Read Ebook: Quest to Centaurus by Smith George O George Oliver Morey Leo Illustrator

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 331 lines and 13279 words, and 7 pages

Tales for Canadian Homes.

THE BLACK-SEALED LETTER;

Or, The Misfortunes of a Canadian Cockney.

ANDREW LEARMONT SPEDON,

Printed for the Author, by Mitchell & Wilson, Montreal. 1872.

How slight a cause may change our life Beyond its own control, Produce a cordial to the heart, Or canker in the soul.

The Black-Sealed Letter;

OR,

THE MISFORTUNES OF A CANADIAN COCKNEY.

Old London!--city of cities!--whose foundations were laid when the ancient Briton in his martial glory prowled among the dense forests whose foliage darkened the waters of the Thames, long ere the foot of the adventurous Roman had touched the shores of Albion; or the Dane and Saxon had established themselves within the strongholds of the British isles. Who has not heard of this great old city, teeming with human life, and filled with the extremes of wealth, poverty, righteousness and iniquity? Who has not heard of its eminent statesmen and its distinguished authors:--its time-honored institutions of religion, literature and jurisprudence: its antiquated buildings, themselves volumes of history written the eventful finger of time:--its massive warehouses; and also its magnificent mansions, wherein peers and princes banquet in luxury:--its club-houses; and its dens of pollution, amid whose shadows the grim spectres of degraded humanity struggle out a wretched existence. Into this great city--wonderful and complicated in itself--the modern Babylon of the world,--gentle reader, now follow me in imagination, and I will introduce you to the subject of the following story.

It is the Saturday evening of a chilly night towards the end of November, 1869, that season of the year in which the grey old buildings of London assume a more sombre aspect than during the sunny days of summer. The twilight had congealed into darkness after a somewhat foggy day, and mantling its shadows around the homes of the destitute and degraded, tinging the wretched inmates with melancholy, and even making their lives more miserable and less tenacious to the world. The dark streets have been lighted up. The great tide of human beings that have during the day thronged the thoroughfares, has partially subsided; but thousands of pedestrians are still bustling to and fro; while the din of carriages are heard on every street. The provision shops are crowded with noisy customers. The coffee-houses are steaming forth their delicious viands, where throngs of both men and women are greedily satisfying their appetites: while thousands of ale-houses and gin-hells are pouring forth their poisonous liquids, where crowds of miserably degraded wretches of both sexes in human shape are swallowing down the deadly elements and rioting in hellish revelry. Alas! how many a home has been converted into a mad-house, yea, even into a very hell, by these dens of pollution, in which dwell the accursed spirit-dealers of iniquity.

Alas! how many a fond wife, with her little ones, perhaps destitute of every domestic comfort, is at that very moment anxiously awaiting the return of her husband. Hour after hour may pass away, until the very depths of night appear to grow sad with the dreary sorrow of her heart, and at length he returns--but not as a loving and sober husband; not as a tender and home-providing father; not as a man, with all the noble attributes of the human nature; not as a Christian, with the spiritual Balm of Gilead, with which to soothe the cankering ills of his household;--no, not as either he returns, but rather as a madman escaped from the prison walls of Bedlam, or as fiend let loose from the nether kennel.

But, nevertheless, there were thousands of happy households that evening enjoying the domestic comforts of a peaceful home,--that place, the dearest of all on earth, when sanctified by the affection of a united, sober, and industrious family. Such was the home and household of Mr. Charlston.

Mr. and Mrs. Charlston, their two sons and three daughters, were on that night comfortably seated in their little sitting room after tea; the mother and her daughters engaged at needlework; the father and his eldest son, George, reading the newspapers, while Frederick, the younger, was reclining upon a sofa. An infant of a year old was sleeping in a cradle; a little kitten was nestling at its feet, and purring as if trying to soothe the dreamy slumbers of its tender companion.

On the evening referred to, and whilst Mr. Charlston and family were engaged in their respective duties, as described, the door bell was rung. George attended to the signal; and in a few seconds a young man entered the room, signalizing himself in a very familiar but somewhat uncouth manner.

"Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Charlston. How are you Eliza, Amelia, and Charlotte? and you Frederick, old lad? I didn't see you at work to-day. I thought something was out of joint with you, and I have come on purpose to see. Why what's the matter with your neck? You have it swaddled up as if you were determined to defy the hangman's rope from ever getting a hold of you," ejaculated Charles Holstrom.

"Oh, I have only caught a bit of a cold in my throat," replied Frederick; "come Charlie, take a seat by my side and give us your latest news about town."

The husky voice of Holstrom awoke the infant from its peaceful slumber, and the poor thing began to bawl loudly as if startled from either surprise or fear.

Mrs. Charlston lifted it to her knee, and having hushed it into quietness she began feeding it with some cordial food.

"Well, I declare, he has grown to be a big lump of a lad," exclaimed Holstrom. "I dare say, Frederick, you feel conceited enough now to think yourself a degree above such fellows as George and I are, in having graduated as a Batchelor of Arts--I mean--Bachelor of Babies. You will, no doubt hereafter, append B. B. to your name as a title of merit; or, Bad Behavior, I should rather have said. However, the initials will stand for both. He's the very picture of yourself, and will soon need a hat as big as his grandpa's."

At this moment the bell was again rung; and shortly afterwards, a graceful looking young woman entered the room. Very politely she shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Charlston and the others present. She then took the infant, and pressed it lovingly to her bosom, imprinting a few kisses upon its tiny lips. The child in return smiled affectionately, apparently delighted with the caresses of a recognized and familiar friend.

