University of Virginia Library

36. XXXVI.
Uncle Solomon Brought to Bay.

TWENTY days had nearly gone by, and yet
the Copper, Zinc, and Lead-Mining Company
did not grow upon the confidence of the out-siders in
Wall street. Quotations of the stock were far more
frequent than the Herald had predicted. Shares
could be had for “love or money”—and for very little
of either. They had fallen from seven and an
eighth, to five and three-quarters. So far from
being in a condition to pay up the paper in his
father's name, Washington Fudge found he would
fall short in the sum of from three to four thousand
dollars. It worried him: it seemed to worry the
Count.

The last-named gentleman had meantime made
another and unsuccessful attempt to secure a handsome
allowance, in behalf of Wilhelmina, from Mr.
Solomon Fudge. My uncle Solomon was most
sincere in his refusal. He was without the means,
if he had entertained the wish to comply. This,
however, the Count did not know, and could not
believe. He shook his stick at the old gentleman
with a heartier indignation even than before. He
would “make Mr. Solomon Fudge know of it.”
And he did; for now the rich banker was vulnerable,
even to so beggarly an enemy as the Count.

The forged paper of my cousin Wash was in the
hands of a note-broker in the street, whom the
Count had recommended to Washington. The
Count called upon the broker; he wished to see
him privately. He was anxious to know if a certain
note—describing it—for ten thousand dollars,
had been offered him?

It had been.

And he had discounted it?

The broker had done so.

The Count regretted exceedingly, but he had
strong reason to fear that the note was not good;
that, in short, it was a forged note.

The broker thought he knew the paper of Mr.
Fudge; he had bought a great deal of it; and,

moreover, the present note was actually offered by
his son Washington Fudge.

“If you wish,” said the Count, “you shall walk
with me to the office of Mr. Fudge. You will
satisfy yourself. I do assure you it shall be safe.”

It was but a little way, and the broker accompanied
the noble son-in-law of the banker to the Wall
street office, where I had occasion first to present
to the notice of my reader the late mayor and
vestry-man—the eminent merchant—my uncle, Mr.
Solomon Fudge.

He is not so erect as when we saw him first. I
think he is thinner. He has had his troubles—not
at home only, but on 'Change. It is very doubtful
if he can hold out for even a week to come. But
the world knows nothing of this. Every one counts
Solomon Fudge a rich man. His carriage comes to
take him up at three, as it has any time in ten
years past. He joins his wife in her Sunday pew,
and sits grandly in the corner, in his starched
cravat—keeping up the bubble, if it may be, until
the end.

He may have some bitter thoughts about the
children of his rearing. He certainly does not
pride himself greatly upon the distinguished connection
his daughter has made, nor does he join his
wife very fervently in her praises of gant

son, Washington. Yet, with the stout animal
courage that was in him from the beginning, he
staves off the thought of such things. And in his
great establishment upon the Avenue, or in his
kingdom of Wall street, where the bank-clerks
scrape and bow their reverence, he wears his dignity
very grandly still.

The world of feeling was never very large for
him, and age has not added to its bigness. Neither
daughter nor son have opened any new avenues in
that direction; and now, should some new trial
come to probe the old cramped heart, which way
shall my uncle Solomon look—through his gold-bowed
spectacles—for sympathy? To the claret
coach, or to the Countess Wilhelmina?

Well, my uncle Solomon gravely lifts those gold-bowed
spectacles when the Count and his companion
come in. The note-broker begged pardon for
intrusion; he wished only to assure himself—of a
matter he could hardly doubt—if the note he held
in his hand was a good note?

Mr. Fudge took the paper, and waved the broker
grandly to a chair. He brought down his gold
spectacles—read the note—laid it down quietly.
“It is not mine,” said he, “it's a forgery.”

The Count Salle advanced, with his ivory-headed
stick under his arm. He had a year's accumulated

revenge in his look. “It cannot be,” said he, “for
it is of your son.”

“My son!” said Mr. Fudge, startled for a
moment.

“Mr. Washington Fudge,” said the broker,
“presented the note for discount.”

The old bank-officer nervously grappled the
paper. “It shall be paid,” said he. But, turning
his eye upon the Count, he saw an expression in his
face which subdued him. The note might be paid,
indeed; but the crime, if crime it was—remained.

He caught at the hope of bargaining with the
Count, for the honor of his son. He unfolded the
paper again—very coolly.

“Ten thousand dollars—ten thousand”—

It was too late: the animal strength was giving
way, even if the money could be found. His voice
seemed to fail him, and his eye wandered from the
Count to the broker; his hand, too, dropped, and
he fell back in his chair. They brought in some
water from the outer office, and the news went out
that Mr. Fudge was suddenly taken ill. The porter
set off for a carriage; another messenger went for
a physician.

