The Garies and Their Friends Part 46

Mr. Stevens reached across the table, drew the liquor towards him, and recklessly pouring out a large quant.i.ty, drained the gla.s.s to the bottom--this seemed to nerve him up and give him courage, for he turned to McCloskey and said, with a much bolder air than he had yet shown in addressing him, "So, you're back again, villain! are you? I thought and hoped you were dead;" and he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes as if to shut out some horrid spectre.

"I've been divilish near it, squire, but Providence has preserved me, ye see--jist to be a comfort to ye in yer old age. I've been s.h.i.+pwrecked, blown up in steamboats, and I've had favers and choleray and the divil alone knows what--but I've been marcifully presarved to ye, and hope ye'll see a good dale of me this many years to come."

Mr. Stevens glared at him fiercely for a few seconds, and then rejoined, "You promised me solemnly, five years ago, that you would never trouble me again, and I gave you money enough to have kept you in comfort--ay, luxury--for the remainder of your life. Where is it all now?"

"That's more than I can tell you, squire. I only know how it comes. I don't trouble myself how it goes--that's your look out. If ye are anxious on that score you'd better hire a bookkeeper for me--he shall send yer honour a quarterly account, and then it won't come on ye so sudden when it's all out another time."

"Insolent!" muttered Mr. Stevens.

McCloskey gave Mr. Stevens an impudent look, but beyond that took no farther notice of his remark, but proceeded with the utmost coolness to pour out another gla.s.s of brandy--after which he drew his chair closer to the grate, and placed his dirty feet upon the mantelpiece in close proximity to an alabaster clock.

"You make yourself very much at home," said Stevens, indignantly.

"Why shouldn't I?" answered his tormentor, in a tone of the most perfect good humour. "Why shouldn't I--in the house of an ould acquaintance and particular friend--just the place to feel at home, eh, Stevens?" then folding his arms and tilting back his chair, he asked, coolly: "You haven't a cigar, have ye?"

"No," replied Stevens, surlily; "and if I had, you should not have it. Your insolence is unbearable; you appear," continued he, with some show of dignity, "to have forgotten who I am, and who you are."

"Ye're mistaken there, squire. Divil a bit have I. I'm McCloskey, and you are Slippery George--an animal that's known over the 'varsal world as a Philadelphia lawyer--a man that's chated his hundreds, and if he lives long enough, he'll chate as many more, savin' his friend Mr. McCloskey, and him he'll not be afther chating, because he won't be able to get a chance, although he'd like to if he could--divil a doubt of that."

"It's false--I never tried to cheat you," rejoined Stevens, courageously, for the liquor was beginning to have a very inspiriting effect. "It's a lie--I paid you all I agreed upon, and more besides; but you are like a leech--never satisfied. You have had from me altogether nearly twenty thousand dollars, and you'll not get much more--now, mind I tell you."

"The divil I won't," rejoined he, angrily; "that is yet to be seen. How would you like to make yer appearance at court some fine morning, on the charge of murther, eh?" Mr. Stevens gave a perceptible shudder, and looked round, whereupon McCloskey said, with a malevolent grin, "Ye see I don't stick at words, squire; I call things by their names."

"So I perceive," answered Stevens. "You were not so bold once."

"Ha, ha!" laughed McCloskey. "I know _that_ as well as you--then _I_ was under the thumb--that was before we were sailing in the one boat; now ye see, squire, the boot is on the other leg." Mr. Stevens remained quiet for a few moments, whilst his ragged visitor continued to leisurely sip his brandy and contemplate the soles of his boots as they were reflected in the mirror above--they were a sorry pair of boots, and looked as if there would soon be a general outbreak of his toes--so thin and dilapidated did the soles appear.

"Look at thim boots, and me suit ginerally, and see if your conscience won't accuse ye of ingrat.i.tude to the man who made yer fortune--or rather lets ye keep it, now ye have it. Isn't it a shame now for me, the best friend you've got in the world, to be tramping the streets widdout a penny in his pocket, and ye livin' in clover, with gold pieces as plenty as blackberries. It don't look right, squire, and mustn't go on any longer."

