Atlantic Monthly, Volume 3, No. 20, June, 1859 by Various

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Volume 3, No. 20, June, 1859

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Mr. Lindsay lost no time in finding his clerk Monroe, and reinstated him
with an increased salary. Great was the sorrow in the ragged school at
the loss of the teacher; and it was with some regret that he abandoned
the place. He felt no especial vocation to the career of a missionary;
but his duties had become less irksome than at the beginning, if not
absolutely pleasant. His own position, however, was such that he could
not afford to continue in his self-denying occupation. Easelmann was one
of the first to congratulate him upon his improved prospects.

"Don't you feel sorry, my dear fellow? Now you get upon your treadmill
of business, and you must keep going, or break your legs. Think, too,
of the jolly little rascals you have left! The beggars are the only
aristocracy we have,--the only people who enjoy their _dolce far
niente_. Look on the Common: who are there amusing themselves on a fine
day, unless it be your Duke Do-nothing, Earl Out-at-elbows, Duchess
Draggle-tail, and others of that happy class? Meanwhile your Lawrences,
Eliots, and the 'Merchant Princes' (a satirical dog that invented the
title!) are going about with sharpened faces, looking as though they
weren't sure of a dinner. Oh, business is a great matter, to be sure!
but the idlers, artists, poets, and other lazzaroni, are the only people
that enjoy life."

Monroe smiled, and only replied,--

"Think of my mother! I must do something besides enjoying life, as you
call it: I must earn the means of making it enjoyable."

"You were always a good boy," replied his friend, benignantly. "So go to
work; but don't forget to walk out of town now and then; in which case,
I hope you won't disdain the company of _one_ of the idlers."

* * * * *

The "mother" was full of joy; her melancholy nervousness almost wholly
forsook her. She looked proudly upon her "dear boy," thinking him the
best, most considerate, faithful, and affectionate of sons,--as he was.

Walter, after listening to her benedictions, told her he had an
invitation from Mr. Lindsay to dine the next day, and begged her to go
with him; but the habit of inaction, the dread of bustle and motion,
were too strong to be overcome. She could not be persuaded to leave
home.

"But go, by all means, Walter," she added. "It will be pleasant to be
on such terms with your employer. I must keep watch of you, though, now
that Alice is gone. Are there young ladies at the house?"

"Why, mother, how jealous you are! Do you think I go about falling
in love with all the young ladies I see? Mr. Lindsay has a beautiful
daughter; but do you think a poor clerk is likely to be regarded as
'eligible' by a family accustomed to wealth and luxury?"

The mother looked as though she thought her son a match for the richest
and proudest; she said nothing, but patted his head as though he were
still only a boy.

"Speaking of Alice, mother, I am very much concerned about her. Now that
I am reestablished, I shall make every exertion to find her and bring
her home to live with us. Mr. Greenleaf, I know, is looking for her;
very little good it will do him, if he finds her."

"But we shall hear from him, I presume?"

"I think so. He is intimate with my friend Mr. Easelmann.--But, mother,
I have some more good news. I shall get our property back. Lawyers say
that Mr. Tonsor will be obliged to give up the notes, and look to the
estate of Sandford for the money he lent. And the notes, fortunately,
are as valuable as ever, in spite of all the multitude of failures; one
name, at least, on each note is good."

"Everything comes back, like Job's prosperity. This repays us for all
our anxiety."

"If Alice had not run away!"

"But we shall have her again,--poor motherless child!"

So with mutual gratulations they passed the evening. My readers who now
enjoy a mother's love, or look back with affectionate reverence to such
scenes in the past, will pardon these apparently unimportant portions
of the story. Sooner or later all will learn that no worldly success
whatever, no friendships, not even the absorbing love of wife and
children, can afford a pleasure so full, so serene, as the sacred
feeling which rises at the recollection of a mother's self-sacrificing
affection.

Very commonplace, no doubt,--but still worth an occasional thought. As
for those who demand that natural and simple feelings shall be ignored,
and that every chapter shall record something not less startling than
murder or treason, are there not already means for gratifying their
tastes? Do not the "Torpedo" and the "Blessing of the Boudoir" give
enough of these delicate condiments with the intellectual viands they
furnish? Let old-fashioned people enjoy their plain dishes in peace.

CHAPTER XXXI.

The reader may be quite sure that Greenleaf lost no time in presenting
himself at Easelmann's studio on the morning after his last interview.

