Bank, which stood, not on Beacon Hill, indeed, but in that part of
School Street now occupied by the City Hall. You passed down by the
dirty old church, on the northeast corner of School and Tremont
Streets, which stands trying to hide its ugly face behind a row of
columns like sooty fingers, and whose School-Street side is quite
bare, and has the distracted aspect peculiar to buildings erected on
an inclined plane;--passing this, you came in sight of the bank, a
darksome, respectable edifice of brick, two stories and a half high,
and gambrel-roofed. It stood a little back from the street, much as an
antiquated aristocrat might withdraw from the stream of modern life,
and fancy himself exclusive. The poor old bank! Its respectable brick
walls have contributed a few rubbish-heaps to the new land in the Back
Bay, perhaps; and its floors and gambrel-roof have long since vanished
up somebody's chimney; only its money--its baser part--still survives
and circulates. Aristocracy and exclusivism do not pay.
The bank, perhaps, took its title from the fact that it owed its chief
support to the Beacon Hill families,--Boston's aristocracy; and
Boston's standard names appeared upon its list of managers. If
business led you that way, you mounted the well-worn steps, and
entered the rather strict and formal door, over which clung the
weather-worn sign,--faded gold lettering upon a rusty black
background. Nothing that met your eyes looked new, although everything
was scrupulously neat. Opposite the doorway, a wooden flight of stairs
mounted to the next floor, where were the offices of some old Puritan
lawyers. Leaving the stairs on your left, you passed down a dusky
passage, and through a glass door, when behold! the banking-room, with
its four grave bald-headed clerks. But you did not come to draw or
deposit, your business was with the President. "Mr. MacGentle in?"
"That way, sir." You opened a door with "Private" painted in black
letters upon its ground-glass panel. Another bald-headed gentleman,
with a grim determination about the mouth, rose up from his table and
barred your way. This was Mr. Dyke, the breakwater against which the
waves of would-be intruders into the inner seclusion often broke
themselves in vain; and unless you had a genuine pass, your expedition
ended there.
Our pass--for we, too, are to call on Mr. MacGentle--would carry us
through solider obstructions than Mr. Dyke; it is the pass of
imagination. He does not even raise his head as we brush by him.
But, first, let us inquire who Mr. MacGentle is, besides President of
the Beacon Hill Bank. He is a man of refinement and cultivation, a
scholar and a reader, has travelled, and, it is said, could handle a
pen to better purpose than the signing bank-notes. In his earlier
years he studied law, and gained a certain degree of distinction in
the profession, although (owing, perhaps, to his having entered it
with too ideal and high-strung views as to its nature and scope) he
never met with what is vulgarly called success. Fortunately for the
ideal barrister, an ample private estate made him independent of
professional earnings. Later in life, he trod the confines of
politics, still, however, enveloping himself in that theoretical,
unpractical atmosphere which was his most marked, and, to some people,
least comprehensible characteristic. A certain mild halo of
statesmanship ever after invested him; not that he had at any time
actually borne a share in the government of the nation, but it was
understood that he might have done so, had he so chosen, or had his
political principles been tough and elastic enough to endure the wear
and strain of action. As it was, some of the most renowned men in the
Senate were known to have been his intimates at college, and he still
met and conversed with them on terms of equality.
Between law, literature, and statesmanship, in all of which pursuits
he had acquired respect and goodwill, without actually accomplishing
anything, Mr. MacGentle fell, no one knew exactly how, into the
presidential chair of the Beacon Hill Bank. As soon as he was there,
everybody saw that there he belonged. His social position, his
culture, his honorable, albeit intangible record, suited the old bank
well. He had an air of subdued wisdom, and people were fond of
appealing to his judgment and asking his advice,--- perhaps because he
never seemed to expect them to follow it when given (as, indeed, they
never did). The Board of Directors looked up to him, deferred to
him,--nay, believed him to be as necessary to the bank's existence as
the entire aggregate of its supporters; but neither the Board nor the
President himself ever dreamed of adopting Mr. MacGentle's financial
theories in the conduct of the banking business.
