The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 2, No. 14, December 1858

Just then a visitor entered. The President of the Society for the Reformation of Criminals came with a call for a public meeting.

"You know, my dear Sir," said the President, "that we don't expect you to pay; we consider the calls made upon your purse; but we want your name and influence."

Mr. Sandford signed the call, and made various inquiries concerning the condition and prospects of the society. The President left with a smile and a profusion of thanks. Before Mr. Sandford was fairly seated another person came in. It was the Secretary of the Society for the Care of Juvenile Offenders.

"We want to have a hearing before the city government," said he, "and we have secured the aid of Mr. Greene Satchel to present the case. Won't you give us your name to the petition, as one of the officers? No expense to you; some wealthy friends will take care of that. We don't desire to tax a man who lives on a salary, and especially one who devotes so much of his time and money to charity."

"Thank you for your consideration," said Mr. Sandford, signing his name in a fair round hand.

Once more the friends were left alone, and Monroe proceeded,—

"I was going on to say that perhaps you might know some chance for a safe investment."

Mr. Sandford appeared thoughtful for a moment.

"Yes,—I think I may find a good opportunity; seven per cent., possibly eight."

"Excellent!" said Monroe.

There was another interruption. A tall, stately person entered the office, wearing a suit of rather antique fashion, apparently verging on sixty years, yet with a clear, smooth skin, and a bright, steady eye. It was the Honorable Charles Wyndham, the representative of an ancient family, and beyond question one of the most eminent men in the city. Mr. Sandford might have been secretly elated at the honor of this visit, but he rose with a tranquil face and calmly bade Mr. Wyndham good morning.

"My young friend," began the great man, "I am happy to see you looking so well this morning. I have not come to put any new burdens on your patient shoulders; we all know your services and your sacrifices. This time we have a little recompense,—if, indeed, acts of beneficence are not their own reward. The Board are to have a social meeting at my house to-night, to make arrangements for the anniversary; and we think a frugal collation will not be amiss for those who have worked for the Society so freely and faithfully."

Mr. Sandford softly rubbed his white hands and bowed with a deprecatory smile.

"I know your modesty," said Mr. Wyndham, "and will spare you further compliment. Your accounts are ready, I presume? I intend to propose to the Board, that, as we have a surplus, you shall receive a substantial sum for your disinterested services."

They were standing near together, leaning on a tall mahogany desk, and the look of benevolent interest on one side, and of graceful humility on the other, was touching to see. Mr. Sandford laid his hand softly on his distinguished friend's shoulder, and begged him not to insist upon payment for services he had been only too happy to render.

"We won't talk about that now; and I must not detain you longer from business. Good morning!" And with the stateliest of bows, and a most gracious smile, the Honorable Mr. Wyndham retreated through the glass door.

When Mr. Sandford had bowed the visitor out, he returned to Monroe with an expression of weariness on his handsome face. "So many affairs to think of! so many people to see! Really, it is becoming vexatious. I believe I shall turn hunks, and get a reputation for downright stinginess."

"But your visitors are pleasant people," said Monroe,—"and the last, certainly, was a man whom most men think it an honor to know."

"You mean Wyndham. Oh, yes, Wyndham is a good fellow; a little prosy sometimes, but means well. We endure the Dons, you know, if they are slow."

Monroe thought his friend hardly respectful to the head of the Wyndham family, but set it down as an awkward attempt at being facetious.

"Well, about that money of yours?" said Sandford.

"I left it, as a loan on call, at Danforth's. But how do you propose to invest it?"

"I haven't fully made up my mind. Perhaps it is best you should not know. I will guaranty you eight per cent., and agree to return the principal on thirty days' notice. So you can try, meanwhile, and see if you can do better."

Monroe agreed to the proposal, and drew a check on the broker for the amount, for which Sandford signed a note, payable thirty days after presentation. The friends now separated, and Monroe went to his warehouse.

Stockholders began to come to look over the morning papers, and chat about the news, the stocks, and the degeneracy of the times. What a club is to an idle man of fashion,—what a sewing-society is to a scandal-loving woman,—what a billiard-room is to a man about town,—what the Athenæum is to the sober and steadfast bibliolater,—that is the Insurance Office to the retired merchant, bald and spectacled, who wanders like a ghost among the scenes of his former activity. The comfortable chairs, and in winter the social fires in open grates,—the slow-going and respectable newspapers, the pleasant view of State Street, and, above all, the authoritative disposition of public affairs upon the soundest mercantile principles of profit and loss,—all these constitute an attraction which no well-brought-up Bostonian, who has money to buy shares, cares to resist, at least until the increasing size of his buckskin shoes renders locomotion difficult.

