"For three years I bought my son's good behavior with unlimited pocket money, and foolishly thought that his nature had changed. Occasionally he would do malicious acts to his tutors, or to my housekeeper or servants; but these occurred less frequently as time rolled on, and at last ceased. At fifteen years of age, he was sufficiently advanced in learning to pass a college examination, and I determined to send him to college. He was delighted at the proposal, for he had begun now to appreciate the advantages of education. Anticipating that he would have trouble with the Faculty, I selected a college which was distinguished for its means of learning, and was jet very lenient in its discipline. Myndert easily obtained admission, and at once took high rank in his class. Knowledge came so easy to him, that he had plenty of leisure, and I feared that his old vicious habits would break out again. Greatly did I rejoice not to hear a single complaint of him during his first term. But, alas! I found, when he returned home, that he had learned to drink and gamble, and that the large sums of money I had sent him had been squandered in carousals, and over the card table. Still he maintained the first position in his class, and of that I was proud.
"I remonstrated against his vices. He admitted that there was some truth in what I had heard, mixed up with a great deal of exaggeration; and justified his conduct by saying that it was the fashion, and he could not keep out of it if he would. His good health and naturally high spirits did not appear to be in the least affected by dissipation, and I gladly allowed myself to believe that many of the reports about him were false.
"The next term was still more expensive; and I found out that the larger portion of my heavy outlay went for liquor and gambling. Still he kept a high grade in his class--taking the second rank instead of the first; and the Faculty either were ignorant of his misconduct, or did not think it worth punishing. Through his first, second, and third years at college, these were his only vices. His constitution, though strong, was gradually undermined; and, at the end of his junior year, he showed unmistakable signs of bloating, became very irregular in his attendance on recitations, and had sunk to be the fifteenth in his class. I had hopes that he would pass through his fourth year safely, and get a diploma. But, at the very beginning of that year, he kept drunk, and absented himself from recitations for a fortnight, and, when called before the Faculty for a mild reprimand, cursed them with the most horrible oaths, defied them, and left their presence. They had no choice but to expel him from the college; and, a week after, he was brought home to me nearly dead with intoxication.
"A month's illness followed, which brought him almost to the grave. Though, at the time, I prayed with all a father's love for his recovery, I have since thought--- oh, how often!--that it would have been far better for him to have died. But he was spared; and, having been thoroughly frightened by his narrow escape from the effects of drunkenness, he vowed, on his recovery, that he would never touch another drop of liquor. This pledge he kept for some months after his health was fully restored.
"Having decided to educate him for the law--the only profession that he did not hold in contempt--I procured a place for him in the office of Mulroy, Biggup & Lartimore, an excellent firm with whom I had had some dealings.
"Myndert entered upon his study of the profession with such ardor, that I was obliged to caution him against ruining his health. But he only laughed, and said he wanted to make up for past follies. I had never before seen him in a penitent mood, and I was delighted. Mr. Mulroy, who has had a hundred pupils in his time, told me that he never had a more promising one than Myndert. He was a regular and constant attendant at the office, and spent all his evenings at home. The natural strength of his constitution came to his aid, as if to encourage him in his efforts to reform; and, notwithstanding his severe studies, he began to look in better health than he had ever been. Thus things went on six whole weeks, and I was happy, and busied myself in framing plans for my son's advancement in life.
"He told me, one day, that he had joined a club of young law students, who met every evening and discussed legal points, held mock courts, and thus sought to familiarize themselves with the duties of their profession; and asked me if I approved of it. He sought my approval so rarely for anything, that I freely gave it, cautioning him again, however, to be careful of his health. He laughed at my apprehensions. But I was pained to see how soon my fears proved true. Within a fortnight, the rosy color of his cheeks had disappeared, and his eyes were palpably sunken, dull, and marked with a sickly blue beneath. He never returned home till midnight, and sometimes was out till three o'clock in the morning. I scolded him for devoting so much time to his law club; but he said that the members were, like himself, enthusiastic students, and that he was always the first to leave their fascinating debates and mimic trials. A week later, I marked the familiar bloat in his cheeks, and suspected the truth.
"Placing a watch upon his movements--no easy matter, for he is very shrewd and cautious--I soon found out that the law club was a myth, and that his nights were passed in the wildest debauchery. He had not only resumed all his old vices, but had acquired new ones.
"When I reproved him, as I did with just indignation, he threw off the mask of concealment, which he said he was tired of wearing, and became the same bold, defiant, reckless boy that he always was; while I continued to be the same weak, foolish, fond parent. I cannot recount the tortures inflicted upon me by my son since that fatal discovery. He has not only abandoned all his law studies (having been expelled from the office of Mulroy, Biggup & Lartimore for grossly insulting a young female client), and utterly ruined his own body and soul, but, by his acts, he has brought shame upon several families.
"When this new series of outrages came to my knowledge, I threatened to disinherit him. He laughed at me. He knew how I loved him for his mother's sake, and, with that hold upon my affections, he defied me.
"To heartless indifference he gradually added insults, and often cursed me, his own father, in this very room, where his mother has rocked his cradle a thousand times while she listened to my reading of an old poem or novel. The last of his crimes of which I have heard, was brought to my knowledge about six weeks ago. It was a piece of treachery the most villanous, and I told my son, in plain words, what I thought of it. I was weak and nervous from an illness which is hereditary in my family, and I reprimanded him with more severity than usual. I told him, that if God, in His infinite mercy, spared him, yet he was not secure from just punishment from the friends of those whom he had wronged, and that the human vengeance, which had been so long postponed, would surely come. He looked at me with malice in his small gray eyes (not his mother's eyes), and, when I ceased speaking, raised both hands to heaven, and, with the most horrible blasphemy, called down its curses upon me; and then he swore, that if I crossed his path, or thwarted his plans, or refused him money, he would kill me.
"Just before he uttered this monstrous threat, I sprang from my chair with horror, and caught him imploringly by both hands. I would have saved him from that dreadful act, but I was too late. I saw him wrench away his right hand, and raise it to strike me back.... I knew no more, until Mrs. Frump, my niece, who has had charge of my household during the past three years, entered the room, and found me stretched insensible on the floor."
"I saw a part of the sad scene," said Marcus Wilkeson, who had listened with mingled indignation and compassion to this strange tale. "Your son was standing by that window, and you were sitting near him, also within sight of me. I distinctly saw you catch your son's hands with your own; he wrenched the right one away, and raised it; then you fell, but he did not strike you, or attempt to. As you dropped to the floor, he glanced anxiously through the window, saw me watching him, and then pulled down the curtain."
"Then he did not strike me to the floor! I never believed he did, for there was no bruise or other mark upon my head. Thank God, my son was spared the commission of that crime! Bad as he is, he would not strike his own father." And the poor old gentleman's heart found meagre comfort, for a moment, in that thought.
"A few words more, and I am done. The shock brought my disease to a crisis. For over a month my recovery was doubtful. But my naturally tough constitution, skilful medical attendance, and the unceasing care of Mrs. Frump, brought me safely out of it. The devotion of that good, light-hearted woman was truly affecting. She never left my bedside, night or day, except for a few hours' rest; and even to-day, when, as you see, I am well enough to sit up and talk, and, in fact, am perfectly restored to health, it was only by almost pushing her into the street that I could get her to go out for a day's shopping--a luxury which the good soul had denied to herself during all my illness."
("I must tell Maltboy about this excellent woman," thought Marcus,)
"My son did not come near my sickbed, and I have not seen him since that unhappy day. He has visited the house daily, and shut himself in his room for several hours. How he occupies his time, I cannot imagine, but am sure that it is only in studying or practising evil."
"Possibly I may throw some light on that mystery," said Marcus. "I have seen him, from my convenient window, enter his room, day after day, generally in the afternoon, sit down at his table, and write for over an hour steadily."
"That is strange!" exclaimed the old gentleman. "He has given up the study of law. He has no taste for literary labor. He writes a beautiful hand, and would not waste time in trying to improve his penmanship. It is singular, indeed."
"His work, whatever it is, does not seem to satisfy him; for I have observed that he no sooner fills a page with writing, than he burns it to ashes by the gas jet, which he always keeps faintly lighted above his head."
"Some more villany, I am sure," said the old gentleman, with a deep sigh. "We shall find it out by its terrible consequences, in due time. He has plenty of leisure to cultivate his vices, but not a moment to seek my forgiveness (which, God knows, I would freely grant, if he would only ask it). He cannot even throw away a word upon Mrs. Frump, to find out whether his own father is dead or alive."
The last thought gave acute pain to the wretched parent. Tears again sprang to his eyes, and Marcus feared that he was about to witness that saddest sight in nature--an old man weeping.
But, by an effort, Mr. Van Quintem stifled his emotion, and, turning suddenly upon his visitor, cried, in a voice of despair:
"Tell me, sir, in Heaven's name, whatshall Ido with my son?"
From boyhood, it had been Marcus Wilkeson's fortune (or the reverse) to attract confidence, and to be sought out for advice. And it had most generally happened that he was requested to bestow the last valuable article in cases where inexperience absolutely disqualified him from giving it.
He had found, however, that, when people ask for advice, they expect to receive it, although they reserve to themselves the right, and, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, exercise the privilege, of rejecting it.
But Marcus had gathered, from the old gentleman's story, that the error of his dealings with the rebellious son lay in his constantly seeking advice from everybody, and taking it, too, instead of adopting some firm, consistent, and independent course of his own toward that unfilial monster. Furthermore, Marcus knew that the son was already beyond the reach of reform. For the future peace of his venerable friend, and for the good of society, he could have conscientiously recommended two things:
First, the immediate hanging of Myndert Van Quintem, jr. Second, his imprisonment for life in a penitentiary warranted to be strong enough to hold him.
Neither of these courses being practicable until that young man had entitled himself to the benefit of one or the other of them in the legitimate way, Marcus Wilkeson had nothing to offer, and so he told the old gentleman.
Mr. Van Quintem was disappointed. He looked up wistfully, and said:
"Can't you suggest something?"
Thus appealed to, Marcus angled in the deep waters of his mind, and fished up this inadequate idea:
"Let him travel a couple of years in Europe."
"I have proposed it," returned the old gentleman, "but he won't, unless I give him five thousand dollars, and an unlimited letter of credit. This I refused. Besides, to tell the truth, I do not wish to exile the boy, but to reform him at home."
Marcus was too polite to say bluntly that that was impossible; so he cast in his line again at random, and drew out this worthless suggestion:
"Stop all his pocket money, and tell him plainly that you will disinherit him unless he reforms."
"My dear sir," replied the old gentleman, "that might do with some sons, but not with mine. He would obtain money by theft, or even a worse crime, and bring disgrace upon my gray hairs. He might go even farther--for he has threatened it, as I told you--and murder me in revenge. Besides, he is on short allowance now. I give him only thirty dollars a week--less than a quarter of what he used to receive from me. Much as his conduct deserves punishment, I could not reduce him to beggary, you know."
This useless discussion was cut short by the precipitate entrance of the subject of it. Mr. Van Quintem was greatly surprised at the sudden apparition, and his face exhibited signs first of astonishment, then of indignation, then of pleasure, in quick succession. But before his erring son Had advanced halfway toward the father's chair, the father turned his head slightly away, as if not daring to trust himself to an interview.
The son took one sharp survey of Marcus, and then slipped his right hand insinuatingly in that of his father, which hung over an arm of the easy chair. Mr. Van Quintem turned his face farther away, but Marcus observed that his fingers closed upon the hand which lay within them.
"Are you quite well, my dear father?" asked the son, in a low, hollow voice, not meant to be overheard by the visitor.
"I am, thanks to God, and the doctor, and my niece," said the father, stealing a side look at his son.
"And no thanks to me, I know that. I feared, my dear father, after what had occurred, that you could not bear the sight of me. Therefore I kept away from your bedside."
"That is a lame excuse, Myndert," replied the father. He spoke in a voice intended to be audible to Marcus Wilkeson.
A gleam in the son's sunken eyes, and a new pallor on his bloated cheeks, indicated his displeasure at the turn which this conversation was taking. He withdrew his hand, and said, in a deep whisper:
"I did not think you would quarrel with me, when I called to congratulate you on your recovery."
Mr. Van Quintem wavered a moment. Then, looking at the calm face of Marcus Wilkeson, as if to gather strength from it, he replied:
"My son, such language is not respectful to your father. You know, as God knows, that I have been too indulgent with you."
The son coolly twirled the ends of his mustache--which protruded from each side of his mouth like the antennae of a catfish--and gazed impudently in his father's face. Then he turned about, and bestowed another scornful, analyzing look on the tranquil Marcus.
"That is a friend of mine, Myndert, and I have no secrets from him. Mr. Wilkeson--my son."
Marcus politely rose, and offered his hand to the young man, who accepted it reluctantly.
"I have seen you before, I believe," said he. "Across the way, eh?"
"I dare say," was the reply. "I sometimes sit at the window, reading."
Myndert then abruptly faced his fatherland Marcus resumed his chair.
"Since you have no secrets from this gentleman," said the son, "allow me to ask if you could conveniently spare five hundred dollars this morning?"
The old gentleman hesitated; then reassured himself by an observation of Marcus Wilkeson's face, and said:
"No, my son; I can no longer encourage this extravagance. Where is your last monthly allowance?"
"Gone, of course," answered the son, in a loud and insolent tone. "Do you expect to keep me on miserable driblets like that?"
"Thirty dollars a week, and board and lodging, are enough for any reasonable young man, Myndert. I cannot give you more."
The son glared on his father and Marcus Wilkeson (holding the latter chiefly responsible for the refusal) with amazement.
"Since you are obstinate, then, make it three hundred." The son had often been able to obtain half or two thirds of what he originally asked, as a compromise.
Again the old gentleman wavered; and it was not until he had looked Marcus Wilkeson straight in the eye, that he answered, striking the arm of the chair with his thin white hand:
"Not one cent!"
The tumid cheeks assumed a sicklier white, and the small, offensive eyes sparkled with a fiercer fury, as the son replied:
"Very well, sir. Be as stingy as you please. Take the advice of your new friend here, and cut off my beggarly monthly allowance, too. But remember, I must have money, and I will have it!"
Had Marcus Wilkeson not been present, the father might have been brought to terms by this vague but dreadful threat. But now he shook his head, as an intimation that nothing could move him.
"You have taken your own course, sir," continued the son, through his closed teeth. "I shall take mine. Don't forget my last words. As for you, sir," turning to Marcus Wilkeson, "we shall probably meet again."
Marcus urbanely responded that nothing could give him greater pleasure. The son, darting a last malignant look at his father, whose face was happily averted, strode out of the room, slamming the door, and afterward the street door, with increased emphasis.
When he had gone, the father said to his visitor, feebly:
"Have I done right?"
"Precisely. Your conduct was firm, prudent, and will have a good effect."
"I hope so--I hope so. But don't you think, now, I was a little too severe--to begin with, I mean? I fear that my son will be driven to crime; and that would kill me."
"I regard his threats as only empty words," replied Marcus. He has found them useful heretofore, and he tries them now. Having learned that they do not longer frighten you, he will never employ them again. That is one point gained. If he is really bad enough to commit a crime for money, your misjudged kindness will not prevent him, but will rather encourage his evil disposition."
"There is truth in what you say," replied the old gentleman, faintly; "but I--I--fear."
The protracted conversation, and the suppressed agony of the past few minutes, were too much for the old gentleman to bear on his first day of convalescence. He suddenly turned very pale, and his head drooped. Marcus threw open a window, and held the cordial to his lips. As Marcus was applying this restorative, without any perceptible benefit, the door opened, and Mrs. Frump ran in, red in the face, and quite out of breath.
"Excuse me, sir. I am Mrs. Frump, Mr. Van Quintem's niece."
"I am Mr. Wilkeson, a friend of Mr. Van Quintem," said Marcus, hastily introducing himself; "and I am glad you are come."
"Yes, I see. Fainted away. Revive in a moment. Fresh air. Cordial, Quite right. Now a little water on his forehead."
Mrs. Frump made her sentences short, to accommodate her breath.
As she passed a cool sponge across the patient's brow, she said:
"I knew it would be so. He has been here. I saw him round the corner. Looking pale and mad."
"You are right, madam. Hehasbeen here."
Mrs. Frump's pleasant little eyes shone with unnatural anger, and there was a presage of wrathful words in her quivering lips. Mrs. Frump was desperately trying to keep back certain private opinions that she had long entertained, but proved unequal to the effort. She burst out with:
"He's an undutiful son, sir. A monster, sir. And he's killing his poor father. He's--"
"Ah! what?" said Mr. Van Quintem, opening his eyes, and looking wildly around, like one who wakes from a horrible dream.
"It's I. Your niece--Gusty," replied Mrs. Frump, changing her assumed harsh tones into her natural soft ones "And I think you had better go to bed. Please take hold, Mr. Wilkeson, and assist him to the next room." She added, in a whisper, "Don't talk with him any more to-day."
Mr. Wilkeson nodded, raised his eyebrows to signify that he appreciated the advice, and proceeded at once to aid Mrs. Frump in her benevolent task. The old gentleman had considerably revived by this time.
"You are right, my dear Gusty," said he, looking fondly at his niece. "You are always right. And you are right, too, sir," he added, turning to Marcus. "Ah, if I had known such a good adviser years ago."
Marcus, remembering Mrs. Frump's injunction, made no answer to this remark.
When the old gentleman had been led tottering into the adjacent parlor, which was fitted up as his bedroom, and placed comfortably on a high prop of pillows, Marcus drew out his watch, made an amiable pretence of very important business down town, and bade his venerable friend "good-by."
"I had hoped you could stay longer; for I feel that you are a true friend, and I can confide my sorrows to you," murmured the old gentleman, taking his guest fondly by the hand.
But Marcus, fortified by another significant look from Mrs. Frump, declared that business was imperative, and he must go. He would call to-morrow, without fail, and hoped to find his friend as cheerful as a cricket. The old gentleman smiled at the absurdity of that hope, and said he should depend on seeing him to-morrow.
So, shaking hands warmly with Mr. Van Quintem, and bowing most respectfully to Mrs. Frump, Marcus took his departure, and meditated, as he walked slowly home, on the strange occurrences of the day.
One evening, shortly after the events narrated in the last chapter, the three bachelors, having finished dinner, and escaped from the grim presence of Miss Philomela Wilkeson, took their accustomed seats and pipes in the little back parlor. The curtains were drawn, the gas was lighted, the fire burning brightly, and, upon these outward tokens of cheer, the three bachelors reflected contentment and happiness from their six eyes. In his own opinion, each of the three had unlimited cause to be happy; and not even that killjoy of the household, Miss Wilkeson, could mar the completeness of their felicity--when she was not present.
Fayette Overtop was blessed with the thought, that in Mrs. Slapman he had found, at last, that rare bird for which he had patiently hunted through the valleys and uplands of society--"a sensible woman." The intellectual sympathy which was enkindled between them on the memorable occasion of their first meeting, had grown warmer at each successive interview--first at a supper party, second at aconversazione, and third at a private theatrical and musical entertainment, to all of which Mr. Overtop had been invited, with the particular compliments of the liberal hostess.
During this pleasant acquaintance, Mr. Overtop had made the extraordinary discovery that Mrs. Slapman was married, and that the thin little man whom he saw dodging up the stairs on New Year's day was her husband.
It would be difficult to explain, on behalf of Mr. Overtop, a phenomenon which Mr. Overtop was never able to explain to the satisfaction of the gossip-loving public, or of his best friends. We therefore content ourselves with merely stating the fact, that Mr. Overtop's admiration for Mrs. Slapman was purely intellectual; that he was fascinated by her vivacious intellect, and not by her substantial person; by the charm of her manners, and not of her face. He looked upon Mrs. Slapman as a masculine mind and soul, of uncommon depth, made powerfully magnetic by its enshrinement in a feminine form. Overtop once told Matthew Maltboy, that he knew, in his own experience, the meaning of Platonic love. But Matthew, who was a sad materialist even in his sentimental moods, laughed at him, and winked. Overtop positively felt hurt at this unkind reception of his confidences, and never again alluded to the state of his feelings toward Mrs. Slapman, until subsequent occurrences made it necessary in self-defence.
With Mr. Slapman he was not personally acquainted; but he had ascertained privately, from a musical frequenter of the house, who invariably brought his flute with him, and who was understood to be the oldest friend of the family, that Mr. Slapman owned a large property in wild land in Pennsylvania, not a hundred miles from New York; that he was improving it, and selling it out in building lots, and had already cleared a handsome fortune; that he was a strict business man, and looked after his affairs in person, passing between New York and Slapmansville (the name of the new settlement) twice a week, and spending the larger part of his time at the latter place. Also that, next to avarice, which was his crowning trait, his chief fault was jealousy. It galled him to think that his wife had obtained a settlement in bank from him before marriage, which enabled her to indulge her tastes for society; and it enraged him still more to observe how much she was loved and admired by others, when he had purchased her exclusively for his private love and admiration. He it was who was to be sometimes seen stalking through the parlors with a pale face, or running up and down the front staircase in a state of great nervous agitation. None of Mrs. Slapman's visitors had the pleasure of his personal acquaintance; and it was considered a point of good breeding not to allude to him in her presence.
For this misguided man Fayette Overtop felt a real pity. He yearned to expostulate with him gently, as a friend. Taking Mr. Slapman's hand in his own, he would have said:
"Your wife is a precious gift to the world. Seek not to check the outflow of her ardent nature. Thank Heaven that you are the custodian of such a treasure, not to be selfishly monopolized by yourself, but held in trust for the benefit of society."
Overtop's meditations, on this particular occasion, pertained to the style of the costume which would most become him as the lover of Mrs. Slapman, in an original play to be enacted at her house toward the close of the week. The question was chiefly of knee breeches. Overtop was mentally debating whether he ought not, in justice to his thin legs, to substitute an ampler style of integuments.
Matthew Maltboy had also been invited to thissoirée dramatique(as Mrs. Slapman's large pasteboards expressed it). A fat man was a necessity of the play. Mrs. Slapman was not cordial to Matthew, regarding him as an excessively commonplace person, and had invited him to her social gatherings out of courtesy to Overtop; but her artist eye saw in him a fitness for the fat man. Matthew was delighted with the implied compliment to those talents for the stage which every man supposes himself to possess in some degree, and cheerfully undertook the part.
The proprieties of costume did not in the least perplex Mr. Maltboy, as he lay on the sofa digesting his dinner, and puffing out smoke rings by the dozen. His thoughts were mildly fixed on that delightful Miss Whedell. Five times he had been graciously permitted to visit the lady at her house, and to discover a score of new charms at each interview. A large experience in love making assured him that the object of his idolatry was not wholly indifferent to him. The paternal Whedell had hobbies. Matthew had studied them, like a skilful strategist, catered to them, and felt quite sure that he had that revered individual on his side. But, in the midst of these pleasant imaginings, there rose the dark and baleful image of Chiffield!
Marcus Wilkeson was also pondering--pleasantly, if one might judge from the contented smile upon his lips. The subject of his thoughts was one which, for reasons that seemed good to him, he still kept secret from his fellow bachelors. He had freely told them of his singular adventure at the house of the old gentleman opposite; but not a word of the inventor and his daughter, and of the private school at Miss Pillbody's. Not even the minute and sometimes tedious accounts which Overtop and Maltboy gave of their private thoughts and experiences, could induce Marcus to reciprocate their confidence. For the first time in his life he wore a mask before his companions, and prevaricated, and became, on a small scale, a humbug.
The sharp ringing of the doorbell broke in upon the quiet reflections of the three bachelors. Mash, the cook, who was at that moment reading the fifteenth chapter of "The Buttery and the Boudoir: A Tale of Real Life," in her favorite weekly, threw down the paper in a passion, bounded up stairs, and admitted John Wesley Tiffles, or Wesley Tiffles, as he always subscribed himself on promissory notes and other worthless paper. Mr. Tiffles chucked Mash familiarly under the chin (resented with a scornful look by Mash, who had learned from "The Buttery and the Boudoir" to set a proper value on herself), and then walked straight to the parlor, like one who knew he was a welcome guest.
And he was right. For when he opened the door, and disclosed to the three bachelors the well-known laughing eyes, hopeful face, and spare figure of Wesley Tiffles, they hailed him with enthusiasm. He was a walking cure for despondency, although he sometimes charged too high, in the shape of borrowed money, for his professional services. But neither of the three bachelors had yet sustained that pecuniary tax which Wesley Tiffles always levied upon his friends, just before leaving them forever. They formed a part of his reserve corps, which had latterly been sadly thinned out in Mr. Tiffles's desperate contest with the world.
Mr. Tiffles shook hands with Marcus Wilkeson, giving him the grip of some unknown Order, slapped Overtop on the back, and playfully pulled the whiskers of Maltboy. Then he filled a pipe, threw himself into a chair, adjusted his legs in the true form of a compass, and opened his coat ostentatiously. All this in about ten seconds, and with a geniality that defied reproof. He was the very embodiment of cheer.
"Prepare to be astonished," said Mr. Tiffles, after his third whiff. "I have a splendid idea." The three bachelors smiled, and nodded an intimation that they were prepared,
"I have had some impracticable notions in my time; but thisisgood, and you'll say so. You know that dog, Mark, two doors below--the large yellow one, with cropped ears, and a tail like the handle of a shaving brush?"
Mr. Wilkeson replied that he had the pleasure of the animal's acquaintance,
"Well, as I was passing the dog's house on my way here, I slipped in the snow. The dog, always on the alert for victims, took a mean advantage of my situation, and jumped after me through the open gate. I scrambled to my feet, but not before he had fastened his teeth in my right leg----"
"Good heavens! was he mad?" cried Overtop, who had a horror of dogs, and made wide circuits about them in the street.
"Can't say as to that," replied Wesley Tiffles, "but advise you to keep shy of him for the future, I was about to say that he bit me through the leg of my trowsers. And on that very instant, as if by inspiration, I caught--not the hydrophobia, but a magnificent idea. Having got on my pins, I kicked the dog into his front yard, and immediately worked the idea into shape. You'll be sure to like it."
Marcus Wilkeson, speaking for self and friends, said he had no doubt of that. Mr. Tiffles's ideas always possessed the merit of novelty.
"That means that they have no other merit!" returned Tiffles, laughing, "Very true of most of them, I confess all my failures. But here is an idea which even you, skeptic as you are, will grant to be not only novel, but great. You have all observed, gentlemen, the immense differences in dogs. There are white, black, brown, gray, yellow (like our suggestive canine friend two doors below), tan-colored, mouse-colored, striped, and spotted dogs. There are round dogs, square dogs, long dogs, short dogs, tall dogs, and low dogs. There are full-grown dogs that weigh less than a pound, and others that kick the beam at a hundred pounds. There are dogs that are pretty much all tail, and there are dogs that have no tail to speak of. Among all the dogs that you meet in the street, do you ever see two exactly alike?"
Fayette Overtop, who spoke from extensive and minute observation, unhesitatingly said "No."
"True! Nature never repeats herself in dogs. In so doing, Nature works directly for my benefit, as I will show you. Now, in the second place, as you are probably aware, there is an ordinance forbidding unmuzzled dogs to run in the streets during the hot months--"
"An excellent law," interrupted Overtop.
"If caught at large without muzzles, they are taken to the public pound, and, unless redeemed by the owners within twenty-four hours, are drowned in a tub--"
"Serve 'em right," remarked the hydrophobiac bachelor.
"Now, I amslightlyacquainted with some members of the Common Council" (he laid emphasis on the word "slightly," to imply that he was on terms of the closest intimacy with them), "and can easily obtain from them the privilege of catching all the stray dogs, and taking them out of the country next summer."
"Which would be very benevolent to the dogs; and, regarded from their point of view, your idea is a noble one," thoughtfully observed Marcus Wilkeson. "But I don't, at this moment, exactly see how you are benefited by it."
Mr. Tiffles smiled with the consciousness of power, and chidingly said:
"You are dull this morning, Mark--quite dull. Strike, but hear! In a word, then, I propose to exhibit two or three hundred of these dogs, in some country where there arenodogs. I would give them strange names, put them in cages, and call them the 'American Menagerie of Trained Animals.' A person who had never seen dogs, would suppose each one to be a different species from the others--just as the lion, the tiger, and the leopard are different, though all belonging to the one cat family. Now, there is my idea. What do you think of it? Of course, you laugh, at first."
Roars of laughter from the three bachelors had formed the chorus of "Wesley Tiffles's closing sentences. Marcus Wilkeson, as became his age, was the first to recover himself.
"The idea is a splendid one. None better. But there is one slight difficulty in the way. Where are you to find your country that has no dogs? If there were such a happy land on the face of this earth, Overtop would have hunted it up long ago, and moved there."
Overtop laughingly replied, "That's so." He then informed Mr. Tiffles, while admitting the theoretical excellence of his idea, that every nation had its dogs as well as its fleas. Those two friends of man were impartially distributed over the terrestrial globe. Overtop referred to the standard Cyclopaedias, and several works on Natural History, in proof of his assertion.
"Can't be! can't be!" retorted Wesley Tiffles, who was at first disposed to defend his brilliant idea. But brilliant ideas were a common growth of his fertile mind, and, like all things easily produced, he held them cheaply. The moment that evidence, or the test of practice, showed them to be fallacious, he gave them up, and drew upon his brain for others. So, after a second's reflection, he added:
"Perhaps you are right. Dogs are not exactly in my line, after all. But the idea, as an idea, was magnificent."
As Wesley Tiffles spoke, he repeated the act, for the twentieth time, of throwing back his overcoat (a little seedy), and opening his vest, as if to draw attention to his shirt front, whose natural whiteness was toned down by a delicate neutral tint. Immediately afterward, he placed his hand on a small breastpin in the centre of the shirt front, and turned it to the right and left. It sparkled for the first time in the rays of the fire, and revealed to the experienced eyes of the three bachelors simultaneously, that Wesley Tiffles was the wearer of a real diamond.
"Excuse me," said Marcus Wilkeson, who divined that Tiffles wished his diamond to be remarked upon, "but that is pretty!"
"Pretty! What?" said Tiffles, looking about the room.
"That diamond."
"Oh! the diamond. Perhaps you would like to look at it?" (hands it round for inspection). "Cost forty dollars. Rather a hard draw on my exchequer" (that was Mr. Tiffles's word for a friend's pocket); "but I considered it a most judicious investment for a young man just going into business."
The novelty of this idea was not lost on Fayette Overtop. "Pray explain, Tiffles," said he.
"Cheerfully," said Tiffles, replacing the gem in his shirt front, after it had been duly handled and admired. "Nobody will acknowledge that he is taken in by a diamond. He will say, 'Anybody can buy a diamond, by saving up thirty or forty dollars; and why should I believe a man to be rich who wears one?' Yet, in his heart of hearts, he does believe it, unless the possessor of the diamond has the bad taste to dress flashily. Then he passes for an impostor, and people will doubt, even against their own senses, the genuineness of the stone. But let him dress plainly, as I do," continued Mr. Tiffles, stroking down the left leg of his black trowsers, shiny with wear, "and that little diamond shall stand, in the eyes of the whole world, as the representative of a fat bank account, a brown stone house, and a couple of corner lots."
Marcus and Matthew laughed, but Fayette Overtop, who absolutely revelled in paradoxes, said, "True, Tiffles, true!"
"Don't think," pursued Tiffles, "that I expected to impose on you with it. You know that I am a poor devil, living on my wits." (Tiffles was delightfully frank with his intimate acquaintances.) "I hold out this glittering bait, not for my friends, but for my old foe and natural enemy, the world. You must know that I am on the eve of a grand speculation--probably the grandest I have ever undertaken."
"Another plan of advertising with large kites by day, and pictorial lanterns attached to their tails at night?" asked Marcus Wilkeson.
"Or another Submarine Pneumatic Parcel-Delivering Tube to Brooklyn?" asked Matthew Maltboy.
"Or an Association for the Cultivation of Mushrooms in Dark Cellars?" asked Fayette Overtop.
"Capital hits!" replied Wesley Tiffles, who took an unfeigned delight in a friendly allusion to his failures. "But allow me to inform you definitely, that those unfortunate speculations are not to be revived. Like the lightning, I don't strike twice in the same place. No; the project upon which I am now engaged is one so eminently practical, so free from all that is visionary, that you will wonder how I thought of it. That project is a PANORAMA OF AFRICA!"
The three bachelors concurred in the opinion that the idea was a good one; but Marcus Wilkeson suggested that the field was too large.
"I thought you would like the general proposition," said Tiffles. "But, bless you, Mark! I don't mean to paint the whole continent, from stem to stern, so to speak; only the undiscovered part of Central Africa--say from Cape Guardafui on the east to the Bight of Benin on the west."
"But how the deuce," asked Matthew Maltboy, "are you, or anybody else, going to paint what has not been discovered?"
Tiffles could hardly suppress a smile at the simplicity of the question. "Why," said he, "that's easy enough. Don't all the geographers tell us that the interior of Africa is made up, so far as known, of alternate deserts and jungles, like the patches on a coverlet? Very well. I conform to this general principle of the continent. I put half of the canvas in desert, and the rest in jungle, and I can't be far out of the way. Take the idea?"
"Perfectly," said Matthew Maltboy; "but if you have nothing but alternate, deserts and jungles, it strikes me your panorama will be a little monotonous. Perhaps I am wrong." (Maltboy always offered suggestions timidly.)
"I have thought of that, and guarded against it. I shall fill the jungles with animated life--elephants, lions, tigers, panthers, leopards, rhinoceroses, hippopotamuses, giraffes, zebras, crocodiles, boa constrictors, and other specimens of natural history indigenous to that delightful region."
"Good!" cried Overtop; "and if you will take a hint from me, you will show your elephants in the act of being caught by natives, or engaged in combats with each other; your lions fighting your tigers or your rhinoceroses; your hippopotamuses engaged in death struggles with your crocodiles; and your boa constrictors gobbling down your natives--or, if that is objectionable on the score of humanity, your monkeys."
"Thank you for the hint; but the expense, and the necessity of completing the panorama at an early day, put it out of the question. To paint accurate representations of these animals engaged in their innocent sports, would occupy the time of a first-class artist for months, and cost an enormous sum."
"Ah, I see," interrupted Overtop, who liked to show that he snatched the meaning; "you will put your animals in recumbent attitudes--sleeping, perhaps, in the depth of jungles, shaded from the fierce rays of the equatorial sun."
"You have guessed it," said Tiffles, with a broad smile. "Most of them will be just there--out of sight. The others will be suggested rather than introduced. Elephants will be signified by their trunks appearing above the tops of the dense undergrowth. Lions, tigers, and other quadrupeds, by the tips of their tails. A boa constrictor will be expressed by a head, a coil, and a bit of tail showing at intervals. The one horn of the rhinoceros will always tell whereheis. I shall have two small lakes (they are scarce in Africa) for my hippopotamuses and crocodiles. If they exhibit only small portions of their heads above the surface, that is not my fault. It is the nature of the beasts, you know."
"Ha! ha! That is what I call Art concealing Art," said Overtop.
"So it is," returned Tiffles; "and it will be appreciated, I doubt not, by those who affect the school of Severe Simplicity in painting."
"One thing more," said Marcus Wilkeson. "Do you intend to take the panorama through the country, and lecture on it?"
"I do. And here let me say, that I read up the law of false pretences long ago. I shall style myself Professor Wesley on the bills. That I have a right to do, as my full name doesn't look well in type. Actors and singers do the same thing every day. I shall call myself a great traveller. This is strictly true. I have been North to Boston, West to Detroit, and South to Baltimore. I shall not say that I have been in Africa, or that the sketches were taken on the spot. If my audience choose to inferthat, that is their business. If any one doubts the accuracy of my panorama, I can say triumphantly, 'Prove it!'"
"Excellent, but a little risky," said Marcus Wilkeson, who could not help admiring the audacity of the plan. "Your next great difficulty will be to satisfy audiences after you have got them together, as I dare say you will, by some brilliant system of advertising. I have heard--perhaps you have--of audiences breaking furniture, smashing chandeliers, and tarring and feathering people."
"All that has been thought of," was the reply. "Before I leave the city, I shall give a private exhibition of the panorama to a few ministers of various denominations, in the lecture room of some up-town church. Ministers, you know, are debarred by their profession from attending the opera and theatres, and will catch at the chance to see a panorama for nothing. In private life, they are capital people, as a class--I have known several of them--and will willingly certify that the panorama is a highly moral, instructive, and interesting exhibition. I think I can rely on my persuasive powers for that much. These certificates I shall print on my posters and handbills. They will draw moral audiences. Moral audiences do not break furniture, &c., &c. Comprehend my line of argument?"
"Perfectly," said Marcus; "and very ingenious,asan argument."
"I thought you would like it. And now, to drop the subject, I want you three fellows to come up to my rooms, No. 121, third floor, Bartholomew Buildings, Broadway--you remember--and see this great work of art, early next week."
"Is it nearly finished?" asked Marcus.
"Yes--in my mind's eye. That is the main thing. The painting has not yet been begun. It will be a very simple matter. The canvas will be about four hundred feet long. One half of it will be a dead level of yellow paint, for desert; and the rest, perpendicular stripes of green paint, for jungle. A good artist, with a whitewash brush and two tubsful of paint, ought to do up the whole panorama in two days. The heads and tails of animated life, the two small lakes, and a few other objects of interest, such as the sun, the moon, birds flying in the air, &c., could be put in afterward by an artist of higher grade. And, by the way, now I think of it, I may as well open with a sunrise off Cape Guardafui, and a distant view of the Straits of Babel Mandel, give a passing glance at the sources of the Nile, which lie in that undiscovered region, a brief glimpse at the Mountains of the Moon, and wind up with a splendid sunset in the Bight of Benin. It--"
Mr. Tiffles's observations were cut short by the sudden entrance of Miss Philomela Wilkeson. She shot rapidly into the room, but, when her eyes rested on Mr. Tiffles, she recoiled with maiden modesty, and stepped back as if to beat a retreat. Then, recovering her self-possession in a small measure, she stepped forward again, and said, in the blandest of tones, with just the least virgin coyness:
"I thought perhaps I had left my scissors here this afternoon."
Messrs. Wilkeson, Overtop, and Maltboy asserted, without rising from their seats, that they had not seen her scissors, and doubted very much whether the scissors were in that room. But Wesley Tiffles, who was the most polite and obliging of mortals when there was a lady in the case, rose respectfully upon her entrance, and insisted upon searching the apartment for the missing tool.
Miss Wilkeson, thus being placed under obligations to Mr. Tiffles, was compelled to take personal cognizance of him, which she did with the nearest approach to a blush that she was ever known to make. "I beg, sir, that you will not trouble yourself. I--I do not think the scissors are here, after all."
"That can be ascertained only by searching, miss," replied Tiffles. Then he glided about the room in his own nimble fashion, looking behind the two vases on the mantelpiece, raking over the littered burden of the table in the corner, and peering and poking into every place where there was the least likelihood of finding a stray pair of scissors; Miss Wilkeson all the while deprecating any further search.
Mr. Tiffles suddenly stopped, like a dragonfly in the midst of his angular dartings, and said: "Since your scissors are not to be found, it is fortunate that I have a pocket pair, which are always at your service." Mr. Tiffles produced the ill-omened article, and handed it to her. This called out a new lot of thanks, regrets for having troubled him, apologies, and a peremptory refusal to take his scissors, immediately followed by their acceptance, and a promise that she would take the best care of them, and return them to the owner on his next visit.
Then was the auspicious moment for Miss Wilkeson to have retired with dignity; but she stood at the door, twirling the fatal scissors in her hand, and waiting either to say something which did not come spontaneously, or to have something said to her.
Marcus Wilkeson saw a subtle motive in this awkward tarrying at the door, and, having no objection to gratifying it, he straightway introduced Mr. Wesley Tiffles to Miss Philomela Wilkeson. Mr. Tiffles put himself into the form of an L, like a professional acrobat; and Miss Wilkeson executed a courtesy in the old, exploded style. Then, as if appalled at what she had done, she backed into the entry as fast as she had come from it.
Mr. Tiffles, upon whom the small events of life made no impression, thought no more of Miss Wilkeson that evening, but smoked three pipes, told two funny stories, sang one comic song, and then went home, having previously exacted from the three bachelors a promise to call at his rooms and see at least one half of the panorama completed, on the following day week.
Since Miss Wilkeson had been an inmate of that house, she had seen Wesley Tiffles perhaps a dozen times, in the entry or on the doorsteps, and had been impressed with his gentlemanlike air, his quick black eyes, and his deferential manner toward her. Everybody is supposed to have a realized ideal somewhere, if he or she could only find it. Such was Wesley Tiffles to Philomela Wilkeson. Let it be confessed at once. The lost scissors were all the time quietly resting at the bottom of Miss Wilkeson's workbag, and she knew it. The prevalent frailty of human nature must be her excuse.
She had-obtained not only an introduction to Wesley Tiffles, but a pair of scissors which must be returned to him, and were therefore a bond of friendship. But Miss Wilkeson forgot the fatality which the proverb attaches to gifts or loans of that particular article of cutlery.