"'Tell Mrs. ----,' said I to the servant, 'that I am very anxious to
see her, and that she must not refuse me an interview.' In a few
minutes she returned with the positive refusal of Mrs. ---- to see me.
There was one thing that I did not want to do--one thing that I
hesitated to do, and that was to force myself upon my estranged friend
by intruding upon her, even in her own chamber, where she had retired
to be secure from my importunity. But I looked to the end I had in
view. 'Is not the end a good one?' I said, as I mused over the
unpleasant position in which I found myself. 'Will not even Mrs. ----
thank me for the act after she shall have perceived her error?' Thus I
argued with myself, and finally made up my mind that I would compel an
interview by entering my friend's chamber, even though she had twice
refused to see me.
"As I resolved to do, so I acted. Once fully convinced that the act was
right, I compelled myself to do it, without once hesitating or looking
back. My low knock at her chamber-door was unanswered. I paused but a
few moments before opening it. There stood my friend, with a pale yet
firm countenance, and as I advanced she looked me steadily in the face
with a cold, repulsive expression.
"'Mrs. ----,' said I, extending my hand and forcing a smile, while the
tears came to my eyes, and my voice trembled--'if I had been guilty of
the feelings with which you have charged me, I would not have thus
sought you, in spite of all your repulses. Let me now declare to you,
in the earnestness of a sincere heart, that I am innocent of all you
allege against me. I have always regarded you as one of my choicest
friends. I have always endeavoured to prefer you before myself, instead
of setting myself above you. You have, therefore, accused me
wrongfully, but I do most heartily forgive you. Will you not then
forgive me for an imaginary fault?'
"For a few moments after I commenced speaking, she continued to look at
me with the same cold, repulsive stare, not deigning to touch the hand
that I still extended. But she saw that I was sincere; she felt that I
was sincere, and this melted her down. As I ceased speaking, she
started forward with a quick, convulsed movement, and throwing her arms
around me, hid her face in my bosom and wept aloud. It was some time
before the tumult of her feelings subsided.
"'Can you indeed forgive me?' she at length said; 'my strange, blind,
wayward folly?'
"'Let us be friends as we were, Mrs. ----,' I replied, 'and let this
hour be forgotten, or only remembered as a seal to our friendship.'
"From that day, Louisa, there has been no jarring string in our
friendly intercourse. Mrs. ---- really felt aggrieved; she thought that
she perceived in my conduct all that she had alleged, and it wounded
her to the quick. But the earnest sincerity with which I sought her out
and persisted in seeing her, convinced her that she had altogether
misunderstood the import of my manner, which, under the peculiar state
of her feelings, put on a false appearance."
"Well, Mrs. Appleton," Louisa said with a deep inspiration, as that
lady ceased speaking, "I cannot say that I think you did wrong: indeed,
I feel that you were right; but I cannot act from such unselfish
motives; it is not in me."
"But you can compel yourself to do right, Louisa, even where there is
no genuine good impulse prompting to correct actions. It is by our thus
compelling ourselves, and struggling against the activity of a wrong
motive, that a right one is formed. If I had consulted only my
feelings, and had suffered only offended self-love to speak, I should
never have persevered in seeing my friend; to this day there would have
been a gulf between us."
"Still, it seems to me that we ought not, as a general thing, to humour
persons in these idle whims; it only confirms them in habits of mind
that make them sources of perpetual annoyance to their friends. Indeed,
as far as I am concerned, I desire to be freed from acquaintances of
this description; I do not wish my peace ever and anon interfered with
in such an unpleasant way."
"We should not," Mrs. Appleton replied, "consider only ourselves in
these, or indeed in any matters pertaining to social intercourse, but
should endeavour sometimes to look away from what is most pleasant and
gratifying to ourselves, and study to make others happy. You know that
the appearance which true politeness puts on is that of preferring
others to ourselves. We offer them the best seats, or the most eligible
positions; or present them with the choicest viands at the table. We
introduce subjects of conversation that we think will interest others
more than ourselves, and deny ourselves in various ways, that others
may be obliged and gratified. Now, the question is, are these mere idle
and unmeaning forms? Or is it right that we should feel as we act? If
they are unmeaning forms, then are the courtesies of social intercourse
a series of acts most grossly hypocritical. If not so, then it is right
that we should prefer others to ourselves; and it is right for us, when
we find that a friend is under a painful mistake--even if to approach
her may cause some sacrifice of our feelings--for us to go to that
friend and disabuse her mind of error. Do you not think so, Louisa?"
"I certainly cannot gainsay your position, Mrs. Appleton; but still I
feel altogether disinclined to make any overtures to Maria."
"Why so, Louisa?"
