Sevenoaks Part 48

"Toll, look here! The General wants to place a little money where it will bring him some reputation with the highly respectable old dons,--our spiritual fathers, you know--and the brethren. Understand?"

"General, you are deep; you'll have to explain."

"Well, all our sort of fellows patronize something or other. They cheat a man out of his eye-teeth one day, and the next, you hear of them endowing something or other, or making a speech to a band of old women, or figuring on a top-lofty list of directors. That's the kind of thing I want."

"You can get any amount of it, General, by paying for it. All they want is money; they don't care where it comes from."

"Toll, shut up. I behold a vision. Close your eyes now, and let me paint it for you. I see the General--General Robert Belcher, the millionaire--in the aspect of a great public benefactor. He is dressed in black, and sits upon a platform, in the midst of a lot of seedy men in white chokers. They hand him a programme. There is speech-making going on, and every speech makes an allusion to 'our benefactor,' and the brethren and sisters cheer. The General bows. High old doctors of divinity press up to be introduced. They are all after more. They flatter the General; they coddle him. They give him the highest seat.

They pretend to respect him. They defend him from all slanders. They are proud of the General. He is their man. I look into the religious newspapers, and in one column I behold a curse on the stock-jobbing of Wall street, and in the next, the praise of the beneficence of General Robert Belcher. I see the General pa.s.sing down Wall street the next day.

I see him laughing out of the corner of his left eye, while his friends punch him in the ribs. Oh, Toll! it's delicious! Where are your feelings, my boy? Why don't you cry?"

"Charming picture, General! Charming! but my handkerchief is fresh, and I must save it. I may have a cold before night."

"Well, now, Toll, what's the thing to be done?"

"What do you say to soup-kitchens for the poor? They don't cost so very much, and you get your name in the papers."

"Soup-kitchens be hanged! That's Mrs. Belcher's job. Besides, I don't want to get up a reputation for helping the poor. They're a troublesome lot and full of bother; I don't believe in 'em. They don't a.s.sociate you with anybody but themselves. What I want is to be in the right sort of a crowd."

"Have you thought of a hospital?"

"Yes, I've thought of a hospital, but I don't seem to hanker after it.

To tell the truth, the hospitals are pretty well taken up already. I might work into a board of directors by paying enough, I suppose, but it is too much the regular thing. What I want is ministers--something religious, you know."

"You might run a church-choir," suggested Talbot, "or, better than that, buy a church, and turn the crank."

"Yes, but they are not quite large enough. I tell you what it is, Toll, I believe I'm pining for a theological seminary. Ah, my heart! my heart!

If I could only tell you, Toll, how it yearns over the American people!

Can't you see, my boy, that the hope of the nation is in educated and devoted young men? Don't you see that we are going to the devil with our thirst for filthy lucre? Don't you understand how n.o.ble a thing it would be for one of fortune's favorites to found an inst.i.tution with his wealth, that would bear down its blessings to unborn millions? What if that inst.i.tution should also bear his name? What if that name should be forever a.s.sociated with that which is most hallowed in our national history? Wouldn't it pay? Eh, Toll?"

Mr. Talbot laughed.

"General, your imagination will be the death of you, but there is really nothing impracticable in your plan. All these fellows want is your money. They will give you everything you want for it in the way of glory."

"I believe you; and wouldn't it be fun for the General? I vow I must indulge. I'm getting tired of horses; and these confounded suppers don't agree with me. It's a theological seminary or nothing. The tides of my destiny, Toll--you understand--the tides of my destiny tend in that direction, and I resign my bark to their sway. I'm going to be a founder, and I feel better already."

It was well that he did, for at this moment a dispatch was handed in which gave him a shock, and compelled him to ask Talbot to retire while he dressed.

"Don't go away, Toll," he said; "I want to see you again."

The dispatch that roused the General from his dream of beneficence was from his agent at Sevenoaks, and read thus: "Jim Fenton's wedding occurred this morning. He was accompanied by a man whom several old citizens firmly believe to be Paul Benedict, though he pa.s.sed under another name. Balfour and Benedict's boy were here, and all are gone up to Number Nine. Will write particulars."

The theological seminary pa.s.sed at once into the realm of dimly remembered dreams, to be recalled or forgotten as circ.u.mstances should determine. At present, there was some thing else to occupy the General's mind.

Before he had completed his toilet, he called for Talbot.

"Toll," said he, "if you were in need of legal advice of the best kind, and wanted to be put through a thing straight, whether it were right or not, to whom would you apply? Now mind, I don't want any milksops."

"I know two or three lawyers here who have been through a theological seminary," Talbot responded, with a knowing smile.

"Oh, get out! There's no joke about this. I mean business now."

"Well, I took pains to show you your man, at my house, once. Don't you remember him?"

"Cavendish?"

"Yes."

"I don't like him."

"Nor do I. He'll bleed you; but he's your man."

"All right; I want to see him."

"Get into my coupe, and I'll take you to his office."

Mr. Belcher went to the drawer that contained his forged doc.u.ment. Then he went back to Talbot, and said:

"Would Cavendish come here?"

"Not he! If you want to see him, you must go where he is. He wouldn't walk into your door to accommodate you if he knew it."

Mr. Belcher was afraid of Cavendish, as far as he could be afraid of any man. The lawyer had bluffed everybody at the dinner-party, and, in his way, scoffed at everybody. He had felt in the lawyer's presence the contact of a nature which possessed more self-a.s.sertion and self-a.s.surance than his own. He had felt that Cavendish could read him, could handle him, could see through his schemes. He shrank from exposing himself, even to the scrutiny of this sharp man, whom he could hire for any service. But he went again to the drawer, and, with an excited and trembling hand, drew forth the accursed doc.u.ment. With this he took the autographs on which his forgeries were based. Then he sat down by himself, and thought the matter all over, while Talbot waited in another room. It was only by a desperate determination that he started at last, called Talbot down stairs, put on his hat, and went out.

It seemed to the proprietor, as he emerged from his house, that there was something weird in the morning light. He looked up, and saw that the sky was clear. He looked down, and the street was veiled in a strange shadow. The boys looked at him as if they were half startled.

Inquisitive faces peered at him from a pa.s.sing omnibus. A beggar laughed as he held out his greasy hat. Pa.s.sengers paused to observe him. All this attention, which he once courted and accepted as flattery and fame, was disagreeable to him.

"Good G.o.d! Toll, what has happened since last night?" he said, as he sank back upon the satin cus.h.i.+ons of the coupe.

"General, I don't think you're quite well. Don't die now. We can't spare you yet."

"Die? Do I look like it?" exclaimed Mr. Belcher, slapping his broad chest. "Don't talk to me about dying. I haven't thought about that yet."

"I beg your pardon. You know I didn't mean to distress you."

Then the conversation dropped, and the carriage wheeled on. The roll of vehicles, the shouting of drivers, the panoramic scenes, the flags swaying in the morning sky, the busy throngs that went up and down Broadway, were but the sights and sounds of a dimly apprehended dream.

He was journeying toward guilt. What would be its end? Would he not be detected in it at the first step? How could he sit before the hawk-eyed man whom he was about to meet without in some way betraying his secret?

When the coupe stopped, Talbot roused his companion with difficulty.

"This can't be the place, Toll. We haven't come half a mile."

"On the contrary, we have come three miles."

"It can't be possible, Toll. I must look at your horse. I'd no idea you had such an animal."

Then Mr. Belcher got out, and looked the horse over. He was a connoisseur, and he stood five minutes on the curb-stone, expatiating upon those points of the animal that pleased him.

"I believe you came to see Mr. Cavendish," suggested Talbot with a laugh.