Their first applications were made singly or by delegations to General Schenck or, in his absence, to his Adjutant-general, Donn Piatt, both of whom had steadily and cordially given their official aid and support to Colonel Birney's operations, though, from the nature of his orders, he was not subject to their command. The General, with quiet dignity, referred the envoys to Secretary Stanton, but held out no hope of change; but the adjutant gave themdeep offence by his sturdy patriotism, expressed with the wit and humor for which he has always been celebrated.
Secretary Stanton was deaf to remonstrances. But it was not long before Reverdy Johnson and Governor Swann discovered that the President was not aware of the enlistment of slaves. Petitions, letters of complaint, and charges against Colonel Birney were now poured in on Mr. Lincoln. Finally, Reverdy Johnson and the Governor, at the head of a Maryland delegation of slave-holders, called on him and presented the grievance with all the eloquence they could command.
The President was much disturbed, and supposing General Schenck to be the responsible party, wrote to him intimating a purpose to disavow his acts. Thereupon the General went to Washington and, explaining his position in the matter, protested against censure or disavowal, and tendered his resignation as commandant in Maryland if such a step against him was intended. Mr. Lincoln listened patiently. Then, after a short pause, he said:
"Schenck, do you know what agalled prairieis?"
The general knew every kind of prairie except that.
"The galled prairie," resumed Mr. Lincoln, "lies on the slope back from the narrow river bottoms, and is so called because the waters from higher levels cut gulches in it. But it is rich land. On it grow oak trees of a peculiar species. Their wood is almost as hard as iron, and their roots grow deep down. You can't cut them or dig them up. Now, general, how do you suppose the farmers treat them?"
This was a poser.
"Well," said Mr. Lincoln, "they just let them alone and plough around them."
With this the President arose and shook hands, and General Schenck returned to Baltimore, pondering over the parable of the "galled prairies."
Nothing further was said about censure, but Mr. Lincoln was troubled on the score of his "pledge," and did not let the matter drop.
Colonel Birney was very busy one day issuing the final orders for despatching three boats to a point where, from information received, several hundred good recruits were waiting. He was interrupted by a telegram direct from the White House, as follows:
"How many slaves have you enlisted?"(Signed) "Abraham Lincoln."
"How many slaves have you enlisted?"
(Signed) "Abraham Lincoln."
The answer reached the President while Governor Swann and his friends were making another call on him.
"About three thousand," it said.[3]
A short and, according to the report of the committee, a pretty sharp discussion followed the reading of this answer, ending in the despatch of another telegram to the colonel:
"Hold on and care for what you have; enlist no more until further orders.(Signed)Abraham Lincoln."
"Hold on and care for what you have; enlist no more until further orders.
(Signed)Abraham Lincoln."
Colonel Birney's disappointment can be imagined. In another hour his boats would have been off and out of reach of telegrams. Now, all orders had to be countermanded and the boats tied up.
The next day the colonel went to Washington and had an interview with Mr. Stanton, always his friend, and ready to do for him all that his position towards the President permitted him to do.
The latter Colonel Birney did not see, but the encouragement, protection, and aid he received from the great war secretary, with whose patriotism mingled no selfish ambition, enabled him, after a few weeks, to reorganize his plans and continue the work which led to emancipation in the State of Maryland.
A new order was issued, by consent of the President, authorizing the enlistment of slaves of rebels and of consenting loyal masters.
The final details of this novel recruiting business will be given in another chapter.
Catherine H. Birney.
With sad face turned aside, lest sudden comers see her weep,She sits, her fingers softly trying, on the ivory keys,To find a half-forgotten way—that memoriesMay soothe her yearning spirit into dreamful sleep.And now the old tune rises,—trembles,—slowly stealing roundThat empty room, where often in the other yearsIt sang its love and tenderness, and gathered tearsTo eyes that weep no more,—ah, sweetest, hallowed sound!
With sad face turned aside, lest sudden comers see her weep,She sits, her fingers softly trying, on the ivory keys,To find a half-forgotten way—that memoriesMay soothe her yearning spirit into dreamful sleep.
And now the old tune rises,—trembles,—slowly stealing roundThat empty room, where often in the other yearsIt sang its love and tenderness, and gathered tearsTo eyes that weep no more,—ah, sweetest, hallowed sound!
Irene Putnam.
CHARACTERS.
Mrs.Ethel Neverby,A Shopper.Mrs.Maud Sampelle,A Shopper.Mr.Newcome,A Salesman.A Chorus of Seven other Salesmen.
Scene:—The principal aisle of a fashionable shop. Mrs. Neverby and Mrs. Sampelle discovered sauntering along near a prominent counter strewn with rich woollen dress-goods. Mr. Newcome, as they pause for an instant, makes a dash forward toward the ladies: the seven other salesmen for a moment seek to restrain his ardor; but he refuses to be restrained, and instantly holds up to the gaze of the shoppers a piece of cloth with a most alluring air. They pause—halt—whilst the chorus, withdrawing, sing, in a low, melancholy voice—
Scene:—The principal aisle of a fashionable shop. Mrs. Neverby and Mrs. Sampelle discovered sauntering along near a prominent counter strewn with rich woollen dress-goods. Mr. Newcome, as they pause for an instant, makes a dash forward toward the ladies: the seven other salesmen for a moment seek to restrain his ardor; but he refuses to be restrained, and instantly holds up to the gaze of the shoppers a piece of cloth with a most alluring air. They pause—halt—whilst the chorus, withdrawing, sing, in a low, melancholy voice—
Chorus.
