Afore I could ask you for any work, you wanted to know if I hadn't been sent to mend your piazza railing. It was easy to say 'Yes,' and I said it."

"And very well you carried out the joke, Amos," said old Van Quintem.

"You wouldn't make a bad actor."

"Rather better actor than carpenter, I guess," said Mr. Frump.

"Perhaps so," said old Van Quintem; "but a financier of your talent needn't act, or mend railings, for a living. I should like to know, now, how you made your money in California. Nine out of ten who go there, come back poorer than they went."

"'Tisn't best to ask too many questions of a returned Californian,"

answered Amos, in perfect good humor.

"Nor of anybody else, about business matters. You are right," added old Van Quintem.

"I say to wifey, and to all my friends, 'Let bygones be bygones. Take me as you find me, and I'll take you as I find you; and we'll ax no questions on either side.'"

"Dear Amos, you are the best of husbands!" said Mrs. Frump, looking fondly in his face. Mr. Frump improved as he was looked at.

"Let bygones be bygones' is a very good rule," said old Van Quintem.

"Mr. Frump," said Matthew, unable longer to repress the compliment, "you have a wonderful amount of good sense!"

"I told you," was the laughing reply, "that 'Amos was sensible in some things.'"

BOOK THIRTEENTH

THE STRANGE LADY.

CHAPTER I.

A STORY OF THE PAST.

Another year slipped away, and wrought many changes among the inhabitants of the block. Some of them had pa.s.sed from stately mansions to those narrow houses which are appointed for all the living. Others had wedded, and moved to other blocks which were to be their future homes--till the 1st of the following May. Some of them had grown rich by quick speculations, and got into the choicest society by the simple manoeuvre of taking a four-story brownstone front in the avenue which formed the eastern boundary of the block. Others had attained to poverty by the same process, and had migrated to cheaper lodgings in blocks remote, expecting that a lucky turn of Fortune's wheel would bring them back to fashionable life next year, as it most likely would. The princ.i.p.al personages of this history had been radically affected by this lapse of time--as will hereafter be shown--with the single exception of Marcus Wilkeson.

For one year, life had pa.s.sed tranquilly, uneventfully. He had sought, and found, in his dear books, a panacea for that sickness of the heart which sometimes attacked him in his lonelier hours. At such, times, he would repeat to himself these expressive lines of an old poet:

This books can do; nor this alone; they give New views of life, and teach us how to live; The grieved they soothe, the stubborn they chastise; Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise.

Their aid they yield to all; they never shun The man of sorrow, or the wretch undone.

Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd, Nor tell to various people various things, But show to subjects what they show to kings.

The end of the quiet, sad (but not unpleasantly sad) twelve months found Marcus, on a bright morning in the month of August, sitting at his window, with a favorite book on his knees, looking--where he should not have looked so much--at that window in the old house where the only tragedy of his life had been wrought. As he gazed, like one fascinated by a spell, his features lengthened, and the habitually melancholy expression of his face became deepened and confirmed.

So wrapt was he in these unhappy self-communings, that he did not hear a vigorous "rat-tat-tat" on the door of the little back parlor. A repet.i.tion of the performance aroused him, and to his call, "Come in,"

Mash, the cook, presented herself.

"A woman at the door wishes to speak to you, sir, on important business, she says. Shall I show her in, sir?" Mash laid stress on the word "woman," in retaliation for the somewhat peremptory way in which the person in question had accosted her at the door. The "b.u.t.tery and the Boudoir--a Tale of Real Life," afforded her a precedent on this point.

"Show in the lady," said Marcus, wondering who she could be.

A tall, shapely person, dressed in deep black, and wearing a thick veil, was ushered into the room. She bowed slightly, and took a seat which Marcus offered her, near the window, and then looked significantly at Mash, who lingered in an uncertain way about the door.

"You may shut the door, Mash," said Marcus; and Mash did so with a little slam, intended to pierce the heart of the mysterious woman in black, for whom that domestic had, in one minute, conceived a mortal dislike.

The strange woman drew back her veil, and revealed a thin, pale face, which might have been handsome twenty years back. "Do you remember having seen me before?"

Marcus looked into the thin face with polite scrutiny. "Yes, madam,"

said he, at length. "I think I saw you on a railway train in New Jersey, over a year ago; and also in the town of--, in that State, on the evening of a certain unfortunate exhibition. But you are changed, in some respects, since then."

"You would say that I am paler and thinner; and I am here to tell you why I am, and also to make all the atonement in my power for a crime that I have committed."

Marcus Wilkeson's first thought was of the unfathomed murder. His startled face expressed what was pa.s.sing through his mind.

The strange woman read his thoughts. "The crime to which I refer is not the murder of Mr. Minford; of which, I may here say, I believed, from the first, that you were entirely innocent. Crimes--of that character, at least--have never been known in your family."

"All that you say, taken in connection with some curious circ.u.mstances which occurred on that railway ride, and that memorable night in New Jersey," said Marcus, "make me intensely anxious to hear what you have to tell. Please impart the information at once, and fully. I call Heaven to witness, that your name, your history, the secret which you are to reveal, shall pa.s.s with me to the grave, if you desire it."

"I accept your offer," said she, with emotion, "though my crime is so flagrant that no publicity, no punishment would be too great for it.

