CHAPTER VII.

THE UNCLE FLEECED.

Two young men sat in the parlor of the Continental. It was after dark, and the chandelier was lighted over a small, round dinner-table, spread elaborately, at which the two young men had just completed a sumptuous repast.

They had both taken segars, as a luxurious conclusion to the meal; and, leaning back in the coziest of Turkish chairs, were chatting socially together, while clouds of thin purplish smoke curled and eddied lazily over the rich confusion of the table, where fruit glowing in silver baskets; claret jugs cut into sharp ridges of light like splintered ice; tiny glasses, amber-hued, green, or ruby red, half full of rich wines from many a choice vintage, were crowded close and huddled together like jewels on a queen’s toilet. Here and there the glossy whiteness of the tablecloth was stained, like a map, with a little sea of pink champagne, or oceans of claret, proving that there had been some unsteadiness of the hand at the latter portion of the banquet. Indeed, the cheeks of these two young men were hotly flushed with scarlet, which glowed through the smoke as it curled from their lips.

“So you are at last taken in and done for?” said one of the men, flirting the ashes from his segar with a little finger, on which a small diamond glittered like a spark of fire. “I don’t believe you are in earnest yet, and shan’t till you’ve slept on it at least forty-eight hours. What kind of an angel is she—blonde, or brunette, _petite_, or queenly?”

“No matter about that, Ward. I have no taste for showing up a woman’s points as if she were a racehorse. She is beautiful, and that should satisfy you.”

“But who is she?”

“That is the question. She is somebody that Madam Savage chooses to patronize without deigning to make explanations.”

“Did she introduce you?”

“Why, hardly. She just named us to each other, and hurried us off into a tableau, where I found myself kneeling to one of the loveliest creatures you ever saw, whose duty it was to scorn and avoid me with a tragic threat of throwing herself down a battlement of pasteboard at least six feet from the floor. Upon my soul, Ward, she was so beautiful in that position that I could have knelt forever, just to keep her in that one graceful poise; but in the midst of my enchantment away she plunged over the battlement, breaking up the picture in a twinkling, and leaving me on my knees startled out of my wits. The curtain fell, and all was confusion for a time. Before I could get out of the darkness, the girl was gone. I waited half an hour about the scene, hoping that she would appear again. She did come at last, but young Savage was with her, looking confoundedly handsome and tender. I could have knocked the fellow down with a will.”

“Did you see where they went?”

“Into a carriage—the madam’s own carriage—no hack. There was a boy with them, too.”

“That looks respectable.”

“But her dress, when she came out, was poor; a brown merino, or something of that sort, with a straw bonnet, pretty, but out of fashion.”

“And you wish to know something of this girl?”

“I will know something of her.”

“Why not ask Savage?”

“I tell you, the fellow loves her himself. I saw it in his eyes as he looked under that outre little bonnet.”

“And you?”

“Don’t question me in that way, Ward. Of course, I’m deucedly in love with her. You must find her out for me by some means.”

“That would be easy, if I were intimate with Mrs. Savage’s coachman. He would of course know where he drove the party.”

“Well, get intimate with the fellow.”

“I will think about it; but now to other business. You haven’t a check for a thousand about you—or two five hundred notes in greenbacks? That was about the amount of your losses the other night.”

“What, was it so much? I had no idea of it. No, my bank account has run down to nothing; and as for ready money, I dare not trust myself with it. This filmy paper is so handy to light segars with. One does that sort of thing occasionally. I did the other night. But I’ll tell you what, Ward, instead of paying you the thousand, I’ll introduce you to a fellow that’s throwing away his money like wild-fire, thousands on thousands in a week. One of those petroleum chaps, with wells that gush up fortunes in a day.”

“And what is the fellow doing here?”

“Spending his money.”

“Thank you for the offer of an introduction; but Gould, upon my word, I am in want of ready money.”

“My dear fellow, so am I.”

“I must have it!”

“Indeed, I hope you will not be disappointed.”

