The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 03, No. 15, January, 1859

In the buzz of voices that followed, Marcia commenced a lively colloquy with Greenleaf, as though she desired to leave him under the impressions with which the evening commenced. The amusements of summer were discussed, the merits of watering-places and other fashionable resorts, when Greenleaf accidentally mentioned that he and Easelmann were going presently to Nahant.

"Delightful!" she exclaimed, "to enjoy the ocean and coast-scenery after the rush of company has left! While the fashionable season lasts, there is nothing but dress and gossip. You are wise to avoid it."

"I think so," he replied. "Neither my tastes nor my pursuits incline me to mingle in what is termed fashionable society. It makes too large demands upon one's time, to say nothing of the expense or the unsatisfactory nature of its pleasures."

"I agree with you. So you are going to sketch. Would not you and Mr. Easelmann like some company? You will not pore over your canvas all day, surely."

"We should be delighted; I should, certainly. And if you will look at my friend's face just now, as he is talking to your beautiful sister-in-law, you will see that he would not object."

"Do you think Lydia is beautiful?"

The tone was quiet, but the glance questioning.

"Not classically beautiful,—but one of the most lovely, engaging women

I ever met."

"Yes,—she is charming, truly. I don't think her strikingly handsome, though; but tastes rarely agree, you know. I only asked to ascertain your predilections."

"I understand," thought Greenleaf; but he made no further reply.

"Don't be surprised, if you see us before your stay is over,—that is, if Lydia and I can induce Charles to go down with us. Henry is too busy, I suppose."

Charles passed just then; he was endeavoring to form a cotillon, declaring that talk was slow, and, now that the music was over, a dance would be the thing.

"Charles, you will go to Nahant for a week,—won't you?"

"What! now?"

"In a day or two."

"Too cold, Sister Marcia; too late, altogether."

"But you were unwilling to go early in the season."

"Too early is as bad as too late; it is chilly there till the company comes. No billiards, no hops, no pwetty girls, no sailing, no wides on the beach, no pwomenades on the moonlight side of the piazza. No, my deah, Nahant is stupid till the curwent sets that way."

"Southern visitors warm the coast like the Gulf Stream, I suppose," said Greenleaf.

"Pwecisely so,"—then, after the idea had reached his brain, adding,

"Vewy good, Mr. Gweenleaf! Vewy good!"

The soirée ended as all seasons of pleasure must, and without the dance on which Charles had set his heart. The friends walked home together. Greenleaf was rather silent, but Easelmann at last made him talk.

"What do you think of the beauty, now?" the elder asked.

"Still brilliant, bewitching, dangerous."

"You are not afraid of her?"

"Upon my soul, I believe I am."

"What has frightened you? What faults or defects have you seen?"

"Two. One is, she uses perfumes too freely. Stop that laugh of yours!

It's a trifling thing, but it is an indication. I don't like it."

"Fastidious man, what next? Has she more hairs on one eyebrow than the other? Or did you see a freckle of the size of a fly's foot?"

"The second is in her manner, which, in spite of its ease and apparent artlessness, has too much method in it. Her suavity is no more studied than her raptures. She is frosted all over,—frosted like a cake, I mean, and not with ice. And, to follow the image, I have no idea what sort of a compound the tasteful confectionery covers."

"Well, if that is all, I think she has come out from under your scrutiny pretty well. I should like to see the woman in whom you would not find as many faults."

"If a man does not notice trifles, he will never learn much of character. With women especially, one should be as observing as a Huron on the trail of an enemy."

"Ferocious hunter, who supposed there were so many wiles in your simple heart?"

"Odd enough, there seemed to be a succession of warnings this evening. I was dazzled at first, I own,—almost hopelessly smitten. But Sandford gave me a jolt by bringing in business; he thinks there is to be a smash, and advises me to make hay while the sun shines. Then I talked with Mrs. Sandford."

"Now we come to the interesting part—to me!"

