One Of Them

Layton shook his head in dissent, but could not repress a faint smile.

“Ain’t it roguery to snare partridges and to catch fish, for the matter o’ that?” said he, with increased warmth. “Wherever a fellow shows hisself more ‘cute than his neighbors, there’s sure to be an outcry ‘What a rogue he is!’”

“Your theory would be an indictment against all mankind,” said Layton.

“No, sir, for I only call him a rogue that turns his sharpness to bad and selfish ends. Now, that’s not the case with him as hunts down varmint: he’s a-doin’ a good work, and all the better that he may get scratched for his pains.”

“Well, what is your plan?” said Layton, rather fearful of the length into which his friend’s speculations occasionally betrayed him.

“Here it is, sir,” said the Colonel. “I’ll come down upon that crittur at Detroit, where I hear he’s a-goin’, and flatter him by saying that he was all right about you.”

“Indeed!” said Layton, laughing.

“Yes, sir,” said the other, gravely. “I’ll say to him, ‘Stranger, you are a wide-awake ‘un, that’s a fact.’ He’ll rise to that, like a ground-shark to a leg of pork, – see if he don’t, – and he ‘ll go on to ask about you; that will give me the opportunity to give a sketch of myself, and a more simple, guileless sort of bein’ you ‘ve not often heerd of than I ‘ll turn out to be. Yes, sir, I ‘m one as suspects no ill of anybody, jest out of the pureness of my own heart. When we get on to a little more intimacy, I mean to show him twenty thousand dollars I ‘ve got by me, and ask his advice about investin’ ‘em. I guess pretty nigh what he’ll say: ‘Give ‘em over to me.’ Well, I ‘ll take a bit of time to consider about that. There will be, in consequence, more intimacy and more friendship atween us: but arter he’s seen the money, he ‘ll not leave me; human natur’ could n’t do that!”

“Shall I tell you fairly,” said Layton, “that I not only don’t like your scheme, but that I think it will not repay you?”

“Well, sir,” said Quackinboss, drawing himself up, “whenever you see me baitin’ a rat-trap, I don’t expect you ‘ll say, ‘Colonel, ain’t that mean? Ain’t you ashamed of yourself to entice that poor varmint there to his ruin? Why don’t you explain to him that if he wants that morsel of fried bacon, it will cost him pretty dear?’”

“You forget that you’re begging the question. You’re assuming, all this time, that this man is a rogue and a cheat.”

“I am, sir,” said he, firmly, “for it’s not at this time o’ day Shaver Quackinboss has to learn life. All the pepperin’ and lemon-squeezin’ in the world won’t make a toad taste like a terrapin: that crittur’s gold chains don’t impose upon me! You remember that he was n’t aboard four-and-twenty hours when I said, ‘That sheep’s mangy.’”

“Perhaps I like your plan the less because it separates us,” said Layton, who now perceived that the Colonel seemed to smart under anything that reflected on his acuteness.

“That’s jest what galls me too,” said he, frankly. “It’s been all sunshine in my life, since we ‘ve been together. All the book-learnin’ you ‘ve got has stolen into your nature so gradually as to make part of yourself, but what you tell me comes like soft rain over a dry prairie, and changing the parched soil into something that seems to say, ‘I ‘m not so barren, after all, if I only got my turn from fortune.’ You ‘ve shown me one thing, that I often had a glimmerin’ of, but never saw clearly till you pointed it out, that the wisest men that ever lived felt more distrust of themselves than of their fellows. But we only part for a while, Layton. In less than a month we ‘ll meet again, and I hope to have good news for you by that time.”

“Where are we to rendezvous, then?” asked Layton, for he saw how fruitless would be the attempt at further opposition.

“I’ll have the map out this evening, and we ‘ll fix it,” said the Colonel. “And now leave me to smoke, and think over what’s afore us. There’s great thoughts in that bit of twisted ‘bacco there, if I only have the wit to trace ‘em. Every man that has had to use his head in life finds out by the time he’s forty what helps him to his best notions. Bonaparte used to get into a bath to think, Arkwright went to bed, and my father, Methuselah Grip Quackinboss, said he never was so bright as standing up to his neck in the mill-race, with the light spray of the wheel comin’ in showers over him. ‘I feel,’ says he, ‘as if I was one-half Lord Bacon and the other John C. Colhoun.’ Now my brain-polisher is a long Cuban, a shady tree, and a look-out seaward, – all the better if the only sails in sight be far away.”

