MEANWHILE what had befallen Fred Lawrence?
He had been greatly shocked at his father's death. True, the tender,
intense affection that had so sweetened childhood seemed to have died
out; when they might have attained to an enduring friendship, they had
gone separate ways, missing the exquisite sympathy that should have
existed between them. Whether the distance was any disappointment to his
father, he had never thought. He was the only son of the house, and his
slightest wish had always been gratified. There had been no wretched
vices that sap body and soul, nothing to bring dishonor on the old pure,
family name; and, if David Lawrence missed something that he had hardly
longed for, he still felt proud of his son.
But his son, bending over the coffined face, was stunned, paralyzed. Of
this death he had never thought. Was it not rather a frightful dream?
The sharp reality followed fast enough. He listened, still bewildered by
the horrible visions that crowded upon him. Hope Mills closed, notes
going to protest, workmen clamoring for pay, Mr. Eastman quite out of
reach, indeed, no one knew just where.
Mr. Minor did not spare his father-in-law. How could he trust every
thing to Horace Eastman! How could he allow George to go on unchecked in
such a career of wild speculation! forgetting that he had speculated
quite as wildly. And now all the property was covered with mortgages,
and not a dollar to be squeezed out of any thing. As for the bank
business, that he sneered at. Let them look to the Eastmans. They might
have known that a small manufacturing town like Yerbury could not stand
such galloping progress. In his heart of hearts he thought George and
Horace rather clever fellows to get away before the crash began. And if
David Lawrence had only managed to provide well for his family,--his
manifest duty,--the rest might have gone without a sigh, such trifles as
notes and wages.
Fred Lawrence he looked upon as a baby. Indeed, Fred was of but little
use in settling the business, much more plague than profit, since he
stood up stoutly for his father's honor and integrity. He had that much
of a son's love. And he characterized Horace Eastman's villany as it
deserved: his education had not quite done away with his moral sense in
such matters.
"Here for five years your father has given him a clean sweep with every
thing! If you thrust temptation right in a man's way, what can you
expect?"
"His honesty would not be of a very high order if it could withstand no
temptation," Fred answered rather scornfully. "It was necessary for
father to travel in the interests of the business. He surely could not
stay here to watch him. And you thought well of Eastman."
"No man would play _me_ such rascally tricks! There is no telling what
he has done! Books can be doctored to look very fair."
But they found enough. Pay-rolls for men kept up long after they had
been discharged, and many who had never been at all; systematic
falsifications that could not be brought to light without a rigid
inspection and comparison by an expert. But Hamilton Minor felt, with
the world's wisdom, that bringing the Eastmans back as criminals would
not be likely to lead to any restoration; while it would prove a family
disgrace, and perhaps add Gertrude to the list of dependent ones.
"It makes me heart-sick!" declared Fred. "There is nothing but
selfishness and hollowness and greed. Are truth and honor quite dead?"
"Very fine talk, my young friend," said Minor in a sneering tone; "but
the question that more nearly concerns you is how you are all going to
live, granting even that there may be enough to pay the debts. Of course
this great house cannot be kept afloat. You had better discharge some of
the servants, and retrench while you do remain in it."
Then had followed the talk with Agatha, when matrimony was proposed as a
certain and sure remedy for these present ills: a cure the young man
disdained with anger.
Mrs. Lawrence kept to her room, and was too ill to listen to business
details, even if she could have helped in any way, which she could not.
She fancied now, like many another woman, that her husband had been her
only delight in life, and that there was nothing left. When Agatha
suggested that she had been very short-sighted to consent to mortgaging
Hope Terrace, she cried, and said "she would have given up every thing
for him, and now that he was gone she wanted no fortune,--she should
never leave her room again until she was carried."
If there had been any bright little Sylvie to run in and comfort her!
any strong-hearted, tender woman, to whom he could turn! He seemed now
to realize more keenly what he had lost, than on the night Sylvie
rejected him. And that other strong, manly soul--no, bitterly as he
might regret, he could no more go back to him than to Sylvie.
He roused himself, and began his work, utterly astounded at the
extravagance that met him on every side. No doubt it looked right enough
when there was plenty of money; but it seemed now as if the servants had
been masters and mistresses, that all these luxuries existed for their
sake,--the gardens and graperies, the greenhouses with their wealth of
costly flowers; the horses standing idle in the stable, with only
servants to use them; his father a plain man, his mother confined mostly
to two or three rooms, and occasional visitors; supplies ordered
lavishly, and wasted in a manner that seemed wicked even to him. He
wondered in a vague way if the system was not radically wrong that
brought such waste and carelessness in vogue, when hundreds had not the
necessities of life. He remembered one talk his father had with Horace
Eastman over in the library yonder, with champagne and cigars between
them, in the height of one of the strikes, and how Eastman had figured
to a penny the exact percentage of wages the mill could afford to pay.
