MR. MORLEY.
As soon as my cousin Judy returned from Hastings, I called to see her, and
found them all restored, except Amy, a child of between eight and nine.
There was nothing very definite the matter with her, but she was white and
thin, and looked wistful; the blue of her eyes had grown pale, and her fair
locks had nearly lost the curl which had so well suited her rosy cheeks.
She had been her father's pride for her looks, and her mother's for her
sayings,--at once odd and simple. Judy that morning reminded me how, one
night, when she was about three years old, some time after she had gone to
bed, she had called her nurse, and insisted on her mother's coming. Judy
went, prepared to find her feverish; for there had been jam-making that
day, and she feared she had been having more than the portion which on such
an occasion fell to her share. When she reached the nursery, Amy begged to
be taken up that she might say her prayers over again. Her mother objected;
but the child insisting, in that pretty, petulant way which so pleased
her father, she yielded, thinking she must have omitted some clause in
her prayers, and be therefore troubled in her conscience. Amy accordingly
kneeled by the bedside in her night-gown, and, having gone over all her
petitions from beginning to end, paused a moment before the final word, and
inserted the following special and peculiar request: "And, p'ease God, give
me some more jam to-morrow-day, for ever and ever. Amen."
I remember my father being quite troubled when he heard that the child had
been rebuked for offering what was probably her very first genuine prayer.
The rebuke, however, had little effect on the equanimity of the petitioner,
for she was fast asleep a moment after it.
"There is one thing that puzzles and annoys me," said Judy. "I can't think
what it means. My husband tells me that Miss Clare was so rude to him,
the day before we left for Hastings, that he would rather not be aware
of it any time she is in the house. Those were his very words. 'I will
not interfere with your doing as you think proper,' he said, 'seeing you
consider yourself under such obligation to her; and I should be sorry to
deprive her of the advantage of giving lessons in a house like this; but I
wish you to be careful that the girls do not copy her manners. She has not
by any means escaped the influence of the company she keeps.' I was utterly
astonished, you may well think; but I could get no further explanation from
him. He only said that when I wished to have her society of an evening,
I must let him know, because he would then dine at his club. Not knowing
the grounds of his offence, there was little other argument I could use
than the reiteration of my certainty that he must have misunderstood her.
'Not in the least,' he said. 'I have no doubt she is to you every thing
amiable; but she has taken some unaccountable aversion to me, and loses no
opportunity of showing it. And I _don't_ think I deserve it.' I told him
I was so sure he did not deserve it, that I must believe there was some
mistake. But he only shook his head and raised his newspaper. You must help
me, little coz."
"How am I to help you, Judy dear?" I returned. "I can't interfere between
husband and wife, you know. If I dared such a thing, he would quarrel with
me too--and rightly."
"No, no," she returned, laughing: "I don't want your intercession. I only
want you to find out from Miss Clare whether she knows how she has so
mortally offended my husband. I believe she knows nothing about it. She
_has_ a rather abrupt manner sometimes, you know; but then my husband
is not so silly as to have taken such deep offence at that. Help me,
now--there's a dear!"
I promised I would, and hence came the story I have already given. But
Marion was so distressed at the result of her words, and so anxious that
Judy should not be hurt, that she begged me, if I could manage it without
a breach of verity, to avoid disclosing the matter; especially seeing Mr.
Morley himself judged it too heinous to impart to his wife.
How to manage it I could not think. But at length we arranged it between
us. I told Judy that Marion confessed to having said something which had
offended Mr. Morley; that she was very sorry, and hoped she need not say
that such had not been her intention, but that, as Mr. Morley evidently
preferred what had passed between them to remain unmentioned, to disclose
it would be merely to swell the mischief. It would be better for them
all, she requested me to say, that she should give up her lessons for the
present; and therefore she hoped Mrs. Morley would excuse her. When I gave
the message, Judy cried, and said nothing. When the children heard that
Marion was not coming for a while, Amy cried, the other girls looked very
grave, and the boys protested.