CHAPTER XLII. A NEW LOCATION

After a great deal of discussion it was agreed between Layton and the Colonel that they should meet that day month at St. Louis. Layton was to employ the interval in seeing as much as he could of the country and the people, and preparing himself to appear before them at the first favorable opportunity. Indeed, though he did not confess it, he yielded to the separation the more willingly, because it offered him the occasion of putting into execution a plan he for some time had been ruminating over. In some measure from a natural diffidence, and in a great degree from a morbid dread of disappointing the high expectations Quackinboss had formed of the success he was to obtain, Layton had long felt that the presence of his friend would be almost certain to insure his failure. He could neither venture to essay the same flights before him, nor could he, if need were, support any coldness or disinclination of his audience were Quackinboss there to witness it. In fact, he wanted to disassociate his friend from any pain failure should occasion, and bear all alone the sorrows of defeat.

Besides this, he felt that, however personally painful the ordeal, he was bound to face it. He had accepted Quackinboss’s assistance under the distinct pledge that he was to try this career. In its success was he to find the means of repaying his friend; and so confidently had the Colonel always talked of that success, it would seem mere wilfulness not to attempt it.

There is not, perhaps, a more painful position in life than to be obliged to essay a career to which all one’s thoughts and instincts are opposed; to do something against which self-respect revolts, and yet meet no sympathy from others, – to be conscious that any backwardness will be construed into self-indulgence, and disinclination be set down as indolence. Now this was Alfred Layton’s case. He must either risk a signal failure, or consent to be thought of as one who would rather be a burden to his friends than make an honorable effort for his own support. He was already heavily in the Colonel’s debt; the thought of this weighed upon him almost insupportably. It never quitted him for an instant; and, worse than all, it obtruded through every effort he made to acquit himself of the obligation; and only they who have experienced it can know what pain brain labor becomes when it is followed amidst the cares and anxieties of precarious existence; when the student tries in vain to concentrate thoughts that will stray away to the miserable exigencies of his lot, or struggle hopelessly to forget himself and his condition in the interest of bygone events or unreal incidents. Let none begrudge him the few flitting moments of triumph he may win, for he has earned them by many a long hour of hardship!

The sense of his utter loneliness, often depressing and dispiriting, was now a sort of comfort to him. Looking to nothing but defeat, he was glad that there was none to share in his sorrows. Of all the world, he thought poor Clara alone would pity him. Her lot was like his own, – the same friendlessness, the self-same difficulty. Why should he not have her sympathy? She would give it freely and with her whole heart. It was but to tell her, “I am far away and unhappy. I chafe under dependence, and I know not how to assert my freedom. I would do something, and yet I know not what it is to be. I distrust myself, and yet there are times when I feel that one spoken word would give such courage to my heart that I could go on and hope.” Could she speak that word to him? was his ever present thought. He resolved to try, and accordingly wrote her a long, long letter. Full of the selfishness of one who loved, he told her the whole story of his journey, and the plan that led to it. “I have patience enough for slow toil,” said he, “but I do not seek for the success it brings. I wanted the quick prosperity that one great effort might secure, and time afterwards to enjoy the humble fortune thus acquired. With merely enough for life, Clara, I meant to ask you to share it. Who are as friendlessly alone as we are? Who are so bereft of what is called home? Say, have you a heart to give me, – when I can claim it, – and will you give it? I am low and wretched because I feel unloved. Tell me this is not so, and in the goal before me hope and energy will come back to me.” Broken and scarce coherent at times, his letter revealed one who loved her ardently, and who wanted but her pledge to feel himself happy. He pressed eagerly to know of her own life, – what it was, and whether she was contented. Had she learned anything of the mystery that surrounded her family, or could she give him the slightest clew by which he could aid her in the search? He entreated of her to write to him, even though her letter should not be the confirmation of all he wished and prayed for.

The very fact of his having written this to Clara seemed to rally his spirits. It was at least a pledge to his own heart. He had placed a goal before him, and a hope.

“I am glad to see you look cheerier,” said Quackinboss, as they sat talking over their plans. “The hardest load a man ever carried is a heavy heart, and it’s as true as my name’s Shaver, that one gets into the habit of repinin’ and seein’ all things black jest as one falls into any other evil habit. Old Grip Quackinboss said, one day, to Mr. Jefferson, ‘Yes, sir,’ says he, ‘always hearty, sir, – always cheery. There ‘s an old lady as sweeps the crossin’ in our street, and I give her a quarter-dollar to fret for me, for it’s a thing I’ve sworn never to do for myself.’”

