Belford's Magazine, Volume II, No. 8, January, 1889

“For Van Morris is your best friend, after all. He will remember that I told him, last night, ‘One cannot be too careful’!”

She rose on tiptoe, whispered three words, and was gone before he could frame one in reply.

Once more those ill-used bays got the whip fiercely; and they turned the corner so short that Mr. Trotter Upton looked over his shoulder with a grin, and remarked to the blaze-faced companion in his sulky shafts:

“Nine hundred dollars’ worth of horse risked with nine dollars’ worth of man! Van Morris better drive his own stock. G’long!”

VIII

It was two o’clock when Mr. Andrew Browne had ridden forth to recapture his plighted troth.

The shades of Christmas evening had now wrapped the city completely, and the gilt clock upon his parlor mantel now pointed to six. Still he had not returned; and still Van Morris’s eagerness to test the issue of his own tactics was too keen to let him leave their rooms. He had even resisted the temptations of a gossip at the club, and was smoking his fifth cigar – a thought-amused smile wreathing his lips – when the chime of six startled him suddenly to his feet.

“How time flies!” he exclaimed. “And we are to dine at the Allmand’s at seven.”

He tossed away his cigar, turned into his own apartment, and made an unusually careful toilet. Then he looked into Browne’s still vacant room once more.

“Where can he be?” he muttered. “By George! he must have bungled fearfully if he did not pull through. He certainly had his lesson by heart! But she must not be kept waiting,” and his face softened greatly, and the deep, strong light came back into his eyes. “How ceaselessly that old verse comes back to me! And now ‘to put it to the test’ myself.”

He turned to his escritoire, and took a small Russia case from the drawer; then to the mantel, and carefully shook the dampness from the two flowers he had placed there that morning. Putting case and flowers carefully in his vest pocket, Van paused at the door, gave a long, sweeping glance – with a sort of farewell in it – to the rooms; then shut himself outside, still repeating sotto voce,

“He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small.”

Metropolitan Christmas was abroad in the streets. Young and old, grandsire and maiden, beggar and parvenu jostled one another on the pavements. Rough men, laden with loosely-wrapped, brown-papered packages, strode happily homeward; wan women skurried along leading eager children from unwonted shopping for dainties; carriages rolled by, with the gas-light glimpsing on occupants in evening dress, driven Christmas dinnerward.

Van Morris recked little of all this, as he strode rapidly over the very spot where his coolness had saved an ugly misadventure twelve hours before. His brain was going faster than his body; one goal only had he in view; one refrain ever sounded in his memory: “To gain, or lose, it all!”

A quick turn of the corner, and he stood at the door he had quietly escaped from during the ball. The servant replied to his inquiry that Miss Blanche was in the library; and thither he turned, with the freedom of long intimacy.

Only the warm glow of fire-light filled the room; there was a rustle, as of a retreating silk dress. There was also a man’s figure, backed by the fire, with that not infrequent expression all over it that tells he would really be at his ease if he only knew how.

“Why, Andy! And in your driving suit!”

“Van, dearest old boy,” cried the other, irrelevantly, “congratulate me! I’m the luckiest dog alive!”

“With all my heart,” Van answered, shaking the proffered hand heartily. “I was sure it would come out all right.”

“You were?” Andy fairly beamed. “She said so!”

“What? she said so? Did Rose Wood expect you to break off, then?”

“No, no! Not that. She said she knew you’d be glad of the match.”

“Glad of – the match!” Van stared at his friend, with growing suspicion in his mind.

“Yes, you dear old Van! I’m engaged, and just the happiest of – ”

“Engaged?” and Van seized Andy by the shoulders with both hands.

“Yes, all fixed! And Rose Wood is just the dearest, best girl after all! I’d never have known happiness but for her!”

Van Morris turned the speaker full to the firelight, and stared hard in his face.

“I wouldn’t have believed it, Andy,” he said, contemptuously. “You have come here drunk again!”

“No, indeed! I have pledged my word to her never to touch a drop!” protested Andy, with imperturbable good nature. “And, Van, she has accepted me.”

“She?”

“Yes. Rose said, ‘Morris has his heart set on the match;’ I went straight on that hint, and Blanche Allmand will be Mrs. Andrew Browne next Easter.”

