Greenleaf pursued his search for Alice with all the ardor of his nature.
One glimpse only he had of her;--at a clothing-store, where he inquired,
the clerk seemed to recognize the description given, and was quite
sure that such a girl had taken out work, but he knew nothing of
her whereabouts, and he believed she was now employed by another
establishment. It was something to know that she was in the city, and,
probably, not destitute; still better to know what path of life she had
chosen, so that his time need not be wasted in fruitless inquiries.
On his return, after the second day's search, he sought his friend
Easelmann, whose counsel and sympathy he particularly desired.
"Any tidings of the fugitive?" was the first question.
"No," replied Greenleaf,--"nothing satisfactory. I have heard of her
once; but it was like a trail in the woods, which the hunter comes upon,
then loses utterly."
"But the hunter who measures a track once will be likely to find it
again."
"Yes, I have that consolation. But, Easelmann, though this mishap of
losing Alice has cost me many sleepless nights, and will continue to
engross my time until I find her, I cannot rid myself of other troubles
and apprehensions. I have done nothing for a long time. I have no
orders; and, as I have no fortune to fall back upon, I see nothing but
starvation before me."
"Then, my dear fellow, look the other way. It isn't wise to distress
yourself by looking ahead, so long as you have the chance of turning
round."
"I feel lonely, too,--isolated. People that I meet are civil enough;
but I don't know a man, except in my profession, that I can consider a
friend."
"Very likely. Caste isn't confined to India."
"I had supposed that intellect and culture were enough to secure for
a man a recognition in good society; but I am made to feel, a hundred
times a day, that I have no more _status_ than a clever colored man, an
itinerant actor, or any other anomaly. To-day I met Travis; you know he
comes here and makes himself free and easy with us, and has always put
himself on a footing of equality."
"Wherein you made a mistake. He has no right, but by courtesy, to
any equality. A little taste, perhaps, and money enough to gratify
it,--that's all. He never had an idea in his life."
"That is the reason I felt the slight. He was walking with a lady whose
manner and dress were unmistakable,--a lady of undoubted position. I
bowed, and received in return one of those hardly-perceptible nods, with
a forced smile that covered only the side of his face _from_ the lady.
It was a recognition that one might throw to his boot-black. I am a
mild-mannered man, as you know; but I could have murdered him on the
spot."
Greenleaf walked the floor with flashing eyes and his teeth set.
"Now, I like the spirit," said Easelmann; "but, pray, be sensible.
'Where Macdonald sits, there is the head of the table.' Stand firm in
your own shoes, and graduate your bows by those you get."
"I suppose I am thin-skinned."
"As long as you are, you will chafe. Cultivate a hide like a
rhinoceros's, and Society will let fly its pin-pointed arrows in vain.
You have a great deal to learn, my dear boy."
"But other special classes are not so treated,--literary men, for
instance."
"Don't be too sure of that. An author who has attained position is
_fêted_, because the fashionable circles must have their lions. But to
stand permanently like other men, he must have money or family, or else
obey the world's ten commandments, of which the first is, 'Thou shalt
not wear a slouched hat,'--and the rest are like unto it. No,--the
literary men have their heart-burnings, I suspect. They forget, as you
do, that their very profession, the direction of their thoughts, their
mode of life, cut them off from sympathy and fellowship. What has a
writer who dreams of rivalling Emerson or the 'Autocrat' to do with
costly and absorbing private theatricals, with dances at Papanti's, with
any of the thousand modes of killing time agreeably? And how shall you
become the new Claude, if you give your thoughts to the style of your
clothes, and to the inanities that make up the staple of conversation?"
"But because I am precluded from devoting my time to society, that is no
reason why I should bear the patronizing airs"----
"Don't be patronized,--that's all. If a man gives you such a look as
you have described, cut him dead the next time you meet him. If anybody
gives you two fingers to shake, give him only one of yours. I tried that
plan on a doctor of divinity once, and it worked admirably. His intended
condescension somehow vanished in a mist, and the foolish confusion that
overspread his blank features would have done you good to behold."
"I have no doubt. I don't think it would be easy to be impertinent to
you. Not that there are not presuming people enough; but you have a
way with you. Your blade that cuts off a bayonet at a blow will glide
through a feather as well."
"A delicate stroke of yours! Now to return. You are out of money, you
say. Perhaps you will allow me to become your creditor for a while. I
may presume upon the relation and take on some airs;--that's inevitable;
one can't forego such a privilege;--but I promise to bow very civilly
whenever I meet you; and I won't remind you of the debt--above twice a
day."
Taking out his pocket-book, he handed his friend fifty dollars, and
_pshawed_ and _poohed_ at every expression of gratitude.
"By the way, Greenleaf," he continued, "I have been in search of an
absconding female also. You remember Mrs. Sandford, the charming widow?"
"Yes,--what has become of her?"
"You see how philosophical I am. I have not seen her yet; and yet I am
not crazy about it. Some chickens think the sky is falling, whenever a
rose-leaf drops on their heads."
"But you have no such reason to be anxious."
"Haven't I? Do you think old fellows like me have lost recollection as
well as feeling? One of the most deadly cases of romance I ever knew was
between people of forty and upwards."
"How dull I was! I saw some rather odd glances between you at the
musical party, but thought nothing more about it. But why haven't you
been looking for her?"
"I have been cogitating," said Easelmann, twisting his moustaches.
"I should think so. If you had asked me, now! I went with her to the
house where I suppose she is still boarding."
"Did you?" [_very indifferently, and with the falling inflection._]
"Why, don't you want to know?"
"Yes,--to-morrow. And I think, that, when we find her, we may find a
clue to your Alice."
Greenleaf started up as if he had been galvanized.
"You _have_ seen her, then! You old fox! Where is she? To-morrow,
indeed! Tell me, and I will fly."
"You can't; for, as Brother Chadband observed, you haven't any wings."
"Don't trifle with me. I know your fondness for surprises; but if you
love me, don't put me off with your nonsense."
Greenleaf was thoroughly in earnest, and Easelmann took a more
soothing tone. At another time the temptation to tease would have been
irresistible.
"Be calm, you man of gunpowder, steel, whalebone, and gutta-percha! I
positively have nothing but guesses to give you. Besides, do you think
you have nothing to do but rush into Alice's arms when you find her?
Take some valerian to quiet your nerves, and go to bed. In the morning,
try to smooth over those sharp features of yours. Use rouge, if you
can't get up your natural color. When you are presentable, come over
here again, and we'll stroll out in search of adventure. But mind, I
promise nothing,--I only guess."
While he spoke, Greenleaf looked into the mirror, and was surprised to
see how anxiety had worn upon him. His face was thin and bloodless, and
his eyes sunken, but glowing. The quiet influence of his friend calmed
him, and his impatience subsided. He took his leave silently, wringing
Easelmann's hand, and walked home with a lighter heart.
"He is a good fellow," mused Easelmann, "and has suffered enough for his
folly. The lesson will do him good."