your eyes from your invention long enough to look into these matters a little? Pardon the suggestion. The office of a spy, and a secret accuser, is an unpleasant, and, perhaps, a thankless one. I should never have a.s.sumed it, but for the fact that your ardent devotion to science may render you the easy dupe--and your daughter the innocent victim--of a designing and heartless man of the world. I do not ask you to believe the writer of an anonymous note, and therefore I make no specific charges against this Wilkeson; but merely ask you to inquire into his private character, and, above all, his MOTIVES, for yourself.

ONE OF MANY.

Though Marcus Wilkeson was as innocent as a child, in deed and thought, of the baseness hinted at in this letter, he felt that he was looking guilty. Astonishment and indignation kindled in his eyes; but a flush of shame mounted at the same time to his cheeks. Marcus had often said, that if he were tapped on the shoulder in the street, and charged with a petty theft, he would look guilty of grand larceny until he could regain command of his feelings. This diseased sensitiveness, inherited from his mother, was the curse of his physical and mental organization.

His shame was increased by a consciousness that the inventor was stealthily watching him, and studying the enlargement of those horrid red spots on his cheeks.

"When Marcus finished the letter, he put on an expression of outraged innocence--which matched poorly with the flaming tokens of guilt--and said:

"These are infernal lies, sir; and, if I knew the coward who wrote them, I would cram them down his throat."

"Of course they are lies," returned Mr. Minford. "Every anonymous letter writer is a liar--until it is proved that he tells the truth. I shall believe none of these low aspersions on your honor, Mr. Wilkeson, without conclusive evidence." As the inventor said this, not emphatically, Marcus saw that he believed all that the letter had insinuated.

By this time, Marcus had got his const.i.tutional devil a little under control. There was something of real boldness and honesty in his eyes, as he answered:

"This is a distressing subject to talk or think of. But now that it has been brought before us, I demand a full investigation. Go, wherever you will, among those who know me, and inquire into my character. Recall everything that has occurred between us since the beginning of our acquaintance. Ask your daughter if I have ever spoken a word to her, or cast a look at her, which could justify these infamous insinuations.

Thus much I ask of you, in justice to me."

"And I refuse, sir," said the inventor. "I will not insult you by an unworthy suspicion. The world is full of impertinent people, and we can no more stop their gabble, than that of swallows in the air. This nameless fellow signs himself 'One of Many,' That is probably a lie. But if there were thousands like himself prying into your and my affairs, I should not care. As for motives, none but fools and misanthropes trouble themselves about _them_."

The inventor tossed off the last sentence contemptuously. But Marcus knew that he did attach a great importance to motives; although he could not fairly be ranked either among the misanthropes or the fools. He therefore replied:

"The whole world is welcome to inquire into my motives. As I understand them, they are: First, I take pleasure in your society, sir, because, like myself, you are a quiet, thinking man. Second, you have a hobby--your machine, there--and I admire people with hobbies. Third, I am fond of children, and--and--your daughter is a very pleasant, intelligent child. Fourth, you have insisted on selling me an interest in your invention, in return for a small loan, and that fact would draw me here, if nothing else did. These are motives enough to satisfy the most inquisitive mind, I should think."

Marcus said this with an attempt at a light laugh. But there was one motive not yet confessed--a motive which could hardly be called a motive, for it lay dim and half-formed within his brain. He had never, in his moments of self-inquisition, acknowledged its existence to himself. How could he, then, venture to disclose it to another? It was the suppression of this immature motive, that brought back that look of deceit and guilt to Marcus Wilkeson's ingenuous face.

This unfortunate physiognomical revelation was not lost upon the keen eyes of the inventor. But he said:

"Mr. Wilkeson, let us not say another word on this ridiculous subject. I am ashamed of myself for showing you the letter. I ought to have thrown it into the fire."

"There I differ with you, my dear sir," said Marcus. "You did perfectly right, and I am glad that I have had the opportunity to define my position here clearly, once and for all." Marcus could not avoid saying this much in mere civility to the inventor, but he indulged the private opinion that that gentleman should have burned the anonymous note.

"Who can have written this scoundrelly thing?" continued Marcus, turning over the letter, and then the envelope, for the twentieth time each, and minutely examining them.

The note was written on a half sheet of common letter paper. The manufacturer's stamp in the corner had been cut off, and the size of the half sheet further diminished by paring down one of the sides. The writing was what is known as "backhanded," in strokes which appeared at first sight to be of a uniform lightness. On inspecting it very closely, Marcus discovered a tendency, in this backhanded penmans.h.i.+p, to ascend from the line; and also that, in a few instances, the downward strokes on certain long letters were a trifle thicker than on others. That the writing was a man's, Marcus had no doubt, though he would have been puzzled to give the reasons which led him to that conclusion. The envelope was the ordinary prepaid-stamped one issued by the Government, and therefore could not contribute to the identification of the anonymous writer. The superscription was in the same backhand, and was peculiar in nothing but a small curved nourish, like Hogarth's line of beauty, beneath the words, "New York. City."

