Читать книгу The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, June 1844 - Various - Страница 8

On the day but one after Rust’s death, Mr. Kornicker was very busy in his office. His coat was off; his hat was on a chair, and in it was his snuff-box, a black silk neckcloth, and a white handkerchief, not a little discolored by the presence of snuff and the absence of water. In one corner of the room lay a confused heap, consisting of bed, bedding, and various odds and ends of wearing apparel; and from these Mr. Kornicker, after due reflection and calculation as to the order in which to make his choice, selected article after article. First, he spread upon the floor his counterpane, then his blanket, then a sheet not a little akin in appearance to his handkerchief, and then his bed: upon these he piled his apparel, in a confused heap, and proceeded to roll the whole into a large ball, which he secured with a piece of rope. ‘Now then, the moving’s begun,’ said he, opening the door and rolling the bundle into the entry. ‘The premises are ready for the next tenant.’

Having brushed his knees with the palm of his hands, and then dusted his hands by knocking them together, he put on his neckcloth, coat, and hat; pocketed his snuff-box and handkerchief, walked into the entry, locked the door, put the key over it, as he had always been in the habit of doing; seated himself upon his bundle, with his back leaning against the wall; and immediately lapsed into a fit of deep abstraction, which he occasionally relieved by kicking his heels against the floor, shaking his head, in a sudden and emphatic manner, or inhaling his breath rapidly and violently, producing a sound blending the harmonious qualities of a snort and a whistle.

‘So,’ said he, after indulging in one of the last mentioned performances with so much energy as to arouse him from his abstraction, at the same time nodding his head at Rust’s office, ‘his cake being dough, our bargain’s up; and here am I, Edward Kornicker, Esquire, attorney and counsellor at law, a man of profound experience, severe knowledge of the world, of great capacity in various ways, though of small means—I think I may say of d–d small means—once more in the market; for sale to the highest bidder. Such a valuable commodity is not met with every day. If any gentleman,’ continued he, raising his hand and looking round at an imaginary audience, ‘is extremely desirous of securing the eminent talents of one of the most prominent young men of the day—not exactly new,’ added he, running his eye over his rusty coat, ‘but wonderfully serviceable; no cracks, nor flaws, no pieces broken off—here is an opportunity which will not occur again. This is only a scratch on the surface,’ said he, as he thrust his finger into a small hole in his coat-sleeve; ‘the article itself is warranted to be perfectly sound, and of the best quality. How much is bid?—how much for the promising young man aforesaid? How much? One thousand dollars? Five hundred? Two fifty?—one?—fifty? It wont do,’ said he, in a melancholy tone; ‘strike him down to me. The gentleman’s bought himself in; there being no demand for the article in this market, he thinks of disposing of himself to some respectable widow lady with a small family and a large purse. He may alter his mind, but that’s his present intention.’

Here Mr. Kornicker concluded his rather extraordinary soliloquy by plunging his hands in his pockets, and dropping into a subdued whistle; in the course of which his thoughts seemed to have taken altogether a different channel; for it was not long before he said, as if in continuance of some unuttered train of thought:

‘Well, old fellow, I promised you to look after your girl, although you didn’t seem much struck with the offer. But I’ll stick to my promise; although, to tell the truth, I don’t exactly know how to commence. But nothing will be done by sitting on this bundle. So I’ll to my work at once.’

He rose up hastily, and was descending the stairs when he abruptly turned back, went up to his luggage, and after eyeing it for a minute, said:

‘It’s a hazardous business to leave you here. You can’t be distrained on, nor levied on, because you’re exempt by law. So you are safe from landlords and creditors; the law makes you exempt from being stolen too; but thieves consider themselves like members of parliament, out of the reach of law. There’s the rub. You might be stolen; and I very much regret to say, that the gentleman who should lay violent hands on you would walk off with all my goods, chattels, lands, tenements, and hereditaments; but I’ve no where to take you, and as I expect to sleep in this entry, you must take your chance. So, good bye, old acquaintance, in case you and I should never meet again.’

