IN a few days Clara was well enough to leave her room, and was soon
entirely recovered from her sudden illness. That little matter of
the heart had been settled within three minutes of their meeting,
and they were now as happy as lovers usually are under such
favorable circumstances.
When Edwin Florence went back to New York, it was with a sense of
interior pleasure more perfect than he had experienced for years;
and this would have remained, could he have shut out the past; or,
so much of it as came like an unwelcome intruder. But, alas! this
was not to be. Even while he was bending, in spirit, over the
beautiful image of his last beloved, there would come between his
eyes and that image a pale sad face, in which reproof was stronger
than affection, It was all in vain that he sought to turn from that
face. For a time it would remain present, and then fade slowly away,
leaving his heart oppressed.
"Is it to be ever thus!" he would exclaim, in these seasons of
darkness. "Will nothing satisfy this accusing spirit? Edith! Dear
Edith! Art thou not among the blessed ones? Is not thy heart happy
beyond mortal conception? Then why come to me thus with those
tearful eyes, that shadowy face, those looks of reproof? Have I not
suffered enough for purification! Am I never to be forgiven?"
And then, with an effort, he would turn his eyes from the page laid
open by Memory, and seek to forget what was written there. But it
seemed as if every thing conspired to freshen his remembrance of the
past, the nearer the time approached, when by a marriage union with
one truly beloved, he was to weaken the bonds it had thrown around
him. The marriage of Miss Linmore took place a few weeks after his
engagement with Clara, and as an intimate friend led her to the
altar, he could not decline making one of the number that graced the
nuptial festivities. In meeting the young bride, he endeavored to
push from his mind all thoughts of their former relations. But she
had not done this, and her thought determined his. Her mind recurred
to the former time, the moment he came into her presence, and, of
necessity his went back also. They met, therefore, with a certain
reserve, that was to him most unpleasant, particularly as it stirred
a hundred sleeping memories.
By a strong effort, Florence was able to conceal from other eyes
much of what he felt. In doing this, a certain over action was the
consequence; and he was gayer than usual. Several times he
endeavored to be lightly familiar with the bride; but, in every
instance that he approached her, he perceived a kind of instinctive
shrinking; and, if she was in a laughing mood, when he drew near she
became serious and reserved. All this was too plain to be mistaken;
and like the repeated strokes of a hammer upon glowing iron,
gradually bent his feelings from the buoyant form they had been
endeavoring to assume. The effect was not wholly to be resisted.
More than an hour before the happy assemblage broke up, Florence was
not to be found in the brilliantly lighted rooms. Unable longer to
conceal what he felt, he had retired.
For many days after this, the young man felt sober. "Why haven't you
called to see me?" asked the friend who had married Miss Linmore, a
week or two after the celebration of the nuptials.
Florence excused himself as best he could, and promised to call in a
few days. Two weeks went by without the fulfillment of his promise.
"No doubt, we shall see you next week," said the friend, meeting him
one day about this time; "though I am not so sure we will receive
your visits then."
"Why not?"
"A certain young lady with whom, I believe, you have some
acquaintance, is to spend a short time with us."
"Who?" asked Florence, quickly.
"A young lady from Albany."
"Miss Weldon?"
"The same."
"I was not aware that she was on terms of intimacy with your wife."
"She's an old friend of mine; and, in that sense a friend of
Kate's."
"Then they have not met."
"Oh, yes; frequently. And are warmly attached. We look for a
pleasant visit. But, of course, we shall not expect to see you. That
is understood."
"I rather think you will; that is, if your wife will admit me on
friendly terms."
"Why do you say that?" inquired the friend, appearing a little
surprised.
"I thought, on the night of your wedding, that she felt my presence
as unwelcome to her."
"And is this the reason why you have not called to see us."
"I frankly own that it is."
"Edwin! I am surprised at you. It is all a piece of imagination.
What could have put such a thing into your head?"
"It may have been all imagination. But I couldn't help feelings as I
did. However, you may expect to see me, and that, too, before Miss
Weldon's arrival."
"If you don't present yourself before, I am not so sure that we will
let you come afterwards," said the friend, smiling.
On the next evening the young man called. Mrs. Hartley, the bride of
his friend, endeavored to forget the past, and to receive him with
all the external signs of forgetfulness. But, in this she did not
fully succeed, and, of course, the visit of Florence was painfully
embarrassing, at least, to himself. From that time until the arrival
of Miss Weldon, he felt concerned and unhappy. That Mrs. Hartley
would fully communicate or covertly hint to Clara certain events of
his former life, he had too much reason to fear; and, were this
done, he felt that all his fond hopes would be scattered to the
winds. In due time, Miss Weldon arrived. In meeting her, Florence
was conscious of a feeling of embarrassment, never before
experienced in her presence. He understood clearly why this was so.
At each successive visit his embarrassment increased; and, the more
so, from the fact that he perceived a change in Clara ere she had
been in the city a week. As to the cause of this change, he had no
doubts. It was evident that Mrs. Hartley had communicated certain
matters touching his previous history.
Thus it went on day after day, for two or three weeks, by which time
the lovers met under the influence of a most chilling constraint.
Both were exceedingly unhappy.
One day, in calling as usual, Mr. Florence was surprised to learn
that Clara had gone back to Albany.
"She said, nothing of this last night," remarked the young man to
Mrs. Hartley.
"Her resolution was taken after you went away," was replied.
"And you, no doubt, advised the step," said Mr. Florence, with
ill-concealed bitterness.
"Why do you say that?" was quickly asked.
"How can I draw any other inference?" said the young man, looking at
her with knit brows.
"Explain yourself, Mr. Florence!"
"Do my words need explanation?"
"Undoubtedly! For, I cannot understand them."
"There are events in my past life--I will not say how bitterly
repented--of which only you could have informed her."
"What events?" calmly asked the lady.
"Why lacerate my feelings by such a question?" said Florence, while
a shadow of pain flitted over his face, as Memory presented a record
of the past.
"I ask it with no such intention. I only wish to understand you,"
replied Mrs. Hartley. "You have brought against me a vague
accusation. I wish it distinct, that I may affirm or deny it."
"Edith Walter," said Edwin Florence, in a low, unsteady voice, after
he had been silent for nearly a minute.
Mrs. Hartley looked earnestly into his face. Every muscle was
quivering.
"What of her?" she inquired, in tones quite as low as those in which
the young man had spoken.
"You know the history."
"Well?"
"And, regardless of my suffering and repentance, made known to Clara
the blasting secret."
"No! By my hopes of heaven, no!" quickly exclaimed Mrs. Hartley.
"No?" A quiver ran through the young man's frame.
"No, Mr. Florence! That rested as silently in my own bosom as in
yours."
"Who, then, informed her?"
"No one."
"Has she not heard of it?"
"No."
"Why, then, did she change towards me?"
