Maloney, by the way, be it recorded, had, under the pupilage of Pompilard, given up strong drink and wife-beating, and risen to be a tailor of some fashionable note. Pompilard had found out for him an excellent cutter,—had kept him posted in regard to the fashions,—and then had gone round the city to all the clubs, hotels, and opera-houses, blowing for Maloney with all his lungs. He didn’t “hesitate to declare” that Maloney was the only man in the country who could fit you decently to pantaloons. Pantaloons were his specialité. His cutter was a born genius,—“an Englishman, sir, whose grandfather used to cut for the famous Brummel,—you’ve heard of Brummel?” The results of all this persistent blowing were astonishing. Soon the superstition prevailed in Wall Street and along the Fifth Avenue, that if one wanted pantaloons he must go to Maloney. Haynes was excellent for dress-coats and sacks; but don’t let him hope to compete with Maloney in pantaloons. You would hear young fops discussing the point with intensest earnestness and enthusiasm.
How many fortunes have a basis quite as airy and unsubstantial! Soon Maloney’s little shop was crowded with customers. He was obliged to take a large and showy establishment in Broadway. Here prosperity insisted on following him. Wealth began to flow steadily in. He found himself on the plain, high road to fortune; and by whom but Pompilard had he been led there? The consequence was perpetual gratitude on the tailor’s part, evinced in daily sending home, with his own marketing, enough for the other half of the house; evinced also in the determination to stick to Harlem till his benefactor would consent to leave.
While the Pompilards were discussing the matter of the wedding, Melissa and Purling entered from a walk. Melissa carried her years very well; though hope deferred had written anxiety on her amiable features. Purling was a slim, gentlemanly person, always affecting good spirits, though certain little silvery streaks in the side-locks over his ears showed that time and care were beginning their inevitable work. In aspiring to authorship he had not thought it essential that he should consume gin like Byron, or whiskey like Charles Lamb, or opium like De Quincey. But if there be an avenging deity presiding over the wrongs of undone publishers, Purling must be doomed to some unquiet nights. There was something sublime in the pertinacity with which he kept on writing after the public had snubbed him so repeatedly by utter neglect; something still more sublime in the faith which led publishers to fall into the nets he so industriously wove for them.
The result of the lawsuit being made known to the newcomers, Melissa, hiding her face, at once left the room, and was followed by her sisters and step-mother.
Purling keenly felt the embarrassment of his position. Pompilard came to his relief. “We have concluded, my dear fellow,” said he, “not to put off the wedding. Don’t concern yourself about money-matters. You can come and occupy Melissa’s room with her till I get on my legs once more. I shall go to work in earnest now this lawsuit is off my hands.”
“My dear sir,” said Purling, “you are very generous,—very indulgent. The moment my books begin to pay, what is mine shall be yours; and if you can conveniently accommodate me for a few months, till the work I’m now writing is—”
“Accommodate you? Of course we can! The more the merrier,” interrupted Pompilard. “So it’s settled. The wedding comes off next Wednesday.”
And the wedding came off according to the programme. It took place in church. Pompilard was in his glory. Cards had been issued to all his friends of former days. Many had conveniently forgotten that such a person existed; but there were some noble exceptions, as there generally are in such cases. Presents of silver, of dresses, books, furniture, and pictures were sent in from friends both of the bride and bridegroom; so that the trousseau presented a very respectable appearance; but the prettiest gift of the occasion was a little porte-monnaie, containing a check for two thousand dollars signed by Pat Maloney.
As for Charlton, young in years, if not in heart, good-looking, a widower unencumbered with a child, what was there he might not aspire to with his twelve hundred thousand dollars?
He was taken in charge by the J——s, and the M——s, and the P——s, and introduced into “society.” Yes, that is the proper name for “our set.” A competition, outwardly calm, but internally bitter and intense, was entered upon by fashionable mothers having daughters to provide for. Charlton became the sensation man of the season. “Will he marry?” That was now the agitating question that convulsed all the maternal councils within a mile’s radius of the new Fifth Avenue Hotel.