The next morning, putting the Prospectus and his pride with it in his pocket, he issued forth, resolved to see what could be done in furtherance of the grand literary scheme which was to immortalize and enrich his son-in-law. Entering Broadway he walked up to Union Park, then along Fourteenth Street to the Fifth Avenue. And now, every square or two, he would pass door-plates that displayed some familiar name. Frequently he would be tempted to stop, but he passed on and on, until he came to one which bore in large black walnut letters the name Charlton.
With this gentleman he had not had any intercourse since the termination of that great lawsuit in which they had been opposed. Charlton, having put the greater part of his property into gold just before the war, had made enormous sums by the rise in the precious metal. It was noticed in Wall Street, that he was growing fat; that he had lost his anxious, eager look. War was not such a bad thing after all. Surely he would be glad of the opportunity of subscribing for five or ten copies of the wounded Purling’s great work.
These considerations encouraged the credulous Pompilard to call. A respectable private carriage stood before the house, and in it sat a young lady, probably Miss Charlton, playing with a pet spaniel. Pompilard rang the door-bell, and a dapper footman in white gloves ushered him up-stairs into the library. Here Charlton sat computing his profits on the rates of exchange as given in that day’s report.
He rose on Pompilard’s entrance, and with a profuse politeness that contrasted somewhat with his manner on previous occasions, shook hands with him, and placed him in a seat. Excessive prosperity had at last taught Charlton to temper his refusals with gracious speech. It was so much cheaper to give smooth words than solid coin!
“Am delighted to see you, Mr. Pompilard!” quoth he. “How fresh and young you’re looking! Your family are all well, I trust.”
“All save my son-in-law, Major Purling. He, having been thrown on his back by a bad wound and by sickness got in camp, now proposes to occupy himself with preparing a history of the war. Here is his Prospectus, and we want your name to head the subscription.”
“A most laudable project! Excellent! I don’t doubt the Major’s ability to produce a most authentic and admirable work. I shall take great pleasure in commending it to my friends.”
Here Charlton, who had received one of the papers from Pompilard, and glanced at it, handed it back to the old man.
“I want your autograph, Mr. Charlton. The work, you perceive, will be in six volumes at only two dollars a volume. For how many copies will you put down your name?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Pompilard, but the demands on my purse for objects, public and private, are so incessant just now, that I must decline subscribing. Probably when the work is published I shall desire to procure a copy for my library. I have heard of Major Purling as a gallant officer and a distinguished writer. I can’t doubt he will succeed splendidly. Make my compliments to your estimable family.”