Morris answered no word.

With a deep, hard breath, he turned abruptly, strode to the alcove window, and peered through the curtains into the black night beyond. A great surge of regret swept over him that shook the strong man with pain pitiful to see. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass; and the contrast, so strong, to the hope with which he had looked out thus at the gray dawn, sickened him with its weight. There was a boom in his ears, as of the distant surf; and his brain mechanically groped after a lost refrain, finding only the fragment: “To lose it all! lose it all!”

But heart-sickness, like sea-sickness, is never mortal, and it has the inestimable call over the latter of being far less tenacious. And Van Morris was mentally as healthy as he was physically sound. He made a strong effort of a strong will; and turned to face his friend and his – fate. In his hand he held a wilted camellia bud and a crushed cactus flower.

Moving quickly to the fire, he tossed them on the glowing coals; watching as they curled, shrivelled, and disappeared in the heat’s maw. Then he moved quietly to the window and looked into the night once more.

Wholly wrapped up in his new-found joy, Andy Browne saw nothing odd in his friend’s manner or actions. He moved softly about the room, and once more hummed, “Il segreto per esser felice;” very low and very tenderly this time.

Suddenly the rustle of silk again sounded on Morris’s ear.

He turned quickly, and looked long, but steadily, into the beautiful face. It was very quiet and gentle; glorified by the deeper content in the eyes and the modest flush upon the cheek. His face, too, was very quiet; but it was pale and grave. His manner was gentle; but he retained the little hand Blanche held out to him, in fingers that were steadier than her own.

“I reminded you last night,” he said, very gravely, “how long we had been friends, Blanche. It is meet, then, that I should be the first to wish you that perfect happiness which only a pure girl’s heart may know.”

Then, without a pause, he turned to Andy, and placed the little Russia case in his hand. As it opened, the eye of a dazzling solitaire flashed from its satin pillow.

“Andy, old friend,” he added, “Rose Wood told you only the truth. I had set my heart on Blanche’s happiness; and only this morning I got that for her engagement ring. Put it on her finger with the feeling that Van Morris loves you both – better than a nature like Rose Wood’s can ever comprehend.”

T. C. De Leon.

FROM THE WINDOWS OF A GREAT LIBRARY

“The dead alive and busy.” – Henry Vaughan.Without, wind-lifted, lo! a little rose(From the great Summer’s heart its life-blood flows),For some fond spirit to reach and kiss and bless, Climbs to the casement, brings the joyous wraithOf the sun’s quick world, without, of joyousness Into this still world of enchanted breath.And, far away, behold the dust arise,From streets white-hot, into the sunny skies!The city murmurs: in the sunshine beats,Through all its giant veins of throbbing streets,The heart of Business, on whose sweltering browThe dew shall sleep to-night (forgotten now).There rush the many, toiling as but one;There swarm the living myriads in the sun;There all the mighty troubled day is loud(Business, the god whose voice is of the crowd).And, far above the sea-horizon blue,Like sea-birds, sails are hovering into view.There move the living; here the dead that move: Within the book-world rests the noiseless lever That moves the noisy, throngèd world forever.Below the living move, the dead above.John James Piatt.

“GOING, GOING, GONE.”

I

“Take it to Rumble. He will give you twice as much on it as any other pawnbroker.”

The speaker was a seedy actor, and the person he addressed was also a follower of the histrionic muses. The latter held before him an ulster which he surveyed with a rueful countenance.

It was not the thought of having to go to the pawnbroker’s that made him rueful, for he would have parted with a watch, if he had possessed one, with indifference; but the wind that whistled without and the snow that beat against the window-pane made him shiver at the thought of surrendering his ulster. However, he had to do it. Both he and his friend were without money, and it was New Year’s eve, which they did not mean to let pass without a little jollification. Therefore they had drawn lots to determine which should hypothecate his overcoat in order to raise funds. The victim was preparing to go to the sacrifice.

“Yes,” continued his friend, “take it to Rumble. He is the Prince of Pawnbrokers. Last week I took a set of gold shirt studs to him. He asked me at what I valued them. I named a slightly larger sum than I paid for them, and the old man gave me fully what they cost me.”

“Let us go at once to Rumble’s,” said the other, seizing his hat, and the two sallied forth into the night and the storm.

