Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 3, No. 18, April, 1859 by Various

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"La! did ye?" said the admiring Biddy.

Tinkle, tinkle, again. Biddy was now summoned to call Charles, and see
if he would breakfast. Number Two made another tour of the room, with
new discoveries. While absorbed in this pleasing employment, the two
women passed upstairs. Marcia could not restrain herself, as she saw him
with her favorite bird-of-paradise fan.

"Don't spoil those feathers, you meddlesome creature!"

"Beg your pardon, Ma'am" (with an elaborate bow). "Merely admirin' the
colors. Pretty sort of a thing, this 'ere! 'Most too light and fuzzy for
a duster, a'n't it? Feathers ben dyed, most likely? Willin' to 'bleege
the fair, however, especially one so handsome." (Rubbing it on his
coat-sleeve.) "Guess't a'n't got dirty any."

Charles, meanwhile, had risen and dressed, and came out when Bridget
knocked; a spectacle, indeed,--a walking sermon on the perils that may
follow what are termed "good times." His face would have been pale,
except that his nose, which was as puffy as an _omelette soufflee_, and
his left eye with a drooping lid sustained by a livid crescent, gave it
a rubicund expression. His knees were shaky, his pulse feeble, his head
top-heavy. He declined assistance rather sulkily, and descended holding
by the stair-rail and stepping gingerly. Number Two, in spite of his
genial, unruffled temper, could not repress his surprise, as the
apparition passed the parlor-door.

"A rum customer! Ha!" (_Con anima_.)

Before the repentant owner of the puffy nose and purple eyelid had
finished his solitary breakfast, Mr. Sandford came home. He had obtained
bail and was at large. Looking hastily into the parlor, he saw
a stranger, with his hat jauntily on one side, seated in the
damask-covered chair, with his feet on an embroidered ottoman, turning
over a bound collection of sea-mosses, and Marcia's guitar lying across
his lap. He was dumb with astonishment. Polite Number Two did not leave
him to burst in ignorance.

"All right. Mr. Sandford, I suppose. An 'tachment put on, and I'm
keeper. Sorry to disturb a family. But somebody has to. Can I do anything
to obleege you?"

"Yes, by laying down that book which you are spoiling. And you may take
your greasy boots off that worsted-work, and put the stopper into that
Bohemian-glass bottle."

"Beg your pardon, Sir. Didn't intend to make trouble. Boots has to be
greased, you know, else they crack all out, an' don't last no time; mine
do. This 'ere Cologne is nice, to be sure. I jest poured out a bit on my
pocket-handkercher."

"Cologne! It's attar of roses; and you've spilled more than your neck is
worth,--taking yourself at your own valuation."

"Why, you don't say this is high-cost? It does smell good, though, ha!"

As he started to go up-stairs, Mr. Sandford saw the linen carpet-cover
spattered with frequent drops of blood. He called aloud to his sister,--

"Marcia! are you there? alive? What's the meaning of this blood? Who has
been murdered? Or is this turned into a butcher's shop?"

Marcia and her sister-in-law descended, and hurriedly explained the
mystery. While they were standing at the head of the stairs, Charles
made his appearance, and received such congratulations from his brother
as might be expected. He vouchsafed no word of reply, but went into
the room where he had slept to get some article he had left. A sudden
thought struck Mr. Sandford. He followed Charles into the room, and in a
moment after returned,--but so changed! Imagine Captain Absolute at
the duelling-ground turned in a twinkling into Bob Acres, Lucy Bertram
putting on the frenzied look of Meg Merrilies, or the even-tempered
Gratiano metamorphosed into the horror-stricken, despairing Shylock
at the moment he hears his sentence, and you have some notion of the
expression which Sandford's face wore. His eyes were fixed like baleful
lights in a haggard, corpse-like countenance. His hair was disordered.
He clutched his cravat as though suffocating. His voice was gone; he
whispered feebly, like one of Ossian's ghosts,--

"Gone! gone! Who has it? Marcia! Lydia! Charles! Who's got it? Quick!
The money! Gone?"

He rushed into the room again, deaf to any reply. He got upon his hands
and knees, looked under the bed, the wardrobe, the dressing-table, the
chairs, muttering all the while with a voice like a dying man's. He rose
up, staggering, and seized Marcia by the arm, who trembled with terror
at his ferocity.

"The money! Give me the money! You've got it! You know you have! Give it
to me! Give"--

"Pray, be calm," said Mrs. Sandford; "you shall know all about it."

"I don't want to know," he almost screamed; "I want the money, the
money!"