"You changed, first, towards her."
"Me!"
"Yes. From the day of her arrival in New York, she perceived in you
a certain coldness and reserve, that increased with each repeated
interview."
"Oh, no!"
"It is true. I saw it myself."
Florence clasped his hands together, and bent his eyes in doubt and
wonder upon the floor.
"Did she complain of coldness and change in me?" he inquired.
"Yes, often. And returned, last night, to leave you free, doubting
not that you had ceased to love her."
"Ceased to love her! While this sad work has been going on, I have
loved her with the agony of one who is about losing earth's most
precious thing. Oh! write to her for me, and explain all. How
strange has been my infatuation. Will you write for me?"
"Yes."
"Say that my heart has not turned from her an instant. That her
imagined coldness has made me of all men most wretched."
"I will do so. But why not write yourself?"
"It will be better to come from you. Ask her to return. I would
rather meet her here than in her uncle's house. Urge her to come
back."
Mrs. Hartley promised to do so, according to the wish of Mr.
Florence. Two days passed, and there was no answer. On the morning
of the third day, the young man, in a state of agitation from
suspense called at the house of his friend. After sending up his
name, he sat anxiously awaiting the appearance of Mrs. Hartley. The
door at length opened, and, to his surprise and joy, Clara entered.
She came forward with a smile upon her face, extending her hand as
she did so. Edwin sprang to meet her, and catching her hand, pressed
it eagerly to his lips.
"Strange that we should have so erred in regard to each other," said
Clara, as they sat communing tenderly. "I trust no such error will
come in the future to which I look forward with so many pleasing
hopes."
"Heaven forbid!" replied the young man, seriously.
"But we are in a world of error. Ah! if we could only pass through
life without a mistake. If the heavy weight of repentance did not
lie so often and so long upon our hearts--this would be a far
pleasanter world than it is."
"Do not look so serious," remarked Clara, as she bent forward and
gazed affectionately into the young man's face. "To err is human. No
one here is perfect. How often, for hours, have I mourned over
errors; yet grief was of no avail, except to make my future more
guarded."
"And that was much gained," said Florence, breathing deeply with a
sense of relief. "If we cannot recall and correct the past, we can
at least be more guarded in the future. This is the effect of my own
experience. Ah! if we properly considered the action of our present
upon the future, how guarded would we be. All actions are in the
present, and the moment they are done the present becomes the past,
over which Memory presides. What is past is fixed. Nothing can
change it. The record is in marble, to be seen in all future time."
The serious character of the interview soon changed, and the young
lovers forgot every thing in the joy of their reconciliation.
Nothing arose to mar their intercourse until the appointed time for
the nuptial ceremonies arrived, when they were united in holy
wedlock. But, Edwin Florence did not pass on to this time without
another visit from the rebuking Angel of the past. He was not
permitted to take the hand of Clara in his, and utter the words that
bound him to her forever, without a visit from the one whose heart
he had broken years before. She came to him in the dark and silent
midnight, as he tossed sleeplessly upon his bed, and stood and
looked at him with her pale face and despairing eyes, until he was
driven almost to madness. She was with him when the light of morning
dawned; she moved by his side as he went forth to meet and claim his
betrothed; and was near him, invisible to all eyes but his own, when
he stood at the altar ready to give utterance to the solemn words
that bound him to his bride. And not until these words were said,
did the vision fade away.
No wonder the face of the bridegroom wore a solemn aspect as he
presented himself to the minister, and breathed the vows of eternal
fidelity to the living, while before him, as distinct as if in
bodily form, was the presence of one long since sleeping ill her
grave, who had gone down to her shadowy resting place through his
infidelity.
From this time there was a thicker veil drawn over the past. The
memory of that one event grew less and less distinct; though it was
not obliterated, for nothing that is written in the Book of Life is
ever blotted out. There were reasons, even in long years after his
marriage, when the record stood suddenly before him, as if written
in words of light; and he would turn from it with a feeling of pain.
Thus it is that our present blesses or curses our future. Every act
of our lives affects the coming time for good or evil. We make our
own destiny, and make it always in the present. The past is gone,
the future is yet to come. The present only is ours, and, according
to what we do in the present, will be the records of the past and
its influence on the future. They are only wise who wisely regard
their actions in the present.
THE BRILLIANT AND THE COMMONPLACE.
DAY after day I worked at my life-task, and worked in an earnest
spirit. Not much did I seem to accomplish; yet the little that was
done had on it the impress of good. Still, I was dissatisfied,
because my gifts were less dazzling than those of which many around
me could boast. When I thought of the brilliant ones sparkling in
the firmament of literature, and filling the eyes of admiring
thousands, something like the evil spirit of envy came into my heart
and threw a shadow upon my feelings. I was troubled because I had
not their gifts. I wished to shine with a stronger light. To dazzle,
as well as to warm and vivify.
Not long ago, there came among us one whom nature had richly
endowed. His mind possessed exceeding brilliancy. Flashes of
thought, like lightning from summer cloud, were ever filling the air
around him. There was a stateliness in the movement of his
intellect, and an evidence of power, that oppressed you at times
with wonder.
Around him gathered the lesser lights in the hemisphere of thought,
and veiled their feeble rays beneath his excessive brightness. He
seemed conscious of his superior gifts and displayed them more like
a giant beating the air to excite wonder, than putting forth his
strength to accomplish a good and noble work. Still, I was oppressed
and paralyzed by the sphere of his presence. I felt puny and weak
beside him, and unhappy because I was not gifted with equal power.
It so happened that a work of mine, upon which the maker's name was
not stamped--work done with a purpose of good--was spoken of and
praised by one who did not know me as the handicraftsman.
"It is tame, dull, and commonplace," said the brilliant one, in a
tone of contempt; and there were many present to agree with him.
Like the strokes of a hammer upon my heart, came these words of
condemnation. "Tame, dull, and commonplace!" And was it, indeed, so?
Yes; I felt that what he uttered was true. That my powers were
exceedingly limited, and my gifts few. Oh, what would I not have
then given for brilliant endowments like those possessed by him from
whom had fallen the words of condemnation?
"You will admit," said one--I thought it strange at the time that
there should be even one to speak a word in favor of my poor
performance--"that it will do good?"
"Good!" was answered, in a tone slightly touched by contempt. "Oh,
yes; it will do good!" and the brilliant one tossed his head.
"Anybody can do good!"
I went home with a perturbed spirit. I had work to do; but I could
not do it. I sat down and tried to forget what I had heard. I tried
to think about the tasks that were before me. "Tame, dull, and
commonplace!" Into no other form would my thoughts come.
Exhausted, at last, by this inward struggle, I threw myself upon my
bed, and soon passed into the land of dreams.
