The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes

"Come in," he gasped, with the articulation of a person about to undergo a mild species of torture.

"You'll excuse me, good people," said Grimgriskin, "for the intrusion; but business is business, and if one don't attend to one's business, it's highly probable one's business will make unto itself wings, and, in a manner of speaking, fly away: not that I want to make you feel uncomfortable. I flatter myself, in this establishment, nobody need be under such a disagreeable apprehension; but houses won't keep themselves, at least I never knew any so to do. Lodgings is lodgings, and board is board; moreover, markets – specially at this season of the year – may reasonably be said to be markets; beef and mutton don't jump spontaneously into one's hands; promiscuous-like, neither do the hydrants run tea and coffee – at least as far as my knowledge of hydrants goes."

"The plain sense of all this is" —

"Exactly what I am coming to," interrupted the voluble hostess. "I'm a woman of few words; but those few, such as they are, I'm proud to say, are generally to the purpose. I make it a point to send in my bills regularly every month, and I presume that it's not an unreasonable stretch of imagination to expect them to be paid. Now, for the last three months they have come up to you receipted, and down to me with what one might call the autographical corner torn off. Now, as it is not in my nature to make any one feel uncomfortable, and being a woman of very few words, I would merely intimate to you that rents is rents – and, moreover, must be paid – and mine, I am sorry to observe, is not a singular exception in such respect."

"My dear Mrs. Grim" —

"One moment!" interposed the woman of few words. "Perhaps you may not be aware of the circumstance, but I have my eyes open – and, moreover, my ears – whispers is whispers, and I have heard something that might make you uncomfortable; but as that is not my principle, I won't repeat it; but talkers, you know, will be talkers, and boarders can never be anything else in the world but boarders."

"What have they dared to say of us?" inquired Henry.

"Nothing – oh! nothing to be repeated – dear, no! I'm proud to observe that my boarders pay regularly every month, and are therefore highly respectable; and respectable boarders make a respectable house, and I wouldn't keep anything else. Thank Heaven, I have that much consideration for my own respectability!"

"May I be permitted to ask what all this amounts to?" asked Henry, with commendable resignation.

"Just two hundred dollars," sharply replied Mrs. Grimgriskin; "being eighty for board, and one hundred and twenty for extras. I'm a woman of few words" —

"And I'm a man of less," said Henry, "I can't pay it."

"I had my misgivings," cried the landlady, tartly, "notwithstanding your boast of being connected with the rich Mr. Granite. Allow me to say, sir," she continued, seating herself upon a chair, "I've just sent for a hackman to take your trunks away, and I mean to retain the furniture until some arrangement is made."

"May I come in?" murmured a small, but apparently well-known voice at the door, from the alacrity with which Henry's poor, young wife rushed to open it, admitting old Sterling, the clerk.

"Let me look in your eyes," cried she; "is there any hope?"

Sterling shook his head.

"No – no more!"

"Heaven help us!" she exclaimed, as she tottered back to her seat.

"Heaven has helped you, my bright bird," said Sterling. "I only shook my head to make your joy the greater."

"What say you?" exclaimed Travers; "has that stony heart relented?"

"It is not a stony heart," replied Sterling; "I am ashamed of you for saying so. It's a good, generous heart. It has made mine glow with long-forgotten joy this day."

"Does he give us relief?" inquired Henry.

"He does," said the old man, the enthusiasm of generous happiness lighting up his features; "great, enduring relief. What do you think of five thousand dollars?"

"You dream, I dream!" cried Travers, starting up in astonishment; while Mrs. Grimgriskin, smoothing her unamiable wrinkles, and her apron at the same time, at the mention of so respectable a sum, came forward, saying, in her newest-lodger voice —

"You'll excuse me; but I'm a woman of few words. I hope you won't take anything I've said as at all personal to you, but only an endeavor, as far as in me lies, to keep up the credit of my own establishment; as for that little trifle between us, of course you can take your own time about that." So saying, and with a profusion of unnoticed courtesies, she quitted the room.

She had scarcely done so, when, with a deep groan of agony, Sterling pressed his hand against his head, and staggered to a chair. In an instant, Henry and his wife were by his side.

"What is the matter, my dear Sterling?" cried Henry.

