CONTAINS SUNDRY EVENTS INDICATIVE OF OUR HISTORY
BEING NEAR ITS CLOSE.

[figure description] Page 345.[end figure description]

When the financier returned to the counting-room he
reached the notes intended for Madder & Co., with the endorsement
of Mr. Kittle to John, and requested him to deliver
them himself in the morning. John promised to do so, but
as he put them in his pocket he saw his father's spirit standing
by his desk, gazing upon him with a sad reproving look, such
as he had never worn before.

At sight of this apparition he grew sick at heart, his hand
trembled violently and his face turned deadly pale. The financier
noticed the sudden change in his countenance, and asked
what ailed him.

“Did you see nothing?” said John.

“Nothing,” replied Tom, with a slight trembling of his
voice, “did you?” he added, looking keenly into John's face.

“I thought I did, but I was mistaken. It was the fault of
my eyes. I must go out and breathe the fresh air.” He rose
from his desk, but suddenly fell back in his seat; his father's
form again stood before him and seemed to bar his way.

“What is it? What ails you?” said the financier.

“A slight giddiness,” said John, “it will pass off soon.”—
He sat a few minutes, and again rose to go, and again fell back
in his seat, for the same appearance seemed to float before him.

“Are you subject to fainting fits?” asked the financier.

“No, but I have been subject to turns like these ever since
my father died; poor old man! Would I had been near him
to close his eyes!

“Aye, and to enquire about his will; I do not wonder at
your faintness when you think of him.”

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“You do not understand me. I care nothing about his
will, except that I fear his wishes have been thwarted, and
that it causes him unhappiness now.”

“Ha! ha! excuse me for laughing. I can't help it, you
must excuse me.”

“I excuse you,” replied John seriously, “you need not repress
your mirth, it does not annoy me. But I shall be unfit
for business to-day, and you must excuse me. I must go
home.”

“Very well, but give me back the notes; they will not be
safe in your pocket.”

John returned the notes to him, and after sitting a moment
longer, rose from his desk and left the counting-room without
again being crossed by his spiritual visitant.

Jeremiah having obtained leave of absence for a few days,
John had made no enquiries after him, and neither of his partners,
nor Mr. Bates had told him of the events of Saturday evening,
or of Jeremiah's subsequent arrest, doubtless influenced
by a benevolent wish to spare him the painful feelings that
they must have known such news would have caused him;
at least we can conceive of no other motive that could have
induced them to keep silent in regard to that unhappy circumstance,
for they knew that he would immediately procure the
poor fellow's release, if he were aware of his arrest. He had
hardly left the counting-room when a note was brought in for
him, which the financier perceived was from Jeremiah, and
with that peculiar readiness to serve a friend which had ever
been a prominent feature in his character, he tore it open and
read it, and then tore it up and scattered the fragments upon
the floor. The contents of the note were as follows:

“City Prison, 10 o'clock.
“My Dear Sir:

“Will you have the goodness to call and see me at the earliest
moment possible? I have something to communicate of great importance
to yourself and others in whom you are interested. Do
not fail to call.

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“Business before friendship,” said the financier, as he took
up the note, “Mr. Jeremiah must wait his time.”

Had Tom Tuck known how nearly Jeremiah's note concerned
himself, it is probable that he would have treated it with vastly
greater consideration. But we grope about in the darkness
of our misdeeds, little dreaming what important results will
grow out of our most trifling errors; and forgetful of that
important rule which never can be safely forgotten, of doing
unto others as we would be done by.