Then dropping his voice to a lower key, and with a tone which was meant
to be wheedling, he turned to his sister-in-law:--

"You've got it, then? How you frightened me! Come, dear sister! don't
trifle with me. I'm poor, very poor, and the little sum seems large.
Give it to me. Let me see that it is safe. _Dear_ sister!"

"I haven't it," said Mrs. Sandford, "But compose yourself. You shall
know about it."

He cried audibly, like a sickly child.

"It isn't gone? No, you play upon my fears. Where is the pocket-book?"

"How are you ever going to know, if you won't hear?" asked Marcia. "I
wouldn't be so unmanly as to whine so even about a million."

"No, you think money is as plenty as buttons. Wait till you
starve,--starve,--till you beg on a street-crossing."

"Listen," said Mrs. Sandford.

"Do, and stop your groaning like a madman," said Marcia, consolingly.
"When Charles met with his mishap and fell senseless, we asked the
officer to carry him up-stairs. Rather than go up another flight, we had
him taken into your chamber. Your dressing-case lay on the table, in
the middle of the room, away from its usual place by the mirror. The
officer at once seized and opened it. You had carelessly left your money
in it. He was evidently informed of the fact that you had money, and was
directed to attach it. He counted the package before me, and then put it
into his pocket."

During this recital, Mr. Sandford's breath came quick and his eyes
opened wider. His muscles all at once seemed charged with electricity.
He dashed down-stairs, half-a-dozen steps at a time, and pounced upon
unlucky Number Two, who, with the captivated Biddy, was leaning at the
parlor-door, listening to the conversation above. Seizing the officer by
the throat, Sandford shouted huskily,--

"Robber! thief! Give up that money! How dare you? Give it up, I say!"

Number Two could not answer, for his windpipe was mortally squeezed
under the iron grip of his adversary; therefore, as the only reply he
could make, he commenced the manual exercise right and left, and with
such effect, that Sandford loosened his hold and staggered back.

"There! I guess you've got enough on't. What ye talkin' about money? I
a'n't got any of your money."

Meanwhile, Mrs. Sandford, who had followed the infuriated man, though
necessarily at some distance, came and grasped his arm.

"The man who seized the money is gone," she said. "This is the one who
takes his place."

Sandford was speechless,--but not long. While hope remained, he had
whined, begged, cried, implored. Now that he was baffled, discomfited,
ruined, his rage broke out. The placid gentleman, whose glossy garb and
quiet air a day before made such a picture of content, would hardly
be recognized in this furious, gesticulating lunatic, whose oaths and
objurgations came belching forth like sulphurous flames. It was on his
gentle sister-in-law that the weight of his wrath fell. She tried to
pacify him, until she became actually alarmed for her safety, and turned
to fly.

"Go!" he exclaimed. "You've done enough. You've ruined me. Pack off!
You've beggared me. Now look out for yourself! Don't let me see your
face again!"

Trembling and tearful, Mrs. Sandford went to her room to gather
her wardrobe. She had not intended to remain a burden upon her
brother-in-law. Now she must go at once. Even if he were to repent of
his blind rage and ask her forgiveness, she felt that there was an
impassable gulf between them.

During the confusion that followed, Number Two, feeling hungry, went
down with Biddy to lunch.

"It's about the last ov it here, Sirr," said the girl, "an' we may as
well ate what is good and drink something betther than cold wather."

So saying, the best the house afforded was set out;--wines of rare
vintages were uncorked, and glasses hob-a-nobbed.

Mr. Sandford, exhausted with his delirium, went to his room, and there
languidly paced the floor back and forth, without cessation, like a
caged white bear in midsummer. Charles crawled up to his own bed. Marcia
remained in the parlor, her busy brain turning over the unusual events
of the day, and wondering what loop-hole of escape from their present
difficulties could be found.

CHAPTER XXI.

The door-bell rang. Biddy, occupied with her pleasing duties as hostess,
and flushed with drinking crusty old Port and "Lafitte 1844," did not
hear. Some sudden impulse or vague prescience moved Marcia to open the
door herself. It was Greenleaf. Notwithstanding the untoward state of
affairs, she could not deny herself the pleasure of meeting him, and
ushered him into the parlor, then fortunately vacant.

A cooler observer would have noticed something peculiar in his carriage
as he crossed the hall,--an unnatural pallor, a sharpness in the angles
of his mouth, a quicker respiration, and a look of mingled firmness and
sorrow in his eyes. A stranger might have thought him in a state of
chronic nervous irritability or mild insanity. And truly, a sensitive
man, perplexed between conflicting duties, spurred by conscience, yet
wanting in courage to do its bidding, presents a pitiable spectacle; it
is a position of sharp suspense which no mind can hold long;--relief
must come, in heartbreak or darkness, if in no other way.

