"Good G.o.d!" I exclaimed--"is it possible? Oh, accursed be the circ.u.mstances which have made us both so misfortunate; and doubly accursed be that scoundrel Livingston, the author of all your sorrows.
By heavens! I will seek him out, and terribly punish him for his base conduct towards you. Yes, my dear Mrs. Raymond--for such I shall continue to call you, notwithstanding your marriage to that monster Livingston--rest a.s.sured that your wrongs shall be avenged.--The villain shall rue the day when he made a play-thing of a woman"s heart, robbed her of her fortune, and then left her to poverty and despair!"
[This language of mine may seem rather theatrical and romantic; but the reader will please to remember that I was only nineteen years of age at the time of its utterance--a period of life not remarkable for sobriety of language or discretion of conduct. Were that interview to take place _to-day_, I should probably thus express myself:--"My dear Mrs. Raymond, I advise you to forget the d----d rascal and put on the tea-kettle, while I rush out and negotiate for some _grub_!"]
Mrs. Raymond gratefully pressed my hand, and said--
"I thank you for thus espousing my cause;--but, my dear friend, _mine_ must be the task of punishing the villain. No other hand but _mine_ shall strike the blow that will send his black, polluted soul into eternity!"
These fierce words, which were p.r.o.nounced with the strongest emphasis, caused me to look at my fair hostess with some degree of astonishment; and no wonder--for the quiet, elegant lady had been suddenly transferred into the enraged and revenge-thirsting woman. She looked superbly beautiful at that moment;--her cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled, and her bosom heaved like the waves of a stormy sea.
"Well," said I--"we will discuss that matter hereafter. Have the goodness to excuse my absence for a few minutes. I have a little errand to perform."
She smiled, for she knew the nature of my errand. I went down stairs and walked up the street, in the greatest perplexity; for--let me whisper it into your ear, reader, I had not a sufficient amount of the current coin of the realm in my pockets to create a gingle upon a tomb-stone.
"What the devil shall I do?" said I to myself--"here I have const.i.tuted myself the champion and protector of a hungry lady, and haven"t enough money to purchase a salt herring! Shall I _show up_ my satin waistcoat?
No, d----n it, that won"t do, for I _must_ keep up appearances. Can"t I borrow a trifle from some of my friends? No, curse them, they are all as poverty-stricken as I am! I have it!--I"ll test the benevolence of some _gospel-wrestler_, and borrow the devil"s impudence for the occasion."
I walked rapidly into a more fashionable quarter of the city, looking attentively at every door-plate. At last I saw the name, "_Reverend Phineas Porkley_."[G] That was enough. Without a moment"s hesitation I mounted the steps and rang the bell savagely. The door was opened by a fat old flunkey with a red nose of an alarming aspect. I rushed by him into the hall, dashed my hat recklessly upon the table, and shouted--
"Where"s Brother Porkley? Show me to him instantly! Don"t dare say he"s out, for I know that he"s at home! It"s a matter of life and death!
Woman dying--children starving--and the devil to pay generally. Wake Snakes, you fat porpoise, and conduct me to your master!"
The flunkey"s red nose grew pale with astonishment and fear; yet he managed to stammer out--
""Pon my life, sir--really, sir--Mr. Porkley, sir--he"s at home, certainly, sir--in his library, sir--writing his next Sunday"s sermons, sir--can"t see any one, sir--"
"Catiff, conduct me to his presence!" I exclaimed, in a deep voice, after the manner of the dissatisfied brigand who desires to "mub" the false duke in his own ancestral halls.
Not daring to disobey, the trembling flunkey led the way up one flight of stairs and pointed to a door, which I abruptly opened. There, in his library, sat Brother Porkley, a monstrously fat man with a pale, oily face that contained about as much expression as the surface of a cheese.
But how was Brother Porkley engaged when I intruded upon him? Was he writing a sermon, or attentively perusing some good theological work?
Neither. Oh, then perhaps the excellent man was at prayer. Wrong again.
He was merely smoking a short pipe and sipping a gla.s.s of brandy and water, like a sensible man--for is it not better to take one"s comfort than to play the part of a hypocrite? _I_ think so.
"My dear Brother Porkley," cried I, rushing forward and grasping the astonished parson by the hand, which I shook with tremendous violence, "I come on a mission of Charity and Love! I come as a messenger of Benevolence! I come as a dove of Peace with the olive branch in my claw!
Porkley, greatest philanthropist of the age, _come down_, for suffering humanity requires your a.s.sistance!"
"What do you mean, sir?" demanded the reverend Falstaff, as he vainly strove to extricate his hand from my affectionate grasp, "who are you and what do you want?"
