MORAL DECLENSION.
ALONE—amid books, mortars, vials, and the more startling appendages of
a doctor's office—sat the young student, whose suit had been rejected.
The volumes over which he had been poring were closed; the anatomical
preparations laid aside; the theory and practice of medicine alike
forgotten. He sat with his head bowed down; his whole attitude one of
deep dejection.
"It is folly to give way thus," he said, arousing himself. "Her heart
and her hand are already pledged to another, and can, therefore, never
be mine. How little did I dream of this! Sweet girl! How can I give up
the dear hope of one day calling her my own! But it must be done. Who
can be my fortunate rival?"
As this last sentence was uttered almost aloud, the door of the office
opened, and his friend Lawrence Dunbar came in.
"What has come over you, Lloyd?" he said, as soon as he had looked into
Hudson's face. "One would think you hadn't a friend in the world."
"I am not so badly off as that comes to, I hope; though I cannot say
that I feel very bright. But you look as if you were in the best
possible humor with yourself and everybody else."
"And so I am; and I have cause to be, Lloyd! I have something to tell
you, as a friend, which I think will gratify you exceedingly."
"Ah! What is it?"
"I have wooed and won the sweetest maiden in the city."
"You have?"
"Yes, young as I am—too young, as nine out of ten of our greybeards
would say—I have settled that most important matter, and infinitely to
my satisfaction. Now, who do you think the maiden is? You know her.
Guess! You will approve my choice, I'll wager a sixpence."
"I cannot guess," replied Hudson, a sudden suspicion of the truth
flashing over his mind, and causing his pulses to throb more quickly.
"It is Mary Lee!"
The utmost effort of Hudson was required to keep from betraying undue
disturbance at this communication.
"Now don't you approve of my choice?" asked the friend, gaily. "Have I
not shown taste?"
"I think you have."
"You think I have! Why don't you go into heroics about it, and say what
you really believe. If you had come with a similar communication, I
would have wrung your hand half off. She's a charming girl, isn't she?"
"Yes; charming."
"Don't talk like a parrot! Can't you invent some expression of
admiration?"
"She needs no praise from me, Lawrence," replied Hudson, speaking with
gravity. "I have always looked upon her as the pride of her sex."
"Well, but gravely said. You are as phlegmatic as a Greenlander. I
think she will grace any circle into which she may be thrown: don't
you?"
"I certainly do."
"Of course, I mean to rise in the world far above my present position.
That, you know, I have settled long ago; and my wife must be one who
can rise with me. It would not do to have a wife who felt more at home
in the kitchen than in the parlor, or who would not be a fit associate
for ladies of any rank. I am much mistaken in Mary if she will not
grace any circle into which I may be able to introduce her."
There was a something in the way this was uttered by Dunbar that caused
an indignant emotion to rise in the breast of Hudson. He did not make a
reply, and his friend went on.
"Of course, I must look to this. No matter how much I might have loved
Mary, if I had perceived in her anything that led me to doubt her being
able to support the dignity and character of a refined lady, I would
have passed her aside."
"You are quite cool about the matter," remarked Hudson, with a slight
manifestation of disturbance in his voice. He felt impatient, and could
not entirely control himself.
"A cool head and a warm heart: that is my motto."
"Parrot!" was the indignant, though mental ejaculation of Hudson.
"Your head is cool, certainly," he said aloud.
"And do you doubt the warmth of my heart?"
"I didn't say so."
"But am I not to infer that from what you do say?"
"I would not like to say that your heart was not warm, Lawrence; but I
will remark, that your very cool heads are apt to chill the blood so
much that the heart cannot restore it to a healthy temperature."
"As to that, I prefer a cool head, rather than a heart so warm as to
soften the brains," replied Dunbar. "I go for cool heads, you know."
"And I for warm hearts," replied Hudson.
"Which makes the difference between us. A few years will show which
is best. I will just say, however, in passing, as we happen to be on
the subject and speaking a little freely, that I think your defect
lies just where you have indicated it. Your feelings are too generous.