He revived somewhat presently, and wished his
son to be sent for. They took him home in a
hackney cab. On the way he passed a claret

coach, in which sat a lady in brocade, looking out
very intently upon the passers along Broadway.
Mr. Fudge saw the carriage, and knew it; he saw
the brocade, and knew that, too; but the expression
of his face did not change; he made no motion
to stop. Why should he?

There was confusion in his great house upon the
Avenue when he reached home. It was a thing
so unheard-of for Mr. Fudge to come at such an
hour of the day! The servants only pardoned it,
when they learned that Mr. Fudge was taken
really ill.

Washington came in shortly after, and entered
his father's room—the family room, indeed; but
Mrs. Fudge was not there. Mr. Fudge asked the
physician, who had cautioned him against excitement
of any kind, to leave him a little time alone
with his son.

“Washington,” said the old gentleman, “have I
treated you well, my child?”

Washington was not prepared for this comparatively
tender manner of the old gentleman; he was
disturbed by it; he expected a row; he could only
answer, “To be sure you have, father, always.”

“Have I ever denied you any wish of yours,
Washington?”

The son said he never had.

The old gentleman appeared to breathe with
some difficulty; Washington arranged his pillows
for him. He had never done such a thing before;
and the very act seemed to soften both father
and son.

“And, Washington,” continued Mr. Fudge, now
that he spoke more easily, “when you have wanted
money, you have not found me unwilling to give it
to you?”

“Good God! father,” said the son, touched in
earnest now by the old man's tone, “don't talk to
me in that way!”

“Well, I won't, Wash,” said the father; “but
come here, nearer to me.”

Washington came so near that the old gentleman
took his hand. “Washington,” said he, “tell me
honestly—the note this morning—for ten thousand
dollars—Wash—tell me—it was not—yours?” and
the stately Mr. Fudge grasped nervously the hand
he held in his.

Washington dropped on his knees—a new position
for the elegant lad—and said only, in a voice
choked more by the sight of the old gentleman's
emotions, than by any regrets of his own, “Will you
forgive me, father?”

I think the father would have forgiven him—
there, in the family chamber, where the son was

born, who kneeled by him now; I think he lifted
his other hand, as if to draw his recreant son more
closely to him, in memory, as it were, of old and
dear affections; but his strength failed him. The
nerves of his arm were palsied. His head inclined
to one side. He murmured something unintelligibly,
and Washington lifted his face to catch it more
nearly; but there was no understanding the drivelling
words of the old man. The muscles of his
cheek had given away; his jaw drooped; the eye
stared with a ghastly expression; and he had no
power to change the fixed lids.

Yet he tried to talk, but it was in vain; the
brain even seemed touched; and he knew not that
his words were indistinct.

Mrs. Fudge, the stately lady, who had just
returned from her morning drive, came into the
room with a great rustle of brocade, and found the
old man, her husband, a hopeless paralytic, and
Washington stupefied beside him.

Sumbre hints of some cruel misfortune which had
befallen the Fudge family, ran round the town.
The creditors pressed their claims; the long cherished
stocks were forced upon the market; and in
forty-eight hours after the events I have detailed,
my uncle Solomon was declared bankrupt.

Through regard to the infirm state of Mr.
Fudge's health, some measure of indulgence was
shown; and the shame and dishonor of the son
escaped for the time publicity. A morning-paper,
indeed, in the hope of levying a small tribute from
the wreck, intimated that “a recent case of fraud,
in which one of the parties was of high connection,
was attracting remark in the circles of Wall street;
but we forbear at present the mention of names.”

Mr. Fudge, however, was quite beyond the reach
of any such appeals to his honor or his pride. His
nurse and his gruel were more to him now than the
sneers of any morning papers. Thus the Count
failed in his last effort to win tribute from his
broken-down father-in-law.

Wilhelmina came home to mingle her tears and
ejaculations with those of the old lady; but there
was very little of self-reliance in either to cheer the
house, or to give comfort to the desolate old man;
least of all, when they learned, by the vigorous
action of the creditors, that all tokens of wealth
would be taken from them, and that the staff on
which they had leaned so long was broken hopelessly.

Dr. Muddleton sends them a copy, prettily bound
in green and gilt, of his “Sermons in Affliction.”
But he never reached their hearts with his tongue;

he can hardly hope to do it with his pen. The pew
is sold, with the pink reflections from the chancel-window,
for the benefit of the creditors. The house
upon the Avenue is shortly to pass into other
hands.

The Pinkertons do not make consolatory visits;
but draw the proud moral that people should not
live beyond their means.

Only little Kitty, from far away Newtown, living
in the Bodgers house, offers them a home with her
if they choose; and Mrs. Fleming is a sister once
more to Phœbe. Jemima sends a pot of sweetmeats
for uncle Solomon; and Bridget, more than
ever—with this view before her of the vanity of
carriages and of Avenue houses—is disposed to
accept the attentions of the opposite retired grocer;
and to content herself with a humble and, may be,
useful life.