Dream-land! Thou art thought by many to be _only_ a land of fantasy
and of shadows. But it is not so. Dreams, for the most part, _are_
fantastic; but all are not so. Nearer are we to the world of
spirits, in sleep; and, at times, angels come to us with lessons of
wisdom, darkly veiled under similitude, or written in characters of
light.
I passed into dream-land; but my thoughts went on in the same
current. "Tame, dull, and commonplace!" I felt the condemnation more
strongly than before.
I was out in the open air, and around me were mountains, trees,
green fields, and running waters; and above all bent the sky in its
azure beauty. The sun was just unveiling his face in the east, and
his rays were lighting up the dew-gems on a thousand blades of
grass, and making the leaves glitter as if studded with diamonds.
"How calm and beautiful!" said a voice near me. I turned, and one
whose days were in the "sear and yellow leaf," stood by my side.
"But all is tame and commonplace," I answered. "We have this over
and over again, day after day, month after month, and year after
year. Give me something brilliant and startling, if it be in the
fiery comet or the rushing storm. I am sick of the commonplace!"
"And yet to the commonplace the world is indebted for every great
work and great blessing. For everything good, and true, and
beautiful!"
I looked earnestly into the face of the old man. He went on.
"The truly good and great is the useful; for in that is the Divine
image. Softly and unobtrusively has the dew fallen, as it falls
night after night. Silently it distilled, while the vagrant meteors
threw their lines of dazzling light across the sky, and men looked
up at them in wonder and admiration. And now the soft grass, the
green leaves, and the sweet flowers, that drooped beneath the
fervent heat of yesterday, are fresh again and full of beauty, ready
to receive the light and warmth of the risen sun, and expand with, a
new vigor. All this may be tame, and commonplace; but is it not a
great and a good work that has been going on?
"The tiller of the soil is going forth again to his work. Do not
turn your eyes from him, and let a feeling of impatience stir in
your heart because he is not a soldier rushing to battle, or a
brilliant orator holding thousands enchained by the power of a
fervid eloquence that is born not so much of good desires for his
fellow-men as from the heat of his own self-love. Day after day, as
now, patient, and hopeful, the husbandman enters upon the work that
lies before him, and, hand in hand with God's blessed sunshine,
dews, and rain, a loving and earnest co-laborer, brings forth from
earth's treasure-house of blessings good gifts for his fellow-men.
Is all this commonplace? How great and good is the commonplace!"
I turned to answer the old man, but he was gone. I was standing on a
high mountain, and beneath me, as far as the eye could reach, were
stretched broad and richly cultivated fields; and from a hundred
farm-houses went up the curling smoke from the fires of industry.
Fields were waving with golden grain, and trees bending with their
treasures of fruit. Suddenly, the bright sun was veiled in clouds,
that came whirling up from the horizon in dark and broken masses,
and throwing a deep shadow over the landscape just before bathed in
light. Calmly had I surveyed the peaceful scene spread out before
me. I was charmed with its quiet beauty. But now, stronger emotions
stirred within me.
"Oh, this is sublime!" I murmured, as I gazed upon the cloudy hosts
moving across the heavens in battle array.
A gleam of lightning sprang forth from a dark cavern in the sky, and
then, far off, rattled and jarred the echoing thunder. Next came the
rushing and roaring wind, bending the giant-limbed oaks as if they
were but wands of willow, and tearing up lesser trees as a child
tears up from its roots a weed or flower.
In this war of elements I stood, with my head bared, and clinging to
a rock, mad with a strange and wild delight.
"Brilliant! Sublime! Grand beyond the power of descriptions," I said,
as the storm deepened in intensity.
"An hour like this is worth all the commonplace, dull events of a
lifetime."
There came a stunning crash in the midst of a dazzling glare. For
some moments I was blinded. When sight was restored, I saw, below
me, the flames curling upward from a dwelling upon which the fierce
lightning had fallen.
"What majesty! what awful sublimity!" said I, aloud. I thought not
of the pain, and terror, and death that reigned in the human
habitation upon which the bolt of destruction had fallen, but of the
sublime power displayed in the strife of the elements.
There was another change. I no longer stood on the mountain, with
the lightning and tempest around me; but was in the valley below,
down upon which the storm had swept with devastating fury. Fields of
grain were level with the earth; houses destroyed; and the trophies
of industry marred in a hundred ways.
"How sublime are the works of the tempest!" said a voice near me. I
turned, and the old man was again at my side.
But I did not respond to his words.
"What majesty! What awful sublimity and power!" continued the old
man. "But," he added, in a changed voice, "there is a higher power
in the gentle rain than lies in the rushing tempest. The power to
destroy is an evil power, and has bounds beyond which it cannot go.
But the gentle rain that falls noiselessly to the earth, is the
power of restoration and recreation. See!"
I looked, and a mall lay upon the ground apparently lifeless. He had
been struck down by the lightning. His pale face was upturned to the
sky, and the rain shaken free from the cloudy skirts of the retiring
storm, was falling upon it. I continued to gaze upon the force of
the prostrate man, until there came into it a flush of life. Then
his limbs quivered; he threw his arms about. A groan issued from his
constricted chest. In a little while, he arose.
"Which is best? Which is most to be loved and admired?" said the old
Man. "The wild, fierce, brilliant tempest, or the quiet rain that
restores the image of life and beauty which the tempest has
destroyed? See! The gentle breezes are beginning to move over the
fields, and, hand in hand with the uplifting sunlight, to raise the
rain that has been trodden beneath the crushing heel of the tempest,
whose false sublimity you so much admired. There is nothing
startling and brilliant in this work; but it is a good and a great
work, and it will go on silently and efficiently until not a trace
of the desolating storm can be found. In the still atmosphere,
unseen, but all-potent, lies a power ever busy in the work of
creating and restoring; or, in other words, in the commonplace work
of doing good. Which office would you like best to assume--which is
the most noble--the office of the destroyer or the restorer?"
I lifted my eyes again, and saw men busily engaged in blotting out
the traces of the storm, and in restoring all to its former use and
beauty.
Builders were at work upon the house which had been struck by
lightning, and men engaged in repairing fences, barns, and other
objects upon which had been spent the fury of the excited elements.
Soon every vestige of the destroyer was gone.
"Commonplace work, that of nailing on boards and shingles," said the
old man; "of repairing broken fences; of filling up the deep
foot-prints of the passing storm; but is it not a noble work? Yes;
for it is ennobled by its end. Far nobler than the work of the
brilliant tempest, which moved but to destroy."
The scene changed once more. I was back again from the land of
dreams and similitudes. It was midnight, and the moon was shining in
a cloudless sky. I arose, and going to the window, sat and looked
forth, musing upon my dream. All was hushed as if I were out in the
fields, instead of in the heart of a populous city. Soon came the
sound of footsteps, heavy and measured, and the watchman passed on
his round of duty. An humble man was he, forced by necessity into
his position, and rarely thought of and little regarded by the many.
