THE UNCLE FLEECED.
Two young men sat in the parlor of the Continental. It was after dark,
and the chandelier was lighted over a small, round dinner-table, spread
elaborately, at which the two young men had just completed a sumptuous
repast.
They had both taken segars, as a luxurious conclusion to the meal; and,
leaning back in the coziest of Turkish chairs, were chatting socially
together, while clouds of thin purplish smoke curled and eddied lazily
over the rich confusion of the table, where fruit glowing in silver
baskets; claret jugs cut into sharp ridges of light like splintered ice;
tiny glasses, amber-hued, green, or ruby red, half full of rich wines
from many a choice vintage, were crowded close and huddled together like
jewels on a queen’s toilet. Here and there the glossy whiteness of the
tablecloth was stained, like a map, with a little sea of pink champagne,
or oceans of claret, proving that there had been some unsteadiness of
the hand at the latter portion of the banquet. Indeed, the cheeks of
these two young men were hotly flushed with scarlet, which glowed
through the smoke as it curled from their lips.
“So you are at last taken in and done for?” said one of the men,
flirting the ashes from his segar with a little finger, on which a small
diamond glittered like a spark of fire. “I don’t believe you are in
earnest yet, and shan’t till you’ve slept on it at least forty-eight
hours. What kind of an angel is she—blonde, or brunette, _petite_, or
queenly?”
“No matter about that, Ward. I have no taste for showing up a woman’s
points as if she were a racehorse. She is beautiful, and that should
satisfy you.”
“But who is she?”
“That is the question. She is somebody that Madam Savage chooses to
patronize without deigning to make explanations.”
“Did she introduce you?”
“Why, hardly. She just named us to each other, and hurried us off into a
tableau, where I found myself kneeling to one of the loveliest creatures
you ever saw, whose duty it was to scorn and avoid me with a tragic
threat of throwing herself down a battlement of pasteboard at least six
feet from the floor. Upon my soul, Ward, she was so beautiful in that
position that I could have knelt forever, just to keep her in that one
graceful poise; but in the midst of my enchantment away she plunged over
the battlement, breaking up the picture in a twinkling, and leaving me
on my knees startled out of my wits. The curtain fell, and all was
confusion for a time. Before I could get out of the darkness, the girl
was gone. I waited half an hour about the scene, hoping that she would
appear again. She did come at last, but young Savage was with her,
looking confoundedly handsome and tender. I could have knocked the
fellow down with a will.”
“Did you see where they went?”
“Into a carriage—the madam’s own carriage—no hack. There was a boy with
them, too.”
“That looks respectable.”
“But her dress, when she came out, was poor; a brown merino, or
something of that sort, with a straw bonnet, pretty, but out of
fashion.”
“And you wish to know something of this girl?”
“I will know something of her.”
“Why not ask Savage?”
“I tell you, the fellow loves her himself. I saw it in his eyes as he
looked under that outre little bonnet.”
“And you?”
“Don’t question me in that way, Ward. Of course, I’m deucedly in love
with her. You must find her out for me by some means.”
“That would be easy, if I were intimate with Mrs. Savage’s coachman. He
would of course know where he drove the party.”
“Well, get intimate with the fellow.”
“I will think about it; but now to other business. You haven’t a check
for a thousand about you—or two five hundred notes in greenbacks? That
was about the amount of your losses the other night.”
“What, was it so much? I had no idea of it. No, my bank account has run
down to nothing; and as for ready money, I dare not trust myself with
it. This filmy paper is so handy to light segars with. One does that
sort of thing occasionally. I did the other night. But I’ll tell you
what, Ward, instead of paying you the thousand, I’ll introduce you to a
fellow that’s throwing away his money like wild-fire, thousands on
thousands in a week. One of those petroleum chaps, with wells that gush
up fortunes in a day.”
“And what is the fellow doing here?”
“Spending his money.”
“Thank you for the offer of an introduction; but Gould, upon my word, I
am in want of ready money.”
“My dear fellow, so am I.”
“I must have it!”
“Indeed, I hope you will not be disappointed.”