"Because I can imagine no cause for her present strange conduct, and
therefore see no way of approaching"--
The individual about whom they had been conversing passed near them at
this moment, and caused Mrs. Appleton and Louisa to remember that they
were prolonging their conversation to too great an extent for a social
party.
"We will talk about this again," Mrs. Appleton said, rising and passing
to the side of Maria.
"You do not seem cheerful to-night, Maria; or am I mistaken in my
observation of your face?" Mrs. Appleton said in a pleasant tone.
"I was not aware that there was any thing in my manner that indicated
the condition of mind to which you allude," the young lady replied,
with a smile.
"There seemed to me such an indication, but perhaps it was only an
appearance."
"Perhaps so," said Maria, with something of abstraction in her manner.
A silence, embarrassing in some degree to both parties, followed, which
was broken by an allusion of Mrs. Appleton's to Louisa Graham.
To this, Maria made no answer.
"Louisa is a girl of kind feelings," remarked Mrs. Appleton.
"She is so esteemed," Maria replied, somewhat coldly.
"Do you not think so, Maria?"
"Why should I think otherwise?"
"I am sure I cannot tell; but I thought there was something in your
manner that seemed to indicate a different sentiment."
To this the young lady made no reply, and Mrs. Appleton did not feel at
liberty to press the subject, more particularly as she wished to induce
Louisa, if she could possibly do so, to sacrifice her feelings and go
to Maria with an inquiry as to the cause of her changed manner. She now
observed closely the manner of Maria, and saw that she studiously
avoided coming into contact with Louisa. Thus the evening passed away,
and the two young ladies retired without having once spoken to each
other.
Unlike too many of us under similar circumstances, Mrs. Appleton did
not say within herself, "This is none of my business. If they have
fallen out, let them make it up again." Or, "If she chooses to get the
'pouts' for nothing, let her pout it out." But she thought seriously
about devising some plan to bring about explanations and a good
understanding again between two who had no just cause for not regarding
each other as friends. It would have been an easy matter to have gone
to Maria and to have asked the cause of her changed manner towards
Louisa, and thus have brought about a reconciliation; but she was
desirous to correct a fault in both, and therefore resolved, if
possible, to induce the latter to go to the former. With this object in
view, she called upon Louisa early on the next morning.
"I was sorry to see," she said, after a brief conversation on general
topics, "that there was no movement on the part of either yourself or
Maria to bring about a mutual good understanding."
"I am sure, Mrs. Appleton, that I haven't any thing to do in the
matter," was Louisa's answer. "I have done nothing wilfully to wound or
offend Maria, and therefore have no apologies to make. If she sees in
my character any thing so exceedingly offensive as to cause her thus to
recede from me, I am sure that I do not wish her to have any kind of
intercourse with me."
"That is altogether out of the question, Louisa. Maria has seen nothing
real in you at which to be offended; it is an imaginary something that
has blinded her mind."
"In that case, Mrs. Appleton, I must say, as I said at first--Let her
pout it out. I have no patience with any one who acts so foolishly."
"You must pardon my importunity, Louisa," her persevering friend
replied. "I am conscious that the position you have taken is a wrong
one, and I cannot but hope that I shall be able to make you see it."
"I don't know, Mrs. Appleton; none are so blind, it is said, as they
who will not see," Louisa replied, with a meaning smile.
"So you are conscious of an unwillingness to see the truth if opposed
to your present feelings," said Mrs. Appleton, smiling in return; "I
have some hope of you now."
"You think so?"
"Oh, yes; the better principles of your mind are becoming more active,
and I now feel certain that you will think of Maria as unhappy from
some erroneous idea which it is in your power to remove."
"But her unkind and ungenerous conduct towards me"--
"Don't think of that, Louisa; think only if it be not in your power
again to restore peace to her mind; again to cause her eyes to brighten
and her lips to smile when you meet her. It is in your power--I know
that it is. Do not, then, let me beg of you, abuse that power, and
suffer one heart to be oppressed when a word from you can remove the
burden that weighs it down."
To this appeal Laura remained silent for a few moments, and then
looking up, said, "What would you have me do, Mrs. Appleton?"
"Nothing but what you see to be clearly right. Do not act simply from
my persuasion. I urge you as I do, that you may perceive it to be a
duty to go to Maria and try to disabuse her of an error that is
producing unhappiness."
"Then how do you think I ought to act?"
"It seems to me that you should go to Maria, and ask her, with that
sincerity and frankness that she could not mistake, the cause of her
changed manner; and that you should, at the same time, say that you
were altogether unconscious of having said or done any thing to wound
or offend her."
"I will do it, Mrs. Appleton," said Louisa, after musing for a few
moments.
"But does it seem to you right that you should do so?"
"It does when I lose sight of myself, and think of Maria as standing to
another in the same light that she really stands to me."