There was nothing brilliant about him to attract the eye and extort
admiration. The man and his calling were commonplace. He passed on;
and, as his form left my eye, the thought of him passed from my
mind. Not long after, unheralded by the sound of footsteps, came one
with a stealthy, crouching air; pausing now, and listening; and now
looking warily from side to side. It was plain that he was on no
errand of good to his fellowmen. He, too, passed on, and was lost to
my vision.
Many minutes went by, and I still remained at the window, musing
upon the subject of my dream, when I was startled by a cry of terror
issuing from a house not far away. It was the cry of a woman.
Obeying the instinct of my feelings, I ran into the street and made
my way hurriedly towards the spot from which the cry came.
"Help! help! murder!" shrieked a woman from the open window.
I tried the street door of the house, but it was fastened. I threw
myself against it with all my strength, and it yielded to the
concussion. As I entered the dark passage, I found myself suddenly
grappled by a strong man, who threw me down and held me by the
throat. I struggled to free myself, but in vain. His grip tightened.
In a few moments I would have been lifeless. But, just at the
instant when consciousness was about leaving me, the guardian of the
night appeared. With a single stroke of his heavy mace, he laid the
midnight robber and assassin senseless upon the floor.
How instantly was that humble watchman ennobled in my eyes! How high
and important was his use in society! I looked at him from a new
standpoint, and saw him in a new relation.
"Commonplace!" said I, on regaining my own room in my own house,
panting from the excitement and danger to which I had been
subjected. "Commonplace! Thank God for the commonplace and the
useful!"
Again I passed into the land of dreams, where I found myself walking
in a pleasant way, pondering the theme which had taken such entire
possession of my thoughts. As I moved along, I met the gifted one
who had called my work dull and commonplace; that work was a simple
picture of human life; drawn for the purpose of inspiring the reader
with trust in God and love towards his fellow-man. He addressed me
with the air of one who felt that he was superior, and led off the
conversation by a brilliant display of words that half concealed,
instead of making clear, his ideas. Though I perceived this, I was
yet affected with admiration. My eyes were dazzled as by a glare of
light.
"Yes, yes," I sighed to myself; "I am dull, tame, and commonplace
beside these children of genius. How poor and mean is the work that
comes from my hands!"
"Not so!" said my companion. I turned to look at him; but the gifted
being stood not by my side. In his place was the ancient one who had
before spoken to me in the voice of wisdom.
"Not so!" he continued. "Nothing that is useful is poor and mean.
Look up! In the fruit of our labor is the proof of its quality."
I was in the midst of a small company, and the gifted being whose
powers I had envied was there, the centre of attraction and the
observed of all observers. He read to those assembled from a book;
and what he read flashed with a brightness that was dazzling. All
listened in the most rapt attention, and, by the power of what the
gifted one read, soared now, in thought, among the stars, spread
their wings among the swift-moving tempest, or descended into the
unknown depths of the earth. As for myself, my mind seemed endowed
with new faculties, and to rise almost into the power of the
infinite.
"Glorious! Divine! Godlike!" Such were the admiring words that fell
from the lips of all.
And then the company dispersed. As we went forth from the room in
which we had assembled, we met numbers who were needy, and sick, and
suffering; mourners, who sighed for kind words from the comforter:
little children, who had none to love and care for them; the faint
and weary, who needed kind hands to help them on their toilsome
journey. But no human sympathies were stirring in our hearts. We had
been raised, by the power of the genius we so much admired, far
above the world and its commonplace sympathies. The wings of our
spirits were still beating the air, far away in the upper regions of
transcendant thought.
Another change came. I saw a woman reading from the same book from
which the gifted one had read. Ever and anon she paused, and gave
utterance to words of admiration.
"Beautiful! beautiful!" fell, ever and anon, from her lips; and she
would lift her eyes, and muse upon what she was reading. As she sat
thus, a little child entered the room. He was crying.
"Mother! mother!" said the child, "I want--"
But the mother's thoughts were far above the regions of the
commonplace. Her mind was in a world of ideal beauty. Disturbed by
the interruption, a slight frown contracted on her beautiful brows
as she arose and took her child by the arm to thrust it from the
room.
A slight shudder went through my frame as I marked the touching
distress that overspread the countenance of the child as it looked
up into its mother's face and saw nothing there but an angry frown.
"Every thought is born of affection," said the old man, as this
scene faded away, "and has in it the quality of the life that gave
it birth; and when that thought is reproduced in the mind of
another, it awakens its appropriate affection. If there had been a
true love of his neighbor in the mind of the gifted one when he
wrote the book from which the mother read, and if his purpose had
been to inspire with human emotions--and none but these are
God-like--the souls of men, his work would have filled the heart of
that mother with a deeper love of her child, instead of freezing in
her bosom the surface of love's celestial fountain. To have
hearkened to the grief of that dear child, and to have ministered to
its comfort, would have been a commonplace act, but, how truly noble
and divine! And now, look again, and let what passes before you give
strength to your wavering spirits."
I lifted my eyes, and saw a man reading, and I knew that he read
that work of mine which the gifted one had condemned as dull, and
tame, and commonplace. And, moreover, I knew that he was in trouble
so deep as to be almost hopeless of the future, and just ready to
give up his life-struggle, and let his hands fall listless and
despairing by his side. Around him were gathered his wife and his
little ones, and they were looking to him, but in vain, for the help
they needed.
As the man read, I saw a light come suddenly into his face. He
paused, and seemed musing for a time; and his eyes gleamed quickly
upwards, and as his lips parted, these words came forth: "Yes, yes;
it must be so. God is merciful as he is wise, and will not forsake
his creatures. He tries us in the fires of adversity but to consume
the evil of our hearts. I will trust him, and again go forth, with
my eyes turned confidingly upwards." And the man went forth in the
spirit of confidence in Heaven, inspired by what I had written.
"Look again," said the one by my side.
I looked, and saw the same man in the midst of a smiling family. His
countenance was full of life and happiness, for his trust had not
been in vain. As I had written, so he had found it. God is good, and
lets no one feel the fires of adversity longer than is necessary for
his purification from evil.
"Look again!" came like tones of music to my ear.
I looked, and saw one lying upon a bed. By the lines upon his brow,
and the compression of his lips, it was evident that he was in
bodily suffering. A book lay near him; it was written by the gifted
one, and was full of bright thoughts and beautiful images. He took
it, and tried to forget his pain in these thoughts and images. But
in this he did not succeed, and soon laid it aside with a groan of
anguish. Then there was handed to him my poor and commonplace work;
and he opened the pages and began to read. I soon perceived that an
interest was awakened in his mind. Gradually the contraction of his
brow grew less severe, and, in a little while, he had forgotten his
pain.
"I will be more patient," said he, in a calm voice, after he had
read for a long time with a deep interest. "There are many with pain
worse than mine to bear, who have none of the comforts and blessings
so freely scattered along my way through life."