I have already mentioned that the fault I most disliked in those children
was their incapacity for being petted. Something of it still remains; but
of late I have remarked a considerable improvement in this respect. They
have not only grown in kindness, but in the gift of receiving kindness.
I cannot but attribute this, in chief measure, to their illness and the
lovely nursing of Marion. They do not yet go to their mother for petting,
and from myself will only endure it; but they are eager after such crumbs
as Marion, by no means lavish of it, will vouchsafe them.
Judy insisted that I should let Mr. Morley hear Marion's message.
"But the message is not to Mr. Morley," I said. "Marion would never have
thought of sending one to him."
"But if I ask you to repeat it in his hearing, you will not refuse?"
To this I consented; but I fear she was disappointed in the result. Her
husband only smiled sarcastically, drew in his chin, and showed himself a
little more cheerful than usual.
One morning, about two months after, as I was sitting in the drawing-room,
with my baby on the floor beside me, I was surprised to see Judy's brougham
pull up at the little gate--for it was early. When she got out, I perceived
at once that something was amiss, and ran to open the door. Her eyes were
red, and her cheeks ashy. The moment we reached the drawing-room, she sunk
on the couch and burst into tears.
"Judy!" I cried, "what _is_ the matter? Is Amy worse?"
"No, no, cozzy dear; but we are ruined. We haven't a penny in the world.
The children will be beggars."
And there were the gay little horses champing their bits at the door, and
the coachman sitting in all his glory, erect and impassive!
I did my best to quiet her, urging no questions. With difficulty I got her
to swallow a glass of wine, after which, with many interruptions and fresh
outbursts of misery, she managed to let me understand that her husband
had been speculating, and had failed. I could hardly believe myself
awake. Mr. Morley was the last man I should have thought capable either
of speculating, or of failing in it if he did.
Knowing nothing about business, I shall not attempt to explain the
particulars. Coincident failures amongst his correspondents had contributed
to his fall. Judy said he had not been like himself for months; but it was
only the night before that he had told her they must give up their house in
Bolivar Square, and take a small one in the suburbs. For any thing he could
see, he said, he must look out for a situation.
"Still you may be happier than ever, Judy. I can tell you that happiness
does not depend on riches," I said, though I could not help crying with
her.
"It's a different thing though, after you've been used to them," she
answered. "But the question is of bread for my children, not of putting
down my carriage."
She rose hurriedly.
"Where are you going? Is there any thing I can do for you?" I asked.
"Nothing," she answered. "I left my husband at Mr. Baddeley's. He is as
rich as Croesus, and could write him a check that would float him."
"He's too rich to be generous, I'm afraid," I said.
"What do you mean by that?" she asked.
"If he be so generous, how does it come that he is so rich?"
"Why, his father made the money."
"Then he most likely takes after his father. Percivale says he does not
believe a huge fortune was ever made of nothing, without such pinching of
one's self and such scraping of others, or else such speculation, as is
essentially dishonorable."
"He stands high," murmured Judy hopelessly.
"Whether what is dishonorable be also disreputable depends on how many
there are of his own sort in the society in which he moves."
"Now, coz, you know nothing to his discredit, and he's our last hope."
"I will say no more," I answered. "I hope I may be quite wrong. Only I
should expect nothing of _him_."
When she reached Mr. Baddeley's her husband was gone. Having driven to his
counting-house, and been shown into his private room, she found him there
with his head between his hands. The great man had declined doing any thing
for him, and had even rebuked him for his imprudence, without wasting a
thought on the fact that every penny he himself possessed was the result
of the boldest speculation on the part of his father. A very few days only
would elapse before the falling due of certain bills must at once disclose
the state of his affairs.
As soon as she had left me, Percivale not being at home, I put on my
bonnet, and went to find Marion. I must tell _her_ every thing that caused
me either joy or sorrow; and besides, she had all the right that love could
give to know of Judy's distress. I knew all her engagements, and therefore
where to find her; and sent in my card, with the pencilled intimation that
I would wait the close of her lesson. In a few minutes she came out and got
into the cab. At once I told her my sad news.
