CHAPTER VI. , Wherein another Chip is thrown into the current of my Life, and I hear from Zara.
All these events began to shape
themselves into a problem. “Who am
I? What am I?” were the questions
to be solved. Thus it was that I frequently
reviewed the incidents connected
with my life, and wondered
whether the missing links in the chain
would be supplied. The facts might
be connected with a common-place origin—
perhaps a base one, after all;
still there was an air of romance about
them, and I was at an age when romance
had full control over the mind.
There was first a child with certain
tokens, delivered to a printer in the
town of Puttenham. One of these tokens
was a wedding-ring, with a singular
posy; the other, a packet. The
packet, which I conjectured to contain
the proofs of a marriage, was gone,
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but the ring remained. Then in the
house that would seem to be the one
where the child had been entrusted to
the printer's care, certain relics were
found, one of which contained letters
similar to those in the ring.
Then the portrait in the gallery,
with its strange resemblance to me,
and with the same sort of mysterious
letters on the dagger-blade; and the
singular appearance of the original to
Gifford.
The bones in Sharp's house—were
they those of the woman? Was she
my mother? Had she been murdered?
Admitting the packet to contain evidences
of marriage—a conjecture—and
that it were ever recovered—a remote
possibility—how to identify me?
These questions, and others as useless,
frequently occurred to me. To
what end? The packet was gone irrecoverably—
trampled in the snow of
that night—utterly defaced; the mother
dead; the mysterious stranger
dead too, perhaps, or interested in keeping
silence.
Suppose all elucidated. I might
prove after all to be a—my face reddened
then. Better to be a child of
mystery than of shame. And yet the
questions would come again—“Who
am I? What am I?”
Time went on in the meanwhile. I
studied hard at the earl's books, and
each step made the next easier. The
people of the town thought me a prodigy
of learning, and I was not displeased
with the vulgar admiration. I
had vanity—who has not? and it was
tickled. No foreigner, high or low,
ever entered the town, but my name
was mentioned to him, and we were
speedily brought in contact. I was,
beyond dispute, the great linguist of
Puttenham. This was of service to
me. I acquired greater colloquial intercourse
with several modern languages,
and ease of manner. The municipal
dignitaries honored me with
their nod; and even the proud Earl of
Landys condescended to speak of me
as a remarkable boy. With the military
officers, and the patrons of the
library, I still continued to be a favorite.
As I was tall for my age, well-knit,
and with handsome features, the
young ladies of the place looked on me
pleasantly, and the matrons with a forbidding
air. For you see I was nobody;
my very name was not my own;
and, though Mr. Guttenberg had adopted
me, I might not be co-heir with his
daughter after all. I was not a desirable
match in the eyes of prudent mothers,
among the trades-folk of the
town.
A strange kind of friendship sprang
up between me and Gifford. She
would often slip into the library when
I was there, and interrupt my reading
with reminiscences of the Landys family,
of whose history she was a walking
chronicle. I asked her but few
questions, contenting myself with playing
the part of a listener; but there
were two points on which I wished to
be enlightened. One was about the
portrait that Bagby mentioned as resembling
Espinel; the other what the
dowager countess meant, if there was
any meaning to the words, by saying:
“The dead has not come, and the living
will.”
Gifford readily answered both questions.
“I know nothing about the picture. I
recollect there was one in my lord's
chamber, such as you describe, but it
has been removed, I think. As for her
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ladyship's words, they refer to a promise
of her son. The old lady believes
in spirits coming back to this world
and appearing to their friends, if they
want to. Why shouldn't she? You
do, don't you?”
As Gifford evidently did, and I had
no desire to discuss the point, I said
evasively:
“Oh, that point is settled among all
sensible people; but I don't see what
that has to do with the words.”
“Why, you see, the late earl was
very fond of his mother, and she of
him. Somehow he never believed in
ghosts and such things—though there
was a spirit in the family once—I'll
tell you about that some other time;
and they used to dispute about it a
good deal, only in a good-natured way.
I was busy doing something one day
in the countess's chamber, and her son
was there, and they'd been talking over
the matter. Said his lordship, said he:
“`We'll settle the matter practically,
mother. If I die before you, and
am able to do so, I will come to see
you after death, and let you know how
I like the other world; and you shall
do the same with me.'
“The countess she spoke up and said,
says she:
“`That I solemnly promise to do,
George.'
“Now as he has never made his appearance
to her, and she knows he
would keep his word, that's what she
means by saying that the dead hadn't
come, and the living would.”
“But,” said I, “there can be no doubt
of the earl's death.”
“It seems not, but her ladyship don't
believe it.”