And then he gave directions to have relief sent to one and another
whom he now remembered to be in need.
"It is a good work that prompts to good in others," said the old
man. "What if it be dull and tame--commonplace to the few--it is a
good gift to the world, and thousands will bless the giver. Look
again!"
An angry mother, impatient and fretted by the conduct of a froward
child, had driven her boy from her presence, when, if she had
controlled her own feelings, she might have drawn him to her side
and subdued him by the power of affection. She was unhappy, and her
boy had received an injury.
The mother was alone. Before her was a table covered with books, and
she took up one to read. I knew the volume; it was written by one
whose genius had a deep power of fascination. Soon the mother became
lost in its exciting pages, and remained buried in them for hours.
At length, after turning the last page, she closed the book; and
then came the thought of her wayward boy. But, her feelings toward
him had undergone no change; she was still angry, because of his
disobedience.
Another book lay upon the table; a book of no pretensions, and
written with the simple purpose of doing good. It was commonplace,
because it dealt with things in the common life around us. The
mother took this up, opened to the title-page, turned a few leaves,
and then laid it down again; sat thoughtful for some moments, and
then sighed. Again she lifted the book, opened it, and commenced
reading. In a little while she was all attention, and ere long I saw
a tear stealing forth upon her cheeks. Suddenly she closed the book,
evincing strong emotion as she did so, and, rising up, went from the
room. Ascending to a chamber above, she entered, and there found the
boy at play. He looked towards her, and, remembering her anger, a
shadow flitted across his face. But his mother smiled and looked
kindly towards him. Instantly the boy dropped his playthings, and
sprung to her side. She stooped and kissed him.
"Oh, mother! I do love you, and I will try to be good!"
Blinding tears came to my eyes, and I saw this scene no longer. I
was out among the works of nature, and my instructor was by my side.
"Despise not again the humble and the commonplace," said he, "for
upon these rest the happiness and well-being of the world. Few can
enter into and appreciate the startling and the brilliant, but
thousands and tens of thousands can feel and love the commonplace
that comes to their daily wants, and inspires them with a mutual
sympathy. Go on in your work. Think it rot low and mean to speak
humble, yet true and fitting words for the humble; to lift up the
bowed and grieving spirit; to pour the oil and wine of consolation
for the poor and afflicted. It is a great and a good work--the very
work in which God's angels delight. Yea, in doing this work, you are
brought nearer in spirit to Him who is goodness and greatness
itself, for all his acts are done with the end of blessing his
creatures."
There was another change. I was awake. It was broad daylight, and
the sun had come in and awakened me with a kiss. Again I resumed my
work, content to meet the common want in my labors, and let the more
gifted and brilliant ones around me enjoy the honors and fame that
gathered in cloudy incense around them.
It is better to be loved by the many, than admired by the few.
JENNY LAWSON.
CHAPTER I.
MARK CLIFFORD had come up from New York to spend a few weeks with
his maternal grandfather, Mr. Lofton, who lived almost alone on his
beautiful estate a few miles from the Hudson, amid the rich valleys
of Orange county. Mr. Lofton belonged to one of the oldest families
in the country, and retained a large portion of that aristocratic
pride for which they were distinguished. The marriage of his
daughter to Mr. Clifford, a merchant of New York, had been strongly
opposed on the ground that the alliance was degrading--Mr. Clifford
not being able to boast of an ancestor who was anything more than an
honest man and a useful citizen. A closer acquaintance with his
son-in-law, after the marriage took place, reconciled Mr. Lofton in
a good measure to the union; for he found Mr. Clifford to be a man
of fine intelligence, gentlemanly feeling, and withal, tenderly
attached to his daughter. The marriage was a happy one--and this is
rarely the case when the external and selfish desire to make a good
family connection is regarded above the mental and moral qualities
on which a true union only can be based.
A few years previous to the time at which our story opens, Mrs.
Clifford died, leaving one son and two daughters. Mark, the oldest
of the children, was in his seventeenth year at the time the sad
bereavement occurred--the girls were quite young. He had always been
an active boy--ever disposed to get beyond the judicious restraints
which his parents wisely sought to throw around him. After his
mother's death, he attained a wider liberty. He was still at college
when this melancholy event occurred, and continued there for two
years; but no longer in correspondence with, and therefore not under
the influence of one whose love for him sought ever to hold him back
from evil, his natural temperament led him into the indulgence of a
liberty that too often went beyond the bounds of propriety.
On leaving college Mr. Clifford conferred with his son touching the
profession he wished to adopt, and to his surprise found him bent on
entering the navy. All efforts to discourage the idea were of no
avail. The young man was for the navy and nothing else. Yielding at
last to the desire of his son, Mr. Clifford entered the usual form
of application at the Navy Yard in Washington, but, at the same
time, in a private letter to the Secretary, intimated his wish that
the application might not be favorably considered.
Time passed on, but Mark did not receive the anxiously looked for
appointment. Many reasons were conjectured by the young man, who, at
last, resolved on pushing through his application, if personal
efforts could be of any avail. To this end, he repaired to the seat
of government, and waited on the Secretary. In his interviews with
this functionary, some expressions were dropped that caused a
suspicion of the truth to pass through his mind. A series of rapidly
recurring questions addressed to the Secretary were answered in a
way that fully confirmed this suspicion. The effect of this upon the
excitable and impulsive young man will appear as our story
progresses.
It was while Mark's application was pending, and a short time before
his visit to Washington, that he came up to Fairview, the residence
of his grandfather. Mark had always been a favorite with the old
gentleman, who rather encouraged his desire to enter the navy.
"The boy will distinguish himself," Mr. Lofton would say, as he
thought over the matter. And the idea of distinction in the army or
navy, was grateful to his aristocratic feelings. "There is some of
the right blood in his veins for all."
One afternoon, some two or three days after the young man came up to
Fairview, he was returning from a ramble in the woods with his gun,
when he met a beautiful young girl, simply attired, and bearing on
her head a light bundle of grain which she had gleaned in a
neighboring field. She was tripping lightly along, singing as gaily
as a bird, when she came suddenly upon the young man, over whose
face there passed an instant glow of admiration. Mark bowed and
smiled, the maiden dropped a bashful courtesy, and then each passed
on; but neither to forget the other. When Mark turned, after a few
steps, to gaze after the sweet wild flower he had met so
unexpectedly, he saw the face again, for she had turned also. He did
not go home on that evening, until he had seen the lovely being who
glanced before him in her native beauty, enter a neat little cottage
that stood half a mile from Fairview, nearly hidden by vines, and
overshadowed by two tall sycamores.
