Chapter X

The reader must imagine a lapse of five years.

Hiram Meeker sits by an open window of his front parlor. It is the first week in June; and, although early in the afternoon, the avenue is beginning to be thronged with the fashionable world.

Hiram sits, idly regarding the passers by. If you observe particularly, you will perceive that the chair in which he is sitting is of a peculiar construction. It is made so as to be wheeled from one point to another, without disturbing the occupant.

If you regard his countenance with a little more scrutiny, you will find it greatly changed. There is no longer that firm texture of the skin which indicates the vigor of health, and which shows that the muscles are under full control. One side of the face is a very little out of shape; not enough, however, to affect the appearance of the mouth, and probably not to interfere with articulation.

Reader, the 'evil days' have come to Hiram. They have come, but, as one might say, gently, without aggravating circumstances or attending misfortunes. Still, the evil days have come. The 'years,' too, draw nigh when he shall have no pleasure in them.

It is a twelvemonth now since the fatal, long-dreaded paralysis came. The stroke was a mild one, but there it was. All that care, and forethought, and the best medical advice could accomplish, had been put in requisition, and not without effect; but the millionnaire could not neglect his vast interests, nor fail to mature plans which his fertile brain originated.

The machine gave occasional token of the wear and tear to which it was subjected. Then Hiram would intermit his labor; would ride farther and sharper of a morning; would subject himself to an extra amount of friction. Presently the brain would work bravely on again, as of yore, just the same—exactly the same. Hiram could perceive no difference—none. Then would come another premonitory symptom, which would be followed by other extra rides and various new courses of treatment, till all worked well again. During these periods, Doctor Frank, under whose charge Hiram had at length placed himself, would urge on his brother the necessity of some relief from his self-imposed labors. But, as I have intimated, the advice was heeded only while danger was apparent.

When the fearful visitor did appear, Hiram bitterly regretted tasking his brain so severely. He was now quite willing to obey every injunction and follow every suggestion of his physician.

To this is owing his present comfortable state and tolerable degree of health. But privately let me tell you that he is failing—not fast, but gradually, surely failing.

Let us return to the window.

Mrs. Meeker's carriage is at the door. In a few moments Arabella herself comes out and enters it, and drives away. Positively she does not appear in the least changed since we last saw her. In fact, her health was never so good as at present.

'She will outlive me,' mutters Hiram—'she will outlive me, though she is more than two years older than I am. Let me see, from April to November is seven months. Yes, it is nearer three years than two. She will outlive me, though.

'I say, Williams!'

'Yes, sir.'

'Williams, have you heard how Mr. Hill is to-day? I am told he is not expected to live.'

'No more he wasn't sir; but I met his man this morning, at market, and he says as how Mr. Hill is very much better, sir, very much better.'

'Humph!

'Williams, who was that young man I saw come to the door this morning?'

'I really couldn't say, sir—I didn't know of any, sir—oh, now I recollect, sir: it was a messenger from the Doctor, sir, with the new friction gloves.'

'Humph!—

'You understand, Williams, if that young man ever comes near the house—you know who I mean—I say, you—you understand what I told you?'

'Oh, yes, sir—certainly, sir.'

'That will do, Williams.—Hill is getting better, is he?' pursues Hiram to himself. 'Let me see—Hill must be at least four years older than I. Yes, I recollect perfectly when he was at Joslin's, the time I came down from Burnsville. Why, I was a mere boy, then, and Hill—Hill was a young man of five-and-twenty. Yes, I recollect perfectly'—and Hiram smiled, as if his encounter with Joslin and his clerk was fresh in his mind. 'So Hill is better to-day,' he continued. 'He will outlive me too. Yet he is certainly four years older—four years older.'

There may be some of my readers who have taken sufficient interest in 'that scapegrace Hill' to wish to know something about him during these last thirty years.

I will say, therefore, that when Hiram jilted Emma Tenant, Hill took a perfect disgust toward him. He presently quit drinking and swearing, and married a pretty—indeed, a very charming—rosy-cheeked girl, whose only fault was, as he said, that she was foolish enough to love him. This girl was the daughter of his landlady, and not worth a penny—in money. Till Hiram's 'affair' with Emma Tenant, he had exercised sufficient influence over Hill to prevent his committing himself. That resulted in Hill's throwing off the yoke, and announcing his independence. Hill was no fool. The fact is, Hiram, to a certain extent, was in his power. The parties never quarrelled. But all accounts were closed between them the following season. I am constrained to add Hill continued in the liquor business, in which he amassed a pretty large fortune. He was afterward made President of the Globe Bank, one of the largest in the city, as all know, which office he continues to hold. He has proved a good husband, a kind father, and a useful member of society. The phrase is a stereotyped one, but it is true of Hill.

Leaving Hiram Meeker to pursue his soliloquy, I will endeavor to put the reader in possession of such facts as may be necessary for the better understanding of the narrative, and the present situation of affairs in Hiram's own house.