Let no one hastily infer that the accomplished gentleman of whom we
speak was in any sense a sham. No one could be more true to himself
and his professions. But--if we may hazard a conjecture--he never
breathed the air that other men breathe; another sun than ours shone
for him; the world that met his senses was not our world. His life,
in short, was not human life, yet so closely like it that the two
might be said to correspond, as a face to its reflection in the
mirror; actual contact being in both cases impossible. No doubt the
world and he knew of the barrier between them, though neither said so.
The former, with its usual happy temperament, was little affected by
the separation, smiled good-naturedly upon the latter, and never
troubled itself about the difficulties in the way of shaking hands.
But Mr. MacGentle, being only a single man, perhaps felt lonely and
sad. Either he was a ghost, or the world was. In youth, he may have
believed himself to be the only real flesh and blood; but in later
years, the terrible weight of the world's majority forced him to the
opposite conclusion. And here, at last, he and the world were at one!
Suppose, instead of listening to a personal description of this good
old gentleman, we take a look at him with our own eyes. There is no
danger of disturbing him, no matter how busy he may be. The inner
retreat is very small, and as neat as though an old maid lived in it.
The furniture looks as good as new, but is subdued to a tone of sober
maturity, and chimes in so well with the general effect that one
scarcely notices it. The polished table is mounted in dark morocco;
behind the horsehair-covered arm-chair is a gray marble mantel-piece,
overshadowing an open grate with polished bars and fire-utensils in
the English style. During the winter months a lump of cannel-coal is
always burning there; but the flame, even on the coldest days, is too
much on its good behavior to give out very decided heat. Over the
mantel-piece hangs a crayon copy of Correggio's Reading Magdalen,--the
only touch of sentiment in the whole room, and that, perhaps,
accidental.
The concrete nature of the President's surroundings is at first
perplexing, in view of our theory about his character. But it is
evident that the world could never provide him with furniture
corresponding to the texture of his mind; and hence he would
instinctively lay hold of that which was most commonplace and
non-committal. If he could realize nothing outside himself, he might
at least remove whatever would distract him from inward contemplation.
There is, however, one article in this little room which we must not
omit to notice. It is a looking-glass; and it hangs, of all places in
the world, right over Mr. MacGentle's standing-desk, in the embrasure
of the window. As often as he looks up he beholds the reflection of
his cultured and sad-lined physiognomy, with a glimpse of dusky wall
beyond. Is he a vain man? His worst enemy, had he one, would not call
him that. Nevertheless, Mr. MacGentle finds a pathetic comfort in this
small mirror. No one, not even he, could tell wherefore; but we fancy
it to be like that an exile feels, seeing a picture of his birthplace,
or hearing a strain of his native music. The mirror shows him
something more real, to his sense, than is anything outside of it!
Well, there stands the old gentleman, writing at this desk in the
window. All men, they say, bear more or less resemblance to some
animal; Mr. MacGentle, rather tall and slender, with his slight stoop,
and his black broadcloth frock-coat buttoned closely about his waist,
brings to mind a cultivated, grandfatherly greyhound, upon his hind
legs. He has thick white hair, with a gentle curl in it, growing all
over his finely moulded head. He is close-shaven; his mouth and nose
are formed with great delicacy; his eyes, now somewhat faded, yet show
an occasional reminiscence of youthful fire. The eyebrows are
habitually lifted,--a result, possibly, of the growing infirmity of
Mr. MacGentle's vision; but it produces an expression of
half-plaintive resignation, which is rendered pathetic by the wrinkles
across his forehead and the dejected lines about his delicate mouth.
He is dressed with faultless nicety and elegance, though in a fashion
now out of date. Perhaps, in graceful recognition of the advance of
age, he has adhered to the style in vogue when age first began to
weigh upon his shoulders. He gazes mildly out from the embrasure of
an upright collar and tall stock; below spreads a wide expanse of
spotless shirt-front. His trousers are always gray, except in the heat
of summer, when they become snowy white. They are uniformly too long;
yet he never dispenses with his straps, nor with the gaiters that
crown his gentlemanly shoes.
Although not a stimulating companion, one loves to be where Amos
MacGentle is; to watch his quiet movements, and listen to his
meditative talk. What he says generally bears the stamp of thought and
intellectual capacity, and at first strikes the listener as rare good
sense; yet, if reconsidered afterwards, or applied to the practical
tests of life, his wisdom is apt to fall mysteriously short. Is Mr.