Your heart is too warm. You think too much of others and too little of
yourself. This will not do, if you expect to rise in the world. All
these amiable weaknesses must be laid aside as hindrances."
"If that is the price of elevation in this world, I do not wish to
rise," said Hudson.
"It is, you may depend upon it," his friend replied.
"A position that I must doubt."
"If you continue to doubt it, you will remain where you are."
"And I shall be content, if elevation is to be purchased at the price
you name."
"You're a foolish fellow, Lloyd!"
"Time will show that. I expect to rise upon my system, as much as you
expect to rise upon yours."
"As high?"
"Higher, perhaps."
"Time, as you say, will show."
"I am willing to trust in time."
"And so am I."
The sober mood in which Dunbar found his friend was in no way congenial
to his feelings, and he did not long oppress the young student with his
presence.
"And it is upon him that Mary—sweet Mary Lee! has thrown herself away,"
murmured Hudson, when he was again alone. "He does not love her as I
love her—he cannot! Ah, me! So the world goes." And he bent his head
again down upon the table from which he had raised it when Dunbar came
in.
It was some days before the young student could sufficiently compose
his mind to resume, with anything like his former ardor, the study of
his profession. That a change had passed over him was noticed by all
his friends, but no one knew the cause. His secret was locked in his
own bosom.
After he had parted from Mary Lee, the maiden retired to her chamber,
and sitting down with a sigh, fell into a deep reverie. As to what she
thought and felt, we cannot say; but her face was not so bright and
happy as it had been for many days before.
The fact of the engagement of Dunbar with Mary Lee soon transpired,
and reached the young man's family before he had thought it proper to
acquaint them with what he had done. To his surprise, he found that his
father was by no means pleased with this step. He had no particular
objection to the young lady, so far as matters personal to herself were
concerned; but to her condition he had a very decided objection.
"You have committed a most egregious mistake," he said, manifesting
strong displeasure, "and have marred your future prospects more than
you dream. A young man of any ambition is a fool to think of marriage
before he is twenty-eight or thirty. He establishes his position first;
he writes his name so high that all can read it, and then makes his
selection of a wife from the hundreds whose hands are ready to grasp
the one he outstretches. Six or seven years from this time, wealth and
high connexions may easily be secured by marriage. Lawrence! I thought
better of you. What is Mary Lee! How will a marriage with her advance
your interests in the world, or help to place you higher?"
Dunbar had never thought of this. For once the warm heart had gained
an advantage over the cool head. It was his first error of this kind,
and it was the last. He did not argue the matter with his father, nor
attempt to palliate what he had done. The mistake he had committed
was too palpable at the first glance. A few words had made this clear
as daylight. Mary was poor; she could not, therefore, aid him in his
upward struggle by the strong elevating power of wealth. She was humble
and unknown, and could not advance his interests by connecting him with
an influential family, or introducing him into a higher circle than the
one in which he was moving.
After the interview with his father, for whose opinions he always had
great respect, Dunbar felt sober. He acknowledged that he had indeed
fallen into an error, even while the maiden's image impressed itself
warmly upon his heart. That she was worthy to rise with him he had
been fully satisfied; but he had not yet advanced far enough in the
world's selfish wisdom to understand that there was a higher truth to
be learned on this subject. His father's words revealed this to his
approving reason.
"But it is now too late," he said to himself, as he sat dreaming over
the subject some hours afterwards, with his law books open, but unread,
before him. "The engagement has been entered into, and cannot be
broken. All I can do is to make the best of it. Mary is a lovely girl,
and worthy to be loved. I might get a rich wife, but none so good, none
so pure, none so truthful. I must only struggle the harder. They shall
see that I can rise, even in spite of this drawback."
These were his first thoughts and purposes. But the reflection of
what he had lost kept haunting him; and the involuntary contrast
between Mary, portionless and unknown, and some beautiful heiress,
highly accomplished and highly connected, kept arising and dimming the
maiden's image that had been stamped upon his heart.