"On hand early, I see," said the elder. "And how fresh you look! The
blood comes dancing into your face; you are radiant with expectation."

"You mummy, what do you suppose I am made of, if the thought of meeting
Alice should not quicken my blood a little?"

"If it were my case, I think my cheeks would tingle from another cause."

"Now you need not try to frighten me. I will see her first. I don't
believe she has forgotten me."

"Nor I; but forgetting is one thing, and forgiving is another. Besides,
we haven't seen her yet."

"I haven't, I know; but I'll wager you have."

"Well, my Hotspur, I sha'n't entice her away from you."

"Let us go," said Greenleaf.

"Presently; I must finish this pipe first; it lasts thirty-six minutes,
and I have smoked only--let me see--twenty-eight."

"Well, puff away; but you'll burn up my patience with your tobacco,
unless you are ready soon."

"Don't hurry. You'll get to your stool of repentance quite soon enough.
Have you heard the news? The banks have suspended,--ditto Fletcher, a
banker's clerk.

"What do you mean?"

"Plain enough. The banks suspend paying specie because they haven't any
to redeem their bills; and Fletcher, because he has neither specie nor
bills."

"Fletcher suspended?"

"Yes, _sus. per coll._, as the Newgate records have it,--hung himself
with his handkerchief,--an article he might have put to better use."

And Easelmann blew a vigorous blast with his, as he laid down the pipe.

"You understand, choking is disagreeable,--painful, in fact,--and, if
indulged in long enough, is apt to produce unpleasant effects. Remember,
I once warned you against it."

"This matter of suicide is horrible. Couldn't it have been prevented?"

"Yes, if Fletcher could have got hold of Bullion."

"Coin would have done as well, I suppose."

"Now haven't I been successful in diverting your attention? You have
actually punned. Don't you know Mr. Bullion, the capitalist?"

"I have good reason to remember him, though I don't know him myself. My
father was once connected with him in business, and not at all to his
own advantage."

"I never heard you speak of your father before; in fact, I never knew
you had one."

"It was not necessary to speak of him; he has been dead many years."

"And left you nothing to remember him by. Now a man with an estate has a
perpetual reminder."

"So has the son of a famous man; and people are continually depreciating
him, comparing his little bud of promise with the ripe fruitage of the
ancestral tree. I prefer to acquire my own fortune and my own fame. My
father did his part by giving me being and educating me.--But come; your
pipe is out; you draw like a pump, without puffing even a nebula of
smoke."

"I suppose I must yield. First a lavation; this Virginian incense
is more agreeable to devout worshippers like you and me than to the
uninitiated. There," (wiping the water from his moustaches,) "now I
am qualified to meet that queenly rose, Mrs. Sandford, or even that
delicate spring violet of yours,--if we should find the nook where she
blooms."

"You are the most tantalizing fellow! How provokingly cool you are, to
stand dallying as though you were going on the most indifferent errand!
And all the while to remind me of what I have lost. Come, you look
sufficiently fascinating; your gray moustache has the proper artistic
curl; your hair is carelessly-well-arranged."

"So the boy can't wait for due preparation. There, I believe I am
ready."

Arrived at the house where Mrs. Sandford boarded, they were ushered into
the reception-room; but Easelmann, bidding his friend wait, followed the
servant upstairs. Waiting is never an agreeable employment. The courtier
in the ante-chamber before the expected audience, the office-seeker at
the end of a cue in the Presidential mansion, the beau lounging in the
drawing-room while the idol of his soul is in her chamber busy with the
thousand little arts that are to complete her charms,--none of these
find that time speeds. To Greenleaf the delay was full of torture; he
paced the room, looked at the pictures without seeing anything, looked
out of the window, turned over the gift-books on the table, counted the
squares in the carpet, and finally sat down in utter despair. At length
Easelmann returned. Greenleaf started up.

"Where is she? Have you seen her? Why doesn't she come down? And why, in
the name of goodness, have you kept me waiting in this outrageous way?"

"I don't know.--I have not--I can't tell you.--And because I couldn't
help it.--Never say, after this, I don't answer all your questions."

"Now, what is the use of all this mystery?"

"Softly, my friend; and let us not make a mess of it. Mrs. Sandford
advises us to walk out awhile."

"I am obliged to her and to you for your well-meant caution, but I don't
intend to go out until I have seen Alice,--if she will see me."

"But consider."

"I have considered, and am determined to see her; I can't endure this
suspense."

"But Alice bore it much longer. Be advised; Mrs. Sandford wants to
prepare the way for you."

