Читать книгу: «The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 03, No. 17, March, 1859», страница 7

CHAPTER XVII

As Mr. Sandford walked homeward, the streets seemed to close up behind him; he was shut out from the scenes of his activity, no more to return; State Street was henceforth for him a thing of memory. He had played his game there, while admirers and friends watched his far-seeing moves. He had lost; and now, after checkmate, he must resign his place. How he struggled against the idea! He could not bring himself to acknowledge that the past was irretrievable. His spirit seemed in prison, shut in as by the bars of a dungeon, against which he might tug and rage in vain.

At home, dinner was on the table, waiting for him. As he entered the hall, he met his sister-in-law. She saw the fatal news in his face, and with a sinking heart gave him her usual greeting. Marcia took her place at the table, but with less animation than usual. Charles sat down with his studied indifference. Each one seemed to be absorbed in separate spheres of thought, and the courses came on and were removed in painful silence. At last Mr. Sandford spoke.

"I suppose I need not tell you that it is all over."

"All over!" exclaimed Marcia.

"Yes,—I have failed; so has Fayerweather; so has Stearine."

"Failed?" said Marcia, in an incredulous tone. "I thought it was the great people,—I mean people in business, or with estates, that failed."

"Well, have I not been in business?"

"Yes,—as secretary, and you have a salary. How can a man with a salary fail?"

"Quite easily. Suppose the Vortex fails? My salary would stop."

"That isn't failing, is it? Then Pompey might fail, if he didn't get his pay for brushing your boots."

Mr. Sandford gave a contemptuous look.

"That shows how much you know about business."

"I never did know about your business; nor does anybody, I believe. I never could understand how, with your little property, you had these 'transactions,' as you call them, where you owed people and people owed you so many thousands."

"It is not necessary for you to know. Women can't understand these things."

"But women feel their effects, and it's a pity they could not learn about what concerns them."

"Will it change your situation at once?" asked Mrs. Sandford of her brother.

"I can't say; probably not at once; but without some aid, all I have must go."

"What! the house?" exclaimed Marcia.

"Yes,—the house, Marcia, and the furniture. We shall be stripped."

"The deuse!" said Charles.

"Heaven help us! what shall we do?"

"I haven't had time to form any plan. I trust, indeed, that Heaven will help us, as you rather lightly wished."

His face wore a touching look of faith and resignation, while at the same time his hand rested with secret satisfaction upon his pocket-book.

The conversation was disagreeable to Charles, and he sauntered off to the drawing-room.

Mrs. Sandford inwardly determined to return to her home, or at least to go elsewhere in the city, so as not to be a burden to her brother-in-law; but she remained silent. Mr. Sandford balanced his knife, sliced his bread into figures, then hummed and beat a tattoo upon the table,—sure indications of forgetfulness in one so scrupulous as he. At length, with a bland voice, but a sharp, inquiring eye, he said,—

"How is it about this painter, Marcia? Are you going to marry him?"

She looked fixedly, as she replied,—

"Why do you ask? You know I am going to marry him."

"Oh, it's settled, is it? You know, sister, you have had similar intentions before,—several times, in fact,—intentions that haven't come to much."

She did not answer further; a flush of anger came, then went, leaving her pale face with a rather sterner expression.

"While I was prosperous, I was not disposed to be mercenary; though I did think you were not worldly-wise. Now that I am destitute, you can see that to marry a man not worth a dollar, and with a precarious profession, is not what it would have been."

"Mr. Greenleaf earns a good income, doesn't he?"

"He hasn't sold a picture, except to friends whom I persuaded to buy."

"You have friends and influence still?"

"I don't know; a man's friends don't last long after his money is gone. Besides, nobody wants to buy now. Raphael himself couldn't sell a picture here till times improve. A painter is a pretty butterfly for fine weather; what is he to do with his flimsy wings in such a hurricane as this?"