"Brother," said I, in a broken voice, as I dashed an imaginary tear from the tip end of my nose, "in the next street there dwells a poor but pious family, consisting of a widow woman and her twelve small children.
They live in a cellar, sir, one hundred feet below the surface of the earth, in the midst of darkness, horror and bull-frogs, which animals they are compelled to eat in a raw state, in order to exist. Yes _sir_!"
"But what is all this to me?"
"Much, sir, you are a Christian--a clergyman--and a trump. If you do not a.s.sist that distressed family, your reputation for benevolence will not be worth the first red cent. Those children are howling for food--bull-frogs being scarce--and that fond mother is dying of small-pox."
"Small-pox!"
"Yes _sir_! I have attended her during the last five nights, and fear that I am infected with the disease; but I am willing to lose my life in the holy cause of charity."
"Good G.o.d, sir! You will communicate the disease to _me_! Let go my hand, sir, and leave this house before you load the air with pestilence!"
"No, _sir_! I couldn"t think of leaving until you have done something for the relief of that distressed widow and her twelve small children."
"D----n the distressed widow and--bless my soul! what am I saying? My good young man, what will satisfy you?"
"Five dollars, reverend sir."
"Here, then, here is the money. Now go, go quickly. Every moment that you remain here is pregnant with evil. Pray make haste!"
"But won"t you come and pray with the distressed widow and her--"
"No! If I do may I be--blessed! _Will_ you go!"
"I"m off, old Porkhead!"
With these words I bolted out of the library, stumbled over a corpulent cat that was quietly reposing on the landing, descended the stairs in two leaps, upset the fat flunkey in the hall, and gained the street in safety with my booty--a five dollar city bill. I hastened back towards the residence of Mrs. Raymond, but stopped at an eating-saloon on the way and loaded myself with provisions ready cooked. I did not forget to purchase two bottles of excellent wine. Thus provided, I entered the apartment of Mrs. Raymond, who received me with a smile of grat.i.tude and joy which I shall never forget.
We sat down to the table with sharp appet.i.tes, and did full justice to the repast, which was really most excellent. The wine raised our spirits, and, forgetting our misfortunes, merrily did we chat about old times in New York, carefully omitting the slightest allusion to the b.l.o.o.d.y affair in William street. When we had finished one bottle, Mrs.
Raymond favored me with an air upon her harp, which she played with exquisite skill. After executing a brilliant Italian waltz, she played and sang that plaintive song:
"The light of other days have faded, And all their glory"s past."
Just as the song was finished, there came a loud knocking at the door.
"It is my landlady," said Mrs. Raymond, in a low tone, "conceal yourself, and you will see how she treats me."
I stepped into the closet; but through a crevice in the door I could see all that transpired.
A fat, vulgar-looking woman entered with a consequential air, and a face inflamed by drink, gave her a peculiarly repulsive appearance. Of course she was utterly unconscious of my presence in the house. Taking up her position in the middle of the apartment, she placed her hands upon her hips, and said, in a hoa.r.s.e and angry voice--
"Come up out o" that! _You"re_ a pretty one to be playing and singing, when you owe me for two months" rent. You have been feasting, too, I see. Where did you get the money? Why didn"t you pay it to _me_? Have you any money left?"
"No I have not."
"Come up out o" that! Why the devil don"t you sell that humstrum of yours, that harp, I mean, and raise the wind? It will bring a good ten dollars, I"ll be sworn. And why don"t you take my advice and earn money as other women do? You are handsome, the men would run after you like mad. That nice, rich old gentleman, Mr. Letcher, that I brought to see you, would have given you any amount of money if you had only treated him kindly--but you frightened him away. Come up out o" that! Now, what do you mean to do? I can"t let you stay here any longer unless you raise some money. This evening I"ll fetch another nice gentleman here; and if you cut up any of your _tantrums_ with _him_, I"ll bundle you out into the street this very night."
"If you bring any man here to molest me," said Mrs. Raymond, spiritedly--"I will stab him to the heart, and then kill myself."
"Come out o" that," screamed the landlady, approaching Mrs. Raymond with a threatening look, "don"t think to frighten me with your tragical airs. I must have my money, and so I"ll take this harp and sell it, in spite of you!"
She seized upon the instrument and was about to carry it off, when I rushed forth from my place of concealment, exclaiming--
"Come up out o" that! Drop that instrument, you old harridan, or I"ll drop _you_! Do not imagine that this lady is entirely friendless. I am here to protect her."
The astounded landlady put down the harp and began to mutter many apologies, for I was extremely well dressed, and she probably believed me to be some person of consequence who had become the protector and patron of Mrs. Raymond.
"Oh, sir--I"m sure, sir--I didn"t mean, sir--if I had known, sir--I beg a thousand pardons, sir--"