“Well,” said Layton, gayly, “you ‘ll see I ‘ve turned over a new leaf; and whatever other thoughts you shall find in me, causeless depression shall not be of the number.”

“All right, sir; that’s my own platform. Now here’s your instructions, for I ‘m a-goin’. I start at seven-forty, by the cars for Buffalo. That spot down there is our meetin’-place, – St. Louis. It looks mighty insignificant on the map, there; but you ‘ll see it’s a thrivin’ location, and plenty of business in it. You ‘ll take your own time about being there, only be sure to arrive by this day month; and if I be the man I think myself, I ‘ll have news to tell you when you come. This crittur, Trover, knows all about that widow Morris, and the girl, too, – that Clara, – you was so fond of. If I have to tie him up to a tree, sir, I ‘ll have it out of him! There ‘s five hundred dollars in that bag. You ‘ll not need all of it, belike, if you keep clear of ‘Poker’ and Bully-brag; and I advise you to, sir, – I do,” said he, gravely. “It takes a man to know life, to guess some of the sharp ‘uns in our river steamers. There’s no other dangers to warn you of here, sir. Don’t be riled about trifles, and you ‘ll find yourself very soon at home with us.”

These were his last words of counsel as he shook Layton’s hand at parting. It was with a sad sense of loneliness Layton sat by his window after Quackinboss had gone. For many a month back he had had no other friend or companion: ever present to counsel, console, or direct him, the honest Yankee was still more ready with his purse than his precepts. Often as they had differed in their opinions, not a hasty word or disparaging sentiment had ever disturbed their intercourse; and even the Colonel’s most susceptible spot – that which touched upon national characteristics – never was even casually wounded in the converse. In fact, each had learned to see with how very little forbearance in matters of no moment, and with how slight an exercise of deference for differences of object and situation, English and American could live together like brothers.

There was but one thought which embittered the relations between them, in Layton’s estimation. It was the sense of that dependence which destroyed equality. He was satisfied to be deeply the debtor of his friend, but he could not struggle between what he felt to be a fitting gratitude, and that resolute determination to assert what he believed to be true at any cost. He suspected, too, – and the suspicion was a very painful one, – that the Colonel deemed him indolent and self-indulgent. The continued reluctance he had evinced to adventure on the scheme for which they came so far, favored this impression.

As day after day he travelled along, one thought alone occupied him. At each place he stopped came the questions, Will this suit? Is this the spot I am in search of? It was strange to mark by what slight and casual events his mind was influenced. The slightest accident that ruffled him as he arrived, an insignificant inconvenience, a passing word, the look of the place, the people, the very aspect of the weather, were each enough to assure him he had not yet discovered what he sought after. It was towards the close of his fifth day’s ramble that he reached the small town of Bunkumville. It was a newly settled place, and, like all such, not over-remarkable for comfort or convenience. The spot had been originally laid out as the centre of certain lines of railroad, and intended to have been a place of consequence; but the engineers who had planned it had somehow incurred disgrace, the project was abandoned, and instead of a commercial town, rich, populous, and flourishing, it now presented the aspect of a spot hastily deserted, and left to linger out an existence of decline and neglect. There were marks enough to denote the grand projects which were once entertained for the place, – great areas measured off for squares, spacious streets staked off; here and there massive “blocks” of building; three or four hotels on a scale of vast proportion, and an assembly-room worthy of a second-rate city. With all this, the population was poor-looking and careworn. No stir of trade or business to be met with. A stray bullock-car stole drearily along through the deep-rutted streets, or a traveller significantly armed with rifle and revolver rode by on his own raw-boned horse; but of the sights and sounds of town life and habits there were none. Of the hotels, two were closed; the third was partially occupied as a barrack, by a party of cavalry despatched to repress some Indian outrages on the frontier. Even the soldiers had contracted some of the wild, out-of-the-world look of the place, and wore their belts over buckskin jackets, that smacked more of the prairie than the parade. The public conveyance which brought Layton to the spot only stopped long enough to bait the horses and refresh the travellers; and it was to the no small surprise of the driver that he saw the “Britisher” ask for his portmanteau, with the intention of halting there. “Well, you ain’t a-goin’ to injure your constitution with gayety and late hours, stranger,” said he, as he saw him descend; “that’s a fact.”