Having in a very grave manner shaken one corner of the counterpane, as if it were the hand of an old friend, he gave his head a sudden jerk, to settle his hat in the right place, and descended the stairs.

The task which Kornicker had imposed upon himself was by no means easy; but firm in his purpose of fulfilling his promise, he shut his eyes to all difficulties, and commenced his pursuit.

The first place to which he went was the prison, for he hoped that the keeper of it might know something about her, or that she might have left her address there, in case her father wished to see her when he was imprisoned. But he was disappointed. They could tell him nothing, except that Rust neither asked for her, nor mentioned her, and had always refused to see her. She had never succeeded in gaining admittance to him, except on the night of his death, when the jailer, a fellow unfit for his office, for he had some human feeling left, unable to resist her tears and entreaties, had let her in unannounced, as mentioned in the last chapter. She had left the cell abruptly, had hurried off, and had never returned. ‘God help the poor child!’ exclaimed the man, as he told the story. ‘Such hearts as hers were made for heaven, not for this world. I have a daughter of her age; and even if she had robbed a church, I couldn’t have treated her as that man treated his child.’

The man looked at Kornicker, as if to observe the effect of his last remark; but probably that gentleman viewed the robbing of a church in a less heinous light than the jailer, for he made no comment on it, but after a pause said:

‘So that’s all you know?’

The man nodded.

‘Good morning to you, Sir,’ said Kornicker; and he walked straight out of the building, and had crossed several streets before he had made up his mind what to do next. This however was soon settled, and he buttoned his coat tightly, pulled his hat firmly on his head, drew on a pair of shabby gloves, and performed a number of those little acts which in ancient times were known under the head of ‘girding up the loins,’ preparatory to setting out to his next point of destination, which was the girl’s former home, the place where Rust had committed the murder. It was many miles off; and the distance which Rust, under the whip and spur of fierce passions, had traversed without trace of fatigue, drew from his clerk many a sigh, and many an expression of weariness.

When he got there he found the house deserted. He entered it, for there was no one there to hinder it, but the rooms were empty and dismantled. The house had been hired by Rust, and no sooner was he in the gripe of the law, than creditors innumerable, who like birds of prey were biding their time, kept in check by the unbending character of their debtor, came flitting in from every quarter; seized and sold the furniture, and left the house desolate. A single dark stain upon the library floor, where the murdered man had fallen, was all that was left to tell a tale of the past. The dust had gathered thickly on the walls, as if preparing to commence a slumber of years; and as Kornicker went out, the rats raced through the hall, startled at the tread of a stranger.

With a heart as heavy as his limbs, as he thought of the past life of the girl who had once tenanted this house, and then fancied what her present fate must be, Kornicker set out on his return. ‘If it had been me,’ said he, pausing to take a last look at the lonely house, ‘if it had only been Edward Kornicker who was thus cast adrift, to kick his way through the world with empty pockets, and without a soul to say to him God speed, or ‘I’m sorry for you,’ it would have been right and proper, and no one would have any cause to grumble or find fault; but this being a girl, with no money, and consequently with no friends, no experience, as I have, it’s a very hard case—a very hard case, indeed.’

Having arrived at this conclusion, Kornicker took off his hat, wiped his forehead, snuffed, and set out on his return.

Day after day for several weeks he prosecuted his inquiries without success; and just when he was in despair, chance led him to success. In the course of his rambles, he encountered a person who had been at Rust’s trial, and happened to speak about him; for now that the criminal was dead and in his grave, when public opinion could be of no service to him, many who had hunted him down began to view less harshly the crime which had led to his death; and this man was one of the number. He said that, although he deserved punishment for his previous evil deeds, yet the best and purest act of his life had been that by which he had struck down the destroyer of his child.

‘Poor thing!’ said he, ‘she must have led a miserable life since her father’s death. I have met her several times since then in the street, but that was several weeks ago; and then she was very feeble, scarcely able to walk: perhaps she’s dead now.’

Kornicker waited only long enough to ascertain that she lived in a certain out-of-the-way part of the town, which the man designated, and thither he directed his steps, and resumed his search; and after several days spent in fruitless inquiries, he discovered her.

