CHAPTER XVIII.
A NEW ASPECT OF AFFAIRS.
POOR Malcolm, after escaping from the clutches of Dunbar, sold off all the goods and household furniture which he had removed to the best possible advantage, and calling together his creditors, gave them a history of his misfortunes, and divided among them the sum of one thousand dollars, all that he had received from the sale of what he had been able to save. It liquidated but thirty-three and one-third cents on the dollar of his debts. He had previously secured a clerkship paying a small salary. In consideration of his honesty in doing what was in his power, in this his last extremity, his creditors voluntarily signed him a full release from the balance of their claims against him.
One evening, a few days after this had taken place, Mr. Harrison called upon him at his boarding house. They met alone in the public parlor. Mr. Harrison was kind in his manner, but Malcolm was smarting yet too severely from the consequences of the late suit to feel in any mood for a cordial reception of his relative.
"Malcolm," said the old gentleman, after they were seated, "from my attorney who defended the late suit that you brought against me, I learned some facts that I never knew before. I always believed my title to the property I hold to be clear, and never could imagine upon what just ground you claimed to contest it. But your attorney discovered, or you discovered it to him, a matter of which I have always been ignorant, and which gives color to the opinion you have so pertinaciously held in regard to your rights in my estate. That you have some right in it I think may be the case, though certainly not to the extent you have imagined. I have little doubt that, if you had not been thrown out of court on a demurrer, the court would have given you some twenty or thirty thousand dollars. This is my own lawyer's opinion."
"Then," said Malcolm, "it is clearly my duty to begin again."
"I would advise you to try another lawyer, if you do."
"Why so?" asked Malcolm.
"Because the one you had took a bribe to introduce to the court a defective bill."
"You are jesting," said Malcolm.
"No," replied Harrison, quietly; "I am entirely in earnest. My lawyer suggested that Dunbar could be bought over to our interests, and I took it into my head to see if he really was in earnest. Sure enough, Dunbar named thirty thousand dollars as the price he would take to introduce a defect in his bill, that we might throw you out of court, saddled with costs so great that you could not pay them, without which it would be impossible to begin again."
"And this was done?"
"Yes."
"You paid him thirty thousand dollars to defraud me?"
"I loaned him that much out of his wife's fortune—or, rather, his wife to be."
"I don't understand you."
Harrison explained all that matter, and then added—
"From the moment I was satisfied that you had any rights in my estate, I determined to grant them, let them be what they would. I was only half satisfied on this head when I offered you the twenty-five thousand dollars which you declined. I now believe that thirty thousand dollars are all to which you are entitled, and that I am willing you shall have, if you will take it and settle the matter forever."
Malcolm could hardly believe that this was said in earnest. When satisfied that it was, the delight he felt was almost beyond expression.
Harrison was perfectly sincere in all this. It was what he intended doing when he bargained with Dunbar for the admission of a flaw in his client's bill. He was a man of thoroughly honest principles, but eccentric in some things. The boldness of the proposition made by his lawyer was so startling that he told him to go on, merely because he was curious to see if such bold-faced iniquity could be practised by a member of the bar. Before he agreed to pay the sum named, he understood the relationship that existed between Dunbar and his ward, and conceived the idea of making him pay his own bribe, which he succeeded so well in doing. He ran some little risk, certainly; but he was a pretty shrewd man in his calculations, and rarely went very far wrong.
On the day after the interview with Mr. Harrison, Malcolm called at the office of Mr. Dunbar. The lawyer met him with a scowl upon his brow.
"I have one or two things to say to you, friend Dunbar," said Malcolm, seating himself. He spoke in a very cool manner. "In the first place, I believe a pretty large bill of costs accrued in the late suit against Harrison, and that I stood charged with the same."
"Your memory is certainly accurate in the matter," returned the lawyer, with insult in his tone and manner.