"I am glad that you have thus separated your own feelings from the
matter; that is the true way to view every subject that has regard to
our actions towards others. Go, then, to your estranged friend on this
mission of peace, and I know that the result will be pleasant to both
of you."
"I am fully convinced that it is right for me to do so; and more, I am
fully resolved to do what I see to be right."
About an hour after the closing of this interview, Louisa called at the
house of her friend. It was some minutes after she had sent up her name
before Maria descended to the parlour to meet her. As she came in she
smiled a faint welcome, extending at the same time her hand in a cold
formal manner. Louisa was chilled at this, for her feelings were quick;
but she suppressed every weakness with an effort, and said, as she
still held the offered hand within her own--
"There must be something wrong, Maria, or _you_ would never treat me so
coldly. As I am altogether unconscious of having said or done any thing
to wound your feelings, or injure you in any way, I have felt
constrained to come and see you, and ask if in any thing I have
unconsciously done you an injury."
There was a pause of some moments, during which Maria was evidently
endeavouring to quiet her thoughts and feelings, so as to give a
coherent and rational response to what had been said; but this she was
unable to do.
"I am a weak and foolish girl, Louisa," she at length said, as the
moisture suffused her eyes; "and now I am conscious that I have wronged
you. Let us forget the past, and again be friends as we were."
"I am still your friend, Maria, and still wish to remain your friend;
but in order that, hereafter, there may be no further breach of this
friendship, would it not be well for you to tell me, frankly, in what
manner I have wounded your feelings?"
"Perhaps so; but still I would rather not tell the cause; it involves a
subject upon which I do not wish to speak. Be satisfied, then, Louisa,
that I am fully convinced that you did not mean to wound me. Let this
(kissing her tenderly) assure you that my old feelings have all
returned. But do not press me upon a point that I shrink from even
thinking about."
There was something so serious, almost solemn in the manner of the
young lady, that Louisa felt that it would be wrong to urge her upon
the subject. But their reconciliation was complete.
So much interest did Mrs. Appleton feel in the matter, that she called
in, during the afternoon of the same day, to see Louisa.
"Well, it's all made up," was almost the first word uttered as Mrs.
Appleton came in.
"I am truly glad to hear it," replied that lady.
"And I am glad to be able to say so; but there is one thing that I do
not like: I could not prevail upon her to tell me the cause of her
coldness towards me."
"I am sorry for that, because, not knowing what has given offence, you
are all the time liable again to trespass on feelings that you desire
not to wound."
"So I feel about it; but the subject seemed so painful to her that I
did not press it."
"When did you first notice a change in her manner?"
"About a week ago, when we were spending an evening at Mrs. Trueman's."
"Cannot you remember something which you then said that might have
wounded her?"
"No, I believe not. I have tried several times to recall what I then
said, but I can think of nothing but a light jest which I passed upon
her about her certainly coming of a crazy family."
"Surely you did not say that, Louisa!"
"Yes, I did. And I am sure that I thought no harm of it. We were
conversing gayly, and she was uttering some of her peculiar, and often
strange sentiments, when I made the thoughtless and innocent remark I
have alluded to. No one replied, and there was a momentary silence that
seemed to me strange. From that time her manner changed. But I have
never believed that my playful remark was the cause. I think her a girl
of too much good sense for that."
"Have you never heard that her father was for many years in the
hospital, and at last died there a raving maniac?" asked Mrs. Appleton
with a serious countenance.
"Never," was the positive answer.
"It is true that such was his miserable end, Louisa."
"Then it is all explained. Oh, how deeply I must have wounded her!"
"Deeply, no doubt. But it cannot be helped. The wound, I trust, is now
nearly healed." Then, after a pause, Mrs. Appleton resumed:
"Let this lesson never be forgotten, my young friend. Suppose you had
followed your own impulses, and let Maria 'pout it out,' as you said;
how much would both she and yourself have suffered--she, under the
feeling that you had wantonly insulted and wounded her; and you, in
estranged friendship, and under the imputation, unknown to yourself, of
having most grossly violated the very first principles of humanity. Let
the lesson, then, sink deeply into your heart. Never again permit any
one to grow cold towards you suddenly, without inquiring the cause. It
is due to yourself and your friends."
"I shall never forget the lesson, Mrs. Appleton," was Louisa's emphatic
response.
"A FINE, GENEROUS FELLOW."
MY friend Peyton was what is called a "fine, generous fellow." He
valued money only as a means of obtaining what he desired, and was
always ready to spend it with an acquaintance for mutual gratification.