Down the street they went before the wind-driven snow. Fortunately they did not have far to go.

When they opened the door of Rumble’s shop, the old pawnbroker looked up in surprise. The tempest seemed to have blown his visitors in. The windows rattled; the lights flared; fantastic garments, made in the style of by-gone centuries, swayed to and fro where they hung, as though the shapes that might have worn them haunted the place; a set of armor, that stood in one corner, clanked as though the spirit of some dead paladin had entered it and was striving to stalk forth and do battle with the demons of the storm; while the gust that had occasioned all this commotion in the little shop went careering through the rooms at the rear, causing papers to fly, doors to slam, and a sweet voice to exclaim:

“Why, father, what is the matter?”

“Nothing, my dear, it is only the wind,” answered the old man, as he advanced to receive his visitors.

The one with whom he was acquainted nodded familiarly to the pawnbroker, while he of the rueful countenance pulled off his ulster and threw it on the counter, saying:

“How much will you give me on that?”

Rumble, who was a large man, rather fleshy and slow of movement, started toward the back of the shop with a lazy roll, like a ship under half sail. He made a tack around the end of the counter and hove to behind it, opposite the men who had just come in. He pulled his spectacles down from the top of his bald head, where they had been resting, drew the coat toward him, looked at it for an instant, then raised his eyes till they met those of his customer.

“How much do you think it is worth?” he said, uttering the words slowly and casting a commiserating glance at the thinly-clad form of the man before him.

“I paid twenty dollars for it,” said the young man. “It is worth ten dollars, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes!” returned the pawnbroker. “Shall I loan you ten dollars on it?”

“If you please,” answered his customer, whose face brightened when he heard the pawnbroker’s words. He had thought he might get five dollars on the ulster. The prospect of getting ten made him feel like a man of affluence.

The pawnbroker opened a book and began to fill the blanks in one of the many printed slips it contained. One of the blanks he filled with his customer’s name, James Teague. That was his real name, not the one by which he was known to the stage and to fame. That was far more aristocratical.

As Rumble handed Teague the ticket and the ten dollars, he took a stealthy survey of his slender and poorly-clad form, then glanced toward the window on which great flakes of snow were constantly beating, driven against it by the wind that howled fiendishly as it went through the street, playing havoc with shutters and making the swinging sign-boards creak uncannily.

“Mr. Dixon,” said the pawnbroker, turning to Teague’s companion, “will not you and your friend wait awhile until the storm slackens? It is pleasanter here by the fire than it is outside.”

His visitors agreed with him and accepted his invitation. They seated themselves beside the stove which stood in the center of the room, and from which, through little plates of isinglass, shone cheerful light from a bed of fiery coals. Both leaned back in their chairs; both turned the palms of their hands toward the stove, to receive the grateful heat; and when the old pawnbroker joined them, smiling genially as he sank into his great arm-chair, which seemed to have been made expressly for his capacious form, the same thought came to both of his guests. To this thought Dixon gave expression.

“Mr. Rumble,” he asked, “how happened it that you became a pawnbroker?”

“Well, I might say that it was by chance,” replied Rumble. “I was not bred to the business.”

“I thought not,” answered Dixon, as he and his friend exchanged knowing glances.

“I was a weaver by trade,” continued Rumble, “and until two years ago worked at that calling in England, where I was born. But I made little money at it, and when an aunt, at her death, left me five hundred pounds, I decided to come to this country and go into a new business.”

“But what put it into your head to choose that of a pawnbroker?” asked Dixon.

“Because everybody told me that larger profits were made in it than in any other. You see I am getting on in years, and I have a daughter for whom I must provide. When I die I want to leave her enough to make her comfortable.”

The street door was opened and for a moment the room was made decidedly uncomfortable by a cold blast accompanied by driving snow. Again the windows rattled, the armor clanked, and the hanging suits swung and shook their armless sleeves in the air.

A tall, slight young man, clad in well-worn black clothes, stood by the door. Although his beardless pale face was the face of youth, it was not free from the marks of care, and in his large lustrous dark eyes there was a yearning look that spoke, as plainly as words, of desires unfulfilled.

Dixon and Teague exchanged glances which as much as said, “here’s another customer for the pawnbroker.”