"That bill I wish you to settle in full," returned Malcolm, in a firm voice. "There is another matter," he continued, "that I wish also settled. During the progress of the suit, unnecessarily delayed as you know, my business became involved, and finally, by your direct agency, was entirely broken up. I am in debt on that account about two thousand dollars, which I wish you also to settle for me, and to do it forthwith."
"Mr. Malcolm, will you leave my office instantly?" said the lawyer, smothering his excitement under a calmness of tone, and rising to his feet as he spoke.
"Don't get excited, Mr. Dunbar," replied Malcolm, retaining his seat. "This is a business of some importance and needs coolness in its settlement. I have demanded nothing but what is right, and nothing but what I mean to have. I will give you until to-morrow afternoon at four o'clock to deliberate upon the matter, and then if you do not present me with the clerk's receipt for that bill of costs, and with two thousand dollars to pay off my debts, I will instantly commence a suit against you and Harrison's lawyer for a conspiracy to defraud me, in which something about a demurrer will come out that will not be very pleasant to you or to him, as you both too well know."
Dunbar sank down in his chair as if suddenly deprived of strength, while the perspiration started upon his forehead.
"For heaven's sake! What do you mean?" he exclaimed, taken so completely by surprise as to be thrown off his guard.
"Simply what I say," replied Malcolm, as coolly and firmly as at first. "I have heard from Mr. Harrison all about the bribe you accepted, and received out of your own pocket. So you needn't imagine that I am trying to frighten you with a bugbear. Pay the loss you have occasioned me, and I have done with you for ever; if not, I will obtain damages. To-morrow at four o'clock I will call, and if you are prepared to make all right—well; and if not—well; at least so far as I am concerned. Good morning."
And Malcolm retired from the office of Dunbar, leaving the attorney more than half stupified, yet in the fullest possession of every word that had been uttered.
When Malcolm called on the next day at the hour named, he received all that he had demanded.
The star of Lawrence Dunbar's rising fortunes had already reached its point of culmination—young as he was, and possessed of brilliant talents and a mind well stored with professional lore—and was now beginning its rapid descent. He had erred in supposing that, separated from Mr. Harker, he could take a high position at the bar. In this he had overrated himself. Only a few petty cases came into his hands besides the case of Malcolm, which he managed so badly. The flaw left in his client's bill in this case was so palpable, that the whole bar expressed astonishment at the glaring oversight. It hurt his reputation seriously.
But, when a whisper of the truth began to be heard, first here, then there, and then everywhere among those who knew him, his star set in the horizon of Philadelphia. So flagrant a violation of all honest principles met its just rebuke. He stood alone. No man of honor and respectability showed him any attentions or passed him the compliment of an invitation to his house. There was a ban upon him; so much so that men pointed at him in the streets and related the story of his affair with old Mr. Harrison. In less than a year there was a public sale of his elegant furniture in Arch street, and he moved somewhere South with his wife. Of his domestic felicity nothing need be said. Enough can be imagined.
CHAPTER XIX.
CONTRASTS.
THE history of this young man, as far as we have traced it, and much further beyond this point it is not our intention to go, exhibits the result of mere ambition, acting upon a mind unsustained by sound principle. To rise in the world was the end with him. Thousands start with that end, and rise to a certain height; but rarely attain a distinguished position, for the reason that they are met at almost every step with temptations to deviate more or less from strict rectitude, in order to rise faster than would otherwise be the case, and thus invariably defeat the object they have in view. There is in the public mind a certain degree of virtue, which will not tolerate known wrong actions. In fact, the public weal depends upon integrity in the community, and every man, therefore, instinctively condemns all departures from just principles in others, because he feels that such acts done to him would be wrong.
On the other hand, a virtuous man is esteemed by all, both good and bad, for all feel that their interests are safe in his hands. If he possess equal ability to serve the community with another man in whose principles no faith is had, he will, as a natural consequence, rise above that man. And there is no danger of his falling back from any eminence he may gain; because it is a real elevation from the force of internal principles acting upon his external conduct, and the force that elevated him is all-potent to sustain him in his elevation.