Of course, he was a general favourite. Every one spoke well of him, and
few hesitated to give his ears the benefit of their good opinion. I was
first introduced to him when he was in the neighbourhood of twenty-two
years of age. Peyton was then a clerk in the receipt of six hundred
dollars a year. He grasped my hand with an air of frankness and
sincerity, that at once installed him in my good opinion. A little
pleasure excursion was upon the tapis, and he insisted upon my joining
it. I readily consented. There were five of us, and the expense to
each, if borne mutually, would have been something like one dollar.
Peyton managed every thing, even to paying the bills; and when I
offered to repay him my proportion, he said--
"No, no!"--pushing back my hand--"nonsense!"
"Yes; but I must insist upon meeting my share of the expense."
"Not a word more. The bill's settled, and you needn't trouble your head
about it," was his reply; and he seemed half offended when I still
urged upon him to take my portion of the cost.
"What a fine, generous fellow Peyton is!" said one of the party to me,
as we met on the next day.
"Did he also refuse to let you share in the expense of our excursion?"
I asked.
"After what he said to you, I was afraid of offending him by proposing
to do so."
"He certainly is generous--but, I think, to a fault, if I saw a fair
specimen of his generosity yesterday."
"We should be just, as well as generous."
"I never heard that he was not just."
"Nor I. But I think he was not just to himself. And I believe it will
be found to appear in the end, that, if we are not just to ourselves,
we will, somewhere in life, prove unjust to others. I think that his
salary is not over twelve dollars a week. If he bore the whole expense
of our pleasure excursion, it cost him within a fraction of half his
earnings for a week. Had we all shared alike, it would not have been a
serious matter to either of us."
"Oh! as to that, it is no very serious matter to him. He will never
think of it."
"But, if he does so very frequently, he may feel it sooner or later," I
replied.
"I'm sure I don't know any thing about that," was returned. "He is a
generous fellow, and I cannot but like him. Indeed, every one likes
him."
A few evenings afterwards I met Peyton again.
"Come, let us have some oysters," said he.
I did not object. We went to an oyster-house, and ate and drank as much
as our appetites craved. He paid the bill!
Same days afterwards, I fell in with him again, and, in order to
retaliate a little, invited him to go and get some refreshments with
me. He consented. When I put my hand in my pocket to pay for them, his
hand went into his. But I was too quick for him. He seemed uneasy about
it. He could feel pleased while giving, but it evidently worried him to
be the recipient.
From that time, for some years, I was intimate with the young man. I
found that he set no true value upon money. He spent it freely with
every one; and every one spoke well of him. "What a generous,
whole-souled fellow he is!" or, "What a noble heart he has!" were the
expressions constantly made in regard to him. While "Mean fellow!"
"Miserly dog!" and other such epithets, were unsparingly used in
speaking of a quiet, thoughtful young man, named Merwin, who was clerk
with him in the same store. Merwin appeared to set an undue value upon
money. He rarely indulged himself in any way, and it was with
difficulty that he could ever be induced to join in any pleasures that
involved expense. But I always observed that when he did so, he was
exact about paying his proportion.
About two years after my acquaintance with Peyton began, an incident
let me deeper into the character and quality of his generosity. I
called one day at the house of a poor widow woman who washed for me, to
ask her to do up some clothes, extra to the usual weekly washing. I
thought she looked as if she were in trouble about something, and said
so to her.
"It's very hard, at best," she replied, "for a poor woman, with three
or four children to provide for, to get along--especially if, like me,
she has to depend upon washing and ironing for a living. But when so
many neglect to pay her regularly"--
"Neglect to pay their washerwoman!" I said, in a tone of surprise,
interrupting her.
"Oh, yes. Many do that!"
"Who?"
"Dashing young men, who spend their money freely, are too apt to
neglect these little matters, as they call them."
"And do young men, for whom you work, really neglect to pay you?"
"Some do. There are at least fifteen dollars now owed to me, and I
don't know which way to turn to get my last month's rent for my
landlord, who has been after me three times this week already. Mr.
Peyton owes me ten dollars, and I can't"--
"Mr. Peyton? It can't be possible!"
"Yes, it is, though. He used to be one of the most punctual young men I
washed for. But, of late, he never has any money."
"He's a very generous-hearted young man."
"Yes, I know he is," she replied. "But something is wrong with him. He
looks worried whenever I ask him for money; and sometimes speaks as if
half angry with me for troubling him. There's Mr. Merwin--I wish all
were like him. I have never yet taken home his clothes, that I didn't
find the money waiting for me, exact to a cent. He counts every piece
when he lays out his washing for me, and knows exactly what it will
come to: and then, if he happens to be out, the change is always left
with the chambermaid. It's a pleasure to do any thing for him."
"He isn't liked generally as well as Mr. Peyton is," said I.
"Isn't he? It's strange!" the poor woman returned, innocently.