MacGentle aware of this curious fact? There sometimes is a sadly
humorous curving of the lips and glimmering in the eyes after he has
uttered something especially profound, which almost warrants the
suspicion. The lack of accord between the old gentleman and the world
has become to him, at last, a dreary sort of jest.
But we might go on forever touching the elusive chords of Mr.
MacGentle's being; one cannot help loving him, or, if he be not real
enough to love, bestowing upon him such affection as is inspired by
some gentle symphony. Unfortunately, he figures but little in the
coming pages, and in no active part; such, indeed, were unsuited to
him. But it is pleasant to pass through his retired little office on
our way to scenes less peaceful and subdued; and we would gladly look
forward to seeing him once more, when the heat of the day is over and
the sun has gone down.
V.
A NEW MAN WITH AN OLD FACE.
About an hour before noon on this same twenty-seventh of May, Mr. Dyke
heard a voice in the outer room. He had held his position in the house
as confidential clerk for nearly or quite twenty-five years, was
blessed with a good memory, and was fond of saying that he never
forgot a face or a voice. So, as this voice from the outer room
reached his ears, he turned one eye up towards the door and muttered,
"Heard that before, somewhere!"
The ground-glass panel darkened, and the door was thrown wide open.
Upon the threshold stood a young man about six feet in height, of
figure rather graceful and harmonious than massive. A black velveteen
jacket fitted closely to his shape; he had on a Tyrolese hat; his
boots, of thin, pliant leather, reached above the knee. He carried a
stout cane, with a handle of chamois-horn; to a couple of straps,
crossing each shoulder, were attached a travelling-scrip and a
telescope-case.
But neither his attire nor the unusual size and dark brilliancy of
his eyes was so noticeable as his hair and beard, which outgrew the
bounds of common experience. Beards, to be sure, were far more rare
twenty years ago than they have since become. The hair was yellow,
with the true hyacinthine curl pervading it. Rejoicing in luxuriant
might, it clothed and reclothed the head, and, descending lower,
tumbled itself in bold masses on the young man's shoulders. As for the
beard, it was well in keeping. Of a purer yellow than the hair, it
twisted down in crisp, vigorous waves below the point marked by
mankind's third shirt-stud. It was full half as broad as it was long,
and lay to the right and left from the centre-line of the face. The
owner of this oriflamme looked like a young Scandinavian god.
There seems to be a deeper significance in hair than meets the eye.
Sons of Esau, whose beards grow high up on their cheek-bones, who are
hairy down to their ankles, and to the second joints of their fingers,
are generally men of a kindly and charitable nature, strong in what we
call the human element. One remembers their stout hand-grip; they look
frankly in one's face, and the heart is apt to go out to them more
spontaneously than to the smooth-faced Jacobs. Such a man was Samson,
whose hair was his strength,--the strength of inborn truth and
goodness, whereby he was enabled to smite the lying Philistines. And
although they once, by their sophistries, managed to get the better
of him for a while, they forgot that good inborn is too vigorous a
matter for any mere razor finally to subdue. See, again, what a great
beard Saint Paul had, and what an outspoken, vigorous heart! Was it
from freak that Greeks and Easterns reverenced beards as symbols of
manhood, dignity, and wisdom? or that Christian Fathers thundered
against the barber, as a violator of divine law? No one, surely, could
accuse that handy, oily, easy little personage of evil intent; but he
symbolized the subtile principle which pares away the natural virtue
of man, and substitutes an artificial polish, which is hypocrisy. It
is to be observed, however, that hair can be representative of natural
evil as well as of good. A tangle-headed bush-ranger does not win our
sympathies. A Mussulman keeps his beard religiously clean.
Meanwhile the yellow-haired Scandinavian, whom we have already laid
under the imputation of being a dandy, stood on the threshold of Mr.
Dyke's office, and that gentleman confronted him with a singularly
inquisitive stare. The visitor's face was a striking one, but can be
described, for the present, only in general terms. He might not be
called handsome; yet a very handsome man would be apt to appear
insignificant beside him. His features showed strength, and were at
the same time cleanly and finely cut. There was freedom in the arch
of his eyebrows, and plenty of eye-room beneath them.