On the next morning Mark took his way toward the cottage with his
gun. As he drew near, the sweet voice he had heard on the day before
was warbling tenderly an old song his mother had sung when he was
but a child; and with the air and words so well remembered, came a
gentleness of feeling, and a love of what was pure and innocent,
such as he had not experienced for many years. In this state of mind
he entered the little porch, and stood listening for several minutes
to the voice that still flung itself plaintively or joyfully upon
the air, according to the sentiment breathed in the words that were
clothed in music; then as the voice became silent, he rapped gently
at the door, which, in a few moments, was opened by the one whose
attractions had drawn him thither.
A warm color mantled the young girl's face as her eyes fell upon so
unexpected a visitor. She remembered him as the young man she had
met on the evening before; about whom she had dreamed all night, and
thought much since the early morning. Mark bowed, and, as an excuse
for calling, asked if her mother were at home.
"My mother died when I was but a child," replied the girl, shrinking
back a step or two; for Mark was gazing earnestly into her face.
"Ah! Then you are living with your--your--"
"Mrs. Lee has been a mother to me since then," said she, dropping
her eyes to the floor.
"Then I will see the good woman who has taken your mother's place."
Mark stepped in as he spoke, and took a chair in the neat little
sitting room into which the door opened.
"She has gone over to Mr. Lofton's," said the girl, in reply, "and
won't be back for an hour."
"Has she, indeed? Then you know Mr. Lofton?"
"Oh, yes. We know him very well. He owns our little cottage."
"Does he! No doubt you find him a good landlord."
"He's a kind man," said the girl, earnestly.
"He is, as I have good reason to know," remarked the young man. "Mr.
Lofton is my grandfather."
The girl seemed much surprised at this avowal, and appeared less at
ease than before.
"And now, having told you who I am," said Mark, "I think I may be
bold enough to ask your name."
"My name is Jenny Lawson," replied the girl.
"A pretty name, that--Jenny--I always liked the sound of it. My
mother's name was Jenny. Did you ever see my mother? But don't
tremble so! Sit down, and tell your fluttering heart to be still."
Jenny sunk into a chair, her bosom heaving, and the crimson flush
still glowing on her cheeks, while Mark gazed into her face with
undisguised admiration.
"Who would have thought," said he to himself, "that so sweet a wild
flower grew in this out of the way place."
"Did you ever see my mother, Jenny?" asked the young man, after she
was a little composed.
"Mrs. Clifford?"
"Yes."
"Often."
"Then we will be friends from this moment, Jenny. If you knew my
mother then, you must have loved her. She has been dead now over
three years."
There was a shade of sadness in the young man's voice as he said
this.
"When did you see her last?" he resumed.
"The summer before she died she came up from New York and spent two
or three weeks here. I saw her then, almost every day."
"And you loved my mother? Say you did!"
The young man spoke with a rising emotion that he could not
restrain.
"Every body loved her," replied Jenny, simply and earnestly.
For a few moments Mark concealed his face with his hands, to hide
the signs of feeling that were playing over it; then looking up
again, he said--
"Jenny, because you knew my mother and loved her, we must be
friends. It was a great loss to me when she died. The greatest loss
I ever had, or, it may be, ever will have. I have been worse since
then. Ah me! If she had only lived!"
Again Mark covered his face with his hands, and, this time, he could
not keep the dimness from his eyes.
It was a strange sight to Jenny to see the young man thus moved. Her
innocent heart was drawn toward him with a pitying interest, and she
yearned to speak words of comfort, but knew not what to say.
After Mark grew composed again, he asked Jenny a great many
questions touching her knowledge of his mother; and listened with
deep interest and emotion to many little incidents of Jenny's
intercourse with her, which were related with all the artlessness
and force of truth. In the midst of this singular interview, Mrs.
Lee came in and surprised the young couple, who, forgetting all
reserve, were conversing with an interest in their manner, the
ground of which she might well misunderstand. Jenny started and
looked confused, but, quickly recovering herself, introduced Mark as
the grandson of Mr. Lofton.
The old lady did not respond to this with the cordiality that either
of the young folks had expected. No, not by any means. A flush of
angry suspicion came into her face, and she said to Jenny as she
handed her the bonnet she hurriedly removed--
"Here--take this into the other room and put it away."
The moment Jenny retired, Mrs. Lee turned to Mark, and after looking
at him somewhat sternly for a moment, surprised him with this
speech--
"If I ever find you here again, young man, I'll complain to your
grandfather."
"Will you, indeed!" returned Mark, elevating his person, and looking
at the old lady with flashing eyes. "And pray, what will you say to
the old gentleman?"
"Fine doings, indeed, for the likes o' you to come creeping into a
decent woman's house when she is away!" resumed Mrs. Lee. "Jenny's
not the kind you're looking after, let me tell you. What would your
poor dear mother, who is in heaven, God bless her! think, if she
knew of this?"
The respectful and even affectionate reference to his mother,
softened the feelings of Mark, who was growing very angry.
"Good morning, old lady," said he, as he turned away; "you don't
know what you're talking about!" and springing from the door, he
hurried off with rapid steps. On reaching a wood that lay at some
distance off, Mark sought a retired spot, near where a quiet stream
went stealing noiselessly along amid its alder and willow-fringed
banks, and sitting down upon a grassy spot, gave himself up to
meditation. Little inclined was he now for sport. The birds sung in
the trees above him, fluttered from branch to branch, and even
dipped their wings in the calm waters of the stream, but he heeded
them not. He had other thoughts. Greatly had old Mrs. Lee, in the
blindness of her suddenly aroused fears, wronged the young man. If
the sphere of innocence that was around the beautiful girl had not
been all powerful to subdue evil thoughts and passions in his
breast, the reference to his mother would have been effectual to
that end.
For half an hour had Mark remained seated alone, busy, with thoughts
and feelings of a less wandering and adventurous character than
usually occupied his mind, when, to his surprise, he saw Jenny
Lawson advancing along a path that led through a portion of the
woods, with a basket on her arm. She did not observe him until she
had approached within some fifteen or twenty paces; when he arose to
his feet, and she, seeing him, stopped suddenly, and looked pale and
alarmed.
"I am glad to meet you again, Jenny," said Mark, going quickly
toward her, and taking her hand, which she yielded without
resistance. "Don't be frightened. Mrs. Lee did me wrong. Heaven
knows I would not hurt a hair of your head! Come and sit down with
me in this quiet place, and let us talk about my mother. You say you
knew her and loved her. Let her memory make us friends."
Mark's voice trembled with feeling. There was something about the
girl that made the thought of his mother a holier and tenderer
thing. He had loved his mother intensely, and since her death, had
felt her loss as the saddest calamity that had, or possibly ever
could, befall him. Afloat on the stormy sea of human life, he had
seemed like a mariner without helm or compass. Strangely enough,
since meeting with Jenny at the cottage a little while before, the
thought of her appeared to bring his mother nearer to him; and when,
so unexpectedly, he saw her approaching him in the woods, he felt
momentarily, that it was his mother's spirit guiding her thither.
