Chapter 3

How I finally succeeded by means of my friend Farrar in being one
evening invited to the same house as Miss Preston it is not necessary to
state. You will believe me it was done with the utmost regard for her
feelings and in a way that deceived Farrar himself, who if he is the
most prying is certainly the most volatile of men. In a crowded parlor,
then, in the midst of the flash of diamonds and the flutter of fans Miss
Preston and I again met. When I first saw her she was engaged in
conversation with some young companion, and I had the pleasure of
watching for a few minutes, unobserved, the play of her ingenuous
countenance, as she talked with her friend, or sat silently watching the
brilliant array before her. I found her like and yet unlike the vision
of my dreams. More blithesome in her appearance, as was not strange
considering her party attire and the lustre of the chandelier under
which she sat, there was still that indescribable something in her
expression which more than the flash of her eye or the curve of her lip,
though both were lovely to me, made her face the one woman’s face in the
world for me; a charm which circumstances might alter, or suffering
impair, but of which nothing save death could ever completely divest her
and not death either, for it was the seal of her individuality, and that
she would take with her into the skies.

“If I might but advance and sit down by her side without a word of
explanation or the interference of conventionalities how happy I should
be,” thought I. But I knew that would not do, so I contented myself with
my secret watch over her movements, longing for and yet dreading the
advance of my hostess, with its inevitable introduction. Suddenly the
piano was touched in a distant room and not till I saw the quick change
in her face, a change hard to explain, did I recognize the selection as
one I was in the habit of playing. _She_ had not forgotten at least, and
thrilled by the thought and the remembrance of that surge of color which
had swept like a flood over her cheek, I turned away, feeling as if I
were looking on what it was for no man’s eyes to see, least of all mine.

My hostess’ voice arrested me and next moment I was bowing to the ground
before Miss Preston.

I am not a boy; nor have I been without my experiences: life with its
vicissitudes has taught me many a lesson, subjected me to many a trial,
yet in all my career have I never known a harder moment than when I
raised my eyes to meet hers after that lowly obeisance. That she would
be indignant I knew, that she might even misinterpret my motives and
probably withdraw without giving me an opportunity to speak, I felt to
be only too probable, but that she would betray an agitation so painful
I had not anticipated, and for an instant I felt that I had hazarded my
life’s happiness on a cast that was going against me. But the necessity
of saving her from remark speedily restored me to myself, and following
the line of conduct I had previously laid out, I addressed her with the
reserve of a stranger, and neither by word, look or manner conveyed to
her a suggestion that we had ever met or spoken to each other before.
She seemed to appreciate my consideration and though she was as yet too
much unused to the ways of the world to completely hide her
perturbation, she gradually regained a semblance of self-possession, and
ere long was enabled to return short answers to my remarks, though her
eyes remained studiously turned aside and never so much as ventured to
raise themselves to the passing throng much less to my face, half turned
away also.

Presently however a change passed over her. Pressing her two little
hands together, she drew back a step or two, speaking my name with a
certain tone of command. Struck with apprehension, I knew not why, I
followed her. Instantly like one repeating a lesson she spoke.

“It is very good in you to talk to me as though we were the strangers
that people believe us. I appreciate it and thank you very much. But it
is not being just true; that is I feel as if I were not being just true,
and as we can never be friends, would it not be better for us not to
meet in this way any more?”

“And why,” I gently asked, with a sense of struggling for my life, “can
we never be friends?”

Her answer was a deep blush; not that timid conscious appeal of the
blood that is beating too warmly for reply, but the quick flush of
indignant generosity forced to do despite to its own instincts.

“That is a question I would rather not answer,” she murmured at length.
“Only it is so; or I should not speak in this way.”

“But,” I ventured, resolved to know on just what foundations my
happiness was tottering, “you will at least tell me if this harsh decree
is owing to any offence I myself may have inadvertently given. The honor
of your acquaintance,” I went on, determined she should know just what a
hope she was slaying, “is much too earnestly desired, for me to wilfully
hazard its loss by saying or doing aught that could be in any way
displeasing to you.”

“You have done nothing but what was generous,” said she with increasing
womanliness of manner, “unless it was taking advantage of my being here,
to learn my name and gain an introduction to me after I had desired you
to forget my very existence.”