"Don't come near me," replied the old clerk, the very picture of despair and wretchedness; "I am the destroyer of your peace, and of my own, for ever. Oh! why was I allowed to see this dreadful day? Curse me, Travers! Bellow in my blunted ear, that my vile sense may drink it in. I've lost it – lost it!"

"Not the money?" exclaimed Henry and his wife at a breath.

"That's right! kill me – kill me! I deserve it!" continued Sterling, in an agony of grief. "Oh! careless, guilty, unhappy old man, that in your own fall must drag down all you love, to share your ruin! lost – lost – lost, for ever!"

"Forgive even the appearance of injustice, my good, kind old friend," soothingly observed Travers. "It is I who am the doomed one. There is no use in striving against destiny."

"Don't, Henry, don't!" gasped the old clerk, through his fast-falling tears. "This kindness is worse than your reproof. Let me die – let me die! I am not fit to live!" Suddenly starting to his feet, he cried: "I'll run back – perhaps I may find it. Oh! no – no! I cannot; my old limbs, braced up by the thought of bringing you happiness, are weakened by the effect of this terrible reaction!"

"Come – come, old friend, take it not so much to heart!" said Travers, cheering him as well as he could. "There, lean upon me; we'll go and search for it together, and even if it be not found, the loss is not a fatal one, so long as life and health remain."

"You say this but to comfort me, and in your great kindness of heart, dear, dear boy!" cried Sterling, as he rose from the chair, and staggered out to retrace his steps, in the hope of regaining that which had been lost.

CHAPTER IV.

THE PIECE OF LUCK

It so happened that the very truckman who was sent to take Henry's trunks, was our friend Bobolink, who was plying in the vicinity, and as it was his first job, he was anxious enough to get it accomplished; therefore, a few minutes before Sterling came out, he and his protégé, Bryan, the Irishman, trotted up to the door.

"There! away with you up, and get the trunks," said Bobolink; "I'll wait for you here."

Bryan timidly rung at the bell, and entered. In the meantime, Tom stood at his horse's head, pulling his ears, and having a little confidential chat. Taking out his wallet, he investigated its contents.

"Only fifty cents," he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders, "and this job will make a dollar – that's all the money in the world."

In putting back his greasy, well-worn wallet, his eye happened to fall upon an object, which made the blood rush with a tremendous bound through his frame. Lying close to the curb, just below his feet, was a large pocket-book.

"Good gracious!" he exclaimed, "what's that? It looks very like" – (picking it up hurriedly, and taking a hasty survey of its contents) – "it is – money – heaps of money – real, good money, and such a lot – all fifties and twenties!" And now a crowd of contending thoughts pressed upon his brow. First, he blessed his good luck; then, he cursed the heaviness of the temptation – he thrust it deep into his bosom; again, he thought he would place it where he found it; at one moment he would whistle, and endeavor to look unconcerned; at another, he would tremble with apprehension. What to do with it, he did not know; but the tempter was too strong; he at last determined to retain it. "It's a windfall," said he to himself; "nobody has seen me take it. Such a large sum of money could not have been lost by a poor person, and nobody wants it more than I do myself. I'll be hanged if I don't keep it!"

Just then Bryan emerged from the door, with a most lachrymose expression of countenance, and was very much astonished to find that his stay did not produce an equally woe-begone effect upon Tom.

"There's no thrunks goin'," said Bryan. "The fellow as was leavin', ain't leavin' yet; because somebody's after leavin' him a lot o' money.

"Come, jump up, then," cried Bobolink, "and don't be wasting time there."

At that moment his eye caught that of Sterling, who, with Travers, had commenced a search for the lost pocket-book. Instinct told him in an instant what their occupation was, and yet he determined to keep the money.

"My man," said Travers to Bryan, "did you see anything of a pocket-book near this door?"

"Is it me?" replied Bryan. "Do I look as if I'd seen it? I wish I had!"

"What for? you'd keep it, I suppose?" observed Travers.

"Bad luck to the keep," replied Bryan; "and to you for thinkin' it! but it's the way of the world – a ragged waistcoat's seldom suspected of hidin' an honest heart."

"Come, old friend," said Henry to Sterling, "these men have not seen it, evidently;" and off they went on their fruitless errand, while a feeling of great relief spread itself over Bobolink's heart at their departure.

"How wild that ould fellow looked," said Bryan.