Urged by so strong an appeal, Jenny suffered herself to be led to
the retired spot where Mark had been reclining, half wondering, half
fearful--yet impelled by a certain feeling that she could not well
resist. In fact, each exercised a power over the other, a power not
arising from any determination of will, but from a certain spiritual
affinity that neither comprehended. Some have called this "destiny,"
but it has a better name.
"Jenny," said Mark, after they were seated--he still retained her
hand in his, and felt it tremble--"tell me something about my
mother. It will do me good to hear of her from your lips."
The girl tried to make some answer, but found no utterance. Her lips
trembled so that she could not speak. But she grew more composed
after a time, and then in reply to many questions of Mark, related
incident after incident, in which his mother's goodness of character
stood prominent. The young man listened intently, sometimes with his
eyes upon the ground, and sometimes gazing admiringly into the sweet
face of the young speaker.
Time passed more rapidly than either Mark or Jenny imagined. For
full an hour had they been engaged in earnest conversation, when
both were painfully surprised by the appearance of Mrs. Lee, who had
sent Jenny on an errand, and expected her early return. A suspicion
that she might encounter young Clifford having flashed through the
old woman's mind, she had come forth to learn if possible the cause
of Jenny's long absence. To her grief and anger, she discovered them
sitting together engaged in earnest conversation.
"Now, Mark Clifford!" she exclaimed as she advanced, "this is too
bad! And Jenny, you weak and foolish girl! are you madly bent on
seeking the fowler's snare? Child! child! is it thus you repay me
for my love and care over you!"
Both Mark and Jenny started to their feet, the face of the former
flushed with instant anger, and that of the other pale from alarm.
"Come!" and Mrs. Lee caught hold of Jenny's arm and drew her away.
As they moved off, the former, glancing back at Mark, and shaking
her finger towards him, said--
"I'll see your grandfather, young man!"
Fretted by this second disturbance of an interview with Jenny, and
angry at an unjust imputation of motive, Mark dashed into the woods,
with his gun in his hand, and walked rapidly, but aimlessly, for
nearly an hour, when he found himself at the summit of a high
mountain, from which, far down and away towards the east, he could
see the silvery Hudson winding along like a vein of silver. Here,
wearied with his walk, and faint in spirit from over excitement, he
sat down to rest and to compose his thoughts. Scarcely intelligible
to himself were his feelings. The meeting with Jenny, and the effect
upon him, were things that he did not clearly understand. Her
influence over him was a mystery. In fact, what had passed so
hurriedly, was to him more like a dream than a reality.
No further idea of sport entered the mind of the young man on that
day. He remained until after the sun had passed the meridian in this
retired place, and then went slowly back, passing the cottage of
Mrs. Lee on his return. He did not see Jenny as he had hoped. On
meeting Mr. Lofton, Mark became aware of a change in the old man's
feelings towards him, and he guessed at once rightly as to the
cause. If he had experienced any doubts, they would have been
quickly removed.
"Mark!" said the old gentleman, sternly, almost the moment the
grandson came into his presence, "I wish you to go back to New York
to-morrow. I presume I need hardly explain my reason for this wish,
when I tell you that I have just had a visit from old Mrs. Lee."
The fiery spirit of Mark was stung into madness by this further
reaction on him in a matter that involved nothing of criminal
intent. Impulsive in his feelings, and quick to act from them, he
replied with a calmness and even sadness in his voice that Mr.
Lofton did not expect--the calmness was from a strong effort: the
sadness expressed his real feelings:
"I will not trouble you with my presence an hour longer. If evil
arise from this trampling of good impulse out of my heart, the sin
rest on your own head. I never was and never can be patient under a
false judgment. Farewell, grandfather! We may never meet again. If
you hear of evil befalling me, think of it as having some connection
with this hour."
With these words Mark turned away and left the house. The old man,
in grief and alarm at the effect of his words, called after him, but
he heeded him not.
"Run after him, and tell him to come back," he cried to a servant
who stood near and had listened to what had passed between them. The
order was obeyed, but it was of no avail. Mark returned a bitter
answer to the message he brought him, and continued on his way. As
he was hurrying along, suddenly he encountered Jenny. It was strange
that he should meet her so often. There was something in it more
than accident, and he felt that it was so.
"God bless you, Jenny!" he exclaimed with much feeling, catching
hold of her hand and kissing it. "We may never meet again. They
thought I meant you harm, and have driven me away. But, Heaven knows
how little of evil purpose was in my heart! Farewell! Sometimes,
when you are kneeling to say your nightly prayers, think of me, and
breathe my name in your petitions. I will need the prayers of the
innocent. Farewell!"
And under the impulse of the moment, Mark bent forward and pressed
his lips fervently upon her pure forehead; then, springing away,
left her bewildered and in tears.
Mark hurried on towards the nearest landing place on the river, some
three miles distant, which he reached just as a steamboat was
passing. Waving his handkerchief, as a signal, the boat rounded to,
and touching at the rude pier, took him on board. He arrived in New
York that evening, and on the next morning started for Washington to
see after his application for a midshipman's appointment in the
navy. It was on this occasion that the young man became aware of the
secret influence of his father against the application which had
been made. His mind, already feverishly excited, lost its balance
under this new disturbing cause.
"He will repent of this!" said he, bitterly, as he left the room of
the Secretary of the Navy, "and repent it until the day of his
death. Make a fixture of me in a counting room! Shut me up in a
lawyer's office! Lock me down in a medicine chest! Mark Clifford
never will submit! If I cannot enter the service in one way I will
in another."
Without pausing to weigh the consequences of his act, Mark, in a
spirit of revenge towards his father, went, while the fever was on
him, to the Navy Yard, and there entered the United States service
as a common sailor, under the name of Edward James. On the day
following, the ship on board of which he had enlisted was gliding
down the Potomac, and, in a week after, left Hampton Roads and went
to sea.
From Norfolk, Mr. Clifford received a brief note written by his son,
upbraiding him for having defeated the application to the
department, and avowing the fact that he had gone to sea in the
government service, as a common sailor.
CHAPTER II.
IT was impossible for such passionate interviews, brief though they
were, to take place without leaving on the heart of a simple minded
girl like Jenny Lawson, a deep impression. New impulses were given
to her feelings, and a new direction to her thoughts. Nature told
her that Mark Clifford loved her; and nothing but his cold disavowal
of the fact could possibly have affected this belief. He had met
her, it was true, only three or four times; but their interviews
during these meetings had been of a character to leave no ordinary
effect behind. So long as her eyes, dimmed by overflowing tears,
could follow Mark's retiring form, she gazed eagerly after him; and
when he was at length hidden from her view, she sat down to pour out
her heart in passionate weeping.
