.

And now, as I look back upon that time, I find that I divined them justly. They in some measure personified to me the two opposing forces that war for every soul.

      As they bowed coldly to each other in the hall of the Chuzzlewit, and turned to me, I seemed at once to become conscious of their rival influences. My dual nature felt the dual attraction.

      “Glad to see you again, Byng,” said Densdeth, offering his hand. “Will you walk into my parlor? I am quartered here for a day or two. Come; I can give you an honest cigar and a thimbleful of Chartreuse.”

      “Thank you,” I replied. “Another time, if you please. Just now I am off with Mr. Churm.”

      “Au revoir!” says Densdeth. “But let me not forget to mention that I have seen our friends, Mr. and Miss Denman. They hope for a call from you, for old friendship’s sake. If I had known of your former intimacy there, we should have had another tie on board the steamer.”

      His yellow eyes came and went as he spoke, exploring my face to discover, “What has Churm told him of me and Clara Denman? What has he heard of that tragedy? Something, but how much?”

      “Miss Denman will be at home to-morrow, at one,” he continued. “I took the liberty to promise that you would accept my guidance, and pay your respects at that hour.”

      “You are very kind,” I of course said. “I will go with pleasure.”

      “I will call for you, then, at Chrysalis. I heard here at the hotel-office that you had moved into Harry Stillfleet’s grand den. I felicitate you.”

      “You have a den adjoining,” said I, my tone no doubt betraying some curiosity.

      “O, my lumber-room,” he replied, carelessly. “I find it quite a convenience. A nomad bachelor like myself needs some place to store what traps he cannot carry in his portmanteau.”

      “Well, Mr. Churm,” said I, as we walked off together; “you see I cannot evade Densdeth. He is my first acquaintance at home, my next- door neighbor in Chrysalis, and now he takes the superintendence of my re-introduction to old friends. Fate seems determined that I shall clash against him. I am not sure whether my self is elastic enough to throw him off, even if I desire to.”

      “No self gets a vigorous repelling power until it is condensed by suffering.”

      “Then I would rather stay soft and yielding,” said I, lightly. “But, Mr. Churm, before I call upon the Denmans, you must tell me the whole story of their tragedy, otherwise I may wound them ignorantly.”

      “I desire to do so, my dear boy, for many reasons. We will have a session presently at your rooms, and talk that history through.”

      He walked on down Broadway, silent and moody.

      “Observe where I lead you,” said he, turning to the east through several mean, narrow streets.

      “Seems to me,” said I, “you have fouler slums here than Europe tolerates.”

      “If you could see the person I am going to visit, you would understand why. If men here must skulk because they are base, or guilty, or imbecile, they strive to get more completely out of sight, and shelter themselves behind more stenches than people do in countries where the social system partially justifies degradation. But here we are, Byng. I have brought you along with a purpose.”

      Churm stopped in front of a mean, frowzy row of brick buildings. He led the way through a most unsavory alley into a court, or rather space, serving as a well to light the rear range of a tenement-house. In a guilty-looking entry of this back building Churm left me, while he entered a wretched room.

      It is no part of my purpose to describe this dismal place, or to moralize over it. Perhaps at that time in my life I had too little pity for poverty, and only a healthy disgust for filth. I remained outside, smoking and listening to the jackal-voices of the young barbarians crying for supper from cellar to garret of the building.

      “You will remember this spot,” said Churm, issuing after a few moments, and leading the way out again.

      “My poor victimized nose will have hard work to forget it.”

      “And the name Towner,” my friend continued.

      “Also Towner,” I rejoined. And probably my tone expressed the query, “Who is he?”

      “Towner is the tarnished reverse of that burnished medal Densdeth, — Densdeth without gilding.”

      “Did Densdeth fling him away into this hole?”

      “He is lying perdu here, hid from Densdeth and the world. He has been a clerk, agent, tool, slave, of the Great Densdeth. The poor wretch has a little shrivelled bit of conscience left. It twinges him sometimes, like a dying nerve in a rotten tooth. He sent for me the other day, by Locksley, saying that he was sick, poor, and penitent for a villany he had done against me, and wanted to confess before he died, and before Densdeth could find him again. This is my third visit. He cannot make up his impotent mind to confession. He must speak soon, or concealment will kill him. I am to come down to-night at eleven and watch with him.”

      “Till when you will watch with me in Chrysalis.”

      “Yes; and now I suppose you wonder why I brought you here.”

      “To teach me that republics are unsavory?”

      “Perhaps I want you to take an interest in this poor devil, in case I should be absent; perhaps I wish you to see the result of the Densdeth experiment, when it does not succeed; perhaps — well, Byng, you will promise me to expend a little of your superabundant vitality on my patient, if he needs it?”

      “Certainly; but understood, that you pay to have me deodorized and disinfected after each visit.”

      I could not give a cheerful turn to the talk. Churm walked on, silent and out of spirits.

      Churm As Cassandra

       Table of Contents

      We turned from Broadway down Cornwallis Place, parallel to Mannering Place, and entered Chrysalis by the side door upon that street.

      “I have a word to say to the janitor,” said Churm.

      Pretty Dora Locksley admitted us to the snuggery. Lighted up, it was even more cheerful than when I saw it with Stillfleet. The table was set for supper. The bright teapot, the bright plates, the bright knives and forks, had each its own bright reflection of the gas-light to contribute to the general illumination.

      Mrs. Locksley, the bright cause of all this brilliancy, was making the first cut into a pumpkin-pie of her own confection, as we entered. It was the ideal pumpkin-pie. Its varnished surface shone with a rich, mellow glow, and all about its marge a ruffle of paste of fairest complexion lifted, like the rim of delighted hills about a happy valley. As Mrs. Locksley’s knife cleft the oil of this sweet vale, fragrant incense steamed up into the air. What nose would not sniff away all remembrance of the mephitic odors it had inhaled, to entertain this fresh, wholesome emanation? Mine did at once. I felt myself deodorized from the sour souvenirs of Towner’s slum. The moral atmosphere, too, of this honest, cheerful, simple home-scene acted as a moral disinfectant. The healthy picture hung itself up in a good light in my mental gallery. It was well it should be there. Chrysalis owed me this, as a contrast to the serious pictures awaiting me along its dusky halls, as a foil to a sombre tableau hid behind the curtain at the vista’s end.

      Mrs. Locksley offered a quadrant of her pie to Churm.

      “I resign in Mr. Byng’s favor,” said he.

      “Hail Columbia!” cried I, accepting the resignation; and as I eat I felt my Americanism revive.

      “I’ve just seen Towner again,” Churm says, “and am to sit up with him.”

      “Poor fellow!”