What if _they_ had given up a little of their luxury, and _he_ his
ill-gotten gains!
He had the pictures packed under his supervision, and sent to New York.
Not without a pang; for many of them he had selected, and each one had
some pleasant reminder. The choice collection of the greenhouse was
offered for sale, the elegant furniture, and all the most valuable of
the personal property. Times were hard, and sales were slow; but there
would be sufficient realized, it was thought, to pay the floating
indebtedness. Hope Terrace and the mills would probably go for the
mortgages. There was a small life-insurance settled upon Mrs. Lawrence,
and the children would be fortuneless.
By spring the estate was in a fair way of settlement. Fred had vibrated
between the city and Yerbury all winter, but his mother had been taken
to Mrs. Minor's. A gardener and his wife were placed in charge of the
house, while efforts were being made to rent it. A few rooms had not
been disturbed.
And now Frederic De Woolfe Lawrence looked about him to see what could
be done. Up to this time he had never given himself an anxious thought
about money or his future. Now it stared him unpleasantly in the face.
What could _he_ do?
Many things, he said at first, with the buoyant certainty of youth and
inexperience. Here was his education, his talents, his fine mental
training. Surely he had the magical open-sesame of some door.
So he set to work industriously, and wrote several articles on the
history and the philosophy of the pure sciences. Very fine-drawn indeed,
very intellectual and analytical, as he went through the different
schools of thought, being able, it seemed to him, to argue as well for
the one side as for the other. Then he tried Neo-Platonism with its
profoundly mystical aspects and its brilliant array of philosophers, its
fascinating aspects of Pantheism. The new world and to-day had nothing
for him; the dead and gone past, every thing.
Alas! From every side he heard the cry, Literature had been overdone. No
one would buy, no one would read, in this great turmoil. Everybody wrote
now, schoolgirls, college-fledglings: even small farmers and mechanics,
with the training of the present and a smattering of knowledge, set up
for geniuses.
One advised him to try the realistic school: the old-time philosophies
had lost the high place they once held, and to gain the attention of
to-day writers must have snap and vim. Another recommended popular
science made easy and attractive to general readers, something that
caught at the first glance. Life was too short to be devoting years to
any one branch of study. Still another was fain to persuade him to
attack the pernicious systems and monstrous abuses of the present day.
Then he stumbled over Crosby, one of his college-chums and a member of
the L---- Club, where he had been a frequent and welcome visitor the
winter before.
"My dear fellow," said he, with patronizing good-nature, "take my
advice, and let literature alone. It is one of the most uncertain
things. To-day you may suit, to-morrow a chap comes along with some new
fandango or summersault of high art, and the world leaves everybody to
run after him, and you are thrown over. A man cannot earn his salt
unless he has the _entrée_ of the initiated ring. As for journalism, you
may hammer at that for twenty years before you get a position."
Poor Fred went back to his room sorely depressed. It was a quiet, clean
room in a second-rate hotel, for which he paid twelve dollars a week.
There he sat and brooded, until taking up the paper one morning he saw
the arrival of one of his old professors at the "Grand Union." Perhaps
he might put him in the way of something. So he plucked up heart, and
went to call.
Professor Dennison received him very cordially, and expressed the
warmest sympathy for the loss of his father and his fortune. He listened
attentively to the young man's desires, and answered in suavest of
tones.
There were so many applications: every avenue seemed full. Young lawyers
and doctors, finding no opening, had gone back to teaching, and the
college-graduates of every year swelled this number. He would bear it in
mind, and see what he could do; but he advised his young friend not to
build too high hopes. "If I could make a place I should put you in it at
once," he said kindly, just as he said it to a dozen others.
It was so everywhere. There were no copyists, translators, or writers
needed. The clerkships were overcrowded. It was not that there were too
many doing one thing, but everything,--too many people in the world.
Could the Malthusian doctrine be right, after all?
He dropped into his brother-in-law's office one morning, and, though he
hated to ask a favor of him, discussed in a rather fragmentary and
abashed way the possibility of getting any thing to do; and a fortnight
after, Mr. Minor sent him word of a broker who wanted a clerk, salary
fifty dollars per month.
