CHAPTER II.
SHOWING HOW MUCH IT SOMETIMES COSTS TO BE THOUGHT CHARITABLE.
Mr. Sandford was a bachelor, and resided in a pleasant street at the West End,—his sister being housekeeper. His house was simply furnished,—yet the good taste apparent in the arrangement of the furniture gave the rooms an air of neatness, if not of elegance. There were not so many pictures as might be expected in the dwelling of a lover of Art, and in many cases the frames were more noticeable than the canvas; for upon most of them were plates informing the visitor that they were presented to Henry Sandford for his disinterested services as treasurer, director, or chairman of the Society for the Relief of Infirm Wood-sawyers, or some other equally benevolent association. The silver pitcher and salver, always visible upon a table, were a testimonial from the managers of a fair for the aid of Indigent Widows. A massive silver inkstand bore witness to the gratitude of the Society of Merchants' Clerks. And numerous Votes of Thanks, handsomely engrossed on parchment, with eminent names appended, and preserved in gilt frames, filled all the available space upon the walls. It was evident that this was the residence of a Benefactor of Mankind.
It was just after breakfast, and Mr. Sandford was preparing to go out. His full and handsome face was serene as usual, and a general air of neatness pervaded his dress. He was, in fact, unexceptionable in appearance, wearing the look that gets credit in State Street, gives respectability to a public platform, and seems to bring a blessing into the abodes of poverty. Nothing but broad and liberal views, generous sentiments, and a noble self-forgetfulness would seem to belong to a man with such a presence. But his sister Marcia, this morning, seemed far from being pleased with his plans; her tones were querulous, and even severe.
"Now, Henry," she exclaimed, "you are not going to sell that picture. We've had enough changes. Every auction a new purchase, which you immediately fling away."
"You are a very warm-hearted young woman," replied the brother, "and you doubtless imagine that I am able with my limited resources to buy a picture from every new painter, besides answering the numberless calls made upon me from every quarter."
"Why did you bid for the picture, then?"
"I wished to encourage the artist."
"But why do you sell it, then?"
"Monroe wants it, and will give a small advance on its cost."
"But Monroe was at the sale; why didn't he bid for it then?"
"A very natural question, Sister Marcia; but it shows that you are not a manager. However, I'll explain. Monroe was struck with the picture, and would have given a foolish price for it. So I said to him,—'Monroe, don't be rash. If two connoisseurs like you and me bid against each other for this landscape, other buyers will think there is something in it, and the price will be run up to a figure neither of us can afford to pay. Let me buy it and keep it a month or so, and then we'll agree on the terms. I sha'n't be hard with you.' And I won't be. He shall have it for a hundred, although I paid eighty-seven and odd."
"So you speculate, where you pretend to patronize Art?"
"Don't use harsh words, Sister Marcia. Half the difficulties in the world come from a hasty application of terms."
"But I want the picture; and I didn't ask you to buy it merely to oblige Mr. Greenleaf."
"True, sister, but he will paint others, and better ones, perhaps. I will buy another in its place."
"And sell it when you get a good offer, I suppose."
"Sister Marcia, you evince a thoughtless disposition to trifle with—I hope not to wound—my feelings. How do you suppose I am able to maintain my position in society, to support Charles in his elegant idleness, to supply all your wants, and to help carry on the many benevolent enterprises in which I have become engaged, on the small amount of property left us, and with the slender salary of fifteen hundred dollars from the Insurance Office? If I had not some self-denial, some management, you would find quite a different state of things."
"But I remember that you drew your last year's salary in a lump. You must have had money from some source for current expenses meanwhile."
"Some few business transactions last year were fortunate. But I am poor, quite poor; and nothing but a sense of duty impels me to give so much of my time and means to aid the unfortunate and the destitute, and for the promotion of education and the arts that beautify and adorn life."
His wits were probably "wool-gathering"; for the phrases which had been so often conned for public occasions slipped off his tongue quite unawares. His countenance changed at once when Marcia mischievously applauded by clapping her hands and crying, "Hear!" He paused a moment, seeming doubtful whether to make an angry reply; but his face brightened, and he exclaimed,—
"You are a wicked tease, but I can't be offended with you."
"Bye-bye, Henry," she replied. "Some committee is probably waiting for you." Then, as he was about closing the door, she added,—"I was going to say, Henry, if your charities are not more expensive than your patronage of Art, you might afford me that moire antique and the set of pearls I asked you for."