I recoiled at that, the chord of my self-respect was touched. “It was
not here I learned your name, Miss Preston. It has been known to me for
two weeks. At the risk of losing by your displeasure what is already
hazarded by your prudence, I am bound to acknowledge that from the hour
I left your father’s house that night, I have spared no effort
compatible with my deep respect for your feelings, to ascertain who the
young lady was that had done me such an honor, and won from me such a
deep regard. I had not intended to tell you this,” I added, “but your
truth has awakened mine, and whatever the result may be, you must see me
as I am.”

“You are very kind,” she replied governing with growing skill the
trembling of her voice. “The acquaintance of a girl of sixteen is not
worth so much trouble on the part of a man like yourself.” And blushing
with the vague apprehension of her sex in the presence of a devotion she
rather feels than understands, she waved her trembling little hand and
paused irresolute, seemingly anxious to terminate the interview but as
yet too inexperienced to know how to manage a dismissal requiring so
much tact and judgment.

I saw, comprehended her position and hesitated. She was so young, uncle,
her prospects in life were so bright; if I left her then, in a couple of
weeks she would forget me. What was I that I should throw the shadow of
manhood’s deepest emotion across the paradise of her young untrammelled
being. But the old Adam of selfishness has his say in my soul as well as
in that of my fellow-men, and forgetting myself enough to glance at her
half averted face, I could not remember myself sufficiently afterwards
to forego without a struggle, all hope of some day beholding that soft
cheek turn in confidence at my approach.

“Miss Preston,” said I, “the promise of the bud atones for its folded
leaves.” Then with a fervor I did not seek to disguise, “You say we
cannot be friends; would your decision be the same if this were our
first meeting?”

Again that flush of outraged feeling. “I don’t know—yes I think—I fear
it would.”

I strove to help her. “There is too great a difference between Bertram
Mandeville the pianist, and the daughter of Thaddeus Preston.”

She turned and looked me gently in the eye, she did not need to speak.
Regret, shame, longing flashed in her steady glance.

“Do not answer,” said I, “I understand; I am glad it is circumstances
that stand in the way, and not any misconception on your part as to my
motives and deep consideration for yourself. Circumstances can be
changed.” And satisfied with having thus dropped into the fruitful soil
of that tender breast, the seed of a future hope, I bowed with all the
deference at my command and softly withdrew.

But not to rest. With all the earnestness with which a man sets himself
to decide upon the momentous question of life or death, I gave myself up
to a night of reflection, and seated in my solitary bachelor apartment,
debated with myself as to the resolution at which I had dimly hinted in
my parting words to Miss Preston.

That I am a musician by nature, my success with the the public seems to
indicate. That by following out the line upon which I had entered I
would attain a certain eminence in my art, I do not doubt. But uncle,
there are two kinds of artists in this world; those that work because
the spirit is in them and they cannot be silent if they would, and those
that speak from a conscientious desire to make apparent to others the
beauty that has awakened their own admiration. The first could not give
up his art for any cause, without the sacrifice of his soul’s life; the
latter—well the latter could and still be a man with his whole inner
being intact. Or to speak plainer, the first has no choice, while the
latter has, if he has a will to exert it. Now you will say, and the
world at large, that I belong to the former class. I have risen in ten
years from a choir boy in Trinity Church to a position in the world of
music that insures me a full audience wherever and whenever I have a
mind to exert my skill as a pianist. Not a man of my years has a more
promising outlook in my profession, if you will pardon the seeming
egotism of the remark, and yet by the ease with which I felt I could
give it up at the first touch of a master passion, I know that I am not
a prophet in my art but merely an interpreter, one who can speak well
but who has never felt the descent of the burning tongue and hence not a
sinner against my own soul if I turn aside from the way I am walking.
The question was, then, should I make a choice? Love, as you say, seems
at first blush too insecure a joy, if not often too trivial a one, to
unsettle a man in his career and change the bent of his whole after
life; especially a love born of surprise and fed by the romance of
distance and mystery. Had I met her in ordinary intercourse, surrounded
by her friends and without the charm cast over her by unwonted
circumstances, and then had felt as I did now that of all women I had
seen, she alone would ever move the deep springs of my being, it would
be different. But with this atmosphere of romance surrounding and
hallowing her girl’s form till it seemed almost as ethereal and
unearthly as that of an angel’s, was I safe in risking fame or fortune
in an attempt to acquire what in the possession might prove as bare and
common-place as a sweep of mountain heather stripped of its sunshine.
Curbing every erratic beat of my heart, I summoned up her image as it
bloomed in my fancy, and surveying it with cruel eyes, asked what was
real and what the fruit of my own imagination. The gentle eye, the
trembling lip, the girlish form eloquent with the promise of coming
womanhood,—were these so rare, that beside them no other woman should
seem to glance or smile or move? And her words! what had she said, that
any simple-minded, modest yet loving girl might not have uttered under
the circumstances. Surely my belief in her being the one, the best and
the dearest was a delusion, and to no delusion was I willing to
sacrifice my art. But straight upon that conclusion came sweeping down a
flood of counter-reasons. If not the wonder she seemed, she was at least
a wonder to me. If I had seen her under romantic circumstances, and
unconsciously been influenced by them, the influence had remained and
nothing would ever rob her form of the halo thus acquired. Whether I
ever won her to my fireside or not, she must always remain the fairy
figure of my dreams, and being so, the gentle eye and tender lip
acquired a value that made them what they seemed, the exponent of love
and happiness. And lastly if love well or illy founded was an uncertain
joy, and the passion for a woman a poor substitute for the natural
incentive of talent or ambition, _this_ love had within it the beginning
of something deeper than joy, and in the passion thus cheaply
characterized, dwelt a force and living fire that notwithstanding all I
have hitherto achieved, has ever been lacking from my dreams of
endeavor.