On the very next day, I saw Peyton riding out with an acquaintance in a
buggy.
"Who paid for your ride, yesterday?" I said to the latter, with whom I
was quite familiar, when next we met.
"Oh, Peyton, of course. He always pays, you know. He's a fine, generous
fellow. I wish there were more like him."
"That you might ride out for nothing a little oftener, hey?"
My friend coloured slightly.
"No, not that," said he. "But you know there is so much selfishness in
the world; we hardly ever meet a man who is willing to make the
slightest sacrifice for the good of others."
"True. And I suppose it is this very selfishness that makes us so
warmly admire a man like Mr. Peyton, who is willing to gratify us at
his own charge. It's a pleasant thing to ride out and see the country,
but we are apt to think twice about the costs before we act once. But
if some friend will only stand the expense, how generous and
whole-souled we think him! It is the same in every thing else. We like
the enjoyments, but can't afford the expense; and he is a generous,
fine-hearted fellow, who will squander his money in order to gratify
us. Isn't that it, my friend?" said I, slapping him on the shoulder.
He looked half convinced, and a little sheepish, to use an expressive
Saxonism.
On the evening succeeding this day, Peyton sat alone in his room, his
head leaning upon his hand, and his brow contracted. There was a tap at
his door. "Come in." A poorly-clad, middle-aged woman entered. It was
his washerwoman.
The lines on the young man's brow became deeper.
"Can't you let me have some money, Mr. Peyton? My landlord is pressing
hard for his rent, and I cannot pay him until you pay me."
"Really, Mrs. Lee, it is impossible just now; I am entirely out of
money. But my salary will be due in three weeks, and then I will pay
you up the whole. You must make your landlord wait until that time. I
am very sorry to put you to this trouble. But it will never happen
again."
The young man really did feel sorry, and expressed it in his face as
well as in the tone of his voice.
"Can't you let me have one or two dollars, Mr. Peyton? I am entirely
out of money."
"It is impossible--I haven't a shilling left. But try and wait three
weeks, and then it will all come to you in a lump, and do you a great
deal more good than if you had it a dollar at a time."
Mrs. Lee retired slowly, and with a disappointed air. The young man
sighed heavily as she closed the door after her. He had been too
generous, and now he could not be just. The buggy in which he had
driven out with his friend on that day had cost him his last two
dollars--a sum which would have lightened the heart of his poor
washerwoman.
"The fact is, my salary is too small," said he, rising and walking
about his room uneasily. "It is not enough to support me. If the
account were fully made up, tailor's bill, bootmaker's bill, and all, I
dare say I should find myself at least three hundred dollars in debt."
Merwin received the same salary that he did, and was just three hundred
dollars ahead. He dressed as well, owed no man a dollar, and was far
happier. It is true, he was not called a "fine, generous fellow," by
persons who took good care of their own money, while they were very
willing to enjoy the good things of life at a friend's expense. But he
did not mind this. The want of such a reputation did not disturb his
mind very seriously.
After Mrs. Lee had been gone half an hour, Peyton's door was flung
suddenly open. A young man, bounding in, with extended hand came
bustling up to him.
"Ah, Peyton, my fine fellow! How are you? how are you?" And he shook
Peyton's hand quite vigorously.
"Hearty!--and how are you, Freeman?"
"Oh, gay as a lark. I have come to ask a favour of you."
"Name it."
"I want fifty dollars."
Peyton shrugged his shoulders.
"I must have it, my boy! I never yet knew you to desert a friend, and I
don't believe you will do so now."
"Suppose I haven't fifty dollars?"
"You can borrow it for me. I only want it for a few days. You shall
have it back on next Monday. Try for me--there's a generous fellow!"
"There's a generous fellow," was irresistible. It came home to Peyton
in the right place. He forgot poor Mrs. Lee, his unpaid tailor's bill,
and sundry other troublesome accounts.
"If I can get an advance of fifty dollars on my salary to-morrow, you
shall have it."
"Thank you! thank you! I knew I shouldn't have to ask twice when I
called upon Henry Peyton. It always does me good to grasp the hand of
such a man as you are."
On the next day, an advance of fifty dollars was asked and obtained.
This sum was loaned as promised. In two weeks, the individual who
borrowed it was in New Orleans, from whence he had the best of reasons
for not wishing to return to the north. Of course, the generous Henry
Peyton lost his money.
An increase of salary to a thousand dollars only made him less careful
of his money. Before, he lived as freely as if his income had been
one-third above what it was; now, he increased his expenses in a like
ratio. It was a pleasure to him to spend his money--not for himself
alone, but among his friends.
It is no cause of wonder, that in being so generous to some, he was
forced to be unjust to others. He was still behindhand with his poor
old washer-woman--owed for boarding, clothes, hats, boots, and a dozen
other matters--and was, in consequence, a good deal harassed with duns.