One thing Gifford was not communicative
upon—her own history; but I
learned that from others. She was an
orphan child, reared by the dowager
countess's direction, and in due time
promoted to be her maid. Despite her
apparent love of tattling, she was close
in regard to some things, and was, beyond
doubt, the confidante of her noble
mistress. What she said to me, therefore,
I at once divined was not meant
to be a secret, at least from me.
Beside Gifford, I made another friend,
and a very singular one, about this
time. The reader will remember that
the old house in the Ram's Horn belonged
to one Sharp. This Sharp,
whose Christian name was Abner, was
a singular character. No man was
more generally execrated and abhorred
by his townsmen. He was a thin,
pinched, cadaverous old man, apparently
about sixty, with a high and
narrow forehead, a thin nose, ornamented
with a knob, like a mighty
pimple, at the tip, and a round, long
chin. His eyes were small, keen and
restless, keeping up an uneasy motion
all the while; and he had a remarkable
and noted habit of casting alarmed
glances from time to time over his
shoulder. He was said to be enormously
rich, owning houses upon
houses, holding bonds and mortgages
innumerable, and loaning money at
usurious interest. Yet he was so parsimonious
that he denied himself necessary
food and proper clothing; and
he lived in the garret of one of his own
houses, the other floors being let to
the poorest class of people. This Sharp
I knew by sight very well, as did every
one else in town, and I had had at
times some conversation with him. He
owned the house and premises which
Mr. Guttenberg occupied, and used to
come on quarter day, exactly on the
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stroke of twelve, to receive his rent.
He was also the proprietor of the Museum
of the town, a place got up by a
Yankee speculator, as a resort for the
people of the surrounding country, on
holidays; but which proved to be a
failure. However such a thing might
do in America, it failed here; but Sharp
had taken it in lieu of a debt, and it became
his only apparent delight. He
used to gloat over its quaint treasures,
its mummies, stuffed beasts, stones
and butterflies; its pickled heads of
New Zealanders, birds and wax figures.
Nay, he even expended money on it,
not only buying any double-headed
calf, or four-legged chicken that came
along, but absolutely going to some
expense by advertising each new possession
in the Puttenham Chronicle,
and having placards printed to post
upon dead walls and pumps, and to
place in the tap-rooms. Through his
visits to the printing-room, I came to
know Sharp tolerably well, and as I
treated him with a sort of patronizing
deference, we became quite familiar.
The truth is that I pitied the poor
wretch in spite of his large possessions,
and felt commisseration for the
miserable being who, in the midst of
wealth, felt the pangs of poverty. He
returned this by a number of parsimonious
proverbs, and much good money-making
advice. There was no obligation
incurred on either side. Each
could well spare what he parted with,
and the gifts given were not of the
least use to the recipients.
A striking incident made us quite intimate.
One day in winter, the quarter-day,
Sharp came to collect his rent. The
weather was more damp than cold;
the snow which had fallen the night
before had melted, and when Sharp entered
he presented a pitiable sight.
His face looked blue, with the exception
of his nose, which glowed like the
tip of a carbuncle, and he trembled
with weakness and cold. He was thinly
clad, as usual, without a great-coat,
and his patched shoes had evidently
not kept out the snow-water. I offered
him the loan of my great-coat, but he
declined it, saying that he had a very
excellent wrapper of his own, which
he had forgotten to put on in the morning.
Toward night-fall he came to the
printing-room again, on his way home,
and stood by the grate to dry his feet
and warm himself. He looked even
more ill than before, and I renewed the
offer of the great coat.
“No!” he answered sharply, “I've
one of my own, I tell you. “Besides,”
he added, more pleasantly, “you might
want to go out to-night; and I might
injure your coat too.”
“Nonsense!” I said, “I know you'll
take care of it; you never injure any
thing that costs money, and as I'm not
going out to-night, I shan't want it.
You'll be ill if you don't take it; and
if you do wear it out a little, that's no
matter. As I'm not quite so rich as
you, I'm not so close.”
“Ah!” he muttered, “wilful waste
makes woeful want. If I were to be
as extravagant as you I'd soon be a
beggar. It's very comfortable though,”
he continued, as he put it on, “and
wadded, too. A printer's apprentice
with such a coat as this. Dear me!
West of England cloth, at that. Why
don't you wear shoddy? Your master
allows you this, eh? He'll never be
rich—never!”
And off he went, grumbling.
That night at supper I mentioned
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the occurrence laughingly to the family.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Guttenberg,
“what a mean man he is; and
so rich. To be sure, he was poor
enough once—a wild spendthrift.”
“He a spendthrift, mother! That's
the last I should expect to hear of him.
Why he might stand to a sculptor for
a model of Avarice. It seems to have
been born with him.”
“It was in the blood, that's a fact,”
said the old woman, “but he was a
spendthrift at first; and his father
threatened to disinherit him. The old
man would have done it, too, everybody
said; but he died suddenly, and there
was no will found, so, as Abner was an
only son, he fell heir to about ten thousand
pounds.”
