THE IMPULSES OF WOUNDED PRIDE
That which at first was little more than an impulse, caused by wounded
pride, speedily developed into a settled purpose, and Haldane would
leave his prison cell fully bent on achieving great things. In
accordance with a tendency in impulsive natures, he reacted from
something like despair into quite a sanguine and heroic mood. He would
"face and fight the world, ay, and conquer it, too." He would go out
into the streets which had witnessed his disgrace, and, penniless,
empty-handed, dowered only with shame, he would prove his manhood by
winning a position that would compel respect and more than respect.
Mrs. Arnot, who returned immediately to the prison, was puzzled to know
how to deal with him. She approved of his resolution to remain in
Hillaton, and of his purpose to regain respect and position on the very
spot, as it were, where, by his crime and folly, he had lost both. She
was satisfied that such a course promised far better for the future than
a return to his mother's luxurious home. With all its beauty and comfort
it would become to him almost inevitably a slough, both of "despond" and
of dissipation--dissipation of the worst and most hopeless kind,
wherein the victim's ruling motive is to get rid of self. The fact that
the young man was capable of turning upon and facing a scornful and
hostile world was a good and hopeful sign. If he had been willing to
slink away with his mother, bent only on escape from punishment and on
the continuance of animal enjoyment, Mrs. Arnot would have felt that his
nature was not sufficiently leavened with manhood to give hope of
reform.
But while his action did suggest hope, it also contained elements of
discouragement. She did not find fault with what he proposed to do, but
with the spirit in which he was entering on his most difficult task. His
knowledge of the world was so crude and partial that he did not at all
realize the herculean labor that he now became eager to attempt; and he
was bent on accomplishing everything in a way that would minister to his
own pride, and proposed to be under obligations to no one.
Mrs. Arnot, with her deep and long experience, knew how vitally
important it is that human endeavor should be supplemented by divine
aid, and she sighed deeply as she saw that the young man not only
ignored this need, but did not even seem conscious of it. Religion was
to him a matter of form and profession, to which he was utterly
indifferent. The truth that God helps the distressed as a father helps
and comforts his child, was a thought that then made no impression on
him whatever. God and all relating to him were abstractions, and he felt
that the emergency was too pressing, too imperative, for considerations
that had no practical and immediate bearing upon his present success.
Indeed, such was his pride and self-confidence, that he refused to
receive from Mrs. Arnot, and even from his mother, anything more than
the privilege of going out empty-handed into the city which was to
become the arena of his future exploits.
He told Mrs. Arnot the whole story, and she had hoped that she could
place his folly and crime before him in its true moral aspects, and by
dealing faithfully, yet kindly, with him, awaken his conscience. But she
had the tact to discover very soon that such effort was now worse than
useless. It was not his conscience, but his pride, that had been chiefly
wounded. He felt his disgrace, his humiliation, in the eyes of men
almost too keenly, and he was consumed with desire to regain society's
favor. But he did not feel his sin. To God's opinion of him he scarcely
gave a thought. He regarded his wrong act in the light of a sudden and
grave misfortune rather than as the manifestation of a foul and inherent
disease of his soul. He had lost his good name as a man loses his
property, and believed that he, in his own strength, and without any
moral change, could regain it.
When parting at the prison, Mrs. Arnot gave him her hand, and said:
"I trust that your hopes may be realized, and your efforts meet with
success; but I cannot help warning you that I fear you do not realize
what you are attempting. The world is not only very cold, but also
suspicious and wary in its disposition toward those who have forfeited
its confidence. I cannot learn that you have any definite plans or
prospects. I have never been able to accomplish much without God's help.
You not only seem to forget your need of Him, but you are not even
willing to receive aid from me or your own mother. I honor and respect
you for making the attempt upon which you are bent, but I fear that
pride rather than wisdom is your counsellor in carrying out your
resolution; and both God's word and human experience prove that pride
goes but a little way before a fall."
"I have reached a depth," replied Haldane, bitterly, "from whence I
cannot fall; and it will be hereafter some consolation to remember that
I was not lifted out of the mire, but that I got out. If I cannot climb
up again it were better I perished in the gutter of my shame."
"I am sorry, Egbert, that you cut yourself off from the most hopeful and
helpful relations which you can ever sustain. A father helps his
children through their troubles, and so God is desirous of helping us.
There are some things which we cannot do alone--it is not meant that we
should. God is ever willing to help those who are down, and Christians
are not worthy of the name unless they are also willing. It is our duty
to make every effort of which we ourselves are capable; but this is only
half our duty. Since our tasks are beyond our strength and ability, we
are equally bound to receive such human aid as God sends us, and, chief
of all, to ask daily, and sometimes hourly, that His strength be made
perfect in our weakness. But there are some lessons which are only
learned by experience. I shall feel deeply grieved if you do not come or
send for me in any emergency or time of special need. In parting, I have
one favor to ask, and I think I have a right to ask it. I wish you to go
and see your mother, and spend at least an hour with her before she
returns home. As a matter of manly duty, be kind and gentle. Remember
how deeply you have wounded her, and that you are under the most sacred
obligations to endure patiently all reproaches and expressions of grief.
