University of Virginia Library

44. CHAPTER XLIV.
A DOMESTIC RECONNOISSANCE.

THE following Wednesday, Pompilard returned rather
earlier than usual from his diurnal visit to Wall Street.
He brought home a printed copy of the Prospectus, and sent it
up-stairs to the wounded author. Then taking from the book-case
a yellow-covered pamphlet, he composed himself in an
arm-chair, and, resting his legs on an ottoman, began reading
that most thrilling production of the season, “The Guerilla's
Bride, or the Temptation and the Triumph, by Carrie Cameron.”

Mrs. Pompilard glided into the room, and, putting her hands
over his eyes from behind, said, “What 's the matter, my
love?”

“Matter? Nothing, wife! Leave me to my novel.”

“Always of late,” she replied, “when I see you with one of
these sensation novels, I know that something has gone wrong
with you.”

“Nonsense, you silly woman! I know what you want. It 's
a kiss. There! Take it and go.”

“You 've lost money!” said Madam, receiving the kiss, then
shaking her finger at him, and returning to her household
tasks.

She was right in her surmise. Pompilard, hopeful of Union
victories on the Peninsula of Virginia, had been selling gold in
expectation of a fall. There had been a large rise, and his five
hundred dollars had been swallowed up in the great maw of

Wall Street like a straw in Niagara. He passed the rest of
that day in the house, reading his novel, or playing backgammon
with the Major.

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.”

Here a lady elegantly dressed, as if for a promenade, entered
the room, and asked for the morning paper. She looked searchingly
at Pompilard, and then went up to him, and putting out
her hand, said, “Have you forgotten Charlotte Dykvelt?”

“Impossible! Who could have believed it? And you are
now Mrs. Charlton!”

The lady's lip curled a little, as if no gracious emotion came
with the reminder. Then taking from the old man's hand the
printed sheet which Charlton had returned to him, she exclaimed:
“What have we here? A Prospectus! Is not Major
Purling your son-in-law? To be sure he is! A brave
officer! He must be encouraged in his project. And how is
your daughter, Mrs. Ireton? I see,” continued Mrs. Charlton,
laying down the Prospectus and pulling away nervously at her
gloves, — “I see that your grandson, Captain Ireton, has been
highly complimented for gallant behavior on the Mississippi.”

“Yes, he 's a good boy, is Fred. Do you know he was a
great admirer of yours?”

The lady was suddenly absorbed in looking for a certain
advertisement of a Soldier's Relief Meeting. Pompilard took

up his Prospectus, began folding it, and rose from his chair as
if to go.

“Let me look at that Prospectus a moment,” said Mrs.
Charlton, taking up a pen.

“Certainly,” he replied, handing her the paper. While she
read it, he examined what appeared a bronze vase that stood
on one side of the table. He undertook to lift it, and drew
out from a socket, which extended beneath the surface of the
wood, a polished steel tube.

“Take care, Mr. Pompilard!” said Charlton; “'t is loaded.
No one would suppose 't was a revolver, eh? I got it the day
after old Van Wyck was robbed, sitting in his library. Please
don't mention the fact that I have such a weapon within my
reach.”

“I have put down my name for thirty copies,” said Mrs.
Charlton, returning to Pompilard his Prospectus.

“But this is munificent, Madam!” exclaimed the old man.

Charlton gnawed his lips in helpless anger.

Madam had played her cards so well, that it was a stipulation
she and her daughter should have each a large allowance,
in the spending of which they were to be independent. Drawing
forth her purse, she took from it three one hundred dollar
bills, a fifty, and a ten, and handed them to Pompilard.

“Do you wish to pay in advance, Madam?” he asked.

“I wish that money to be paid directly to the author, to aid
him in his patriotic labors,” she replied. “There need be no
receipt, and there need be no delivery of books.”

Pompilard took the bills and looked her in the face. He
felt that words would be impertinent in conveying his thanks.
She gave him one sad, sweet smile of acknowledgment of his
silent gratitude. “Major Purling,” said he, in a tone that
trembled a little, “will be greatly encouraged by your liberality.
I will bid you good morning, Madam. Good morning,
Mr. Charlton!”

Husband and wife were left alone.

“That 's the way you fool away my money, is it, Mrs. Charlton?
Three hundred and sixty dollars disposed of already!
A nice morning's work!”

“You speak of the money as yours, sir. You forget. By

contract it is mine. I shall spend it as I choose. Does not
our agreement say that my allowance and my daughter's shall
be absolutely at our disposal?”

