Part 9

'It was a trap, was it? Pah! a child could see through it! It alludes to one _Henry Colton_. The charges are made against _him_. I'll save you the trouble of farther manoeuvering to obtain information on that point, by informing you that Henry Colton and Michael Rust are one. I'll inform you too that you knew it before you came here. If you wish it, I'll give you the same admission in writing.'

'I accept your offer,' said Holmes, quietly. 'There's paper,' said he, pointing to the table; 'write it on that.'

Rust cast an angry glance at him, and seemed to hesitate; but he saw that he was watched narrowly, and must not shrink. So he sat down and scrawled something, which he pushed to Holmes.

Holmes read it over slowly: 'Alter _that_; the wording is not clear,' said he, pointing out a paragraph which did not suit him.

Rust took up the pen and altered the phrase.

'Perhaps _that_ will do?' said he, again handing it to Holmes.

'That's just what I want,' replied the lawyer, running his eye over it, and apparently weighing every word. 'But you are very forgetful. You haven't signed it.'

Rust took the paper and signed his name to it. 'I hope you are satisfied. I suppose you have me now,' said he, with a sneer.

'I think I _have_,' replied Holmes, folding up the paper, and putting it in his pocket. 'Have you any farther remarks to make to Mr. Harson or myself? What you have done has been of much service, and will save us a great deal of trouble.'

'None,' replied Rust; 'I sent for _him_,' said he, pointing to Harson, 'to let him know that I was aware of his proceedings, and to warn him that I was prepared to defend myself; and that if he persisted in his attacks upon me, he would do so at his peril.'

'It is well,' said Holmes. 'It's frank in you, and no doubt Mr. Harson feels grateful. And now that you have finished, perhaps you will listen to a strange tale, which I am going to narrate to you. I wish you to pay particular attention, as you may find it interesting. It's quite romantic, but strictly true.'

'Once upon a time,' (that's the way stories begin, I think,) 'there were two brothers living at a place far from this city; the names of whom were George and Henry Colton. The former received a large property from a distant relative; while the means of the latter were limited; so much so, that but for the liberality of his elder brother, he would have found it utterly impossible to live, in the style and manner in which he always did and still is accustomed to live.'

'Well, Sir, does this refer to me?' said Rust; 'and if it does, and is true, what then?'

'I have not finished,' replied Holmes. 'You shall hear the rest. Shortly after the accession of George Colton to this property, he married; but previous to doing so, to secure his brother against want, he settled upon him property sufficient to produce him a handsome income.'

'Well, Sir,' said Rust, 'what then?'

'You shall hear,' replied Holmes. 'By this marriage George Colton had two children, who in the course of law would have inherited his entire property, had they been living at the time of his death. These children had reached the ages of two or three years, when they were lost in a very singular manner. They had been left alone by their nurse, in a room in their father's house; and when she returned, after the lapse of a very few minutes, they were gone; and from that day to this their parents have had no tidings of them. Search was made in every direction; rewards were offered; persons were employed in all parts of the country, and descriptions of the missing children were placarded in every quarter. No one was more earnest and untiring in his efforts to find them than Henry Colton, the younger brother; for he remembered only his brother's past kindness; entirely forgetting, that if these children were dead he would, in all probability, receive his brother's vast property. But he was equally unsuccessful with the others. By degrees, hope grew fainter, and the efforts of all, except this noble younger brother, relaxed; but he travelled, wrote, had agents employed in every direction, and, I am told, is still endeavoring to unravel this mystery. And now,' said he, in a low, stern tone, 'shall I tell you the reason why he failed? It was this. The agents employed by him were put on a false scent; and although a high reward was offered for the discovery of the children, a higher one was paid for keeping the place of their concealment undiscovered. Shall I tell you,' added the lawyer, in the same tone, 'who paid the bribe? That same noble Henry Colton, the younger brother; and what's more, that same man sometimes bore the name of Michael Rust. All this can be proved beyond the shadow of a doubt, and will be, in a court of justice, if we are compelled to do it.'

The lawyer paused, and looked Rust steadily in the face.

