Part 35 (1/2)
”That mought be true, for's aught I know; but it's mighty strange you never thought of that sarc.u.mstance before.”
”Never was in limbo before.”
”That's the go, is't? Look-a-here, stranger, is it the darbies, or the crime, which brings the disgrace upon the family? Accordin' to my notion,--and I believe I've got something besides nits and lice in my head,--it's the deed, and not the punishment, that fotches the disgrace.
But whar does your family live?”
”In New Orleans,” replied Vernon, who knew nothing to the contrary, though we are not sure that, if he had, it would have made any difference in his reply.
”And your name is Vernon?”
”It is.”
”Is that your family name, or only a borried one?”
”It is my real name,” replied Vernon, not a little perplexed by the coolness and method of the woodman's queries.
”I rather guess not,” suggested Jerry, mildly.
”'Pon my honor--”
”Think again,--maybe you mought fotch the real one to your mind.”
Vernon, whose temper was not particularly gentle under contradiction, was nettled, and disposed to be angry.
”Perhaps you know best,” said he, conquering his pa.s.sion, and a.s.suming one of those peculiarly convincing smiles, which must be an hereditary possession in the family of the ”father of lies.”
”Perhaps I do,” replied Jerry. ”If you don't know any better than that, why, then, I do know best. It arn't Vernon.”
”It is not manly, captain, to insult a prisoner,” replied Vernon, with an air of dignity, which came from the same source as the liar's smile.
”I don't mean to insult you, stranger; but facts is facts, all over the world,” said Jerry, untouched by the other's rebuke.
”What mean you?”
”Nothin', stranger, only I know you. Your mother arn't livin'.”
”No,” returned Vernon, with a start; for, with all his vices and his crimes, a sense of respect for the name and honor of his family had outlived the good principles imbibed upon a mother's knee. Although a villain in almost every sense of the word, there were many redeeming traits in his character, which the reader will be willing to believe, on recalling his expressions of conscientiousness uttered to Maxwell.
Family pride is often hereditary, and the reverses and degradations of a lifetime cannot extinguish it. It was so with Vernon. His real name was unknown, even among his most intimate a.s.sociates. He had early taken the precaution--not in deference to the feelings of his father--to a.s.sume a name; it was from pride of birth, which shuddered more at the thought of a stain upon the family escutcheon than at all the crimes which may canker and corrode the heart.
”My mother is not living,” continued he; ”but how know you this?”
”It don't matter, stranger. Have you seen your father lately?”
”Not for many years. I am an outcast from his presence,” replied Vernon, with some appearance of feeling.
”That's onfortunate; does he know what sort of a lark you are?”
”I hope not,” replied Vernon, with a sickly smile.
”But he does; he knows all about this onG.o.dly sc.r.a.pe you got into last night.”