"Humbug!" replied Bobolink; "it was only put on to make us give up the pocket-book."

"Make us give it up?"

"Yes; that is to say, if we had it. There, don't talk. I'm sick. I've got an oppression on my chest, and if I don't get relief, I'll drop in the street."

"Indeed, an' somethin's come over ye since mornin', sure enough," said Bryan; "but you've been kind, an' good, an' generous to me, an' may I never taste glory, but if I could do you any good by takin' half yer complaint, I'd do it."

"I dare say you would," replied Tom; "but my constitution's strong enough to carry it all. There, you run home, and tell Polly I'll be back early. I don't want you any more."

As soon as Bryan was off, Bobolink sat down on his truck, and began to ruminate. His first thought was about his wife. "Shall I tell Polly?" thought he. "I've never kept a secret from her yet. But, suppose she wouldn't let me keep it? I shan't say a word about it. I'll hide it for a short time, and then swear I got a prize in the lottery." It suddenly occurred to him that he was still on the spot where he had found the money. "Good Heaven," said he, "why do I linger about here? I must be away – away anywhere! and yet I feel as though I was leaving my life's happiness here. Pooh! lots of money will make any one happy." So saying, and singing – but with most constrained jollity – one of the songs which deep bitterness had called up spontaneously from his heart, he drove to the nearest groggery, feeling assured that he should require an unusual stimulant of liquor, to enable him to fitly bear this accumulation of good luck, which did not justly belong to him.

CHAPTER V.

HOME

"What a dear, considerate, good-natured husband I have, to be sure! The proudest lady in the land can't be happier than I am in my humble house," said Polly, as she bustled about to prepare for Tom's coming home, having been informed by Bryan that she was to expect him. "Poor fellow! he may well be tired and weary. I must get his bit of supper ready. Hush! that's his footstep," she continued. But something smote her as she noticed the fact, that he was silent. There was no cheering song bursting from his throat – no glad word of greeting; but he entered the door, moody and noiseless. Another glance. Did not her eye deceive her? No! The fatal demon of Liquor had imprinted his awful mark upon his brow. She went up to him, and, in a voice of affection, asked what was the matter.

"Matter? What should be the matter?" he answered, peevishly.

"Don't speak so crossly, Thomas," said she, in a subdued voice; "you know I did not mean any harm."

"Bless your little soul! I know you didn't," he exclaimed, giving her a hearty embrace. "It's me that's the brute."

"Indeed, Thomas, you are nothing of the kind," she went on, the cheerful smile once more on her lip.

"I am, Polly; I insist upon being a brute. Ah! you don't know all."

"All what? you alarm me!"

"I wish I dared tell her," thought Bobolink; "I will! I've found a jolly lot of money to-day, Polly."

"How much, Thomas?"

"Shall I tell her? I've a great mind to astonish her weak nerves. How much do you think?" cried he, with a singular expression, which Polly attributed but to one terrible cause, and she turned sadly away. That angered him – for men in such moods are captious about trifles. "I won't tell her," said he; "she doesn't deserve it. Well, then, I've earned a dollar."

"Only a dollar?" replied Polly. "Well, never mind, dear Thomas, we must make it do; and better a dollar earnt, as you have earnt yours, by your own honest industry, than thousands got in any other way."

Somehow Tom fancied that everything she said was meant as so many digs at him, forgetting, in his insane drunkenness, that she must have been ignorant of what had passed. The consequence was, that he became crosser than ever.

"Why do you keep saying savage things, that you know must aggravate me?" he cried. "I can't eat. Have you any brandy in the house? I have a pain here!" and he clasped his hands upon his breast, where the pocket-book lay concealed. "I think the brandy would relieve me."

"My poor Thomas," replied his wife, affectionately; "something must have happened to annoy you! I never saw you thus before; but you are so seldom the worse for drink, that I will not upbraid you. The best of men are subject to temptation."

At that word Bobolink started from his seat, and gazing intently in her face, exclaimed —

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, even you, Thomas, have been tempted to forget yourself," she replied.

"How do you know?" he thundered, his face now sickly pale.

"I can see it in every feature, my poor husband!" said she, sorrowfully, as she quitted the room to get the brandy he required.