When Greenleaf parted from Marcia, the morning before, he intended to
wait a week at least before telling her of his changed feelings. He did
not know what a burden he had undertaken to carry; he staggered under
it, like the pilgrim in Bunyan's immortal story. Besides, after he had
once come to a determination, he was impatient to see Alice and implore
her forgiveness. Minutes were days while he waited. To pass a week in
this way was not to be thought of, unless by means of ether or mesmerism
he could fly from himself and find peace in oblivion.

"My dear George," Marcia began, "it is so kind of you to come with your
sympathy! We are dreadfully cast down. What is to be done I don't know."

"You surprise me! What has happened? I have scarcely been out of my
studio since I last saw you."

"But it's in all the papers!"

"I haven't seen a paper."

"What I told you yesterday has come to pass. Henry has failed; so
has the Vortex,--and Mr. Fayerweather, the President,--and Mr.
Stearine,--and everybody else, I believe. We shall probably leave the
house and take lodgings."

Every word was a pang to Greenleaf. Again his heart, full of sympathy
for the woman's distress, whispered, "Wait! don't wound the stricken
deer!" But he hugged his resolve and steeled himself against pity.

"I am truly sorry to hear of your brother's misfortunes. But with his
talents and reputation, and with his troops of friends in business
circles as well as in the various charitable societies, it cannot be
that he will long be depressed. He will work his way back to his old
position, or even a higher one."

Marcia shook her head doubtfully. She had not heard the rumors affecting
her brother's integrity, but she saw that his manly resolution was gone,
that he was vascillating, broken-spirited, and needed but little more
trouble to make him imbecile.

"I was thinking of a case of conscience, as I came here," said
Greenleaf. "It was, How far a promise is binding, when it involves a
lasting and irretrievable wrong in its fulfilment."

Marcia looked at him in dumb astonishment. He continued:--

"Suppose that you were to find, by-and-by, that your affections had
cooled towards me,--that you discovered incompatabilities of taste and
temper,--that you felt sure a true union of souls was impossible,--that
marriage would be only a mockery?"

"Dear George, how you frighten me! Why do you ask such dreadful
questions in such a solemn way? You know I love you, heart and soul."

"But consider the question as an abstract one. I ask you only to suppose
the case. Should you thrust conscience into the cellar, stifle its
outcries, and give your consent to a profanation of holy wedlock?"

"I can't suppose the case. And I don't see the use of torturing one's
self with imaginary evils. The real troubles of life are quite enough to
bear."

"I know such a case. I know a man who has to decide it. It is not a
light matter for any man, and his is a soul as sensitive as God ever
made. He was betrothed to a woman every way worthy; he loved her
sincerely. His chief fault, and a serious one it is, came from his
susceptibility to fresh impressions. The pleasure of the present had
more power over him than any recollections of the past. The influence of
the living woman at his side was greater, for the moment, than that of
any absent love. In an evil hour, he committed himself to another. She
was, doubtless, formed to inspire his passion and to return it. But he
was not free, and had no right to linger on forbidden ground. For weeks,
nay, months, he lived this false and wicked life, of a different mind
every day, and lacking the courage to meet the difficulty. At last he
became sure that his love belonged where his faith was due,--that, if he
would not live a wretched hypocrite, he must humble himself to confess
his criminal weakness, and return to his first engagement."

He paused; he might well do so. Marcia, with some difficulty, was able
to say, through her chattering teeth,--

"You seem to take a deep interest in this weak-minded person."

"I do,--the deepest. I am the man."

She rose to her feet, and, looking scornfully down upon him,
exclaimed,--

"Then you acknowledge yourself a villain!--not from premeditation, which
would give your baseness some dignity, but a weakly fool, so tossed
about by Fate that he is made a villain without either desire or
resistance!"

"You may overwhelm me with reproaches; I am prepared for them; I deserve
them. But God only knows through what a season of torture I have passed
to come to this determination."

"A very ingenious story, Mr. Greenleaf! Do you suppose that the world
will believe it, the day after our losses? Do you expect me to believe
it, even?"

"I told you that I had not heard of the failure. I am in the habit of
being believed."

"For instance, when you vowed that you loved me, and me only!"

"You may spare your taunts. But, to show you how mercenary I am, let me
assure you that the woman to whom my word is pledged, and to whom I must
return, is without any property or expectations."