Nor was the sentiment one that Layton could dispute, as, still standing beside his luggage in the open street, he watched the stage till it disappeared in the distant pine forest. Two or three lounging, lazy-looking inhabitants had, meanwhile, come up, and stood looking with curiosity at the new arrival.

“You ain’t a valuator, are you?” asked one, after a long and careful inspection of him.

“No,” said Layton, dryly.

“You ‘re a-lookin’ for a saw-mill, I expect,” said another, with a keen glance as he spoke.

“Nor that, either,” was the answer.

“I have it,” broke in a third; “you ‘ve got ‘notions’ in that box, there, but it won’t do down here; we ‘ve got too much bark to hew off before we come to such fixin’s.”

“I suspect you are not nearer the mark than your friends, sir,” said Layton, still repressing the slightest show of impatience.

“What’ll you lay, stranger, I don’t hit it?” cried a tall, thin, bold-looking fellow, with long hair falling over his neck. “You’re a preacher, ain’t you? You’re from the New England States, I ‘ll be bound. Say I ‘m right, sir, for you know I am.”

“I must give it against you, sir, also,” said Layton, preserving his gravity with an effort that was not without difficulty. “I do not follow any one of the avocations you mention; but, in return for your five questions, may I make bold to ask one? Which is the hotel here?”

“It’s yonder,” said the tall man, pointing to a large house, handsomely pillared, and overgrown with the luxuriant foliage of the red acanthus; “there it is. That’s the Temple of Epicurus, as you see it a-written up. You ain’t for speculatin’ in that sort, are you?”

“No,” said Layton, quietly; “I was merely asking for a house of entertainment.”

“You ‘re a Britisher, I reckon,” said one of the former speakers; “that ‘s one of their words for meat and drink.”

Without waiting for any further discussion of himself, his country, or his projects, Layton walked towards the hotel. From the two upper tiers of windows certain portions of military attire, hung out to air or to dry, undeniably announced a soldierly occupation; cross-belts, overalls, and great-coats hung gracefully suspended on all sides. Lower down, there was little evidence of habitation; most of the windows were closely shuttered, and through such as were open Layton saw large and lofty rooms, totally destitute of furniture and in part unfinished. The hall-door opened upon a spacious apartment, at one side of which a bar had been projected, but the plan had gone no further than a long counter and some shelves, on which now a few bottles stood in company with three or four brass candlesticks, a plaster bust, wanting a nose, and some cooking-utensils. On the counter itself was stretched at full length, and fast asleep, a short, somewhat robust man, in shirt and trousers, his deep snoring awaking a sort of moaning echo in the vaulted room. Not exactly choosing to disturb his slumbers, if avoidable, Layton pushed his explorations a little further; but though he found a number of rooms, all open, they were alike empty and unfinished, nor was there a creature to be met with throughout. There was, then, nothing for it but to awaken the sleeper, which he proceeded to, at first by gentle, but, as these failed, by more vigorous means.

“Don’t! I say,” growled out the man, without opening his eyes, but seeming bent on continuing his sleep; “I ‘ll not have it; let me be, – that’s all.”

“Are you the landlord of this hotel?” said Layton, with a stout shake by the shoulder.

“Well, then, here’s for it, if you will!” cried the other, springing up, and throwing himself in an instant into a boxing attitude, while his eyes glared with a vivid wildness, and his whole face denoted passion.

“I came here for food and lodging, and not for a boxing-match, my friend,” said Layton, mildly.

“And who said I was your friend?” said the other, fiercely: “who told you that we was raised in the same diggins? and what do you mean, sir, by disturbin’ a gentleman in his bed?”

“You’ll scarcely call that bench a bed, I think?” said Layton, in an accent meant to deprecate all warmth.

“And why not, sir? If you choose to dress yourself like a checker-board, I ‘m not going to dispute whether you have a coat on. It’s my bed, and I like it. And now what next?”

“I ‘m very sorry to have disturbed you; and if you can only tell me if there be any other hotel in this place – ”

“There ain’t; and there never will be, that’s more. Elsmore’s is shut up; Chute Melchin ‘s a-blown his brains out; and so would you if you ‘d have come here. Don’t laugh, or by the everlastin’ rattlesnake, I ‘ll bowie you!”