Still, he was called by some of his old cronies, "a fine, generous
fellow." A few were rather colder in their expressions. He had borrowed
money from them, and did not offer to return it; and he was such a
generous-minded young man, that they felt a delicacy about calling his
attention to it.
"Can you raise a couple of thousand dollars?" was asked of him by a
friend, when he was twenty-seven years old. "If you can, I know a
first-rate chance to get into business."
"Indeed! What is the nature of it?"
The friend told him all he knew, and he was satisfied that a better
offering might never present itself. But two thousand dollars were
indispensable.
"Can't you borrow it?" suggested the friend.
"I will try."
"Try your best. You will never again have such an opportunity."
Peyton did try, but in vain. Those who could lend it to him considered
him "too good-hearted a fellow" to trust with money; and he was forced
to see that tide, which if he could have taken it at the flood, would
have led him on to fortune, slowly and steadily recede.
To Merwin the same offer was made. He had fifteen hundred dollars laid
by, and easily procured the balance. No one was afraid to trust him
with money.
"What a fool I have been!" was the mental exclamation of Peyton, when
he learned that his fellow-clerk had been able, with his own earnings,
on a salary no larger than his own, to save enough to embrace the
golden opportunity which he was forced to pass by. "They call Merwin
_mean_ and _selfish_--and I am called a _generous fellow_. That means,
he has acted like a wise man, and I like a fool, I suppose. I know him
better than they do. He is neither mean nor selfish, but careful and
prudent, as I ought to have been. His mother is poor, and so is mine.
Ah, me!" and the thought of his mother caused him to clasp both hands
against his forehead. "I believe two dollars of his salary have been
sent weekly to his poor mother. But I have never helped mine a single
cent. There is the mean man, and here is the generous one. Fool! fool!
wretch! He has fifteen hundred dollars ahead, after having sent his
mother one hundred dollars a year for five or six years, and I am over
five hundred dollars in debt. A fine, generous fellow, truly!"
The mind of Peyton was, as it should be, disturbed to its very centre.
His eyes were fairly opened, and he saw just where he stood, and what
he was worth as a generous man.
"They have flattered my weakness," said he, bitterly, "to eat and drink
and ride at my expense. It was easy to say, 'how free-hearted he is,'
so that I could hear them. A cheap way of enjoying the good things of
life, verily! But the end has come to all this. I am just twenty-seven
years old to-day; in five years more I shall be thirty-two. My salary
is one thousand dollars. I pay one hundred and fifty dollars a year for
boarding; one hundred and fifty more shall clothe me and furnish all my
spending-money, which shall be precious little. One year from to-day,
if I live, I will owe no man a dollar. My kind old mother, whom I have
so long neglected, shall hear from me at once--ten dollars every month
I dedicate to her. Come what will, nothing shall touch that. After I am
clear of debt, I will save all above my necessary expenses, until I get
one or two thousand dollars ahead, which shall be in five years. Then I
will look out for a golden opportunity, such as Mervin has found. This
agreement with myself I solemnly enter into in the sight of heaven, and
nothing shall tempt me to violate it."
"Are you going to ride out this afternoon, Peyton?" inquired a young
friend, breaking in upon him at this moment.
"Yes, if you'll hire the buggy," was promptly returned.
"I can't afford that."
"Nor I either. How much is your salary?"
"Only a thousand."
"Just what mine is. If you can't, I am sure I cannot."
"Of course, you ought to be the best judge. I knew you rode out almost
every afternoon, and liked company."
"Yes, I have done so; but that's past. I have been a 'fine, generous
fellow,' long enough to get in debt and mar my prospects for life,
perhaps; but I am going to assume a new character. No doubt the very
ones who have had so many rides, oyster suppers, and theatre tickets at
my expense, will all at once discover that I am as mean and selfish as
Mervin; but it's no great odds. I only wish I had been as truly noble
and generous in the right quarters as he has been."
"You are in a strange humour to-day."
"I am in a changed humour. That it is so very strange, I do not
see--unless for me to think wisely is strange, and perhaps it is."
"Well, all I have to say is, that I, for one, do not blame you, even if
I do lose a fine ride into the country now and then," was the frank
response.
Peyton went to work in the matter of reform in right good earnest, but
he found it hard work; old habits and inclinations were very strong.
Still he had some strength of mind, and he brought this into as
vigorous exercise as it was possible for him to do, mainly with
success, but sometimes with gentle lapses into self-indulgence.
His mother lived in a neighbouring town, and was in humble
circumstances. She supported herself by keeping a shop for the sale of
various little articles. The old lady sat behind her counter, one
afternoon, sewing, and thinking of her only son.
