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He sat down, and the minister took the floor. He thanked Mr. Oldfield and then went on to say that, although it might be informal, he would suggest that the town, with Mr. Oldfield's permission, place an inscription on the boulder in the Flat-Iron Lot, stating why it was to be held historically sacred. The town roared and stamped, but meanwhile Nicholas Oldfield was quietly rising.
Kemble met him, on the 19th of February, at George Oldfield's, on Elk River; and although the Colonel was disguised in a flaxen wig, and in other ways, Kemble says he knew him by hearing him cough in the night, in a room adjoining that in which Kemble slept. Whilst this witness was at Oldfield's, "Talbot's shallop," he says, "was busking and turning before Oldfield's landing for several hours."
"In all the crowded theater, care and pain and poverty were banished from the memory, while Oldfield's face spoke, and her tongue flashed melodies; the lawyer forgot his quillets; the polemic, the mote in his brother's eye; the old maid, her grudge against the two sexes; the old man, his gray hairs and his lost hours.
The truth was that, at the bottom of each heart, still lurked the natural cupidity of the loyal citizen who will not see his town denied; but side by side with that desire for the march of progress, walked the spectre of Nicholas Oldfield's wrath. The trembling consciousness prevailed that he might at any moment descend again, wrapped in that inexplicable atmosphere of loftier meanings.
"Calm yourself, my dear," said Sir Thomas; "let us hope that things may be better than our fears." "I'm sure, ma'am," said Mrs Jones, "I should never think of keeping these books if you or Mr Oldfield's father wish to have them." "Oh, it is not that, it is not that," sobbed Lady Oldfield. "Are you a mother, Mrs Jones?" she cried, turning abruptly to her.
A voice that sent all the blood rushing back to poor Lady Oldfield's heart was heard in high strain, and another, mingling with it, muttering a croaking accompaniment of remonstrance, "Well, you're a fine young gentleman, I've no doubt; but you'll not bide long in that fashion, I reckon." Then came a bit of a song in the younger voice,
"He's got to write an address, and he wants you to tell him what to say." Then, in the darkness of the room, a slow smile stole over Nicholas Oldfield's face, but his voice remained quite grave. "Does, does he?" he remarked. "Well, he ain't the fust pa'son that's needed a lift; but he's the fust one ever I knew to ask for it. I've got nothin' for 'em, Mary.
Oldfield's compassion, is certain; but she so much disliked the man, and disapproved his conduct, that she never admitted him to her conversation, nor suffered him to enter her house. She indeed often relieved him with such donations as spoke her generous disposition.
Briggs, the medical officer attached to the expedition, had died in February; and only three or four of the original crew of the vessel survived. We shall now follow Mr. Oldfield's narrative. As Mr. Laird was on his return to Fernando Po, he passed the Alburkah, with Messrs. Lander and Oldfield on board, on their way to Boussa.
He felt quite sure, from what he knew of Frank Oldfield's generous character, that he never would take more than the fifty pounds, and he was aware that unless he made unhesitating restitution of that sum, he was in danger of losing all, and of being thrown into prison.
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