CHAPTER VIII.
Myslery in New-York, and another hero.
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“Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.”
“The hand that hath made you fair, hath made you good.”
“Dost thou desire her foully for those things
That make her good?”
“Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch!”
“I hold him but a fool that will endanger
His body for a girl who loves him not.”
“In these cases we still have judgment here.
—Shakspeare.
“Auf! oder ihr seyd verloren.”
“Es steht ihm an der stirn geschrieben,
Dass er nicht mag eine Seele lieben.
—Goethe.
“Away!—I do condemn my ears, that have
So long attended thee.”
—Shakspeare.
The reader already knows, that although Zebediah Spiffard
is the hero of this story, the heroine of it, Emma Portland, is
not destined to be his bride; and that there is another hero in
reserve who has superior claims. It is time that he came a
little more forward on our stage; but first we must follow the
steps of Emma through some scenes which tend to bring on
the denouement of the drama, and bring together persons
heretofore estranged from, or unknown to, each other.
It was during Spiffard's short sojourn at Albany that Emma
was subject to a more severe trial, by the arts and perseverance
of the unknown, and hitherto unseen persecutor, who had twice
before insulted her while in the quiet path of her duty. The
last attack made by this mysterious personage, who conducted
his approach muffled in cloaks and shrouded in darkness, had
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made her resolve not to expose herself unacompanied, in the
evening, to the possibility of insult in the once safe and peaceful
streets of New-York. She had related to Henry Johnson
all the circumstances attending upon the former attempts, and
had expressed the certainty she felt, that the person, though
unseen, was, in both instances, the same; and not one connected
with the theatre. It was in vain to conjecture who the
wretch was; but Henry asked, and obtained the promise, that
her walks of charity should not be walks of darkness.
She mentioned to him likewise the friendly behaviour of the
watchman, and the confidence it had inspired. But he observed,
that it might so happen that none of the watch would
be near at the moment she most required assistance; and explained
the nature of their duty, by a detail which, to one of
her sex, was new.
But the enemy was on the alert; and one morning, when
Emma was alone, the black girl brought to her a letter which
had been left by a boy. It was as follows:
Dear young lady,
My late husband, after being sick ever since last August,
during which time I had to support him and my poor
little ones, was taken from me by death, leaving me without
any fuel for this cold winter weather, and my clothes sold
and pawned to give him necessaries and bury him. I and my
poor children are in a state of starvation. I can't work, for
the rheumatism has taken away the use of my limbs: and for
the same reason I can't go to the Alderman for help. I send
this by a neighbour's child, humbly begging your advice and
assistance, as I know, from an acquaintance of an acquaintance
of poor sick Mrs. Kent, that you are always ready to
help the unfortunate. I hope to see you, dear Miss, as soon
as possible, at No. 356 Mott-street.
Your most obedient servant,
Martha Jenkins.
It was not an extraordinary circumstance for Emma to receive
such applications: yet the late events made her cautious. It
had no date—but it was written by a woman. The first impulse
was to question the person who brought it—but he was
gone. Should she go? Formerly she had never asked herself
the question when called upon by misery. She had gone in
search of the children of the poor for the Sunday-schools,
sometimes in company, but if a companion did not offer, she
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had sought the abode of poverty, too often associated with vice,
fearlessly to rescue infancy from ignorance. She knew the
intimate connection between ignorance and guilt; and the necessity
which exists in society for strenuous exertions to make
the poor see, that intemperance and improvidence are the
causes of their sufferings. But now she hesitated. “Should
she consult Henry? But the family are starving. There can
be no danger in making such a visit by day-light.” She determined,
that, immediately after dinner, it being a very fine,
though cold day, she would walk to Mott-street.