He took off his hat to Mr. Dyke, and smiled at him with artless
superiority, insomuch that the elderly clerk's sixty years were
disconcerted, and the Cerberus seemed to dwindle into the bumpkin!
This young fellow, a good deal less than half Mr. Dyke's age, was yet
a far older man of the world than he. Not that his appearance
suggested the kind of maturity which results from abnormal or
distorted development,--on the contrary, he was thoroughly genial and
healthful. But that power and assurance of eye and lip, generally
bought only at the price of many years' buffetings, given and taken,
were here married to the first flush and vigor of young manhood.
"My name is Helwyse; I have come from Europe to see Mr. Amos
MacGentle," said the visitor, courteously.
"Helwyse!--Hel--" repeated Mr. Dyke, having seemingly quite forgotten
himself. His customary manner to strangers implied that he knew,
better than they did, who they were and what they wanted; and that
what he knew was not much to their credit. But he could only open his
mouth and stare at this Helwyse.
"Mr. MacGentle is an old friend; run in and tell him I'm here, and you
will see." The young man put his hand kindly on the elderly clerk's
shoulder, much as though the latter were a gaping school-boy, and
directed him gently towards the inner door.
Mr. Dyke regained his voice by an effort, though still lacking
complete self-command. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Helwyse, sir,--of
course, of course,--it didn't seem possible,--so long, you know,--but
I remembered the voice and the face and the name,--I never
forget,--but, by George, sir, can you really be--?"
"I see you have a good memory; you are Dyke, aren't you?" And Mr.
Helwyse threw back his head and laughed, perhaps at the clerk's
bewildered face. At all events, the latter laughed, too, and they both
shook hands very heartily.
"Beg pardon again, Mr. Helwyse, I'll speak to the President," said Mr.
Dyke, and stepped into the sanctuary of sanctuaries.
Mr. MacGentle was taking a nap. He was seventy years old, and could
drop asleep easily. When he slept, however lightly and briefly, he was
pretty sure to dream; and if awakened suddenly, his dream would often
prolong itself, and mingle with passing events, which would themselves
put on the semblance of unreality. On the present occasion the sound
of Helwyse's voice had probably crept through the door, and insinuated
itself into his dreaming brain.
Mr. Dyke was too much excited to remark the President's condition. He
put his mouth close to the old gentleman's ear, and said, in an
emphatic and penetrating undertone,--
"Here's your old friend Helwyse, who died in Europe two years ago,
come back again, _younger than ever!_"
If the confidential clerk expected his superior to echo his own
bewilderment, he was disappointed. Mr. MacGentle unclosed his eyes,
looked up, and answered rather pettishly,--
"What nonsense are you talking about his dying in Europe, Mr. Dyke? He
hasn't been in Europe for six years. I was expecting him. Let him come
in at once."
But he was already there; and Mr. Dyke slipped out again with
consternation written upon his features. Mr. MacGentle found himself
with his thin old hand in the young man's warm grasp.
"Helwyse, how do you do?--how do you do? Ah! you look as well as ever.
I was just thinking about you. Sit down,--sit down!"
The old President's voice had a strain of melancholy in it, partly the
result of chronic asthma, and partly, no doubt, of a melancholic
temperament. This strain, being constant, sometimes had a curiously
incongruous effect as contrasted with the subject or circumstances in
hand. Whether hailing the dawn of the millennium; holding playful
converse with a child, making a speech before the Board,--under
whatever rhetorical conditions, Mr. MacGentle's intonation was always
pitched in the same murmurous and somewhat plaintive key. Moreover, a
corresponding immobility of facial expression had grown upon him; so
that altogether, though he was the most sympathetic and sensitive of
men, a superficial observer might take him to be lacking in the common
feelings and impulses of humanity.
Perhaps the incongruity alluded to had not altogether escaped his own
notice, and since discord of any kind pained him, he had mended the
matter--as best he could--by surrendering himself entirely to his
mournful voice; allowing it to master his gestures, choice of
language, almost his thoughts. The result was a colorlessness of
manner which did great injustice to the gentle and delicate soul
behind.