Poor Newcome!Nay, we must not seek to prevent it;If we should, he would only resent it:Let us then be all silent anent it.Let him say of his breath, "I have spent it;"Of his patience, "Behold! I have lent it;"Of his will, "Woe is me! they have bent it;"Of his garment, "Aye, lo! I have rent it;Because I believed that they meant it:Meant to buy—Heigh-o-heigh!O—O—"
Poor Newcome!Nay, we must not seek to prevent it;If we should, he would only resent it:Let us then be all silent anent it.Let him say of his breath, "I have spent it;"Of his patience, "Behold! I have lent it;"Of his will, "Woe is me! they have bent it;"Of his garment, "Aye, lo! I have rent it;Because I believed that they meant it:Meant to buy—Heigh-o-heigh!O—O—"
[Chorus retire and busy themselves with other remote customers and goods, keeping, however, a wary and observing eye fixed upon Newcome.
Newcome(gushingly). What can I show you this morning, ladies?
Ethel(sweetly). Oh, thank you, we are merely looking as we pass by.
Maude.Oh yes, that is all.
Newcome.It will do no harm to show you these goods, I am sure,ladies. These double-width, all-wool, imported French suitings, in all the latest shades, reduced, marked down only half an hour ago from two dollars and a half a yard to—one-fifty!
Ethel(takes a step nearer to the counter). That blue is lovely, isn't it, Maud?
Maud(also taking a step counterward). Yes, it is lovely.
Newcome.Is blue the color that you are looking for, madam?
Ethel.Oh, not specially.
Newcome.Now just allow me to show you these blues: ten different tones,—the navy, Marie-Louise, slate, Russian, Princess of Wales, robin's-egg, army, cobalt, indigo, steel,—all of them exquisite, and very fashionable!
[Brings down pieces of goods and displays them.
Maud.They are lovely.
Newcome.All at the same price, one dollar and fifty cents, reduced from two and a half only this morning.
Ethel.Why are they so low? (Fingers goods). Is there any imperfection?
Newcome(ecstatically). None in the world, madam—none in the world. They are just an importer's surplus stock that our buyer got at a tremendous reduction, and we are selling them at this absurd price merely to get rid of them before taking stock.
Maud(eying the goods behind the counter on shelves). Ethel, that gray is too sweet for anything; it would just match your chinchilla furs perfectly!
Ethel.So it would!
Newcome(tossing aside the blues with a jubilant air). Gray, did you say, madam? We have a line of grays not to be found anywhere else in the city; every possible tint and tone. Is it for yourself, madam?
[Gazing at Ethel as he moves heavy pile of grays from shelf to counter.
Ethel.Oh no; we are, as I told you, merely looking (glances at Maud) for a friend.
[Chorus of clerics, softly and with a semi-sarcastic, semi-melancholic demeanor, advance and sing:
They are looking for a friend,Who is ill, and cannot spendAny strength, but must dependOn their offices, and sendFor some samples that may tendTo assist her health to mend.So their time they gladly lendTo so laudable an endAs is "looking for a friend."
They are looking for a friend,Who is ill, and cannot spendAny strength, but must dependOn their offices, and sendFor some samples that may tendTo assist her health to mend.So their time they gladly lendTo so laudable an endAs is "looking for a friend."
[Chorus retire and again busy themselves with other customers.
Maud.Yes, an invalid lady who is unable to go out at all; we thought if we could take her some samples.
[Chorus groan weakly.
Newcome.Certainly, madam.
[Opens drawer and hands forth any number of packets of samples.
Ethel.Oh, how good you are! Thank you. Say, Maud, isn't that green, up there, the top of that left-hand pile, isn't it too lovely and chic for anything?
Maud.Perfect.
Newcome(abandoning the search for more samples). Green—did you say green, ladies?
Ethel.Oh, never mind!
Newcome(struggling with the greens, which threaten to topple over on him). No trouble at all, madam—none (lands the greens successfully on the counter). We have, as you see, a complete line of the greens—the most fashionable and stylish color of the season. Do be seated, madam, and just let me show you these unparalleled goods, one-fifty only a yard, reduced from two and a half, all-wool, warranted imported French dress material. We sell no domestic goods in this establishment.
Maud.We might look at them, dear.
[Approaches seat.
Ethel.Well (approaches seat)—I suppose we might; we promised her we would look at everything, you know, and report this afternoon.
Newcome(displaying goods). There, ladies! I am sure there is not to be found anywhere in the city, or indeed out of it, such a selection of greens; all tones and shades to suit every taste and complexion. Is it for yourself, may I ask, madam?
Maud.Oh no, no, no—for a friend.
Newcome.And what complexion is the lady, light or dark? We have tints to suit all.
Maud(to Ethel). Would you call her fair or dark, dear?
Ethel.Oh, dark, of course.
Maud.You would! Why, I thought she was just about my complexion.
Ethel.So she is, love, exactly.
Maud.Why, darling! I am not dark, surely; I am considered to be very, very fair for a person with such dark hair and eyes.
Ethel.Now, I would call you a perfect brunette, dear.
Maud.How funny! Why, I'm just exactly your complexion.
Ethel.Oh, my love, only reflect—my hair is yellow and my eyes are blue!
Maud.I know, dearest, but you have an olive skin.
Newcome(who has been patiently holding up the greens at the risk of breaking his arms). There, ladies! I am sure we have a selection of shades in these greens that must suit the most fastidious.
Ethel.They are beautiful!
[Sits.
Maud.Lovely!
