Lovers and Husbands CHAPTER 16.
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We will now transport our readers to a Southern city — Charleston, South Carolina, and into a small room of a third-rate hotel there. In this we find a woman and two young children, alone, at midnight. The children are asleep — but the woman is sitting up, engaged in sewing. Her countenance, that of a woman in the prime of life, is care-worn. At intervals she pauses in her work, listens for a few moments, and then, with a half-suppressed sigh, resumes it.
This was continued until after the clock had announced the hour of two in the morning. Then a man entered the hotel, and ascending quietly, opened the door of the room just mentioned, and glided in.
"Emily!" he said, a little sternly, when he perceived that the woman was not in bed and asleep, "I shall get angry with you if this is continued. You must not sit up so late."
"It's no use for me to go to bed, Charles," was the low-spoken reply; "I cannot sleep while you are out."
Nothing more was said. The wife, for such was her relation to the man — laid aside her work, and both retired to rest.
At an early hour she left her pillow, and dressed herself and children. The husband still slept on, and continued to do so until eleven o'clock. Then he arose, and went away without speaking a word, except to the children, who prattled around and seemed to annoy more than please him. A few minutes after his departure, there was a tap at the door of the room he had left. His wife opened it, and found the hotel-keeper with a bill for the last two months' boarding.
"Mr. Whitney has just gone out," she said; "I will hand it to him as soon as he returns."
"Do so, if you please," the man said, in a respectful tone. Then, as if reluctantly, he added,
"And say to him that Mr. Timmons wishes it paid at once."
Emily — the reader has of course recognized her — shut, with a deeply-drawn sigh, the door, as the hotel-keeper turned away. Then sitting down, she remained thoughtful for some time. From this state a thrice-urged request from one of her children aroused her.
In the mean time, Whitney, after leaving the house, went to tavern, and calling for a glass of liquor, drank it off slowly, helping himself freely, as he did so, to the lunch that had been placed on the bar. This was all the food usually taken by him before dinner. While thus engaged, a man placed his hand upon his shoulder, saying in a familiar — but low tone, as he did so,
"I have been looking for you all the morning,! Whitney. There is good game abroad today."
The two then retired to a private room upstairs, where the new-comer ordered a bottle of wine.
"What is the nature of the game?" asked Whitney, bending over towards his companion with eager interest, as soon as they were seated. "I'm cursed low on money. This very day I owe for three months' board, and if I don't have a part of it, I'm afraid old Timmons will turn my wife and children out of doors before a week passes over their heads. Poor Emily! it makes me sick when I look at her; and she is so mild and patient. I would not speak a harsh word to her for the world; and yet I am breaking her heart, I know. She sits up regularly until I get home, whether I am out until twelve, one, two, or three o'clock. If I were to stay out all night, she would not go to bed at all. I sometimes wish I were dead!"
"Nonsense, man! You are too chicken-hearted," returned the friend, gayly. "I never saw the woman yet who could make me put on the sad face you now wear. I believe I've got a wife, and half a dozen responsibilities, somewhere; but I never trouble myself about them."
"Well, what's in the wind today?" Whitney said, after a little while, throwing off his gloomy feelings by a powerful effort, aided by two or three glasses of wine taken in quick succession.
"Something worth while, I assure you. Nothing less than a young planter from the up-country, with the cash for a large crop in his pocket-book. He's quite green, and full of his own importance."
"Where is he?"
"At the big hotel."
"Well?"
"You must bring him in tonight."
"If I can."
"You must. If you let him slip through your fingers, you and I are done."
"I haven't a dollar. Last night I won fifty from Larson, a young clerk — but he proved in the end too much for me, not only getting back all he had lost — but stripping me of every cent!"
"That was a poor business. You will never make your fortune in our profession, unless as a whipper-in. You are capital at that, however. Here is a ten-dollar bill. Use it skillfully, and we'll divide handsomely tomorrow morning."
After putting the bill into his pocket-book, Whitney drank another glass of wine, and then left the tavern alone and proceeded to the hotel.
He had first taken an accurate description of the young man. He found him reading a newspaper in one of the parlors. Seating himself nearby, with a paper in his own hand, he commenced reading also. Soon a paragraph of unusual interest arrested his attention, causing him to say aloud, as if involuntarily,
"That's a serious affair, really!"
The young planter raised his head and looked towards the stranger, half inquiringly.
"Did you see that?" asked Whitney, pointing with his finger to a particular part of the paper he held in his hand.
"No, what is it?"
"The late affair in New Orleans."
"No, I haven't seen it."