If you will do this you will do much to regain my respect, and it will
be a most excellent step toward a better life. You can gain society's
respect again only by doing your duty, and nothing can be duty more
plainly than this."
After a moment's hesitation he said, "I do not think an interview with
mother now will do either of us any good; but, as you say, you have a
right to ask this, and much more, of me. I will go to her hotel and do
the best I can; but somehow mother don't understand human nature--or, at
least, my nature--and when I have been doing wrong she always makes me
feel like doing worse."
"If you are to succeed in your endeavor you are not to act as you feel.
_You are to do right._ Remember that in your effort to win the position
you wish in this city, you start with at least one friend to whom you
can always come. Good-by," and Mrs. Arnot returned home weary and sad
from the day's unforeseen experiences.
In answer to Laura's eager questioning, she related what had happened
quite fully, veiling only that which a delicate regard for others would
lead her to pass in silence. She made the young girl womanly by treating
her more as a woman and a companion than as a child. In Mrs. Arnot's
estimation her niece had reached an age when her innocence and
simplicity could not be maintained by efforts to keep her shallow and
ignorant, but by revealing to her life in its reality, so that she might
wisely and gladly choose the good from its happy contrast with evil and
its inevitable suffering.
The innocence that walks blindly on amid earth's snares and pitfalls is
an uncertain possession; the innocence that recognizes evil, but turns
from it with dread and aversion, is priceless.
Mrs. Arnot told Laura the story of the young man's folly substantially
as he had related it to her, but she skilfully showed how one
comparatively venial thing had led to another, until an act had been
committed which might have resulted in years of imprisonment.
"Let this sad and miserable affair teach you," said she, "that we are
never safe when we commence to do wrong or act foolishly. We can never
tell to what disastrous lengths we may go when we leave the path of
simple duty."
While she mentioned Haldane's resolution to regain, if possible, his
good name and position, she skilfully removed from the maiden's mind all
romantic notions concerning the young man and her relation to his
conduct.
Laura's romantic nature would always be a source both of strength and
weakness. While, on the one hand, it rendered her incapable of a sordid
and calculating scheme of life, on the other, it might lead to feeling
and action prejudicial to her happiness. Mrs. Arnot did not intend that
she should brood over Haldane until her vivid imagination should weave a
net out of his misfortunes which might insnare her heart. It was best
for Laura that she should receive her explanations of life in very plain
prose, and the picture that her aunt presented of Haldane and his
prospects was prosaic indeed. He was shown to be but an ordinary young
man, with more than ordinarily bad tendencies. While she commended his
effort in itself, she plainly stated how wanting it was in the true
elements of success, and how great were her fears that it would meet
with utter failure. Thus the affair ended, as far as Laura was
concerned, in a sincere pity for her premature lover, and a mild and
natural interest in his future welfare--but nothing more.
Mr. Arnot uttered an imprecation on learning that his wife had gone
security for Haldane. But when he found that she had acted through Mr.
Melville, in such a way that the fact need not become known, he
concluded to remain silent concerning the matter. He and his wife met at
the dinner-table that evening as if nothing unusual had occurred, both
having concluded to ignore all that had transpired, if possible. Mrs.
Arnot saw that her husband had only acted characteristically, and, from
his point of view, correctly. Perhaps his recent experience would
prevent him from being unduly harsh again should there ever be similar
cause, which was quite improbable. Since it appeared that she could
minister to his happiness in no other way save through her property, she
decided to leave him the one meagre gratification of which he was
capable.
The future in its general aspects may here be anticipated by briefly
stating that the echoes of the affair gradually died away. Mr. Arnot, on
the receipt of a check for one thousand dollars from Mrs. Haldane's
lawyer, was glad to procure Mr. Melville's release from the bond for
which his wife was pledged, by assuring the legal authorities that he
would not prosecute. The superior young man, who made free drinks the
ambition of his life, had kept himself well informed, and on learning of
the order for his arrest left town temporarily for parts unknown. The
papers made the most of the sensation, to the disgust of all concerned,
but reference to the affair soon dwindled down to an occasional
paragraph. The city press concluded editorially that the great
manufacturer had been harsh only seemingly, for the sake of effect, and
with the understanding that his wife would show a little balancing
kindness to the culprit and his aristocratic mother. That Haldane should
still remain in the city was explained on the ground that he was ashamed
to go home, or that he was not wanted there.