[Sits.
Newcome(warmly, and much encouraged by the ladies having taken seats). Oh, I can always tell at a glance what will suit a customer. Now, what you desire is not the common grade of colorings, but something elegant and yet not conspicuous—like this new reed-green, for example.
[Holds up the goods.
Ethel.How sweet!
Maud.Isn't it?
Ethel.Do you really think she would like green?
Maud.I don't know; she is so particular, you know.
Ethel.Yes, I know. Didn't she— It seems to me she said something or other about brown—didn't she?
Maud.Why, yes, to be sure, I believe she did.
Newcome(casting the greens into a reckless oblivion). Brown? We have a selection in all the browns that is not to be found elsewhere, I am confident. (Struggles with great pile of browns; grows warm with effort; pauses to mop his brow with handkerchief; finally brings down huge number of browns and lands them on counter). Our—assortment—of—browns—is (heaves a deep sigh), I may say, unequalled.
Ethel.What a sweet shade that is!
Maud.Isn't it?
Ethel.Are these the same price as the others?
[Fingers the browns.
Newcome.Exactly the same, madam; one dollar and fifty cents a yard, reduced from two and a half; all-wool.
Maud.Are you sure they are all-wool? This piece feels rather harsh to me.
Newcome.Every thread, madam; that I will guarantee. We are not allowed to misrepresent anything in this establishment. You can see for yourself.
[Recklessly frays out a few inches of the brown.
Ethel(also fingering goods). Yes, they are all-wool; French, did you say?
Newcome.Every piece imported. We keep no domestic woollen goods whatever. We have no call for anything but the foreign goods.
Maud.How wide did you say?
Newcome.Double width, madam—forty-four inches.
Ethel.Five, seven—let me see, it would take about—how much do you usually sell for a costume?
Newcome(with hilarity, holding up the browns). From eight to ten yards, madam, according to the size of the lady. For your size I should say eight yards was an abundance—a great abundance.
Ethel.She is just about my size, isn't she, Maud?
Maud.Just about. It wouldn't take eight yards, I shouldn't think, of such wide goods made in Empire style.
Ethel.No, I suppose not; but then it's always nice to have a piece left over for new sleeves, you know.
Maud.Yes, that's so.
Newcome.An elegant shade, ladies, becoming to anyone, fair or dark. I am sure any lady must be pleased with a dress off of one of these—serviceable, stylish, the height of fashion.
Ethel.Is brown really so fashionable this season?
Newcome.I am sure we have sold a thousand yards of these browns to ten of any other color.
Maud.Is that so?
Ethel.I do wonder if she really would prefer brown. What do you think, dear?
Maud.Well, it depends somewhat, I think, on how she is going to have it made.
Ethel.True. Well, I think she said indirectoire.
Maud.Plain full skirt?
Ethel.Yes, smocked all around—no drapery at all.
Maud.Candidly, love, do you like a skirt without any drapery at all?
Ethel.Well, no, I can't say I do. Do you?
Maud.No. I like a little right in the back, you know—not toomuch. But I think a little takes off that dreadfully plain look. Don't you?
Ethel.Yes.
Maud.How are y— I mean how is she going to have the waist?
Ethel.I don't know. I heard her say that she was going to have a puff on the sleeve.
Maud.At the elbow?
Ethel.No, at the shoulder.
Maud.And revers, I suppose.
Ethel.Yes, those stylish broad ones.
Maud.Of velvet?
Ethel.Velvet or plush.
Newcome(who has been manfully holding the browns up above his head, permits them to gently descend). We have a full line in plushes and velvets, ladies, to match all these shades.
Maud.How nice!
Ethel.So convenient!
Newcome(mildly). Do you think you'll decide on the brown, madam?
Ethel.Oh, dear! I don't know. It is so hard to shop for some one else!
Maud.It is horrid.
Ethel.I vow every time I do it that it shall be the last. I am always so afraid of getting something that the person won't like.
[Sighs.
Newcome.Any lady must like this brown, madam. Just feel the texture of this piece of goods, and take the trouble to examine the quality. Why, I have never in all my experience sold a piece of goods of such a class at a cent less than two dollars a yard—never.
Maud.It is very fine.
Ethel(vaguely eying the goods behind the counter on the shelves). Is that a piece of claret-colored that I see up there?
Newcome(lays down the browns with a faint sigh of reluctance). Yes, oh, yes.
Ethel.Never mind to get it down.
Newcome.No trouble in the world to show anything; that's what I am here for. (Sighs as he attains the clarets and fetches them to the counter.) Rich shades; ten tints in these also, calculated to suit any taste.
Maud.I always did like claret.
Ethel.Yes, it is so becoming.
Maud.It has such a warm look, too!
Ethel.Now, that—no, this one—no, please, that darker piece—yes. Maud, dear, that made up with plush and garnet buttons and buckles—Oh, did I tell you I saw some such lovely garnet trimmings at Blank's last week, only seventy-five cents a yard, just a perfect match for this. Wouldn't it be too lovely for anything?
Maud.Indeed it would. I am almost tempted myself. Claret is my color, you know.
Newcome.A splendid shade, madam, and only just two dress lengths left.
Ethel.Is this the same goods as the others?
Newcome.The very same; all-wool imported suitings, forty-four inches wide, reduced from two-fifty a yard to only one dollar and a half.
Maud.Wouldn't that be just perfect with that white muff and boa of mine, dearest?
Ethel.Too startling, love. Do you know, I think you made a mistake in getting that white set.
Maud.Why?
