"WHAT has become of the Wightmans?" I asked of my old friend Payson.
I had returned to my native place after an absence of several years.
Payson looked grave.
"Nothing wrong with them, I hope. Wightman was a clever man, and he
had a pleasant family."
My friend shook his head ominously.
"He was doing very well when I left," said I.
"All broken up now," was answered. "He failed several years ago."
"Ah! I'm sorry to hear this. What has become of him?"
"I see him now and then, but I don't know what he is doing."
"And his family?"
"They live somewhere in Old Town. I havn't met any of them for a
long time. Some one told me that they were very poor."
This intelligence caused a feeling of sadness to pervade my mind.
The tone and manner of Payson, as he used the words "very poor,"
gave to them more than ordinary meaning. I saw, in imagination, my
old friend reduced from comfort and respectability, to a condition
of extreme poverty, with all its sufferings and humiliations. While
my mind was occupied with these unpleasant thoughts, my friend said,
"You must dine with me to-morrow. Mrs. Payson will be glad to see
you, and I want to have a long talk about old times. We dine at
three."
I promised to be with them, in agreement with the invitation; and
then we parted. It was during business hours, and as my friend's
manner was somewhat occupied and hurried, I did not think it right
to trespass on his time. What I had learned of the Wightmans
troubled my thoughts. I could not get them out of my mind. They were
estimable people. I had prized them above ordinary acquaintances;
and it did seem peculiarly hard that they should have suffered
misfortune. "Very poor"--I could not get the words out of my ears.
The way in which they were spoken involved more than the words
themselves expressed, or rather, gave a broad latitude to their
meaning. "VERY poor! Ah me!" The sigh was deep and involuntary.
I inquired of several old acquaintances whom I met during the day
for the Wightmans; but all the satisfaction I received was, that
Wightman had failed in business several years before, and was now
living somewhere in Old Town in a very poor way. "They are miserably
poor," said one. "I see Wightman occasionally," said another--"he
looks seedy enough." "His girls take in sewing, I have heard," said
a third, who spoke with a slight air of contempt, as if there were
something disgraceful attached to needle-work, when pursued as a
means of livelihood. I would have called during the day, upon
Wightman, but failed to ascertain his place of residence.
"Glad to see you!" Payson extended his hand with a show of
cordiality, as I entered his store between two and three o'clock on
the next day.
"Sit down and look over the papers for a little while," he added.
"I'll be with you in a moment. Just finishing up my bank business."
"Business first," was my answer, as I took the proffered newspaper.
"Stand upon no ceremony with me."
As Payson turned partly from me, and bent his head to the desk at
which he was sitting, I could not but remark the suddenness with
which the smile my appearance had awakened faded from his
countenance. Before him was a pile of bank bills, several checks,
and quite a formidable array of bank notices. He counted the bills
and checks, and after recording the amount upon a slip of paper
glanced uneasily at his watch, sighed, and then looked anxiously
towards the door. At this moment a clerk entered hastily, and made
some communication in an undertone, which brought from my friend a
disappointed and impatient expression.
"Go to Wilson," said he hurriedly, "and tell him to send me a check
for five hundred without fail. Say that I am so much short in my
bank payments, and that it is now too late to get the money any
where else. Don't linger a moment; it is twenty five minutes to
three now."
The clerk departed. He was gone full ten minutes, during which
period Payson remained at his desk, silent, but showing many signs
of uneasiness. On returning, he brought the desired check, and was
then dispatched to lift the notes for which this late provision was
made.
"What a life for a man to lead," said my friend, turning to me with
a contracted brow and a sober face. "I sometimes wish myself on an
island in mid ocean. You remember C----?"
"Very well."
"He quit business a year ago, and bought a farm. I saw him the other
day. 'Payson,' said he, with an air of satisfaction, 'I haven't seen
a bank notice this twelvemonth.' He's a happy man! This note paying
is the curse of my life. I'm forever on the street
financiering--_Financiering_. How I hate the word! But come--they'll
be waiting dinner for us. Mrs. Payson is delighted at the thought of
seeing you. How long is it since you were here? About ten years, if
I'm not mistaken. You'll find my daughters quite grown up. Clara is
in her twentieth year. You, of course, recollect her only as a
school girl. Ah me! how time does fly!"
I found my friend living in a handsome house in Franklin street. It
was showily, not tastefully, furnished, and the same might be said
of his wife and daughters. When I last dined with them--it was many
years before--they were living in a modest, but very comfortable
way, and the whole air of their dwelling was that of cheerfulness
and comfort. Now, though their ample parlors were gay with rich
Brussels, crimson damask, and brocatelle, there was no genuine home
feeling there. Mrs. Payson, the last time I saw her, wore a
mousseline de lain, of subdued colors, a neat lace collar around her
neck, fastened with a small diamond pin, the marriage gift of her
father. Her hair, which curled naturally, was drawn behind her ears
in a few gracefully falling ringlets. She needed no other ornament.