Gould leaned back as he spoke, rested his head on the crimson curve of
his cozy chair, and emitted a soft curl of smoke from his finely-cut
lips.
“Now, Gould, this is too bad,” said Ward, impatiently. “Remember, this
is a debt of honor.”
“Can’t help it, my dear fellow! Haven’t got ready cash enough to pay for
these segars; to say nothing of the wine, and so forth, that a fellow
must have.”
“But there is your uncle. He refuses you nothing.”
“Hark! that is his step; speak of—— Ah! my dear uncle, I am so glad to
see you. Called at the house this morning, but you were out.”
The person who entered to receive this greeting, was the old man whom we
have seen at his dinner in that solitary house, and who afterward gave
so much happiness to the soldier’s orphans in the fair. He entered the
room with a grim smile on his face, and stood near the door a moment
with his brows bent, and his sharp eyes turned upon the sumptuous
disarray of that dinner-table. The smile on his thin lip turned to a
sneer as he took in the picture. Tiny birds, with their bones half
picked; fragments of a delicious dessert; and all that rich coloring of
half-drained wine-glasses, gave an idea of satiety at a glance, which
brought out the disagreeable points in the old man’s character, and
brought the color to Gould’s face.
“Take this seat, uncle,” cried Gould, starting up, eager to divert the
old man’s attention from the debris of his little feast. “You will find
it comfortable. Let me take charge of your hat and cane.”
The old man looked at his nephew with a sharp gleam of the eye, and
drawing a chair to the table, laid his hat and cane on the carpet. Then
he took up the glasses, one after another, and tasted their contents
with great deliberation, occasionally pouring a little from the bottles
and decanters, while he muttered to himself, “Champagne, Burgundy,
sherry, claret, old Madeira, and the Lord knows what, with roasted
canary birds, and peaches of ice by way of substantials. Wholesome
eating for a young man.”
Gould pushed his chair away, and came to the table; all his indolent
composure gone, and with the hot-red of a school-boy on his handsome
cheeks.
“Shall I ring, uncle? Will you try one of these birds served hot? They
are very fine.”
“No; thank you, nephew; they are too expensive eating for an old fellow
like me.”
“Too expensive for you, uncle—the idea amuses me.”
“Remember, young gentleman,” said the old millionaire, with grim
pleasantry, “that I have no rich uncle to depend on. A moderate glass of
port, or claret, now and then, is as much as I can afford. But, then, it
is so different with you.”
Gould bent over the old man’s chair, and whispered with deprecating
humility,
“Uncle, don’t be so hard upon me before my friend.”
“Your friend!” repeated the old man, aloud. “So this is one of your
friends. Let me take a good look at him.”
With cruel deliberation he took out a pair of gold spectacles, fitted
them to his eyes, and searched Ward from head to foot with one of his
sharp, prolonged glances. The young fellow colored, winced, and at last
turned fairly around in his chair, muttering, “Hang the old fellow! his
eyes seize on me like a pair of pincers.”
“Gould,” said the uncle, folding up his glasses, and shutting them in
their steel case with a loud snap of the spring, “Gould, I congratulate
you.”
“What for, uncle?”
“That this exquisite young gentleman is your friend. He does credit to
your choice—great credit. Such honors do not often drop into our humble
way. Sir, I am your servant.”
The old satirist arose, and making a profound bow, sat down again, where
he could see Ward’s face burning like fire.
“I found your note at the counting-house, Gould, speaking of the serious
nature of your illness, and came up to see if a consultation of doctors
would be necessary.”
“That was written this morning when I was seriously ill. You remember,
Ward?”
“Oh, yes! Upon my honor, sir, Gould was desperate with—with a—that is,
neuralgia in the head. You would have been quite concerned about him. We
tried chloroform—a great thing that chloroform. Did you ever try it,
sir?”
“So the chloroform cured my nephew. I am delighted to hear it. That is
it upon the mantle-piece, I dare say. Give me a little.”
The old tormentor pointed to a flask of Bohemian glass, dashed with
gold, that stood on the mantle-piece.