'Well, Sir,' said Rust, 'part of what you say is true. I know that the children were lost, I know that I did what I could to find them. As to the rest, it is false, and I care nothing for it. They are dead, I fear.'

'Not quite,' replied Holmes. 'One of them is already rescued; so that Michael Rust's hopes and schemes are thwarted; and his only chance to escape the arm of the law is to give up the other, or to tell where he is.'

Rust turned toward him, and looking him steadily in the face, said: 'Well, Sir, if this be true I'm glad of it; but if some designing scoundrel is desirous of palming off his own brats on an honest man, to swindle him out of his property, let him beware, lest he run his legs into shackles. For my part, I've no doubt that the whole tale is a fabrication of that old man's,' said he, pointing to Harson, 'got up for no honest purpose.'

'That's false!' replied Holmes, sternly. 'Lie as you will; deny as stoutly as you please; I tell you that what I have said is true, and that you are the man.'

Rust grew deadly pale, but said nothing.

'And I tell you again,' said Holmes, in the same stern voice, 'that your only hope of escaping punishment is in giving up the remaining child, or in giving such information as may lead to his discovery. Do that, and we will show you all the favor we can.'

'Nay, more,' added Harson. 'We will never let it be known what you had to do with it. We'll let it be supposed that the children were stolen, and found. We will keep it quiet, won't we, Ned?' said he, walking up to the lawyer, and laying his hand on his shoulder.

'You've said so, and your promise must be kept,' replied Holmes. 'I shouldn't have made it. But you must decide at once.'

Michael Rust had sat as still as a statue, merely turning his eyes from one to the other, as they spoke.

'Have you done?' asked he, in a voice as quiet and composed as if the threats just uttered had no reference to himself.

'You have heard all that we have to offer,' said Holmes.

'You're very kind,' replied Rust; 'you're _very_ kind; but you don't _know_ Michael Rust. He accepts favors from no man. There, there--go! He values your threats and promises alike; and neither the one nor the other will turn him one inch from his own course, to aid you in your dishonest purpose. It's against his conscience. Good morning. Our interview is ended, I think. I'm sorry to see gray hairs so steeped in depravity.'

'Michael Rust,' said Holmes, turning to him, 'you have sealed your own doom. I'm glad you've rejected our offers, and I now withdraw them. You're unworthy of them; and you shall have no other grace than what the law extends to a felon.'

Rust bowed. 'You're kind. I shall not trouble you to repeat the offer. As for the grace extended to felons, I believe there is a law which makes a conspiracy to defraud, a felony likewise. It takes three to make a conspiracy, in law; but I have no doubt you have abettors. Perhaps you had better examine the matter. I wish you good morning, gentlemen; I wish to be alone.'

Rust sat without moving, until the sound of their footsteps descending the stairs was lost, and then he sprang to his feet.

'Now then,' exclaimed he, 'I know where I am! Now I can see where to strike. Ha! ha! We'll see who conquers, Harry Harson or Michael Rust--a desperate man, who has no alternative but to succeed or die. Ho! ho! I know where the mine is to be sprung; and I will countermine!'

Listless, desponding, and irresolute as to his course, as he had been before his interview with Harson, all trace of it had disappeared now. He had decided upon the steps to be taken; and, desperate as they were, he was not the man to hesitate. The anxiety which had borne him down, disappeared as he ascertained the extent of his danger, and was able to nerve himself to cope with it; and his manner was not only cheerful but merry, and his eye shone with a self-confidence not unlike that of a gladiator preparing for a conflict in which he or his adversary must perish.

Lingering in his office only long enough to give his two visitors time to get some distance off, he put on his hat, locked the door, placed the key over it, so that Kornicker might know where to find it, and sallied out into the street.

A LOVER'S RECOLLECTIONS.

COULD'ST thou but know how dark and drear my days, though few, have past Since o'er my once light heart Despair his gloomy shadow cast; Without one joy to cheer me here, and not a hope on high, The only prayer I offer there, to be allowed to die; Could'st thou but know the anguish which my tortured heart must hide, While gazing on thee smiling still, in youth and beauty's pride, While listening to thy thrilling voice until my burning brain Is maddened with the withering thought that _I_ must love in vain!