"Some black-leg scoundrel, it appears, came across a young planter from the Red River country, whose pockets were well lined with cash. By some hocus-pocus or other, he enticed him into some den, and there cheated him out of every dollar he had. In a fit of desperation, the young man blew out his brains. It is said that he left a lovely wife, to whom he had but just been married. A sad affair, truly!"
"It is indeed," returned the young countryman; "but I'm sorry for one thing."
"What is that?"
"That the fellow had not blown out the gambler's brains instead of his own. There would have been a moral power in that."
"You are right," replied Whitney, with promptness. "If an example of that kind were made now and then, it would have a good effect."
"No doubt of it; but a man who is weak enough to let one of these fellows approach, and then lure him off, deserves to lose his money. I would like to see the man who could make such a fool of me."
"So would I. He would have a harder row to hoe than ever he attempted in his life before."
"I'm of the same opinion in regard to my own case. Several planters from my section of the country have been caught and fleeced; but they must have been blind or drunk. Any black-leg is welcome to all he can get out of me."
"Ditto say I," returned Whitney; "but isn't it surprising how men can become so utterly regardless of the rights of their fellows as to go regularly to work to entrap and cheat them out of the reward of their honest toil?"
"It certainly is; but it is a painful evidence of man's deep depravity."
"If I had my way, I would make the penalty for gambling ten times as severe as it is."
"I would agree with you there. It is a most detestable vice."
In this way, Whitney led his intended victim to form an idea of his character — as the very opposite to what it really was. A stranger in Charleston, and feeling the need of someone to talk to, the planter met his advances more than half way. From gamblers, the conversation changed to other topics. Whitney was well informed in political matters, and ascertaining the bias of the planter in regard to the two great questions then agitating the public mind, readily came over to the same side, and eloquently advocated the leading measures of the party. Satisfied with the favorable impression made, Whitney then effected an engagement, and left the stranger. An hour after, they met, seemingly by accident, in the street. Whitney showed a disposition to pass on — but the stranger paused, and asked him if he would not step into the bar of a tavern opposite and take a drink with him. To this he consented.
"Have you been about the city much?" he asked of the planter, as they returned to the street.
"No," was the reply; "I have been so much engaged in business until today, that I have not seen anything."
"I have an hour or two to spare. If you have any curiosity, I will show you about."
"You are very kind, sir. I will accept your offer without a word."
From that time until the dinner hour, Whitney kept the unsuspecting stranger's mind constantly interested.
"You are a planter, I believe?" he said during the morning.
"Yes, and I came here to sell my crop."
"Have you disposed of it?"
"Oh yes."
"Who bought?"
"Hatfield and Homer."
"At eleven?"
"Yes."
"We are above them a quarter."
"Indeed! Are you in the cotton-brokerage business?"
"Oh yes. I belong to one of the oldest firms in Charleston. For the last five years we have done the most extensive business here. The reason is, we always give the highest possible price the market will afford."
"What is the name of your house?"
"Lily, Frogmore, & Co. I am a junior partner."
"Ah, indeed! The reputation of your house is well known throughout our country. I was advised to put my crop into your hands; but I brought letters to Hatfield and Horner, and therefore gave them the management of my cotton. You think I could have obtained a quarter of a cent more?"
"I know you could. We would have given it."
"I wish we had met before; but it is too late now — regrets are useless."
During a pause in a subsequent conversation, the planter said,
"Will you will dine with me?"
"Thank you; but I believe I must ask to be excused."
"Are you a married man?"
"No."
"Then I will take no excuse. No one will miss you."
Whitney affected still to hesitate — but the warm-hearted Southerner would not be refused. At dinner they drank freely — but the former could bear twice the number of glasses.
"Have you seen the country around Charleston?" asked Whitney, while they sat smoking, half an hour after the meal.
"No," was the reply.
"I have a pair of splendid ponies. If agreeable to you, I will have them brought around. I usually drive out in the afternoon."
"I will accompany you with pleasure."
Whitney then went to the bar, and giving the barkeeper a five-dollar bill, told him to send round to a livery stable close at hand, and get for him the handsomest buggy wagon, and the most splendid pair of horses that could be furnished. Half an hour brought them to the door. In these, the two men flourished about the city, and into the surrounding country, highly enjoying themselves.
Nothing would do but that Whitney must return with the planter and take tea. Seeming anxious to get off, he yielded, finally, to importunities that were pressed upon him. After tea he proposed a visit to the theater. No objection, of course. A new company had just appeared in town, with sundry attractions. The curtain fell at eleven o'clock, and the planter and his interesting friend left the building with the delighted crowd.
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