“That, uncle? Oh! that is extract of violet. It sometimes serves to
carry off a headache better than any thing else. Will you try it?”
The old man held out his hand for the bottle; took a great red silk
handkerchief from his pocket, and emptied half the extract into its
folds, scenting the room like a violet bank in May.
“Your note, Gould, asked for money—an unusual thing; so unusual, that I
brought the check in my pocket.”
At the mention of a check, Ward started round in his chair, and fixed a
hungry glance on that hard, old face. A check! His thousand dollars
might not be so very far off, after all.
Gould bent eagerly over his uncle’s chair.
“You are too good, uncle. I—I——”
“Oh! not at all, Gould. You deserve all that I am going to do for
you—richly deserve it. Give me a light while I sign the check; thank
you. There now, see how careless. You haven’t a stamp about you, I
fear.”
“Oh, yes!” cried Ward. “Here is one.”
He reached over in handing the stamp, and caught a glance at the amount.
“By Jove! it’s for two thousand!” he said, inly. “Gould shall go halves
before I leave him.”
The old man smiled one of his iron smiles as he pressed the stamp in its
place. Then he signed the check, with a broad, old-fashioned flourish
under the name.
“Will that do?” he asked, lifting his face to that of his nephew, who
bent over his shoulder delighted.
“Is the figure large enough?”
“Oh, uncle! It is more than I dared hope for.”
“Not at all, Gould. Remember, I filled it in thinking you ill. No, no!
do not put out the taper yet. What a pretty stand you have for it;
filigree gold, as I am a miserly old sinner. That makes a pretty blaze,
doesn’t it?”
Gould made a snatch at the check, but it was in a light blaze; and the
old man held it till it burned down to his fingers, and fell in black
flakes over the taper, and the daintily warm gold that held it.
Ward jumped up from his chair with an oath on his lips. Gould turned
white, and staggered back.
“Uncle, uncle! I owed every dollar of that money,” he cried out. “My
honor is at stake.”
The old man picked up his hat and cane with silent deliberation.
“Sir. Sir, I say! Gould owes me half the money; and, by Jove! I must
have it,” cried Ward.
“Owes you! What for?”
This curt question made the young gambler start and bethink himself.
“What for? What for? Why for money I lent him the other night for the
Soldier’s Fair. That nephew of yours, sir, is one of the most
benevolent, tender-hearted fellows that the sun ever shone on. That
night he met me in front of the fair, really distressed.
“‘Ward,’ said he—my name is Ward, sir. Gould forgot to present me, but
Ward is my name—‘Ward,’ said he, ‘I’ve just done a foolish thing. You’ll
say so, when I tell you what it is——’
“Said I, interrupting him, ‘I’ll lay five to one that you’ve been at
your old tricks—emptying both pockets to help some miserable soldier’s
family out of trouble. But it’s in you, this tender-heartedness; and all
I can say will never drive it out.’
“‘No,’ says Gould, ‘you’re wrong there. It is no family this time; but
you know a draft has been made.’
“‘Yes, I know,’ said I, ‘and you have been drawn.’
“‘Wrong again,’ says your nephew. ‘But every man owes a life to his
country. I cannot serve; it would break my dear uncle’s heart should I
be killed; and he is too good a man for me to give him one moment’s
pain.’ I beg your pardon, Gould, for saying this; but truth will out,
and your uncle will forgive me.
“‘Well, what have you done?’ said I.
“‘Simply this,’ replied Gould, blushing like a girl. ‘I’ve given every
cent that I have on hand to a brave fellow to take my place in the ranks
and fight my battles. It’s a mean way of doing things; but I could not
leave my uncle, not—not even for my country; and Burns was determined to
go.’”
“Who? What name did you say?” cried the old man, grasping his cane hard.
“Burns, sir. Burns was the name I used.”
“A man who left two boys, a young girl, and an old woman behind to
suffer while he fought? Was that the person?”
“Yes, sir; no doubt of it. Gould would never tell you of it; but these
were the facts.”
“How long was this ago?”
“I—I—how long was it, Gould? I know when you told me, but it was before
that.”