Gould leaned back as he spoke, rested his head on the crimson curve of his cozy chair, and emitted a soft curl of smoke from his finely-cut lips.

“Now, Gould, this is too bad,” said Ward, impatiently. “Remember, this is a debt of honor.”

“Can’t help it, my dear fellow! Haven’t got ready cash enough to pay for these segars; to say nothing of the wine, and so forth, that a fellow must have.”

“But there is your uncle. He refuses you nothing.”

“Hark! that is his step; speak of—— Ah! my dear uncle, I am so glad to see you. Called at the house this morning, but you were out.”

The person who entered to receive this greeting, was the old man whom we have seen at his dinner in that solitary house, and who afterward gave so much happiness to the soldier’s orphans in the fair. He entered the room with a grim smile on his face, and stood near the door a moment with his brows bent, and his sharp eyes turned upon the sumptuous disarray of that dinner-table. The smile on his thin lip turned to a sneer as he took in the picture. Tiny birds, with their bones half picked; fragments of a delicious dessert; and all that rich coloring of half-drained wine-glasses, gave an idea of satiety at a glance, which brought out the disagreeable points in the old man’s character, and brought the color to Gould’s face.

“Take this seat, uncle,” cried Gould, starting up, eager to divert the old man’s attention from the debris of his little feast. “You will find it comfortable. Let me take charge of your hat and cane.”

The old man looked at his nephew with a sharp gleam of the eye, and drawing a chair to the table, laid his hat and cane on the carpet. Then he took up the glasses, one after another, and tasted their contents with great deliberation, occasionally pouring a little from the bottles and decanters, while he muttered to himself, “Champagne, Burgundy, sherry, claret, old Madeira, and the Lord knows what, with roasted canary birds, and peaches of ice by way of substantials. Wholesome eating for a young man.”

Gould pushed his chair away, and came to the table; all his indolent composure gone, and with the hot-red of a school-boy on his handsome cheeks.

“Shall I ring, uncle? Will you try one of these birds served hot? They are very fine.”

“No; thank you, nephew; they are too expensive eating for an old fellow like me.”

“Too expensive for you, uncle—the idea amuses me.”

“Remember, young gentleman,” said the old millionaire, with grim pleasantry, “that I have no rich uncle to depend on. A moderate glass of port, or claret, now and then, is as much as I can afford. But, then, it is so different with you.”

Gould bent over the old man’s chair, and whispered with deprecating humility,

“Uncle, don’t be so hard upon me before my friend.”

“Your friend!” repeated the old man, aloud. “So this is one of your friends. Let me take a good look at him.”

With cruel deliberation he took out a pair of gold spectacles, fitted them to his eyes, and searched Ward from head to foot with one of his sharp, prolonged glances. The young fellow colored, winced, and at last turned fairly around in his chair, muttering, “Hang the old fellow! his eyes seize on me like a pair of pincers.”

“Gould,” said the uncle, folding up his glasses, and shutting them in their steel case with a loud snap of the spring, “Gould, I congratulate you.”

“What for, uncle?”

“That this exquisite young gentleman is your friend. He does credit to your choice—great credit. Such honors do not often drop into our humble way. Sir, I am your servant.”

The old satirist arose, and making a profound bow, sat down again, where he could see Ward’s face burning like fire.

“I found your note at the counting-house, Gould, speaking of the serious nature of your illness, and came up to see if a consultation of doctors would be necessary.”

“That was written this morning when I was seriously ill. You remember, Ward?”

“Oh, yes! Upon my honor, sir, Gould was desperate with—with a—that is, neuralgia in the head. You would have been quite concerned about him. We tried chloroform—a great thing that chloroform. Did you ever try it, sir?”

“So the chloroform cured my nephew. I am delighted to hear it. That is it upon the mantle-piece, I dare say. Give me a little.”

The old tormentor pointed to a flask of Bohemian glass, dashed with gold, that stood on the mantle-piece.

“That, uncle? Oh! that is extract of violet. It sometimes serves to carry off a headache better than any thing else. Will you try it?”