"I think I understand you, Brother Henry. You begin afar off; but I know what you are coming to. You want to bring up that odious Denims again,—a man whom I hate, and whom you yourself would show out of doors, like a vagrant, if it were not for his money!"

The effort exhausted her, and she breathed painfully.

"You think yourself quick. I haven't mentioned Denims. In fact, you have treated him in such a way that I am quite sure he would never trouble himself to be even civil to you again."

"I am glad of it,—the fool!"

"Sister Marcia, I have borne much from your turbulent temper. You are a spoiled child. Fortune has let you have your own way hitherto; so much the worse for you. But circumstances have changed. I can no longer supply you as though you were a duchess. In fact, I don't know what may be before us. I hope no actual want. [Another grip of the pocket-book.] But I advise you to consider whether it is for the interest of a dependent woman to go out of her way to thwart and insult me."

"You would compel me, then, and threaten starvation as the alternative?"

"What odiously blunt language you use!"

"I only translated your roundabout phrases as I understood them."

"You need not be violent."

"You cannot cajole me by soft words, when your purposes are so obvious. You think Denims may save the wreck of your fortune; and you are willing to sacrifice me, if he were ten times the brute he is, to further your ends. But I shall marry Greenleaf."

"Greenleaf will be a powerful protector! I doubt if he can raise money enough to pay the clergyman for marrying you! He will be without a shilling in a month, if he is not now. Go to him, Sister Marcia. I would, now. You can live in his attic studio, you know. In such a romantic place you would never be hungry, of course."

Mrs. Sandford interposed,—

"Don't, Henry! This is not the way."

Marcia's eyes flashed through her tears, as she answered,—

"You say you are ruined,—that the house and furniture must go. How much better off shall I be here?"

"Well, you have your choice."

"And when the time comes, I shall take it."

Sobs and tears followed, but her lips were firm and her hands clenched.

"As you please, sister."

"You come home ill-tempered, and the rage which you could not or dared not give vent to in the street you pour out here."

"Perhaps you would have been pleased, if I had not come home at all?"

"I'm sure we should have been quite as happy without you."

"Very well. I may leave you, yet."

"I don't care how soon."

New sobs and a firmer pressure of the lips.

Oddly enough, at that moment, Mr. Sandford was summoned to the drawing-room, where a man was waiting for him. Fearful of the result, he went to his own room, first, and left the precious pocketbook, and then descended to the hall.

Notwithstanding the words she had spoken, Marcia waited with breathless anxiety her brother's return; for the sound of voices, in earnest, if not angry, conversation, rose through the house. Presently he came back with a look his face seldom wore,—a fierce look that transformed his handsome features to a fiend's.

"You have your wish, Sister Marcia,"—and the words were shot out like fiery arrows,—"I am to leave you, and go to jail."

"To jail?" exclaimed both at once, in terror.

"Yes,—to jail. Gratifying to you, I suppose. 'Tis to me,—very."

"What is the meaning of this?" asked Mrs. Sandford.

"It means, that one of my creditors pretends to believe that I am about to abscond, and has had me arrested, that I may give bail not to run away with an empty pocket."

"Can't you get out?"

"Some time, undoubtedly; but not till I give bail."

"For how much?"—

"Twenty thousand dollars."

"Can't you get some one to become security?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I might get Greenleaf!"

Marcia winced, but did not answer the taunt.

"Good-bye, my dear and independent sister!"

Marcia turned her back upon him, confounded between sorrow and resentment.

Crowding his hat over his eyes, Mr. Sandford left his house and walked with the officer towards Cambridge Street.

"Gone to jail!" exclaimed Charles, returning, "How doosid awkward! What a jolly wow it will make when it gets about town! By gwacious, if you aren't cwying! Go to bed, both of you; I'll go to the club."

He went accordingly; and the women, who could ill console each other, were about to go to their own rooms when the door-bell rang again.

"What next, I wonder?" asked Marcia, in despair.

"Please, Ma'am," said the servant, "there's a man at the door, who looks quare, and says, if he can't see Mr. Sandford, he must see you."