Thou would'st forgive me that I dare in hopelessness reveal The fierce and frenzied agony of soul thou wilt not heal; Thy gentle breast would pity one whose brimming cup of woe Has gathered deeper bitterness from passion's scorching glow. I thought that even charms like thine my sered heart could not move, That sorrow's strength had steeled it long against the might of love; That that last pang, of all the worst, could never more be mine, And beauty's power so long defied, I should not bow to thine.

But oh! that cold sad freedom lost, I would not now regain! Far dearer to my soul I hold the love thou wilt disdain; Still on mine ear thy gentle voice in silent music falls, Bathing my heart as moonlight bathes some donjon's craggy walls; Still can I gaze in thought into those bright bewildering eyes, Within whose heavenly depth enshrined Love's mighty shadow lies; Still hang upon those lips which poured their melody of tone, And breathed a softness on my heart, until that hour unknown.

W. C. S. B.

SONNET.

TO THE REV. HENRY W. BELLOWS, NEW-YORK.

LO! where it stands, the green life-giving tree, Mid the pure garden of thy noble faith, Where thou, unwearied, tread'st the onward path, And Moses and Elias talk with thee. Droop we beneath the cloud despondingly, Thy voice its cheering influence imparts, And we arise, and, girding up our hearts, Go forth in hope to win eternity. Behold! to thee is given a tongue of fire! Thou speakest wisdom to the ear of youth, And age takes counsel from thy lip of truth, And each with trust thy teaching doth inspire. By this we know the light thou hast divine-- Oh! may our darkened souls new lustre gain from thine!

_New-York, Nov., 1843._ MARY E. HEWITT.

WIDOWS.

'Desrobbons ici la place d'un conte.'--MONTAIGNE.

FULLER says, in his '_Holy State_,' that 'the good widow's grief for her husband, though real is moderate;' and it is our object to illustrate the old divine's text by two famous and most ancient stories; but we would in the first place offer a few remarks upon the species _widow_.

If widow be derived from the Latin _viduus_, void, then Mr. Weller the elder's pronunciation, vidder, is the most etymological. We are, however, far from sharing that gentleman's feelings toward those ladies, cleverest of their class. We love widows. We gain by their loss. And the _void_ to us and we fear to them is any thing but an 'aching void.'

In society a Miss is, not to make a pun, amiss. Your sixteens and seventeens are always at sixes and sevens among the men. They are so walled about by what is _proper_ and what is not _proper_, that they can do nothing but sit bolt upright with their arms folded. Their sitting, walking, riding, dancing, talking, are all carefully graduated to the _proper_. They start when you speak to them, as a pigeon does when it sees a hawk, and take hold of a man's arm as though he were made of phosphorus; and are bound to look silly, and take refuge under mamma's wings, if the air be tainted by the ghost of a possible impropriety. In Spanish society young ladies are danced with, but never spoken to; but no more of them:

'Non ragionam di lor; ma guarda e passa.'

But a widow, as soon as the becoming sorrow is over, which soon takes place, is always gay, always charming:

'JEPPO. La princesse est reuve, Maffio. MAF. On le voit bien à sa gaiete.'

In the first place, the widow _sait vivre_. She knows how to talk to men and how to treat them. In the second, she does what she pleases, and Miss Scandal has to shriek, 'How improper!' in a whisper. In the third place, she never grows old. A spinster is on the wane at five-and-twenty, and at forty, even Echo would be afraid to answer her, for fear she should consider it an offer; but a widow at thirty is on the 'wax,' and in her prime at forty; at least so says the song. We wonder that all women do not wish they were born widows; and that failing, and the occasion presenting itself, do not emulate the fifty Misses Danaus, in the mythology, who in their haste to become widows, stabbed their husbands on the wedding night.

The Rev. Dr. Sterne remarks, that 'the Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.' Bereaved married people must be shorn lambs. We have heard widowers a fortnight after the sad event humming _Gai! Gai! de profundis!_--and widows finding the breeze of a most comfortable temperature, and keeping up a cheerful liveman-loving spirit behind their impenetrable black veils, just as the sun shines as brightly as ever behind the darkest thunder-cloud.