Ethel.Too striking.
Maud.Do you think so?
Ethel.Yes. Of course it's lovely for the theatre and opera.
Maud.It's awfully becoming.
Ethel(to Newcome). Now, do you really sell as much claret color as you do green or brown this season?
Newcome.Oh yes, madam; if anything, more. You see claret is one of the standards, becoming alike to young and old. Why, a child might wear this shade. Claret will always hold its own; there is a change in the blues and the greens and the browns, but the claret is always elegant, and very stylish.
Maud.I think so too.
Ethel(meditatively). I do wonder if she would like claret better than brown.
Newcome.I can show you the browns again, ladies.
Ethel.Oh, never mind.
Newcome.No trouble in the world. (Holds up browns and clarets both.) Now you can judge of the two by contrast.
Maud.Both lovely.
Ethel.Which do you like best, love?
Maud.My dear, I don't know.
Newcome.You can't go amiss, madam, with either of those, I am sure. Any lady must like either of them.
Ethel.Oh, dear! I wish people would get well and do their own shopping; it is so trying!
Maud.Horrid!
Newcome.An elegant piece of goods, madam; will wear like iron.
Ethel.What would you do, dear?
Maud.I really don't know what to say. When does she want to wear it?
Ethel.Dinner and theatre.
Maud.By gaslight, then?
Ethel.Yes, of course.
Maud.Does the gaslight change the shade much?
Newcome.Just a trifle, madam; it makes it richer.
Maud.Darker?
Newcome.Just a half a tone.
Ethel. Then that must be considered. Oh, dear!
[Sighs plaintively.
Maud.Why not look at it by gaslight, love?
Ethel.Oh, I hate to give so much trouble!
Newcome.No trouble in the world, madam—a pleasure. I will gladly show you these goods by gaslight, for I am confident you will only admire them the more. Here, boy (calls boy, and hands him a pile of goods), take these to the gaslight-room. This way ladies, please. (They cross the aisle and enter the gaslight-room, preceded by the boy, who sets down the goods and retires.) There! look at that! Isn't that a rich, warm, beautiful color!
[Displays clarets.
Maud.Lovely!
Ethel.Yes, lovely—but (dubiously) I am so afraid she won't like it.
Maud.It is very perplexing.
Ethel.Yes. Oh, how sweet those browns do look in this light! Don't they?
Newcome.Ah, I just brought over the browns, madam, for I thought you might care to see them too.
[Displays browns.
Maud.How they do light up! Don't they?
Newcome.Newest tints, every one of them. Not been in stock over a few weeks, and those browns have sold like wildfire.
Ethel.For my own part I always did like brown.
Maud.Yes, so do I.
Ethel.It's so ladylike.
Maud.Yes, and it's a color that is suitable to almost any occasion.
Ethel.Yes. Now that lightest piece would be just too sweet, wouldn't it, made up with that new Persian trimming?
Maud.Exquisite! Say, do you know I priced some of that trimming the other day.
Ethel.Did you? how much?
Maud.Awfully expensive! Five dollars a yard.
Ethel.How wide?
Maud.Oh, not more than four inches.
Ethel.It wouldn't take much, would it?
Maud.That depends on where you put it.
Ethel.Well, just on the bodice and sleeves and collar.
Maud.About two yards and a half.
Ethel.Fifteen dollars?
Maud.Yes.
Newcome.This brown trimmed in the manner you mention, ladies, would be very elegant.
Maud.Yes, so it would. I wish now that I had looked more particularly at the browns out by the daylight.
Newcome.It is easy to look at them again, madam, I am sure. Here, boy, carry these goods back to the counter where you got them. (Boy crosses, laden with goods; Newcome and ladies follow.) That's it. (Boy retires.) Now, madam, just look at that shade by this light. Isn't that perfect?
Ethel.Yes, it's lovely, but—
Maud.Did she say she wished a brown especially, dear?
Ethel.No, she left it to me entirely.
Maud.How trying!
Ethel.Yes. I—I really, you know. I don't dare to take the responsibility; would you?
[Newcome's arms falter slightly in upholding the goods.
Maud.Frankly, my love, I think shopping for anyone else is something dreadful.
Ethel.It is so trying and so embarrassing. I don't dare really to get either (Newcome's arms fall helpless; he sighs) one of them.
Maud.They are lovely, though; aren't they?
Ethel.Yes, if (Newcome revives a little) I thought she would really be satisfied.
[He essays once again to hold up the browns.
Maud.But, dear, they never are.
[His arms again droop.
Ethel.No, never. No matter how much trouble you take, orwhat pains you are (he sighs feebly) at (he totters), they are so ungrateful.
Maud.Yes, always.
Ethel.Well, I believe we can't venture to decide this morning (he staggers) about the shade. We will very likely return to-morrow.
[He raises a weakly deprecating hand.
Maud(aside, as the two ladies are going). Well, we got off quite nicely.
Ethel.Yes, didn't we! I wouldn't be seen in either of those horrid things; would you?
Maud.No.
[Newcome falls to the earth with a groan of despair; the Chorus rush forward and gently raise him in their arms. As they bear him off, they sing, in a doleful and yet half-malicious fashion:
Chorus.
Poor Newcome!You are not the first man they have ended,And left on the cold ground extended;Or to whom they have sweetly pretended,On whose taste they have weakly depended;—Whom they've left on the cold ground extended,Minus money they never expended,On goods that they never intendedTo buy,Heigh-o, heigh,O—O—!
