A DOMESTIC RECONNOISSANCE.
“O Spirit of the Summer time!
Bring back the roses to the dells;
The swallow from her distant clime,
The honey-bee from drowsy cells.
Bring back the singing and the scent
Of meadow-lands at dewy prime;—
O, bring again my heart’s content,
Thou Spirit of the Summer time!”
_W. Allingham._
The following Wednesday, Pompilard returned rather earlier than usual
from his diurnal visit to Wall Street. He brought home a printed copy of
the Prospectus, and sent it up-stairs to the wounded author. Then taking
from the bookcase a yellow-covered pamphlet, he composed himself in an
arm-chair, and, resting his legs on an ottoman, began reading that most
thrilling production of the season, “The Guerilla’s Bride, or the
Temptation and the Triumph, by Carrie Cameron.”
Mrs. Pompilard glided into the room, and, putting her hands over his
eyes from behind, said, “What’s the matter, my love?”
“Matter? Nothing, wife! Leave me to my novel.”
“Always of late,” she replied, “when I see you with one of these
sensation novels, I know that something has gone wrong with you.”
“Nonsense, you silly woman! I know what you want. It’s a kiss. There!
Take it and go.”
“You’ve lost money!” said Madam, receiving the kiss, then shaking her
finger at him, and returning to her household tasks.
She was right in her surmise. Pompilard, hopeful of Union victories on
the Peninsula of Virginia, had been selling gold in expectation of a
fall. There had been a large rise, and his five hundred dollars had been
swallowed up in the great maw of Wall Street like a straw in Niagara. He
passed the rest of that day in the house, reading his novel, or playing
backgammon with the Major.
The next morning, putting the Prospectus and his pride with it in his
pocket, he issued forth, resolved to see what could be done in
furtherance of the grand literary scheme which was to immortalize and
enrich his son-in-law. Entering Broadway he walked up to Union Park,
then along Fourteenth Street to the Fifth Avenue. And now, every square
or two, he would pass door-plates that displayed some familiar name.
Frequently he would be tempted to stop, but he passed on and on, until
he came to one which bore in large black walnut letters the name
CHARLTON.
With this gentleman he had not had any intercourse since the termination
of that great lawsuit in which they had been opposed. Charlton, having
put the greater part of his property into gold just before the war, had
made enormous sums by the rise in the precious metal. It was noticed in
Wall Street, that he was growing fat; that he had lost his anxious,
eager look. War was not such a bad thing after all. Surely he would be
glad of the opportunity of subscribing for five or ten copies of the
wounded Purling’s great work.
These considerations encouraged the credulous Pompilard to call. A
respectable private carriage stood before the house, and in it sat a
young lady, probably Miss Charlton, playing with a pet spaniel.
Pompilard rang the door-bell, and a dapper footman in white gloves
ushered him up-stairs into the library. Here Charlton sat computing his
profits on the rates of exchange as given in that day’s report.
He rose on Pompilard’s entrance, and with a profuse politeness that
contrasted somewhat with his manner on previous occasions, shook hands
with him, and placed him in a seat. Excessive prosperity had at last
taught Charlton to temper his refusals with gracious speech. It was so
much cheaper to give smooth words than solid coin!
“Am delighted to see you, Mr. Pompilard!” quoth he. “How fresh and young
you’re looking! Your family are all well, I trust.”
“All save my son-in-law, Major Purling. He, having been thrown on his
back by a bad wound and by sickness got in camp, now proposes to occupy
himself with preparing a history of the war. Here is his Prospectus, and
we want your name to head the subscription.”
“A most laudable project! Excellent! I don’t doubt the Major’s ability
to produce a most authentic and admirable work. I shall take great
pleasure in commending it to my friends.”
Here Charlton, who had received one of the papers from Pompilard, and
glanced at it, handed it back to the old man.
“I want your autograph, Mr. Charlton. The work, you perceive, will be in
six volumes at only two dollars a volume. For how many copies will you
put down your name?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Pompilard, but the demands on my purse for objects,
public and private, are so incessant just now, that I must decline
subscribing. Probably when the work is published I shall desire to
procure a copy for my library. I have heard of Major Purling as a
gallant officer and a distinguished writer. I can’t doubt he will
succeed splendidly. Make my compliments to your estimable family.”