"But I shan't gratify you, you mouser! It is enough to say, that in a few simple words, uttered, I am sure, without forethought, she placed my frivolity before me, and then showed me what I might and ought to be. I was like a grasshopper before, drunk with dew, and then sobered by a plunge into a clear, cool spring. Besides, I have thought more about your advice in regard to the lady, you dissembling old rascal! For you know that in such matters you never mean what you say; and when you counsel me to fall in love with a coquette, you only wish me to be warned in time and make good my escape. If it were light enough, I should see that grizzly moustache of yours curl like a cat's, this minute. You can grin, you amiable Mephistopheles, but I know you! No, my dear Easelmann, I am cured. I shall take hold of my pencils with new energy. I will save money and go abroad, and–I had nearly forgotten her! I will take a new look at my darling's sweet face in my pocket, and, like Ulysses, I'll put wax into my ears when I meet the singing Siren again."

"I hope your rustic fiancée is not clairvoyant?"

"I hope not."

"If she is, she will cry her little eyes out to-night."

"Don't speak of it, I beg of you."

"You are getting lugubrious; we shall have to change the subject. Love affects people in as many different ways as wine. Some are exalted,—their feet spurn the earth, their heads are in the clouds; some pugnacious, walking about with a chip on the shoulder; others are stupidly happy,—their faces wearing a sickly smile that becomes painful to look at; others again, like you, melancholy as a wailing tenor in the last act of 'Lucia.' Like learning, a little draught of love is dangerous; drink largely and be sober. The charmer will not cast so powerful a spell upon you the next time, and you will come away more tranquil."

There was just the least shade of sarcasm in the tone, and Greenleaf, as usual, was a little puzzled. For Easelmann was a study,—always agreeable, never untruthful, but fond of launching an idea like a boomerang, to sweep away, apparently, but to return upon some unexpected curve. His real meaning could not always be gathered from any isolated sentence; and to strangers he was a living riddle. But Greenleaf had passed the excitable period, and had lapsed into a state of moody repentance and grim resolution.

"You need not tempt me," he said, "even if that were your object, which I doubt, you sly fox! And if you mean only to pique my pride in order to cure my inconstancy to my betrothed, I assure you it is quite unnecessary. I shall have too much self-respect to place myself in the way of temptation again."

"Now you are growing disagreeable; the virtuous resolutions of a diner-out, on the headachy morning after, are never pleasant to hear. There is so much implied! One does not like to follow the idea backward to its naughty source. The penitent should keep his sermons and soda-water to himself."

"Well, here we are at home. We have walked a mile, and yet it seems but a furlong. If I were not so disagreeable as you say, we would take another turn about the Common."

"Sleep will do you more good, my friend; and I think I'll go home. I haven't smoked since dinner. Good night!"

Greenleaf went to his room, but not at once to sleep; his nerves were still too tremulous. With the picture of Alice before him, he sat for hours in a dreamy reverie; and when at last he went to bed, he placed the miniature under his pillow.

CHAPTER VIII.

A YOUNG FINANCIER AT HOME

John Fletcher lived in a small, but neat house at the South End. Slender and youthful as he looked, he was not a bachelor, but had a pretty, fragile-looking wife, to whom he was married when only nineteen years of age. Such a union could have been brought about only by what the world calls an indiscretion, or from an unreflecting, hasty impulse. Girl as Mrs. Fletcher seemed to be, she was not without prudence as a housekeeper; and as far as she could command her inconstant temper, she made home attractive to her husband. But neither of them had the weight of character to act as a counterpoise to the vacillation of the other. It was not a sun and a planet, the one wheeling about the other, nor yet were they double stars, revolving about a centre common to both; their movements were like nothing so much as the freaks of a couple of pith-balls electrically excited, at one time drawn furiously together, and then capriciously repelling each other. Their loves, caresses, spats, quarrels, poutings, and reconciliations were as uncertain as the vagaries of the weather, as little guided by sense or reason as the passions of early childhood. On one subject they agreed at all times, and that was to pet and spoil most thoroughly their infant daughter, a puny, weak-voiced, slender-limbed, curly-haired child, with the least possible chance of living to the age of womanhood.

Fletcher was confidential clerk to the great banking-house of Foggarty, Danforth, and Dot. The senior partner rarely took any active part in business, but left it to the management of Danforth and Dot. Danforth had the active brain to plan, Dot the careful, cool faculty to execute. Fletcher had a good salary,—so large that he could always reserve a small margin for "outside operations," by which in one way or another he generally contrived to lose.

