MR. TRACY'S SANCTUM.
I BELIEVE I have already informed the reader, that Mr. Tracy was
counted among the merchant princes of the great city where he lived.
He resided in a handsome house on one of the fashionable streets; kept
his carriage and fancy matched horses, and his whole equipage and
appearance were calculated to do honor to his high rank in life.
At the end of the wide hall, upon which the front door opened, there
was an apartment sacred to the use of the head of the family. Indeed,
he always designated it as his sanctum. The walls on one side of this
small room were lined with hook cases filled with volumes on his
favorite subjects. The under part of these cases, with the exception of
a space devoted to scrap-books, was crowded with newspapers containing
his speeches or those in which speeches had been favorably noticed,
or papers from which scraps were to be cut for the formation of other
speeches.
In the centre of the opposite side of the room stood a high and
rather old-fashioned secretary, with mahogany doors. Opening these,
the curious could see a number of rows of what are technically termed
pigeon-holes, filled with neatly filed papers.
Underneath was a wide shelf containing a few law books, conspicuous
among which was a volume of "Revised—statutes," and under the shelf,
three small drawers. When the doors of the secretary were shut, all
these appurtenances were hidden from view. They were always shut and
locked when Mr. Tracy was not seated in his arm-chair opposite, for
the secretary was a sacred deposit. And, old-fashioned as it looked,
the pigeon-holes and small drawers held papers for which brokers would
readily have given their hundreds of thousands.
The room contained nothing else of note except a handsomely executed
bust of Mr. Tracy and an oil painting of the same man.
It is Monday morning, and Monson P. Tracy sits in his leather-bottomed
arm-chair drawn up before his desk. The well-varnished doors however
remain closely shut, and the gentleman has both his elbows on the desk,
his head supported by his hands.
When he starts back at a noise from without, an observer, if there
were one, would see that his face was unusually pale, and the well-cut
features contracted as if with pain. The disease, however, is mental,
and must be endured, since he has no idea of confiding in a medical
adviser.
It may be that the services of the Sabbath were too much for him. He
had caused no little surprise to the congregation by appearing in his
slip, both in the morning and afternoon, beside remaining to partake of
the sacrament of the Lord's supper.
This last was always a trying occasion to him, some texts of Scripture
introducing themselves into his mind, and refusing to be shut out, as
it was easy to do at other times.
But yesterday the minister's text was extremely unfortunate for him.
Mr. Tracy really thought he should be obliged to remove to the Stone
Church and place himself under the spiritual guidance of a more liberal
preacher. The text was this,—
"Whoso 'eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh damnation
to himself, not discerning the Lord's body.'"
But at length the Sabbath was over, and M. P. Tracy had bottled up his
religion and corked it well for another week. Not that he considered it
in danger of exploding; there was not enough vitality in it for that.
But he had work to do, and his religious profession was sadly in his
way.
So there he sat propping his head with his hands, trying to drive away
or frighten off or in any manner get rid of certain passages he had
read in an old-fashioned volume:
"'Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To
visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep
himself unspotted from the world.'"
"'Ye shall not afflict any widow, or fatherless child. If thou afflict
them in any wise, and they cry at all unto me, I will surely hear their
cry; and my wrath shall wax hot, and I will kill you with the sword;
and your wives shall be widows, and your children fatherless.'"
After half an hour, he rose to convince himself that the door leading
into his sanctum was securely locked, and returned to his seat again.
But this time, he seized a pen, and began a rapid calculation in
figures.
"Ten thousand clear gain," he soliloquized, "and nothing done that
the law can touch. That's what I call a neat stroke. Wouldn't I like
to see another lead mine agent as clear headed as Myers. Ten thousand
gain on my book, and not one dollar out. Didn't I pull the wool over my
ward's eyes? Let me see, I drew ten thousand out of his city stocks,
and invested it in shares, on condition with Myers that I should have
an equal amount gratis. In my character as guardian, I conclude to sell
Frank and Helen my shares, and out comes another ten thousand to pay
for them. All fair, honorable and aboveboard! But about this parson
who was to have been my successor according to my old employer's will.
I'd no idea he would make such a row about my proposal in behalf of
Roswell. What shall I say to him?"
