CHAPTER XVIII.

MR. TRACY'S SANCTUM.

I BELIEVE I have already informed the reader, that Mr. Tracy was counted among the merchant princes of the great city where he lived. He resided in a handsome house on one of the fashionable streets; kept his carriage and fancy matched horses, and his whole equipage and appearance were calculated to do honor to his high rank in life.

At the end of the wide hall, upon which the front door opened, there was an apartment sacred to the use of the head of the family. Indeed, he always designated it as his sanctum. The walls on one side of this small room were lined with hook cases filled with volumes on his favorite subjects. The under part of these cases, with the exception of a space devoted to scrap-books, was crowded with newspapers containing his speeches or those in which speeches had been favorably noticed, or papers from which scraps were to be cut for the formation of other speeches.

In the centre of the opposite side of the room stood a high and rather old-fashioned secretary, with mahogany doors. Opening these, the curious could see a number of rows of what are technically termed pigeon-holes, filled with neatly filed papers.

Underneath was a wide shelf containing a few law books, conspicuous among which was a volume of "Revised—statutes," and under the shelf, three small drawers. When the doors of the secretary were shut, all these appurtenances were hidden from view. They were always shut and locked when Mr. Tracy was not seated in his arm-chair opposite, for the secretary was a sacred deposit. And, old-fashioned as it looked, the pigeon-holes and small drawers held papers for which brokers would readily have given their hundreds of thousands.

The room contained nothing else of note except a handsomely executed bust of Mr. Tracy and an oil painting of the same man.

It is Monday morning, and Monson P. Tracy sits in his leather-bottomed arm-chair drawn up before his desk. The well-varnished doors however remain closely shut, and the gentleman has both his elbows on the desk, his head supported by his hands.

When he starts back at a noise from without, an observer, if there were one, would see that his face was unusually pale, and the well-cut features contracted as if with pain. The disease, however, is mental, and must be endured, since he has no idea of confiding in a medical adviser.

It may be that the services of the Sabbath were too much for him. He had caused no little surprise to the congregation by appearing in his slip, both in the morning and afternoon, beside remaining to partake of the sacrament of the Lord's supper.

This last was always a trying occasion to him, some texts of Scripture introducing themselves into his mind, and refusing to be shut out, as it was easy to do at other times.

But yesterday the minister's text was extremely unfortunate for him. Mr. Tracy really thought he should be obliged to remove to the Stone Church and place himself under the spiritual guidance of a more liberal preacher. The text was this,—

"Whoso 'eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh damnation to himself, not discerning the Lord's body.'"

But at length the Sabbath was over, and M. P. Tracy had bottled up his religion and corked it well for another week. Not that he considered it in danger of exploding; there was not enough vitality in it for that. But he had work to do, and his religious profession was sadly in his way.

So there he sat propping his head with his hands, trying to drive away or frighten off or in any manner get rid of certain passages he had read in an old-fashioned volume:

"'Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.'"

"'Ye shall not afflict any widow, or fatherless child. If thou afflict them in any wise, and they cry at all unto me, I will surely hear their cry; and my wrath shall wax hot, and I will kill you with the sword; and your wives shall be widows, and your children fatherless.'"

After half an hour, he rose to convince himself that the door leading into his sanctum was securely locked, and returned to his seat again. But this time, he seized a pen, and began a rapid calculation in figures.

"Ten thousand clear gain," he soliloquized, "and nothing done that the law can touch. That's what I call a neat stroke. Wouldn't I like to see another lead mine agent as clear headed as Myers. Ten thousand gain on my book, and not one dollar out. Didn't I pull the wool over my ward's eyes? Let me see, I drew ten thousand out of his city stocks, and invested it in shares, on condition with Myers that I should have an equal amount gratis. In my character as guardian, I conclude to sell Frank and Helen my shares, and out comes another ten thousand to pay for them. All fair, honorable and aboveboard! But about this parson who was to have been my successor according to my old employer's will. I'd no idea he would make such a row about my proposal in behalf of Roswell. What shall I say to him?"