To rise truly in the world, is to rise internally as well as externally. If a man, while he is rising into eminence in any pursuit, be really growing corrupt and base—be admitting evil counsellors into his mind and acting from their suggestions—he is not truly rising, but is actually in the descending scale, and will, either in this life or the next, find his right position. No man is truly elevated who is not truly good. He may occupy an imaginary height; he may think himself great, and men who do not know what is really in him, may call him great; but true greatness is inseparable from that benevolence which regards the common good.
While Dunbar was fixing his mind upon the attainment of wealth and professional distinctions as ends, Doctor Hudson was seeking with untiring industry to perfect his knowledge of medical science by reading, observation, and experiment; not so much as the means of rising in the world as from a desire to increase his skill and gain a wider circle of influence. It would not do to say that he was free from selfish ends; no man is free from them. But he understood that to be governed by selfish considerations was wrong, and he never permitted himself, when he was conscious that such considerations were prominent in his mind, to act from them. Thus instead of coming more and more under the dominion of purblind selfishness, he was daily rising superior to its enticements. He was truly rising in the world—rising in intelligence and usefulness, and rising above the corrupt and debasing tendencies of our evil nature. And his family rose with him. No one was depressed that he might be elevated; no one pushed aside that his way might be clear.
Only three times did Lawrence Dunbar and Doctor Hudson meet, after they had started on their race for eminence. Once in the office of the student, as already related. The second time they met was a few weeks after the marriage of Dunbar with the heiress.
A large party was given by a wealthy family, in which Hudson had rendered eminent services in his profession. The doctor was highly esteemed by every member of this family, who knew his worth as a physician and as a man, and sought every opportunity to express the estimation in which they held him. His name and that of his lovely wife were among the first on the list, and the names of Dunbar and his wife among the last. Dunbar was invited for his wife's sake, who happened to be known to some members of the family. Doctor Baldwin and his lady were also in the number of guests.
Not long after Doctor Hudson and his wife had entered, they saw Dunbar come into the parlors with a lady richly dressed upon his arm, and walk in some state amid the gay company.
"Can that be his wife?" remarked Mrs. Hudson, when she at last got a fair view of the lady's face.
"I presume it is," replied her husband. "Did you ever see a more repulsive countenance?"
"One less prepossessing is rarely met," returned Mrs. Hudson, still looking intently into the lady's face.
"But she has wealth, and is well connected, as the phrase is. These, no doubt, cover a multitude of defects."
"They do not seem to have covered them in this case," said Mrs. Hudson, with a quiet smile, as she drew her arm closer within that of her husband. "At least they are very apparent this evening."
"She has her good points, no doubt," remarked the doctor. "All persons have. We may not always determine the whole character from the face. Very good people sometimes have very homely countenances."
"Yes; that is true," said Mrs. Hudson. "But no woman whose heart was unselfish—no woman with a gentle, loving spirit—ever had a face like that."
It took an hour at least for the different individuals of the company to get familiar with the various parties present, and to know what strangers and what acquaintances were there. Ere this, Dunbar had noticed, with some surprise and without any particular increase of pleasure, that Doctor Hudson and his wife and sister were among the guests. He had never heard of the marriage of Ella with Doctor Baldwin, whose social standing he well knew.
"What young lady is that?" he asked of a friend, affecting not to know who Ella was.
"The charming woman on Doctor Baldwin's arm?"
"I mean the lady on the doctor's arm."
"That's his wife."
"Oh, no; you are in error. That cannot be his wife If I mistake not, she is the daughter of old Hudson, the watchmaker. But how she found admission here, passes my comprehension."
"You are right as to her being the daughter of Hudson," replied the friend.
"Then she is not the wife of Doctor Baldwin."
"Yes, she is his wife; and he is as proud of her as if she were a queen; and, from all I can learn, justly so. She is a charming woman. I have met her several times during the year in large companies, and find that she is a favorite with all who know her. The doctor has shown himself to be a man of good taste."