After the departure of Belle, I remarked that Hiram was busily engaged for more than a week in preparing his will. With the defection of his son and the elopement of his favorite daughter, Hiram's ideas took a new and distinctive turn.

He at one time had considerable pride in the idea of building up the family name in his children, 'even unto his children's children.' This he thought a laudable ambition, since he found the phrase in Scripture. But when Belle deserted him, and he found himself not only forsaken but duped, his feelings underwent an entire change.

When Harriet, in her anxiety to induce her father to bring back her sister, said, 'Give her my share—I shall not require it,' there was stirred in Hiram's heart the old demon of Calculation and Acquisitiveness. It seemed as if something had been saved to him by Harriet's untimely departure from the world. It is difficult fully to understand this, since, while he lived, certainly he would retain control of all his property; and after his death, what could it avail him? Nevertheless, I but recount the simple truth.

That night he conceived the idea of a magnificent disposition of his vast estate, to take place on his decease. Now he began to regard his afflictions in a providential light. These were chastenings, at present not joyous but grievous; but they would work out for him a more eternal weight of glory.

The consequence was, that by his will be founded three distinct public institutions, all bearing his name; and prepared, at the same time, minute directions how to carry his bequests into effect. These institutions were not what are called charitable, neither did their establishment indicate a heart easily touched by human misfortune. They were calculated, however, to adorn and ornament the city, and to blazon forth H. Meeker to the world so long as they stood.

One thing threatened to interfere with Hiram's arrangements. His wife would have a right of dower in all his real estate, in case she survived him. This annoyed Hiram greatly.

He got along with the matter in a business way. Arabella herself was called in. Hiram announced, in general terms, what he proposed to do, and suggested that he was ready to leave her a sum certain, provided she would relinquish her rights in the real estate.

Under ordinary circumstances Arabella would have been indignant; but her thoughts were of her son, now a wanderer from his home. She was tolerably familiar with the laws which regulate property. She knew if she insisted on her dower, which she had a right to do, that however affluent she would be while she lived, she would have nothing to leave her child. She did not give Belle a thought.

After a good deal of haggling, it was agreed that Hiram should give her by his will three hundred thousand dollars (just about the sum, by the way, she brought her husband), together with the household furniture, plate, horses, carriages, and so forth, and the use of the house during her life.

This settled, Hiram was left free to follow out his ambitious plans for raising a monument to—himself.

These occupy him entirely. So much so, that he has no time to look forward to the great future which cannot now be very far off to him. Indeed, strange as one may think, although Hiram feels well assured of his title to the kingdom, he thinks very little about it; neither does the prospect give him the least satisfaction.

Meanwhile, where is Harriet? What has become of Belle! How did Gus turn out?

Harriet survived longer than one would have imagined, considering the progress disease had made when we first became acquainted with her. While she lived, she could not fail to impart her influence—the influence of a gentle and a chastened spirit—over the whole household.

I have already intimated that there was a new tie between her and her mother—the worldly minded and fashionable Arabella. It was in the interest which both felt in Gus. It seemed to be the chief object of Harriet in living, to bring back her brother to his home, and to see him in the right path. The mother longed to bring about the same thing, but probably for very different reasons from those which actuated the dying girl. But here their sympathies met, and they could act in concert. Gus had always been sensibly alive to Harriet's regard for him. He loved her with real affection; and when, in a foreign land, he read her letters, fraught with the strongest expressions of love and sympathy, and filled with the most earnest appeals from his 'dying sister, whose every breath was a prayer for him,' it was impossible for his nature to resist.

In a few months, Gus had taken his resolution. He abhorred trade. His four years in college were not altogether lost on him. He felt quite sure that his father would never relent. He believed he discovered in himself a taste for the medical profession. So, after a short period, Gus established himself in a very quiet way in Paris, and became a very persevering and devoted student. His mother, of course, managed to keep him in funds; but his drafts on her were very moderate. His reformation seemed complete.

After devoting about eighteen months to the study of medicine abroad, he returned to New York. This was the season before Harriet died. He said he could not endure the idea of her passing out of the world without his seeing her again, and telling her what was in his heart.

Hiram all this time remained, or professed to remain, profoundly ignorant of what was going on. He continued to speak of his 'reprobate son,' among his acquaintances in the church. The least attempt on Harriet's part to introduce the forbidden subject was met by the most stern repulse.

But Gus came back. He was obliged to enter his own home stealthily and in secret, where he deserved to be welcomed back in honor and with reward. But he came. What was the joy, the intense satisfaction of Harriet, to see him again! And Arabella—it was a strange sight indeed to see her give way to any real emotion.

Perhaps, before this, you have guessed that Doctor Frank has had something to do with Gus's return. He has had a great deal to do with it. Doctor Frank is an old man. He has no boys—living. He wants Gus to live with him. He will give him the benefit of his large experience, and Gus in return will relieve the doctor of much of the hard work which is constantly accumulating. This is Doctor Frank's plan. It has been carried out, and Gus is now 'the young doctor.' Bravo Gus! God bless you!

