An American Story of Real Life CHAPTER 16.
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When old Mr. Ware received the painful and mortifying news of his son's crime--he became deeply incensed, and when he met him, upbraided him with his conduct in bitter terms.
"You are no longer my son! I disown you from this moment!" he said in angry tones. "My son could not be guilty of baseness and crime!"
"Blame yourself alone, as I do," was the young man's brief, but stern reply.
"What do you mean Henry?" asked the father, still in a voice of anger.
"I mean, simply, that in consequence of your refusal to supply me with the money required to make such an appearance as a young man in my station in society had a right to make--I was driven to the gambling-table, where debts of honor accumulated against me to such an extent, that I could wipe them out no other way than by forgery. Mr. Martin, like yourself, has played toward me a niggardly part, and upon his purse, I first commenced operations. In doing so, I merely took what he should long since have given. I do not consider my offence a criminal one."
This mode of reasoning excited Mr. Ware still more, especially as there was an air of insolence and harshness about his son, that ill became one in his peculiar circumstances. A keen retort trembled on his tongue, but he suppressed it, and turning away quickly, left the young man to his own reflections. These were not of a very pleasant nature, for he was yet undetermined, fully, in regard to future action. To leave the city would be, of course, his first movement, unless prevented from so doing. But where to hide himself away from the law's searching glances, he knew not, nor how he should cut off entirely from every resource but his own exertions, as he expected to be, now that both Mr. Martin and his father were so incensed against him, maintain himself even in an humble position.
On the next morning the newspapers teemed with various accounts of the forgery--and with many allusions to the families of both Mr. Ware and Mr. Martin. Some few hesitated not to assert that the young man would, of course, escape the legal penalty of his crime, seeing that his father and father-in-law were rich men. These things were deeply galling to both families, and to all who stood in any way connected with them.
Painfully mortified at the position in which the discovery of his conduct had placed him, Henry Ware shrank away in his father's house, from an exposure of himself to the public eye. The only one there who seemed to feel for him, was his mother. She could not frown upon her child, now that every tongue spoke against him. Much as she abhorred his conduct, she could not resist the pleadings of maternal love for her child.
She had been with him alone for nearly an hour, on the morning following the discovery of his mad act, and her conversation and manifestation of deep affection, wounded and bruised as it was, had softened his feelings a good deal, when a letter, addressed to him, was handed in. He broke the seal hurriedly, and read, not unmoved, the following touching epistle from his wife:
"My Dear Husband, Since the dreadful news of yesterday morning, I have been waiting with a fluttering heart to see you, or to hear from you. Now, I am told by my father, that you are no more to enter these walls, and that I am never again to hold communication with you. But this, no human being has power to say, but yourself. Are you not my husband? my husband whom I have loved with a depth and devotedness that tongue cannot tell? And shall I not cling to you until the last? Cling to you with a closer and more self-renouncing love, as all others turn from you? Yes! If I offend all the world, I will still love my husband! Love him through evil report and good report. Thus far, Henry, I have loved you under coldness and neglect--pardon my allusion to the past--loved you, when the allurements of the world won you away from your wife, and made the smile on her lip seem all unattractive. Now, the world turns from you--but your wife still remains true in her affection, as the needle to the pole. Will you not now love her for her unwavering devotion? O, Henry! If you knew how my poor heart yearns for pleasant words, and tender looks--you would no longer withhold them. Where are you? I send this to your father's, in the hope that it may reach your hand. Should it do so, send me word where you are, and, oh! how eagerly will I fly to you! Yours, in life and death, BELL."
After reading this letter, Ware sat for a moment in thoughtful silence, and then handed it to his mother. After glancing hurriedly through it, she returned it with the remark, "Henry, among all your faults, not the least has been your conduct toward your wife. Bell has not deserved the coldness and neglect with which you have treated her."
"Perhaps not," was the half impatient reply. "But that cannot now be helped. As it is, I do not see that any good can grow out of our meeting. I must soon leave this, never again to return; and so the quicker she can forget me, the better."
"Do not talk in that way, Henry," said Mrs. Ware, interrupting her son. "You cannot, and you must not, deny poor Bell the melancholy pleasure of seeing you. Reply to this note at once, and say that you are here. Address her kindly and even tenderly, for tender words will be sweet to her heart just now; and surely, you can give those, if nothing else."
About an hour after, as Bell sat alone with her two children, a note came from her husband. It ran thus:
"My Dear Bell, Your affectionate note has touched my feelings a good deal, and made me conscious of how deeply I have wounded a heart whose every pulsation has been true to me. I am now at my father's house, where I shall remain for a short time, previous to my final departure from this city. Here I can no longer remain in safety . Come and see me. Yours, HENRY."