"What do you want--whatever will satisfy you?" asked Stevens. "If I give you ever so much now, what guarantee have I that you'll not return in a month or so, and want as much more?"

"I'll pledge ye me honour," said McCloskey, grandly.

"Your honour!" rejoined Stevens, "that is no security."

"Security or no security," said McCloskey, impatiently, "you'll have to give me the money--it's not a bit of use now this disputin, bekase ye see I'm bound to have it, and ye are wise enough to know ye'd better give it to me. What if ye have give me thousands upon thousands," continued he, his former good-humoured expression entirely vanis.h.i.+ng; "it's nothing more than you ought to do for keeping yer secrets for ye--and as long as ye have money, ye may expect to share it with me: so make me out a good heavy cheque, and say no more about it."

"What do you call a heavy cheque?" asked Stevens, in a despairing tone.

"Five or six thousand," coolly answered his visitor.

"Five or six thousand!" echoed Mr. Stevens, "it is impossible."

"It had better not be," said McCloskey, looking angry; "it had better not be--I'm determined not to be leading a beggar's life, and you to be a rolling in wealth."

"I can't give it, and won't give it--if it must come to that," answered Stevens, desperately. "It is you that have the fortune--I am only your banker at this rate. I can't give it to you--I haven't got that much money."

"You must find it then, and pretty quick at that," said McCloskey. "I'm not to be fooled with--I came here for money, and I must and will have it."

"I am willing to do what is reasonable," rejoined Mr. Stevens, in a more subdued tone. "You talk of thousands as most men do of hundreds. I really haven't got it."

"Oh, bother such stuff as that," interrupted McCloskey, incredulously. "I don't believe a word of it--I've asked them that know, and every one says you've made a mint of money by speculation--that since ye sold out in the South and came here to live, there's no end to the money ye've made; so you see it don't do to be making a poor mouth to me. I've come here for a check for five thousand dollars, and shan't go away without it," concluded he, in a loud and threatening tone.

During this conversation, Lizzie Stevens had been standing at the door, momentarily expecting a recall to the apartment. She heard the low rumble of their voices, but could not distinguish words. At length, hearing McCloskey's raised to a higher key, she could no longer restrain her impatience, and gently opening the door, looked into the room. Both their faces were turned in the opposite direction, so that neither noticed the gentle intrusion of Lizzie, who, fearing to leave her father longer alone, ventured into the apartment.

"You need not stand looking at me in that threatening manner. You may do as you please--go tell what you like; but remember, when I fall, so do you; I have not forgotten that affair in Philadelphia from which I saved you--don't place me in a situation that will compel me to recur to it to your disadvantage." "Ah, don't trouble yerself about that, squire; I don't--that is entirely off my mind; for now Whitticar is dead, where is yer witnesses?"

"Whitticar dead!" repeated Stevens.

"Yes; and what's more, he's buried--so he's safe enough, squire; and I shouldn't be at all surprised if you'd be glad to have me gone too."

"I would to G.o.d you had been, before I put myself in your power."

"'Twas your own hastiness. When it came to the pinch, I wasn't equal to the job, so ye couldn't wait for another time, but out with yer pistol, and does it yerself." The wretched man shuddered and covered his face, as McCloskey coolly recounted his murder of Mr. Garie, every word of which was too true to be denied.

"And haven't I suffered," said he, shaking his bald head mournfully; "haven't I suffered--look at my grey hairs and half-palsied frame, decrepit before I'm old--sinking into the tomb with a weight of guilt and sin upon me that will crush me down to the lowest depth of h.e.l.l. Think you," he continued, "that because I am surrounded with all that money can buy, that I am happy, or ever shall be, with this secret gnawing at my heart; every piece of gold I count out, I see his hands outstretched over it, and hear him whisper 'Mine!' He gives me no peace night or day; he is always by me; I have no rest. And you must come, adding to my torture, and striving to tear from me that for which I bartered conscience, peace, soul, everything that would make life desirable. If there is mercy in you, leave me with what I give you, and come back no more. Life has so little to offer, that rather than bear this continued torment and apprehension I daily suffer, I will cut my throat, and then _your_ game is over."

Lizzie Stevens stood rooted to the spot whilst her father made the confession that was wrung from him by the agony of the moment.