The first tale is that of the Matron of Ephesus, told with infinite spirit by La Fontaine in his Contes. He took it from Boccaccio. It is to be found in Petronius, who had it from the Greeks. They borrowed it from the Arabians, who in their turn owe it to the Chinese. Du Halde has it in his version. The origin of most of our every-day stories is as completely hidden in the obscurity of by-gone ages as the name of the inventor of the plough. Who in Heaven's name was the father of jokes? Was Joseph Miller the Joseph who found favor in the eyes of the facile Fatima? Did Pharaoh write facetiæ? Or did Job edit a jest-book? Or was the husband of Eve the great first wag; and must we not consider Joseph a misnomer for Adam?

Once upon a time there lived in Ephesus a lady renowned for her beauty and for her wit, but most of all for her intense affection for her husband. Mothers cited her as an example to their daughters, and husbands were forever singing her praises to their wives. In short, the town esteemed itself lucky in possessing within its walls such a model of virtue. But alas! the husband died. Far from being consoled by a will full of legacies in her favor, the widow abandoned herself to the most distressing grief, and sobbed and groaned so bitterly and so loudly, that all the neighborhood was in tears. Frantic with her loss, she resolved to descend into the tomb with her husband, and to die upon his body. A faithful maid-servant accompanied her, after trying in vain to bring back her mistress to the love of life. She wished to feed her eyes to the last upon the bier of the deceased, and this was the only aliment she intended to allow herself. One day passed in sighing and weeping, and her grief omitted nothing which is necessary in such cases.

Another dead body was lodged not far from this tomb, but very differently. His monument was a gallows, and himself his only epitaph--a warning to all thieves! A soldier watched him night and day, and was threatened with instant death if the body were removed. During the night, the sentinel perceived to his great surprise a light flashing through the crevices of the tomb, and stealing toward it, heard many soft _oh's_ and _alas's_. Entering, he was amazed to see two pretty women in tears, and inquired politely what motive could induce them to inhabit so melancholy an abode? The widow did not of course deign to answer, but the servant explained to him that they had resolved to starve themselves to death for love of the deceased. The soldier explained as well as he was able what life was, and asked leave to take his supper in their presence, if they would eat nothing themselves. They gave him permission. Animated by the beauty of the lady, and assisted by the maid, who began to tire of starvation, he pleaded so warmly and so well, that the dame consented by degrees to forget her _mort_, and to bestow herself upon him. Just as they had ratified the compact by a kiss, under the very nose of the defunct, he heard a noise without, and rushing to his post, found the body gone! Overwhelmed with shame and fear, he returned to the tomb, acquainted the ladies with the fate which awaited him, and bade adieu to his bride.

'What!' said the servant, 'shall we allow you to be hung for such a trifle? No! No! One body is like another. Let us hang up our old master. No one will know the difference.'

The mistress consented; the 'dear departed' was suspended in the place of the thief; and the soldier left the guard-house for the palace of the Matron of Ephesus.

The other story is from the Zadig of Voltaire, and illustrates the same characteristic trait.

One day Zadig's wife Azora returned from a walk, swelling with rage. 'What is the matter, my dear?' said Zadig; 'what can have happened to put you so beside yourself?'

'Alas!' said she, 'you would be as indignant as I am, if you had only seen what I have witnessed. I went to console the young widow Cosron, who not long since erected a tomb to her husband near the brook which flows through yonder meadow, and vowed to the gods to remain at the tomb so long as the waters of the stream should flow by it.'

'There is an estimable woman for you!' said Zadig; 'she sincerely loved her husband.'

'Ah!' replied Azora, 'if you only knew what she was doing when I visited her!'

'Well, what? sweet Azora!'

'She was laboring to turn the course of the stream!' Azora was so vehement in her condemnation of the young widow's conduct, and overwhelmed her with so many hard names, that Zadig was displeased with so great a parade of virtue.

He had a friend named Cador, who was one of those young men whom his wife thought better behaved and more moral than most others. He made him his confidant, and promised him a large sum if his plan succeeded.

