XIV. A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING.
The Strange Visit—The Lawyer—Walter and Mr. Flint—The
Clouds—A Strip of Sunshine—Mortimer.
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Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Il Penseroso.
About two hours after the incident related at
the close of our last chapter, Edward Walters
stepped from the door of Mrs. Snarle's house, waving
his hand kindly to Daisy, who stood on the steps,
and watched him till he turned out of Marion-street.
But we must turn back a little.
After leaving the Tombs, our friend went in
search of Mortimer's residence, actuated by an impulse
which he neither attempted to control nor
understand — an impulse like that which had
prompted him to visit the prison. He was led into the
little parlor by Mrs. Snarle, to whom he represented
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himself as one deeply interested in the misfortunes
of Mortimer, and desirous of assisting him.
His own astonishment surpassed that of Mrs. Snarle,
when he found her entirely ignorant of the arrest.
While he was speaking, and Mrs. Snarle — who
stood with her hand on the back of a chair, from
which she had just risen—was regarding him with
a vacant stare, Daisy stepped into the room, without
knowing that it was occupied.
Edward Walters ceased speaking, and fixed his
eyes on what, to him, seemed an apparition. He
had seen that pale, pensive face in his dreams for
years. It had followed him out to sea, and in far
lands where he sought to avoid it. He arose from
the sofa, and approached Daisy with hesitating steps,
as if he were afraid she would vanish into thin air
before he reached her. Daisy shrunk from him, and
looked inquiringly at her mother. Walters laid his
hand on the girl's arm.
“Sometimes,” he said, looking her full in the
eyes—“sometimes the mind wanders back to childhood,
and we have visions of pleasant fields and familiar
places. Something we had forgotten comes back
to us in shadow—voices, faces, incidents! Did you
ever see a snow-storm in your thought?”
Daisy started as if in sudden pain.
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Walters watched the effect of his question with
unconcealed emotion.
“Yes,” said Daisy, lifting up her eyes wonderingly.
“I knew it,” said the man, abstractedly, taking
Daisy's hand.
The girl drew back in fear, and Mrs. Snarle stepped
between them.
“My words seem strange, lady; but I knew her
when she was a babe.”
And he turned his frank face to Daisy.
What do you know of me?” cried Daisy, grasping
his arm eagerly.
“Everything.”
“O, sir, do not deal in mystery! If you know
aught of this child's life, in mercy speak!” and
Mrs. Snarle caught his hand.
“I can tell nothing now.”
And with this he abruptly put on his hat, strode
into the hall and out of the front door, waving his
hand to Daisy, who, as we have said, stood on
the steps, and watched him till he was out of sight.
We will leave Mrs. Snarle and Daisy to their
astonishment, and follow on the quick footsteps of
our marine friend, to whom that day seemed crowded
with wonderful events.
It did not take long for Walters to reach
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Wall-street, where he disappeared in one of those many
law offices which fringe that somewhat suspected
and much-abused locality. On the door through
which Mr. Walters passed was a tin sign, bearing,
in gilt letters,
J. G. Burbank, Attorney at Law.
What transpired between him and that gentleman
we will leave to the surmises of the reader.
After being closeted for an hour in a room whose
only furniture consisted of one or two green baizecovered
tables, piled with papers, and a book-case
crowded with solid-looking volumes, our friend turned
his thoughtful face toward the office of Messrs. Flint
& Snarle.
Mr. Flint looked up from his writing, and found
Edward Walters quietly seated beside him. They
had not met since the interview we described at
Mr. Flint's house; and the captain's presence at
the present time was not a thing to be desired
by Mr. Flint. The visit looked ominous. Whatever
doubts he entertained respecting its object were immediately
dispelled.
“I read the arrest in yesterday's paper,” said
Walters.
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Flint, with an effort, went on writing.
“And this morning I visited the boy in his cell.”
“Well!” cried Flint, nervously.
“And I found my son, John Flint!”
Mr. Flint found himself cornered, and, like a rat
or any small animal, he grew cowardly desperate.
“You found a thief, sir—a miserable thief.”
We will do Mr. Flint the justice to say that he
considered Mortimer in that light.
“I am not sure of that,” was the calm reply.
“A man may be in prison, and yet be no felon;
and I should doubt the guilt of any man whom
you persecuted. But I did not come here to quarrel.
The boy is my son, and he must be released.”
“Must be, Mr. Walters!”
“I think I said so.”
Flint regarded him with his cold, cynical smile.
“John Flint, there is nothing I would not do to
serve the boy. There is nothing I will not do to
crush you if you persist in convincting him. I do not
know that he is innocent—I do not know that he is
worthy of my love. I only know that he is my child.”
There was an agony in the tone with which these
words were spoken that was music to Mr. Flint. He
smiled that undertaker's smile of his.
“The law must take its course,” he said. “It
is impossible to stop that.”
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“Not so. The examination takes place this afternoon.
If you do not appear against him, Mortimer
will be discharged. You have forgotten that I
have the letter.”
“Stop!” cried Flint, as Walters turned to the door,
and he assumed his usual, fawning, hypocritical air.
“If I do as you wish, what then?”
“You shall have the letter.”
“What assurance have I of that?”
“My word.”
“Is that all?” said Flint. “Would you take mine,
in such a case?”
“No,” replied Walters, with delightful candor.
“Your word is worthless. Mine was never broken.
Do we understand each other?”
“Yes.”
“There must be another stipulation.”
“What is it?”
“You are not to mention my name to Mortimer.
He does not know of my existence.”
“I shall not be likely to meet him,” returned
Flint, a little surprised. “I thought you had seen
him.”
“I did—through the bars of his cell.”
And Mr. Flint was left alone in no enviable state of
mind. So absorbed was he in his disappointment,
that Tim several times that afternoon whistled
snatches from “Poor Dog Tray,” with impunity.
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The twilight came stealing into the room in which
Mrs. Snarle and Daisy were sitting. The food on the
supper table remained untouched. Neither of them
had spoken for the last half hour; the twilight grew
denser and denser, and the shadows on their faces
deepened. Daisy had told her mother all—the search
of the officers for the necklace, her visit to the
Tombs, and Mortimer's protestation of innocence.
Mrs. Snarle never doubted it for a moment; but
she saw how strong their evidence might be against
him.
“God only knows how it will end, Daisy.”
“As God wills it, mother!”
As these words were said, a shadow fell across the
entry, and a pair of arms was thrown tenderly around
Daisy's neck.
“Mortimer!”
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Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 1836-1907 [1857], Daisy's necklace: and what came of it (A literary episode). (Derby & Jackson, New York) [word count] [eaf446T].