“Is Miss Rumble in?” said the newcomer in a hesitating manner, as he turned toward the old pawnbroker.

“You wouldn’t have her out on such a night, would you, Mr. Maxwell?” said Rumble, laughing. “She is in the sitting-room,” he added, pointing to the rear; “go right in.”

But Maxwell did not go right in. He knocked lightly at the door, which in a moment was opened by a young woman, whose girlish face and willowy figure presented a vision of loveliness to those in the outer room.

As Maxwell disappeared in the sitting-room, Dixon and his friend again exchanged glances which showed that they had changed their opinion in regard to the newcomer’s relations with the pawnbroker.

“Well,” asked Teague, “have the profits in this business met your expectations?”

“I have not been in it long enough to tell, for I have not had an auction,” replied Rumble. “In one respect, however, I have been disappointed. Very few articles on which I have loaned money have been redeemed. I don’t understand it.”

“Perhaps you are too liberal with your customers,” said Dixon.

“You would not have me be mean with them, would you?” answered Rumble. “Why, you know they must be in very straitened circumstances to come to me. If I took advantage of people’s poverty, I would expect that after their death all the old women who have pawned their shawls with me would send their ghosts back to haunt me.”

“Well, I never thought of that,” murmured Dixon. “If their ghosts do come back what very lively times some pawnbrokers must have!”

“But if your customers do not redeem their goods, how do you expect to get your money back?” asked Teague.

“From auctions,” replied the pawnbroker.

“Oh!” was Teague’s response.

“You should have a good auctioneer,” said Dixon.

“The goods will bring a fair return,” replied Rumble quietly.

Although it was apparent that the pawnbroker had begun to mistrust his methods of doing business, it was also evident that he had great faith in auctions. He had attended auctions in his time and had bid on articles, only to see them go beyond the length of his modest purse. Now, he said to himself, the auctioneer would be on his side. The bidding would go up and up and up, and every bid would bring just so much more money into his pocket. Altogether he was well satisfied.

The faces of his guests showed that they at once admired and pitied the old man. They admired his generosity and his faith in human nature, and wished that other pawnbrokers with whom they had dealt had been like him; they pitied him, for they knew that he would have a rude awakening from his dream when the hammer of the auctioneer knocked down his goods and his hopes of getting back the money he had loaned on them.

“It is time we were going,” said Dixon, at last, as his eyes fell on a tall hall clock that stood in a corner, quietly marking the flight of time.

“Well, then let us go,” answered Teague, as he cast a dismal look at the windows, against which the snow was still driven in volleys by the wind that howled as loudly as ever.

It was the pawnbroker’s turn to pity his visitors.

“I am afraid you will take cold going from this warm room out into the storm,” he said to Teague. “Let me lend you an overcoat. You see I have more here than I have any use for,” he added jocosely.

“Oh, I could not think of letting you lend me one!” exclaimed Teague, blushing probably for the first time in his life.

Dixon laughed quietly as he enjoyed his friend’s confusion, while the pawnbroker looked among his stock for a coat that would fit Teague. Presently he advanced with one which he held out with both hands, as he said:

“Let me help you put it on.”

Teague protested.

“Why, you can bring it back to-morrow when you come this way,” added Rumble.

“But how do you know I will bring it back?” said Teague. “I am a stranger to you.”

“Oh, your friend is good surety for you,” replied the pawnbroker. “He is one of my few customers who have redeemed their pledges.”

A thundering blast struck the house. The wind beat at the windows as though it meant to smash them.

The sound of the tempest persuaded Teague to accept the pawnbroker’s offer. Without another word he caught the edge of either sleeve with his fingers and put his arms out behind, while Rumble put the overcoat on him. His arms, however, never found the ends of its capacious sleeves. It was almost large enough for a man of twice Teague’s size. Dixon had a fit of laughter at his friend’s expense, and even the pawnbroker could not forbear a smile.

“It is rather large for you, isn’t it?” said Rumble. “Let us try another.” And then he added: “Why, your own fits you best, of course.”

Then seizing Teague’s ulster, which still lay on his counter, he threw it over its owner’s shoulders, and bade the two men a hearty good-night as they went forth into the storm.