No very long time passed before Mary Lee perceived something in her
lover that inwardly disturbed her. There was a change of some kind
in him. He came as often, stayed as long, and uttered as many tender
words, but still there was a change. He appeared the same, and yet her
heart had an instinct that he was not the same.
The manner of old Mr. Dunbar, after the discovery of his son's folly,
as he called it, was colder and more reserved than before. He was
disappointed, and had lost, to some extent, confidence in his son. If,
in the outset, he could commit such a fatal mistake, what surety was
there for the future? "None at all," he said to himself. "He will start
aside at every false allurement."
About twelve months after Lawrence Dunbar had entered upon the study
of law, his preceptor, who took a fancy to him from the first, paid
him the compliment of inviting him to his house to spend an evening
on the occasion of his having company. A little to his surprise, for
he had not expected that, the young man found himself in a brilliant
party, with beauty, fashion, and the evidences of wealth all around
him. Mr. Harker, his patron, took pains to introduce him pretty freely,
of which favor the young mart judiciously availed himself. Among the
ladies, there was an air of self-possession, elegance, and refinement,
such as he had never before met. He regarded them with scarcely
concealed admiration; and not without drawing contrasts between them
and the unimposing, gentle, yet beautiful Mary Lee. The contrast was
not favorable to his betrothed. He felt that she was inferior to the
brilliant women who flashed around him; and that a marriage with her
must retard rather than accelerate his upward movement.
From this party, Dunbar went home feeling both elated and depressed. He
had taken a step upward, and this elated him; but the upward movement
made him painfully conscious that there was a cord around his neck and
a weight attached to it.
"Why did I act with such haste? Why did I commit this folly?" he said,
scarcely reflecting upon the import of his words. His true feelings had
clothed themselves in true thoughts in a moment when he was off his
guard.
Shame reddened his cheek, but did not silence the utterance within him.
As yet, the thought of violating his marriage contract had found no
place in his mind. That was a baseness still to be developed. He could
regret the folly that had united him, by an honorable pledge, to one
now considered below him, but the thought of violating that pledge had
not presented itself.
From this time, Mary was conscious of a change. The evidences were too
palpable to be mistaken. Dunbar spoke to her of the party, and of the
brilliant ladies whose presence graced it, with an admiration that
caused, she hardly at first knew why, a feeling of soberness. To her he
was changed from that time; and with a consciousness of change, came
a suspicion of the cause; for, in conversation, he sometimes betrayed
enough of his real aspirations to reveal to her quick instincts more
than the truth.
Still, his visits were as constant as before, and his heart, when
left to its own better impulses, was true to its first love. Months
passed, and the young man's circle of new acquaintances grew wider
and wider. Through the partial kindness of Mr. Harker who omitted
no opportunity for introducing his student to people of standing in
society, he found himself gradually making friends and associates of an
entirely different class to those he had been in the habit of meeting.
Attractive as he had at first deemed Mary Lee, he was fated to see her
attractions waning before more brilliant young ladies of a fashionable
education, and fashionable habits and manners. Thus the sun of his love
grew dimmer and dimmer, until it ceased to shine upon his heart with
the radiant warmth of earlier days. Mary appeared to change. He asked
himself, sometimes, what there was about her that could have won his
admiration. Her beauty was tame to what he saw almost every day, and in
mind, manners, and accomplishments, she was incomparably below dozens
of young ladies of whose acquaintance he could boast.
At last, from being cold and reserved towards Mary, he began to neglect
her. Weeks would sometimes be allowed to intervene between his visits.
The thought of breaking his engagement with her, at first repulsed, was
now seriously entertained; and as soon as entertained, reasons fully
sufficient to justify the step were discovered.
There were, of course, difficulties in the way, and he felt troubled.
But there was too much at stake to give place to long continued
irresolution. Before a year after his introduction into a higher circle
of acquaintance had expired, his mind was fully made up to cast aside
the loving heart that would have been true to him through life.