Here a lady elegantly dressed, as if for a promenade, entered the room,
and asked for the morning paper. She looked searchingly at Pompilard,
and then went up to him, and putting out her hand, said, “Have you
forgotten Charlotte Dykvelt?”
“Impossible! Who could have believed it? And you are now Mrs. Charlton!”
The lady’s lip curled a little, as if no gracious emotion came with the
reminder. Then taking from the old man’s hand the printed sheet which
Charlton had returned to him, she exclaimed: “What have we here? A
Prospectus! Is not Major Purling your son-in-law? To be sure he is! A
brave officer! He must be encouraged in his project. And how is your
daughter, Mrs. Ireton? I see,” continued Mrs. Charlton, laying down the
Prospectus and pulling away nervously at her gloves,—“I see that your
grandson, Captain Ireton, has been highly complimented for gallant
behavior on the Mississippi.”
“Yes, he’s a good boy, is Fred. Do you know he was a great admirer of
yours?”
The lady was suddenly absorbed in looking for a certain advertisement of
a Soldier’s Relief Meeting. Pompilard took up his Prospectus, began
folding it, and rose from his chair as if to go.
“Let me look at that Prospectus a moment,” said Mrs. Charlton, taking up
a pen.
“Certainly,” he replied, handing her the paper. While she read it, he
examined what appeared a bronze vase that stood on one side of the
table. He undertook to lift it, and drew out from a socket, which
extended beneath the surface of the wood, a polished steel tube.
“Take care, Mr. Pompilard!” said Charlton; “’t is loaded. No one would
suppose ’ was a revolver, eh? I got it the day after old Van Wyck was
robbed, sitting in his library. Please don’t mention the fact that I
have such a weapon within my reach.”
“I have put down my name for thirty copies,” said Mrs. Charlton,
returning to Pompilard his Prospectus.
“But this is munificent, Madam!” exclaimed the old man.
Charlton gnawed his lips in helpless anger.
Madam had played her cards so well, that it was a stipulation she and
her daughter should have each a large allowance, in the spending of
which they were to be independent. Drawing forth her purse, she took
from it three one hundred dollar bills, a fifty, and a ten, and handed
them to Pompilard.
“Do you wish to pay in advance, Madam?” he asked.
“I wish that money to be paid directly to the author, to aid him in his
patriotic labors,” she replied. “There need be no receipt, and there
need be no delivery of books.”
Pompilard took the bills and looked her in the face. He felt that words
would be impertinent in conveying his thanks. She gave him one sad,
sweet smile of acknowledgment of his silent gratitude. “Major Purling,”
said he, in a tone that trembled a little, “will be greatly encouraged
by your liberality. I will bid you good morning, Madam. Good morning,
Mr. Charlton!”
Husband and wife were left alone.
“That’s the way you fool away my money, is it, Mrs. Charlton? Three
hundred and sixty dollars disposed of already! A nice morning’s work!”
“You speak of the money as yours, sir. You forget. By contract it is
mine. I shall spend it as I choose. Does not our agreement say that my
allowance and my daughter’s shall be absolutely at our disposal?”
“Those allowances, Mrs. Charlton, must be cut down to meet the state of
the times. I can’t afford them any longer.”
“Sir, you say what you know to be untrue. Your profits from the rise in
exchange alone, since the war began, have already been two hundred
thousand dollars. The rise in your securities generally has been
enormous. And yet you talk of not _affording_ the miserable pittance you
allow me and my daughter!”
“A miserable pittance! O yes! Ten thousand a year for pin-money is a
very miserable pittance.”
“So it is, when one lays by five times that amount of superfluous
income. Thank me that I don’t force you to double the allowance. Do you
think to juggle _me_ with your groans about family expenses and the hard
times? Am I so easily duped, think you, as not to see through the
miserly sham?”
“This is the woman that promised to love, honor, and obey!”
