Accustomed to think of marrying as his means of advancement, he
somewhat reasonably supposed "refer you to my father" meant consent, so
far as the young lady was concerned, and he determined to improve the
precious moments. Fortunately for his ideas, Mr. Monson did not enter
the room immediately, which allowed the gentleman an opportunity for a
little deliberation. As usual, his thoughts took the direction of a
mental soliloquy, much in the following form.
"This is getting on famously," thought Tom. "Refer you to my
father--well, that is compact and comprehensive, at the same time. I
wish her dandruff had got up when I mentioned only $50,000. Seriously,
that is but a small sum to make one's way on. If I had a footing of my
own, in society, $50,000 MIGHT do; but, when a fellow has to work his
way by means of dinners, horses, and et ceteras, it's a small
allowance. It's true, the Monsons will give me connections, and
connections are almost--not quite--as good as money to get a chap along
with--but, the d--l of the matter is, that connections eat and drink. I
dare say the Monson set will cost me a good $500 a year, though they
will save something in the way of the feed they must give in their
turns. I wish I had tried her with a higher figure, for, after all, it
may have been only modesty--some women are as modest as the d--l. But
here comes old Monson, and I must strike while the iron is hot."
{dandruff = dander--but while "dander" can mean dandruff as well as
temper, the reverse is not true}
"Good morning, Mr. Thurston," said the father, looking a little
surprised at seeing such a guest at three o'clock. "What, alone with my
daughter's fine pocket-handkerchief? You must find that indifferent
company."
"Not under the circumstances, sir. Every thing is agreeable to us that
belongs to an object we love."
"Love? That is a strong term, Mr. Thurston--one that I hope you have
uttered in pure gallantry."
"Not at all, sir," cried Tom, falling on his knees, as a school boy
reads the wrong paragraph in the confusion of not having studied his
lesson well--"adorable and angelic--I beg your pardon, Mr.
Monson,"--rising, and again brushing his knees with some care--"my mind
is in such a state of confusion, that I scarcely know what I say."
"Really, I should think so, or you could never mistake me for a young
girl of twenty. Will you have the goodness to explain this matter to
me?"
"Yes, sir--I'm referred."
"Referred? Pray, what may that mean in particular?"
"Only, sir, that I'm referred--I do not ask a dollar, sir. Her lovely
mind and amiable person are all I seek, and I only regret that she is
so rich. I should be the happiest fellow in the world, Mr. Monson, if
the angelic Julia had not a cent."
"The angelic Julia must be infinitely indebted to you, Mr. Thurston;
but let us take up this affair in order. What am I to understand, sir,
by your being referred?"
"That Miss Julia, in answer to my suit, has referred me to you, sir."
"Then, so far as she herself is concerned, you wish me to understand
that she accepts you?"
"Certainly--she accepted, some time since, with as heavenly a 'yes' as
ever came from the ruby lips of love."
"Indeed! This is so new to me, sir, that you must permit me to see my
daughter a moment, ere I give a definite answer."
Hereupon Mr. Monson left the room, and Tom began to THINK again.
"Well," he thought, "things DO go on swimmingly at last. This is the
first time I could ever get at a father, though I've offered to
six-and-twenty girls. One does something like a living business with a
father. I don't know but I rather overdid it about the dollar, though
it's according to rule to seem disinterested at first, even if you
quarrel like furies, afterwards, about the stuff. Let me see--had I
best begin to screw him up in this interview, or wait for the next? A
few hints, properly thrown out, may be useful at once. Some of these
old misers hold on to every thing till they die, fancying it a mighty
pleasant matter to chaps that can't support themselves to support THEIR
daughters by industry, as they call it. I'm as industrious as a young
fellow can be, and I owe six months' board, at this very moment.
No--no--I'll walk into him at once, and give him what Napoleon used to
call a demonstration."
The door opened, and Mr. Monson entered, his face a little flushed, and
his eye a little severe. Still he was calm in tone and manner. Julia
had told him all in ten words.
"Now, Mr. Thurston, I believe I understand this matter," said the
father, in a very business-like manner; "you wish to marry my daughter?"
"Exactly, sir; and she wishes to marry me--that is, as far as comports
with the delicacy of the female bosom."
"A very timely reservation. And you are referred?"