The house in which he found her was a small ruinous building, sagged and jutting forward, as if struggling to sustain itself against time and dilapidation. The windows were broken; the doors and shutters unhung, except a solitary one of the latter, which creaked as it flapped to and fro in the wind; and this was the home of Rust’s child.

Kornicker ascended the ricketty stairs and paused at the door of a room, which a slipshod woman had pointed out as that of the ‘murderer’s daughter.’ He knocked, but there was no reply; he knocked again, but all was silent. Then he opened the door and looked in.

It was a small dingy room, unfurnished, with the exception of a bed on the floor, and a single chair, on which stood a candle whose flaring light served only to add to the gloom of the room by revealing its wretchedness. The girl was in bed; her hair lying in tangled masses about the pillow. Her cheeks were sunken and colorless, and her eyes deep-set and glowing, as if all that was left of life was concentrated in them.

Kornicker hesitated for a moment, and then pushed the door open and walked in. The girl looked listlessly up, but did not notice him; for she turned her head away with a weary, restless motion, and did not speak. Kornicker went to the bed, got on his knees beside it, and took her hand in his. As he did so he observed that it was very thin and shrunken, and that the large veins stood out like cords. It was hot as fire. ‘You’re very ill,’ said he, in a low tone. ‘I’m afraid you’re very ill.’

‘I’m dying of thirst,’ said the girl, pointing to an empty pitcher, which stood on the floor. ‘Give me water; the want of it is driving me mad. No one has been near me to-day. I tried to get it myself, but could not stand.’

Kornicker waited to hear no more, but seizing the pitcher, darted out to a pump, and in a very few minutes came back again with it filled to the brim. The girl’s eye grew even more lustrous than before, as she saw it, and she attempted to rise, but was unable.

‘You must excuse ceremony,’ said Kornicker, as he placed his arm under her back and supported her while he held the pitcher to her lips. ‘Nursing isn’t in my line.’

The girl swallowed the water greedily, and then sank back on the pillow exhausted.

‘Have you a doctor?’ inquired Kornicker, placing the pitcher on the floor.

‘No,’ answered she feebly; ‘I have no money: the last went yesterday. I’m deserted by all now.’

‘Not quite,’ exclaimed Kornicker, slapping his hand earnestly on his knee, while he experienced a choking sensation about the throat; ‘not while I’m left. I’m sorry I a’nt a woman, for your sake; but as I don’t happen to be, I hope you’ll make no objections on that score; I’ll look after you as if you were my own sister.’

It was the first word of kindness that the girl had heard for a long time, and the tears came in her eyes.

‘There, there, don’t cry,’ said Kornicker. ‘It bothers me; I don’t know what to do when women cry. But you haven’t a doctor; that will never do. Keep up your heart,’ said he, rising; ‘I’ll return presently.’ Saying this, and without waiting for a reply, he left the room.

Arriving in the street, his first impulse was not only to feel in his pockets, but with the utmost care to turn them inside out, and to examine them narrowly.

‘Not a copper—pockets to let!’ said he, restoring them to their former condition, after a long and unsuccessful search. ‘But this girl must be looked after; that’s settled. Now then,’ said he, in a very meditative mood, ‘who’s able to do it and will?’

This seemed a question not easily answered, for he stood for more than a minute in profound thought, in endeavoring to solve it; but apparently making up his mind, he hurried along the street. The direction which he took was toward the upper part of the city, and he was some time in reaching his destination, which was no other than Harry Harson’s house. He crossed the court-yard and knocked at the door, which was opened by Harson.

‘I want a word with you,’ said Kornicker, abruptly.

Harson told him to come in; led the way to his sitting-room, and pointing to a chair, told him to be seated.

‘I haven’t time,’ said Kornicker, shaking his head. ‘Do you know me?’

‘I’ve seen you, but I can’t recollect where.’

‘Here,’ said Kornicker, ‘here, in this room. I breakfasted here. I’m Michael Rust’s clerk.’

‘Then you can scarcely expect a cordial reception from me,’ said Harson, coldly.