"Incredible," returned Dunbar. "I remember Ella Hudson well enough, but never saw in her anything so charming."
"I don't know about what she was," said the friend; "but I do know, that she is at this present time as lovely, intelligent, and accomplished a woman as there is in this room, and as general a favorite. See! half a dozen gentlemen, whose taste even you will not dispute, have gathered around her and her husband, and you may observe that more than half their attention is directed to her."
"What is thought of Dr. Hudson's lady?" asked Dunbar. "I presume you know her."
"Oh yes. And if she were my sister, I could not more highly esteem her. She is not so generally attractive as Mrs. Baldwin; but all who come near to her are won by the sweetness of her character, and charmed by the half-retiring grace of her manner. She is one in a thousand, and is so considered by all who know her. As for her husband, I consider him one of the most fortunate of men in having secured so loving and lovely a companion for his journey through life."
The eyes of Dunbar turned, involuntarily, towards that part of the room where his wife sat, alone. One glance was sufficient. His gaze was quickly withdrawn. A sigh, but half repressed, struggled up from his bosom, and he turned away from the individual with whom he was conversing. He had already heard too much. What his thoughts were, it would be hard to tell. As he moved across the room, he encountered Dr. Hudson and his wife. The two men looked at each other for an instant, but did not speak. They had not met before for years.
"If he has risen above his old condition," said Mrs. Hudson, leaning, towards her husband, "he has certainly not risen into happiness."
"No man does, who acts from an utter disregard of others," replied the doctor. "Dunbar started in life with the avowed determination to rise; and to rise on the most thorough selfish principles. What his exact elevation, as regards external things, may be, I do not know; but I have heard it whispered that he has at least been sadly disappointed in the amount of his wife's fortune. As to her character and disposition, I presume they were scarcely taken into the account; although he will, without doubt, find them of more serious importance than he at first imagined."
It seemed to Dunbar that he could turn no way during that unhappy evening without seeing either the wife or sister of Doctor Hudson; and he never saw them without an involuntary assent to their loveliness as contrasted with the woman to whom he had united himself for life. They were led to the dance by men of character, standing, and education, and were ever receiving attentions which any woman present would have felt to be complimentary in a high degree, while, with all her wealth and high connexions, his wife sat neglected, except by those who felt for her some personal interest.
Dunbar likewise observed that Doctor Hudson was noticed by almost every one; and, for the first time, learned that he had recently been elevated to the chair of anatomy and surgery in one of the medical schools. There was something positive about this—a real elevation that could not well be called in question—while he perceived that his own position was as yet equivocal, and that, think as highly of himself as he might, he could not force others to do honor to his greatness.
The young attorney went home that night with feelings of humiliation deeper than he had ever known.
CHAPTER XX.
CONCLUSION.
ONCE again did the two men meet. It was late in life, yet not many years later.
Doctor Hudson was just preparing to leave his office one afternoon about five o'clock, when a grey-headed man, plainly dressed, came in. He immediately recognised him as old Mr. Dunbar.
"Doctor," he said, with a good deal of agitation in his manner, "I want you to come to my house immediately."
"Is anything serious the matter?" asked Dr. Hudson.
"Yes, sir, very serious. My son arrived in the cars from Baltimore this afternoon, in a terrible condition. He has been shot, and stabbed in two places. How, why, or when, I have not yet been able to learn. He was brought on by two men, to whose account I did not half listen, before hurrying off for surgical aid. The ball is still in his breast. Oh, Doctor! come with as little delay as possible."
Doctor Hudson inquired the direction, and promised to be at his house in half an hour. Soon after the unhappy father left, he took a case of instruments, and stepping into his carriage, drove to the residence of Mr. Dunbar. The old man still kept a small grocery, through which the doctor passed into a poorly furnished room, and then up a dark stairway to a chamber over the store. Everything bore the stamp of poverty. At the door of the chamber he met the father and mother, the latter weeping bitterly, and the former with a face of deep distress.