The god he worshipped was Chance; by which I do not refer at all to any theory of the creation of matter, but to the course and order of human affairs. His drawers were full of old lottery-schemes; he did not long buy tickets, because he was too shrewd; but he made endless calculations upon the probability of drawing prizes,—provided the tickets were really all sold, and the wheel fairly managed. A dice-box was always at hand upon the mantel. He had portraits of celebrated racers, both quadruped and biped, and he could tell the fastest time ever made by either. His manipulation of cards was, as his friends averred, one of the fine arts; and in all the games he had wrought out problems of chances, and knew the probability of every contingency. A stock-list was always tacked above his secretary, and another constantly in his pocket. And this evening he had brought home a revolving disk, having figures of various values engraved around its edge, carefully poised, with a hair-spring pointer, like a hand on a dial-plate.

"What have you got, John?" asked his wife.

"Only a toy, a plaything, deary. See it spin!" and he gave the disk a whirl.

"But what is it for?"

"Oh, nothing in particular. I thought we could amuse ourselves in turning it for the largest throws."

"Is that all? It is a heavy thing, and must have cost a good lot of money."

"Not much. Now see! You know I have tried to show you how chance rules the world; and if you once get the chances in your favor, all is right. Now suppose we take this wheel, and on the number 2,000 we paste 'Michigan Central,' 'Western' over 1,000, 'Vermont and Massachusetts' over 500, 'Cary Improvement' over 400, and so on. Now, after a certain number of revolutions, by keeping account, we get the chance of each stock to come up."

"I don't understand."

"I don't suppose you do; you don't give your mind to it, as I do."

"But you know you had the same notion once about cards, and pasted the names of the stocks on the court cards; and then you shuffled and cut and dealt and turned up, night after night."

"Little doxy! small piece of property! you'd best attend to that baby, and other matters that you know something about."

The "little doxy" felt strongly inclined to cry, but she kept back the sobs and said, "You know, John, how sullen and almost hateful you were before, when you were bewitched after those mean stocks. I don't think you should meddle with such things; they are too big for you. Let the rich fools gamble, if they want to; if they lose, they can afford it, and nobody cares but to laugh at them. Oh, John, you promised me you wouldn't gamble any more."

"Well, I don't gamble. I haven't been to a faro bank for a year. I stay away just to please you, although I know all the chances, and could break the bank as easy as falling off a log."

"You don't gamble, you say, but you are uneasy till you put all your money at risk on those paper things. I don't see the difference."

"You needn't see the difference; nobody asked you to see the difference. Gamble, indeed! there isn't a man on the street that doesn't keep an eye on the paper things, as you call them."

"You see what I told you. You are cross. You like anything better (a sob) than your poor (another) neglected wife."

The sobs now thickened into a cry, and, with streaming eyes, she picked up the puny child and declared she was going to bed. To this proposal the moody man emphatically assented. But as Mrs. Fletcher passed near her husband, the child reached out its slender arms and caught hold of him by his cravat, screaming, "Papa! papa! I stay, papa!"

"Let go!" roughly exclaimed the amiable father. But she held the tighter, and shouted, "Papa! my papa!"

What sudden freak overcame his anger probably not even Fletcher himself could tell. But, turning towards his wife, who was supporting the child, whose little fingers still held him fast, his face cleared instantly, and, with a sudden movement, he drew the surprised and delighted woman down upon his knee, and loaded her with every form of childish endearment. Her tears and sorrows vanished together, like the dew.

"Little duck," said he, "if I were alone, I shouldn't care for any more money. I know I can always take care of myself. But for your sake I want to be independent,—rich, if you please. I want to be free. I want to meet that wily, smooth, plausible, damned, respectable villain face to face, and with as much money as he."

His eyes danced with a furious light and motion, and the fringy moustache trembled over his thin and sensitive mouth. But in a moment he repented the outbreak; for his wife's face blanched then, and the tears leaped from her eyes.

"Oh, John," she exclaimed, "what is this awful secret? I know that something is killing you. You mutter in sleep; you are sullen at times; and then you break out in this dreadful way."

Fletcher meditated. "I can't tell her; 'twould kill her, and not do any good either. No, one good streak of luck will set me up where I can defy him. I'll grin and bear it."