“Those allowances, Mrs. Charlton, must be cut down to
meet the state of the times. I can't afford them any
longer.”

“Sir, you say what you know to be untrue. Your profits
from the rise in exchange alone, since the war began, have
already been two hundred thousand dollars. The rise in your
securities generally has been enormous. And yet you talk of
not affording the miserable pittance you allow me and my
daughter!”

“A miserable pittance! O yes! Ten thousand a year for
pin-money is a very miserable pittance.”

“So it is, when one lays by five times that amount of superfluous
income. Thank me that I don't force you to double
the allowance. Do you think to juggle me with your groans
about family expenses and the hard times? Am I so easily
duped, think you, as not to see through the miserly sham?”

“This is the woman that promised to love, honor, and
obey!”

“Do you twit me with that? Go back, Charlton, to that
first day you pressed me to be your wife. I frankly told you
I could not love you, — that I loved another. You made light
of all that. You enlisted the influence of my parents against
me. You drove me into the toils. No sooner was I married
than I found that you, with all your wealth, had chosen me
merely because you thought I was rich. What a satisfaction
it was to me when I heard of my father's failure! What was
your disappointment, — your rage! But there was no help for
it. And so we settled down to a loveless life, in which we
have thus far been thoroughly consistent. You go your way,
and I mine. You find your rapture in your coupons and dividends;
I seek such distraction as I can in my little charities,
my Sanitary Aid Societies, and my Seaman's Relief. If you
think to cut me off from these resources, the worst will probably
be your own.”

Charlton was cowed and nonplussed, as usual in these altercations.
“There, go!” said he. “Go and make ducks and

drakes of your money in your own way. That old Pomposity
has left his damned Prospectus here on the table.”

Mrs. Charlton passed out and down-stairs. On a slab in
the hall was a bouquet which a neighboring greenhouse man
she had befriended had just left. She stooped to smell of it.
What was there in the odors which brought back associations
that made her bow her head while the tears gushed forth?
Conspicuous among the flowers was a bunch of English violets,
— just such a little bunch as Frederick Ireton used to
bring her in those far-off days, when the present and the future
seemed so flooded with rose-hues.

“Miss Lucy wants to know if you 're ever coming?” said a
servant.

“Yes!” replied Mrs. Charlton. “'T is too bad to keep her
waiting so!” And the next moment she joined her daughter
in the carriage.

Meanwhile Charlton, as his wife left him, had groaned out,
in soliloquy, “What a devil of a woman! How different from
my first wife!” Then he sought consolation in the quotations
of stock. While he read and chuckled, there was a knock. It
was only Pompilard returned for his Prospectus. As the old
man was folding it up, the white-gloved footman laid a card
before Charlton. “Vance!” exclaimed the latter: “I 'm acquainted
with no such person. Show him up.”

Vance had donned his citizen's dress. He wore a blue frock,
fastened by a single black silk button at the top, a buff vest,
white pantaloons, and summer shoes. Without a shoulder-strap,
he looked at once the soldier and the gentleman. Rapidly and
keenly he took Charlton's physiognomical measure, then glanced
at Pompilard. The latter having folded up his Prospectus, was
turning to quit the room. As he bowed on departing, Charlton
remarked, “Good day to you, Mr. Pompilard.”

“Did I hear the name Pompilard?” inquired Vance.

“That is my name, sir,” replied the old man.

“Is it he whose wife was a Miss Aylesford?”

“The same, sir.”

“Mr. Pompilard, I have been trying to find you. My carriage
is at the door. Will you do me the favor to wait in it
five minutes for me till I come down?”

“Certainly, sir.” And Pompilard went out.

“Now, Mr. Charlton,” said Vance, “what I have to say is,
that I am called Colonel Vance; that I am recently from New
Orleans; that while there it became a part of my official duty
to look at certain property held in your name, but claimed by
another party.”

“Claimed by a rebel and a traitor, Colonel Vance. I 'm
delighted to see you, sir. Will you be seated?”

“No, thank you. Let me propose to you, that, as preliminary
to other proceedings, I introduce to you to-night certain
parties who came with me from New Orleans, and whose testimony
may be at once interesting and useful.”

“I shall be obliged to you for the interview, Colonel Vance.”

“It would be proper that your confidential lawyer should
be present; for it may be well to cross-question some of the
witnesses.”

“Thank you for the suggestion, Colonel Vance. I shall
avail myself of it.”

