CHAPTER XXV.
Greenleaf pursued his search for Alice with all the ardor of his nature. One glimpse only he had of her;—at a clothing-store, where he inquired, the clerk seemed to recognize the description given, and was quite sure that such a girl had taken out work, but he knew nothing of her whereabouts, and he believed she was now employed by another establishment. It was something to know that she was in the city, and, probably, not destitute; still better to know what path of life she had chosen, so that his time need not be wasted in fruitless inquiries. On his return, after the second day's search, he sought his friend Easelmann, whose counsel and sympathy he particularly desired.
"Any tidings of the fugitive?" was the first question.
"No," replied Greenleaf,—"nothing satisfactory. I have heard of her once; but it was like a trail in the woods, which the hunter comes upon, then loses utterly."
"But the hunter who measures a track once will be likely to find it again."
"Yes, I have that consolation. But, Easelmann, though this mishap of losing Alice has cost me many sleepless nights, and will continue to engross my time until I find her, I cannot rid myself of other troubles and apprehensions. I have done nothing for a long time. I have no orders; and, as I have no fortune to fall back upon, I see nothing but starvation before me."
"Then, my dear fellow, look the other way. It isn't wise to distress yourself by looking ahead, so long as you have the chance of turning round."
"I feel lonely, too,—isolated. People that I meet are civil enough; but I don't know a man, except in my profession, that I can consider a friend."
"Very likely. Caste isn't confined to India."
"I had supposed that intellect and culture were enough to secure for a man a recognition in good society; but I am made to feel, a hundred times a day, that I have no more status than a clever colored man, an itinerant actor, or any other anomaly. To-day I met Travis; you know he comes here and makes himself free and easy with us, and has always put himself on a footing of equality."
"Wherein you made a mistake. He has no right, but by courtesy, to any equality. A little taste, perhaps, and money enough to gratify it,—that's all. He never had an idea in his life."
"That is the reason I felt the slight. He was walking with a lady whose manner and dress were unmistakable,—a lady of undoubted position. I bowed, and received in return one of those hardly-perceptible nods, with a forced smile that covered only the side of his face from the lady. It was a recognition that one might throw to his boot-black. I am a mild-mannered man, as you know; but I could have murdered him on the spot."
Greenleaf walked the floor with flashing eyes and his teeth set.
"Now, I like the spirit," said Easelmann; "but, pray, be sensible. 'Where Macdonald sits, there is the head of the table.' Stand firm in your own shoes, and graduate your bows by those you get."
"I suppose I am thin-skinned."
"As long as you are, you will chafe. Cultivate a hide like a rhinoceros's, and Society will let fly its pin-pointed arrows in vain. You have a great deal to learn, my dear boy."
"But other special classes are not so treated,—literary men, for instance."
"Don't be too sure of that. An author who has attained position is fêted, because the fashionable circles must have their lions. But to stand permanently like other men, he must have money or family, or else obey the world's ten commandments, of which the first is, 'Thou shalt not wear a slouched hat,'—and the rest are like unto it. No,—the literary men have their heart-burnings, I suspect. They forget, as you do, that their very profession, the direction of their thoughts, their mode of life, cut them off from sympathy and fellowship. What has a writer who dreams of rivalling Emerson or the 'Autocrat' to do with costly and absorbing private theatricals, with dances at Papanti's, with any of the thousand modes of killing time agreeably? And how shall you become the new Claude, if you give your thoughts to the style of your clothes, and to the inanities that make up the staple of conversation?"
"But because I am precluded from devoting my time to society, that is no reason why I should bear the patronizing airs"——
"Don't be patronized,—that's all. If a man gives you such a look as you have described, cut him dead the next time you meet him. If anybody gives you two fingers to shake, give him only one of yours. I tried that plan on a doctor of divinity once, and it worked admirably. His intended condescension somehow vanished in a mist, and the foolish confusion that overspread his blank features would have done you good to behold."
"I have no doubt. I don't think it would be easy to be impertinent to you. Not that there are not presuming people enough; but you have a way with you. Your blade that cuts off a bayonet at a blow will glide through a feather as well."
"A delicate stroke of yours! Now to return. You are out of money, you say. Perhaps you will allow me to become your creditor for a while. I may presume upon the relation and take on some airs;—that's inevitable; one can't forego such a privilege;—but I promise to bow very civilly whenever I meet you; and I won't remind you of the debt—above twice a day."
Taking out his pocket-book, he handed his friend fifty dollars, and pshawed and poohed at every expression of gratitude.
"By the way, Greenleaf," he continued, "I have been in search of an absconding female also. You remember Mrs. Sandford, the charming widow?"
"Yes,—what has become of her?"
"You see how philosophical I am. I have not seen her yet; and yet I am not crazy about it. Some chickens think the sky is falling, whenever a rose-leaf drops on their heads."
"But you have no such reason to be anxious."
"Haven't I? Do you think old fellows like me have lost recollection as well as feeling? One of the most deadly cases of romance I ever knew was between people of forty and upwards."
"How dull I was! I saw some rather odd glances between you at the musical party, but thought nothing more about it. But why haven't you been looking for her?"
"I have been cogitating," said Easelmann, twisting his moustaches.
"I should think so. If you had asked me, now! I went with her to the house where I suppose she is still boarding."
"Did you?" [very indifferently, and with the falling inflection.]
"Why, don't you want to know?"
"Yes,—to-morrow. And I think, that, when we find her, we may find a clue to your Alice."
Greenleaf started up as if he had been galvanized.
"You have seen her, then! You old fox! Where is she? To-morrow, indeed! Tell me, and I will fly."
"You can't; for, as Brother Chadband observed, you haven't any wings."
"Don't trifle with me. I know your fondness for surprises; but if you love me, don't put me off with your nonsense."
Greenleaf was thoroughly in earnest, and Easelmann took a more soothing tone. At another time the temptation to tease would have been irresistible.
"Be calm, you man of gunpowder, steel, whalebone, and gutta-percha! I positively have nothing but guesses to give you. Besides, do you think you have nothing to do but rush into Alice's arms when you find her? Take some valerian to quiet your nerves, and go to bed. In the morning, try to smooth over those sharp features of yours. Use rouge, if you can't get up your natural color. When you are presentable, come over here again, and we'll stroll out in search of adventure. But mind, I promise nothing,—I only guess."
While he spoke, Greenleaf looked into the mirror, and was surprised to see how anxiety had worn upon him. His face was thin and bloodless, and his eyes sunken, but glowing. The quiet influence of his friend calmed him, and his impatience subsided. He took his leave silently, wringing Easelmann's hand, and walked home with a lighter heart.
"He is a good fellow," mused Easelmann, "and has suffered enough for his folly. The lesson will do him good."