“Which he has screwed and scraped,
and swelled into a hundred thousand
at least,” said Mr. Guttenberg. “When
his father died he cut loose from his
riotous companions, and for forty years
he has been a miserable, sordid, griping
miser, without a friend in the
world.”
“He is much to be pitied then,” I
said.
“I do not pity him,” said Mary.
“He is a mean old hunks; and I don't
believe you'll get your coat again, Ambrose.”
“He was wiser in one thing than
you, my boy,” said Mr. Guttenberg,
“for you really will want your coat to-night.
He signed the receipt I wrote
for the rent, and by mistake I have
made it up to the end of the coming
quarter. It is very odd that he did
not notice the blunder. I wish you
would go to his lodgings and have the
error corrected at once. Here is the
old receipt, and a new one stamped.
You can run along fastly, so you wont
need any overcoat while you're going;
and you can get your own to return
in.”
“Won't the morning do as well?”
inquired his wife.
“Oh, no! As the old fellow would
say himself, `never put off till to-morrow
what you can do to-day.' Ambrose
rather likes the errand, I dare say.”
“Of course I do,” I answered. “I
want to see how the old miser lives at
home.” And without further words I
took the receipt and started.
I cantered along briskly through the
sloppy, half-melted snow, to the house
where old Sharp had his den. Like
many other of his buildings, it was in
a dilapidated condition. I knocked at
the door, and after considerable delay
it was opened by a half-grown girl,
who held a flaring tallow candle over
her head with one hand, while she kept
the door half closed with the other.
“What do you want?” she inquired.
“I wish to see Mr. Sharp on particular
business,” I answered.
“I don't know that he'll want to see
you. He never does business after
dark. Who are you?”
“My name is Fecit, and I come from
Mr. Guttenberg.”
“Oh,” said the girl, after scrutinizing
me closely, “I know you. You
can go up to his room, but I don't
think you'll get in. He bolts up at
dark, and won't speak to any one. It's
the topmost room of the house. You
can't miss it. You can take this light,
and leave it on the stair-head.”
I took the candle, and made my way
up the creaking staircase to the garret.
I knocked at the door, but there
was no reply made. I tried the knob,
and to my surprise the door opened.
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I entered.
I had never seen a room so meanly
furnished containing so many tokens
of wealth There was a heavy iron
box, a wooden chest of drawers, a table
covered with papers, jewelry and
money, and a pallet. The windows
were furnished with iron bars, and
there were three bolts to the door, and
a chain. Around the room in a confused
litter were articles of vertu, piles
of handsomely bound books, beautiful
pictures, and an old suit of armor.
Hanging on hooks in the walls were
several curious swords and two pairs
of pistols, richly mounted. Upon a
large silver salver, which lay on the
chest of drawers, were a number of
pieces of plate, and on the corner of
the table lay a diamond-studded snuff-box.
As a sort of mockery of the valuables,
there was a wooden platter in
the midst of the table, containing a
crust of bread and a red herring. The
supper had been untouched.
I turned toward the pallet. Sharp,
still wrapped in my great-coat, lay
upon it, breathing heavily. I shook
him, but there was no answer. He did
not recognize me. I felt his pulse—it
scarcely beat. His head was hot, but
his feet were cold as ice. I ran to the
door and called down the stairs. Some
of the inmates of the rooms put their
heads out from their doors, among the
rest the girl who had admitted me.
“Send some one for the nearest doctor,”
I said, “Mr. Sharp is quite unwell.
And bring me some hot water,
somebody. I'd be obliged to any one
who'd go for Mr. Guttenberg.” They
were all for entering the room, but I
kept them back. As soon as I had
pacified them I threw some old clothes
over the money and valuables that
were exposed to view, so that when
the girl came with the hot water there
was nothing in sight of which she
could babble to excite the cupidity of
her hearers.
I removed Sharp's shoes. His feet
were icily cold. I propped him half
upright in the pallet, and placed his
feet in the hot water. I then opened
the dormer window, and obtaining
some snow from the roof, made a temporary
bag of my handkerchief, and
placing the snow in it, applied it to
his head. These simple measures soon
had their effect. The pulse began to
beat more quickly and firmly; the temperature
of the body became more even,
and the breathing grew natural. At
length Sharp recognised me.
“What are you doing here?” he asked,
endeavoring to rise. He was too
weak, however, and fell back again.
“You can let him lie down now,” I
said to the girl who was aiding me.
“Go down stairs, and when the doctor
and Mr. Guttenberg come, show them
up at once.”
The girl left the room. Sharp looked
at me in wonder.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I don't want a doctor. He'll ruin
me.”