"Ah, me!" she sighed, letting her hands fall wearily in her lap, "I
thought Henry would have done something for himself long before this;
but he is a wild, free-hearted boy, and I suppose spends every thing as
he goes along, just as his father did. I'm afraid he will never do any
thing for himself. It is a long time since he wrote home. Ah, me!"
And the mother lifted her work again, and strained her dimmed eyes over
it.
"Here's a letter for you at last, Mother Peyton," said the well-known
voice of the postman, breaking in upon her just at this moment. "That
boy of yours don't write home as often as he used to."
"A letter from Henry! Oh, that is pleasant! Dear boy! he doesn't forget
his mother."
"No, one would think not," muttered the postman, as he walked away,
"considering how often he writes to her."
With trembling hands, Mrs. Peyton broke the seal; a bank-bill crumpled
in her fingers as she opened the letter. A portion of its contents was:
"DEAR MOTHER--I have had some very serious thoughts of late about my
way of living. You know I never liked to be considered mean; this led
me to be, what seemed to everybody, very generous. Everybody was
pleased to eat, and drink, and ride at my expense; but no one seemed
inclined to let me do the same at his expense. I have been getting a
good salary for six or seven years, and, for a part of that time, as
much as a thousand dollars. I am ashamed to say that I have not a
farthing laid by; nay, what is worse, I owe a good many little bills.
But, dear mother, I think I have come fairly to my senses. I have come
to a resolution not to spend a dollar foolishly; thus far I have been
able to keep my promise to myself, and, by the help of heaven, I mean
to keep it to the end. My first thought, on seeing my folly, was of my
shameful disregard to my mother's condition. In this letter are ten
dollars. Every month you will receive from me a like sum--more, if you
need it. As soon as I can lay by a couple of thousand dollars, I will
look around for some means of entering into business, and, as soon
after as possible, make provision for you, that your last days may be
spent in ease and comfort."
"God bless the dear boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Peyton, dropping the letter,
while the tears gushed from her eyes. The happy mother wept long for
joy. With her trembling hand she wrote a reply, and urged him, by the
tenderest and most sacred considerations, to keep to his good
resolutions.
At the end of a year Peyton examined his affairs, and found himself
freed from debt; but there were nearly one hundred dollars for which he
could not account. He puzzled over it for one or two evenings, and made
out over fifty dollars spent foolishly.
"No doubt the rest of it will have to be passed to that account," said
he, at last, half angry with himself. "I'll have to watch closer than
this. At the end of the next year, I'll not be in doubt about where a
hundred dollars have gone."
It was but rarely, now, that you would hear the name of Peyton
mentioned. Before, everybody said he was a "fine, generous fellow;"
everybody praised him. Now he seemed to be forgotten, or esteemed of no
consideration. He felt this; but he had started to accomplish a certain
end, and he had sufficient strength of mind not to be driven from his
course.
"Have you seen Peyton of late?" I asked, some two years after this
change in his habits. I spoke to one of his old intimate associates.
"No, not for a month of Sundays," was his lightly-spoken reply. "What a
remarkable change has passed over him! Once, he used to be a fine,
generous fellow--his heart was in his hand; but now he is as penurious
as a miser, and even more selfish: he will neither give nor take. If
you happen to be walking with him, and, after waiting as long as
decency will permit to be asked to step in somewhere for refreshments,
you propose something, he meets you with--'No, I thank you, I am not
dry,' or hungry, as the case may be. It's downright savage, it is!"
"This is a specimen of the way in which the world estimates men," said
I to myself, after separating from the individual who complained thus
of Peyton. "The world is wonderfully impartial in its judgment of men's
conduct!"
At the end of five years from the time Peyton reformed his loose
habits, he had saved up and placed out at interest the sum of two
thousand dollars; and this, after having sent to his mother, regularly,
ten dollars every month during the whole period. The fact that he had
saved so much was not suspected by any. It was supposed that he had
laid up some money, but no one thought he had over four or five hundred
dollars.
"I wish you had about three thousand dollars," said Merwin to him, one
day. Merwin's business had turned out well. In five years, he had
cleared over twenty thousand dollars.
"Why?" asked Peyton.
"I know a first-rate chance for you."
"Indeed. Where?"
"There is a very good business that has been fairly established, and is
now languishing for want of a little capital. The man who has made it
will take a partner if he can bring in three thousand dollars, which
would make the whole concern easy, perfectly safe, and sure of success."
"It's more than I have," returned Peyton, in a voice that was slightly
sad.
"So I supposed," Merwin said.
"Although such needn't have been the case, if I had acted as wisely as
you through life."
"It's never too late to mend our ways, you know."