When Azora, who had been passing a day or two at the house of a relation, returned to town, the servants in tears announced to her that her husband had died suddenly the night before, and had been buried that morning in the tomb of his ancestors at the bottom of the garden. She raved, tore her hair, and called the gods to witness that she would not survive him.

That evening Cador asked permission to see her, and they wept together. The next day they shed fewer tears, and dined together. Cador informed her that his friend had left him the greater part of his property, and hinted that it would be his greatest happiness to share it with her. The lady wept, grew angry, but allowed herself to be appeased. The conversation became more confidential. Azora praised the defunct, but confessed that he had many faults from which Cador was exempt.

In the midst of the supper, Cador complained of a violent pain in his liver. The anxious lady rang for her essences, thinking that perhaps one among them might be good for the liver-complaint. She regretted deeply that the great Hermes was no longer at Babylon; she even deigned to touch the side where Cador experienced such intense pain. 'Are you subject to this cruel complaint?' said she, compassionately. 'It sometimes nearly kills me,' replied Cador, 'and there is only one remedy which soothes it, and that is to apply on my side the nose of a man who died the day before.'

'That is a strange remedy!' said Azora.

'Not so strange,' he answered, 'as Dr. Arnoult's apoplexy-bags.'[A]

[Footnote A: Dr. ARNOULT was a Babylonian of those days, who pretended to cure all diseases by means of a bag suspended about the neck of the patient.]

This reason, and the great merit of the young man, decided Azora. 'After all,' said she, 'when my husband passes from the world of yesterday into the world of to-morrow over the bridge Tchinavar, the angel Asrael will not refuse to admit him because his nose is a little shorter in the second life than in the first.'

So taking a razor in her hand, she went to the tomb of her husband, bathed it with her tears, and approached to cut off his nose as he lay extended in the coffin. Zadig sprang up, holding his nose with one hand, and seizing the razor with the other. 'Madam!' he cried, 'say no more against the widow Cosron! The idea of cutting off my nose is quite equal to that of turning a water-course!'

And that is the end of our other story.

The most sincere of us, alas! are always hypocrites, but never so much as when we bring our grief before the eyes of the world.

'De quelque désespoir qu'une âme soit atteinte La douleur est toujours moins forte que la plainte Toujours un peu de faste entre parmi les pleurs.'

LITERARY NOTICES.

ETIQUETTE; OR A GUIDE TO THE USAGES OF SOCIETY; WITH A GLANCE AT BAD HABITS. By Count ALFRED D'ORSAY. Number Six of the 'Brother Jonathan' Monthly Library. New-York: WILSON AND COMPANY.

WE opened this little work with avidity. It is the production of one whose fame, as an accomplished leader and arbiter in fashionable life, has preceded it for some years throughout the United States, and may well impart to it the weight of grave authority. We read it to the close without interruption, and with the greater interest, from finding in it, as we went on, much more than a bare list of rules of intercourse; and we rose from our chair, gratified by the perusal; full of good feeling toward its author; and with a passage from the divine JEREMY TAYLOR hovering in our thoughts. This is it:

'THE Greek that designed to make the most exquisite picture that could be imagined, fancied the eye of Chione, and the hair of Poegnium, and Tarsia's lip, Philenium's chin, and the forehead of Delphia; and set all these upon Melphidippa's neck, and thought that he should outdo both art and nature. But when he came to view the proportions, he found that what was excellent in Tarsia did not agree with the other excellency of Philenium; and although singly they were rare pieces, yet in the whole they made a most ugly face.'

Now it is the exactness of proportion, and what the painters call the _good keeping_ of a picture, that in real life designate the well-bred man. It is that quiet exemption from unnecessary display or prominence, in any single feature of character, while all are beautifully sustained; it is that style of existence which in the Venus de Medicis makes her appear to the eye to enlarge as you approach near and more near that miracle of art; it is that nice adaptation of conduct to momentary occasion, dictated by a cool judgment, a determined will, perfect self-possession, and a kind heart; that mark the character and manners, and give a tranquil and yet pervading and an unforgotten charm to the intercourse of the true and well-born gentleman: