THE BILL OF EXCHANGE.
A young man entered an eminent banking house in the lower part of the
city, with the air of a stranger, and presented a bill of exchange so
large in amount as to occasion some surprise, for he drew the heavier
portion at once in gold and carried it off in a leathern satchel which
he carried in his hand. The strain upon his arm denoted no ordinary
amount of the precious metal; though he carried it with assumed ease,
the blood rose to his pale face with the exertion. This circumstance,
and something in the appearance of the man, drew the general attention
upon him as he passed out of the bank. There was scarcely a clerk in the
room who did not follow this stranger with his eyes and comment upon his
elegance of manner and person. His air and dress were foreign, his beard
black and bright as the plumage of a raven, was trimmed with great
neatness, and magnificent black eyes completed the manly beauty of a
face which no one could have looked upon without admiration.
“There goes a fellow that ought to be a lord, from the cut of his
figure,” said one.
“Or a government speculator, by the pile of gold he carries away,”
answered another. “Only he looks too modest and walks too quietly for
that.”
“Some English nobleman going out to hunt on the Plains, travelling
_incog._, no doubt—that sort of thing is getting very fashionable of
late,” observed a third. “Stylish fellow, anyway.”
More than one person who met this man in the street made the same
observation. His quiet, yet lofty carriage, joined to a style of beauty
which was both statuesque and manly, singled him out from the crowd.
Both men and women turned to look at him as he passed, wondering vaguely
about him.
The stranger walked on, apparently unconscious of the general regard,
but his observation was keen, notwithstanding this seeming indifference,
and a smile curled the lips beneath the shadow of his black beard as he
entered one of the up-town hotels and proceeded to a suite of rooms
taken that morning an hour after his arrival in the steamer from Europe.
When he entered the Fifth Avenue hotel, the stranger had carried a
leathern box in his hand, such as statesmen and persons travelling on
business sometimes use for convenience when papers are to be transported
from place to place. This box stood on a console in the parlor when he
entered that room on his return from the banker’s. He drew an easy chair
toward the console, sat down in it and unlocked the box, in which were
some papers and small packages, which might or might not contain
valuables.
He pressed these papers down with his hands, then unlocked the satchel
and poured a steady stream of gold into the box till it was even full,
and the satchel scarcely lightened of one-third its contents. Then he
dropped a handful or two of the coin into his pockets, locked the
satchel, and flung it with a heave and a crash on the top of a wardrobe,
which stood in the bed-chamber opening out of the room where he sat. A
massive cornice of carved rosewood formed a hollow which would have
concealed a larger package, and in which this sunk completely out of
sight.
After the exertion of hiding away his gold, the man sat down, brushed
some particles of dust from his coat and took a package of letters from
his breast pocket. These he examined with great care, and seemed to be
taxing his memory severely regarding the writers, for he muttered more
than once, “Well, I never saw this man,” or, “I wonder how the fellow
looks.”
The letters were directed to some of the first statesmen and merchants
in the country. One, which bore the name of Lander, he singled out and
examined carefully.
“They never met, I feel quite sure they never met,” he muttered,
smoothing his jetty beard with one hand as he read. “I wonder how near
the old man lives. But I forget, the luggage will soon he here, and I
have made no preparation.”
Seymour, for by that name the man registered himself, arose suddenly,
took his hat and went out. He was a little bewildered now, and seemed to
be looking for some place which he was reluctant to ask for in words. A
moment he paused before the windows at Tiffany’s, and seemed tempted to
go in, but turned away, crossed the street and stopped at Morley’s,
where he lounged away half an hour examining specimens of antique
furniture with the air of a connoisseur.
A dressing-case, richly appointed, and a desk of ebony, mounted with
silver, seemed to strike his fancy. These he put aside for purchase,
inquiring first if the cases that belonged to them could be found, if
the mountings could be brightened and the whole put in order at once.
The man paid for these articles in gold, and the only remarkable thing
about his purchase was that he ordered both desk and dressing-case to be
carried to an express, from which they would be delivered at the hotel.
The stranger left his name in full; Horace Seymour, and gave the number
of his rooms.
The next remarkable step that this man took was to wander on and on till
he came to a pawnbroker’s shop with a host of miscellaneous articles
hanging at the window. He went in and inquired for second-hand watches,
something unique. If one could be found with the letters H. S., or even
S., singly upon the case, he would not mind the price; a crest, too,
might enhance the value of the article.
The pawnbroker’s sharp eyes brightened at this. Some imprudent Smith,
called Henry, Horatio, Horace or Hector, perhaps, had left his
unfortunate initials tied up unredeemed, on the back of a fine
hunting-watch, worn just enough to become highly respectable. This
Horace Seymour purchased without demurring at the exorbitant price which
the pawnbroker instantaneously put upon it.
When the watch was transferred to his pocket, he desired to examine any
other curious things in the way of jewelry that might happen to remain
on sale. Directly a case of trinkets was brought forth, out of which
Seymour selected a seal ring whose value even the pawnbroker did not
know, for it was an antique head, exquisitely cut, and almost worth its
weight in diamonds.
Seymour’s eyes brightened slowly as he saw this gem, but he examined
half-a-dozen uninteresting articles before he touched it. Then he
carelessly asked the price, paid it without comment, slipped the ring on
his finger and walked away, leaving the pawnbroker almost in tears
because he had not asked an additional ten per cent. on the articles
that had just left his den.
“If I’d only known how much he would bear,” lamented the man to himself.
“Why the fellow never once attempted to beat me down, and wouldn’t if
I’d asked double. But I always was a coward—a mean coward—afraid to set
a price on my own soul. What’s the good of these ten twenty, thirty gold
eagles, when it might have been twice as much and something to drink
thrown in. Oh, the gentleman has robbed me with his still manner and
thoughtful face. It might have been double! It might have been double!”
Meantime Seymour had walked quietly up Broadway toward his hotel, making
his own combinations. Two express wagons stood in front of the office,
and porters were busy carrying up his trunks, while the dressing-case
and desk were brought in. Everything was in order. His rooms would soon
have a homelike appearance.
When the chandelier was lighted over his head that evening, an ebony
desk, mounted with silver, and filled in all its compartments with
papers, stood open on the table before him, and in the shaded light of
the bed-room beyond was a dressing-case, with all its toilet
paraphernalia laid out ready for use.
Seymour rang the bell and desired that some person should be sent to him
from the office. That personage made his appearance and stood some
minutes at the door, while his guest was busily writing. At last Seymour
looked up.
“Ah, I beg pardon.”
“Step in if you please. Is there a person in this establishment who
would take charge of my things and help me a little about dressing?”
“That is, you want a servant.”
“Not exactly. In this country the best servant that ever lived would be
spoiled in a month. But I should like to have a person generally at my
command.”
“That class of men are not abundant in our cities, sir, but I have a
needy chap now and then hanging about the office; one was there this
morning wanting to do odd jobs.”
“An American?”
“I did not take the trouble to inquire; but he may be there yet. He
seems a bright boy.”
“Send him up, if you please.”
The clerk disappeared.
After a time a knock at the door aroused Seymour again, and a young man,
scarcely more than a lad, came in. He was very thin, rather untidy, but
had a look of quick intelligence that pleased the traveller at once.
With a single glance of his great bright eyes, the lad took in every
object the room contained.
“You sent for me, sir,” he said.
“You? Oh yes; you are the person I desired to be sent up. Well, what can
you do?”
“Almost anything, sir?”
“Do you know the city?”
“I can find the way anywhere,” answered the lad, evasively.
“Have you ever been in service?”
“Never; but I know what a gentleman wants, and can do as much as
another.”
“But I might want something out of the common way.”
“Not knowing exactly what the common way is, that would not trouble me
much.”
“What wages will you want?”
“Whatever you are willing to give.”
“Very well, we will settle that after I have learned something of your
capabilities. But your clothes are not exactly suitable for a
gentleman’s attendant.”
The youth looked down on his coat, which was wrinkled and clouded in its
color.
“They have been in the water,” he said, with a shiver. “No wonder.”
“Have you no others?”
“No, I have nothing else.”
“Here; go out and buy a neat outfit. I suppose the shops are open yet.
It must have been a heavy storm that drenched you so!”
The young man reached forth his hand for the gold which Seymour held
towards him.
“It was a shipwreck—a hard choice between fire or water, sir.”
“Indeed! Some other time you shall tell me about it; but just now I am
anxious to see you in neater trim. Those things smell of sea water.”
“No wonder. But—but, sir, can I spend a little of this money for food?”
“Food! Why, man, you don’t mean to say that you are in such a strait as
that?”
“I am nearly starved.”
Seymour started from his chair and rang the bell violently. The youth
had made a step forward to render this service and came into the full
light. Then, for the first time, Seymour saw how meagre and white his
face was. The wonderful brilliancy of his eyes sprang from protracted
and ravenous craving for food.
“Poor fellow!” said Seymour, “poor fellow! I did not dream of it! Wait a
minute.”
A servant entered, answering the bell promptly.
“Bring up something to eat, and a bottle of wine, at once.”
“What will you order, sir?”
“Order? Why everything; beef steak, birds, chickens, turkeys.”
“Sir!” exclaimed the servant, opening his eyes wide, and stepping back
with great dignity.
“Well, say beef steak and plenty of potatoes. Are you Irish, my good
fellow?”
“Yes, I am Irish,” answered the youth.
“Plenty of potatoes then—boiled, fried, stewed, with anything else that
takes no time in cooking.”
The servant bowed and went out somewhat astonished. Seymour laughed
lightly and turned upon the youth, who met his look with eyes full of
tears.
“Oh, sir, you are too kind,” he said.
“Not a bit, my good fellow; nobody on earth can be too kind, it is not
the fault of human nature. I’m not quite brute enough to see hunger like
that in a fellow creature’s eyes and not try to feed it. But no one
shall say that I’m not hard-hearted for all that, especially if any one
offends me.”
“Shall I go down stairs, sir?” asked the youth, who was shaking with an
eager hope of food. “Will they give it to me in the kitchen?”
“No, here. I want to see you eat. Jove! how I envy you.”
The youth drew back and leaned against the wall, clasping his hands
hard, as if imploring the minutes to pass quickly. At length a sob of
joy broke from his lips. He could hear a jingle of crockery coming up
the stairs.
Seymour started up, removed the desk from his table, and ordered the
waiter to place his tray there, directly under the chandelier. The man
obeyed, and lifted the cover from a noble beef steak, which soon filled
the room with its appetizing flavor.
“That is right. You can go now,” said the young man, pointing to the
door.
The man withdrew.
“Come,” said Seymour, “come along. What’s your name?”
“Brian.”
“Brian—Brian! But I suppose you’ve got another name?”
Seymour spoke with a touch of impatience. The boy lifted those great
bright eyes to his face for one instant, but turned them eagerly toward
the food.
“The other name, I meant—the other name first,” cried Seymour.
“It’s Nolan, Brian Nolan, sir,” answered the lad, with an eager catch of
the breath.
“Nolan,” muttered the young man, “Nolan!”
The boy did not heed him, the pangs of hunger were too keen; he quivered
all over with impatience.
“That’s right, my poor fellow; that’s right, fall to without mercy. Sit
down, sit down and be comfortable.”
Seymour rolled up his own soft Turkish chair to the table and patted its
crimson cushions enticingly.
Truly his good nature must have been genuine when he could so far forget
the niceties of refinement. The lad required no second bidding. His eyes
took fire as they devoured the smoking food. With the craving of a wild
beast, he crept slowly toward the table, evidently striving hard to
control himself.
Seymour stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece, watching the poor
fellow with a glow of satisfaction as he devoured the steak. A dish was
yet covered, he stepped forward and removed the lid, revealing a mound
of potatoes, deliciously mealy, cracking the tawny skins in which they
had been boiled.