The old man held out his hand for the bottle; took a great red silk handkerchief from his pocket, and emptied half the extract into its folds, scenting the room like a violet bank in May.

“Your note, Gould, asked for money—an unusual thing; so unusual, that I brought the check in my pocket.”

At the mention of a check, Ward started round in his chair, and fixed a hungry glance on that hard, old face. A check! His thousand dollars might not be so very far off, after all.

Gould bent eagerly over his uncle’s chair.

“You are too good, uncle. I—I——”

“Oh! not at all, Gould. You deserve all that I am going to do for you—richly deserve it. Give me a light while I sign the check; thank you. There now, see how careless. You haven’t a stamp about you, I fear.”

“Oh, yes!” cried Ward. “Here is one.”

He reached over in handing the stamp, and caught a glance at the amount.

“By Jove! it’s for two thousand!” he said, inly. “Gould shall go halves before I leave him.”

The old man smiled one of his iron smiles as he pressed the stamp in its place. Then he signed the check, with a broad, old-fashioned flourish under the name.

“Will that do?” he asked, lifting his face to that of his nephew, who bent over his shoulder delighted.

“Is the figure large enough?”

“Oh, uncle! It is more than I dared hope for.”

“Not at all, Gould. Remember, I filled it in thinking you ill. No, no! do not put out the taper yet. What a pretty stand you have for it; filigree gold, as I am a miserly old sinner. That makes a pretty blaze, doesn’t it?”

Gould made a snatch at the check, but it was in a light blaze; and the old man held it till it burned down to his fingers, and fell in black flakes over the taper, and the daintily warm gold that held it.

Ward jumped up from his chair with an oath on his lips. Gould turned white, and staggered back.

“Uncle, uncle! I owed every dollar of that money,” he cried out. “My honor is at stake.”

The old man picked up his hat and cane with silent deliberation.

“Sir. Sir, I say! Gould owes me half the money; and, by Jove! I must have it,” cried Ward.

“Owes you! What for?”

This curt question made the young gambler start and bethink himself.

“What for? What for? Why for money I lent him the other night for the Soldier’s Fair. That nephew of yours, sir, is one of the most benevolent, tender-hearted fellows that the sun ever shone on. That night he met me in front of the fair, really distressed.

“‘Ward,’ said he—my name is Ward, sir. Gould forgot to present me, but Ward is my name—‘Ward,’ said he, ‘I’ve just done a foolish thing. You’ll say so, when I tell you what it is——’

“Said I, interrupting him, ‘I’ll lay five to one that you’ve been at your old tricks—emptying both pockets to help some miserable soldier’s family out of trouble. But it’s in you, this tender-heartedness; and all I can say will never drive it out.’

“‘No,’ says Gould, ‘you’re wrong there. It is no family this time; but you know a draft has been made.’

“‘Yes, I know,’ said I, ‘and you have been drawn.’

“‘Wrong again,’ says your nephew. ‘But every man owes a life to his country. I cannot serve; it would break my dear uncle’s heart should I be killed; and he is too good a man for me to give him one moment’s pain.’ I beg your pardon, Gould, for saying this; but truth will out, and your uncle will forgive me.

“‘Well, what have you done?’ said I.

“‘Simply this,’ replied Gould, blushing like a girl. ‘I’ve given every cent that I have on hand to a brave fellow to take my place in the ranks and fight my battles. It’s a mean way of doing things; but I could not leave my uncle, not—not even for my country; and Burns was determined to go.’”

“Who? What name did you say?” cried the old man, grasping his cane hard.

“Burns, sir. Burns was the name I used.”

“A man who left two boys, a young girl, and an old woman behind to suffer while he fought? Was that the person?”

“Yes, sir; no doubt of it. Gould would never tell you of it; but these were the facts.”

“How long was this ago?”

“I—I—how long was it, Gould? I know when you told me, but it was before that.”