To all these solid men Mr. Sandford gave a hearty good-morning, and a frank, cheerful smile. They took up the journals and looked over the telegraphic dispatches, thinking, as they were wont, that the old Vortex was lucky, above all Companies, in its honest, affable, and intelligent Secretary.

Mr. Sandford retired to his private room and looked hastily at his morning letters; but his mind did not seem to be occupied with the business before him. He rang the bell for the office-boy. "Tom," said he, "go and ask Mr. Fletcher to step down here a minute." He mused after the boy left, tapping his fingers on the table to the time of a familiar air. "If I can keep Fletcher from dabbling in stocks, I shall make a good thing of this. I shall keep a close watch on him. To manage men, there is nothing like knowing how to go to work at them. All the fools are jack-a-dandies, and one has only to find where the strings hang to make them dance as he will. I have Fletcher fast. I heard a fellow talking about taming a man, Rarey-fashion, by holding out a pole to him with a bunch of flowers. Pooh! The best thing is a bit of paper with a court seal at the corner, stuck on the end of a constable's staff."

Mr. Fletcher entered presently,—the office where he was employed being only a few doors off. He was a slender young man, with strikingly regular features and delicate complexion; his mobile mouth was covered by a fringy moustache, and his small keen eyes were restless to a painful degree. The sudden summons appeared to have flustered him; for his eyes danced more than usual, giving him the startled and perplexed look of a hunted animal at bay. He was speedily reassured by Sandford's bland voice and encouraging smile.

"A new opening, Fletcher,—a 'pocket,' as the Californians call it. Is there any chance to operate? Just look about. I have the funds ready. Something safe, and fat, too."

"Plenty of chances to those who look for them," replied Fletcher. "The men who are hard up are the best customers; they will stand a good slice off; and if a man is sharp, he can deal as safely with them as with the A 1s, who turn up their noses at seven per cent."

"You understand, I see."

"I think I ought. Papyrus, only yesterday, was asking if anything could be done for him,—about fifteen hundred; offers Sandbag's note with only thirty days to run. The note was of no use to him, because the banks require two names, and his own isn't worth a straw. But Sandbag is good."

"We'll take it. About a hundred off?"

Fletcher nodded.

"I've plenty more to invest, Fletcher. Let me know if you see any paper worth buying."

Fletcher nodded again, but looked expectant, much like a dog (not wishing to degrade him by the comparison) waiting with longing eyes while his master eats his morning mutton-chop.

"Fletcher," said Sandford, "I'll make this an object to you. I don't mind giving you five dollars, as soon as we have Papyrus's indorsement on the note. And, speaking of the indorsement, let him sign his name, and then bring me the note. I wish to put on the name of the person to whose order it is to be payable."

"Then it is on the account"—

"Of whom it may concern," broke in Sandford. "Don't stand with your mouth open. That is my affair."

"But if you pay me only five dollars"—

"That is so much clear gain to you. Do you suppose that we—my backer and I—shall run the risk for nothing? Good morning! Attend to your own affairs at Danforth's properly. Don't burn your fingers with any new experiments. There's a crash coming and stocks will fall. Good morning!"

The Secretary looked relieved when Fletcher closed the door, and speedily dispatched the necessary letters and orders for the Company. Then leaving the affairs of the Vortex in the hands of his clerk, he strolled out for his usual lunch. Wherever he walked, he was met with smiles and greetings of respect. He turned into an alley, entered an eating-house, and took his place at a table; he ordered and ate his lunch, and then left, with a nod towards the counter. The landlord, who began on credit, expected no pay from the man who procured him money accommodations. No waiter had ever seen a sixpence from his purse. How should a man be expected to pay, who spent his substance and his time so freely in charity?

CHAPTER III.