When Jeremiah had recovered from the shock which the
confession of Mr. Jacobs had given him, his first thought was
to convey a hint to the Tucks of their danger, that they might
be enabled to make their escape before the Jew could cause
them to be arrested, and for that purpose he had addressed a
note to John, thinking him th emost suitable person to be put
in possession of the secret; for he had no doubt of the guilt of
the brothers, and his kindly feelings towards them and their
mother, entirely destroyed his sense of what was due to the
Law. Indeed, he was so much in the habit of regarding the
law of God as paramount to all others, that we are by no
means certain that he ever thought of what was due to the
criminal code, or reflected on the enormity of his own guilt in
trying to aid a criminal to escape from the gallows; thereby depriving
one of his fellow citizens of the privilege which the
law allowed him of putting a human being to death in a quiet
business like manner, by hanging him up in the presence of a
select party of friends, assembled for the express purpose of
witnessing so comforting and exhilarating a ceremony.

So completely had his feelings become enlisted in behalf of
the guilty but unfortunate brothers, that he entirely forgot his
own misfortunes, and only lamented his confinement, because
it prevented him from serving them as effectually as he wished
to do, and he walked up and down the little space allotted to
him for exercise in an agony of suspense, wondering that
John did not make his appearance, and watching Mr. Jacobs

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narrowly to see that he had no communication with the
keepers of the prison. Some of the other prisoners noticing
his anxiety, and naturally supposing that he felt the pricks of
a guilty conscience, very kindly offered their condolence, and
tried to keep him in heart by bidding him keep a stiff upper
lip, and using many similar comforting expressions, for which
he thanked them civilly; but his anxiety increased and his uneasiness
became more manifest as the day wore away, and no
one came to see him. At sunset he was locked up in a narrow
little cell by himself, and it was a relief to him to fall upon
his knees and pray for those who were regardless of themselves.
And he did not forget Huldah Hogshart, but prayed
for her with greater earnestness than he had ever done before,
when he believed her to be innocent of crime or evil thoughts.
He could no longer love her, but he could pity her. Those
who did him a kindness were sure of his gratitude, but those
who wronged him gained his pity and his prayers. The blow
that inflicted a wound in his heart, opened a stream that washed
away the guilt of the hand that struck it, like the sacrificial
blood of a Jewish altar.

But Jeremiah was not forgotten, although he was not cheered
by the face of a kindly visiter. When friend Hogshart heard
that he had been carried to prison on a charge of being an
accomplice of his daughter, he was grieved beyond measure, for
he had no doubt of his innocence, and upon questioning Huldah,
she made the most solemn protestations to that effect and
begged that her father would obtain his release from prison.
But she declared that she would sooner die than ever have him
speak to her again. The old man found means, through the
influence of one of his yearly meeting friends, a rich jobber in
Pearl street, to obtain sufficient money to satisfy Madame
Grandemaison for all the damage she had sustained by the
depredations of his daughter, and having taken her receipt in
full, he addressed the countess milliner in this manner:

“Well, friend, thee says thee is satisfied?”

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“O, perfectly,” replied Madame Grandemaison, in a very
sweet and bewitching manner, or at least in a manner meant
to be sweet and bewitching, “perfectly; and allow me to ask
you to accept this mosaic pin as a slight memento of my respect
for you. I am sure I did not know that there were such
gentlemanly people among the friends.” These words were
uttered with such a genuine air of admiration that we wonder
much at the reply which they elicited.

“Woman!” said friend Hogshart, as he put on his broad
brimmed drab hat, “I despise thy gew-gaws and trinkets.—
Does thee wish to tempt me to ruin, as thee did my daughter?
Is thee satisfied when thee lies down at night to remember that
thy vain and worthless merchandise has drawn an innocent
and simple-minded girl from the paths of honesty and godlymindedness,
that thee now seeks to lure my feet to perdition?
Keep thy finery for such as thyself, I wish for none of it.—
Thee has caused enough of grief and shame already in one
family. I weep for my poor child's sin, but I reproach myself
for placing her in the way of temptation. Thee must not
allow thee self to boast of thy own honesty when thee tells of
my poor daughter's fall. She was tempted to take thy painted
baubles with the idle hope of making her person more comely,
but thee takes the money of vain people by overcharges for
thy trumpery goods that thee and thy idle husband may riot in
vain-glorious show; and thee has no longer youth as an excuse
for thy wickedness!”