"The rascal has carefully disguised his hand," said Marcus, "and does not mean to be found out. I can say nothing more positive, than that it is written by somebody who has never corresponded with me. My memory of autographs happens to be pretty tenacious."

"And I am positive that it is written by no acquaintance of mine, or of my daughter's, for we have none--except you. As the case now stands, it is a mystery, not worth the exploring."

"Again I differ with you," said Marcus. "Whoever wrote this false letter, has powerful motives of hostility to me or you, or, perhaps--worse still--to your daughter. I must try to smoke him out of his hiding place. Meanwhile, I trust, sir, you will see the propriety of concealing this unpleasant matter from Miss Minford."

"Certainly, Mr. Wilkeson, certainly. As for myself, it is forever dismissed from my mind; and I cannot blame myself sufficiently for having troubled you with it." Mr. Minford here proffered his hand, which Marcus cordially shook, rejoicing to observe no trace of suspicion in the inventor's clear gray eyes.

"Allow me to retain this letter for the present," asked Marcus. "It may serve as a clue to the detection of the concealed scoundrel. I also beg that you will show me any other anonymous letters of the same character that may reach you."

Mr. Minford laughed. "The stove door is the pigeonhole where all such nonsense ought to be filed away. But just as you please. If any more come to hand, you shall see them. They may amuse you, as they do me.

Ha! ha!"

Marcus echoed the laugh, but feebly. Then it occurred to him that Pet would soon be home, and he felt a strange aversion to meeting her, after what had happened. He therefore pleaded a pressing engagement at eleven o'clock (which it then was), and took his departure from the inventor's roof, but not without a warm and seemingly sincere invitation to "call soon."

CHAPTER II.

CONSOLATIONS OF HIGH ART.

Marcus walked slowly toward Broadway, musing and unhappy. To a man of his delicate and hyper-sensitive nature, an event of this kind was a vast disturbance. He felt that this anonymous letter was but the forerunner of a long series of troubles. That prescience which nervous people have of misfortunes portrayed to him a future black with disappointments and dangers.

"Hallo, Mark! What's the matter? You look as sad as a low comedian by daylight!" Previous to this salutation came a ringing slap on the left shoulder.

Marcus rather liked familiarities; but the slap, coming on him when his nerves were unstrung, startled him. He turned sharply; but the stern and indignant face wreathed into amiable smiles, when he saw that the lively gentleman behind him was only Wesley Tiffles. Everybody liked Wesley Tiffles; even those who bore the burden of his unlucky financial schemes uniting in cheerful testimony to his charming, companionable qualities. His presence was like a ray of sunlight to Marcus Wilkeson's beclouded mind; and when Wesley Tiffles hooked an arm in his (as he did to everybody on the second day of their acquaintance), Marcus felt his perplexities pa.s.sing away from him, like electricity on a conducting rod.

Wesley Tiffles and his single diamond (the latter from the background of a third day's s.h.i.+rt) shone on him together; and Marcus laughed merrily in reply:

"I don't look sad now," said he. "I'm glad to see you, Tiffles. What are you driving at _now_, eh?"

This question was continually poked at Tiffles. He changed his business so often.

"At the panorama of Africa, to be sure," said Tiffles. "It is a great idea, and I am constant to it, although several capital schemes have occurred to me since I first thought of it. But Africa deserves, and shall have the precedence."

"Oh! yes--I remember. And how far have you got along with this great work?"

"It's almost finished, thank you. Patching is the artist. You know Patching, of course--one of the most promising painters of the modern school. There were several Patchings very much praised by the Sunday papers, at the last National Academy Exhibition, though the hanging committee put them either among the dirt or the cobwebs. This conspiracy against Patching is far-reaching. It would seem as if his rivals of the Academy actually went about town calling upon people, and cautioning them _not_ to buy Patchings. Indeed, to such an extent has this outrageous attempt to put down a fellow artist been carried, that I know of but one Patching to be publicly seen in the city. It is an attic interior--a sweet thing, quite equal to Frere, and hangs behind a bar near Spring street. Perhaps you would like to examine it?"

"Hem! Not to-day. Some other time," answered Marcus, who, strangely enough, interpreted the question as an invitation to drink at his (Marcus's) expense.

"I did not mean to-day," said Wesley Tiffles. "Any time will do. Well, I have engaged this brilliant but neglected creature to paint my panorama.

At first he refused--as I expected. He said that it would hurt his reputation. I argued to him, that, the larger the picture, the more the reputation; and said that I would put his name on the bills in type second only to my own. But he could not bring himself to see the matter as I did, and consented to paint it only on condition of profound secrecy. Price, one hundred dollars. You will therefore understand (Tiffles lowered his voice) that what I am saying to you is strictly confidential--as, indeed, all is that I say about my panorama. Secrecy alone gives value to these grand, original ideas."

Wesley Tiffles was always unbosoming himself to the world, and informing each individual hearer that his disclosure was strictly confidential.