“Pray be quiet,” I said. “You are
very ill, and must have a doctor. He'll
be here presently.”
“I won't pay him. I didn't send for
him—mind that.”
“Very well; we won't quarrel on
that score. A doctor is necessary, and
if you won't pay for him I will.”
“You can't; you havn't the money;
you're only a prentice boy. What's
your business here, anyhow? Do you
think you'll get any money from me?”
I was thoroughly provoked, but I
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kept my temper, as there was no use
of quarreling with such a madman.
So I told him my errand there. It
seemed to calm him at first, but at the
next moment he glanced uneasily at
the table.
“All right,” I said, in answer to his
look. “I threw those clothes on the
table and chest, that the girl's prying
eyes might not fall on the money and
plate you had left exposed.”
“It was thoughtful,” he said, after a
moment's pause. “I must trust some
one—why not you? Take those keys
from under my pillow; there, pick only
the second-sized one from the bunch;
open the chest, and put the money and
jewelry away.”
I obeyed him, locked the chest, and
returned the key. I had scarcely done
this when the doctor entered, closely
followed by Mr. Guttenberg. The doctor
wasn't a physician; he was not a
regular M. D., but what in Puttenham
is called an apothecary. In London
he would have styled himself a general
practitioner. He was of some eminence
in his profession, and bore the
reputation of being a very worthy
man.
“I didn't send for you,” said Sharp,
when he saw him. “Remember, if you
prescribe I won't pay you. I call Mr.
Guttenberg to witness.”
Mr. Gray, the doctor, smiled, and
asked me the history of the case. I
told him how I had found the old man,
and what I had done.
“You couldn't have done better if
you had been the whole Royal College
of Surgeons,” said Mr. Gray. “You
have probably saved his life. Without
your prompt action, the congestion of
the brain might have been fatal.”
“Do you think he saved my life?”
inquired Sharp, leaning on his elbow,
and peering in the doctor's face.
“I think it very probable.”
“Well, well!” exclaimed the miser,
“I suppose I ought to be much obliged
to him. But he isn't a regular practitioner;
he can't make me pay.”
The air of the old man as he said
this was so absurdly earnest, that we
all burst into a simultaneous peal of
laughter. Sharp looked annoyed, but
the next instant his features relaxed
into a faint smile.
“I am well enough now, at all
events,” said he, “and I don't want
any one here now.”
The doctor told him that he was not
well enough at all, and that it was necessary
some one should remain with
him during the night, to carry out the
directions left.
“I won't have any one here,” persisted
Sharp.
“But you must,” reiterated the doctor.
“If Ambrose will stay, he may; but
I'll have no one else,” returned the miser.
I looked at Mr. Guttenberg inquiringly.
He nodded his head.
“Very well,” I said, “I'll stay.”
Mr. Gray told me what medicines
he should send, how to administer
them, and what to do in case certain
unfavorable symptoms came on. Then
off he went, and Mr. Guttenberg with
him. Previous to the departure of the
latter, he handed me a letter.
“This came,” said he, “during the
afternoon. I forgot to hand it you at
supper. We'll keep your breakfast
ready for you in the morning.”
I was left alone with my strange
charge. I turned towards him. He
was fast asleep. I found a couple of
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tallow candles in a tin box, and laid
them in readiness by the candlestick;
put some of the books that were scattered
about on the table to read during
the night; took the medicine from the
doctor's boy, who had now come, awakened
my patient and gave him the
powder according to directions, and
then sat down to read my letter.
It was from Paul Bagby, and read as
follows:
“My dear Ambrose:—Read this letter as
carefully as you like, and then—burn it.
“Zara is in my charge—where you will
learn some day by word of mouth. I dare
not, for her sake, write it, lest some accident
should befall this letter.
“Espinel, who is a Spanish nobleman, and
her uncle, has disappeared. He has been
either killed or abducted; which I cannot
say.
“Keep all this secret. What I desire you
to do for me, and for Zara's sake, is to ascertain,
without provoking remark, if Mr. Osborne
left the castle recently. If so, when,
how long he was absent, and whether he has
now returned.
“The blow at Zara comes from that quarter.
I would like to tell you all; but this is
not the proper place nor time. I shall see
you shortly if I can leave London.
“Make some excuse for examining the records
of the parish-church of St. Stephen.
See the marriage-register, and get me the
exact date of the marriage of the present
Earl of Landys with Miss Ansleigh. I wish
to see if it corresponds with the statement in
Burke's peerage.”
I read the letter twice, and tearing
it in strips, consumed them one by one
in the flame of the candle.
English, Thomas Dunn, 1819-1902 [1867], Ambrose fecit, or, The peer and the printer: a novel. (Hilton and Company, New York) [word count] [eaf558T].