"Tell him I am ill,—and besides, I don't transact my brother's business."

"Yes'm."

But she soon returned with a new message. The man would not go. Mrs. Sandford at once went to the hall to learn what was the matter, leaving Marcia trembling in every limb. The conversation was not carried on in whispers; in fact, Marcia heard every word.

"Sorry to disturb you, Ma'am, especially as Mr. Sandford isn't at home; but duty is duty, and must be 'tended to. My orders is, to 'tach the furnitur', and stay till I git a receipter."

Mrs. Sandford's reply was inaudible. The voice proceeded:—

"Can't help it, Ma'am. Won't be back to-night, won't he? Bad, cert'in. But duty is duty, as I said afore. I'll bunk here on the sofy, an' to-morror we'll see what's to be done."

Another pause.

"Oh, you won't run off 'ith anythin'? I s'pose not. But duty is duty, as I said afore, and I must mind orders. 'Stick by till you git a receipter,' sez he. 'I will,' sez I,—an' I must.—Never mind about bedclose. I c'n sleep jest ez I be. You jest go up-stairs. I'll make myself 't home."

Glad to be out of the society of the officer, Mrs. Sandford started to go upstairs, but was recalled by the voice.

"I say, Ma'am! A long night afore a chap, all by himself."

Mrs. Sandford trembled with mingled terror and rage.

"No 'bjection to light the gaas, I 'spose, so's't a feller can read a paper? Thought o' that, and brought the 'York Herald' and 'Clipper.' If you don't like tobarker, you c'n shet your doors and the smell won't git in."

"Do what you like. I can't prevent you."

"Oh, well, no 'fence, I hope? Good-night, Ma'am."

Mrs. Sandford found Marcia walking about the room in great excitement.

"The odious wretch!" exclaimed Marcia. "If Henry were only here, or even Charles, he should be horsewhipped, pitched out of the house. To sleep with his dirty clothes on my sofa! I'm glad it's to be sold. I never could touch the filthy thing again. Then his pipe! Good heavens, what is to be done? The abominable wretch! I smell the tobacco now, worse than an Irishman's. The smoke will be all through the house. Faugh! it suffocates, nauseates me!"

"Be calm, Marcia. We will go to the upper chambers, shut the doors, and open the windows for fresh air. It's only for one night. We can't go away, you know; and we can't get the fellow away, of course."

"I wish I had died when I was sick. This disgrace, this infamy, this shocking barbarity, is worse than death. What are we to do? and where are we to go? Ruin is a light thing to talk about, I have read of ruin in the papers, until it has become a matter of course;—I begin to know what it means."

It was a changeful, terrible beauty that beamed on her face. She looked like an inspired priestess before the altar,—then like Norma in her despair,—then like the maddened Medea in Rachel's thrilling impersonation. Then disgust and fright overcame her, and her sensitive womanly nature bore sway. It was more than she could bear, this accumulation of misfortune, disgrace, and insult. Her soul rebelled, contended desperately with fate, till, overcome, she sank into her chair, and suffered herself to be led to her room.

Shut up in their retreat, the women waited for the morning with sleepless eyes, or with only transient lapses of consciousness. Sometime after midnight, they were startled by the sound of a body falling heavily in the hall, and, an instant after, by the shout of "Burglars! thieves!" They rushed to the staircase in extreme fright, and soon learned the cause. The wary officer evidently did not believe the tale that had been told him respecting the absence of Mr. Sandford; and, that nobody should go out or in without his knowledge, he had drawn the sofa across the hall, completely cutting off all passage. A small jet of gas was left burning. Charles, returning late from the club in a mild stage of inebriation, entered the house by means of his latch-key, not without difficulty, and at once fell headlong over the sofa, and the worthy official sleeping thereon. When he heard the cry of "Burglars!" it occurred to him that he must have been knocked down by one of the gang; and he joined his own voice to the uproar,—

"BuggLARS! buggLARS!"

An instant after, there was a grip on his collar.