"I suppose you can," muttered Bobolink to himself, as he fell into the chair, utterly distracted and unhappy; "everybody can. I'm a marked, miserable man! and for what? I'll take it back; no, no! I can't now, for I've denied it!"

"Something has happened to vex you terribly, my dear husband!" cried Polly, as she returned with a small bottle of brandy.

"Well, suppose there has," replied he, in a loud and angry tone, "is a man accountable to his wife for every moment of his life? Go to bed! Where's the use in whimpering about it? You've had such a smooth road all your life, that the first rut breaks your axle. Come, don't mind me, Polly!" he went on, suddenly changing to a joyous laugh, and yet somewhat subdued by the tears that now flowed down his wife's pale cheeks; "I don't mean to worry you, but – but you see that I'm a little sprung. Leave me to myself, there's a good girl! Come, kiss me before you go. Ha! ha! I'll make a lady of you yet, Pol! see if I don't. Didn't you hear me tell you to go to bed?"

"Yes, Thomas, but" —

"But what?"

"Pray, drink no more."

"I'll drink just as much as I please; and, moreover, I won't be dictated to by you, when I can buy your whole stock out, root and branch. I've stood your nonsense long enough, so take my advice and start."

"Oh! Thomas – Thomas!" cried his weeping wife, as she hurried to her little bedroom; "never did I expect this, and you'll be sorry for it in the morning."

"Damn it! I am an unfeeling savage. Don't cry, Pol!" he shouted after her, as she quitted the room; "I didn't intend to hurt your feelings, and I won't drink any more, there. Say God bless you before you go in, won't you?"

"God bless you, dear husband!" said the loving wife.

"That's right, Pol!"

As soon as Tom found himself quite alone, he looked carefully at the fastenings of the doors and windows, and having cleared the little table of its contents, proceeded to examine the interior of the pocket-book. With a tremulous hand and a quick-beating heart, he drew it forth, starting at the slightest sound; tearing it open, he spread the thick bundle of notes before him; the sight seemed to dazzle his eye-sight; his breath became heavy and suffocating; there was more, vastly more, than he had ever dreamed of.

"What do I see?" he cried, while his eyes sparkled with the fire of suddenly-awakened avarice, "tens – fifties-hundreds – I do believe – thousands! I never saw such a sight before. What sound was that? I could have sworn I heard a small voice call out my name. For the first time in my life, I feel like a coward. I never yet feared to stand before a giant! now, a boy might cow me down. Pshaw! it's because I'm not used to handling money."

Again and again, he tried to count up how much the amount was, but grew confused, and had to give it up.

"Never mind how much there is," he cried, at last; "it's mine – all mine! nobody saw me; nobody knows it: nobody – but one – but one!" he continued, looking upward for an instant, and then, clasping his hands together, and leaning his head over the money, he wept bitter tears over his great Piece of Luck.

CHAPTER VI.

THE WILL

At a splendid escritoir Mr. Granite sat, in his own room, surrounded by the luxurious appliances which wait upon wealth, however acquired. The face of the sitter is deadly pale, for he is alone, and amongst his most private papers. He has missed one, upon which the permanence of his worldly happiness hung. Diligently has he been searching for that small scrap of paper, which contained the sentence of death to his repute. Oh! the agony of that suspense! It could not have been abstracted, for it was in a secret part of his writing-desk; although by the simplest accident in the world it had now got mislaid; yet was he destined not to recover it. In hastily taking out some papers, it had dropped through the opening of the desk, which was a large one, upon the carpet, where it remained, unperceived. In the midst of his anxious and agonized search, there was a knock at the door, and even paler and more heart-broken than the merchant himself, Sterling tottered into the room.

"Well, my good Sterling," said the merchant, with a great effort stifling his own apprehension, "I am to be troubled no more by that fellow's pitiful whinings. I was a fool to be over-persuaded; but benevolence is my failing – a commendable one, I own – but still a failing."

"I am glad to hear you say that, sir, for you now have a great opportunity to exercise it."

"Ask me for nothing more, for I have done" – interrupted Granite; fancying for an instant that he might have placed the missing document in a secret place, where he was sometimes in the habit of depositing matters of the first importance, he quitted the room hurriedly.