As you will see, the most natural question of all did not disturb me in
these cogitations: And that was, whether in making the sacrifice I
proposed, I should meet with the reward I had promised myself. The
fancies of a young girl of sixteen are not usually of a stable enough
character to warrant a man in building upon them his whole future
happiness, especially a young girl situated like Miss Preston in the
midst of friends who would soon be admirers, and adulators who would
soon be her humble slaves. But the doubt which a serious contemplation
of this risk must have presented, was of so unnerving a character, I
dared not admit it. _If_ I made the sacrifice, I must meet with my
reward. I would listen to no other conclusion. Besides, something in the
young girl herself, I cannot tell what, assured me then as it assures me
now, that whatever virtues or graces she might lack, that of fidelity to
a noble idea was not among them; that once convinced of the purity and
value of the flame that had been lit in her innocent breast, nothing
short of the unworthiness of the object that had awakened it, would ever
serve to eliminate or extinguish it. That I was not worthy but would
make it the business of my life to become so, was certain; that she
would mark my endeavors and bestow upon me the sympathy they deserved, I
was equally sure. No one would ever make such a sacrifice to her love as
I was willing to do, and consequently in no one would I find a rival.

The morning light surprised me in the midst of the struggle, nor did I
decide the question that day. Mr. Preston might not be as determined in
his prejudices against musicians as my friends or even his daughter had
imagined. I resolved to see him. Taking advantage of his connection with
the —— Club, I procured an introducer in the shape of a highly
respected person of his own class, and went one evening to the
Club-rooms with the full intention of making his acquaintance if
possible. He was already there and in conversation with some business
associates. Procuring a seat as near him as possible, I anxiously
surveyed his countenance. It was not a reassuring one, and studied in
this way, had the effect of dampening any hopes I may have cherished in
the outset. He soften to the sounds of sweet strains or the voice of
youthful passion! As soon as the granite rock to the surge of the
useless billow. His very necktie spoke volumes. It was an old fashioned
stock, full of the traditions of other days, while his coat, shabbier
than any I would presume to wear, betrayed in every well-worn seam the
pride of the aristocrat and millionaire who in his native city and
before the eyes of his fellow magnates does not need to carry the
evidences of his respectability upon his back.

“It would be worse than folly for me to approach him on such a subject,”
I mentally ejaculated. “If he did not stare the musician out of
countenance he would the newly risen man.” And I came very near giving
up the whole thing.

But the genius that watches over the affairs of true love was with me
notwithstanding the unpropitious state of my surroundings. In a few
minutes I received my expected introduction to Mr. Preston, and I found
that underneath the repelling austerity of his expression, was a kindly
spark for youth, and a decided sympathy for all instances of manly
endeavor if only it was in a direction he approved; further that my own
personality was agreeable to him and that he was disposed to regard me
with favor until by some chance and very natural allusion to my
profession by the friend standing between us, he learned that I was a
musician, when a decided change came over his countenance and he
exclaimed in that blunt, decisive way of his that admits of no reply:

“A jingler on the piano, eh? Pretty poor use for a man to put his brains
to, I say, or even his fingers. Sorry to hear we cannot be friends.” And
without waiting for a reply, took my introducer by the arm and drew him
a step or so to one side. “Why didn’t you say at once he was Mandeville
the musician,” I overheard him ask in somewhat querulous tones. “Don’t
you know I consider the whole race of them an abomination. I would have
more respect for my bank clerk than I would for the greatest man of them
all, were it Rubenstein himself.” Then in a lower tone but distinctly
and almost as if he meant me to hear, “My daughter has a leaning towards
this same fol-de-rol and has lately requested my permission to make the
acquaintance of some musical characters, but I soon convinced her that
manhood under the disguise of a harlequin’s jacket could have no
interest for her; that when a human being, man or woman has sunk to be a
mere rattler of sweet sounds, he has reached a stage of infantile
development that has little in common with the nervous energy and
business force of her Dutch ancestry. And my daughter stoops to make no
acquaintances she cannot bid sit at her father’s table.”

“Your daughter is a child yet, I thought,” was ventured by his
companion.

“Miss Preston is sixteen, just the age at which my mother gave her hand
to my respected father sixty-seven years ago.” And with this drop of
burning lead let fall into my already agitated bosom they passed on.

He would have more respect for his bank clerk! Would his bank clerk or
what was better, a young man with means at his command, working in a
business capacity more in consonance with the tastes he had evinced,
have a chance of winning his daughter? I began to think he might. “The
way grows clearer!” I exclaimed.

But it was not till after another interview with him ten minutes later
in the lobby that I finally made up my mind. He was standing quite alone
in an obscure corner, fumbling in an awkward way with his muffler that
had caught on the button of his coat. Seeing it, I hastened forward to
his assistance and was rewarded by a kind enough nod to embolden me to
say,

“I have been introduced to you as a musician; would my acquaintance be
more acceptable to you if I told you that the pursuit of art bids fair
in my case to yield to the exigencies of business? That I purpose
leaving the concert-room for the banker’s office and that henceforth my
only ambition promises to be that of Wall Street?”

“It most certainly would,” exclaimed he, holding out his hand with an
unmistakable gesture of satisfaction. “You have too good a countenance
to waste before a piano-top strumming to the smirks of women and the
plaudits of weak-headed men. Let us see you at the desk, my lad. We are
in want of trustworthy young men to take the place of us older ones.”
Then politely, “Do you expect to make the change soon?”

“I do,” said I.

And the Rubicon was passed.

VI.

A HAND CLASP.

“_Fer._—Here’s my hand.

_Mir._—And mine with my heart in it.”

—TEMPEST.

Once arrived at a settled conclusion, I put every thought of wavering
out of my mind. Deciding that with such a friend in business circles as
yourself, I needed no other introducer to my new life, I set apart this
evening for a confab with you on the subject. Meanwhile it is pretty
generally known that I make no more engagements to appear through the
country.

I have but one more incident to relate. Last Sunday in walking down
Fifth Avenue I met her. I did not do this inadvertently. I knew her
custom of attending Bible class and for once put myself in her way. I
did not give her time to remonstrate.

“Do not express your displeasure,” said I, “this shall never be
repeated. I merely wish to say that I have concluded to leave a
profession so little appreciated by those whose esteem I most desire to
possess; that I am about entering a banker’s office where it shall be my
ambition to rise if possible, to wealth and consequence. If I
succeed—you shall then know what my incentive has been. But till I
succeed or at least give such tokens of success as shall insure respect,
silence must be my portion and patience my sole support. Only of one
thing rest assured, that until I inform you with my own lips that the
hope which now illumines me is gone, it will continue to burn on in my
breast, shedding light upon a way that can never seem dark while that
glow rests upon it.” And bowing with the ceremonious politeness our
positions demanded, I held out my hand. “One clasp to encourage me,” I
entreated.

It seemed as if she did not comprehend. “You are going to give up music,
and for—for—”

“You?” said I. “Yes, don’t forbid me,” I implored; “it is too late.”

Like a lovely image of blushing girlhood turned by a lightning flash
into marble, she paused, pallid and breathless where she was, gazing
upon me with eyes that burned deeper and deeper as the full
comprehension of all that this implied gradually forced itself upon her
mind.

“You make a chaos of my little world,” she murmured at length.

“No,” said I, “_your_ world is untouched. If it should never be my good
fortune to enter it, you are not to grieve. You are free, Miss Preston,
free as this sunshiny air we breathe; I alone am bound, and that because
I must be whether I will or no.”

Then I saw the woman I had worshipped in this young fair girl shine
fully and fairly upon me. Drawing herself up, she looked me in the face
and calmly laid her hand in mine. “I am young,” said she, “and do not
know what may be right to say to one so generous and so kind. But this
much I can promise, that whether or not I am ever able to duly reward
you for what you undertake, I will at least make it the study of my life
never to prove unworthy of so much trust and devotion.”