"True. But a year mis-spent, is a whole year lost. No matter how hard
we strive, we can never make it up. To the day of our death, there will
be one year deficient in the sum of life's account."
"A just remark, no doubt. How much would every man save, if he would
take good care not only of his years, but of his weeks and days! The
sum of life is made up of small aggregations."
"And so the sum of a man's fortune. A dollar mis-spent is a dollar
lost, and never can be regained. You say that it will require three
thousand dollars to admit a partner into the business of which you just
spoke?"
"Yes. Nothing less will do."
"I have but two thousand."
"Have you so much, Peyton?" said Merwin, with a brightening face.
"I have."
"Right glad am I to hear it. I only wish that I could furnish you with
a thousand more. But it is out of my power entirely. Our business
requires the use of every dollar we have; and it would not be just to
my partner to draw out so large a sum for the purpose of assisting a
friend in whom he can feel no interest."
"No, of course not. I neither ask nor expect it. I will wait a little
longer. Something else will offer."
"But nothing so really advantageous as this. Let me see. I think I
might get you five hundred dollars, if you could borrow as much more."
"That I cannot do. I never asked a favour of any one in my life."
"Though you have dispensed thousands."
"Foolishly perhaps. But no matter. I will wait."
A week afterward, Peyton, who dismissed all thought of embracing the
proposed offer of going in business, paid a visit to his mother. He had
not seen her for a year. She was still cheerful, active, and retained
her usual good health.
"I think it time you gave up this shop, mother," said he to her. "You
are too old now to be working so closely. I've got something saved up
for a rainy day, in case any thing should go wrong with me for a time.
You will give up this shop, won't you?"
"No, Henry; not yet. I am still able to help myself, and so long as I
am able, I wish to do it. If you have saved any thing, you had better
keep it until an opportunity for going into business offers."
"Such a chance has just presented itself. But I hadn't capital enough."
"How much have you saved?"
"Two thousand dollars."
"So much? How much is required?"
"Three thousand dollars."
"And you have but two?"
"That is all--though a friend did offer to get me five hundred more.
But twenty-five hundred is not sufficient. There must be three
thousand."
Mrs. Peyton made no reply. She sat a few minutes, and then arose and
went up-stairs. In about ten minutes she came down, and approaching her
son, with a warm glow of pleasure upon her face, placed a small roll in
his hands, saying as she did so--
"There is all you need, my son. The money you sent me so regularly for
the last five years, I have kept untouched for some such moment as
this. I did not feel that I needed it. Take it back, and start fairly
in the world. In a few more years I may need rest, as life draws nearer
to a close. Then I trust you will be in circumstances so good that I
needn't feel myself a burden to you."
"A burden? Dear mother! Do not speak of ever being a burden to me,"
said the young man, embracing his parent with tearful emotion.
"No--no," and he pushed back her hand; "I cannot take that money. It is
yours. I will not risk in business the little treasure you have saved
up so carefully. I may not succeed. No--no!" and he still pushed back
his mother's hand--"it is of no use--I cannot--I _will_ not take it!"
The roll of money fell to the floor.
"It is yours, Henry, not mine," urged the mother. "I did not stand in
need of it."
"Your son owed you much more than that. He was wrong that he did not
double the amount to you, in order to make up for former years of
neglect. No--no--I tell you, mother, I cannot take your money. Nothing
would tempt me to do it. I will wait a little longer. Other
opportunities will soon offer."
It was in vain that Mrs. Peyton urged her son, until her distress of
mind became so great that he was almost forced to receive the money she
pushed upon him--although, in doing so, it was with the intention of
leaving it behind him when he returned to the city. But the deep
satisfaction evinced by his mother, on his consenting to take it, was
of a kind that he did not feel it would be right for him to do violence
to. When he did return to the city, he could not find it in his heart
to leave the money, just six hundred dollars, on the table in the
little room where he slept, as he had at first resolved to do. He took
it with him; but with the intention of investing it for her in some
safe security.
When he again met Merwin, he was urged so strongly to make an effort to
raise the capital requisite to become a partner in the business that
had been named to him, that after some severe struggles with himself,
he at last consented to use the money he had brought home with him. His
friend loaned him four hundred dollars to make up the required sum.
The business succeeded beyond his expectations. In a few years he was
able to marry, and live in a very comfortable style. He would hear none
of the objections urged by his mother against living with him, but shut
up her shop in spite of her remonstrances, and brought her to the city.
No one who saw her during the remaining ten years of her life would
have called her unhappy.
I know Peyton still. He is not now, by general reputation, "a fine,
generous fellow." But he is a good citizen, a good husband, and a good
father; and was a good son while his mother lived with him. He has won
the means of really benefiting others, and few are more willing than he
is to do it, when it can be done in the right way. He is "generous"
still--but wisely so.