"What is it, John? Tell your poor little wife!"

"Oh, nothing, my dear. I do some business for Sandford, who is apt to be domineering,—that's all. To-day he provoked me, and when I am mad it does me good to swear; it's as natural as lightning out of a black cloud."

"It may do you good to swear, John; but it makes the cold chills run over me. Why do you have anything to do with anybody that treats you so? You are so changed from what you were! Oh, John, something is wrong, I know. Your face looks sharp and inquiring. You are thin and uneasy. There's a wrinkle in your cheek, that used to be as smooth as a girl's."

She patted his face softly, as it rested on her shoulder; but he made no reply save by an absent, half-audible whistle.

"You don't answer me, John, dear!"

"I've nothing especial to say, doxy,—only that I will wind up with

Sandford as soon as we finish the business in hand."

"The business in hand? Has he anything to do with Foggarty, Danforth, and Dot?"

Fletcher was not skilful under cross-examination. So he simply answered, "No," and then stopping her mouth with kisses, promised to explain the matter another day.

"Well, John, I am tired; I think I'll take baby and go to bed. Don't sit up and get blue over your troubles!"

As she left the room, Fletcher drew a long breath. What an accent of despair was borne on that sigh! His busy brain was active in laying plans which his vacillating will could never execute without help. Often before, he had determined to confront Sandford and defy him; but as often he had quailed before that self-possessed and imperious man. What hope was there, then, for this timid, crouching man, as long as the hand of his haughty master was outstretched in command? None!

CHAPTER IX.

STATE STREET

The stringency of the money-market began to frighten even Mr. Sandford who had been predicting a panic. There had been but few failures, and those were generally of houses that ought to fail, being insolvent from losses or mismanagement. Mr. Sandford studied over his sheet of bills payable and receivable almost hourly. The amount intrusted to him by Monroe had been loaned out; for which he was now very sorry, as the rate of interest had nearly doubled since he made the last agreement. This, however, was but a small item in his accounts; other transactions of greater magnitude occupied his attention. As he looked over the array of promisors and indorsers, he said to himself, "I am safe. If these men fail, it will be because the universal bottom has dropped out and chaos come again. If anybody is shaky, it is Stearine. He believes, though, that Bullion will help him through, and extend that note. Perhaps he will. Perhaps, again, he will have enough to do to keep on his own legs. He fancies himself strong because he owns the most of the Neversink Mills. But he doesn't know what I know, that Kerbstone, the treasurer of the Mills, is in the street every day, looking like a gambler when his last dollar is on the table. A few more turns of the screw and down goes Kerbstone. Who knows that the Mills won't tumble, too, and Bullion after them? He may go hang; but we must look after Stearine, and prop him, unnecessary. That twenty thousand is more than we can afford to lose just now. Lucky, there he comes!"

Mr. Stearine entered, not with his usual smile, but with an expression like that of a man trying to be jolly with the toothache. A short, but dexterous cross-examination showed to Sandford, that, if the twenty-thousand-dollar note could be extended over to better times, Stearine was safe. But the note was soon due, and Bullion might be unable or unwilling to renew; in which case, the Vortex would have to meet it. That was a contingency to be provided against; for Mr. Sandford did not intend that the public should know that the credit of the Company had been used for private purposes by its officers. He therefore called in Mr. Fayerweather, the President, and the affair was talked over and settled between them.

"One thing more," said Sandford. "Suppose any one should get wind of this, and grow suspicious;—Bullion himself might be foolish enough to let the cat out of the bag;—we might find the shares of the Vortex in the market, and the bears running them down to an uncomfortable figure."

"True enough. We must stop that."

"The only way is to keep a sharp lookout, and if any of the stock is offered, to buy it up. Half a dozen of us can take all that will be likely to come into market."

"How many shares do you own, Sandford?" asked Mr. Fayerweather, with a quizzical look. "Is this a nice little scheme of yours to run them off at par? It's a shrewd dodge."

"You do me wrong," said Sandford, with a look of wounded innocence. "I merely want to sustain the credit of the Company."

"Oh, no doubt!" said the President. "Well, we will agree, then, not to let the shares fall below ninety, say. It would be suspicious, I think, to hold them higher than that, when money is two and a half per cent. a month."