"Very well, Sir," said Marcia, rubbing her hands, in the endeavor to
conceal her agitation; "we need not waste words. After what you have
told me, I could only despise such a whiffler,--a scrap of refuse iron
at the mercy of any magnet,--a miller dashing into every fight. A lover
so helpless must needs have some new passional attraction--that is the
phrase, I believe--with every changing moon. The man I love should be
made of different stuff." She drew her figure up proudly, and her lips
curled like a beautiful fiend's. "He should bury the disgraceful secret,
if he had it, in his heart, and carry it to his grave. He would not cry
out like a boy with a cut finger."

"Precisely, Miss Sandford. And for that reason you would be no mate for
me. My wife must have no skeletons in her closet."

"Men generally claim the monopoly of those agreeable toys, I believe."

"Love is impossible where there are concealments. A secret is like a
worm in the heart of an apple, and nothing but rottenness and corruption
follow."

"Fortunately, you harbor none. You have turned your heart inside out,
like a peddler's pack,--and a gratifying display it made! I am more than
satisfied."

"The tone you have adopted is a warning to me to stop. I wish to bandy
no epithets, or reproaches. I came sorrowfully to tell you what I have
told. I had no fault to impute to you. But I must confess that this
morning you have shown yourself capable of thoughts and feelings I never
suspected, and I shall leave you with a far lighter heart than I came."

"You expected to see me at your feet, imploring your love and striving
to melt you by tears,--did you? It would have been a pleasing
triumph,--one that your sex prizes, I believe; but you have not been
gratified. I know what is due to myself, and I do not stoop. But there
may be ways to punish the betrayer of confidence," she said, with a
heaving bosom and distended nostrils. "I have a brother; and even if he
is forgetful, I shall not forget."

"I am obliged to you for putting me on my guard. I wished to part
otherwise. Be it so, since you will."

He turned to leave the room. Swift as lightning, she ran to the front
door and braced herself against it, at the same time calling loudly to
her brother. Mr. Sandford came to the top of the stairs and listened
with apparent apathy, while the maddened woman poured out her rage. He
stood a moment like one in a dream, and then slowly came down.

"There is your cane," said Marcia, fiercely, pointing to the
umbrella-stand.

"I give you fair warning," said Greenleaf, calmly, "that you will never
strike more than one blow. No man shall assault me but at the risk of
his life."

"What is the need of this fury?" asked Mr. Sandford. "I don't want
to quarrel with a pauper. You are well rid of him. If you were to be
married, you'd only have the pleasure of going to Deer Island for your
bridal trip."

"Then you will see me insulted without lifting a finger? Coward! Broken
down like a weed for the loss of a little money! I should be ashamed to
have a beard, if I had such a timid soul!"

"I trust, Miss Sandford," said Greenleaf, "you do not wish to prolong
this scene. Let me pass."

"Oh, yes,--you can go; can't he, brother?"

She opened the door, looking scornfully from the one to the other.

At that moment Mrs. Sandford came down, bringing a satchel, and asked
Greenleaf to walk with her until she could get a carriage. He cheerfully
promised his aid, and took the satchel. Her eyes were sadly beautiful,
and still humid from recent tears; and her face wore a touching look of
resignation. She did not speak to Mr. Sandford, who stood scowling at
her; but, taking Marcia's hand, she said,--

"Good bye, sister! I never thought to leave you in this way. I hope we
shall never see a darker hour. I shall send for my trunks presently.
Good bye!"

"Good bye!" replied Marcia, mechanically. "You have a brave gallant! See
to it that he is not compelled by Destiny to make love to you on the
way!"

Greenleaf, with his companion, descended the steps to the street, making
no reply to this amiable God-speed.

Marcia shut the door, and with her brother returned to the parlor. At
the head of the stairs that led to the dining-room stood Number Two and
Biddy, who in stupid wonder had witnessed the scenes just described.

"Bridget," exclaimed the enraged mistress, "what are you staring at?
Come here! Pah! you have been drinking! You, too, you creature!"

Number Two bowed with maudlin politeness.

"You-do-m'injustice, Ma'am. On'y a smallsup, a littlesup,
ponmyhonorasgen'l'man."

"Bridget, do you pack up your baggage and be off! Rioting and feasting
in the time of our trouble! Ungrateful hussy!"

"I'll do that same, Miss Marshy; but me waages, if ye plaze, Miss."

"Get your wages, if you can. You've broken more crockery and glass, and
wasted more wines and preserves, than you ever earned."

"That's always the way, Miss, I've noticed, when missuses was o' mind to
get claar of payin' the honest dues. But me brother"--

"Be off to your brother! But first go and cool your head under the
water-faucet."