Mr. Spiffard was at Albany. Emma told her cousin
where she was going, and took the further precaution of leaving
a written direction to the place, to be given to Henry Johnson
in case he called before she returned. Thus prepared, and
properly equipped for a walk, she proceeded through Chathamstreet,
and up Mott-street, passing, on level ground, over the
spot where Bunker-hill (a conical eminence which once overlooked
the city and bay, so called after the 17th June, 1775),
formerly reared its head; and at length she saw No. 356,
marked upon the door of an isolated building, in figures of
chalk. The house was of wood, and small; such as of late
have disappeared from even the extremities of the city. Nothing
indicated the crowded dwelling of squalid misery that
she had anticipated. On knocking at the door a female voice
desired her to come in. Entering, she found herself in a bed-chamber,
into which the street-door immediately opened. A
woman was seated on the bed. She did not rise. The room
was imperfectly lighted by a window, looking toward the
street, but partly closed; and from a few chips blazing on
the hearth, which was otherwise devoid of the means of
comfort. A chair, a three-legged stool, and an empty
cradle, constituted, with the bed, the visible furniture of the
apartment.
“Bless ye, my dear young lady, for your condesinshin to a
poor body like me! but it's yourself that's always doing the
kind act. Would ye be plased to take a sate by the fire, for
sure it's cold to day, it is.”
As she said this the woman arose with apparent difficulty,
cartsied, and then sank again on the edge of the bed. Emma
took a seat and listened to a detail of misfortunes, mingled
with apologies, and what was meant as flattery, in the style of
the above sample. She felt no sympathy with the speaker.
Her features were coarse, her face bloated, the expression of
her little white eyes sinister, and the tone of her whining voice
disgusting.
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“But where are your children?”
“Sure I wouldn't have them here when you came, so I axt
a neighbour of my own to kape them quiet up stairs for the
time.”
Emma had come to this place with a reluctance not usual
with her when a deed of charity invited. She wished to shorten
her visit, and asked such questions, rapidly, as—Why one of
the children could not have carried a written application to the
alderman of the ward? If she had no friends or acquaintance
who would make the application for her? All her answers were
evasive, mingled with whinings and tears, except that she said
she had sent that day to the alderman.
Emma told her, that if she would give her ink and paper she
would write down the name of the alderman, with a state of
her case, which should be conveyed to him.
“Where are your materials for writing?”
“Sure, I have none in—”
She hesitated, looked at the street door anxiously, and
added,
“None below stairs—and my lameness—”
The thought that she had been decoyed hither, and that the
woman had been an instrument in the hands of the person
who had already evinced a daring pertinacity in his pursuit,
struck her so forcibly, that she started from her seat, saying,
“Tell me where to apply in your behalf: give me the name
of the alderman—”
At this moment a tap was heard at the door.
“Come in.”
A gentleman entered, who immediately saluted Mrs. Jenkins
by name, telling her, that one of her neighbours had signified
her suspicions that illness had prevented her from attending at
his office for customary relief.”
He bowed to Emma, whose quick apprehension discerned
the discrepancy existing between these words and the tale of
Mrs. Jenkins. With many professions of thankfulness, that
his honour should trouble himself to come to her, she said that
she was “jist then spaking of his honour to the dear young
lady whose character for charity had made her bold enough to
write to her, begging her assistance—and sure its a providince
that your honour's come, for she was jist saying she would
apply to your honour in my behalf.”
The gentleman bowed again to Emma, and begged her to
be seated. The light of the fire, now the strongest light in the
room, flashed on his handsome face, as he courteously turned to
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her; and the voice, commanding stature, insinuating demeanour,
and an indistinct recognition of the countenance, all confirmed
her previous suspicion. She was strong and bold in
innocence; but previous circumstances caused alarm.
“You are the alderman of the ward, as I understand, and as
you now know how much this person wants assistance, I have
no further business here.”
As she spoke of the woman she looked for her; but in vain.
Her lameness had not prevented her exodus, and that so adroitly,
that the quick eye of Emma had not observed it. She had
passed through a back door; but whether she had gone up
stairs or out of the house could only be conjectured. Emma
was alone with one she feared.
The stranger, with some degree of trepidation, said, “pray
madam, be seated, Mrs. Jenkins has gone up stairs.” The
voice was now more decidedly the same that she had twice
before heard. As the voice was identified, the figure was
fully recognised. For though, even at their last meeting, he
was cloaked, and concealed by the darkness of Theatre-alley,
there was an impression made that fully corresponded with the
person now before her, who stood without the incumbrance or
disguise of a wrapper, and rather ostentatiously displaying a
fine and commanding form.