Madame Grandemaison lost all her native sweetness and
dignity of manner long before friend Hogshart arrived at the
end of his speech, and her face would have turned to the color
of parchment but for the rouge on her cheeks, so great was her
indignation; she stamped on the floor with an energy peculiarly
her own and screamed in the highest tone of her fine
voice, to Monsieur Grandemaison, to come up stairs and kick
friend Hogshart down. But the old quaker was not one of
those slight subjects that a person of Monsieur Grandemaison's

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physical pretensions would care to exercise his powers upon,
and therefore he was cautious to make his appearance just in
time to be too late to execute his wife's wishes, although
unhappily for him, not too late to receive the full force of the
indignant feelings that belonged of right to friend Hogshart.
He having secured his daughter and Jeremiah from the risk
of further annoyance by Madame Grandemaison, and delivered
his sentiments to the great relief of his overburdened mind,
walked deliberately down stairs with the calm air of a man
conscious of his own strength of limb and rectitude of purpose.
He then proceeded to procure the release of Jeremiah,
which he accomplished with but little difficulty, although not
in time to save him from a night's lodging in prison. Having
no longer occasion to remain in the city, he departed immediately
for Berkshire county, taking his unhappy daughter
with him, and shaking the dust from the soles of his feet, as
he entered the steamboat, with a firm, though silent resolve
never again to venture within the influence of the city's temptations.

The next morning, at the usual hour of bringing the prisoners
out for examination, Jeremiah was told that he was at
liberty to go where he pleased. But he almost felt loth to
go, overburdened as he was by a knowledge of the guilt of
the Tucks, and doubtful in what way to discharge the
fearful duty imposed upon him of making it known. It
would have been a relief to him had he been kept in close
confinement where he could neither see the guilty men themselves,
nor hear of the distress which a knowledge of their
crimes must occasion. But he was sure of one friend, who
would bear with his weakness and sympathise with his feelings,
and in pursuit of him he immediately went. As he
entered the counting-room there was a general commotion
among all the clerks, except only Mr. Bates, who with a
loftiness of manner that conscious dignity and merit could
alone impart, turned over the leaves of his ponderous ledger

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without even deigning to look at the culprit. Let Mr. Bates
have been possessed of what weakness or evil quality he might,
he had a grateful heart, and he never saw a transgressor in
the toils of the law but he thanked his God he was not like
other men.

Jeremiah replied to the enquiries of the clerks as to his confinement,
and how he had effected his escape good-naturedly,
but without giving them any positive information on the subject,
and then passed into the private office where he met the
financier and the junior partner, John having just gone out to
deliver the note to Madder & Co. At sight of the brothers
Jeremiah gave an involuntary start, which they were pleased
to consider an evidence of his guilt.

“What do you want here?” demanded Tom, with a stern
look.

“I am looking after Mr. Tremlett,” replied Jeremiah.

“Out of prison, are you?” said Mr. F. Augustus, looking
over his violet curtain, “so, you were apprehended for stealing
shawls and pocket handkerchiefs. A remarkably nice
cashier you would have been.”

“Who bailed you out?” asked Tom.

“I do not know, and I do not see that you have any right to
ask. I presume that I am not indebted for my freedom to your
good will,” replied Jeremiah, and the next moment his heart
smote him for his rudeness to a man who was in his power.

“Out of this you insolent thief,” cried the financier as he
leaped up from his desk, “do you presume on the friendship
of my partner to insult me? Leave the office, sir.”

“Kick him, Tom,” said F. Augustus, as he threw down
the last volume of Sir Reginald, for he had that moment
devoured the last word of that splendid production, “kick
him.”

But Jeremiah wished to avoid any disturbance, and he
retreated from the office before the financier had time to
improve upon his brother's hint.