It was better than nothing. Then, too, it was a beginning, although he
could imagine more congenial employments. It did not look much like hard
times, to note the immense amount of stocks and bonds that passed
through the hands of this great house.
Just at this period Irene returned. A fine, stately girl, with the
indescribable air that foreign society gives. Yet she seemed haughty,
bitter, and satirical; and it came out presently that she and Gertrude
had quarrelled over a possible husband, and the amiable Gertrude had
taunted her with dependence in the future. Irene had sold some diamonds,
and travelled on the proceeds.
"I think you were very short-sighted, Irene," said Mrs. Minor when she
had drawn this story out of her sister. "A handsome American girl does
stand a better chance for matrimony abroad than here. So many fortunes
have been lost in the panic, and certainly I cannot blame these men for
choosing heiresses. You have been in society a great deal here, and you
will find fresh young girls beginning to crowd you out. Fred has
nothing, and from present indications will hardly be able to take care
of himself. It was such a misfortune that papa had every thing
mortgaged! So Gertrude was right," in a bitterly suave tone: "you must
be dependent upon some one until you do marry."
"Oh, no! I might set up millinery,--with my taste and aptitude for
arrangement. I think I have read of reduced young women who made
fortunes in that line," retorted Irene the queenly, in her unmoved way.
She was not one to cry out at a dagger-thrust.
"Don't be a fool!" advised Mrs. Minor, in a short, incisive tone.
She, like most other people, had meant to economize this summer; but now
she made a sudden start for Newport. Irene certainly was peerless in her
half-mourning, with her statuesque figure. But there was not an eligible
at Newport, so they turned their steps Saratoga-ward. And here they
found an old admirer of Mrs. Minor's, Gordon Barringer, a widower for
the second time, the owner of a silver-mine and a railroad, and Heaven
alone knew the length and breadth of his possessions.
Miss Agatha Lawrence had turned up her aristocratic nose at him, as a
rather coarse and self-assured person, as proud of his want of education
as other men were of its acquirement. Now he was about forty, stout,
high-colored, loud of voice, and with an important swagger. But money
had given "our enterprising citizen" power, and he both understood and
wielded it skilfully.
His wife had been dead barely six months, but when he met Irene Lawrence
he decided at once that the penniless beauty would be only too glad to
marry him. He was proud to think he could afford to be so magnanimous.
Mrs. Minor settled herself to the fact that there must be no foolish
dallying. Of course Irene _would_ see. She could not be so idiotically,
so fatally blind!
I do not know that at this period of her life Irene Lawrence had any
ideal. She had made conquests so easily, she had found men so much
alike, and in her secret heart she despised them for being so ready to
kneel and bow at beauty's shrine. It seemed to her as if youth and
fortune were alike boundless; and she literally took no thought for the
morrow, until the tidings of her father's death was followed by the
subsequent news of loss of fortune.
If George Eastman had a self-conviction that he and his cousin had
contributed to this downfall, he tried to make it up to Irene in
brotherly kindness and generous expenditure where money was concerned.
He solaced himself with the thought that, after all, he had no more than
his own, or what should have been his own rightfully, though he fancied
he could not have gone on to the end quite as Horace had.
When Sir Christopher Frodsham came across the two ladies in Paris,
Gertrude exulted at the easy conquest. A man of fifty, whose young years
and health had been spent in sowing a plentiful crop of wild oats, but
to whom had come now, quite unexpectedly, a fortune and a title; and
prosperity, after years of rather bitter economy, made him miserly, as
it not unfrequently does such men. That he would have been glad to marry
this young, beautiful girl, for himself alone, was most true. And Irene,
in the bewilderment of the losses, inclined to his proposal, and begged
time for consideration.
He was not a man she could admire, respect, or love. He was narrow,
egotistical, selfish, and with the pitiful vanity of a worn-out _roué_.
Frodsham Park was in a lonely, mountainous part of England, bordering on
Wales; and this man would look upon his wife as a nurse and companion,
and the mother of an heir.
There must have been a little strain of heroism in the girl. Suddenly,
in one of those quick, vivid flashes, like mental lightning, she saw
that she could not do this thing. She was not at all given to analysis;
she had never dissected her own soul, or that of her neighbors; but she
arrived at one of those swift, clear verdicts,--she could not marry Sir
Christopher; and she told him so, with a frankness a trifle tenderer,
perhaps, than she had used with her lovers heretofore, as if some way
she had wronged him in thought.