Poor Newcome!You are not the first man they have ended,And left on the cold ground extended;Or to whom they have sweetly pretended,On whose taste they have weakly depended;—Whom they've left on the cold ground extended,Minus money they never expended,On goods that they never intendedTo buy,Heigh-o, heigh,O—O—!
[They retreat,C.,as the ladies exeunt,R.,L.Music pianissimo as curtain falls.
Fannie Aymar Mathews.
"It manes, and shure and where's the harm?"Said Nora to her spouse;"It manes: if you must mind yer farm,That I shall mind me house."
"It manes, and shure and where's the harm?"Said Nora to her spouse;"It manes: if you must mind yer farm,That I shall mind me house."
I almost flung myself into Dick Vandeleur's arms when he entered my library that evening.
"Can you imagine why I sent for you in such a deuce of a hurry?" I blurted out, embracing him effusively in my pleasure at seeing him.
"Well, I did think there might have been a woman in the case," he drawled, in his deliberate way, stopping to adjust his neck-tie, which had worked its way over his ear during the struggle. "But then, as I happened to have acted as your best man only two months ago, when you married the most charming of women, why, b'Jove, I—"
"Well, it is a woman," I groaned, cutting his speech short.
"The devil!"
"Yes, and the very worst kind, I fancy, if thoroughly aroused."
"But, my deah boy, with such a wife it's—it's—it's—"
"Yes, it's all that and a good deal more," I growled, gloomily. "Don't add to my misery with your ill-timed reproaches. Richard, a back number of my unsavory career has turned up to deprive me of my appetite and blight my being. You remember Bella Bracebridge, of the nimble toes, at whose shrine I worshipped so long and so idiotically? Well, I received a letter from her only yesterday."
"No!"—incredulously.
"Yes."
"What!—little Bella who used to caper around in such airy garments at the Alhambra?"
"The very same. I only wish I could be mistaken," with a despairing groan. "It seems she married money and retired from the stage. By some means she disposed of her husband, and is now a rich and probably good-looking widow. She has purchased an estate within half a mile of here, and is going in heavy for style. She wants to make me the stepping-stone to social success; she sighs for the purple penetralia of the plutocracy. See what a predicament I am in! To introduce her in this house would plant themost unjust suspicions in Ethel's Vassarian mind, while her mother, Mrs. McGoozle, might institute awkward inquiries into the dear, dead past"—with a shiver of anticipation. "Now, my dear Vandeleur, that woman means mischief. She has got about a hundred of my letters breathing the most devoted love: if dear Ethel got a glimpse of a line she would go into hysterics. Bella has hinted, even politely threatened, that unless I show her some attention, which means introducing her to my wife's circle of friends, she will publish those letters to the world or send them to the dramatic papers. Now you must help me out of this scrape."
"Delighted to be of any service, I'm sure," tapping his boots impatiently with a jaunty little cane. "But, really, you know, I don't see—"
"Why, it's easy enough. Don't you remember we were once the pride of the school because we robbed watermelon patches so skilfully? What a narrow shave that was in the apple orchard the night before commencement, when you—"
"Yes, yes, I remember, deah boy; but what have those childish pranks got to do with the present case? We don't want to rob an apple orchard"—by way of mild protest.
"It is another kind of fruit that we are after—the fruit of youthful follies. Here," opening a cupboard and throwing out two pairs of overalls somewhat the worse for paint, two jumpers ditto, and several muddy overshoes, "Vandeleur, if you love me put these things on."
I fancy I can see him now adjust his glass and survey me with bulging eyes. I certainly did have nerve to ask that famous clubman, so irreproachable in his dress, to assume such inartistic and plebeian garments.
It took a great deal of palavering before I could persuade him that I was lost unless he consented. How he grunted as he reluctantly laid aside his silk-lined white kersey coat and evening dress, and tried to put on the overalls with one hand while he held his aristocratic aquiline nose with the other.
"Really, I hope I shan't be found dead in these togs," he remarked ruefully, as he surveyed himself in the glass. "What would Flossy say? and how the chaps at the Argentine would wonder what I'd been up to!"
I cut short his speculations by thrusting a soft slouched hat on his head and dragging it down over his eyes.
"There now!" I said, standing off and contemplating him criticallyand admiringly; "you have no idea, my boy, how becoming this costume is. One might imagine you had been born a stevedore."
He looked rather sour at this doubtful compliment, and hitching up his baggy trousers, asked, "Well, what is the next misery?"
"It is twelve o'clock," I said, referring to my watch. "My wife has gone to bed. Like Claude Duval, we will take to the road."
After a stiff libation of brandy and soda we stole softly downstairs and found ourselves in front of the house. Only one light glimmered in the black pile, where Ethel was going to bed.
"Where away?" asked Vandeleur, as I turned the path.
"To storm Bella's bureau," I cried, leading the way through the dark.
With much difficulty we found ourselves at last in the spacious grounds of Bella's estate. I had laid my plans carefully the day before, and there seemed no possibility that they would miscarry. By liberal fees I had learned from her butler that she was to spend that night in New York with a friend, and for a further consideration he offered to leave one of the drawing-room windows open so that we should have a clear field.
Everything seemed to be working beautifully, and I already felt the coveted letters in my grasp. We found the French window ajar, and with tremulous hearts stepped over the sill and into the room. After several collisions with the furniture, of which there seemed to be what we thought an unnecessary amount, we finally scraped our way into the hall.