When he had succeeded in closing the door in the face of the tempest, he turned the key in the lock, and then, with a shiver, returned to the fire. As he stood before the stove he smiled and seemed to be chuckling over the thought that he had made Teague wear his own coat. His face wore a happy look. He had a clear conscience. He knew that he was a philanthropist in a small way, and had helped many a poor soul when the light of hope was burning dimly. But he took no credit to himself for this. The opportunity of doing a little good had come in his way, and he had not let it pass; that was all. Besides, as he often said, he expected to make money in his business. He simply conducted it on more liberal principles than most pawnbrokers. When he went into it he was told that a large proportion of pawnbrokers’ customers never redeemed their pledges, and that by advancing on goods pawned only a small percentage of their value, a great deal of money was made in the sale of unredeemed articles. He thought, therefore, that it was only just to loan on whatever was brought to him nearly as much money as he deemed it would bring at auction. To do anything less would, in his opinion, have been to cheat his customers. Besides, if he loaned more money on goods, in proportion to their value, than other pawnbrokers, his return in interest was also greater when the goods were redeemed. This was the peculiar principle on which he did business, and it is needless to say that he did a very large business, much to the disgust of all other pawnbrokers having shops in his neighborhood.

It was not strange, therefore, that, as he stood before the fire on that New Year’s eve, the face of old John Rumble wore a contented smile. The knowledge of having done good brings content, if it brings nothing else; and the pawnbroker knew that he had done well by his customers, and he thought, also, that his customers had done well by him, as he surveyed his full shelves.

While he stood there musing, the door of the sitting-room was opened and his daughter appeared.

“Come, father,” said the girl. “If you don’t hurry you will not have the punch ready by midnight.”

The old man’s face assumed an anxious expression, and he started with a roll for the sitting-room.

Not to have the punch ready to drink in the New Year at the stroke of midnight, would indeed be a calamity. He had never failed to welcome the New Year with a brimming cup. His father had done so before him, his daughter had done so with him, and he hoped his grandchildren would do so after him.

“Bring the punch-bowl, Fanny,” he said, as he went to a cupboard and took out a big black bottle.

His daughter brought him an old-fashioned blue china bowl and hot water, and while he made the punch, Maxwell told him of his plans for the coming year, about which he had been talking with Fanny.

Arthur Maxwell, who was a civil-engineer, had been followed by ill-fortune for some time. Indeed, he made Rumble’s acquaintance in a purely business way; but he called it good fortune that had led him to the pawnbroker’s door, for otherwise he would not have known Fanny. And now fortune seemed really to smile on him. He had secured a position with a railroad company, and was going to Colorado as an assistant of its chief engineer, who had charge of the construction of a railway there.

And then, hesitating, he told the old man that Fanny had promised to be his wife as soon as he could provide a home for her.

The pleasure which Rumble had expressed, as Maxwell told of his good fortune, was a little dashed by this last bit of information. Of course he had expected that his daughter would leave him sometime, and he had not been blind to the fact that Maxwell had gained a place in her affections; nevertheless, he was not quite prepared for this news, and it left a shadow on his kindly face.

“But, father,” said Fanny, advancing quickly, and placing her arm about his neck and her head on his shoulder, “Arthur and I hope that we shall all be together. He may return to New York; but if we have a home in the West you might live with us there.”

It was a loving, tender look which Rumble gave his daughter as she uttered these words.

At that moment the clock began to strike, horns were heard in the street, bells were rung, and in a lull in the storm the musical notes of a chime fell on their ears.

Rumble filled the cups, and then, raising his, he said:

“Here’s to the New Year, and here’s to your success, Arthur, and to Fanny’s happiness.”

And while the clock was still striking, the three drank in the New Year.

II

That year, however, was not a fortunate one for Rumble. His little fund had dwindled. He had, as he thought, barely enough to conduct his business to the time when he could legally have an auction. But how was he to do this and pay his rent? That problem troubled him. It was finally solved by the consent of his landlord, in consideration of a high rate of interest, to wait for his rent until Rumble had his auction. When this arrangement was made, the pawnbroker, who had been gloomy for some time, again wore a cheerful look. His daughter had advised him to pay his rent and curtail his business for the time being; but that, he said, would never do; and when he had tided over the crisis in his affairs, he went on distributing his money among the people who brought him their old clothes and their all but worthless jewellery.