"Lost! lost, for ever! I have killed the son of my old benefactor!" cried Sterling. "He can't recover from the shock – nor I – nor I! my heart is breaking – to fall from such a height of joy into such a gulf of despair – I, who could have sold my very life to bring him happiness." At that moment his eye caught a paper which lay on the carpet, and with the instinct of a clerk's neatness solely, he picked it up and put it on the table before him. "The crime of self-destruction is great," he continued, "but I am sorely tempted. With chilling selfishness on one side, and dreadful misery on the other, life is but a weary burden." Carelessly glancing at the paper which he had taken from the floor, he read the name of Travers; he looked closely at it, and discovered that it was an abstract of a will. Curiosity prompted him to examine it, and his heart gave one tremendous throb, when he discovered it to bear date after the one by which Henry, in a fit of anger, was disinherited by his father.

The old man fell upon his knees, and if ever a fervent, heartfelt prayer issued from the lips of mortal, he then prayed that he might but live to see that great wrong righted.

He had but just time to conceal the paper within his breast, when Granite returned.

"You here yet?" he cried. "Have I not done enough to-day? What other beggarly brat do you come suing for?"

"For none, dear sir," said Sterling. "I would simply test that benevolence, of which you spoke but now – the money which you sent to Travers" —

"Well, what of it?"

"I have lost!"

"Pooh! old man," continued the other, contemptuously, "don't think to deceive me by such a stale device; that's a very old trick."

"You don't believe me?"

"No."

"After so many years!" cried the old man, with tear-choked utterance.

"The temptation was too much for you," bitterly replied the merchant. The old leaven exhibited itself once more. "You remember" —

"Silence, sir!" cried the old man, drawing up his aged form into sudden erectness, while the fire of indignation illumined his lustreless eye. "The majesty of my integrity emboldens me to say that, even to you – your cruel taunt has wiped out all of feeling that I had for you – fellow-sinner, hast thou not committed an error also?"

"Insolent! how dare you insinuate?"

"I don't insinuate; I speak out; nay, not an error, but a crime. I know you have, and can prove it."

"Away, fool! you are in your dotage."

"A dotage that shall wither you in your strength, and strip you of your ill-bought possessions," exclaimed the old man, with nearly the vigor of youth; "since Humanity will not prompt you to yield up a portion of your stolen wealth, Justice shall force you to deliver it all – aye, all!"

"Villain! what riddle is this?" cried Granite, with a vague presentiment that the missing paper was in some way connected with this contretemps.

"A riddle easily solved," answered Sterling. "Behold its solution, if your eyes dare look at it! A will, devising all the property you hold to Henry Travers! There are dozens who can swear to my old employer's signature. Stern, proper justice should prompt me to vindicate his son's cause; yet, I know that he would not purchase wealth at the cost of your degradation. Divide equally with him, and let the past be forgotten."

There was but one way that Granite could regain his vantage-ground, and he was not the man to shrink from it.

With a sudden bound, he threw himself upon the weak old clerk, and snatching the paper from him, exclaimed —

"You shallow-pated fool! think you that you have a child to deal with? The only evidence that could fling a shadow across my good name would be your fragment of miserable breath, which I could take, and would, as easily as brush away a noxious wasp, but that I despise you too entirely to feel your sting. Go, both of you, and babble forth your injuries to the world! go, and experience how poor a conflict starveling honesty in rags can wage against iniquity when clad in golden armor! I defy ye all! Behold how easily I can destroy all danger to myself, and hope to him at once." So saying, he held the paper to the lamp, and, notwithstanding the ineffectual efforts of Sterling to prevent it, continued so to hold it until a few transitory sparks were all that remained of Henry Travers's inheritance.

Sterling said not a syllable, but, with a glance at the other, which had in it somewhat of inspiration, pointed upward, and slowly staggered from the room.

CHAPTER VII.

MORNING THOUGHTS

The early grey of dawn peeped furtively through the shutters of Tom Bobolink's home, and as they strengthened and strengthened, fell upon a figure which could scarcely be recognized as the same joyous-hearted individual of the day before. On the floor lay Tom; the candle, which had completely burned out in its socket, close to his head; one hand grasped the empty bottle, and the other was tightly clutched within his breast.

And now another scarcely less sorrowful-looking figure is added. Polly gazes, with tearful eyes, upon the prostrate form. He is evidently in the maze of some terrible dream, for his head rolls fearfully about, his limbs are convulsed, and his breathing is thick and heavy.