"Yes, Mr. Monson, those cheering words have solaced my ears--I am
referred. The old chap," aside, "likes a little humbug, as well as a
girl."
"And you will take her without a cent, you say?"
"Did I, sir? I believe I didn't exactly say that--DOLLAR was the word I
mentioned. CENTS could hardly be named between you and me."
"Dollar let it be, then. Now, sir, you have my consent on a single
condition."
"Name it, sir. Name five or six, at once, my dear Mr. Monson, and you
shall see how I will comply."
"One will answer. How much fortune do you think will be necessary to
make such a couple happy, at starting in the world? Name such a sum as
will comport with your own ideas."
"How much, sir? Mr. Monson, you are a model of generosity! You mean, to
keep a liberal and gentlemanly establishment, as would become your
son-in-law?"
"I do--such a fortune as will make you both easy and comfortable."
"Horses and carriages, of course? Every thing on a genteel and liberal
scale?"
"On such a scale as will insure the happiness of man and wife."
"Mutual esteem--conjugal felicity--and all that. I suppose you include
dinners, sir, and a manly competition with one's fellow citizens, in
real New York form?"
"I mean all that can properly belong to the expenses of a gentleman and
lady."
"Yes, sir--exceedingly liberal--liberal as the rosy dawn. Why, sir,
meeting your proposition in the spirit in which it is offered, I should
say Julia and I could get along very comfortably on $100,000. Yes, we
could make that do, provided the money were well invested--no fancy
stocks."
"Well, sir, I am glad we understand each other so clearly. If my
daughter really wish to marry you, I will give $50,000 of this sum, as
soon as you can show me that you have as much more to invest along with
it."
"Sir--Mr. Monson!"
"I mean that each party shall lay down dollar for dollar!"
"I understand what you mean, sir. Mr. Monson, that would be degrading
lawful wedlock to the level of a bet--a game of cards--a mercenary,
contemptible bargain. No, sir--nothing shall ever induce me to degrade
this honorable estate to such pitiful conditions!"
"Dollar for dollar, Mr. Thurston!"
"Holy wedlock! It is violating the best principles of our nature."
"Give and take!"
"Leveling the sacred condition of matrimony to that of a mere bargain
for a horse or a dog!"
"Half and half!"
"My nature revolts at such profanation, sir--I will take $75,000 with
Miss Julia, and say no more about it."
"Equality is the foundation of wedded happiness, Mr. Thurston."
"Say $50,000, Mr. Monson, and have no more words about it. Take away
from the transaction the character of a bargain, and even $40,000 will
do."
"Not a cent that is not covered by a cent of your own."
"Then, sir, I wash my hands of the whole affair. If the young lady
should die, my conscience will be clear. It shall never be said Thomas
Thurston was so lost to himself as to bargain for a wife."
"We must, then, part, and the negotiation must fall through."
Tom rose with dignity, and got as far as the door. With his hand on the
latch, he added--
"Rather than blight the prospects of so pure and lovely a creature I
will make every sacrifice short of honor--let it be $30,000, Mr.
Monson?"
"As you please, sir--so that it be covered by $30,000 of your own."
"My nature revolts at the proposition, and so--good morning, sir."
Tom left the house, and Mr. Monson laughed heartily; so heartily,
indeed, as to prove how much he relished the success of his scheme.
"Talk of Scylla and Charybdis!" soliloquized the discomfited Tom, as he
wiped the perspiration from his face--"Where the d--l does he think I
am to find the $50,000 he wants, unless he first gives them to me? I
never heard of so unreasonable an old chap! Here is a young fellow that
offers to marry his daughter for $30,000--half price, as one may
say--and he talks about covering every cent he lays down with one of my
own. I never knew what was meant by cent. per cent. before. Let me see;
I've just thirty-two dollars and sixty-nine cents, and had we played at
a game of coppers, I couldn't have held out half an hour. But, I
flatter myself, I touched the old scamp up with morals, in a way he
wasn't used to. Well, as this thing is over, I will try old Sweet, the
grocer's daughter. If the wardrobe and whiskers fail there, I must rub
up the Greek and Latin, and shift the ground to Boston. They say a chap
with a little of the classics can get $30 or 40,000, there, any day in
the week. I wish my parents had brought me up a schoolmaster; I would
be off in the first boat. Blast it!--I thought when I came down to
$30,000, he would have snapped at the bait, like a pike. He'll never
have a chance to get her off so cheap, again."