For a moment she trembled. She looked around her for
the means of escape. She was convinced that she had been
betrayed by the vile woman, and of course could expect no
succour from any one within the walls. He spoke again, and
the sound of his voice recalled her courage, for it inspired indignation.
Indignant at the persevering persecution of this unprincipled
wretch, (who evidently could not plead the mutiny of “flaming
youth” in his excuse,) her firmness returned. The courage
which nature had given her, which education had confirmed,
and conscious rectitude maintained, now supported her. She
neither heard nor replied to his words, but addressed herself
to depart. He, bowing, placed himself between her and the
door. With a lofty step, and energetic motion of the hand, she
put him aside and passed on. The door was locked
and the key removed. She afterwards recollected, that
when she came to the house the key was on the outside of the
door.
“I now see,” she said, firmly, and looking proudly in the
face of her persecutor, “I see the whole of this vile plot, and
know you, for the person who twice before has insulted me.
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If I could suppose that any conduct of mine had encouraged
you, it would be the most humiliating thought of my life. I
am not intimidated by the success of your plan in bringing me
hither, or by my apparently defenceless situation. I have too
just a sense of my own powers, and of the protection my country
affords me, to fear any violence from you or your vile
agent.”
“Violence! Who could think of offering violence to such
beauty?—To such angelic loveliness?—I have offers to make
that you must listen to. Let my love plead—”
“You mistake the person you address. Such language
only adds to the contempt your actions have inspired. Order
your agent to open the door before I alarm the neighbourhood
and expose you to shame and punishment.
“First hear me. I offer you—”
“I will not be insulted by any offers from one so despicable
as your conduct has proved you.”
“Hear me, lovely girl! I have seen—I have followed—”
“Hear me, sir! Your clandestine followings mark your
own consciousness of base intentions. What have you seen
in me that could induce you to persecute me with your detestable
doggings and followings?”
“Nothing could encourage me to hope that I might devote
my life and fortune to your happiness—nothing certainly in
your appearance or conduct—but—”
“Speak on, sir.”
“Your visits to the private door of the theatre—your situation—”
He hesitated.
“You inquired and heard that I was an orphan and poor!”
“I saw you with—and apparently dependent upon people
whose profession—and as the world says—but I will not offend—
come come! lovely creature! this is all prudery. I
can and will place you above dependence even upon my
passion.”
“You are probably a traveller, and forget that you are not
in Paris. You have heard and known that some operadancers,
and even others connected with the stage, have fallen
from virtue; and therefore think all base. You forget the
many that never entered a theatre, or only as auditors, who
sink to the level of the most criminal: and you forget the many
models of private worth who have ministered to public taste
and instruction from the stage. Order the door to be opened,
sir, or produce the key.”
“Hear me—you mistake me—I am above the prejudices
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which would censure that independence of conduct in a lady—
that high-mindedness which throws off the fetters hypocrisy
would place upon your sex. I am a man of the world; and
we all know that those who break through a certain line of
distinction, which public opinion has placed between those
who expose their persons on the stage and bow their thanks
for vulgar plaudits, and the more reserved portion of society,
are above that false delicacy—”
“Wretched man!—But I am wrong to waste words with
one to whom years have not brought wisdom. Open the door!”
“Not until you have listened to my love.”
This interchange of words had lasted so long, that, by degrees,
Emma was convinced that she had seen this man under
other circumstances than those I have witnessed. The imperfect
recognition shocked her, but it added to the indignation
she felt, a sensation approaching to horror. She interrupted
him in a tone he little expected from one so young and
delicate.
“Despicable man! You saw me the companion of my natural
guardians, the only relations providence has left me; but
I now feel assured that you saw me elsewhere. I now recognise
you.”
“I never was in your company.”
“Yes—I fully recognise you, though your name and situation
in life are unknown to me—and may remain so. You
saw me, a servant in the temple of the most high God—a
teacher of the poor and ignorant—a worshipper at that altar,
where I must now conclude that you bowed in mockery, or as
the agent of that power in whose service you would enlist me.
I have heard and read of such base depravity, but you have,
for the first time, presented to me the perfect image of the
most loathsome profligacy covered by the mask of hypocrisy!”