Anything beyond would have taken from her the chiefest of her
attractions, her bright, animated countenance, in which her friends
ever read a heart-welcome.
How changed from this was the rather stately woman, whose real
pleasure at seeing an old friend was hardly warm enough to melt
through the ice of an imposed formality. How changed from this the
pale, cold, worn face, where selfishness and false pride had been
doing a sad, sad work. Ah! the rich Honiton lace cap and costly
cape; the profusion of gay ribbons, and glitter of jewelry; the
ample folds of glossy satin; how poor a compensation were they for
the true woman I had parted with a few years ago, and now sought
beneath these showy adornments in vain!
Two grown-up daughters, dressed almost as flauntingly as their
mother, were now presented. In the artificial countenance of the
oldest, I failed to discover any trace of my former friend Clara.
A little while we talked formally, and with some constraint all
round; then, as the dinner had been waiting us, and was now served,
we proceeded to the dining-room. I did not feel honored by the
really sumptuous meal the Paysons had provided for their old friend;
because it was clearly to be seen that no honor was intended. The
honor was all for themselves. The ladies had not adorned their
persons, nor provided their dinner, to give me welcome and pleasure,
but to exhibit to the eyes of their guest, their wealth, luxury, and
social importance. If I had failed to perceive this, the
conversation of the Paysons would have made it plain, for it was of
style and elegance in house-keeping and dress--of the ornamental in
all its varieties; and in no case of the truly domestic and useful.
Once or twice I referred to the Wightmans; but the ladies knew
nothing of them, and seemed almost to have forgotten that such
persons ever lived.
It did not take long to discover that, with all the luxury by which
my friends were surrounded, they were far from being happy. Mrs.
Payson and her daughters, had, I could see, become envious as well
as proud. They wanted a larger house, and more costly furniture in
order to make as imposing an appearance as some others whom they did
not consider half as good as themselves. To all they said on this
subject, I noticed that Payson himself maintained, for the most
part, a half-moody silence. It was, clearly enough, unpleasant to
him.
"My wife and daughters think I am made of money," said he, once,
half laughing. "But if they knew how hard it was to get hold of,
sometimes, they would be less free in spending. I tell them I am a
poor man, comparatively speaking; but I might as well talk to the
wind."
"Just as well," replied his wife, forcing an incredulous laugh;
"why will you use such language? A poor man!"
"He that wants what he is not able to buy, is a poor man, if I
understand the meaning of the term," said Payson, with some feeling.
"And he who lives beyond his income, as a good many of our
acquaintances do to my certain knowledge, is poorer still."
"Now don't get to riding that hobby, Mr. Payson," broke in my
friend's wife, deprecatingly--"don't, if you please. In the first
place, it's hardly polite, and, in the second place, it is by no
means agreeable. Don't mind him"--and the lady turned to me
gaily--"he gets in these moods sometimes."
I was not surprised at this after what I had witnessed, about his
house. Put the scenes and circumstances together, and how could it
well be otherwise? My friend, thus re-acted upon, ventured no
further remark on a subject that was so disagreeable to his family.
But while they talked of style and fashion, he sat silent, and to my
mind oppressed with no very pleasant thoughts. After the ladies had
retired, he said, with considerable feeling--
"All this looks and sounds very well, perhaps; but there are two
aspects to almost everything. My wife and daughters get one view of
life, and I another. They see the romance, I the hard reality. It is
impossible for me to get money as fast as they wish to spend it. It
was my fault in the beginning, I suppose. Ah! how difficult it is to
correct an error when once made. I tell them that I am a poor man,
but they smile in my face, and ask me for a hundred dollars to shop
with in the next breath. I remonstrate, but it avails not, for they
don't credit what I say. AND I AM POOR--poorer, I sometimes think,
than the humblest of my clerks, who manages, out of his salary of
four hundred a year, to lay up fifty dollars. He is never in want of
a dollar, while I go searching about, anxious and troubled, for my
thousands daily. He and his patient, cheerful, industrious little
wife find peace and contentment in the single room their limited
means enables them to procure, while my family turn dissatisfied
from the costly adornments of our spacious home, and sigh for richer
furniture, and a larger and more showy mansion. If I were a
millionaire, their ambition might be satisfied. Now, their ample
wishes may not be filled. I must deny them, or meet inevitable ruin.
As it is, I am living far beyond a prudent limit--not half so far,
however, as many around me, whose fatal example is ever tempting the
weak ambition of their neighbors."
This and much more of similar import, was said by Payson. When I
returned from his elegant home, there was no envy in my heart. He
was called a rich and prosperous man by all whom I heard speak of
him, but in my eyes, he was very poor.