{cent. per cent. = one hundred percent}
This ended the passage of flirtation between Thomas Thurston and Julia
Monson. As for the latter, she took such a distaste for me, that she
presented me to Mademoiselle Hennequin, at the first opportunity, under
the pretence that she had discovered a strong wish in the latter to
possess me.
Adrienne accepted the present with some reluctance, on account of the
price that had been paid for me, and yet with strong emotion. How she
wept over me, the first time we were alone together! I thought her
heart would break; nor am I certain it would not, but for the timely
interposition of Julia, who came and set her laughing by a humorous
narrative of what had occurred between her father and her lover.
That night the rout took place. It went off with eclat, but I did not
make my appearance at it, Adrienne rightly judging that I was not a
proper companion for one in her situation. It is true, this is not a
very American notion, EVERY thing being suitable for EVERY body, that
get them, in this land of liberty, but Adrienne had not been educated
in a land of liberty, and fancied that her dress should bear some
relation to her means. Little did she know that I was a sort of patent
of nobility, and that by exhibiting me, she might have excited envy,
even in an alderman's daughter. My non-appearance, however, made no
difference with Betts Shoreham, whose attentions throughout the evening
were so marked as to raise suspicion of the truth in the mind of even
Mrs. Monson.
{rout = evening party; eclat = brilliance}
The next day there was an eclaircissement. Adrienne owned who she was,
gave my history, acquainted Mrs. Monson with her connection with Mr.
Shoreham, and confessed the nature of his suit. I was present at this
interview, and it would be unjust to say that the mother was not
disappointed. Still she behaved generously, and like a high principled
woman. Adrienne was advised to accept Betts, and her scruples, on the
score of money, were gradually removed, by Mrs. Monson's arguments.
{eclaircissement = explanation}
"What a contrast do this Mr. Thurston and Adrienne present!" observed
Mrs. Monson to her husband, in a tete a tete, shortly after this
interview. "Here is the gentleman wanting to get our child, without a
shilling to bless himself with, and the poor girl refusing to marry the
man of her heart, because she is penniless."
"So much for education. We become mercenary or self-denying, very much
as we are instructed. In this country, it must be confessed,
fortune-hunting has made giant strides, within the last few years, and
that, too, with an audacity of pretension that is unrestrained by any
of the social barriers which exist elsewhere."
"Adrienne will marry Mr. Shoreham, I think. She loves; and when a girl
loves, her scruples of this nature are not invincible."
"Ay, HE can lay down dollar for dollar--I wish his fancy had run toward
Julia."
"It has not, and we can only regret it. Adrienne has half-consented,
and I shall give her a handsome wedding--for, married she must be in
our house."
All came to pass as was predicted. One month from that day, Betts
Shoreham and Adrienne de la Rocheaimard became man and wife. Mrs.
Monson gave a handsome entertainment, and a day or two later, the
bridegroom and bride took possession of their proper home. Of course I
removed with the rest of the family, and, by these means, had an
opportunity of becoming a near spectator of a honey-moon. I ought,
however, to say, that Betts insisted on Julia's receiving $125 for me,
accepting from Julia a handsome wedding present of equal value, but in
another form. This was done simply that Adrienne might say when I was
exhibited, that she had worked me herself, and that the lace with which
I was embellished was an heir-loom. If there are various ways of
quieting one's conscience, in the way of marriage settlements, so are
there various modes of appeasing our sense of pride.
Pocket-handkerchiefs have their revolutions, as well as states. I was
now under my first restoration, and perfectly happy; but, being French,
I look forward to further changes, since the temperament that has twice
ejected the Bourbons from their thrones will scarce leave me in quiet
possession of mine forever.
{first restoration = the Bourbon dynasty was restored to the French
throne in 1815, after the fall of Napoleon, only to be deposed again in
1830}
Adrienne loves Betts more than any thing else. Still she loves me
dearly. Scarce a week passes that I am not in her hands; and it is when
her present happiness seems to be overflowing, that she is most fond of
recalling the painful hours she experienced in making me what I am.