"Could you take me to Cambridge Square to my next engagement?" she said.
I was considerably surprised at the cool way in which she received the
communication, but of course I gave the necessary directions.
"Is there any thing to be done?" she asked, after a pause.
"I know of nothing," I answered.
Again she sat silent for a few minutes.
"One can't move without knowing all the circumstances and particulars," she
said at length. "And how to get at them? He wouldn't make a confidante of
_me_," she said, smiling sadly.
"Ah! you little think what vast sums are concerned in such a failure as
his!" I remarked, astounded that one with her knowledge of the world should
talk as she did.
"It will be best," she said, after still another pause, "to go to Mr.
Blackstone. He has a wonderful acquaintance with business for a clergyman,
and knows many of the city people."
"What could any clergyman do in such a case?" I returned. "For Mr.
Blackstone, Mr. Morley would not accept even consolation at his hands."
"The time for that is not come yet," said Marion. "We must try to help him
some other way first. We will, if we can, make friends with him by means of
the very Mammon that has all but ruined him."
She spoke of the great merchant just as she might of Richard, or any of the
bricklayers or mechanics, whose spiritual condition she pondered that she
might aid it.
"But what could Mr. Blackstone do?" I insisted.
"All I should want of him would be to find out for me what Mr. Morley's
liabilities are, and how much would serve to tide him over the bar of his
present difficulties. I suspect he has few friends who would risk any thing
for him. I understand he is no favorite in the city; and, if friendship do
not come in, he must be stranded. You believe him an honorable man,--do you
not?" she asked abruptly.
"It never entered my head to doubt it," I replied.
The moment we reached Cambridge Square she jumped out, ran up the steps,
and knocked at the door. I waited, wondering if she was going to leave
me thus without a farewell. When the door was opened, she merely gave a
message to the man, and the same instant was again in the cab by my side.
"Now I am free!" she said, and told the man to drive to Mile End.
"I fear I can't go with you so far, Marion," I said. "I must go home--I
have so much to see to, and you can do quite as well without me. I don't
know what you intend, but _please_ don't let any thing come out. I can
trust _you_, but"--
"If you can trust me, I can trust Mr. Blackstone. He is the most cautious
man in the world. Shall I get out, and take another cab?"
"No. You can drop me at Tottenham Court Road, and I will go home by
omnibus. But you must let me pay the cab."
"No, no; I am richer than you: I have no children. What fun it is to spend
money for Mr. Morley, and lay him under an obligation he will never know!"
she said, laughing.
The result of her endeavors was, that Mr. Blackstone, by a circuitous
succession of introductions, reached Mr. Morley's confidential clerk,
whom he was able so far to satisfy concerning his object in desiring
the information, that he made him a full disclosure of the condition of
affairs, and stated what sum would be sufficient to carry them over their
difficulties; though, he added, the greatest care, and every possible
reduction of expenditure for some years, would be indispensable to their
complete restoration.
Mr. Blackstone carried his discoveries to Miss Clare and she to Lady
Bernard.
"My dear Marion," said Lady Bernard, "this is a serious matter you suggest.
The man may be honest, and yet it may be of no use trying to help him. I
don't want to bolster him up for a few months in order to see my money go
after his. That's not what I've got to do with it. No doubt I could lose
as much as you mention, without being crippled by it, for I hope it's no
disgrace in me to be rich, as it's none in you to be poor; but I hate
waste, and I will _not_ be guilty of it. If Mr. Morley will convince me and
any friend or man of business to whom I may refer the matter, that there is
good probability of his recovering himself by means of it, then, and not
till then, I shall feel justified in risking the amount. For, as you say,
it would prevent much misery to many besides that good-hearted creature,
Mrs. Morley, and her children. It is worth doing if it can be done--not
worth trying if it can't."