“You have mistaken me for another.”
“No. I am certain: but I have no wish to expose you.
Let me go—and when you can—repent.”
“You must at least promise—”
“I hear no more, sir!”
She sprung towards the window, which she had observed,
on entering the house, to be near the unpaved street. He
threw his arms around her and prevented her seizing the window-sash:
at the same time he drew her from the place she
had hoped to escape from, and placed himself next the street.
He encircled her for a moment in his arms; but, with a force
which youth and exercise had given, and with an effort which
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indignation made irresistible, she burst from him, leaving her
cloak, which she had not taken off since entering, in his hands.
In the struggle her bonnet fell off, and with it the comb which
contined her mass of tresses, fell on the floor. The same effort
which released her, east him towards the door, and she
gained the window, threw up the sash, and cried for help. As
she cast a look out, the most welcome form presented itself
that could have prevented her leap from the window; and,
clasping her hands, she exclaimed, “Henry!”
To force the door was not a business requiring much time
with the athletic and excited youth, who heard the cry of distress
from one whose voice at all times reached his heart with
the lightning's rapidity, who saw that her face, pale with terror,
after losing the flush which indignation and exercise had
caused—that countenance, wild and surrounded by disheveled
locks, on which he delighted to trace the mild emotions of benevolence
and love. The lock gave way before him—he
rushed in—Emma was in his arms. The wretch, who had
caused this alarm, finding himself baffled and exposed to detection,
retreated by the open window, and was not even seen
by young Johnson.
Henry had called, as usual, to visit his betrothed, after
leaving the counting-house in which his days were passed:
he received the paper left by Emma, and, although not
alarmed, as evening approached, he determined to follow the
direction, expecting to meet her. Having passed the populous
and well-built part of the street, he began to fear that something
was wrong, and hastened forward, anxiously looking for
No. 356. He came as opportunely as hero of romance, or
protecting deity in an epic, could possibly have done, and received
explanations as extraordinary as the appearance of
Emma was alarming.
Her cloak, bonnet, and comb, strewed the floor; and near
them lay a man's hat.
Her hair covering her neck, shoulders, and almost hiding
her face, streamed in wild disorder over her deliverer's arms as
he pressed her to his bosom. It was not until he had placed
her on the only chair in the room, that he saw the man's hat,
and gained, by a hurried statement, some confused knowledge
of the insult that had been offered.
“His name may be written in his hat,” he exclaimed; but,
on examining it by the faint fire-light, only the letter W. was
found.
“I am glad of it, Henry! 'Tis better we should not know.”
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“But I will know! Where is the woman? I will discover
the scoundrel by means of his vile agent.”
Emma would have persuaded Henry to depart instantly,
but he was irritated, and insisted on seeing the woman who
had decoyed her to the place. She came down stairs reluctantly
at his call; but nothing could be elicited from her.
She confessed her participation in the plot, having been persuaded
by the gentleman that he meant no harm. She declared,
and probably with great truth, that she did not know
his name. She could not read, and did not know the contents
of the letter, only as her employer had informed her. When
questioned respecting her children, she said she had but one;
an infant; and she had been directed to leave that with a
neighbour. Her husband, Patrick Murphy, had left her and
gone to Boston.
“Then Jenkins is not your name?”
“No, sure, the truth is, my name's Molly Murphy ever
since I was married. The gentleman called me Jenkins only
for a joke, sure.”
As no trace of this mysterious persecutor was discovered,
Henry yielded to Emma's entreaties; who, having reduced
her disordered dress to its usual neat and simple appearance,
departed in safety with her protector. On the way home she
promised him never to go on an errand of charity among strangers
without a companion.
She promised to be guided by him. She knew that he was
entitled to her confidence, and looked upon herself as his bride
elect. In her communion with this, the chosen of her affections,
she might have said with the poet—
“—— Hence, bashful cunning!
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence.”
She henceforward looked upon Henry Johnson as the partner
who should add his strength to the support which her own
intelligence, virtues, and purity imparted.
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Dunlap, William, 1766-1839 [1836], Thirty years ago, or, The memoirs of a water drinker, volume 2 (Bancroft & Holley, New York) [word count] [eaf089v2].