CONTAINING SOME CONFESSIONS NOT INTENDED FOR THE PUBLIC EAR

Miss Marcia Sandford, after breakfast, was sitting in her chamber with her widowed sister-in-law, who had come to spend a few months with her late husband's family. The widow no longer wore the roses of youth, but was yet on friendly terms with Time; indeed, so quietly had their annual settlements passed off, that it would have puzzled any one not in their confidence to tell how the account stood. The simplicity of her dress, the chastened look, and the sobriety of phrase, of which her recent affliction was the cause, might have hinted at thirty-five; but when her clear, placid eye was turned upon you, and you saw the delicate flush deepening or vanishing upon a smooth cheek, and noted the changeful expression that hovered like a spiritual presence around her mouth, it would have been treason to think of a day beyond twenty. She had known but little of Marcia, and that little had shown her only as a lover of dress and of admiration, besides being capricious to a degree unusual even in a spoiled favorite.

A musical soirée was under consideration. Marcia was a proficient upon the harp and piano, and, as she had heard that Mr. Greenleaf, the handsome painter, as she called him, was a fine singer, she determined to practise some operatic duets with him, that should move all her musical friends to envy.

"You seem to have taken a strong liking to this Mr. Greenleaf, Marcia."

"Yes, Lydia," replied the beauty, "I do like him, exceedingly,—what I have seen of him. He will do—for a month or so. People are frequently quite charming at first, like fresh bouquets,—but dull and tame enough when the dew is off."

"But you can't have a new admirer, as you have fresh flowers, every day."

"That's true, and pity 'tis, 'tis true."

"What a female Bluebeard you are!"

"Wouldn't you, now, like to meet some new, delightful person every day? Consider how prosaic a man is, after you know all about him."

"I always find something new in a man really worth knowing."

"Do you? I wish I could. I always look them through as I used to my toys. I never cared for my 'crying babies,' after I found out what made them squeak."

"I am afraid the comparison will hold out farther than you intended. You were never satisfied with your toys until you had not only explored their machinery, but smashed them into the bargain."

"But men stand it better than toys. If they get smashed, as you say, they heal wonderfully. I sometimes think, that, like lobsters, they can repair their injuries by new growths,—fresh claws, and fins, and feelers."

"Complimentary, truly! but I notice that you don't speak of vital organs."

"Hearts, you mean, I suppose. That is an obsolete idea,—a relic of superstition."

"But how many of these broken idols have you thrown aside, Marcia? Have you kept account?"

"Dear me! no! Why should I?"

"It would be interesting, I think, to a student of social statistics, to know how many engagements there are to one marriage, how many offers to one engagement, how many flirtations to one offer, and how many tender advances to one flirtation."

"Oh, Lydia! Love and Arithmetic! they never went together. I leave all calculations to my wise and busy brother. I like to wander like a hummingbird, that keeps no account of the flowercups it has sipped out of."

"Let us reckon. I can help you, perhaps. I have heard you talk of half a dozen. There is Colonel Langford,—one."

"Handsome, proud, and shallow. Let him go!"

"There is Lieutenant Allen,—two."

"Fierce, impatient, and exacting. He can go also. I had as lief be loved by a lion."

"Next is Mr. Lanman,—three."

"Wily, plausible, passionate, and treacherous. He is only a cat in a new sphere of existence."

"Then there is Denims,—I am not sure about the order,—four."

"Rich, vain, and stupid;—there never was such a dolt."

"But you kept him for a longer time than usual."

"Yes, rather; but he was too dull to understand my ironical compliments, or to resent my studied neglect."

"Jaunegant makes five."

"Oh, the precious crony of my brother Charles! The best specimen of the dandy race. The man who gives so much love to himself and his clothes, that he has none to spare for any one else. But, Lydia, this is tedious; we shall never get through at this rate. Besides," with a mock-sentimental air, "you have not been here long enough to know the melancholy history,—to count the wrecks that are strewn along the coast, where the Siren resorts. Let me take up the list. Corning, who really loved me, (six,) and went to sea to cure the heart-ache. I heard of him in State Street a month ago,—with a blue shirt and leather belt, and chewing a piece of tobacco as large as his thumb. He seemed happy as a king."

"I saw a kind of tobacco advertised as 'The Solace';—the name was given by some disappointed swain, I suppose."