Still, as full justice can be done, and reparation made, without this public disgrace, I prefer that my ident.i.ty should be unknown except to you. I think that I have but few months to live." The woman expelled a hacking cough.

"My story must be short," said she, "and suited to my strength and this cough. You probably remember Lucy Anserhoff, who was a little playmate of yours in your native village? I see, by your nod, that you do. I am--she. You may well look surprised, for there is little in my haggard face and wasted form to recall that once innocent girl. You remember, I presume, my engagement to your brother Aurelius--excuse my faltering, sir, for, even at this distance of time, I cannot speak of your dead brother without emotion. It is not necessary to recall to your memory the details of your brother's conduct to me, and how he afterward married--another--and moved to this city. This early portion of my unfortunate career is well known to you, as it was to all the people of our little village."

Here the strange visitor paused, and coughed. The cough was dry and hollow.

She continued: "I think I may say that I was amiable and good enough, as a child. But your brother's desertion changed my whole nature. I dwelt upon one thought--revenge. I shudder as I confess it, but, for months, I meditated taking the life of the man who had wronged me. I came to this city twice, and lay in wait for him; but my heart faltered, and, thank G.o.d! I did not commit that crime. Soon, Heaven interposed--so it seemed to me at that wicked time--to help on my work of vengeance. Your brother's wife died, giving birth to a female child. I used to ride into the city twice a week regularly after this, and watch for him near his place of business, that I might gloat on his pale, unhappy face. I see the look of horror with which you receive this part of my confession; but you will bear in mind, sir, that I am hero to tell the truth, concealing nothing. You remember, sir, the old lines about a woman scorned? I, sir, can bear witness to their awful truth."

Another fit of coughing here interrupted her. At length she resumed, in a feebler voice: "I must hasten while I can talk at all. One day, while I was watching near your brother's house for his appearance, the door opened, and a servant appeared, with a child in her arms--his child. The servant walked down the street, and I followed her, un.o.bserved, until she came to Washington Parade Ground. She entered the park, and took a seat near the fountain. I sat down on a bench near her. It was not long before I made the girl's acquaintance, and had the child in my arms, caressing it with well-counterfeited kindness. Suddenly, the girl recollected that she had left the street door of the house unlocked, and was afraid that the house, having not a soul in it, would be robbed during her absence. She was so much troubled about it, that she asked me to hold the child--then about a year old--until she could go and lock up the house, and return. A horrible suggestion came into my mind, and I took the child in my arms. The servant was no sooner out of my sight, than I rose, and, clasping the child tightly, walked rapidly in the opposite direction. When I had got out of the park, among the side streets near North River, I ran until I was tired, turning at every corner, to avoid pursuit. My plan was clear from the moment that the child was left in my charge. It was, to give her into the keeping of some stranger, and so rob the widowed father of his only child. It was a scheme worthy of the lost and wretched woman that I then was."

A fit of coughing here set in, interrupting the narrative for several minutes. Marcus offered his strange guest a gla.s.s of water. She sipped it, until her cough was checked.

"I wished to make a full and minute statement, sir; but this cough again warns me to be very brief. In a word, then, I had not gone far, before I saw a German woman--a neat, elderly person--sitting on the stoop of her house. An impulse moved me to leave the child with her. I accosted her, but she answered me in German, saying that she could not speak English.

Hardly knowing what I did, I mounted the steps, and placed the child in her arms, first kissing it. Then I tossed my pocket book, containing about twenty dollars, into her lap, and, without another word or act, ran off again. As I drew near the next corner, I turned, and saw the German woman still sitting on the stoop, looking at the child, and then at the money, and then at my flying form, in perfect amazement.

"Well, I returned to my country home in safety. Next day, I saw in the New York papers a reward of five hundred dollars for the recovery of the child, and the same amount for the arrest of the woman who stole it. My person was described, according to the recollection of the servant, but so imperfectly that I could not be identified. In two weeks I visited the city again, found the house where I had left the child--for I had remembered, even in my haste, the street and the number. The poor little thing was well, and had learned to love its new mother, who, in turn, seemed to love it as well as her own two children. I kissed the child, left more money with the German woman, and fled again to my home. These visits I repeated from week to week for six months, without detection.

The German woman supposed that I was the mother of the child, but knew there was a secret, and did not seek to disturb it. At the end of the six months, your--your--brother died." (There was here a slight quaver in her voice, almost instantly pa.s.sing away.) "Soon after this, my mother died, and the last of our family estate was spent on her burial."

(Another tremor in the voice, but brief. The woman seemed to have perfect control of her feelings.)

"Fortunately, I was qualified to earn my living as a seamstress. I went to the city, advertised for such a place, and obtained it. I visited the child secretly, sometimes, and left money for its support and clothing.

But the idea of detection and exposure troubled me greatly. One day, I read an advertis.e.m.e.nt from a married couple who had no children, offering to adopt a girl under two years of age. I answered the advertis.e.m.e.nt, and thus became acquainted with--"

"I antic.i.p.ate the disclosure," said Marcus. "Mr. Minford! And the poor, dear child is my niece. Heaven be praised, she is found at last!"

CHAPTER II.

POSSIBLE LOVE.