This conjecture might explain why Mr. MacGentle, instead of falling
upon his friend's neck and shedding tears of welcome there, only
uttered a few commonplace sentences, and then drooped back into his
chair. But it throws no light upon his remark that he had been
expecting the arrival of a friend who, it would appear, had been dead
two years. Helwyse himself may have been puzzled by this; or, being a
quick-witted young man, he may have divined its explanation. He looked
at his entertainer with critical sympathy not untinged with humor.
"I hope you are as well as I am," said he.
"A little tired this morning, I believe; I never was so strong a man
as you, Helwyse. I think I must have passed a bad night. I remember
dreaming I was an old man,--an old man with white hair, Helwyse."
"Were you glad to wake up again?" asked the young man, meeting the
elder's faded eyes.
"I hardly know whether I'm quite awake yet. And, after all, Thor, I'm
not sure that I don't wish the dream might have been true. If I were
really an old man, what a long, lonely future I should escape! but as
it is--as it is--"
He relapsed into reverie. Ah! Mr. MacGentle, are you again the tall
and graceful youth, full of romance and fire, who roamed abroad in
quest of adventures with your trusty friend Thor Helwyse, the
yellow-bearded Scandinavian? Do you fancy this fresh, unwrinkled face
a mate to your own? and is it but the vision of a restless
night,--this long-drawn life of dull routine and gradual
disappointment and decay? Open those dim eyes of yours, good sir! stir
those thin old legs! inflate that sunken chest!--Ha! is that cough
imaginary? those trembling muscles,--are they a delusion is that misty
glance only a momentary weakness There is no youth left in you, Mr.
MacGentle; not so much as would keep a rose in bloom for an hour.
"Have you seen Doctor Glyphic lately?" inquired Helwyse, after a
pause.
"Glyphic?--do you know, I was thinking of him just now,--of our first
meeting with him in the African desert. You remember!--a couple of
Bedouins were carrying him off,--they had captured him on his way to
some apocryphal ruin among the sand-heaps. What a grand moment was
that when you caught the Sheik round the throat with your
umbrella-handle, and pulled him off his horse! and then we mounted
poor Glyphic upon it,--mummied cat and all,--and away over the hot
sand! What a day was that! what a day was that!"
The speaker's eyes had kindled; for a moment one saw the far flat
desert, the struggling knot of men and horses, the stampede of the
three across the plain, and the high sun flaming inextinguishable
laughter-over all!--and it had happened nigh forty years ago.
"He never forgot that service," resumed Mr. MacGentle, his customary
plaintive manner returning. "To that, and to your saving the Egyptian
lad,--. Manetho,--you owe your wife Helen: ah! forgive me,--I had
forgotten; she is dead,--she is dead."
"I never could understand," remarked Helwyse, aiming to lead the
conversation away from gloomy topics, "why the Doctor made so much of
Manetho." "That was only a part of the Egyptian mania that possessed
him, and began, you know, with his changing his name from Henry to
Hiero; and has gone on, until now, I suppose, he actually believes
himself to be some old inscription, containing precious secrets, not
to be found elsewhere. Before the adventure with the boy, I remember,
he had formed the idea of building a miniature Egypt in New Jersey;
and Manetho served well as the living human element in it. 'Though I
take him to America,' you know he said, 'he shall live in Egypt still.
He shall have a temple, and an altar, and Isis and Osiris, and papyri
and palm-trees and a crocodile; and when he dies I will embalm him
like a Pharaoh.' 'But suppose you die first?' said one of us. 'Then he
shall embalm me!' cried Hiero, and I will be the first American
mummy.'"
Mr. MacGentle seemed to find a dreamy enjoyment in working this vein
of reminiscence. He sat back in his low arm-chair, his unsubstantial
face turned meditatively towards the Magdalen, his hands brought
together to support his delicate chin. Helwyse, apprehending that the
vein might at last bring the dreamer down to the present day,
encouraged him to follow it.
"It must have been a disappointment to the Doctor that his protégé
took up the Christian religion, instead of following the faith and
observances of his Egyptian ancestors, for the last five thousand
years!"