Muttering and whining, the disconsolate Biddy crept up to the attic for
her scanty wardrobe.

"Here, fellow!" said Marcia to Number Two, whose foolish smiles at any
other time would have been ludicrous,--"go into the kitchen and get
sober."

He obeyed like a spaniel.

"Now, Henry," said Marcia, rather more composed, "let us do something at
once. It's plain that we can't live here for the house will be stripped;
and in our circumstances we would not stay, if we could. That fellow is
so far stupefied that we can save what we can carry away. If you have
any spirit left, help me pack our clothes and such things as can be put
into our trunks. Come! are you dreaming?"

He started up and followed her like a child. With superhuman energy,
she ransacked the house and gathered the most valuable articles. Plate,
linen, dresses, Parian ware, books, furs, and jewelry were packed,
as securely as the time allowed. A carriage and a baggage-wagon were
ordered, and in an incredibly short period they were ready to start.

"We have forgotten Charles," said Mr. Sandford.

"True enough," said Marcia. "Go and call him; he is too handsome to be
spared from our party just now. Tell him to bring his clothes."

The penitent came down, reluctantly; his nose was still puffy, and the
crescent under his eye rather more livid; muffled and cloaked, he
was led to the carriage. Mr. Sandford then remembered the cherished
parchment certificates and votes of thanks,--his title-deeds to
distinction.

"Leave them," said his sister, contemptuously. "What are they good for?
A few commonplace autographs in tarnished gilt frames."

Bridget, meanwhile, went off, threatening all sorts of reprisals on the
part of her brother, who "wouldn't see her imposed upon by the likes of
thim, not he!" From the kitchen, at intervals, came up doleful snatches
of "Then you'll remember me," interrupted by hiccoughs, and with
involuntary variations and cadenzas that would have driven "Balfy" mad.

All was ready and they drove off. The house wherein had lived a
Benefactor of Mankind was deserted.

CHAPTER XXII.

Greenleaf found a carriage for Mrs. Sandford, and accompanied her to a
private boarding-house, where she took lodgings; he then sent the driver
back for her trunks, and, having seen her comfortably provided for,
returned to his own rooms,--but not to remain there. He desired only to
leave a message on his door, explaining his absence. In less than an
hour he was in the railway-train, on his way to Innisfield.

To the musing or drowsy traveller by rail how space and time are
annihilated! He is barely conscious of progress, only when the brakeman
with measured tone shouts the name of the station; he looks up from his
paper or rouses from his doze, looks out at the cheerless prospect, and
then settles himself for another thirty miles. Time passes as unobserved
as the meadows or bushy pastures that flit by the jarring window at
his ear. But with Greenleaf, the reader will believe, the case was far
different. He had never noticed before how slowly the locomotives really
moved. At each station where wood and water were to be taken, it seemed
to him the delay was interminable. His eager desire shot along the track
like electricity; and when at last he reached the place where he was to
leave the train, he had gone through a year of ordinary hopes and fears.
He mounted the stage-box and took his seat beside the buffalo-clad,
coarse-bearded, and grim driver. The road lay through a hilly country,
with many romantic views on either hand. It was late in the season to
see the full glories of autumn; but the trees were not yet bare, and in
many places the contrasts of color were exquisite. For once the driver
found his match; he had a passenger as taciturn as himself. For the
first few miles not a word was spoken, saving a few brief threats to the
horses; but at last Jehu could hold out no longer; his reputation was
in danger, if he allowed any one to be more silent than himself, and he
cautiously commenced a skirmish.

"From Boston?"

A nod was the only reply.

"Belong about here?"

"No," with a shake of the head.

"Ben up here afore, though, I guess?"

"Yes."

"Thought I remembered. Year or so ago?"

"Yes."

"Had a great white cotton umbrill, a box like a shoe-kit, and suthin'
like a pair o' clo'es-frames?"

Greenleaf could but smile at the description of his easel and artist's
outfit; still he contented himself with a brief assent.

"Keeps tight as the bark to a white-oak," muttered Jehu to himself.
"Guess I'll try him on t'other side, seein' he's so offish."

Then aloud,--

"Knowed Square Lee, I b'lieve?"

"Yes," thundered Greenleaf, looking furiously at the questioner.

The glance frightened Jehu's soul from the red-curtained windows, where
it had been peeping out, back to its hiding-place, wherever that might
be.

"Well, yer needn't bite a feller's head off," muttered he, in the same
undertone as before. "And if ye want to keep to yerself, shet up yer
darned oyster-shell, and see how much you make by it. Not more'n four
and sixpence, I guess. Maybe you'll come back 'bout's wise as ye come."

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