Then he had seen old Mr. Townley one day at Lenox. “I fear I did Mr. Tamms a great wrong that morning, Charlie,” he had said. “He was too proud to defend himself; but I suspect he had all the arrangements made, even at that time, and felt deeply the injustice of my strictures.” Charlie had thrust his tongue in his cheek at this, but had held his peace. He did not tell that Tamms had sold 12,000 Allegheny Central first. For Charlie had made a flying visit to the office; and there he saw enough to convince him that Tamms was already buying back his Allegheny Central stock again. And indeed it was obvious enough that he would have to do this in order to retain the control of the great property against the next election. One paper had called the guaranty a fraud.
“The Governor is certainly devilish smart,” said Charlie to himself; “but I fear he’s almost too smart to last out my time.” And Charlie drove over to Great Barrington again. So his drive with Mamie was many times repeated; and what could Gracie do? for, as Mamie told her, laughing, she would yield to her in anything but this. For, of what her course in the world should be, Mamie considered herself much the better judge. And Gracie could not bring herself to write and bear tales to her aunt, who was growing old, while Mr. Livingstone was still less to be thought of. For men and women, for youths and children, for mobs and voters, there is a something absurd now about all the constituted authorities; and so we laugh, and the dance goes on.
Since the affair with Deacon Remington, Tamms had taken Charlie quite into his confidence; and on the first of September surprised him with conferring the firm’s signature. But, though Charlie was now a partner, he had no capital; and his added dignity gave him little more than a closer knowledge of the firm’s business—and a liability for the firm’s debts. But this last responsibility did not disturb his slumbers; and he continued to be as attentive as ever to Miss Livingstone.
One day, late in the month, Charlie ran up to Great Barrington for a Sunday, and, to his surprise, found Mr. Derwent there. Now, what the deuce might this fellow be doing? thought he, and looked at him askance. Derwent filled up the entire parlor, as Charlie afterward put it to Mamie, and it was impossible for him to get a word with her. “I thought you had gone to British Columbia,” said Charlie to him, at last, suggestively.
“Did you?” replied the other, simply.
“My afternoon was quite spoilt, and I had come up from New York on purpose,” complained Charlie, the next day, to Mamie; and by this time the speech was really true. Courting is a pleasant sport while it lasts, and Miss Livingstone was a very pretty, bright young girl; and had it been merely flirting—but, as time went on, Townley began to take some interest in the chase for the game’s sake, and not for sport only. And Charlie had come up for a special purpose, which was to get Miss Mamie to go with him to the first meet of the Bronx hounds, to be held at their kennels in the Sands country the following Tuesday.
The day before, they had a great scene in the office. Mr. Tamms had for several weeks been off in regions unknown to Wall Street, upon his own vacation, and had just returned. Hardly had he torn open and roughly disposed of his morning mail, when in came Deacon Remington. “I am informed that Mr. Tamms is returned,” he announced. “I desire to see him.”
“How do you do, Deacon Remington?” said Charlie, stepping forward. “I haven’t seen you since Ocean Grove, I think,” he added, politely.
“I desire to have an interview with Mr. Tamms.” The Deacon continued to speak with precision, ignoring Charlie’s courtesies as uncalled for and unbusinesslike.
“Mr. Tamms is in his private office, I think,” said Charlie, blandly. And he inducted the earnest Deacon into that apartment, and closed the door upon him, with much the feeling that one has who shuts up a monkey in a parrot-cage. This done, Charlie resumed his desk and his occupation, which latter was nothing more arduous than the writing of a note to Mamie Livingstone. “Everybody will be there,” he wrote; “and I hope——”