“I cannot say. All this is unauthorized, sir. I never dreamed that he
would tell this story. Indeed——”
“I cannot say the exact time,” cut in Ward; “and he won’t. But it was
long enough ago to keep him in hot water month after month. You have
been very liberal to him, I know, sir; but it has all gone that way.
‘Soldiers’ widows, soldiers’ children—they must be fed,’ he argues.
‘What if these things do plunge me in debt; if my uncle knew, he would
not condemn me.’
“‘Then tell him,’ said I; ‘tell him at once, and relieve yourself from
all embarrassment.’
“‘No,’ he said, ‘that would be making him responsible; that would be
forcing my charities on him. Only help me, as a friend should, and I
will find my way out of this trouble. He is generous—munificent—this
good uncle of mine, let men say what they please. Some day he will give
me all the money I want; and while he thinks that I spend it in
extravagance, perhaps, I shall have the satisfaction of knowing where it
goes, and who it helps.’
“The very day that your nephew told me this I lent him a thousand
dollars; five hundred of that sum went for subscriptions in less than an
hour. The rest would have been given to a family that composed the most
touching picture of distress that I ever saw—but I prevented it. I would
not let him go home penniless.”
“Was it a tableau within the fair? Did an old woman—a lady, every inch
of her—sit in the picture? Was there a young girl, and two boys—bright,
handsome little fellows—crouching at her feet?”
The old man asked these questions eagerly. His hand worked around the
top of his staff; his eyes kindled under those bent brows.
“Yes, sir. Yes, that is the very family.”
“And you gave the father of this family a thousand dollars when he went
to the wars, Gould?”
Gould shook his head. “I did not say so, uncle. I never would have told
you so.”
Ward broke in upon him with breathless haste.
“But he did it, sir—he did it.”
“I saw this family. I was at the fair that night,” said the old man,
with a touch of pathos in his voice. “Can you tell me where they live?”
“No, I cannot. Doubtless they have been moving from place to place since
then, as poverty sent them.”
“But with that money they should not have been so poor,” said the old
man with a return of keen intelligence.
“But it did not go to them, sir,” said Ward, hastily. “This man Burns
was deep in debt, and the money went to clear him.”
“Ward! Ward!” exclaimed Gould, starting up; “this is too much. I will
not permit it.”
“Be silent, Gould!—be silent! I ought to know this. You should have told
me yourself; perhaps I should have been glad to help you,” interposed
the uncle, with strange gentleness in his voice. “I may condemn such
extravagance as this. I do condemn and repudiate it utterly.
Extravagance is always wicked, coarse, unbearable. I was angry——”
“Not with your nephew, I trust, for that which is altogether my fault,”
interposed Ward. “I confess to it, my tastes are ruinously luxurious.
Gould would never have thought of any thing so absurd; but I was lonely,
and asked leave to share his parlor awhile. The unfortunate dinner was
served by my order, and at my expense. As for the pretty gimcracks, it
is my fancy. I like to have such things around me. But, my dear sir, you
must not think me effeminate and worthless, for all that.”
The old man’s face brightened wonderfully after this speech. He dropped
his cane and placed his hat on the carpet once more.
“Bring back the pen and ink! Give me another stamp! Here, Gould, take
that. But, remember, find out where this family lives. I wish to know—I
must know.”
Gould took the check, which rattled like a dead leaf in the old man’s
hand.
“Uncle! uncle!” he said, “I ought not to take this; I have no right.”
The old man snatched up his hat and cane, while these honest words were
on his nephew’s lips, and left the room.
When he was gone, Ward snatched the check from Gould, and leaping on the
seat of his chair, brandished it on high.
“What author ever got so much for a single romance, I wonder!” he cried.
“I say, Gould, I must turn my attention to literature, or the stage. Did
ever a lie out of whole cloth tell so famously. Pour out bumpers, my
fine fellow, and let us drink the old fellow’s health!”
“Be silent, sir!” Gould’s voice trembled with passion. There was too
much good in him for a relish of such companionship, when it took that
form of broad dishonesty. “Be silent, sir! if you would not have me hate
you, and myself also.”
With these hot words the young men parted.