Various - The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 03, No. 18, April, 1859

"If they have the goods, won't they be satisfied?" asked Clara.

"You don't understand, my daughter, that all I have is at their command. If the property does not liquidate the debts, then the house, the carriage and horses, the furniture, the"–

The possible surrender of all that had made life pleasant to his family was not to be considered without emotion, and Mr. Lindsay found himself unable to finish the sentence.

"Dear father!" exclaimed Clara, seizing and kissing his hand, as she sat down at his feet,—"you are just and noble. We could not be selfish or complaining when we think of you. Let everything go. I love the dear old house, the garden that has been your pride, the books and pictures; but we shall be nearer together—shan't we, papa?—in a cottage. If they do sell my piano, I can still sing to you; nobody can take that pleasure from us."

"Bless you, my daughter! I feel relieved,—almost happy. Your cheerful heart has given me new courage. Perhaps we shall not have to make the sacrifices I dread. Whatever happens, my darling, your piano shall be kept. I will sell my watch first. Your music will be twice as dear in our days of adversity."

"Yes, papa,—if we keep the piano, I can give lessons."

"You give lessons? Nonsense! But get up, pussy; here, sit on my knee."

He fondled her like a child, and they all smiled through their tears,—heavenly smiles! blissful tears! full of a feeling of which the heart in prosperous days has no conception!

"One thing has happened to-day," said Mr. Lindsay, "that I shall never forget,—an action so generous and self-forgetful that it makes one think better of mankind. I remember hearing a preacher say that no family knew all their capabilities of love until death had taken one of their number,—not their love for the dead, but their deeper affection for each other after the loss. I suppose every calamity brings its compensations in developing noble traits of character; and it is almost an offset to failure itself to have such an overflowing feeling as this,—to know that there are so many sympathizing hearts. But what I was going to speak of was the conduct of my clerk, Monroe. He is a fine fellow,—rather more given to pictures and books and music than is good for a business man; but with a clear head, a man's energy, and a woman's heart. He has a widowed mother, whom he supports. I never knew he had any property till to-day. It seems his father left ten thousand dollars. He knew that my situation was desperate, and yet he offered me his all. It would only have put off the day of failure; but I was selfish enough to be willing to take it. He had deposited the securities for the amount with Sandford, who first borrowed money in the street by pledging them, and then failed to-day. Monroe has lost his all; but his intention was as noble as if he had saved me. I shall never forget it; and as long as I have a dollar he shall share it."

"What a noble fellow!" said Mrs. Lindsay. "How pleasant to think that in this terrible scramble for life there are some who have not lost their humanity, nor trampled down their finer feelings!"

"I couldn't but contrast this kindness on the part of a clerk, for whom I have never done anything beyond paying him his well-earned salary, with the conduct of Mr. Bullion. I gave him my indorsement repeatedly, and assisted him in procuring loans, when he was not so rich as he is now. I know he has resources, ready money,—money that he does not need for any outstanding debts, but which he must keep for speculation. But he refused to do anything. 'Couldn't,' he said, 'really; times were hard; everybody wanted to borrow; couldn't lend to everybody; hadn't the funds; much as he could do to stand up himself.' There was no sincerity in his look. I saw his soul skulking away behind his subterfuges like a spider in the depths of his flimsy web. He seems to thrive, however, in the midst of general ruin. I've no doubt he lives like a vulture, on the dead and dying."

"Is Mr. Bullion that short man, father, with the cold eyes and gruff voice, and the queer eyebrow which he seems to poke at people?"

"Yes, my daughter, that is the man."

"Well, I'm sure, he is coarse, disagreeable, hard-hearted. I'm glad you are not under obligations to him."

"My only regret is that I had the mortification of being refused. I wish I had never asked him. I can't think of his look and tone without a pang of shame, or wounded pride, if you choose to call it so, harder to bear than a blow in the face. I had a claim upon his gratitude, but he remembers a favor no more than a wolf does the mutton he ate a year ago.—But enough of business. The bitterness has passed since we have talked together. Let us be cheerful. Come, Clara, sing some of those sweet old ballads!"

From her infancy until now in her twentieth year, Clara had been constantly with her father,—but she had never known him before.

Early next morning the officer in charge of Mr. Sandford's house was relieved by a brother constable. Number Two was a much more civil person in speech and manner than Number One; in fact, he speedily made himself so agreeable to the housemaid that she brought him a cup of coffee, and looked admiringly while he swallowed it. By the time Mrs. Sandford and Marcia came down to breakfast, he had established an intimacy with Biddy that was quite charming to look upon. One would have thought he was an old friend of the household,—a favored crony; such an easy, familiar air he assumed. He accosted the ladies with great gallantry,—assured them that they were looking finely,—hoped they had passed a pleasant night, and that Number One had given them no unnecessary inconvenience. Marcia met him with a haughty stare which nobody but a woman of fashion can assume. Turning to Mrs. Sandford, she exclaimed,—

"Who is this fellow?"

Number Two hastened to answer for himself:—

"My name, Ma'am, is Scarum, Harum Scarum some of the young lawyers call me. Ha!" ( A single laugh, staccato .)

"Well, Mr. Scarum, you can keep your compliments for those who appreciate them. Come, Lydia, let us go down to breakfast. The presuming fool!" she exclaimed, as she passed through the hall,—"he's worse than the other. One can put up with a coarse man, if he minds his own business; but an impudent, self-satisfied fellow must be made to know his place."

"High-strung filly! ha!" ( Sforzando .)

"May have to speak to common folks, yet,—eh, Miss Bridget?"

But farther conversation was interrupted for the time. Bridget was summoned by the bell to the dining-room, and gallant Number Two was left alone in the parlor. Meanwhile he surveyed the room as minutely as if it had been a museum,—trying the rocking-chair, examining pictures, snapping vases with his unpared nails, opening costly books, smelling of scent-bottles, scanning the anti-Macassars and the Berlin-wool mats. At last he opened the piano, and, in a lamentably halting style, played, "Then you'll remember me," using only a forefinger in the performance. He sang at the same time in a suppressed tone, while he cast agonizing looks at an imaginary obdurate female, supposed to be on the sofa, occasionally glancing with admiration in the mirror at the intensely pathetic look his features wore.

Marcia, meanwhile, had borne the noise as long as she could; so Biddy was dispatched to ask the singer if he would not please to do his practising at some other time.

"Practising, indeed!" exclaimed Number Two, indignantly, upon receiving the message. "There are people who think I can sing. These women, likely, a'n't cultivated enough to appreciate the 'way-up music. They're about up to that hand-organ stuff of Sig-ner Róssyni, likely. They can't understand Balfy; they a'n't up to it. What do you think, Miss Bridget? Nice figger, that of yours." ( Sotto voce .) "None of the tall, spindlin', wasp-waisted, race-horse style about you, like that" (pointing down-stairs). "A good plump woman for me! and a woman with an ear, too! Now you know what good singin' is. I led the choir down to Jorumville 'bove six months b'fore I come down here and went into the law. But she thinks I was practising! Ha!" ( Sempre staccato .)