"Now I got ye, ye vill'in! What ye doin' on here?"

"What you doin' on, you rasc'l, inagen'l'm'n'shouse thistim'o'night?"

"Arnswer me, you scoundrel, breakin' into a peaceful dwellin'!"

"Tha'swhat_I_wan'to know.—How'd _you_com'ere? What'syerbusiness?

Le'gomycollar. I'lsen'forp'lice. Le'go!"

Tipsy as he was, he managed to give his assailant a pretty substantial token of regard under the ear, with his knuckles.

"Now young'un, you're drunk! I won't hit you back, 'cause a case for manslaughter might be expensive. How'd you break in here, when you are so drunk you can't stand? I don't see how you could get in with the door open."

"Noneo'yerimp'r'ence! Cl'out! Adecen'bugglar'sbad'nough; yousmokerot'nt'baccah. G'off! youdirtybugg_lar!_"

"Young chap, it's time to stop this nonsense, or I'll have you in the watch-house in no time. Who are you? and how came you here?"

"Tha'sit; who are you? tha'swhat_I_wan'know."

"Charles!" (from above.)

"WhocallsCh'rl's? HereIam. Igott'afellah, the bugg_lar_. Callp'lice!

P'LICE!"

"Charles!" (once more.)

"Do you belong here, young chap?"

"B'long'ere? 'vcourseIdo; wherethedevilsh'dIb'long?"

"You are not Mr. Sandford?"

"Howd'yeknowIa'n't? I am Mis'rr-Sanf'd."

"You are Mr. Sandford's brother, are you?"

"No, Mis'rr Sanf'd's my bro'rr."

"Well, if you've got brains enough to understand, listen to me."

"I'm all 'tensh'n, 's Balaam said to th'ass. G'on, ol' fellah!—an' then g'off!"

"I am an officer, sent to 'tach your brother's furnitur' and stuff; and as there's nobody here to go bail, I hed to stay and look arter things."

"H'mushbailyewant? I'llgi'bail. An' I'll plankzemoney.

I'vegotsev'ndollars'n'alf."

"Charles!" (the third time.)

"Wha'nyewant?"

"They want you to go to bed, where you b'long."

"Gotobed? 'llseeyoudam'f'st! Leave'nofficer'nth'ouse? Guessnot!"

"Young'un, I say, take your hand out of my neckhan'kercher! Hold up!

None o' yer chokin' games! Quit, I say! or, by hokey, I'll settle ye!"

"_Thought_sh'dmakeyesquawk, ol't'bacc'worm! Go'n'tocl'out? Go'n'tovacateprem'scs?"

"Ooo-arr-awkk!" said the man, under the pressure of a tightening cravat, at the same time giving the assailant "a settler," as he had threatened. The two unfortunate women had hitherto looked down upon the conflict, as celestial beings might upon the affairs of men, with no small degree of interest, but clad in robes too ethereal to descend. But when they saw Charles felled to the floor, and a deathlike silence ensued, they forgot their fears, and rushed down the stairs. The officer had already raised Charles up. He was stunned, senseless, and his face was covered with blood.

"You brute! you have murdered him!" exclaimed Marcia.

"Guess not, Ma'am. Wet his head in col' water, put him to bed, an' he'll sleep it off."

"It's useless to talk to such a fellow," whispered Mrs. Sandford; "besides, we want his aid to carry Charles upstairs."

"Ye see, I couldn't help it, Ma'am. He nigh about choked me to death, and I give him fair warnin'."

"Never mind now about the quarrel," said Mrs. Sandford; "you help him upstairs to his room, and we'll bathe his head."

While the officer was carrying the young man up-stairs, Mrs. Sandford put on a shawl, and, by the time he had reached the second flight, she opened a door, and lighted the gas with a taper, saying,—

"In here, if you please. My brother Henry's room is the most convenient."

The officer's eyes twinkled.

"So this is Mr. Sandford's room?"