We will follow Mr. Sandford to the Insurance Office. It was only nine o'clock, and the business of the day did not begin until ten. But the morning hour was rarely unoccupied. As he sat in his arm-chair, reading the morning papers, Mr. Monroe entered. He was a clerk in the commission house of Lindsay and Company, in Milk Street,—a man of culture and refined taste, as well as attentive to business affairs. With an active, sanguine temperament, he had the good-humor and frankness that usually belong to less ardent natures. Simple-hearted and straightforward, he was yet as trustful and affectionate as a child. He was unmarried and lived with his mother, her only child.
"Ah, Monroe," said Sandford, with cordiality, "you don't want the picture yet? Let it remain as long as you can, and I'll consider the favor when we settle."
"No,—I'm in no hurry about the picture. I have a matter of business I wish to consult you about. My mother had a small property,—about ten thousand dollars. Up to this time I haven't made it very profitable, and I thought"—
Just then a visitor entered. The President of the Society for the Reformation of Criminals came with a call for a public meeting.
"You know, my dear Sir," said the President, "that we don't expect you to pay; we consider the calls made upon your purse; but we want your name and influence."
Mr. Sandford signed the call, and made various inquiries concerning the condition and prospects of the society. The President left with a smile and a profusion of thanks. Before Mr. Sandford was fairly seated another person came in. It was the Secretary of the Society for the Care of Juvenile Offenders.
"We want to have a hearing before the city government," said he, "and we have secured the aid of Mr. Greene Satchel to present the case. Won't you give us your name to the petition, as one of the officers? No expense to you; some wealthy friends will take care of that. We don't desire to tax a man who lives on a salary, and especially one who devotes so much of his time and money to charity."
"Thank you for your consideration," said Mr. Sandford, signing his name in a fair round hand.
Once more the friends were left alone, and Monroe proceeded,—
"I was going on to say that perhaps you might know some chance for a safe investment."
Mr. Sandford appeared thoughtful for a moment.
"Yes,—I think I may find a good opportunity; seven per cent., possibly eight."
"Excellent!" said Monroe.
There was another interruption. A tall, stately person entered the office, wearing a suit of rather antique fashion, apparently verging on sixty years, yet with a clear, smooth skin, and a bright, steady eye. It was the Honorable Charles Wyndham, the representative of an ancient family, and beyond question one of the most eminent men in the city. Mr. Sandford might have been secretly elated at the honor of this visit, but he rose with a tranquil face and calmly bade Mr. Wyndham good morning.
"My young friend," began the great man, "I am happy to see you looking so well this morning. I have not come to put any new burdens on your patient shoulders; we all know your services and your sacrifices. This time we have a little recompense,—if, indeed, acts of beneficence are not their own reward. The Board are to have a social meeting at my house to-night, to make arrangements for the anniversary; and we think a frugal collation will not be amiss for those who have worked for the Society so freely and faithfully."
Mr. Sandford softly rubbed his white hands and bowed with a deprecatory smile.
"I know your modesty," said Mr. Wyndham, "and will spare you further compliment. Your accounts are ready, I presume? I intend to propose to the Board, that, as we have a surplus, you shall receive a substantial sum for your disinterested services."
They were standing near together, leaning on a tall mahogany desk, and the look of benevolent interest on one side, and of graceful humility on the other, was touching to see. Mr. Sandford laid his hand softly on his distinguished friend's shoulder, and begged him not to insist upon payment for services he had been only too happy to render.
"We won't talk about that now; and I must not detain you longer from business. Good morning!" And with the stateliest of bows, and a most gracious smile, the Honorable Mr. Wyndham retreated through the glass door.
When Mr. Sandford had bowed the visitor out, he returned to Monroe with an expression of weariness on his handsome face. "So many affairs to think of! so many people to see! Really, it is becoming vexatious. I believe I shall turn hunks, and get a reputation for downright stinginess."
"But your visitors are pleasant people," said Monroe,—"and the last, certainly, was a man whom most men think it an honor to know."
"You mean Wyndham. Oh, yes, Wyndham is a good fellow; a little prosy sometimes, but means well. We endure the Dons, you know, if they are slow."
Monroe thought his friend hardly respectful to the head of the Wyndham family, but set it down as an awkward attempt at being facetious.
"Well, about that money of yours?" said Sandford.
"I left it, as a loan on call, at Danforth's. But how do you propose to invest it?"
"I haven't fully made up my mind. Perhaps it is best you should not know. I will guaranty you eight per cent., and agree to return the principal on thirty days' notice. So you can try, meanwhile, and see if you can do better."
Monroe agreed to the proposal, and drew a check on the broker for the amount, for which Sandford signed a note, payable thirty days after presentation. The friends now separated, and Monroe went to his warehouse.