“I cannot say. All this is unauthorized, sir. I never dreamed that he would tell this story. Indeed——”

“I cannot say the exact time,” cut in Ward; “and he won’t. But it was long enough ago to keep him in hot water month after month. You have been very liberal to him, I know, sir; but it has all gone that way. ‘Soldiers’ widows, soldiers’ children—they must be fed,’ he argues. ‘What if these things do plunge me in debt; if my uncle knew, he would not condemn me.’

“‘Then tell him,’ said I; ‘tell him at once, and relieve yourself from all embarrassment.’

“‘No,’ he said, ‘that would be making him responsible; that would be forcing my charities on him. Only help me, as a friend should, and I will find my way out of this trouble. He is generous—munificent—this good uncle of mine, let men say what they please. Some day he will give me all the money I want; and while he thinks that I spend it in extravagance, perhaps, I shall have the satisfaction of knowing where it goes, and who it helps.’

“The very day that your nephew told me this I lent him a thousand dollars; five hundred of that sum went for subscriptions in less than an hour. The rest would have been given to a family that composed the most touching picture of distress that I ever saw—but I prevented it. I would not let him go home penniless.”

“Was it a tableau within the fair? Did an old woman—a lady, every inch of her—sit in the picture? Was there a young girl, and two boys—bright, handsome little fellows—crouching at her feet?”

The old man asked these questions eagerly. His hand worked around the top of his staff; his eyes kindled under those bent brows.

“Yes, sir. Yes, that is the very family.”

“And you gave the father of this family a thousand dollars when he went to the wars, Gould?”

Gould shook his head. “I did not say so, uncle. I never would have told you so.”

Ward broke in upon him with breathless haste.

“But he did it, sir—he did it.”

“I saw this family. I was at the fair that night,” said the old man, with a touch of pathos in his voice. “Can you tell me where they live?”

“No, I cannot. Doubtless they have been moving from place to place since then, as poverty sent them.”

“But with that money they should not have been so poor,” said the old man with a return of keen intelligence.

“But it did not go to them, sir,” said Ward, hastily. “This man Burns was deep in debt, and the money went to clear him.”

“Ward! Ward!” exclaimed Gould, starting up; “this is too much. I will not permit it.”

“Be silent, Gould!—be silent! I ought to know this. You should have told me yourself; perhaps I should have been glad to help you,” interposed the uncle, with strange gentleness in his voice. “I may condemn such extravagance as this. I do condemn and repudiate it utterly. Extravagance is always wicked, coarse, unbearable. I was angry——”

“Not with your nephew, I trust, for that which is altogether my fault,” interposed Ward. “I confess to it, my tastes are ruinously luxurious. Gould would never have thought of any thing so absurd; but I was lonely, and asked leave to share his parlor awhile. The unfortunate dinner was served by my order, and at my expense. As for the pretty gimcracks, it is my fancy. I like to have such things around me. But, my dear sir, you must not think me effeminate and worthless, for all that.”

The old man’s face brightened wonderfully after this speech. He dropped his cane and placed his hat on the carpet once more.

“Bring back the pen and ink! Give me another stamp! Here, Gould, take that. But, remember, find out where this family lives. I wish to know—I must know.”

Gould took the check, which rattled like a dead leaf in the old man’s hand.

“Uncle! uncle!” he said, “I ought not to take this; I have no right.”

The old man snatched up his hat and cane, while these honest words were on his nephew’s lips, and left the room.

When he was gone, Ward snatched the check from Gould, and leaping on the seat of his chair, brandished it on high.

“What author ever got so much for a single romance, I wonder!” he cried. “I say, Gould, I must turn my attention to literature, or the stage. Did ever a lie out of whole cloth tell so famously. Pour out bumpers, my fine fellow, and let us drink the old fellow’s health!”

“Be silent, sir!” Gould’s voice trembled with passion. There was too much good in him for a relish of such companionship, when it took that form of broad dishonesty. “Be silent, sir! if you would not have me hate you, and myself also.”

With these hot words the young men parted.