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“We must be rid of that fellow,” said Tom, “he's a sneaking
treacherous snoop, and if there is no other way of getting
him off, I will dissolve with his friend, Mr. Jack Tremlett, as
soon as this coffee speculation is closed.”

“How will it turn out?”

“Well. Better than I could have expected. I shall clear
a pretty penny by it, but I am resolved that that fellow
Tremlett shall not finger the first cent of the profits. I will
have a settlement with him and turn him over the stock of
the Cranberry Meadow rail-road. He means to get married
soon to somebody he has met in his rambles through the
Bowery, but he shall spend no money of my earning upon
his Bowery beauty.”

“Good, capital!” exclaimed Fred in his joyous light-hearted
tones, “but hush! Here he comes.”

“Have you delivered the notes?” asked the financier, as his
partner entered the office.

“I have,” replied John, “and now we must make some
arrangements for sales.”

“Leave that to me,” said the financier, “I will make the
sales and you Fred, go and—”

But Fred was already gone; he had promised to drive a
distinguished artist, just returned from Europe, over to his
beau ideal villa, to show him the conservatory, built, as his
architect assured him, exactly after the Duke of Devonshire's,
at Chatsworth, and he had contrived to slip out, unperceived
by his brother, as John came in.

“Gone, is he!” said the financier, “then I must go myself.”

The brothers having left the office, John remained alone.
He was unusually serious, and his face looked care-worn and
his eye heavy; and instead of the clear ruddy complexion
natural to his face, it looked pale and bilious. During the
past night his father's form had been constantly present to
him; and even on his way to the office of Madder & Co.,
the same appearance seemed to float before his eyes, as if to

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hinder him from his errand. But since he had delivered the
notes the apparition had ceased to haunt him. He was perplexed
at this unnatural visitation and harrassed at the recollection
of the great extent of his business obligations, and the
risk he had encountered in the coffee speculation; if it should
prove disastrous, he would not only be reduced to absolute
beggary himself, but those who had intrusted their property
to his management, with no other security than his honor,
would be ruined with him and by him.

While he sat at his desk reflecting on these things, old Mr.
Clearman, the grandfather of Fidelia, called in and asked for
the money which was due to her from her father's estate.
One of his neighbors had been talking to the old man and had
pursuaded him that his grand-daughter's money would be safer
in the Savings Bank than in the hands of a merchant. Never
before had the old sailor's visits been ill-timed; his rough,
honest face was a very sun of good humor which had never
failed to light up a pleasant smile on whatever object it shed
its beams, but now John was annoyed at the sight of him,
and his hearty careless laugh increased his sadness. It was
impossible to comply with his request, and John told him
that the next day or the day after, the money should be paid.
As the old sailor withdrew, Mr. Kittle came in.

“Young man,” said the grocer, abruptly, “you asked me
to endorse your notes.”

“Well?” replied John sternly, for the unceremonious manner
of the grocer offended him:

“Well! but 'tis not well. You wanted to swindle me,
sir; yes, you wanted to swindle me!”

“Be careful, and do not presume too much upon your grey
head,” said John.

“I defy you, I say you did, sir, I say you did,” repeated
Mr. Kittle, his carbuncled face growing redder than any red
substance that we know of, “you have got no credit in the
street, sir, your paper isn't worth a fig, sir, here's your notes,

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take them and give me my money back, sir; my money, sir,
mine, mine; not yours, mine.

“I owe you nothing,” said John, calmly, for the old grocer's
passion rendered him so ridiculous that it was impossible to
be angry with him, “you have got no notes of mine.”

“What, do you deny your own paper sir, are you going to
plead usury against me? Come, give me my money, my
money that I worked for, not yours.”

“If I owe you anything I will pay you, but not a minute
sooner for your ill mannered abuse; I know nothing of these
notes, they were not given by the firm; they are in the handwriting
of Fred Tuck who is not authorised to give a note.”

“Ah, ha, young man, ah, ha, so, that's your game, that's
the way you mean to cheat me, I know. Come give me my
money, mine, mine; give me fifty per cent. Come, be a man
and don't cheat a hard-worker like me; give me my money.”