Over this, as I said, she and Gertrude had bitter words and a parting.
Now the same thing stared her in the face again. This lover was too
obtuse to be stung by the fine arts of coquetry that lengthened practice
had brought to perfection. In all the bravery of self-assertion, he did
not know when he was beaten; and so he fought against the intangible
spear-points with which Miss Lawrence could surround herself.
Mr. Barringer was called to New York on important business law-suits;
and two days after, Mrs. Minor declared herself wearied out with
Saratoga. Irene felt the walls of fate closing remorselessly about her.
Why should she struggle? she asked herself. After all, what could she do
but marry?
Meanwhile, Hope Mills had been sold. Fred made some inquiries about it.
"A woman--a rich old maid, I believe, by name McLeod, who knows enough
to drive a sharp bargain--has taken it. Some one is to set up the
business, I heard; an impecunious nephew, no doubt. No one but a fool
would make a venture when the market is overstocked with goods. It is a
shame that the estate had to lose such a valuable piece of property; but
there was no income to pay taxes and interest, and, standing empty, it
would soon have eaten itself up."
Fred sighed. For the first time, he wondered how it would have ended if
he had been brought up to some useful business, and perhaps have taken
Eastman's place with his father. As for stock and share jobbing, he was
heartily sick of it. To him it appeared an immense system of swindling
the ignorant and unsuspecting.
However, he was not destined to nurse his disgust very long in brooding
silence. The last of September the great house of Bristol, Stokes, &
Co., collapsed. The wreck was unexpected, the ruin wide-spread. The
house of Minor & Morgan was hard hit, which did not improve Mr. Minor's
temper, though, Spartan-like, he wore a cheerful face, and kept his
losses to himself. Even if it should be his turn next, the world must
not know it.
"There's a letter that concerns you, though it was sent to me as
administrator," said Minor to Fred, as he sauntered in one morning,
tossing the missive over to him.
Fred opened it with languid indifference, and his eye wandered over the
following lines:--
HAMILTON MINOR, ESQ.
_Dear Sir_,--On taking possession of Hope Mills,
for business purposes, I find some personal
property belonging to the late Mr. Lawrence. It
may have a value for the family, and shall be at
your disposal whenever you desire it. Respectfully
yours,
JOHN DARCY.
"As soon as Hope Terrace is disposed of, the accounts can be audited and
settled," said Minor in a sharp, business-like way. "The debts have all
come in, and been paid dollar for dollar; though, if your father had
been a prudent man, he would have made sure of something for his family.
No one expects estates to pay more than fifty per cent nowadays."
Fred rose, and crushed Jack Darcy's note in his pocket, holding himself
proudly, while his cheek flushed.
"I am very thankful," in a clear, cold tone. "My father's life was pure
and honorable, and no man can fling a stone at his grave. I would rather
be penniless, as I am, than have it otherwise."
"Oh! very well, very well," sneeringly.
Fred walked out of the office, and turned into Broadway. The same
curious, restless, hurrying throng. Where were they all going? Did they
find room and work? How clearly the sun shone! The sky was so blue, with
great drifts of white floating about,--strange barques on a mystical
sea. In spite of the outside roar and rush, there was a solemn and
awesome stillness within him. He began to feel how entirety alone he
stood. A twelvemonth ago there were hosts of friends pulling him hither
and yon, proposing this and that, laughing and chatting gayly. Where
were they now? Not all weak and false, but the shadow of circumstances
had drifted them apart. We do not always cease to love or like when
separation ensues; and in this shifting, changing life, people drop out,
yet are not quite forgotten. Some of the young fellows whom fortune had
buffeted had found a place in active, stirring life: he, with his
education, refinement, accomplishments, and talent, was merely a piece
of driftwood. Sylvie Barry had been right,--he was a useless appendage
to the world. Ah, no wonder she despised him! Sturdy, honest Jack Darcy
could find a place. His self-complacency was more than touched,--it was
shattered, completely broken up. The present was blank and colorless,
the future like a thick mist in which there penetrated not one ray of
light. What did all his elaborate philosophies for him now?--art, that
was to regenerate the world; science, that explained and refined, and
found a place and a reason for every thing in the universe; man, the
most important of all. And here he was, tossed aside like a weed. Who
cared whether his nature was foul or kinglike? He was, in truth, one of
the atoms floating about in space, and finding no use or purpose. The
world could go on just as well without him. Why, if he should drop
himself over into the river, there would be only a ripple. He laughed,
as if his personality was something that did not really belong to him,
that could be put off at will, that was, in truth, answerable to no
power. All of life, then, had been a lie!