“Mother of Heaven, this is too much!” cried the youth, dropping both
hands upon his lap. “Oh, sir, I haven’t tasted one since I left home.”
“Go at them, then, they’ll taste so much the better,” cried the young
man, laughing and thrusting a fork into one of the potatoes, which he
held up and examined admiringly. “By Jove! I didn’t think these things
could be such a luxury! It makes me hungry to see you eat them. Here,
give me a knife and a little salt. By the way, stop a minute, my good
fellow; it just strikes me that too much isn’t good for a person in your
condition. The half of that steak is a rather powerful allowance, and
that is the third potato.”
“Let me finish this,” pleaded the lad.
“Couldn’t think of it,” answered the young man, replacing the covers on
the dishes with decision. Then he rang the bell.
The lad, with his hunger but half appeased, dropped the knife and fork,
closed his eyes and fell back in the easy chair, sighing heavily.
“Take the things away,” said Seymour, when the waiter came in, “and tell
them down in the office to find a bed somewhere for this young fellow.
He’ll stay with me for the present.”
The man went out, closing the door behind him. Seymour stood watching
the pale face of the lad with a feeling of singular interest.
“This is what money can do,” he thought. “Cheap too—cheap as dirt, and
yet how much happiness. Why, that one meal was like a fortune to him.
But to be kind, to give real happiness, one _must_ have money.”
While these thoughts passed through the young man’s brain, two great
tears stole through the closed lashes of the Irish lad and rolled slowly
down his cheeks.
“That’s the kind of diamonds I’ll buy with the money, if they’ll only
let me,” continued Seymour, still gazing on the lad. “It isn’t just to
enjoy things myself that I want it, but—but—”
With the gesture of a man who finds his reflections beginning to grow
troublesome, Seymour dropped his hand on the lad’s shoulder.
“Come now, wake up and get to bed, Brian,” he exclaimed, cheerfully. “We
will let the clothes go till morning.”
Brian looked up, and Seymour saw that his great black eyes were full of
tears, while his face quivered all over with grateful emotion.
“Oh, sir, how I thank you—how good you have been to me! What can I do
for you?”
“Go to bed now, and forget the last hour, if you can. It has been a
little irregular as between master and servant, and may put false
notions into your head.”
“No, no, no. You have been kind—so kind, I can remember nothing but
that. God bless you, sir, and prosper you in everything. I’d rather be
your servant than another man’s king.”
The boy attempted to rise, but Seymour pressed a hand on his shoulder,
detaining him.
“So your name is Nolan, and you came from Ireland,” he said.
“Yes, sir; oh yes!”
“What part of Ireland, my fine fellow, what part?”
“On the Blackwater, near Waterford.”
The young man was disturbed; he walked the room once or twice, then bent
over the lad again.
“And your father, what is his name?”
“John, sir; John Nolan.”
“Of Rydehurst?” said Seymour.
The boy looked up quickly.
“Yes, that was the name of his place, when he had one,” answered the
lad.
“And how did he lose it?”
“He sold it, sir.”
“Sold it—sold it! Why? How?”
“I would rather not talk about that,” answered the boy.
“But where is your father now?”
“Dead.”
Seymour sallied back and clenched one hand with a sudden spasm.
“And—and your mother?”
The young man’s voice shook as he asked this question, and he was pale
as marble.
“She is dead too.”
“What!”
This single word was uttered almost with a cry of anguish. The young
man’s head fell upon the back of the easy chair, and he grasped at the
cushions nervously with his hands.
“They are all dead—one after another they went down,” said the boy, in a
plaintive whisper.
“Was it in the shipwreck?”
“The steamer was on fire.”
“And they jumped overboard?”
“All.”
“None saved—not one?”
“I alone—I alone!”
“Go,” said the young man, “go sleep, if you can.”
“Good-night, and thank you again and again. I hope you will never be so
hungry or so lonesome as I was.”
“Good-night—good-night, boy.”