"Shall I write for you, and ask him to come and see you?"
"No, my dear. If I do a kindness, I must do it humbly. It is a great
liberty to take with a man to offer him a kindness. I must go to him. I
could not use the same freedom with a man in misfortune as with one in
prosperity. I would have such a one feel that his money or his poverty made
no difference to me; and Mr. Morley wants that lesson, if any man does.
Besides, after all, I may not be able to do it for him, and he would have
good reason to be hurt if I had made him dance attendance on me."
The same evening Lady Bernard's shabby one-horse-brougham stopped at
Mr. Morley's door. She asked to see Mrs. Morley, and through her had an
interview with her husband. Without circumlocution, she told him that if
he would lay his affairs before her and a certain accountant she named,
to use their judgment regarding them in the hope of finding it possible to
serve him, they would wait upon him for that purpose at any time and place
he pleased. Mr. Morley expressed his obligation,--not very warmly, she
said,--repudiating, however, the slightest objection to her ladyship's
knowing now what all the world must know the next day but one.
Early the following morning Lady Bernard and the accountant met Mr. Morley
at his place in the city, and by three o'clock in the afternoon fifteen
thousand pounds were handed in to his account at his banker's.
The carriage was put down, the butler, one of the footmen, and the lady's
maid, were dismissed, and household arrangements fitted to a different
scale.
One consequence of this chastisement, as of the preceding, was, that the
whole family drew yet more closely and lovingly together; and I must say
for Judy, that, after a few weeks of what she called poverty, her spirits
seemed in no degree the worse for the trial.
At Marion's earnest entreaty no one told either Mr. or Mrs. Morley of the
share she had had in saving his credit and social position. For some time
she suffered from doubt as to whether she had had any right to interpose in
the matter, and might not have injured Mr. Morley by depriving him of the
discipline of poverty; but she reasoned with herself, that, had it been
necessary for him, her efforts would have been frustrated; and reminded
herself, that, although his commercial credit had escaped, it must still be
a considerable trial to him to live in reduced style.
But that it was not all the trial needful for him, was soon apparent; for
his favorite Amy began to pine more rapidly, and Judy saw, that, except
some change speedily took place, they could not have her with them long.
The father, however, refused to admit the idea that she was in danger. I
suppose he felt as if, were he once to allow the possibility of losing
her, from that moment there would be no stay between her and the grave: it
would be a giving of her over to death. But whatever Dr. Brand suggested
was eagerly followed. When the chills of autumn drew near, her mother took
her to Ventnor; but little change followed, and before the new year she
was gone. It was the first death, beyond that of an infant, they had had
in their family, and took place at a time when the pressure of business
obligations rendered it impossible for her father to be out of London: he
could only go to lay her in the earth, and bring back his wife. Judy had
never seen him weep before. Certainly I never saw such a change in a man.
He was literally bowed with grief, as if he bore a material burden on
his back. The best feelings of his nature, unimpeded by any jar to his
self-importance or his prejudices, had been able to spend themselves on the
lovely little creature; and I do not believe any other suffering than the
loss of such a child could have brought into play that in him which was
purely human.
He was at home one morning, ill for the first time in his life, when Marion
called on Judy. While she waited in the drawing-room, he entered. He turned
the moment he saw her, but had not taken two steps towards the door, when
he turned again, and approached her. She went to meet him. He held out his
hand.
"She was very fond of you, Miss Clare," he said. "She was talking about you
the very last time I saw her. Let by-gones be by-gones between us."
"I was very rough and rude to you, Mr. Morley, and I am very sorry," said
Marion.
"But you spoke the truth," he rejoined. "I thought I was above being spoken
to like a sinner, but I don't know now why not."
He sat down on a couch, and leaned his head on his hand. Marion took a
chair near him, but could not speak.
"It is very hard," he murmured at length.
"Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth," said Marion.