"I thank you; but I don't mean to have any stratagem acted for my
benefit. I will trust the decision to her: if she loves me, all will be
well; if her just resentment has uprooted her love, the sooner I know it
the better."

While they were engaged in this mutual expostulation, Alice,
all-unconscious of the impending situation in the drama, was busy in her
own room,--for Mrs. Sandford had not yet decided how to break the news
to her,--and having an errand that led her to the street, she put on her
cloak and hat and tripped lightly down-stairs. Naturally she went into
the drawing-room, to make sure, by the mirror, that her ribbons were
neatly adjusted. As she entered, fastening her cloak, and humming some
simple air meanwhile, she started back at the sight of strangers,
and was rapidly retreating, when a voice that she had not forgotten
exclaimed, "Great Heavens, there she is now! Alice! Alice! stop! I beg
of you!"

Greenleaf at the same time bounded to the door, and, seizing her hand,
drew her, bewildered, faint, and fluttering, back into the room.

He turned almost fiercely to his companion:--

"This is your policy, is it, to send her off?--or, more probably, to
amuse me and not send for her at all?"

"Ask the lady,--ask Mrs. Sandford," replied Easelmann. "I have not sent
her off; and you ought to know by this time that I am incapable of
playing false to any man."

Alice, erect, but very pale, maintained her composure as well as she
could, though the timid lips trembled a little, and blinding clouds rose
before her eyes. She withdrew her hand from Greenleaf's grasp, and asked
the meaning of this unusual conduct. Greenleaf's good sense came to the
rescue seasonably.

"Alice,--Miss Lee,--allow me to introduce my friend Mr. Easelmann. We
came here to see you, and were waiting for that purpose; but it seems
you were not told of it."

Easelmann bowed, saying, "No, Miss Lee; I saw Mrs. Sandford, who thought
it best to speak to you first herself."

"I am happy to meet you, Mr. Easelmann," said Alice. "I was just going
out, however, as you see, and I must ask you to excuse me this morning."

Greenleaf saw with a pang how silently, but effectually, he was disposed
of; a downright rebuff would not have been so humiliating. But he was
not to be deterred from his purpose, and he went on:

"Pardon me, if I seem to overstep the bounds of courtesy; but I cannot
let you go in this way, Alice,--for so I must call you. Stay and hear
me. Now that I see you, I must speak. God only knows with what anxiety I
have sought you for the last month."

She tried to answer, but could not command her speech. Seeing her
increasing agitation, Easelmann led her to a seat, and then, in a
gentler tone than he often used, said,--

"I will leave the room, if you please, Miss Lee; this is an interview I
did not desire to witness."

"No," she exclaimed, "do not go. I have nothing to say that you should
not hear; and I hope Mr. Greenleaf will spare me the pain of going over
a history which is better forgotten."

"It can never be forgotten," interposed Greenleaf; "and, in spite of
your protest, I must say what I can--and that is little enough--to
exculpate myself, and then throw myself upon your charity for
forgiveness."

Alice remained silent; but it was a silence that gave no encouragement
to Greenleaf. He advanced still nearer, looking at her with a tender
earnestness, as though his very soul were in the glance. She covered her
face with her hands.

"Alice," he said, "you know what that name once meant to me. I cannot
speak it now without a feeling beyond utterance."

Easelmann, meanwhile, quietly sidled towards the door, and, saying that
he was going back to see Mrs. Sandford, abruptly left the room.

Greenleaf went on,--"I know my conduct was utterly inexcusable; but I
declare, by my hope of heaven, I never _loved_ any woman but you. I was
fascinated, ensnared, captivated by the senses only; now that illusion
is past, and I turn to you."

"My illusion is past also; you turn too late. Can you make me forget
those months of neglect?"

The tone was tender, but mournful. How he wished that her answer had
been fuller of rebuke! He could hope to overcome her anger far more
easily than this settled sorrow.

"I know I can never atone for the wrong; there are injuries that are
irreparable, wounds that leave ineffaceable scars. I can never undo what
I have done; would to Heaven I could! You may never forget this period
of suffering; but that is past now; it is not to be lived over again. Go
back rather to the brighter days before it; think of them, and then look
down the future;--may I dare say it?--the future, perhaps, will make us
both forget my insane wanderings and your undeserved pains."