‘I don’t care what sort of a reception you give me,’ replied Kornicker; ‘you may kick me if it will be any comfort to you, provided you only do what I ask. Michael Rust is dead, and his daughter is now dying, with scarcely clothes to cover her, or a bed to lie in; without a cent to buy her food or medicine; without a soul to say a single word of comfort to her. I wouldn’t have troubled you, old fellow,’ continued he, with some warmth, at the same time turning out his pockets, ‘if I had a cent to give her. The last I had I spent in getting a breakfast this morning; and although it’s the only meal I’ve eaten to day, damme if I would have touched it if I had thought to have found her in such circumstances. But since you won’t help her, you may let it alone; I’m not so hard run but that I can do something for her yet.’

Kornicker had worked himself up into such an excitement, owing to Harson’s cold reception of him, that he took it for granted his request was to be refused; and having thus vented his feelings he turned on his heel to go, when the old man laid his hand on his shoulder.

‘Nature puts noble hearts in very rough cases,’ said Harson, his eyes glistening as he spoke. ‘You’re a good fellow, but rather hasty. I didn’t say I would not assist the poor girl; on the contrary, you shall see that I will. She has no doctor?’

‘No.’

‘No nurse?’

‘No.’

Harson rang the bell. The house-keeper answered it.

‘Martha, put on your things,’ said Harson; ‘I want you to sit up with a sick person to-night. Bring a basket, and lights, and cups, and every thing that’s necessary for one who has nothing. I’ll return in five minutes; you must be ready by that time. Now then, Sir, come along; you shall see what I’ll do next.’

He went into the street, and walked rapidly on, turning one or two corners, but without going far, and at last knocked at the door of a small house.

‘A very excellent fellow lives here,’ said he to Kornicker; ‘he’s a doctor; and if this girl can be saved he’ll do it. Hark! there he comes. I hear his step.’

The door was opened by the doctor himself, and a few words sufficed to explain matters to him.

‘I’ll be ready in a minute,’ said he, darting in the room and as suddenly returning, struggling his way into the arms of a great-coat. ‘Now then,’ exclaimed he, buttoning a single button, and dashing into the street, ‘which way?’

‘Where does she live?’ asked Harson. ‘I’ll go back and bring the nurse.’

Kornicker told him, and was hurrying off, when Harson touched his arm, and leading him a few steps aside, said in a low voice: ‘You seem somewhat straitened for money, Mr. Kornicker; I wish you would accept a loan from me.’ He extended a bank-note to him.

Kornicker buttoned his pockets up very closely, not omitting a single button, and then replied coldly: ‘I ask charity for others, not for myself.’

‘Come, come,’ said Harson, kindly, ‘you mustn’t bear malice. I did not act well toward you at first; you must forget it; and to show that you do so, you must take this loan from me.’

‘I don’t wish to borrow,’ replied Kornicker.

‘Well, I’m sorry for it,’ said Harson, taking his hand; ‘but you’re not angry?’

‘No no, old fellow; it’s not an easy matter to keep angry with you; you’re a trump!’

‘Perhaps you’ll sup with me when we return?’ said the old man, earnestly.

‘I’ll see how the girl is,’ replied Kornicker; ‘good bye. We’re losing time.’

Saying this, he shook hands with Harson, and joining the doctor, they set out at a rapid pace for the girl’s abode.

They reached it without interruption, other than a short delay on the part of the doctor, who being of a belligerent disposition, was desirous of stopping to flog a man who had intentionally jostled him off the sidewalk. Kornicker, however, by urging upon him the situation of the girl, had induced him to postpone his purpose, not a little to the relief of the offender, who in insulting him had only intended to insult an inoffensive elderly person, who could not resent the affront.

‘Can it be possible that any thing human tenants such a den as this?’ said the doctor, looking at the half-hung door of the girl’s abode, and listening to the wind as it sighed through broken window-panes and along the entry.

‘Come on, and you’ll see,’ replied Kornicker; and seizing him by the arm, he led him half stumbling up the stairs, and finally paused at the girl’s room.