And with the last lingering look natural to a parting for years, we
separated then and there, and the crowd came between us, and the Sunday
bells rang on, and what was so vividly real to us at the moment, became
in remembrance more like the mist and shadow of a dream.

VII.

MRS. SYLVESTER.

Love is more pleasant than marriage, for the same reason that
romances are more amusing than history.

—CHAMFORT.

“He draweth out the thread of his verbosity, finer than the
staple of his argument.”

—LOVES LABOR LOST.

Young Mandeville having finished his story, looked at his uncle. He
found him sitting in an attitude of extreme absorption, his right arm
stretched before him on the table, his face bent thoughtfully downwards
and clouded with that deep melancholy that seemed its most natural
expression, “He has not heard me,” was the young man’s first mortifying
reflection. But catching his uncle’s eye which at that moment raised
itself, he perceived he was mistaken and that he had rather been
listened to only too well.

“You must forgive me if I have seemed to rhapsodize,” the young man
stammered. “You were so quiet I half forgot I had a listener and went on
much as I would if I had been thinking aloud.”

His uncle smiled and throwing off the weight of his reflections whatever
they might be, arose and began pacing the floor. “I see you are past
surgery,” quoth he, “any wisdom of mine would be only thrown away.”

Young Mandeville was hurt. He had expected some token of approval on his
uncle’s part, or at least some betrayal of sympathy. His looks expressed
his disappointment.

“You expected to convert me by this story,” continued the elder, pausing
with a certain regret before his nephew; “nothing could convert me
but—”

“What?” inquired Mandeville after waiting in vain for the other to
finish.

“Something which we will never find in the whirl of New York fashionable
life. A woman with faith to reward and soul to understand such
unqualified trust as yours.”

“But I believe Miss Preston is such a girl and will be such a woman. Her
looks, her last words prove it.”

“Nothing proves it but time and as for your belief, I have believed
too.” Then as if fearing he had said too much, assumed his most
business-like tone and observed, “But we will drop all that; you have
resolved to quit music and enter Wall Street, your object money and the
social consideration which money secures. Now, why Wall Street?”

“Because I can think of no other means for attaining what I desire, in
the space of time I would consent to keep a young lady of Miss Preston’s
position waiting.”

“Humph! and you have money, I suppose, which you propose to risk on the
hazard?”

“Some! enough to start with; a small amount to you, but sufficient if I
am fortunate.”

“And if you are not?”

The young man opened his arms with an expressive gesture, “I am done
for, that is all.”

“Bertram,” his uncle exclaimed with a change of tone, “has it ever
struck you that Mr. Preston might have as strong a prejudice against
speculation as against the musical profession?”

“No, that is, pardon me but I have sometimes thought that even in the
event of success I should have to struggle against his inherited
instincts of caste and his natural dislike of all things new, even
wealth, but I never thought of the possibility of my arousing his
distrust by speculating in stocks and engaging in enterprises so nearly
in accord with his own business operations.”

“Yet if I guess aright you would run greater risk of losing the support
of his countenance by following the hazardous course you propose, than
if you continued in the line of art that now engages you.”

“Do you know—”

“I know nothing, but I fear the chances, Bertram.”

“Then I am already defeated and must give up my hopes of happiness.”

A smile thin and indefinable crossed the other’s face. “No,” said he,
“not necessarily.” And sitting down by his nephew’s side, he asked if he
had any objections to enter a bank. “In a good capacity,” he exclaimed.

“No indeed; it would be an opportunity surpassing my hopes. Do you know
of an opening?”

“Well,” said he, “under the circumstances I will let you into the secret
of my own affairs. I have always had one ambition, and that was to be at
the head of a bank. I have not said much about it, but for the last five
years I have been working to this end, and to-day you see me the
possessor of at least three-fourths of the stock of the Madison Bank. It
has been deteriorating for some time, consequently I was enabled to buy
it low, but now that I have got it I intend to build up the concern. I
am able to throw business of an important nature in its way, and I dare
prophesy that before the year is out you will see it re-established upon
a solid and influential footing.”

“I have no doubt of it, sir; you have the knack of success, any thing
that you touch is sure to go straight.”

“Unhappily yes, as far as business operations go. But no matter about
that;—” as if the other had introduced some topic incongruous to the
one they were considering—“the point is this.