"Yes, but he is absent, as you were told before. Lay Charles on the bed, if you please. There, that will do. I will attend to him now. You can return to the lower story."

"In a minit, Ma'am. Duty is duty, and this 'ere accident saves some trouble," casting sharp glances around the room.

The facts, that Sandford had drawn from the bank, and that he had borrowed from Tonsor, were known to the creditors. The officer had determined, therefore, to make what search he could for the money. The unlooked-for accident had given him the opportunity he wanted.

"What do you mean, Sir? Go back to your place."

"Softly, Ma'am, softly! Duty is duty; an' 'f any damage is done, I'm responsible."

His eyes fastened upon a dressing-case that lay on a table near the mirror,—apparently the last article handled by the occupant of the room.

"No robbery, Ma'am," said he, opening the case, and taking out its contents. "Razors and brushes, and such like, is personal, and not subject to levy; but these, Ma'am, you see, air."

He held up a pocket-book full of bank-notes.

"I'll count 'em before you, Ma'am, if you please, so's there'll be no mistake. Thirteen thousand! A pretty good haul! I'll go down, now. If anythin's wantin' for the chap when he comes to, jest le'me know."

With a gleam of intense satisfaction on his sharp and vulgar features, the officer descended the stairs.

CHAPTER XVIII

John Fletcher sat by his fireside, reading the evening papers. The failures of the day, of course, engaged his attention; among them, those of Sandford and his associates were not unexpected. His little wife sat by him, fondling the weakly baby.

"Old Sandford has gone by the board, ducky. Good enough for him! He's come to grief, as he deserved. He'll never trouble me any more."

"I'm afraid a good many more'll come to grief, as you say, before this panic is over."

"Some, of course; the dead trees, and the worm-eaten, powder-posted ones, will fall in the high winds, naturally. But old Bullion is safe. No rotten hollow in his old white-oak trunk;—sound as a ship's mainmast."

"Is it Bullion who owes you?"

"Yes. I have his notes for ten thousand dollars; and our next settlement, I calculate, will give me as much more."

"Why don't you get your pay?"

"What should I do with it, my duck? I couldn't lend it to anybody safer. If I deposit, the bank is as likely to fail as he. As long as he has the whole capital to swing, he will make the more for us both."

"I would rather have the money."

"That shows how little you know about it."

"I know, if you had it, and didn't lend it nor speculate with it, you couldn't lose it."

"Now, ducky, don't interfere. You take care of babies nicely. Let me manage my own affairs."

"You always treat me like a child that has to be petted with sugar-plums."

"That's because you are a child. What the devil does a woman know about business?"

The "ducky" cried a little, and was quite sure that John would go on and risk what he had, till he lost all.

"Little woman, none of your blubbering! It annoys me. Am I to be harassed by business all day, and have no peace when I come home?"

He settled himself to read the papers, once more, and the wife picked up the fretful, puny infant, and retreated to the kitchen, where she could indulge her sorrow without rebuke or interruption.

Presently, Bullion entered, though not unexpected; for he had given Fletcher an intimation, that, in order to have a private interview, he would endeavor to see him at home.

"Nice little box," said the capitalist, looking around. "Any babies?"

"One," said Fletcher.

"Boy or girl?"

"A girl."

"Bad. Girls always an expense. Dress, piano, parties, and d—d nonsense. Boys, you put 'em into harness and work 'em till they're willing to eat their wild oats; he! he!"

The eyebrow flourished over the jocose idea; the stony eye glittered a moment like a revolving light, and then relapsed into darkness.

"However, I have but one, and I think I can make her comfortable."

"Yes, my boy, quite comfortable. Let me see, I owe you ten thousand. How does the new account stand?"

"Here are the figures, taken from Tonsor's book," said Fletcher. "Seventy-nine thousand eight hundred and forty-three. Ten per cent. to me is seven thousand nine hundred and eighty-four."

"A big pile of money, Fletcher."

"Yours, you mean? Yes, seventy thousand and odd is a big pile."

"Yours,—I meant yours."