A day or two afterwards, I saw Wightman in the street. He was so
changed in appearance that I should hardly have known him, had he
not first spoken. He looked in my eyes, twenty years older than when
we last met. His clothes were poor, though scrupulously clean; and,
on observing him more closely, I perceived an air of neatness and
order, that indicates nothing of that disregard about external
appearance which so often accompanies poverty.
He grasped my hand cordially, and inquired, with a genuine interest,
after my health and welfare. I answered briefly, and then said:
"I am sorry to hear that it is not so well with you in worldly
matters as when I left the city."
A slight shadow flitted over his countenance, but it grew quickly
cheerful again.
"One of the secrets of happiness in this life," said he, "is
contentment with our lot. We rarely learn this in prosperity. It is
not one of the lessons taught in that school."
"And you have learned it?" said I.
"I have been trying to learn it," he answered, smiling. "But I find
it one of the most difficult of lessons. I do not hope to acquire it
perfectly."
A cordial invitation to visit his family and take tea with them
followed, and was accepted. I must own, that I prepared to go to the
Wightmans with some misgivings as to the pleasure I should receive.
Almost every one of their old acquaintances, to whom I had addressed
inquiries on the subject, spoke of them with commiseration, as "very
poor." If Wightman could bear the change with philosophy, I hardly
expected to find the same Christian resignation in his wife, whom I
remembered as a gay, lively woman, fond of social pleasures.
Such were my thoughts when I knocked at the door of a small house,
that stood a little back from the street. It was quickly opened by a
tall, neatly-dressed girl, whose pleasant face lighted into a smile
of welcome as she pronounced my name.
"This is not Mary?" I said as I took her proffered hand.
"Yes, this is your little Mary," she answered. "Father told me you
were coming."
Mrs. Wightman came forward as I entered the room into which the
front door opened, and gave me a most cordial welcome. Least of all
had time and reverses changed her. Though a little subdued, and
rather paler and thinner, her face had the old heart-warmth in
it--the eyes were bright from the same cheerful spirit.
"How glad I am to see you again!" said Mrs. Wightman. And she was
glad. Every play of feature, every modulation of tone, showed this.
Soon her husband came in, and then she excused herself with a smile,
and went out, as I very well understood, to see after tea. In a
little while supper was ready, and I sat down with the family in
their small breakfast room, to one of the pleasantest meals I have
ever enjoyed. A second daughter, who was learning a trade, came in
just as we were taking our places at the table, and was introduced.
What a beautiful glow was upon her young countenance! She was the
very image of health and cheerfulness.
When I met Wightman in the street, I thought his countenance wore
something of a troubled aspect--this was the first impression made
upon me. Now, as I looked into his face, and listened to his
cheerful, animated conversation, so full of life's true philosophy,
I could not but feel an emotion of wonder. "Very poor!" How little
did old friends, who covered their neglect of this family with these
commiserating words, know of their real state. How little did they
dream that sweet peace folded her wings in that humble dwelling
nightly; and that morning brought to each a cheerful, resolute
spirit, which bore them bravely through all their daily toil.
"How are you getting along now Wightman?" I asked, as, after bidding
good evening to his pleasant family, I stood with him at the gate
opening from the street to his modest dwelling.
"Very well," was his cheerful reply. "It was up hill work for
several years, when I only received five hundred dollars salary as
clerk, and all my children were young. But now, two of them are
earning something, and I receive eight hundred dollars instead of
five. We have managed to save enough to buy this snug little house.
The last payment was made a month since. I am beginning to feel
rich."
And he laughed a pleasant laugh.
"Very poor," I said to myself, musingly, as I walked away from the
humble abode of the Wightmans. "Very poor. The words have had a
wrong application."
On the next day I met Payson.
"I spent last evening with the Wightmans," said I.
"Indeed! How did you find them? Very poor, of course."
"I have not met a more cheerful family for years. No, Mr. Payson
they are not '_very poor_,' for they take what the great Father
sends, and use it with thankfulness. _Those who ever want more than
they possess are the very poor._ But such are not the Wightmans."
Payson looked at me a moment or two curiously, and then let his eyes
fall to the ground. A little while he mused. Light was breaking in
upon him.
"Contented and thankful!" said he, lifting his eyes from the ground.
"Ah! my friend, if I and mine were only contented and thankful!"
"You have cause to be," I remarked. "The great Father hath covered
your table with blessings."
"And yet we are poor--VERY POOR," said he, "for we are neither
contented nor thankful. We ask for more than we possess, and,
because it is not given, we are fretful and impatient. Yes, yes--we,
not the Wightmans, are poor--very poor."
And with these words on his lips, my old friend turned from me, and
walked slowly away, his head bent in musing attitude to the ground.
Not long afterwards, I heard that he had failed.
"Ah!" thought I, when this news reached me, "now you are poor, VERY
poor, indeed!" And it was so.