"Probably," said Marcia, smiling. "Then there was Outrack, (seven,) who was so furious at the refusal, that he immediately married the gay Miss Flutter Budget, forty-five, short, stout, and fifty thousand dollars,—he twenty-six, tall, slender, and some distant expectations. I heard him, at a party, call her 'Dear'!"

"I don't think you get on any faster than I did. We shall have to finish the tour of the portrait-gallery another day."

"You are not tired? I wanted to tell you of several more. Yet I don't know why I should. I declare to you seriously, that I never before mentioned the names of these persons in this way, nor referred to them as rejected lovers."

"I have no doubt of it. It has seemed like a fresh, spontaneous confession."

"There is some magic about you, Sister Lydia. You invite confidence; or rather, you seem to be like one of those chemical agents that penetrate everything; there's no resisting you. Don't protest. I know what you would say. It isn't your curiosity. You are no Paulina Pry; if you were, precious little you would get from me."

"But, Marcia, let me return a moment to what you were saying. Did the reason never occur to you, why you so soon become tired of your admirers? You see through them, you say. Is it not possible that a lady who has the reputation of caprice,—a flirt, as the world is apt to call her,—though ever so brilliant, witty, and accomplished, may not attract the kind of men that can bear scrutiny, but only the butterfly race, fit for a brief acquaintance? Believe me, Marcia, there is a reason for everything, and, with all your beauty and fascination, you must yourself have the element of constancy, to win the admiration of the best and worthiest men."

"So, you are going to preach?" said Marcia, rather crestfallen.

"No, I don't preach. But what I see, I ought to tell you; I should not be a good sister otherwise."

"I'll think about it. But now for the musical party. I mean to send for Mr. Greenleaf, to practise some songs and duets. He is not a butterfly, I am sure."

"But, Marcia, is it well, is it right, for you to try to fascinate this new friend of yours, unless you feel something more than a transient interest in him?"

"How can I tell what interest I shall feel in him, until I know him better?"

"But you know his circumstances and his prospects. You are not the woman to marry a poor painter. You have too many wants; or rather, you have become accustomed to luxuries that now seem to be necessaries."

"True, I haven't the romance for love in a cottage. But a painter is not necessarily a bad match; if he doesn't become rich, he may be distinguished. And besides, no one knows what will happen from the beginning of an acquaintance. We will enjoy the sunshine of to-day; and if to-morrow brings a darker sky, we must console ourselves as we can."

"What an Epicurean! Well, Marcia, you are not a child; you must act for yourself."

Marcia made no reply, but sat down to her desk to write a note; and her sister-in-law soon after went to her own room.

During all this conversation, Mrs. Sandford was struck by the tone which the beautiful coquette assumed. Her words were aptly chosen, her sentences smoothly constructed; she never hesitated; and there was an ever-present air of consciousness, that left no conviction of sincerity. Whether she uttered sentiments of affection, or sharp criticism upon character, there was the same level flow of language, the same nicely modulated intonation. There was no flash of enthusiasm, none of those outbursts in which the hearer feels sure that the heart has spoken. Mrs. Sandford was thoroughly puzzled. Marcia had never been otherwise than kind; in fact; she seemed to be studiously careful of the feelings of others, except when her position as reigning belle made it necessary to cut a dangler. This methodical speech and unruffled grace of manner might be only the result of discipline. Truth and honesty might exist as well under this artificial exterior as in a more impulsive nature. But the world generally thinks that whoever habitually wears a smiling mask has some secret end to serve thereby. "I like this painter, Greenleaf," she soliloquized, "and I mean to look out for him. I am persuaded that Marcia would never marry him; and I think he is too sensitive, too manly, to be a fit subject for her experiments."

CHAPTER IV.

CONCERNING CONSTANCY AND THE AFFINITIES

"A Musical soirée? Famous, my boy!" said Easelmann, as he sat, smoking as usual, in his fourth-story atelier with Greenleaf, watching the sun go down. "Making progress, I see. You have nothing to do; the affair will take care of itself."

"What affair?"

"Don't be stupid (puff). Your affair with Miss Sandford (puff). There's a wonderful charm in music (puff). Two such young people might fall in love, to be sure, without singing together (puff). But music is the true aqua regia; it dissolves all into its own essence. A piano and a tenor voice will do more than a siege of months, though aided by a battery of bouquets."