"Very well. You will see to this? Be careful what men you speak to."

Mr. Sandford, being left alone, bethought him of Monroe. He did not wish to give him a statement of affairs; he had put him off once, and must find some way to satisfy him. How was it to be done? The financier meditated. "I have it," said he; "I'll send him a quarter's interest in advance. That's as much as I can spare in these times, when interest grows like those miraculous pumpkin-vines out West." He drew a check for two hundred dollars, and dispatched it to Monroe by letter.

So Mr. Sandford had all things snug. The Vortex was going on under close-reefed topsails. If the notes he held were paid as they matured, he would have money for new operations; if not, he had arranged that the debtors should be piloted over the bar and anchored in safely till the storm should blow over. Everything was secured, as far as human foresight could anticipate.

Mr. Sandford had now but little use for Fletcher's services, except to look after his debtors,—to know who was "shinning" in the street, or "kite-flying" with accommodation-paper. Still he did not admit the agent into his confidence. But this active and scheming mind was not long without employment. Mr. Bullion had seen him in frequent communication with Sandford, and thereby formed a high opinion of his shrewdness and tact; for he knew that Sandford was very wary in selecting his associates. He sought Fletcher.

"Young man," said Bullion, pointing his wisp of an eyebrow at him, "do you want a job? Few words and keep mum. Yes or no?"

"Yes," said Fletcher, decidedly.

"I like your pluck," said Bullion.

"It doesn't take much pluck to follow Mr. Bullion's lead."

"None of your nonsense. How do you know anything about me, or what I am going to do? I may fail to-morrow,—God forbid!—but when the wind comes, it's the tall trees that are knocked over."

Fletcher thought the comparison rather ludicrous for a man standing on such remarkably short pegs, but he said nothing.

"I mean to sell a few shares of stock, and I want you to do the business. I am not to be known in it."

Fletcher bowed, and asked what the stocks were.

"No matter; any you can sell to advantage. I haven't a share, but I needn't tell you that doesn't make any difference."

"Let me understand you clearly," said Fletcher.

"Sell under. For instance, take a stock that sells to-day at ninety-four; offer to deliver it five days hence at ninety. To-morrow offer it a peg lower, and so on, till the market is easier. When the first contract is up, we shall get the stock at eighty-eight, or less, perhaps,—deliver to the buyers, and pocket the difference."

"But it may not fall."

"It's bound to fall. People that hold stock must sell to pay their notes. Every day brings a fresh lot of shares to the hammer."

"But the bulls may corner you; they will try mightily to keep prices up."

"But they can't corner, I tell you; there are too many of them in distress. Besides, we'll spread; we won't put all our eggs into one basket. If I stuck to 'bearing' one stock, the holders might get all the shares and break me by keeping them so that I couldn't comply with my contracts. I shan't do it. I'll pitch into the 'fancies' mainly; they are held by speculators, who must be short, and they'll come down with a run."

"How deep shall I go in?"

"Fifty thousand, to begin with. However, there won't be many transfers actually made; the bulls will merely pay the differences."

"Or else waddle out of the street lame ducks."

Bullion rubbed his hands, while his eyes shone with a colder glitter.

"Well, you are a bear, truly," said Fletcher, with unfeigned admiration,—"a real Ursa Major."

"To be sure, I'm a bear. What's the use in being a bull in times like these, to be skinned and sold for your hide and tallow?"

"The market is falling, and no mistake."

"Yes, and will fall lower. Stocks haven't been down since '37 so low as you will see them a month from now."

Fletcher bowed–and waited. Bullion pointed the eyebrow again.

"You don't want to begin on an uncertainty. I see. Sharp. Proper enough. I'll give you ten per cent. of the profits,—you to pay the commissions. Each day's work to be set down, and at the end of each week I'll give you a note for your share. That do? I thought it would. I offer a liberal figure, for I think you know something, youngster. Use your judgment, now. Consult me, of course; but mum's the word. If any stock is pushed in, lay hold, and don't be afraid. The holders must sell, and they must sacrifice. We'll skin 'em, by G—," said Bullion, with an excitement that was rare in a cool, hard head like his. Then thinking he had been too outspoken, he resumed his former concise manner.