He stumbled onward blindly. A sense of dreary mystery crept over
him,--an utter hopelessness. He essayed to stretch out his hand to some
passer-by, but the careless faces mocked him. There was no strength or
stay. He could not even cry out with his anguish,--it was a dumb,
inarticulate voice. All his idols had been destroyed, and there was no
God to cry to!
His last three weeks' salary had gone down in Bristol & Co.'s ruin.
There were some jewels to sell, a few more pictures, several sets of
rare books, and--what then?
Starvation had appeared so utterly improbable in this great, thriving
world, and here he was, almost face to face with it,--he who had never
taken an anxious thought about any thing, who had felt as if he really
honored money by the spending of it. A beggar! An object of charity to
Hamilton Minor!
No, that should never be. He tried to rouse himself from his lethargy.
He went around to stores and offices where he was not known, and asked
for something to do, as if in a curious masquerade. The same answer
everywhere. Nothing! The sun went slowly down, the street-lamps were
lighted. Every inch of his body ached with the long tramp and nervous
exhaustion. He had eaten nothing since breakfast, but he was not hungry.
What if he did steal quietly over to the river, and end it all?
The desperation was hardly black enough for that. Somewhere near
midnight he strolled home: how much longer would there be a home, he
wondered?
He thrust his hand in his pocket, and the bit of folded paper struck
sharp against his fingers, so he drew it out. Hardly the familiar
school-boy scrawl: Jack used to hate writing, he remembered. This had a
decisive force about it. How odd that business-like "John" looked!
"Jack!" He uttered the name aloud, and a thrill seemed to warm his
frozen heart,--to stir emotions most contradictory. A sense of shame
predominated, tingling his very finger-ends, crimsoning his pale cheeks,
and stinging his soul with a sense of utter humiliation. He had prided
himself so much upon the immaculate honor of his life, and lo! here he
stood, self-convicted of one of the basest of sins,--broken faith. Not
from any sudden, hot dispute, not from a knowledge of deception or any
small meanness, but deliberate, well-considered treachery. It would have
been manlier had he said to Jack, "Our ways lie apart, and in the future
we shall meet so seldom, it is hardly worth while to keep up a pretence
of friendship." He had skulked away instead, kept out of sight,--basely
shunned the strong, tender soul that had helped to make a peevish
boyhood sunny and bright.
Black as this ingratitude looked to him now, he experienced a strange
and intense desire to see his olden friend once more. What was he doing
at Hope Mills? Had he found a place?
The next morning's mail brought him a check for sixty dollars, for an
article he had thought little of himself, and sent merely because he had
happened to finish it, and was despatching his ventures out on the sea
of chance. Then he went over to Mrs. Minor's: he had not seen his mother
for several days.
He was quite in the habit of going directly up to her room; but, as he
neared it, he heard voices raised in no gentle discussion. Agatha stood
in the middle of the room, flushed, angry, an open note in her hand;
Mrs. Lawrence was weeping hysterically, while Irene sat pale and sullen,
but her eyes gleaming with a dangerous fire.
"Very well: if you deliberately decide to take a beggar's portion, then,
do not look to me for any further help," said Mrs. Minor. "This marriage
would have afforded you every luxury; and you have thrown aside the
chance, like a silly school-girl. Perhaps you _have_ some secret,
favored lover!" and the glittering eyes might have annihilated a weaker
woman than Irene Lawrence.
"If I had, I should go to him. I would live on crusts and a cup of cold
water with him, rather than luxury," with a bitter, stinging emphasis,
"and my own humiliation. The man would drive me mad, Agatha! Some day,
yielding to an irresistible impulse, I should murder him;" and she gave
a shrill, unnatural laugh.
Fred went over to her, and took her hand. His business in life was to be
her champion, her defender, her support,--not only against this
monstrous marriage, at which her soul revolted, but Agatha's sneers and
flings, and the dependence a proud soul must naturally feel when the
very bread turns to ashes in one's mouth. How it was to be done, he
could not tell at that moment; but he drew one long breath of honest,
hopeful manliness, and resolved to leave no stone unturned.
His mother wept in his comforting arms. She was very much
shattered,--quite an old woman long before her time, made so by the
follies of an indolent, enervating life. Like a pang the thought pierced
his brain, that for these paltry results his father had given the
strength and labor of manhood.