Stockholders began to come to look over the morning papers, and chat about the news, the stocks, and the degeneracy of the times. What a club is to an idle man of fashion,—what a sewing-society is to a scandal-loving woman,—what a billiard-room is to a man about town,—what the Athenæum is to the sober and steadfast bibliolater,—that is the Insurance Office to the retired merchant, bald and spectacled, who wanders like a ghost among the scenes of his former activity. The comfortable chairs, and in winter the social fires in open grates,—the slow-going and respectable newspapers, the pleasant view of State Street, and, above all, the authoritative disposition of public affairs upon the soundest mercantile principles of profit and loss,—all these constitute an attraction which no well-brought-up Bostonian, who has money to buy shares, cares to resist, at least until the increasing size of his buckskin shoes renders locomotion difficult.
To all these solid men Mr. Sandford gave a hearty good-morning, and a frank, cheerful smile. They took up the journals and looked over the telegraphic dispatches, thinking, as they were wont, that the old Vortex was lucky, above all Companies, in its honest, affable, and intelligent Secretary.
Mr. Sandford retired to his private room and looked hastily at his morning letters; but his mind did not seem to be occupied with the business before him. He rang the bell for the office-boy. "Tom," said he, "go and ask Mr. Fletcher to step down here a minute." He mused after the boy left, tapping his fingers on the table to the time of a familiar air. "If I can keep Fletcher from dabbling in stocks, I shall make a good thing of this. I shall keep a close watch on him. To manage men, there is nothing like knowing how to go to work at them. All the fools are jack-a-dandies, and one has only to find where the strings hang to make them dance as he will. I have Fletcher fast. I heard a fellow talking about taming a man, Rarey-fashion, by holding out a pole to him with a bunch of flowers. Pooh! The best thing is a bit of paper with a court seal at the corner, stuck on the end of a constable's staff."
Mr. Fletcher entered presently,—the office where he was employed being only a few doors off. He was a slender young man, with strikingly regular features and delicate complexion; his mobile mouth was covered by a fringy moustache, and his small keen eyes were restless to a painful degree. The sudden summons appeared to have flustered him; for his eyes danced more than usual, giving him the startled and perplexed look of a hunted animal at bay. He was speedily reassured by Sandford's bland voice and encouraging smile.
"A new opening, Fletcher,—a 'pocket,' as the Californians call it. Is there any chance to operate? Just look about. I have the funds ready. Something safe, and fat, too."
"Plenty of chances to those who look for them," replied Fletcher. "The men who are hard up are the best customers; they will stand a good slice off; and if a man is sharp, he can deal as safely with them as with the A 1s, who turn up their noses at seven per cent."
"You understand, I see."
"I think I ought. Papyrus, only yesterday, was asking if anything could be done for him,—about fifteen hundred; offers Sandbag's note with only thirty days to run. The note was of no use to him, because the banks require two names, and his own isn't worth a straw. But Sandbag is good."
"We'll take it. About a hundred off?"
Fletcher nodded.
"I've plenty more to invest, Fletcher. Let me know if you see any paper worth buying."
Fletcher nodded again, but looked expectant, much like a dog (not wishing to degrade him by the comparison) waiting with longing eyes while his master eats his morning mutton-chop.
"Fletcher," said Sandford, "I'll make this an object to you. I don't mind giving you five dollars, as soon as we have Papyrus's indorsement on the note. And, speaking of the indorsement, let him sign his name, and then bring me the note. I wish to put on the name of the person to whose order it is to be payable."
"Then it is on the account"—
"Of whom it may concern," broke in Sandford. "Don't stand with your mouth open. That is my affair."
"But if you pay me only five dollars"—
"That is so much clear gain to you. Do you suppose that we—my backer and I—shall run the risk for nothing? Good morning! Attend to your own affairs at Danforth's properly. Don't burn your fingers with any new experiments. There's a crash coming and stocks will fall. Good morning!"
The Secretary looked relieved when Fletcher closed the door, and speedily dispatched the necessary letters and orders for the Company. Then leaving the affairs of the Vortex in the hands of his clerk, he strolled out for his usual lunch. Wherever he walked, he was met with smiles and greetings of respect. He turned into an alley, entered an eating-house, and took his place at a table; he ordered and ate his lunch, and then left, with a nod towards the counter. The landlord, who began on credit, expected no pay from the man who procured him money accommodations. No waiter had ever seen a sixpence from his purse. How should a man be expected to pay, who spent his substance and his time so freely in charity?