“Do you twit me with that? Go back, Charlton, to that first day you
pressed me to be your wife. I frankly told you I could not love
you,—that I loved another. You made light of all that. You enlisted the
influence of my parents against me. You drove me into the toils. No
sooner was I married than I found that you, with all your wealth, had
chosen me merely because you thought I was rich. What a satisfaction it
was to me when I heard of my father’s failure! What was your
disappointment,—your rage! But there was no help for it. And so we
settled down to a loveless life, in which we have thus far been
thoroughly consistent. You go your way, and I mine. You find your
rapture in your coupons and dividends; I seek such distraction as I can
in my little charities, my Sanitary Aid Societies, and my Seaman’s
Relief. If you think to cut me off from these resources, the worst will
probably be your own.”
Charlton was cowed and nonplussed, as usual in these altercations.
“There, go!” said he. “Go and make ducks and drakes of your money in
your own way. That old Pomposity has left his damned Prospectus here on
the table.”
Mrs. Charlton passed out and down-stairs. On a slab in the hall was a
bouquet which a neighboring greenhouse man she had befriended had just
left. She stooped to smell of it. What was there in the odors which
brought back associations that made her bow her head while the tears
gushed forth? Conspicuous among the flowers was a bunch of English
violets,—just such a little bunch as Frederick Ireton used to bring her
in those far-off days, when the present and the future seemed so flooded
with rose-hues.
“Miss Lucy wants to know if you’re ever coming?” said a servant.
“Yes!” replied Mrs. Charlton. “’T is too bad to keep her waiting so!”
And the next moment she joined her daughter in the carriage.
Meanwhile Charlton, as his wife left him, had groaned out, in soliloquy,
“What a devil of a woman! How different from my first wife!” Then he
sought consolation in the quotations of stock. While he read and
chuckled, there was a knock. It was only Pompilard returned for his
Prospectus. As the old man was folding it up, the white-gloved footman
laid a card before Charlton. “Vance!” exclaimed the latter: “I’m
acquainted with no such person. Show him up.”
Vance had donned his citizen’s dress. He wore a blue frock, fastened by
a single black silk button at the top, a buff vest, white pantaloons,
and summer shoes. Without a shoulder-strap, he looked at once the
soldier and the gentleman. Rapidly and keenly he took Charlton’s
physiognomical measure, then glanced at Pompilard. The latter having
folded up his Prospectus, was turning to quit the room. As he bowed on
departing, Charlton remarked, “Good day to you, Mr. Pompilard.”
“Did I hear the name Pompilard?” inquired Vance.
“That is my name, sir,” replied the old man.
“Is it he whose wife was a Miss Aylesford?”
“The same, sir.”
“Mr. Pompilard, I have been trying to find you. My carriage is at the
door. Will you do me the favor to wait in it five minutes for me till I
come down?”
“Certainly, sir.” And Pompilard went out.
“Now, Mr. Charlton,” said Vance, “what I have to say is, that I am
called Colonel Vance; that I am recently from New Orleans; that while
there it became a part of my official duty to look at certain property
held in your name, but claimed by another party.”
“Claimed by a rebel and a traitor, Colonel Vance. I’m delighted to see
you, sir. Will you be seated?”
“No, thank you. Let me propose to you, that, as preliminary to other
proceedings, I introduce to you to-night certain parties who came with
me from New Orleans, and whose testimony may be at once interesting and
useful.”
“I shall be obliged to you for the interview, Colonel Vance.”
“It would be proper that your confidential lawyer should be present; for
it may be well to cross-question some of the witnesses.”
“Thank you for the suggestion, Colonel Vance. I shall avail myself of
it.”
“As there will be ladies in the party, I hope your wife and daughter
will be present.”
“I will give them your message.”
“Tell them we have a young officer with us who was shot through the
lungs in battle not long since. Shall we make the hour half-past
eight;—place, the Astor House?”
“That would suit me precisely, Colonel Vance.”
“Then I will bid you good day, sir, for the present.”
Charlton put out his hand, but Vance bowed without seeming to notice it,
and passed out of the house into the carriage.