He took a letter from his breast-pocket and read with considerable
irritation a request from Mr. Knowles to meet him on Tuesday afternoon
at three o'clock at the office of S. R. Miles, attorney at law, in
reference to the property of Francis and Helen Edmond.
"I'll plead excess of business and decline meeting him," he exclaimed,
knitting his brows. "I'll suffer no interference. But will not my
refusal court farther inquiry? Frank, who is now of age, will apply to
the court for liberty to remove his property from my hands? Sometimes
I wish Mr. Edmond had never named me as executor. I did humbug the old
man to be sure," and an unpleasant smile passed over his features.
Another silence, the frown on his forehead growing sterner every
moment. At length, he burst out:
"What a piece of folly I've been guilty of! I can see it plainly now.
Helen has the spirit of —; well I wont call hard names.
"It's that letter I wrote the parson that has roused her. Ha! Ha! Ha!
Wouldn't she rave if she knew exactly what a charming piece of morality
I had selected for her? Roswell must reform or he'll go to the dogs.
I wrote that just to gratify my spite in return for her officious
interference concerning Sarah Barrows. Such revenge doesn't pay, as I
ought to have known. But now what is to be done?"
Suddenly he started, clapping his hands on his knees.
"I have it," he exclaimed. "I'll do it. At any rate it will give me
time."
Drawing the key of the secretary from his pocket, he proceeded to take
from the book shelf a large bound volume, running his finger down one
and another of the columns of figures, his countenance relaxing visibly.
"Yes, that will do," he murmured with a sigh of relief; "that will do,
and it will give me time."
He pulled open a large drawer in the lower part of the secretary and
taking from thence a sheet ruled with red ink, he proceeded to make out
a list of securities, bank and city stock, mortgages on real estate,
etc., etc., to be exhibited to Frank Edmond and his legal advisers.
This work occupied him till three o'clock in the afternoon, but he
arose from it satisfied that it would do the business for which it was
intended, and that for the present he was safe.
The dinner-bell rang while he was returning the folio volume to the
shelf, and with a self-satisfied smile, he said to himself: "All looks
fair and above board except the sale of that land for half its value.
I must trust to my usual good luck to explain that somehow. 'Twouldn't
do to let them guess that I received a good fat bonus for consenting to
the sale, and that the bonus went into my own pocket."
It was an immense relief to Mrs. Tracy when she saw her husband emerge
from his sanctum, with a smile taking the place of the scowl she had
so much reason to dread. At twelve o'clock she had knocked at his door
with a plate of sandwiches and a glass of brandy. But in return for her
wifely attentions, she had only received a rudely expressed request
that she would attend to her own business, and leave him alone.
Lifting the cover from an immense platter before him, the gentleman
condescended a flattering remark upon the juicy roasting joint. Then
replacing the cover, he repeated the form of words he used as grace,
and then proceeded with alacrity to carve several nice cuts which he
laid gently on his own plate.
The duty of attendance on number one being complied with, he sent his
plate round to his wife to be supplied with potatoes, turnip, squash
and macaroni, at the same time asking:
"Will you have it rare, Roswell?"
The young man, looking extremely pain and haggard, with blood-shot eyes
and trembling hands, replied that he liked it very rare.
Mrs. Tracy having passed her plate for some meat, the conversation
flagged. Roswell, however, was soon satisfied, and pushing back from
the table complained of a tearing headache.
"You confine yourself too closely to business," anxiously remarked his
mother. "You ought to take some recreation."
A loud laugh from Monson P. and a silly chuckle from the son were the
mother's only answers.
"I don't see anything to laugh at," she exclaimed with more than usual
spirit. "I can see that Roswell is running down; and I'm sure he needs
more air."
"You had better not talk about what you don't understand," said her
husband with a sly wink at his son.
But presently, some emotion of fatherly interest prompted him to add:
"Roswell certainly isn't looking strong. And if he doesn't take care,
his life wont be a long one."
After a dessert of plum pudding and coffee, they arose from table, and
Mrs. Tracy seized the favorable opportunity to state the fact that she
needed money.
"Money, it is always money," he began but suddenly checking himself, to
her surprise and delight, her husband opened his portemonnaie, and put
a roll of bank notes into her hand.