"But love must have faith to lean upon. While I loved you, I rested on
absolute trust. I would have believed you against all the world. I would
have been glad to share your lot, even in poverty and obscurity. I did
not love you for your art nor your fame. You wavered; you forgot me. I
don't know what it was that tempted you, but it was enough; it drew
you away from me; and as long as you preferred another, or could be
satisfied with any other woman's love, you lost all claim to mine."

Greenleaf could not but feel the force of this direct, womanly logic: in
its clear light how pitiful were the excuses he had framed for himself!
He felt sure that many, even of the best of men, might have erred in the
same way; but this was an argument which would have much more weight
with his own sex than with women. Men know their own frailties, and
are therefore charitable; women consider inconstancy to be the one
unpardonable sin, and are inexorable.

He came still nearer, vainly hoping to see some indication of relenting;
but the pale face was as firm as it was sad.

"I said before, Alice, that I do not attempt to defend my faithlessness,
hardly to extenuate it; and I do not at all wonder at your altered
temper towards me. It was a cruel blow I gave you. But my life shall
show you the sincerity of my repentance."

She shook her head as she answered,--

"When you left me, the last spark of love went out. It is hard to kindle
anew the dead embers. No,--when I found that you _could_ be untrue, all
was over,--past, present, and future."

"But consider," he said, still more earnestly, "what remains for you or
me. You will have the memory of this great sorrow, and I the unending
remorse. I can never love another woman while you live, and you--may I
say it?--will never love again as you have loved. Is it not for your
own happiness, as it is most assuredly for mine, that you overlook the
fault, receive me again, and trust to the lasting effect of the bitter
lesson I have learned? Forgive me, if I seem too bold,--if the desire to
atone for the past makes me sue for pardon with unbecoming zeal. If I
were less urgent, it would be because I was not sensible of the wrong,
and careless about reparation."

She was silent; contending passions strove for mastery. She had not
forgotten him, then! He took courage and came yet nearer.

"Will you give me your hand? Alice, will you?"

He reached his own towards her.

"No,--pardon me,--I must not. It is not well to decide by impulse,--to
be swayed by a thrill. When my heart tells me to give you my hand, it
shall be yours. I don't wish to be charmed out of my calmer judgment.
Your presence, your fiery words, and your will, are sufficiently
magnetic."

"My dear Alice, I have been guilty of _one_ folly, a serious one, but
you don't believe I am incapable of constancy henceforth. Remember you
were away; time hung heavily on my hands; my good nature made me accept
invitations which brought me into daily contact with a woman who of all
others was most dangerous to a man of ardent temperament. The friendship
which began without a thought of a nearer relation grew into an intimacy
which I was not far-sighted enough to check. In your own words, I was
magnetized, thoroughly; and when, at last, in a scene of imminent
danger, I rashly said some things that should not have been spoken, I
found myself committed irrevocably. It is not too much to say that the
lady was looking for the opportunity which fate and my own stupidity
gave her. But the spell did not last. Your face was constantly before me
like an accusing angel. I waited only until the lady recovered from
a dangerous illness to tell her that I did not love her, and that my
heart, as well as my faith, was yours. I went at once to see you, and
found your father dead, yourself homeless. And from that hour I have
done nothing but search for you. Is it in vain?--I can say no more.
Perhaps I have said too much. But I implore you, Alice, by the memory of
our love as it was once, by all your hope of the future, to forgive me,
and not to make my whole life as miserable as the last few months have
been to you."

It was the last word; he felt that he had nothing further to urge. He
bent over her chair, seized her hand and pressed it passionately to
his lips, watching with the intensest eagerness the effect of his
appeal.--There was a rustle of silk behind him, an incoming of perfumes,
a light footstep. He started, as did Alice, and beheld--Miss Marcia
Sandford! She was tastefully dressed, as usual, and she bore
herself with superb composure. In coming from the sunlight into the
semi-translucent gloom which pervades modern drawing-rooms, people are
not easily recognized, and the lady swept majestically across the floor,
and took a seat, without a sign of consciousness, near the couple whose
conversation she had interrupted.

Not so Greenleaf; it was the most dangerous dilemma in which he had ever
been placed, and he was thoroughly at a loss to know how to extricate
himself. Would that he could telegraph to Easelmann to come down, so
that he could effect a decent retreat, and not leave the field in the
sole possession of the enemy. The silence was becoming embarrassing. He
was about to make some excuse for departure, when the lioness fixed
her eyes upon him,--her glance sparkling with malicious joy. A servant
entered to say that Mrs. Sandford was engaged for a few minutes, and
that she wished to know the name of her visitor.