“Mr. Pompilard,” said he, as the carriage moved on, “are you willing to
take me on trust, say for the next hour, as a gentleman, and comply with
my reasonable requests without compelling me to explain myself further?
Call me, if you please, Mr. Vance.”
“Truly, Mr. Vance,” replied Pompilard, “I do not see how I risk much in
acceding to your proposition. If you were an impostor, you would hardly
think of fleecing _me_, for I am shorn close already. Besides, you carry
the right signet on your front. Yes, I _will_ trust you, Mr. Vance.”
“Thank you, sir. Your wife is living?”
“I left her alive and well some two hours ago.”
“Has she any children of her own?”
“One,—a daughter, Antoinette. We call her Netty. A most extraordinary
creature! An artist, sir! Paints sea-pieces better than Lane, Bradford,
or Church himself. A girl of decided genius.”
“Well, Mr. Pompilard, if your house is not far from here, I wish to
drive to it at once, and have your wife and daughter do us the honor to
take seats in this carriage.”
“That we can do, Mr. Vance. Driver, 27 Lavinia Street! The day is
pleasant. They will enjoy a drive. I must make you acquainted with my
son-in-law, Major Purling. A noble fellow, sir! Had an arm shot off at
Fair Oaks. Used up, too, by fever. Brave as Julius Cæsar! And, like
Julius Cæsar, writes as well as he fights. He proposes getting up a
history of the war. Here’s his Prospectus.”
Vance looked at it. “I mustn’t be outdone,” said he, “by a lady. Put me
down also for thirty copies. Put down Mr. Winslow and Madame Volney each
for as many more.”
“But that is astounding, sir!” cried Pompilard. “A hundred and twenty
copies disposed of already! The Major will jump out of his bed at the
news!”
As the carriage crossed the Bowery and bowled into Lavinia Street,
Pompilard remarked: “There are some advantages, Mr. Vance, in being on
the East River side. We get a purer sea air in summer, sir.”
At that moment an unfortunate stench of decayed vegetables was blown in
upon them, by way of comment, and Pompilard added: “You see, sir, we are
very particular about removing all noxious rubbish. Health, sir, is our
first consideration. We have the dirt-carts busy all the time.”
Here the carriage stopped. “A modest little place we have taken for the
summer, Mr. Vance. Small, but convenient and retired. Most worthy and
quiet people, our neighbors. Walk in, sir.”
They entered the parlor. “Take a seat, Mr. Vance. If you’ve a taste for
art, let me commend to your examination that fine engraving between the
windows. Here’s a new book, if you are literary,—Miss Carrie Cameron’s
famous novel. Amuse yourself.”
And having handed him “The Guerilla’s Bride,” Pompilard rushed
up-stairs. Instantly a great tumult was heard in the room over Vance’s
head. It was accompanied with poundings, jumpings, and exultant shouts.
Three hundred and sixty dollars had been placed on the coverlid beneath
which lay the wounded Purling. It was the first money his literary
efforts had ever brought him. The spell was broken. Thenceforth the
thousands would pour in upon him in an uninterrupted flood. Can it be
wondered that there was much jubilation over the news?
Vance was of course introduced to all the inmates, and made a partaker
in their good spirits. At last Mrs. Pompilard and Netty were dressed and
ready. Vance handed them into the carriage. He and Pompilard took the
back seat. As they drove off they encountered a crowd before an
adjoining door. It was composed of some of those “most worthy and quiet
neighbors” of whom Pompilard had recently spoken. They were gathering,
amid a Babel of voices, round a cart where an ancient virago, Milesian
by birth, was berating a butcher whom she charged with having sold her a
stale leg of mutton the week before.
“One misses these bustling little scenes in the rural districts,” quoth
Pompilard. “They serve to give color and movement, life and sparkle, to
our modest neighborhood.”
“Mrs. Pompilard,” said Vance, “we are on our way to the Astor House,
where I propose to introduce to you a young lady. I wish you and your
daughter to scrutinize her closely, and to tell me if you see in her a
likeness to any one you have ever known.”