CHAPTER XLIV. A DOMESTIC RECONNOISSANCE. "O Spirit of the Summer time! Bring back the roses to the dells; W. Allingham. THE HE 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 bookcase 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." 66 'Always of late," she replied, "when I see you with one of these sensation novels, I know that something has gone wrong with you." 66 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?" 66 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." Your profits "Sir, you say what you know to be untrue. 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!" 66 "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. 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 me. 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 |