He took a letter from his breast-pocket and read with considerable irritation a request from Mr. Knowles to meet him on Tuesday afternoon at three o'clock at the office of S. R. Miles, attorney at law, in reference to the property of Francis and Helen Edmond.

"I'll plead excess of business and decline meeting him," he exclaimed, knitting his brows. "I'll suffer no interference. But will not my refusal court farther inquiry? Frank, who is now of age, will apply to the court for liberty to remove his property from my hands? Sometimes I wish Mr. Edmond had never named me as executor. I did humbug the old man to be sure," and an unpleasant smile passed over his features.

Another silence, the frown on his forehead growing sterner every moment. At length, he burst out:

"What a piece of folly I've been guilty of! I can see it plainly now. Helen has the spirit of —; well I wont call hard names.

"It's that letter I wrote the parson that has roused her. Ha! Ha! Ha! Wouldn't she rave if she knew exactly what a charming piece of morality I had selected for her? Roswell must reform or he'll go to the dogs. I wrote that just to gratify my spite in return for her officious interference concerning Sarah Barrows. Such revenge doesn't pay, as I ought to have known. But now what is to be done?"

Suddenly he started, clapping his hands on his knees.

"I have it," he exclaimed. "I'll do it. At any rate it will give me time."

Drawing the key of the secretary from his pocket, he proceeded to take from the book shelf a large bound volume, running his finger down one and another of the columns of figures, his countenance relaxing visibly.

"Yes, that will do," he murmured with a sigh of relief; "that will do, and it will give me time."

He pulled open a large drawer in the lower part of the secretary and taking from thence a sheet ruled with red ink, he proceeded to make out a list of securities, bank and city stock, mortgages on real estate, etc., etc., to be exhibited to Frank Edmond and his legal advisers.

This work occupied him till three o'clock in the afternoon, but he arose from it satisfied that it would do the business for which it was intended, and that for the present he was safe.

The dinner-bell rang while he was returning the folio volume to the shelf, and with a self-satisfied smile, he said to himself: "All looks fair and above board except the sale of that land for half its value. I must trust to my usual good luck to explain that somehow. 'Twouldn't do to let them guess that I received a good fat bonus for consenting to the sale, and that the bonus went into my own pocket."

It was an immense relief to Mrs. Tracy when she saw her husband emerge from his sanctum, with a smile taking the place of the scowl she had so much reason to dread. At twelve o'clock she had knocked at his door with a plate of sandwiches and a glass of brandy. But in return for her wifely attentions, she had only received a rudely expressed request that she would attend to her own business, and leave him alone.

Lifting the cover from an immense platter before him, the gentleman condescended a flattering remark upon the juicy roasting joint. Then replacing the cover, he repeated the form of words he used as grace, and then proceeded with alacrity to carve several nice cuts which he laid gently on his own plate.

The duty of attendance on number one being complied with, he sent his plate round to his wife to be supplied with potatoes, turnip, squash and macaroni, at the same time asking:

"Will you have it rare, Roswell?"

The young man, looking extremely pain and haggard, with blood-shot eyes and trembling hands, replied that he liked it very rare.

Mrs. Tracy having passed her plate for some meat, the conversation flagged. Roswell, however, was soon satisfied, and pushing back from the table complained of a tearing headache.

"You confine yourself too closely to business," anxiously remarked his mother. "You ought to take some recreation."

A loud laugh from Monson P. and a silly chuckle from the son were the mother's only answers.

"I don't see anything to laugh at," she exclaimed with more than usual spirit. "I can see that Roswell is running down; and I'm sure he needs more air."

"You had better not talk about what you don't understand," said her husband with a sly wink at his son.

But presently, some emotion of fatherly interest prompted him to add:

"Roswell certainly isn't looking strong. And if he doesn't take care, his life wont be a long one."

After a dessert of plum pudding and coffee, they arose from table, and Mrs. Tracy seized the favorable opportunity to state the fact that she needed money.

"Money, it is always money," he began but suddenly checking himself, to her surprise and delight, her husband opened his portemonnaie, and put a roll of bank notes into her hand.