Poor Belle!

At the end of a single year, she was obliged to quit her husband. Quit her husband, did I say? I mean that her husband quitted her. After spending a few weeks in travelling, the two set off for Europe; and, going to Paris, they gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the gay scenes which this remarkable city affords.

'When the ocean shall be between us, papa will no longer hold out—I know he will not.'

So Belle said to her husband. But Belle was mistaken. Months passed, and destitution stared the couple in the face. Then the various articles of jewelry went, one by one—and then the crisis arrived.

When Signor Filippo Barbone became fully satisfied that his father-in-law was not to be turned from his resolution: when it became apparent that the mother was not to be influenced, he came to the conclusion that he had made a bad bargain, and resolved to escape as soon as possible from the consequences of it.

Belle, on her part, began to be disenchanted. Then all the elements of her imperious, passionate nature, broke out in the fiercest, most vehement, most vindictive manner. She heaped reproaches, taunts, and maledictions on the head of the signor, who bore them with more equanimity than would be supposed, but who determined not to have another such tempest. One night he decamped, taking with him the few remaining valuables the miserable girl possessed.

Belle had not communicated with Gus, or even permitted him to know her whereabouts. Now she wrote him a note, imploring him to come to her. He responded at once, and instantly made what arrangements he could for her comfort. After a season, and by the joint efforts of Gus and Harriet and Doctor Frank, Belle was enabled to go back to New York. Her father would not see her; her mother would not permit her to enter the house; but a small weekly stipend was allowed, to enable her to board in a respectable place, and to dress decently.

Her unfortunate marriage has had very little effect on her. She never was so handsome in her life. She enjoys exciting the sympathies of those by whom she is surrounded, including half-a-dozen gentlemen who are constantly dangling around her. A young lawyer, who was boarding at the same house, undertook to institute proceedings for a divorce against the absent signor. He was successful in his application, and Belle is now legally free. She will probably marry some man of coarse taste, who will be attracted by her fine form and showy appearance, to say nothing of the effect of the prevalent belief that she will certainly be provided for 'on old Meeker's death.'

So much for the present situation of the Meeker family. While Arabella is taking her drive, I have had time to tell the reader thus much about it. The carriage is now approaching, and I must stop.

The shadows of evening begin to gather. Along the great artery of the city press the crowd. Their steps tend homeward.

Still Hiram sits by the window, but oblivious of the current which sweeps by.

His thoughts go back to Hampton. He is a clerk in the 'opposition store,' making love to Mary Jessup.

'What a pretty girl she used to be!—how much she always did for me—what pains she took to please me!' he mutters to himself.

Now he is thinking of Burnsville. His mind seems principally to dwell on what was formerly of secondary importance to him.

'Those Hawkins girls—they were good girls—very kind to me always—nice girls—handsome girls—both of them in love with me. The widow Hawkins, too....

'Sarah Burns—she was a different sort from the rest. I don't think I ever cared so much about her—too independent—thought too much of herself. How quick she broke the engagement! I remember it was preparatory lecture—preparatory lecture....

'Emma Tenant—she wasn't proud—Emma really loved me—I always, knew she did....'

He raised his eyes.

Was it through some species of traction, as believers in odic force other peculiar affinities, attribute to their influences, that he did so at that moment?

There was Emma Tenant—Mrs. Lawrence—passing in her carriage, surrounded by blooming, grown-up children.

Her attention, it seems, was directed for an instant to the window. Their gaze met.

No outward sign that they were ever acquainted was manifested. But there was, on both sides, a recognition, instantaneous and complete.

'Poor old man!' exclaimed Mrs. Lawrence, involuntarily.

'Who, mamma?'

'We have passed him now.' And no more was said.

'She loved me once,' was the soliloquy. 'That was a great while ago, too....'

Another carriage passed. A bow from a lady, accompanied by a pleasant smile. It is Miss Innis (Mrs. Leroy), driving out with her children. Though no longer young, she is still a most attractive and elegant woman.

'What a wife she would have made me! I should not be in this state if I had her to look after me. She has a kind heart—always smiling, always happy.'

'Mr. Meeker!'

The shrill voice of Arabella is heard.

Hiram groans in spirit.

'Don't you think you had better be wheeled to your room? You know I dine out to-day.'

'I prefer to sit here. Tell Williams to come to me.'

The shadows fall thicker and faster.

Still Hiram Meeker sits by the window.

Despite my real inclination, I have a morbid desire to linger by his side.

I hear the sharp ring of the prompter's bell! The curtain is about to fall. I cannot stay in the gloom alone with that man!—Good by to you, Hiram!

I breathe again—in the cheerful streets, surrounded by bustling, earnest, sympathizing humanity.

Reader, what think you? Was he successful?