"That may be true in some cases, but I have no right to believe it applies
to me. He loved the child, I would fain believe; for I dare not think of
her either as having ceased to be, or as alone in the world to which she
has gone. You do think, Miss Clare, do you not, that we shall know our
friends in another world?"
"I believe," answered Marion, "that God sent you that child for the express
purpose of enticing you back to himself; and, if I believe any thing at
all, I believe that the gifts of God are without repentance."
Whether or not he understood her she could not tell, for at this point
Judy came in. Seeing them together she would have withdrawn again; but her
husband called her, with more tenderness in his voice than Marion could
have imagined belonging to it.
"Come, my dear. Miss Clare and I were talking about our little angel. I
didn't think ever to speak of her again, but I fear I am growing foolish.
All the strength is out of me; and I feel so tired,--so weary of every
thing!"
She sat down beside him, and took his hand. Marion crept away to the
children. An hour after, Judy found her in the nursery, with the youngest
on her knee, and the rest all about her. She was telling them that we were
sent into this world to learn to be good, and then go back to God from whom
we came, like little Amy.
"When I go out to-mowwow," said one little fellow, about four years old,
"I'll look up into the sky vewy hard, wight up; and then I shall see Amy,
and God saying to her, 'Hushaby, poo' Amy! You bette' now, Amy?' Sha'n't I,
Mawion?"
She had taught them to call her Marion.
"No, my pet: you might look and look, all day long, and every day, and
never see God or Amy."
"Then they _ain't_ there!" he exclaimed indignantly.
"God is there, anyhow," she answered; "only you can't see him that way."
"I don't care about seeing God," said the next elder: "it's Amy I want to
see. Do tell me, Marion, how we are to see Amy. It's too bad if we're never
to see her again; and I don't think it's fair."
"I will tell you the only way I know. When Jesus was in the world, he told
us that all who had clean hearts should see God. That's how Jesus himself
saw God."
"It's Amy, I tell you, Marion--it's not God I want to see," insisted the
one who had last spoken.
"Well, my dear, but how can you see Amy if you can't even see God? If Amy
be in God's arms, the first thing, in order to find her, is to find God.
To be good is the only way to get near to anybody. When you're naughty,
Willie, you can't get near your mamma, can you?"
"Yes, I can. I can get close up to her."
"Is that near enough? Would you be quite content with that? Even when she
turns away her face and won't look at you?"
The little caviller was silent.
"Did you ever see God, Marion?" asked one of the girls.
She thought for a moment before giving an answer. "No," she said. "I've
seen things just after he had done them; and I think I've heard him speak
to me; but I've never seen him yet."
"Then you're not good, Marion," said the free-thinker of the group.
"No: that's just it. But I hope to be good some day, and then I _shall_ see
him."
"How do you grow good, Marion?" asked the girl.
"God is always trying to make me good," she answered; "and I try not to
interfere with him."
"But sometimes you forget, don't you?"
"Yes, I do."
"And what do you do then?"
"Then I'm sorry and unhappy, and begin to try again."
"And God don't mind much, does he?"
"He minds very much until I mind; but after that he forgets it all,--takes
all my naughtiness and throws it behind his back, and won't look at it."
"That's very good of God," said the reasoner, but with such a
self-satisfied air in his approval, that Marion thought it time to stop.
She came straight to me, and told me, with a face perfectly radiant, of
the alteration in Mr. Morley's behavior to her, and, what was of much more
consequence, the evident change that had begun to be wrought in him.
I am not prepared to say that he has, as yet, shown a very shining light,
but that some change has passed is evident in the whole man of him. I think
the eternal wind must now be able to get in through some chink or other
which the loss of his child has left behind. And, if the change were not
going on, surely he would ere now have returned to his wallowing in the
mire of Mammon; for his former fortune is, I understand, all but restored
to him.
I fancy his growth in goodness might be known and measured by his progress
in appreciating Marion. He still regards her as extreme in her notions; but
it is curious to see how, as they gradually sink into his understanding, he
comes to adopt them as, and even to mistake them for, his own.