Without an intimation to anyone of her design, Bell instantly repaired to the house of Mr. Ware. Here she held a long interview with her husband, in which more expressions of tenderness fell from his lips, than had greeted her ears since the first few months of their married life hurried pleasantly and rapidly away. It mattered not how sincere they were on his part. To her spirit, they were like cool, refreshing dews to the dry and thirsty ground. Dearer than ever, did he seem to her, and more painful than at first, was the idea of a separation.
It was between two and three o'clock in the afternoon when Bell returned. While standing at the door, waiting for the servant to open it, her father came up.
"Where have you been, Bell?" he asked, looking her gravely in the face, as soon as they had entered the hall.
"I have been to Mr. Ware's," she replied, in a hesitating voice, while her cheek colored, and her eyes fell upon the floor.
"To Mr. Ware's! and at this time! Why did you go there, Bell?"
"It is scarcely necessary for me to tell the reason, father. I went, of course, to see Henry."
"And after what I said to you this morning'!" rejoined Mr. Martin, in an excited tone.
"Father, he is my husband, and my heart will cling to him until it is broken!" was the daughter's reply. Then bursting into tears, she glided away, and sought the sanctuary of her own chamber.
"Infatuated girl!" ejaculated Mr. Martin. But his words did not reach her ear.
In despite of argument, remonstrance, persuasion, and every other means resorted to for the purpose of influencing her, Bell repaired regularly to the house of Mr. Ware, and spent hours of each day with her husband. From him, she learned his plans in regard to the future. Under the assumed name of Johnson, he would repair to New Orleans, and upon a capital of two or three thousand dollars, which his father had promised him at parting, he stated to her that he intended to enter into some business, and try, if possible, to reform himself. As soon as he got a little ahead there, he purposed going to Cuba, as a place of permanent residence. There he would be free from the threatening penalties of the law, he had so madly violated. The ten thousand dollars for which Mr. Martin would be held liable, were to be paid over by his father when the day of trial came, and it was found that the recognizance had been forfeited.
In all these plans, eagerly as her ear listened for it, there was nothing said about her being sent for to join him.
"How soon do you think that you will get fairly into business in New Orleans?" she asked, about a week before the day fixed for his departure.
"In a few months after my arrival there, I hope."
"Shall I come out to you then?"
The voice of Bell trembled as she asked this question, and the tears filled her eyes.
"Leave your comfortable home, surrounded with luxury and elegance--and join me, an outcast, in a strange city? That idea never crossed my mind, Bell."
"But it has mine, a hundred and a hundred times," replied his wife. "Whenever you go--I am ready to follow, and fully prepared to share your lot, be it what it may."
To this, Ware did not reply for some minutes. Then he said--
"For a time. Bell, I think you had better remain here. I know not what may befall me. It may happen that all my efforts will prove unsuccessful, and that I may find myself far away from home and friends, in sickness and destitution. If such should be the case, I can write freely to you, and through you at least obtain some small relief! If success should, however, crown my efforts--then you can readily join me. In fact, I could come up, as far as Baltimore, and meet you there."
To this arrangement, Bell consented. Two weeks previous to the day of trial, Ware took leave of the few friends who were in the secret of his plans, and left Philadelphia. To his mothers and sisters, the parting was painful in the extreme. It was to them as if death were about to separate him from them--yes, worse than death, for it was dishonor andcrime, and the separation was to be permanent. Old Mr. Ware assumed a stern aspect, but as he took the hand of his son for the final time, and looked upon his face for the last time perhaps, his feelings gave way.
"God bless you, Harry!" he said in a choking voice, and then turned away hastily to hide his feelings. He might never see the face of his son again--his only son, upon whom he had so often looked in hope and pride, now parting from him, perhaps, forever, and with a stain upon his character which nothing could wipe out.
As for Bell, that parting hour was the bitterest of her life. And yet she, of all whom he had left behind him, was the only one that had the feeblest hope of ever again seeing hrs face. But, fond creature, she dreamed not of the cold-hearted selfishness with which he laid his real plans for the future, in regard to her. As to going into business in New Orleans, there was some truth in that; but it was the business of gambling and cheating! Fortune, he expected to go often against him, and of course, he would need fresh supplies of money. With Bell and his mother, he determined to keep up a regular correspondence, deceiving them throughout in regard to what he was doing, and as to the real motives of action which governed him.
He knew that he could readily deceive them, and through this deception, he had little doubt but that he could often obtain money. If in this way he could not still manage to drain the purses of his father and Mr. Martin, it was his determination to induce Bell to join him, under the belief that her father, who was deeply attached to his daughter, as he well knew--would transmit liberal sums to her in order to keep her, as she had been all her life, above the need of anything that money could procure. Thus, with a degree of cruel selfishness, hardly paralleled--did this wretched young man lay his plans of future action.
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