WHEREIN THE INVESTMENT IS DISCUSSED.
It was the evening of a long day in summer. Mrs. Monroe had rolled up
her sewing and was waiting for her son. Tea was ready in the pleasant
east room, and the air of the house seemed to invite tranquillity and
repose. It was in a quiet street, away from the rattle of carriages,
and comparatively free from the multitudinous noises of a city. The
carts of milkmen and marketmen were the only vehicles that frequented
it. The narrow yard in the rear, with its fringe of grass, and the
proximity to the pavement in front, were the only things that would
have prevented one from thinking himself a dweller in the country. As
the clock struck six, Walter Monroe's step was heard at the
door;--other men might be delayed; he never. No seductions of billiards
or pleasant company ever kept him from the society of his mother. He
had varied sources of amusement, and many friends, attracted by his
genial temper and tried worth; but he never forgot that his mother
denied herself all intercourse with society, and was indifferent to
every pleasure out of the sphere of home. Nor did he meet her as a
matter of course; mindful of his mother's absorbing love, and heartily
returning it, he seemed always, upon entering the room, to have come
home as from a long absence. He kissed her fondly, asked concerning her
health and spirits, and how she had passed the day.
"The day is always long till you come, Walter. Tea is ready now, my
son. When you are rested, we will sit down."
"Ah, mother, you are cheerful to-day. I have brought you, besides the
papers, a new book, which we will commence presently."
"A thoughtful boy you are; but you haven't told me all, Walter. I see
something behind those eyes of yours."
"What telltales they must be! Well, I have a pretty present for you,--a
sweet picture I bought the other day, and which will come home
to-morrow, I fancy."
"Is that all? I shall be glad to see the picture, because you like it.
But you have something else on your mind."
"I see I never keep anything from you, mother. You seem to know my
thoughts."
"Well, what is it?"
"I have been thinking, mother, that our little property was hardly so
productive as it ought to be,--earning barely six per cent., while I
know that many of my friends are getting eight, and even ten."
"I am afraid that the extra interest is only to pay for the risk of
losing all."
"True, that is often the case; but I think we can make all safe."
"Well, what do you propose doing?"
"I have left it with Mr. Sandford, an acquaintance of mine, to invest
for me. He is secretary of an insurance company, and knows all the ways
of the money-lending world."
"It's a great risk, Walter, to trust our all."
"Not our all, mother. I have a salary, and, whatever may happen, we can
always depend on that. Besides, Mr. Sandford is a man of integrity and
credit. He has the unlimited confidence of the company, and I rely upon
him as I would upon myself."
"How has he invested it? Have you got the securities?"
"Not yet, mother. I have left the money on his note for the present;
and when he has found a good chance to loan it, he will give me the
mortgages or stocks, as the case may be. But come, mother, let us sit
down to tea. All is safe, I am sure; and to-morrow I will make you
satisfied with my prudent management."
When the simple meal was over, they sat in the twilight before the gas
was lighted. The moments passed rapidly in their free and loving
converse. Then the table was drawn out and the new book was opened.
Mrs. Monroe suddenly recollected something.
"Walter, my dear, a letter was left here to-day by the postman. As it
was directed to the street and number, it did not go to your box. Here
it is. I have read it; and rather sad news it brings. Cousin Augustus
is failing, so his daughter writes, and it is doubtful whether he ever
recovers. Poor child! I am sorry for her."
Walter took the letter and hastily read it.
"A modest, feeling, sensible little girl, I am sure. I have never seen
her, you know; but this letter is simple, touching, and womanly."
"A dear, good girl, I am sure. How lonely she must be!"
"Mother, I believe I'll go and see them. In time of trouble we should
forget ceremony. Cousin Augustus has never invited me, but I'll go and
see him. Won't you go, too?"
"Dear boy, I couldn't! The cars? Oh, never!"
Walter smiled. "You don't get over your prejudices. The cars are
perfectly safe, and more comfortable than coaches."
"I can't go; it's no use to coax me."
"I have but one thing to trouble me, mother,--and that is, that I can
never get you away from this spot."
"I'm very happy, Walter, and it's a very pleasant spot; why should I
wish to go?"
"How long since you have been down Washington Street?"
"Ten years, I think."
"And you have never seen the new theatre, nor the Music Hall?"
"No."
"Nor any of the new warehouses?"
"I don't want to see them."
"And you wouldn't go to church, if it were more than a stone's throw
away?"
"I am afraid not."
"How long since you were in a carriage?"
Her eyes filled with tears, but she made no reply.
"Forgive me, mother! I remember the time,--five years! and it seems
like yesterday when father"--
There was a silence which, for a time, neither cared to break.
"Well," said Walter, at length, "I shall have to go alone. To-morrow
morning I will arrange my business,--not forgetting our
securities,--and start in the afternoon train."
"Your father often spoke of Cousin Augustus and his lovely wife; I
wonder if the daughter has her mother's beauty?"
"I can't tell. I hope so. But don't look so inquiringly. I don't love a
woman in the world,--except you, mother. I shan't fall in love, even if
she is an angel."
"If Cousin Augustus should be worse,--should die, what will become of
the poor motherless child?"
"There are no nearer relatives than we, mother,--and we must give her a
home, if she will come."
"Certainly, Walter, we must not be hard-hearted."
Mrs. Monroe was charitable, kind, and motherly towards the distressed;
she felt the force of her son's generous sentiments. If it were her
Cousin Augustus himself who was to be sheltered, or his son, if he had
one,--or if the daughter were unattractive, a hoyden even, she would
cheerfully make any sacrifice in favor of hospitality. But she could
not repress a secret fear lest the beauty and innocence of the orphan
should appeal too strongly to Walter's heart. She knew the natural
destiny of agreeable young men; she acknowledged to herself that Walter
would sometime marry; but she put the time far off as an evil day, and
kept the subject under ban. None of her neighbors who had pretty
daughters were encouraged to visit her on intimate terms. She almost
frowned upon every winsome face that crossed her threshold when Walter
was at home. So absorbing was this feeling, that she was not aware of
its existence, but watched her son by a sort of instinct. Her conduct
was not the result of cool calculation, and, if it could have been
properly set before her generous, kindly heart, she would have been
shocked at her own fond selfishness.
So she sat and speculated, balancing between fear and hope. If Walter
built air-castles, was he to blame? At twenty-four, with a heart
untouched, with fresh susceptibilities, and a little romance withal, is
it to be wondered that his fancy drew such pleasing pictures of his
cousin?
We will leave them to their quiet evening's enjoyment and follow
Greenleaf to the house of Mr. Sandford.