"Well, well!" said McCloskey, somewhat startled and alarmed at Stevens's threat of self-destruction--"well, I'll come down a thousand--make it four."

"That I'll do," answered the old man, tremblingly; and reaching over, he drew towards him the cheque-book. After writing the order for the sum, he was placing it in the hand of McCloskey, when, hearing a faint moan, he looked towards the door, and saw his daughter fall fainting to the ground.

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

The Thorn rankles.

We left the quiet town of Sudbury snow-clad and sparkling in all the glory of a frosty moonlight night; we now return to it, and discover it decked out in its bravest summer garniture. A short distance above the hill upon which it is built, the water of the river that glides along its base may be seen springing over the low dam that obstructs its pa.s.sage, sparkling, glistening, dancing in the sunlight, as it falls splas.h.i.+ng on the stones below; and then, as though subdued by the fall and crash, it comes murmuring on, stopping now and then to whirl and eddy round some rock or protruding stump, and at last glides gently under the arch of the bridge, seemingly to pause beneath its shadow and ponder upon its recent tumble from the heights above. Seated here and there upon the bridge are groups of boys, rod in hand, endeavouring, with the most delicious-looking and persuasive of baits, to inveigle finny innocents from the cool depths below.

The windows of the mills are all thrown open, and now and then the voices of some operatives, singing at their work, steal forth in company with the whir and hum of the spindles, and mingle with the splash of the waterfall; and the united voices of nature, industry, and man, harmonize their swelling tones, or go floating upward on the soft July air. The houses upon the hill-side seem to be endeavouring to extricate themselves from bowers of full-leafed trees; and with their white fronts, relieved by the light green blinds, look cool and inviting in the distance. High above them all, as though looking down in pride upon the rest, stands the Academy, enn.o.bled in the course of years by the addition of extensive wings and a row of stately pillars. On the whole, the town looked charmingly peaceful and attractive, and appeared just the quiet nook that a weary worker in cities would select as a place of retirement after a busy round of toils or pleasure.

There were little knots of idlers gathered about the railroad station, as there always is in quiet towns--not that they expect any one; but that the arrival and departure of the train is one of the events of the day, and those who have nothing else particular to accomplish feel constrained to be on hand to witness it. Every now and then one of them would look down the line and wonder why the cars were not in sight.

Amongst those seemingly the most impatient was Miss Ada Bell, who looked but little older than when she won the heart of the orphan Clarence, years before, by that kind kiss upon his childish brow. It was hers still--she bound it to her by long years of affectionate care, almost equalling in its sacrificing tenderness that which a mother would have bestowed upon her only child. Clarence, her adopted son, had written to her, that he was wretched, heart-sore, and ill, and longed to come to her, his almost mother, for sympathy, advice, and comfort: so she, with yearning heart, was there to meet him.

At last the faint scream of the steam-whistle was heard, and soon the lumbering locomotive came puffing and snorting on its iron path, das.h.i.+ng on as though it could never stop, and making the surrounding hills echo with the unearthly scream of its startling whistle, and arousing to desperation every dog in the quiet little town. At last it stopped, and stood giving short and impatient snorts and hisses, whilst the pa.s.sengers were alighting.

Clarence stepped languidly out, and was soon in the embrace of Miss Ada.

"My dear boy, how thin and pale you look!" she exclaimed; "come, get into the carriage; never mind your baggage, George will look after that; your hands are hot--very hot, you must be feverish."

"Yes, Aunt Ada," for so he had insisted on his calling her "I am ill--sick in heart, mind, and everything. Cut up the horses," said he, with slight impatience of manner; "let us get home quickly. When I get in the old parlour, and let you bathe my head as you used to, I am sure I shall feel better. I am almost exhausted from fatigue and heat."

"Very well then, dear, don't talk now," she replied, not in the least noticing his impatience of manner; "when you are rested, and have had your tea, will be time enough."

They were soon in the old house, and Clarence looked round with a smile of pleasure on the room where he had spent so many happy hours. Good Aunt Ada would not let him talk, but compelled him to remain quiet until he had rested himself, and eaten his evening meal.