"Why, yes," replied Fletcher, indifferently, "a good fair sum, for a man that hadn't any before."

"Don't you think, now, Fletcher, that the ten thousand pays you for all you've done? Isn't it enough for a month or two's work?"

"I think I am paid when I get what was agreed on," replied Fletcher, stoutly.

The eyebrow was raised with a deprecatory, inquiring look.

"Why, Fletcher, sharp's the word, is it?"

"That's what you said, when we started."

"Suppose I pay you the notes and a thousand or two more, and we call it square? Then you salt down what you got."

"And you propose to haul off from operating?"

"Well, no, I can't say I do. I may try the bulls another fall or two. But you haven't anything else. If we lose, you are smashed. I have other property to fall back on."

"So it's merely to do me a kindness and make me safe and snug that you propose to keep back the six thousand that belong to me?"

"You put it rather strong, youngster. I didn't agree to pay till the scheme was carried out. But we've done better than we 'xpected, and, to take you out of danger, I offered to pay part down. In a business as ticklish as stocks, you don't expect a man to come down with the ready without a consideration?"

"You know you could never have kept the run of the market, if it hadn't been for me; and the ten per cent. is no more than a fair share. This isn't a matter of dollars altogether, though dollars are useful, but of information, activity, brains."

"Well, remember, young man, I offer you now twelve thousand. If anything happens, don't squawk nor play baby."

"Why, you're not going to fail?"

"No,—not if the world don't tip over."

"And you're going on with your operations?"

"Yes,—till the wind shifts. It's due east yet."

"Well, I think the ship that carries you is safe enough for me. Make me the notes, and let the operations go on another week."

With an increased respect for his agent, when he found that he could neither humbug nor frighten him, Bullion filled out and signed the notes. Next they reviewed the stock-market, and decided upon the course to be pursued. Bullion then fell into a profound meditation, and did not speak for five minutes, though the busy eyebrow showed that his mind was not lost in vacancy. At last he started up, saying,—

"I must go. But, Fletcher, any reason why you particularly wanted to pay Sandford that thousand, to-day?"

Fletcher turned pale, and his heart rose in his mouth.

"No,—no reason,—that is—he wanted it—I—I was willing to oblige"—

"No matter about reasons," said Bullion, with a quiet air. "I never tread on people's corns. Only when it's wanted let me know. You see he went by the board. He begged me to save him. How could I? I've done enough for other people. Must take care of number one, now. Kerbstone, he begs, too. I shan't help him."

Fletcher felt relieved; at the same time he determined without delay to make a new effort to get the fatal evidence of his former crime into his own possession.

"Oh," said Bullion, as if he had forgotten something, "the wife and baby, let's see 'em."

Fletcher called his wife, who came in timidly, and shrank from the fierce look of the man of money.

"How d'e do, Ma'am? Your servant, Ma'am. Glad to see you. But the baby?"

"Fetch the baby, lovey," said Fletcher.

Baby was brought, smiling with as little reason as possible, and winking very hard in the light.

"Pretty dear!" said Bullion, chucking her under the chin.

"I wonder what the devil this means," thought Fletcher.

How was his surprise increased when, after a moment, Bullion inquired,—

"Teeth cut yet? Some of 'em, I see. More to come. Want something to bite, little one?"

He pulled out his purse and gave the child three or four large gold pieces. The little hands could not hold them, and they fell on the carpet, rolling in different directions. Bullion left hastily, with a quick nod and a clipped "Good-bye."

"Well, I vow!" said Fletcher, with a long breath. "It's well he didn't stay to pick 'em up; they'd 'ave stuck to his fingers like wax. He couldn't have let 'em alone."

"What a good man he is!" said the overjoyed little woman.

"Good man! He's crazy. Old Bullion giving away gold pieces to a baby! He's lost his wits, sure. He never gave away a sixpence before in his life. Oh, he's cracked, without a doubt. I must keep watch of him. When he grows generous, there's something wrong."

[To be continued.]