“I know nothing about these notes, and I care not how
you obtained them,” replied John, “but they are not yet due,
and you have no right to ask for your money until they be.
Now sir, I should be sorry to be guilty of a rudeness towards
you for the sake of your grey head, but more for the sake of
my father, who once employed you, and trusted you, and
enabled you by his generosity to grow rich, and I beg you
will save me the shame of putting my hands upon you, by
walking out of my office.”

“Do you know who I am, sir, do you know how much
I am worth, sir? do you know I could count out dollars for
your cents, sir,” exclaimed the enraged grocer, snapping his
fingers and dancing furiously round the counting-room, “me
me, yes sir, me, Andrew Kettle, sir; I made it myself, sir,
it wasn't left to me, sir, I made it myself. It's my money;
mine, mine,” and again Mr. Kittle beat his breast violently to
impress the young man that he meant himself, Andrew
Kettle, and no mistake. “I could buy a dozen of you, with
all your dandy clerks and blue curtains. Yes, you were

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forced to come to me to endorse your notes to keep up your
credit, and you wanted to cheat me, but you could'nt. There's
your paper, I won't have it; plead usury and cheat me out of
money; take 'em, I won't have 'em!” so saying he rolled up
the notes and threw them at John's head, who thereupon
jumped up from his desk, and pushed the old grocer out of
the office. He repented of it the next moment, and would
willingly have called him back and apologised to him, but it
was too late.

John had scarcely resumed his seat, when Mr. Teunis
Mildmen, the junior of the brothers Mildmen, made his
appearance, and although his countenance was as smooth and
as placid as a new cheese, and every particular hair of his
glossy head occupied its accustomed place, and a perfect
serenity reigned over his shining black suit, it was easy to
perceive, from a peculiar cast of his keen black eye, that the
broker had some weighty business on hand. He sat down
close by John's desk and took a deliberate pinch of snuff, as if
to fill up an awkward pause that necessarily occurred while
he was gaining entire possession of himself.

“How is money with you, plenty?” said Mr. Mildmen.

“No,” replied John, “you know it is not, or we should not
have applied to you for a loan.”

“O, yes, ah, very true, yes indeed, I remember,” said Mr.
Mildmen, as though he had forgotten the circumstance, when
in fact he had remembered nothing else for the last hour or
two, “I didn't know, however, but you might have received
a remittance. It's confounded tight with us, confounded
tight,” and he took another pinch of snuff and looked John
steadily in the eye while he held open the box.

“I never snuff,” said John.

“O, ah, indeed? Is it possible! You don't. You are one
of Colonel Stone's men; you don't smoke, perhaps? Well
they are both bad habits, I suppose, but there are worse,” and
again he looked steadily in John's face.

[figure description] Page 356.[end figure description]

“That may be, but there are none nastier or more unnatural,”
answered John, with a strong expression of disgust.

“Yes indeed, ah, very true, I don't know about that, I suppose
so; I like a cigar, myself, sometimes, and a pinch of
snuff is company to me when I am alone.”

“Very fit,” thought John although he did not say so. “A
man may do a worse thing than take a pinch of snuff,” continued
the broker, “at all events,” and he looked steadily in
John's face as he uttered the words, “it harms no one, sir.”

“Excuse me,” said John, a little disconcerted at the broker's
earnest stare, “perhaps I expressed myself with a little
too much emphasis, but tobacco is particularly offensive to
me; it is a nauseous thing in any shape, and I have known
some dealers in it who were such dirty contemptible fellows,
that I have, perhaps, imbibed an unreasonable dislike to it.
I hope I have not offended you.”

“O, no indeed, not at all, don't mention it,” said he, as he
knocked off a scarce perceptible particle of dust from his black
satin vest, “not in the least, by no means, I wouldn't have
you think so. So, then you are not flush to-day. I must
have some money. Must. I'm short as pie crust.”