"Doctor," whispered the old man, "I'm afraid all is hopeless. But we will trust in your skill for all that human aid can do."
Doctor Hudson entered the room, and stood beside the bed where lay his patient, feeling sadder than he had felt for a long time. There was the well-known face of his old friend and school companion; but white, and thin, and painful in its expression. The breath came feebly through his lips, and the motions of his chest were scarcely perceptible. He laid his finger upon his wrist, but the pulse was so low in the artery, if it beat at all at so great a distance from the heart, that he could not find it.
A slight examination of his injuries was now made. There were two deep wounds between the ribs on the right side, inflicted with a knife or dirk, and a shot wound on the left breast. The ball had struck the sternum, glanced upwards at an angle, and entered among the muscles of the left axilla or armpit, where it still remained, deeply imbedded. There was already considerable inflammation of all the wounds, which had received but temporary dressings. As for the patient, his mind was completely obscured. He noticed no one, and uttered nothing more than an occasional groan.
Any attempt to remove the ball, at present, was considered too hazardous to be made. Slight dressings were applied to the wounds, and the best means used for allaying the inflammation.
Before Doctor Dunbar left the house, one of the men who had brought the wounded man to Philadelphia came in, and from him were obtained the following facts:—
About a month previous to the sad catastrophe from which Dunbar was suffering, he received an anonymous letter, charging upon his wife improprieties of conduct, and naming the individual with whom she was said to be too familiar. Long before this, all vestiges of regard for his wife, if there had ever been any in his mind, were extinguished. And it was the same with her. They had ceased to treat each other with anything more than the coldest politeness. Notwithstanding this, Dunbar was all on fire at the intelligence of his wife's infidelity. He did not go immediately to the man who was accused of doing him a deep injury, but waited until he was satisfied, by personal observation, that the accusation was just. The mode of retaliation then sought, was to go to the office of this individual with a pistol and a cowhide, and under the muzzle of a loaded pistol to cowhide him as long as he had strength to lift his hand. This was his intention, but he failed in carrying it out.
On entering the office of the man who had injured him, he locked the door, and throwing the key from the window, drew his pistol and his cowhide, and with a bitter oath struck the betrayer of his wife a severe blow. But he had miscalculated his opponent when he supposed that he would tamely submit to blows even under the muzzle of a pistol. He happened to be himself armed, and instantly drew a pistol. Both fired at the same instant. The ball of Dunbar did not take effect; but he received that of his adversary in his left armpit. Still furious, he struck three or four blows with his cowhide, when he fell from two stabs with a dirk knife in the right side. When those who had been alarmed by the noise of the affray burst open the door, Dunbar was lying on the floor weltering in his blood. The other had escaped from the window and fled. On removing the wounded man to his rooms at the hotel where he boarded, his wife was nowhere to be found. When this was mentioned to him, he cursed her through his clenched teeth, and asked to be immediately removed to Philadelphia to the house of his father, which was done.
Some time before this, he had fallen in with a company of gentlemen gamblers, and been stripped of every dollar he was worth. As a lawyer, he had sunk into a mere pettifogger, and his practice was chiefly confined to magistrate's and prison cases.
"Fallen! hopelessly fallen!" said Doctor Hudson, as he rode thoughtfully homeward. When he next saw his patient, the change that had taken place told him but too plainly the sad truth that life was rapidly waning. Science and skill were of no avail in his hands. He could not hold back the grim monster when he came with his fatal message.
The young man died—died a violent death in the very prime of life—with blighted hopes, corrupt principles, and a ruined character. And he came home to die. He breathed out his last breath in the presence of those he had wronged, despised, and insulted—himself fallen and degraded. It was a sad ending of all his bright anticipations.
It is almost needless to say that Doctor Hudson's upward movement was steadily continued. That it would be so, was in the nature of things. There are few more distinguished and useful men in the country than he is at the present time. And he is beloved as well as honored by all who know him. He is truly great and truly good, for his elevation has been internal as well as external.