“As there will be ladies in the party, I hope your wife and
daughter will be present.”

“I will give them your message.”

“Tell them we have a young officer with us who was shot
through the lungs in battle not long since. Shall we make the
hour half-past eight; — place, the Astor House?”

“That would suit me precisely, Colonel Vance.”

“Then I will bid you good day, sir, for the present.”

Charlton put out his hand, but Vance bowed without seeming
to notice it, and passed out of the house into the carriage.

“Mr. Pompilard,” said he, as the carriage moved on, “are
you willing to take me on trust, say for the next hour, as a
gentleman, and comply with my reasonable requests without
compelling me to explain myself further? Call me, if you
please, Mr. Vance.”

“Truly, Mr. Vance,” replied Pompilard, “I do not see how
I risk much in acceding to your proposition. If you were an
impostor, you would hardly think of fleecing me, for I am
shorn close already. Besides, you carry the right signet on
your front. Yes, I will trust you, Mr. Vance.”

“Thank you, sir. Your wife is living?”

“I left her alive and well some two hours ago.”

“Has she any children of her own?”

“One, — a daughter, Antoinette. We call her Netty. A
most extraordinary creature! An artist, sir! Paints sea-pieces
better than Lane, Bradford, or Church himself. A
girl of decided genius.”

“Well, Mr. Pompilard, if your house is not far from here, I
wish to drive to it at once, and have your wife and daughter do
us the honor to take seats in this carriage.”

“That we can do, Mr. Vance. Driver, 27 Lavinia Street!
The day is pleasant. They will enjoy a drive. I must make
you acquainted with my son-in-law, Major Purling. A noble
fellow, sir! Had an arm shot off at Fair Oaks. Used up, too,
by fever. Brave as Julius Cæsar! And, like Julius Cæsar,
writes as well as he fights. He proposes getting up a history
of the war. Here 's his Prospectus.”

Vance looked at it. “I must n't be outdone,” said he, “by
a lady. Put me down also for thirty copies. Put down Mr.
Winslow and Madame Volney each for as many more.”

“But that is astounding, sir!” cried Pompilard. “A hundred
and twenty copies disposed of already! The Major will
jump out of his bed at the news!”

As the carriage crossed the Bowery and bowled into Lavinia
Street, Pompilard remarked: “There are some advantages, Mr.
Vance, in being on the East River side. We get a purer sea
air in summer, sir.”

At that moment an unfortunate stench of decayed vegetables
was blown in upon them, by way of comment, and Pompilard
added: “You see, sir, we are very particular about removing
all noxious rubbish. Health, sir, is our first consideration. We
have the dirt-carts busy all the time.”

Here the carriage stopped. “A modest little place we have
taken for the summer, Mr. Vance. Small, but convenient and
retired. Most worthy and quiet people, our neighbors. Walk
in, sir.”

They entered the parlor. “Take a seat, Mr. Vance. If
you 've a taste for art, let me commend to your examination
that fine engraving between the windows. Here 's a new book,
if you are literary, — Miss Carrie Cameron's famous novel.
Amuse yourself.”

And having handed him “The Guerilla's Bride,” Pompilard
rushed up-stairs. Instantly a great tumult was heard in the
room over Vance's head. It was accompanied with poundings,
jumpings, and exultant shouts. Three hundred and sixty dollars
had been placed on the coverlid beneath which lay the
wounded Purling. It was the first money his literary efforts
had ever brought him. The spell was broken. Thenceforth
the thousands would pour in upon him in an uninterrupted
flood. Can it be wondered that there was much jubilation
over the news?

Vance was of course introduced to all the inmates, and
made a partaker in their good spirits. At last Mrs. Pompilard
and Netty were dressed and ready. Vance handed them
into the carriage. He and Pompilard took the back seat. As
they drove off they encountered a crowd before an adjoining
door. It was composed of some of those “most worthy and
quiet neighbors” of whom Pompilard had recently spoken.
They were gathering, amid a Babel of voices, round a cart
where an ancient virago, Milesian by birth, was berating a
butcher whom she charged with having sold her a stale leg of
mutton the week before.

“One misses these bustling little scenes in the rural districts,”
quoth Pompilard. “They serve to give color and
movement, life and sparkle, to our modest neighborhood.”

“Mrs. Pompilard,” said Vance, “we are on our way to the
Astor House, where I propose to introduce to you a young
lady. I wish you and your daughter to scrutinize her closely,
and to tell me if you see in her a likeness to any one you have
ever known.”