“I am sorry that I cannot help you. But how much do
you want?”

“Not much; a trifle; just the amount of those last notes
that I did for you. But you look ill, anything the matter?”

“I have slept badly of late, but I am well,” replied John.

“O, ah, indeed, is it possible? well, I shouldn't wonder.
That's bad though. You must take more exercise. Brother
Peter, he has been quite sick with the gout in his toes. And
you don't sleep well? Something on your mind perhaps?”
And again he looked seriously into John's face as though he
expected to find something very strange and startling there.
“A good many are disturbed in their sleep about these times;
money is so tight! the dry goods men suffer some now. I
must have some money. You must squeeze me out something.”

“I cannot.”

[figure description] Page 357.[end figure description]

“You must, I am in earnest; I must have it.”

“I assure you it is impossible; and it strikes me that you
are a little too pressing, sir.”

“O, ah, does it, indeed; well, come, but I am in earnest.
Credit is a slippery thing, now; just reflect a moment; here's
the three last notes that I did for you, come, give me your
check for them, and take off a commission, come.”

“I have already told you that I cannot do it,” said John,
“furthermore, the notes have a long time to run, and you told
me that they were sold to a third party.”

“O, ah, yes indeed, well, that's very true, but it's for a
friend, your friend as well as mine. I won't say too much,
but let me tell you, I am in earnest, it will be for your interest
to cash up. You can trust me, I am your friend. It's not
necessary to tell all I know.”

“Keep nothing back if you know aught that can affect me
or my firm; speak out, I neither understand your dark sayings
nor like them.”

“O, ah, very true, yes, but I think I had better not now.
But let me see, by the way, you are not the financier of the
firm I believe?”

“No,” replied John.

“Ah, well, very true, by the way, perhaps you give out the
notes.”

John signified that he did.

Ah, very well, you do, perhaps then you have seen that
note before?” and Mr. Mildmen held up to him one of the
notes that he had passed to Madder & Co., but a few hours
before.

“Certainly I have, I delivered it myself, and I am surprised
to find it in your hands.”

“Ah, very likely, very likely indeed, and I dare say you
would not care for anybody else to see it?”

“I should not, indeed.”

“Well, let me see, by the way, just hand over the money

[figure description] Page 358.[end figure description]

for these three pieces of paper, and it shall go no further.
You understand?”

“No, I do not understand, and I promise you I shall give
you no money before the time agreed upon.”

“Ah, indeed, perhaps you will change your mind. Talk to
your partner about it. I'm in earnest, I am, indeed; I shall
wait in my office until three o'clock; but remember! I must
have my money back again. Good morning.”

John was completely confounded at the strange behavior of
Mr. Mildmen, and as he had regretted his rudeness towards
Mr. Kittle the moment the old grocer had quitted the office,
he now regretted that he had been so civil to the broker and
had half resolved to follow him and pull his nose, when
Jeremiah appeared before him.

“What has happened, Jeremiah, and where do you come
from?” he exclaimed, not a little moved by his downcast
looks.

“I came from prison, but I cannot tell you, in this place
all that has happened. You must go with me to your own
room where we shall not be liable to interruptions.”

“From prison, Jeremiah, and have you been visiting the
prisons with friend Hogshart and his daughter?”

“Surely you knew that I have been in prison on charge of
stealing!” said Jeremiah with a blush.

“Stealing, Jeremiah! you are jocose.”

“Ah, I thought you could not have heard. And you did
not receive a note from me yesterday?”

“Indeed, I did not; explain this riddle to me. I have
lived in the midst of mysteries to day, and this is the strangest
of all. Explain, Jernmiah, explain.”

“I will, but not here; go with me to your house, there's no
time to lose; I have something to tell that I wish I had never
lived to know.”

“I will go with you this moment,” said John, and having
given some orders to Mr. Bates, the two friends left the
counting-room together.

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