Here was a quandary. We were in a hall, but what hall? Whether the stairs led in the right direction there was no one present to consult. We walked or rather crawled up them, nevertheless. I tried the first door on the landing, and was rewarded with "Is that you?" by a female voice that sent us scuttling along the passage in undignified haste.
Well, at last, after many narrow escapes from breaking our necks, we reached Bella's room. I knew it the moment I saw the closet full of shoes. Bella was always proud of her feet, and had, I believe, a pair of boots for every hour of the day.
To make things even more sure that I had arrived at the chaste temple of my former flame, there was the famous bureau of ebony inlaid with ivory—that bureau which contained enough of my inflammatory letters to reduce it to cinders.
"Can you regard that bureau with equanimity?" I exclaimed, unconsciously assuming a dramatic attitude. "Does it not recall your vanished youth—the red horizon of your adolescence? Ah," I cried, overcome by the sight of that familiar bit of furniture, "how often have I slid a piece of jewelry into that top drawer as a surprise for Bella! Her delighted shriek which followed the discovery rings in my ears even now. Oh, halcyon days of happy holiday, mine no more, can a lifetime with a funded houri wholly fill your place?"
"That's all very well," cried Vandeleur, who can assume a disgustingly practical tone when he wants to. "While you are rhapsodizing here over your poetical past, some stalwart menial may arrive with a blunderbuss, and fill our several and symmetrical persons with No. 2 buckshot. Perhaps Bella may have missed her train or her friend. She might return here at any moment and surprise us"—looking around him uneasily.
"Anybody would think that you had never been in a boudoir at this time of night," I retort savagely.
I begin to pull out the drawers of the bureau, breaking locks in the most reckless way, and tossing the contents of these dainty receptacles about in the most utter confusion. Vandeleur, with his eyeglass adjusted, is poking into everything in the closet as if he were looking for a mouse, only pausing now and then to glare around with an apprehensive shiver.
"Dear me," I soliloquize, while the contents of those bureau drawers are tossed here and there in the fever of my search. "How everything here reminds me of the past! She has even preserved the menu card of that memorable dinner at Torloni's; and here—here is a lock of brown hair tied with a pink ribbon! I really believe it must be mine!"
"My deah boy," howls Vandeleur, shaking me by the arm vigorously, "will you cut short your soliloquy? Is this a time for poetry, when we might get ten years if we were found burglarizing this house?"
I pay no attention.
"And here is the steel buckle from her shoe that fell off the night we danced together at the French ball. Poor dear Bella! that was not the only dance we led where folly played the fiddle!"—with a thrill of reminiscence.
"If you don't find those letters in just two minutes," interrupts the dreadful Vandeleur, "I shall post for home."
"In one second, my boy—one second."
Now I examine the bureau carefully for a concealed drawer. I seem to have ransacked every corner of that precious article in vain. Visions of Bella's vengeance flash before my eyes. I can see the demoniac smile on her face as she gloats over my downfall. The white wraith conjured up by the thought of those fateful letters fills me with a mad fury, and I long to dash that hateful bureau into a thousand pieces and flee the house.
But the demolition could not be executed noiselessly, and the situation is perilous enough already for a man of my delicately organized constitution, with a heart that runs down with a rumble like a Waterbury movement; so I think I won't break the bureau.
I renew my mad search for the missing drawer, that seems to be of a most retiring disposition, as drawers go. I bethink me of stories of missing treasure: how the hero counted off twenty paces across the floor, and then dropped his dagger so that its blade would be imbedded in the wood, and then dug through several tons of masonry, until he found a casket, sometimes of steel, sometimes of iron, and sometimes of both.
And then he did a lot more mathematical calculating, and pressed a knob, and there you are! Ah! a thought—I had forgotten to apply myself to the moulding of the bureau, as a hero of the middle ages would have done under the circumstances.
I begin from side to side, up, down, and around. Ha! ha! at last! A little drawer shoots out almost in my face, startling me like a jack-in-the-box.
A faint perfume of crushed violets salutes my nostrils. The letters—they are there in the bottom of the drawer! I know them too well by the shape of the square large envelopes. They cost me many a dollar to send through the stage-door by the gouty Cerberus at the gate when Bella trod the boards.
I reach out my hand to seize them, when an awful scream causes me to stagger back in dismay.
Bella Bracebridge, in a jaunty travelling dress, stands in the doorway in the attitude of a tragic queen—her eyes flashing, her bosom heaving, just as she looked the day she asked for a raise in salary and didn't get it.
She steps towards me: I retreat, transfixed by her defiant attitude. She fear a common burglar? Never!
I know she intends to seize me and scream for help, and I amafraid, too, that she may recognize my face. So I step back—back, edging towards the window.
She reaches out her hand to seize me, then totters and falls in a dead faint.
I look around for Vandeleur. He has lost all presence of mind; is staring at the figure on the floor, with wild, dilated eyes, and an expression of hopeless idiocy on his face. I can hear people moving below stairs. Her scream must have aroused the house. "Vandeleur," shaking him by the arm, "we must run for it. Do you understand? Ten years! Hard labor!"—the last words hissed excitedly in his ear.
"What? where? who?" he mumbles, with a face as expressive as that of codfish.
I rush to the balcony to see if we can make the jump below. It is dark, but the leap must be made. Better a broken leg than a ball and chain on a healthy limb for years and years.
I drag Vandeleur in a helpless condition out on the balcony, boost him up on the railing, and push him off. Then I leap after him.
Fortunate fate! We fall into a clump of blackberry bushes, and not a moment too soon. Lights flash out from above. I hear the hum of excited voices, Bella's calm and distinct above the rest, as she gives the ominous order, "Let those bloodhounds loose!"
Ugh! We scramble out of the bushes in the most undignified haste, leaving most of our outward resemblance to human beings on the thorny twigs. Then helter-skelter over the fields and hedges, stumbling, staggering, and traversing what I suppose to be miles of country.
Vandeleur is snorting like a steam calliope in bad repair, and I am breathing with the jerky movement of an overworked accordion. "I can go no farther," he exclaims, dropping down in a huddled heap at the foot of a scrubby pine-tree like a bag of old clothes.
I don't feel much in a hurry either, but I try to infuse some life into him by hustling him and shaking him in a brutal and unsympathetic manner.
"Do you hear that?" I howl in despair as the baying of the bloodhounds rolls towards us over the meadow like muttered thunder. "There is nothing to do but climb this tree, unless you want to furnish a free lunch for those brutes."
"Free lunch? get me some," he mumbles, relapsing into his oldidiotic state again. Then I fall upon that unfortunate man in a fury of rage, and pound him into a consciousness of his danger.
He consents at last to be pushed or rather dragged up in a tree, whose lowest limb I straddle with a feeling of wild joy and ecstasy just as the hounds rush past below, their flashing eyes looking to me just then as large as the headlights of a host of engines.
"Let's go home now," again murmurs the helpless creature at my side, shaking so on the limb that I am compelled to strap him there by his suspenders.
"Ain't we going home?" he chatters. "I want a good supper, and then a bed—bed," lingering on the last word with soothing emphasis.
"Oh, you'd like a nice supper, would you?" I growl. "Well, those bloodhounds are after the same thing. Perhaps you had better slide down the tree and interview them on the chances. Then one or the other of you would be satisfied."
"But they've gone away."
"Well, you needn't think you have been forgotten, just the same. Don't you see, wretched man, that the morning is breaking," pointing to the east, where the sun had begun "paintin' 'er red." "Once in the high road we should be discovered at once; here at least we are safe—uncomfortably safe," as I moved across the limb and impaled myself on a long two-inch splinter with spurs on it.
He fell into a doze after that, only rousing himself now and then to utter strange croaking sounds that frightened me almost as much as the baying of the bloodhounds. I think I fell asleep too for a few moments, for when I was roused by an awful yell proceeding from my companion I found that he had burst his bonds and fallen out of the tree, while the bright sun was shining in my eyes.
Visions of Ethel's face over our charming breakfast-table rose before me, and I seemed to scent afar off the steam of fragrant mocha in a dainty Sèvres cup as she held it towards me. The thought of that morning libation settled the business.
I would march stalwartly home—yea, though a thousand bloodhounds with dangerous appetites barred my way!
I slid down the tree and found Vandeleur still asleep. I don't believe that even the fall had waked the poor fellow up.
I had only to whisper the word "Breakfast" in his ears to have him start as if he had received a galvanic shock.
"Where?" he asked, with tears in his eyes.
"Home."
We crawled along through the bushes in the wildest haste our poor disjointed and almost dismembered bodies would carry us; like a pair of mud-turtles who had seen better days did we take to all-fours.
Fortunately, my place was not far away, and we had just strength enough to crawl up on the porch and fall against the door heavily.
"Breakfast," I gasped, as Ethel's lovely face appeared suddenly at my side like a benignant angel's.
"What—what can I get you?" murmured the dear girl, in an agony of mind, hurrying here and there, her eyes suffused with tears.
"Bloodhounds!" murmured Vandeleur, relapsing into idiocy.
If you have ever had the fortune to be married to a Vassar graduate of the gushing and kittenish order, between nineteen and twenty, you will understand how difficult it was to explain my dilapidated appearance that memorable morning.
The ingenuity of my fabrications would have stocked a popular romance writer with all the modern conveniences; and I am sure the recording angel must have had difficulty in keeping pace with my transgressions unless he or she understood short-hand.
Vandeleur took an early opportunity to escape to the city, knowing very well that he would be held accountable for my degraded and dilapidated condition. The friends of a married man always are held responsible by his wife for any of his moral lapses, no matter when or where they may occur.
If I had only succeeded in my undertaking I might have viewed even my wounds—of which there were many—with some equanimity. But to have suffered in vain was enough to try the strongest soul; and I am afraid I was unnecessarily brusque to Ethel when she insisted on soaking me hourly in the most horrible liniments of her mother's decoction. I was pickled for about a week by her fair hands, and had become so impregnated with camphor and aromatic compounds that I exhaled spices like an Eastern mummy or a shopworn sachet-bag, and longed to get away from myself and the drugstore smell that clung to me closer than I ever want my brother to cling. I consented to the embalming process, because I wanted to look respectable when Ethel's mother, Mrs. McGoozle, put in an appearance. I knew I could not so easily satisfy her mind regarding that night of folly without the sworn affidavits of half-a-dozenreputable citizens. She said I wrote so much fiction that it had become a habit with me never to tell the truth.
My eyes had just begun to lay aside mourning when I received at the dinner-table one stormy night the local paper. I took it for my wife, who had a penchant for reading the patent-medicine advertisements; but on the present occasion I displayed an unholy eagerness to get at its contents. More misery! More horrible complications!
Almost the entire sheet was given up to a description of the burglary. There was a picture of Bella's house and of Bella herself; of the cook, of the coachman—yes, and even of the bloodhounds.
I had puzzled my brain since that night in trying to imagine why the hounds had sped past our tree, our noble tree, instead of gathering in convention at its base and talking the matter over among themselves while we starved to death upstairs. The paper gave the solution of the problem. They were pursuing the trail that led to our milkman's farm—the poor creature of whom I had basely borrowed our suits and overshoes.
The worthy man had been arrested and haled before the nearest justice of the peace, and had he not been able to prove analibito the effect that he was watering his cows at the time, he would have been summarily dealt with.
But he had held his peace about my share in the transaction—bless him! and being a thrifty man, had brought a suit against Bella for threatening his life with her dogs.
Yet I had no cause for congratulation, for now I was in the milkman's power as well as Bella's; and the very next day the honest fellow put in an appearance, very humble and yet very decided, and insisted that I should present him with Ethel's prize Frisian cow as a premium on his silence.
And I had to consent, though my wife had hysterics in parting with the animal, and sobbed out her determination to tell Mrs. McGoozle everything when that lady arrived in a few days.
This may not sound very terrible to you, but I knew the dreadful import of her words.
There was a flash of light through the gloom of my suicidal thoughts the next morning that made my heart beat high with hope.
I read in the morning paper that Bella, the cause of all mytrouble, was dead, and that there was to be a sale of her effects at a New York auction-room the next day.
Of course that dreadful bureau was in the lot, and I knew that if it fell into unscrupulous hands there was enough material in that little drawer to stock a blackmailing establishment for years and years.
I took the first train for the city on the day of the sale. The bureau—Bella's bureau—was just being put up as I entered the place.
I had a thousand dollars in my pocket, so I felt rather contented in mind. The bidding on the bureau began in a discouraging way. The hunger of the crowd had been appeased before I came, and they displayed a lukewarm interest in the bureau. I bid two hundred dollars finally to settle the argument. I was tired of the delay. I wanted to settle forever the incubus that preyed upon my spirits. "Two hundred," I cried exultantly.
"Three hundred dollars," came in quiet tones from the corner of the room. The words seem to ripple in an icy stream down the back of my neck. Could it have been the echo of my voice that I heard?
"Four hundred," I cried uneasily. The terrible thought flashed over me, that perhaps another lover had turned up, who believed that his letters were in the bureau, and was just as anxious to get it as I. Horrible!
"Four hundred is bid for this beautiful Louis Fourteenth bureau," howled the auctioneer, repeating my bid. "Why, gents, this is a shame: it's—"
"Five hundred," said the voice from the corner, in calm, cold tones.
Ah, if I could slip through the crowd and throttle his utterance forever.
"Six hundred," I screamed, in desperation.
Then my unseen foe woke up and we began to bid in earnest. Six, seven, eight hundred, ran the bids.
In one of the lulls of the storm, when the auctioneer began to wax loquacious regarding the beauties of that bureau, I slipped secretly around to the cashier's desk.
Would he take a check? I implored. No, he would not; and I thought he wore a triumphant glitter in his fishy eyes. The terms of the sale were cash: it was to conclude that day. I turned away, sick at heart.
"A thousand!" I cried, in desperation, staking my last dollar. There was a moment's ominous silence. I began to feel encouraged. I watched the fateful gavel poised in the air, with my heart in my teeth. It wavered a moment, then began to slowly descend. Never had I seen such a graceful gesture defined by man as the freckled fist of the auctioneer described at that moment of hope.
"Twelve hundred," croaked the demon in the corner.
The crowd blended into a pulp of color. I fainted.
I lingered about the city all that night, searching in vain for a lethean draught at the haunts where consolation is retailed at two hundred per cent profit. I did not find the nepenthe I sought for anywhere on draught, so I went home in disgust.
Ethel received me in her usually effusive manner. She knows I object to being hugged at all hours of the day, yet I have never been able to cure her of that affection-garroting process so much in vogue with young wives of the gushing order.
"What do you think?" she chirped, when I had staggered to a chair in a half-strangled condition. "Dear mother has just sent us the most beautiful present—"
"Oh, I suppose so," I sneer savagely. "She generally does present us with something beautifully useless. Perhaps this time it's a dancing-bear, or a tame codfish"—with a wild laugh.
"Oh, how can you talk so!" lifting a dab of cambric to her nose with a preliminary sniff that is generally the signal of tears, according to our matrimonial barometer. "You know dear mother is so fond of you."
"Well, it's a case of misplaced affection," I growl, lounging out of the room just in time to avoid the rising storm.
I dash upstairs and smoke a cigar in my own room. Then I feel better, and stroll into Ethel's boudoir, resolved to pitch her mother's present in the fire if it doesn't suit me. She ought to be suppressed in this particular. "Wha—what! No—yes, it is!" The bureau, Bella's bureau, stands in the chaste confines of Ethel's satin-lined nest. I fling myself upon it, tear the little drawer open—hurl the bundle of letters into the grate with a cackling laugh.
Ethel enters timidly just then, and looks first at me and then at the burning papers with doubt and wonderment in her blue eyes.
"I have been paying some old debts," I say, with an uneasy laugh. "These are some of the I.O.U.'s you see burning."
She lays a soft little arm around my neck and a curly head on my immaculate shirt-front. Oh, spotless mask for such a darksomeheart! I wonder she cannot catch the sound of its wicked beating.
"I have been worried about you lately, dear," she whispers, with a tender tremor in her voice. "I thought perhaps you might—you might—have become entangled with some other—other—" Then she burst into tears.
"How often must I tell you, darling," patting her cheek softly, "that you are the only woman I ever loved?"
"Oh, Jack!"
Ernest De Lancey Pierson.