Then her tears flow freely, and often I am held in her soft little
hand, while she prays for the soul of her grandmother, or offers up
praises for her own existing blessings. I am no longer thought of for
balls and routs, but appear to be doomed to the closet, and those
moments of tender confidence that so often occur between these lovers.
I complain not. So far from it, never was an "article" of my character
more highly favored; passing an existence, as it might be, in the very
bosom of truth and innocence. Once only have I seen an old
acquaintance, in the person of Clara Caverly, since my change of
mistress--the idea of calling a de la Rocheaimard, a boss, or bossess,
is out of the question. Clara is a distant relative of Betts, and soon
became intimate with her new cousin. One day she saw me lying on a
table, and, after an examination, she exclaimed--
"Two things surprise me greatly here, Mrs. Shoreham--that YOU should
own one of these THINGS"--I confess I did not like the word--"and that
you should own this particular handkerchief."
"Why so, chere Clara?"--how prettily my mistress pronounces that name;
so different from Clarry!
"It is not like YOU to purchase so extravagant and useless a THING--and
then this looks like a handkerchief that once belonged to another
person--a poor girl who has lost her means of extravagance by the
change of the times. But, of course, it is only a resemblance, as YOU--"
"It is more, Clara--the handkerchief is the same. But that handkerchief
is not an article of dress with me; it is MY FRIEND!"
The reader may imagine how proud I felt! This was elevation for the
species, and gave a dignity to my position, with which I am infinitely
satisfied. Nevertheless, Miss Caverly manifested surprise.
"I will explain," continued Mrs. Shoreham. "The handkerchief is my own
work, and is very precious to me, on account des souvenirs."
{des souvenirs = of memories}
Adrienne then told the whole story, and I may say Clara Caverly became
my friend also. Yes, she, who had formerly regarded me with
indifference, or dislike, now kissed me, and wept over me, and in this
manner have I since passed from friend to friend, among all of
Adrienne's intimates.
Not so with the world, however. My sudden disappearance from it excited
quite as much sensation as my debut in it. Tom Thurston's addresses to
Miss Monson had excited the envy, and, of course, the attention of all
the other fortune-hunters in town, causing his sudden retreat to be
noticed. Persons of this class are celebrated for covering their
retreats skilfully. Tom declared that "the old chap broke down when
they got as far as the fortune--that, as he liked the girl, he would
have taken her with $75,000, but the highest offer he could get from
him was $30,000. This, of course, no gentleman could submit to. A girl
with such a pocket-handkerchief OUGHT to bring a clear $100,000, and I
was for none of your half-way doings. Old Monson is a humbug. The
handkerchief has disappeared, and, now they have taken down the SIGN, I
hope they will do business on a more reasonable scale."
A month later, Tom got married. I heard John Monson laughing over the
particulars one day in Betts Shoreham's library, where I am usually
kept, to my great delight, being exceedingly fond of books. The facts
were as follows. It seems Tom had cast an eye on the daughter of a
grocer of reputed wealth, who had attracted the attention of another
person of his own school. To get rid of a competitor, this person
pointed out to Tom a girl, whose father had been a butcher, but had
just retired from business, and was building himself a fine house
somewhere in Butcherland.
"That's your girl," said the treacherous adviser. "All butchers are
rich, and they never build until their pockets are so crammed as to
force them to it. They coin money, and spend nothing. Look how high
beef has been of late years; and then they live on the smell of their
own meats. This is your girl. Only court the old fellow, and you are
sure of half a million in the long run."
Tom was off on the instant. He did court the old fellow; got introduced
to the family; was a favorite from the first; offered in a fortnight,
was accepted, and got married within the month. Ten days afterward, the
supplies were stopped for want of funds, and the butcher failed. It
seems HE, too, was only taking a hand in the great game of brag that
most of the country had sat down to.
Tom was in a dilemma. He had married a butcher's daughter. After this,
every door in Broadway and Bond street was shut upon him. Instead of
stepping into society on his wife's shoulders, he was dragged out of it
by the skirts, through her agency. Then there was not a dollar. His
empty pockets were balanced by her empty pockets. The future offered a
sad perspective. Tom consulted a lawyer about a divorce, on the ground
of "false pretences." He was even ready to make an affidavit that he
had been slaughtered. But it would not do. The marriage was found to
stand all the usual tests, and Tom went to Texas.