"How you run on! I have called twice,—once with you, and the second time by the lady's invitation. Besides, I told you—indiscreetly, I am afraid—that I am really engaged to be married."

"Oh, yes, I have not forgotten the touching story (puff); but we get over all things, even such passions as yours. We are plants, that thrive very well for a while in the pots we sprouted in, but after a time we must have a change of soil."

"I don't think we outgrow affection, honor, truth."

"That is all very pretty; but our ideas of honor and truth are apt to change."

"I don't believe you are half so bad a fellow, Easelmann, as you would have me think. You utter abominable sentiments, but you behave as well as other people—nearly."

"Thank you. But listen a moment. (Laying down his pipe.) Do you have the same tastes you had at eighteen? I don't refer to the bumpkins with whom you played when a boy, and who, now that you have outgrown them, look enviously askance at you. I don't care to dwell on your literary tastes,—how you have outgrown Moore and Festus-Bailey, and are fast getting through Byron. I won't pose you, by showing how your ideas in Art have changed,—what new views you have of life, society;—but think of your ideas of womanly, or rather, girlish beauty at different ages. By Jove, I should like to see your innamoratas arranged in chronological order!"

"It would be a curious and instructive spectacle."

"You may well say that! Let me sketch a few of them."

"I think I could do it better."

"No, every man thinks his own experience peculiar; but life has a wonderful sameness, after all. Besides, you would flatter the portraits. Not to begin too early, and without being particular about names, there was, first, Amanda, aged fourteen; face circular, cheeks cranberry, eyes hazel, hair brown and wavy, awkward when spoken to, and agreeable only in an osculatory way. Now, being twenty-five, she is married, has two children, is growing stout, and always refers to her lord and master as 'He,' never by any accident pronouncing his name. Second, Julia; sixteen, flaxen-haired, lithe, not ungraceful, self-possessed, and perhaps a little pert. She is unmarried; but, having fed her mind with no more solid aliment than country gossip, no sensible man could talk to her five minutes. Third, Laura; eighteen, black hair, with sharp outlines on the temples, eyes heavily shaded and coquettishly managed, jewelry more abundant than elegant, repeats poetry by the page, keeps a scrap-book, and writes endless letters to her female friends. She is still romantic, but has learned something from experience,—is not so impressible as when you knew her. I won't stop to sketch the pale poetess, nor the dancing hoyden, nor the sweet blue-eyed creature that lisped, nor the mature and dangerously-charming widow that caused some perturbations in your regular orbit.

"Now, my dear fellow," Easelmann continued, "you fancied that your whole existence depended upon the hazel or the blue or the black eyes, in turn; but at this time you could see their glances turned in rapture upon your enemy, if you have one, without a pang."

"One would think you had just been reading Cowley's charming poem, 'Henrietta first possest.' But what is the moral to your entertaining little romance? That love must always be transient?"

"Not necessarily, but generally. We are travelling at different rates of progress and on different planes. Happy are the lovers who advance with equal step, cultivating similar tastes, with agreeing theories of life and its enjoyments!"

"Wise philosopher, how comes it, that, with so just an appreciation of the true basis of a permanent attachment, you remain single? I see a gray hair or two, not only on your head, but in that favorite moustache of yours."

"Gray? Oh, yes! gray as a badger, but immortally young. As for marriage, I'm rather past that. I had my chance; I lost it, and shall not throw again."

Easelmann did not seem inclined to open this sealed book of his personal history, and the friends were silent. Greenleaf at length broke the pause.

"I acknowledge the justice of your ideas in their general application, but in my own case they do not apply at all. I was not in my teens when I went to Innisfield, but in the maturity of such faculties as I have. Alice satisfies my ideal of a lovely, loving woman. She has capabilities, taste, a thirst for improvement, and will advance in everything to which I am led."

"I won't disturb your dreams, nor play the Mephistopheles, as you sometimes call me. I am rather serious to-day. But here you are where every faculty is stimulated, where you unconsciously draw in new ideas with your daily breath. Alice remains in a country town, without society, with few books, with no opportunity for culture in Art or in the minor graces of society. You are not ready to marry; your ambition forbids it, and your means will not allow it. And before the time comes when you are ready to establish yourself, think what a difference there may be between you! The thought is cruel, but worth your consideration none the less.—But let us change the subject. What are you doing? Any new orders?"