"I say, Clara," exclaimed Holstrom, addressing the young woman, with whom he was apparently acquainted, "I think it would be charitable on your part to spare a few of those luxuriant caresses for poor Frederick; a slight sprinkling of balm from your roseate lips would work wonders as a remedy to his breathing apparatus. Just come and see how many dozen of blankets he has wrapped around his throat: enough, I am sure, to supply the beds of a whole household on a winter's night."

"Why, Frederick, how did you get such a cold in your throat?" interrogated Clara.

"Thank you, George, for your kind offer," replied Clara; "but there is no necessity to do so to-night; a female acquaintance who accompanied me to a friend's house a few doors from here, is expecting me to call for her, and perhaps I may be detained for some time, therefore, dear George, excuse me."

No sooner had Clara departed than Frederick, disguised himself in his father's old hat, overcoat and muffler, and immediately started in pursuit of Clara.

Before proceeding further it is necessary to inform the reader who Clara and Charles Holstrom were; and, also, to narrate the varied and complicated circumstances of several years preceding this eventful night.

Charles Holstrom was the youngest son of a London tradesman. He had attended school with Frederick, and was now working in the same shop and at the same business with him. He was possessed of a robust physical appearance, somewhat coarsely featured;--of a bold, but humorous disposition--at times impertinent, and even repulsive in his manner. Frederick had really never considered him as a confidential friend; but their long acquaintance with each other, and the many associations of their united course in life had induced him to consider Charles as a respected friend rather than a fellow companion; and from these circumstances alone the Charlstons had received him as an occasional visitor to their house.

Clara Hazledon was the only daughter of a poor but respectable widow with whom the Charlston family had been long acquainted. Previous to their removal to Fleet street they were next door neighbors. Mr. Charlston and Clara's father had been early companions of each other. Their children had grown up together, and had been associates at the same school, and although now in unequal circumstances, still looked upon each other as very familiar friends. After the death of Mr. Hazledon, he having died when the family was young, his wife struggled hard against adversity to bring up her little ones. But five years after the death of her first husband she married another, who, unfortunately turned out to be only a worthless and degraded fellow. Clara, by her expertness at needlework, had procured a good situation in a millinery shop. Her brothers, all younger than herself, were also respectably employed.

Frederick and Clara had been passionately fond of each other when children, and as they grew older their affection became more matured; and at length the sympathies of their love were more firmly united by a marriage engagement, the consummation of which was purposed to take place as soon as circumstances would render it favorably convenient. But forced to forego his command in order to snoop around trying to locate the originator of one of the craziest space-gags in history.

Well, so it was beneath his notice--he could treat it with proper disdain. No doubt the President of ICN might enjoy replacing worn out patch-cords just to keep his hand in. He could do the same. He could make whatever stupid moves were necessary, make them with an air of superiority that made it obvious he was not extending himself. He might appear to even be doing it for the laughs.

He shrugged. He was on a roving commission, and therefore there was no one to watch his progress. He'd put others to work and loaf.

He snapped the communicator, dialed the Department for official orders, gave his rank and commission, issued a blanket order directed at the commanders at all Terran Posts.

"Compile a cross-indexed list of all Jordan Green markings in your command-posts. The listings must be complete on the following factors: text, writing material, handwriting index and approximate location."

This, he knew, would take time. Perhaps he would be forced to follow up the original order with a more firm request. Weston expected no results immediately.

But the mass of data that came pouring in staggered him. It mounted high, it was complex and uncorrelated. Weston's natural dislike of the project made him lax in his work. He went at it in desultory fashion, which resulted in his getting far behind any schedule. The work continued to pile up and ultimately snowed him under.

He began to hate the sight of his desk as the days went by and avoided it diligently. It was groaning under the pile of paperwork. Instead of using his ability and freedom to dig into the job, Weston used his commission and his rank to enter places formerly forbidden to him.

On the pretense of seeking Jordan Green information, he entered the ultra-secret space laboratory on Luna and watched work on highly restricted technical developments. He was especially interested in the work of adapting Directive Power to the space drive and, because they knew him and of him, the scientists were quite free with information that might have been withheld from any visitor of rank lower than Senior Captain.

This he enjoyed. It was a privilege given to all officers of senior rank, a type of compensation, a relaxation. That he accepted the offer without doing his job was unimportant to Weston. He felt that they owed it to him.

His loafing was not affected by the streams of favorable publicity he received. His picture was used occasionally; he was mentioned frequently in commendation. It was well-known that the only casualty from the First Directive Attack was working through his convalescence on the very complex job of uncovering the source of the Jordan Green legend.

But Weston knew just how important his job really was, and he ignored both it and the glowing reports of the newspapers.

Eventually friends caught up with him and demanded that he come along on a party. He tried to wriggle out of it, but they insisted. Their intention of making him enjoy himself was obvious. He viewed them with a certain amount of scorn, though he said nothing about it.

If it gave them pleasure to try to lift him out of his slough of despond he'd not stop them, but he could avoid them and their silly prattlings. They would not be denied, however, so Al Weston went, reluctantly.

"Most of them were made the way this one was," he said scornfully.

Tony Larkin laughed. He turned to Jeanne.

"You see," he said, "a lot of us had much to do with winning the war. I've--found several--myself."

"Scrawled several," corrected Weston sourly.

"Don't be bitter," said Larkin. "Even though you now outrank me, you shouldn't change from boyish prank to official pomp overnight."

"Maybe you'd like to have as silly a job hung on you," snapped Weston.

"If the commish and the roving order and all went with it--I'd take to it like a duck to water."

"Is that all you're good for?" asked Weston scornfully.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet