Kitabı oku: «Sea-gift», sayfa 28

CHAPTER XLII.

However pleasant may be the scenes to which we are going, we cannot repress a feeling of sadness as we leave those with which we have been long associated, and which have become, as it were, part of our life.

As the train bearing us from our home moved off from the shed, I went out to the rear platform, and stood looking at each familiar place and object as they passed, with a fond farewell upon my lips, and a desire to stamp all so indelibly upon my memory that in years to come I might remember exactly how everything appeared. As I stood with my face down the track I could not see an object till it passed, and then I gazed at it as it receded, till other objects flashing by claimed my attention. Now the bridge overhead, where I had so often stood to throw bits of coal and wood at the engines passing underneath, its arch and railing almost hidden in the curling volumes of smoke our engine has left behind; now the machine shops, where as a boy I had gathered the spiral iron shavings as great wonders of art, still clinking noisily above the rattle of the train, and blinking their red eyes from every forge; now engine yards, with old rusty boilers cast aside, and broken smoke stacks lying on the ground; here a pond where I have fished, its yellow surface darkened with cinders and wrinkled with the breath of our speed; there the river where I have bathed, hidden by the trees itself, but its course revealed by some naked mast and gliding sails; now we rattle through the coal and lumber yards, almost brushing against great piles of timber heaped along the track, and almost grazing dusty carts, with coal-begrimed drivers in red shirts, and heavy plodding horses with brass-studded harness, nodding their heads at every step, as if to say they were used to the cars and could not be prevailed upon to shy; now flash by streets that open, for a second, elm-bordered vistas ‘way up into the city, and close them as they whirl past; now we overtake and pass some one who knows me, walking along a very narrow sidewalk, and who bows and says something I cannot understand, and which I can only reply to by a great many shakes of the head; now we rattle by a little house with a dingy porch, and a goat with two kids browsing in front, where a schoolmate of mine used to live and invite me, and mother would not let me go; and now we roar out through the suburbs, where greasy looking men are smoking short pipes in rickety doorways, and red-armed women, with tumbled-down hair, are ever carrying water in painted buckets to the crazy shanties, and never seeming to use it, and where flocks of dirty children run out to wave and scream at the train; on till the last tenement is passed, and in the hazy distance I can only recognize the steeples of the different churches. Even these at last fade into the sky, and still, in my reverie, I stand there watching the black rails gliding like two long serpents from under the train, and the cross-ties ever flitting like steps to an interminable ladder down the track.

As I had several matters of business to attend to in New York, I determined to take steamer from that point to Havana, instead of from Charleston, as we first thought of doing.

The evening after our arrival in the metropolis being bright and sunny, I ordered an open carriage, and Carlotta and I, with little Johnnie, drove out to the Park. Ordering our coachman to let the horses go slowly, we gave ourselves up to the enjoyment of the beautiful scene. Pausing at each object of interest – here a marble statue, there a bronze, getting out at the museum, that Johnnie might see the animals, stopping on the edge of the lake, that he might feed the swans – time passed swiftly, and the sun was nearly down as we found ourselves over the terrace, the dress parade ground for the equipages of the Park. The press of vehicles here forced us to stop for a moment, and at the same instant a most superb turnout caught our attention. A pair of jet black horses, whose champing mouths almost bit their foam-flecked breasts, covered with harness that dazzled the eye with its gleaming plate, a glittering gold-mounted chariot, and a coachman and lackey in green and gold liveries! There were only two occupants – a handsome, middle-aged man, and a lady of striking yet haggard beauty. Clustering brown curls fell around her shoulders, and her hazel eyes were very bright, but her wan cheek was rouged, and the smile she wore was plainly forced and meaningless. All this we saw in a moment, and then we looked in each other’s faces, and exclaimed in one breath:

”Lulie Mayland!”

Ere we could extricate ourselves from the throng of carriages and follow, their chariot was out of sight, and we could only return to our hotel in wonder and surprise.

That night Carlotta and I went to the Academy of Music. Parepa was to open the season with Maritana, and the vast edifice was crowded. The curtain was down for the second act, and Carl Rosa, with his nervous baton was wafting up from the orchestra a soft, exquisite aria, when the door of a box across the circle was opened by an obsequious usher, and a gentleman in an agony of fashion bowed a tremendous satin trail, a superb white cloak, and a profusion of diamonds into the seat. Laying a harp of camelias and tube-roses in his crush hat, he assisted her in removing her cloak, and, as a cluster of brown curls fell over her bare white shoulders, we recognized again Lulie. He seemed to bend over her with pleasant words, for she frequently smiled; but oh! the look of weariness and despair that at times would flit across her face! The curtain rose and fell, Parepa sang her sweetest, and the dome reëchoed the thunders of applause, but we sat regardless of the stage, with our opera glasses fixed on the box where Lulie sat. The gentleman, too, who was with her was an object of interest to me, for I could not divest myself of the idea that I had seen him somewhere. The deep red hair, parted so exactly in the middle, the flowing side whiskers, and the foppish dress, all seemed familiar, but I could not recall them, till presently he lowered his lorgnon and stuck in his eyeglass, and then I recognized Mr. Monte. I immediately rose and left our box to go to them, but before I had gotten half around the aisle I saw them both rise from their seats and leave the house. I followed as fast as I could through the throng, and reached the pavement just in time to see them drive off in their carriage.

When we returned to the hotel I rang for a directory and found Monte’s name and place of business, and lay down to sleep, resolved to seek out Lulie, and, with Carlotta’s aid, reclaim her if possible.

CHAPTER XLIII.

Mr. Monte was partner in a large dry goods house on Broadway, and from what I knew of his habits I judged that I would most likely find him in the store about two o’clock. Accordingly, after lunch I took an omnibus and rode down to the place. It was a massive five story building, with great iron and glass doors, that turned slowly on their hinges, and, closing with a loud bang, shut out the noise and rattle of the great thoroughfare. I stood for a moment confused by the murmur of voices and the tramp of feet, as the hundreds of salesmen and merchants swarmed over every floor of the vast building. The next instant the door sentry approached, and asked whom I wished to see.

”Mr. Monte; is he in?” I replied, feeling for my card.

”Mr. Monte!” he said, looking somewhat surprised. ”What market are you from?”

”North Carolina,” I replied.

”Oh, then,” said he, walking with me to the head of some stairs that led to a gas-lighted apartment below, ”you want to see Mr. Bantam. Ban-tum! Ban-tum!” he called in his loudest tone, accenting the last syllable, and giving it the ”u” sound. ”Mr. Bantam is from your State; he is down stairs now with Col. – from Raleigh, in flannels. Will be up in a moment. How’s trade in your section?”

”I am not a merchant,” I replied, wondering what Mr. Bantam could be doing with Col. – in flannel, and if the Col. had forgotten his under garments when leaving home.

At this moment Mr. Bantam, an elderly man, slightly bald, appeared at the bottom of the stairway and called out: ”Who is it, Johnson?”

”A gentleman from your State.”

”All right; I’ll be up in five minutes.”

”Wait a few moments, sir,” said Johnson, going back to his post at the door.

Leaning back against a case of prints, I looked around at this hive of human bees. From floor to floor, from wall to wall, were heaped and piled, like immense breastworks, goods and merchandise of almost every description; case after case of prints, rolls upon rolls of cloths and cassimeres, long brilliant rows of dress goods, boxes of glittering silks, long counters of notions, great heaps of shawls, rugs and blankets; laces, ribbons, and white goods; every department marked by placards with hands pointing to it, and over each another placard with terms of sale: ”30 days,” ”Regular,” or ”Net.”

Everywhere, at every case, around every heap of goods were the salesmen and merchants, bending over fabrics, examining their texture, standing off to get the full effect of the figure; the one class praising and overrating, the other undervaluing and quoting prices from other houses. Just here, at the case next to me, is a fancy young man, with brilliant studs and a flash cravat, a pencil across his mouth like a bit, and his shirt sleeves held up by gutta percha bands, diving head foremost into a box and bringing up a piece of goods, which he exhibits with a slap, as if it were a horse, and winks at a passing comrade, who pinches his arm and says: ”How is it, Saunders?” while the merchant, an old fellow from the country, with a broad felt hat and long coat, who licks his short stump of a pencil whenever he sets down anything in his memorandum book, which has his name in gilt letters on the back, and was sent to him by some advertising house, is bending down to examine it. Over there is a red-faced man, in a Cardigan jacket, showing – . But here is Mr. Bantam, who reads my card and exclaims:

”Smith! I am delighted to see you. When did you leave the old North State?”

”On Tuesday last,” I replied, rather taken aback by his familiar cordiality.

”Where are you stopping?” he inquired, bending the corners of my card.

”At the Fifth Avenue Hotel.”

”That is the reason I missed you last night,” he said; ”I did not go higher than the St. Nicholas. Well, I am very glad you’ve come in. Hope you’ll make all your dry goods bill with us. It’s much the best plan to concentrate on a house, and we’ll be sure to do you good. What department will you look through this evening? I used to sell your father a great many goods.”

I begged his pardon, but informed him that my father had never been a merchant, and that I was not merchandising, but had called in to see Mr. Monte, one of the firm.

”You must excuse me,” he said, familiarly patting me on the back, ”I thought you wanted to buy. You want to see Mr. Monte? I expect you’ll have to go to his house, No. – West 34th street. He hardly ever comes here. Bless your soul, he wouldn’t know what to do if he did come. His money is all the house wants. Give him a new dog cart and a pair of ponies and he’s satisfied.”

”Then he is not much of a business man,” I said, for the want of something else to say, as I took down his address.

”Not in this line. He knows how to get in the green room at a theatre, and is a first rate judge of wine; but his connection with us is simply confined to putting in some money every year, and drawing on it like Old Harry the balance of the time.”

”I am very much obliged,” I said, putting up my pencil; ”I will hurry up to his house, if you think I will find him there.”

”He is probably there now, but he will drive out to the Park at four.”

I was about to leave, when a tall, elderly man approached Mr. Bantam, and said, deferentially,

”Dinkle, of your State, wants Domestics on sixty days. Shall I sell him?”

”I’ll go see him,” said Bantam, turning off; ”Good bye, Mr. Smith. Call in again if you have leisure.”

The tall, elderly man was about to follow him, when a sudden recollection of his face flashed upon me, and I caught his arm.

”Excuse me, but isn’t this Mr. Marshman?”

”It is, sir,” he replied, turning around to me again.

”My name is Smith, sir,” I said, offering him my hand; ”we met at Saratoga.”

”I remember. How have you been?” he answered coldly, taking my hand without cordiality, while a flush I could not understand came over his face.

”You are connected with this house?” I asked; thinking, of course, that he was a partner.

”Only as a salesman,” he said bitterly, and then added, after a pause, ”It is not worth while being ashamed of it. Lillian’s infernal extravagance ruined me, and I was compelled to do something.”

I could make no reply, and there was a pause of some seconds, when he continued, with increasing volubility, as all men do when speaking of their misfortunes:

”Lillian’s old uncle, from whom we expected a great deal, died insolvent. I spent half of what I had in my last political contest, and was defeated by the – treachery of my friends. Still, after that we had enough to have lived comfortably, by economizing a little; but Lillian would have her brown stone and her carriage, her silks and her laces. and now she has to take the street cars if she rides at all, and that isn’t often. I could stand it all better if she wouldn’t cut up so, and mope about her poverty, as she calls it. She turns up her nose at the neighborhood because we’ve had to come down to Bleecker street. She spends half her time crying and looking over old finery, and talking of better days. She puts all sorts of foolish notions into our little girl’s head, and makes her continually beg me for things I have not the money to buy. I would ask you to call and see us, but ‘twould not be pleasant for you, and only make her worse. It is improper, I know, for me to talk thus to a comparative stranger, but I am full of bitterness when I think of Lillian’s conduct, and as you used to know her I have been communicative. Pardon me. Yonder’s Mr. Bantam. I must go back to my customers. Good day! But take this piece of advice: don’t marry a belle,” he added, over his shoulder, as he walked off.

As I stood on the sidewalk to hail an omnibus, my sympathy turned from him to poor Lillian, reduced to poverty, and her very sighs and tears ridiculed, to any one who might listen, by her unfeeling husband.

When I knocked at No. – West Thirty-fourth street a servant in livery appeared and took up my card. I waited a few moments in a very handsome parlor, when he returned and requested me to walk up stairs. Going up with him I was ushered into a sitting room furnished with cosy magnificence, that is, with a splendid Moquette carpet, on which you were not afraid to tread; velvet divans, on which you did not hesitate to recline; a rosewood table, on which an inkstand and pens were scattered; a marble mantel, with a half-smoked cigar tossed on it, an etagere with a smoking cap, a broken meerschaum, and a Sevres vase of Latakia, perched among articles of rarest vertu. With my first glance around the apartment Monte came in through a folding door from his dressing room, wiping his hands on a Russian towel, and giving me one to shake that was still damp.

”Smith! old fellow, I am devilish glad to see you. When did you arrive? We had a gay time at Saratoga that season, didn’t we! Where the deuce have you kept yourself ever since? Sit down.”

”I thought you were aware, Monte,” I said, adopting his free and easy manner, and lolling carelessly down in an arm chair, ”that we had had a little unpleasantness down our way. I’ve been in camp four years.”

”Ah, yes,” he said, slipping his arm through the coat his attendant held ready for him, ”I had overlooked that. So they made a soldier of you, did they – powder, blood and all? I was captain of a company our fellows here got up, but when they went down South I resigned. If the – States wanted to secede I had no idea of getting my brains blown out to prevent them.”

”We were defending our country, you know, and, of course, had to fight,” I remarked, smiling at his idea of patriotism.

”I suppose so,” he said, sitting down near me and arranging his cuffs; then looking up at his servant, who stood waiting, ”James, tell Thomas to put the bay colt to the wagon; I will drive to Harlem this afternoon. By the way, Smith,” he continued, when the man had left the room, ”what ever became of that devil of a beauty that flirted with us all, and with whom you left the Springs?”

An angry reply rose to my lips at hearing him speak so of Carlotta, but knowing that it would defeat the object of my visit, I restrained myself, and replied ”that she had been living down South during the war, but that I understood she was soon to return to Cuba.”

There was a short silence, and I was wondering how to get at any information in regard to Lulie, when he put up his eye-glass and looked at me again.

”You’ve changed a great deal, Smith. I should never have recognized you without your card.”

It was just the turn I wanted, and I replied:

”I saw you last night at the opera and remembered your face immediately. But, Monte, apropos of beauty, who was the lady you were with? She drew my attention entirely from the stage.”

”Ah!” he said, drawing his eye into the least perceptible wink, ”She was worth a gaze, wasn’t she? I wouldn’t tell every one, but you are a transient visitor: that was La Belle Louise. Half of New York is crazy about her – that is, you know, the b’hoys.”

”Not demi-monde?” I asked, looking knowing.

”It was daring in me, wasn’t it?” he went on, without heeding my remark. ”But she wanted to go and I promised to carry her. Oh! but I shall have to lie about it to the ladies. I can cheat scandal out of the morsel if some fellow who knew her don’t blow on me to his mother, and she let it out to her set. Confound it, though, who cares?”

”Has she many admirers?” I asked.

”Many seek the honor of her acquaintance, but I believe I am the favored one. I’ll vow it flattens that deucedly though to keep her in diamonds,” he said, drawing from his pocket a mother of pearl portemonnaie.

”I’d like to get a peep at her myself; just a peep, Monte. Where does she reside?” I said, taking out a card.

”Oh, I don’t mind telling you. But it’s no use, she won’t see you.”

”La Belle Louise. Number what?” I asked, pretending to write.

”She is at Madame Dubourg’s, 42d street, if you wish to know,” he said, somewhat coldly, as if he thought me impertinent.

Quick as thought ‘twas on my card, and then I said, smiling:

”Oh, well, I was only jesting; I will leave day after tomorrow. But tell me, Monte, something of my old acquaintance, Miss Finnock.”

”Little Saph.!” he said, regaining his good humor. ”She is up the Hudson living with her brother, who married that horrid Miss Stelway. You remember them?”

”Very well, but is Miss Finnock not married yet?”

”No, of course not; who would marry such a bundle of sentiment? She often boasts of you, though, as the young Carolinian she flirted with.”

”I met Mr. Marshman very unexpectedly down at your store to-day,” I said, not caring to correct little Miss Finnock’s boast.

”Marshman? Yes, he’s selling there for us on a small salary – the best we could give him though. The old fellow got beaten, took to his cups and went to the bad very fast. They say his wife has to work hard to support herself and child, while he drinks up what he gets at our house. My mother sends them supplies very often, though she has not visited them, you know, since they left the top.”

”Have you a check book here?” I asked, with a sudden resolution.

”Yes,” he replied, handing me one from his escritoire.

”Will you do me the favor to get that to Mrs. Marshman,” I said, filling up the check for a good round sum and giving it to him. ”Please draw the money and send it to her so that my name will not be known in the matter, and do not let Marshman touch any of it.”

”James shall attend to it to-morrow. But stay and dine with me. We’ll drive out to Harlem, and get back to dinner at six.”

”Thanks, I must return to my hotel, as I have an engagement there. Dine with me to-morrow. I am at the Fifth Avenue.”

”Would be happy. The Sillery’s very fine there, but I dine our Club on my yacht to-morrow. Speaking of La Belle Louise,” he continued, following me down to the door, ”Madame Dubourg told me she gets letters from North Carolina, and that she is continually sending money to Italy to complete a monument to go over some poor devil of a deserter from the rebel army, who was killed down there. Did you ever hear of her before?”

”La Belle Louise? I never heard the name till you mentioned it,” I said.

”I supposed it was a mistake. Good day.”

”Lulie, I have found you at last,” I murmured, as I sauntered down Fifth Avenue to the hotel. ”God grant we may save you!”