‘Look in there, if you want to see comfort,’ said he, with an irony that seemed almost savage, from the laugh which accompanied it. ‘Isn’t that a sweet death-chamber for one who all her life has had every thing that money could buy?’

The doctor glanced in the room, then at the fierce, excited face of his companion. ‘Come, come,’ said he, in a kind tone, taking Kornicker’s hand; ‘don’t give way to these feelings. She’ll be well taken care of now. Harry Harson never does a good action by halves. Come in.’

He pushed the door open very gently, and went to the bed. The girl seemed sleeping, for she did not move. He took the candle, and held it so that the light fell on her face. He then placed his hand gently upon her wrist. He kept it there for some moments, then held up the light again, and looked at her face; after which he placed it on the floor, rose up, and took a long survey of the room.

‘It’s a wretched place,’ said he, speaking in a whisper. ‘She must have suffered terribly here.’

‘This is the way the poor live,’ said Kornicker, in a low, bitter tone; ‘this is the way she has lived; but we’ll save her from dying so.’

The doctor looked at him, and then turned away and bit his lip:

‘What are you going to do for her?’ demanded Kornicker, after a pause: ‘have you medicine with you?’

‘She requires nothing now,’ said the doctor, in a tone scarcely above a whisper. ‘She’s dead!’

Kornicker hastily took the light, and bent over her. He remained thus for a long time; and when he rose, his eyes were filled with tears.

‘I’m sorry I left her,’ said he, in a vain effort to speak in his usual tones. ‘It was very hard that she should die alone. I acted for the best; but d—n it, I’m always wrong!’

He dashed his fist across his face, walked to the window and looked out.

At that moment the door opened, and Harson entered, his face somewhat attempered in its joyous expression; and close behind followed the house-keeper with a large basket.

‘How is she?’ asked he, in a subdued tone.

Kornicker made no reply, but looked resolutely out of the window, and snuffed profusely. It would not have been manly to show that the large tears were coursing down his cheeks. Harson threw an inquiring glance at the doctor, who answered by a shake of the head: ‘She was dead when we got here.’

Harson went to the bed, and put back the long tresses from her face. There was much in that face to sadden the old man’s heart. Had it been that of an old person, of one who had lived out her time, and had been gathered in, in due season, he would have thought less of it; but it was sad indeed to see one in the first blush of youth, scarcely more than a child, stricken down and dying in such a place, and so desolate.

‘Was there no one with her—not a soul?’ inquired Harson, earnestly, as he rose; ‘not one human being, to breathe a word of comfort in her ear, or to whisper a kind word to cheer her on her long journey?’

The doctor shook his head: ‘No one.’ Harson’s lips quivered, but he pressed them tightly together, and turning to Kornicker said:

‘Come, my good fellow, you must struggle against your feelings; you must not be downcast about it. She’s better off than if she had lived—much better off.’

‘I’m not in the least downcast,’ replied Kornicker, in a very resolute manner; ‘I don’t care a straw about it. She was nothing to me; only it’s a little disagreeable to be living in this world without a soul to care for, or a soul that cares for you; and then there was some satisfaction in being of use to some one, and in feeling it was your duty to see that no one imposed on her, or ill treated her; but no matter; it’s all over now. I suppose it’s all right; and I feel quite cheerful, I assure you. But you’ll look to her, will you? I can be of no farther use here, and I’d rather go.’

‘I will,’ said Harson.

‘You won’t let her be buried as a pauper, I hope?’

‘No, upon my honor she shall not,’ replied Harry.

‘Very well—good night.’

Harson followed him down the stairs, and again endeavored to force a sum of money upon him; but Kornicker was resolute in his refusal, nor could he be induced to go home with Harson that evening. He said that he was not hungry.

After several ineffectual efforts, the old man permitted him to depart, with the internal resolution of keeping his eye on him, and of giving him a helping hand in the world; a resolution which we may as well mention that he carried out; so that in a few years Mr. Kornicker became a very vivacious gentleman, of independent property, who frequented a small ale-house in a retired corner of the city, where he snuffed prodigally, and became a perfect oracle, and of much reputed knowledge, from the sagacious manner in which he shook his head and winked on all subjects.