"Miss Sandford," she replied, "and please tell her I will wait."

Alice remembered the name, and now shared fully in Greenleaf's
embarrassment. She watched him, therefore, keenly, while the lady
began,--

"Oh, Mr. Greenleaf, is it you? Why didn't you speak? It is not worth
while to keep a memory of the old disappointment. Let bygones be
bygones. Besides, I see you know the remedy for heartbreak; if you can't
succeed where you would, you must try elsewhere. And you seemed to be
getting on very well when I came in."

"Miss Sandford," he retorted, indignantly, "there is as little need of
your ironical condolence as of your ungenerous insinuations."

"What an impatient fellow! and so sensitive, too! The wound is not
healed, then. Pray introduce me to the Zerlina in our little opera. As I
know you so well, I can give her some excellent counsel about managing
you.--Ah, you wince! I am indiscreet, I fear; I have betrayed a secret;
the Zerlina is perhaps still in her rustic seclusion, and this is
only--Well, you must submit to your destiny, I suppose. How many are
there since? Let me see,--six weeks,--time for three flirtations of the
most intensely crimson hue."

Alice rose to her feet, with a glow of resentment on her hitherto pale
face. And Greenleaf, feeling that courtesy was now wholly unnecessary,
exclaimed,--

"Miss Sandford, you have said quite as much as was proper for a young
girl to hear: your own cheeks, I presume, are proof against any
indelicate surprise. Let me ask you to stop, before"--

"Before what, Sir? And what is this high-and-mighty innocence about?
To be sure, one does not like to be exposed,--that is, the wolf
doesn't,--though the lamb shouldn't be angry. A pretty lamb it is, too."

Alice gradually drew away from Greenleaf's side, turning her glances
from one to the other of the combatants. She had never seen such
confidence, such readiness of invective, joined with such apparent
sincerity and ease of manner; and the evident effect of the attack upon
Greenleaf puzzled her not a little; in this brief colloquy there were
opened new fields for dark conjecture. The woman's words had been barbed
arrows in her ears.

Greenleaf's perplexity increased momently. He dared not go away now;
and he knew not how, in Miss Sandford's presence, to counteract the
impression she might make. If he could get rid of her or shut her
wickedly-beautiful mouth, he might answer all she had so artfully thrown
out. But as Alice had not given any token of returning affection, he
could not presume upon his good standing with her and remain silent.
Growing desperate, he ventured once more.

"Miss Sandford, I know very well the depth of your hate towards me, as
well as your capacity for misrepresentation. If you desire to have
the history of our intimacy dragged to the light, I, for my part, am
willing. But don't think your sex will screen you, if you continue the
calumnies you have begun.--You, Alice, must judge between us. And in
almost every point, Mrs. Sandford, your friend and her sister-in-law,
will be able to support my statements."

The servant returned to say that "Mrs. Sandford must be excused."

Greenleaf turned upon the adversary with a triumphant glance.

"A palpable trick," she exclaimed. "You gave the servant a signal: you
were unwilling to have us confronted. You have filled her ears with
scandal about me."

"Not a word; she can hear a plenty about you in any circle where you are
known, without coming to me. And so far from giving any signal, I should
be rejoiced to show Alice how easily an honest woman's testimony will
put your monstrous effrontery to shame."

Alice here interposed,--her resolute spirit manifest in spite of her
trembling voice,--

"I have heard this too long already; I don't wish to be the subject of
this lady's jests, and I don't desire her advice. Your quarrel does not
concern me,--at least, not so deeply that I wish to have it repeated in
my presence. Mr. Greenleaf, let me bid you good-morning."

She moved away with a simple dignity, bowing with marked coolness to the
former rival.

"Stay, Alice," said Greenleaf. "Let me not be thrust aside in this way.
Miss Sandford, now that she has done what mischief she can, will go away
and enjoy the triumph. I beg of you, stay and let me set myself right."

Miss Sandford laughed heartily,--a laugh that made Greenleaf shiver.

"Not to-day, Mr. Greenleaf," she answered. "I have need of rest and
reflection. I am not used to scenes like this, and my brain is in a
whirl."

The first flush of excitement was over, and it was with difficulty that
she found her way through the hall. Easelmann was coming down, and saw
her hesitating step and her tremulous grasp upon the rail; he sprang
down four steps at a time, caught her before she fell, and carried her
in his arms like a child up to Mrs. Sandford's room.

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