Old Mrs. Lee, while she tenderly loved the sweet flower that had
grown up under her care, was not, in all things, a wise and discreet
woman; nor deeply versed in the workings of the human heart.
Rumor of Mark's wildness had found its way to the neighborhood of
Fairview, and made an unfavorable impression. Mrs. Lee firmly
believed that he was moving with swift feet in the way to
destruction, and rolling evil under his tongue as a sweet morsel.
When she heard of his arrival at his grandfather's, a fear came upon
her lest he should cast his eyes upon Jenny. No wonder that she met
the young man with such a quick repulse, when, to her alarm, she
found that he had invaded her home, and was already charming the ear
of the innocent child she so tenderly loved and cared for. To find
them sitting alone in the woods, only a little while afterwards,
almost maddened her; and so soon as she took Jenny home, she hurried
over to Mr. Lofton, and in a confused, exaggerated, and intemperate
manner, complained of the conduct of Mark.
"Together alone in the woods!" exclaimed the old gentleman, greatly
excited. "What does the girl mean?"
"What does he mean, thus to entice away my innocent child?" said
Mrs. Lee, equally excited. "Oh, Mr. Lofton! for goodness' sake, send
him back to New York! If he remain here a day longer, all may be
lost! Jenny is bewitched with him. She cried as if her heart would
break when I took her back home, and said that I had done wrong to
Mark in what I had said to him."
"Weak and foolish child! How little does she know of the world--how
little of the subtle human heart! Yes--yes, Mrs. Lee, Mark shall go
back at once. He shall not remain here a day longer to breathe his
blighting breath on so sweet a flower. Jenny is too good a girl to
be exposed to such an influence."
The mind of Mr. Lofton remained excited for hours after this
interview; and when Mark appeared, he met him as has already been
seen. The manner in which the young man received the angry words of
his grandfather, was a little different from what had been
anticipated. Mr. Lofton expected some explanation by which he could
understand more clearly what was in the young man's thoughts. When,
therefore, Mark abruptly turned from him with such strange language
on his tongue, Mr. Lofton's anger cooled, and he felt that he had
suffered himself to be misled by a hasty judgment. That no evil had
been in the young man's mind he was sure. It was this change that
had prompted him to make an effort to recall him. But, the effort
was fruitless.
On Jenny's return home, after her last interview with Mark, she
found a servant there with a summons from Mr. Lofton. With much
reluctance she repaired to the mansion house. On meeting with the
old gentleman he received her in a kind but subdued manner; but, as
for Jenny herself, she stood in his presence weeping and trembling.
"Jenny," said Mr. Lofton, after the girl had grown more composed,
"when did you first meet my grandson?"
Jenny mentioned the accidental meeting on the day before, and the
call at the cottage in the morning.
"And you saw him first only yesterday?"
"Yes."
"What did he say when he called this morning?"
"He asked for my mother."
"Your mother?"
"Yes. I told him that my mother was dead, and that I lived with Mrs.
Lee. He then wanted to see her; but I said that she had gone over to
your house."
"What did he say then?"
"He spoke of you, and said you were a good man, and that we no doubt
found you a good landlord. I had mentioned that you owned our
cottage."
Mr. Lofton appeared affected at this.
"What then?" he continued.
"He told me who he was, and then asked me my name. When I told him
that it was Jenny, he said, it was a good name, and that he always
liked the sound of it, for his mother's name was Jenny. Then he
asked me, if I had known his mother, and when I said yes, he wanted
to know if I loved her. I said yes--for you know we all loved her.
Then he covered his face with his hands, and I saw the tears coming
through his fingers. 'Because you know my mother, and loved her,
Jenny,' said he, 'we will be friends.' Afterwards he asked me a
great many questions about her, and listened with the tears in his
eyes, when I told him of many things she had said and done the last
time she was up here. We were talking together about his mother,
when Mrs. Lee came in. She spoke cross to him, and threatened to
complain to you, if he came there any more. He went away angry. But
I'm sure he meant nothing wrong, sir. How could he and talk as he
did about his mother in heaven?"
"But, how came you to meet him, in the woods, Jenny?" said Mr.
Lofton. "Did he tell you that he would wait there for you?"
"Oh, no, sir. The meeting was accidental. I was sent over to Mrs.
Jasper's on an errand, and, in passing through the woods, saw him
sitting alone and looking very unhappy. I was frightened; but he
told me that he wouldn't hurt a hair of my head. Then he made me sit
down upon the grass beside him, and talk to him about his mother. He
asked me a great many questions, and I told him all that I could
remember about her. Sometimes the tears would steal over his cheeks;
and sometimes he would say--'Ah! if my mother had not died. Her
death was a great loss to me, Jenny--a great loss--and I have been
worse for it.'"
"And was this all you talked about, Jenny," asked Mr. Lofton, who
was much, affected by the artless narrative of the girl.
"It was all about his mother," replied Jenny. "He said that I not
only bore her name, but that I looked like her, and that it seemed
to him, while with me, that she was present."
"He said that, did he!" Mr. Lofton spoke more earnestly, and looked
intently upon Jenny's face. "Yes--yes--it is so. She does look like
dear Jenny," he murmured to himself. "I never saw this before. Dear
boy! We have done him wrong. These hasty conclusions--ah, me! To how
much evil do they lead!"
"And you were talking thus, when Mrs. Lee found you?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did she say?"
"I can hardly tell what she said, I was so frightened. But I know
she spoke angrily to him and to me, and threatened to see you."
Mr. Lofton sighed deeply, then added, as if the remark were casual--
"And that is the last you have seen of him."
"No, sir; I met him a little while ago, as he was hurrying away from
your house."
"You did!" Mr. Lofton started at Jenny's unexpected reply.
"Yes, sir."
"Did he speak to you?"
"Yes; he stopped and caught hold of my hand, saying, 'God bless you,
Jenny! We may never meet again. They have driven me away, because
they thought I meant to harm you.' But he said nothing wrong was in
his heart, and asked me to pray for him, as he would need my
prayers."
At this part of her narrative, Jenny wept bitterly, and her
auditor's eyes became dim also.
Satisfied that Jenny's story was true in every particular, Mr.
Lofton spoke kindly to her and sent her home.
A week after Mark Clifford left Fairview, word came that he had
enlisted in the United States' service and gone to sea as a common
sailor; accompanying this intelligence was an indignant avowal of
his father that he would have nothing more to do with him. To old
Mr. Lofton this was a serious blow. In Mark he had hoped to see
realized some of his ambitious desires. His daughter Jenny had been
happy in her marriage, but the union never gave him much
satisfaction. She was to have been the wife of one more
distinguished than a mere plodding money-making merchant.
Painful was the shock that accompanied the prostration of old Mr.
Lofton's ambitious hopes touching his grandson, of whom he had
always been exceedingly fond. To him he had intended leaving the
bulk of his property when he died. But now anger and resentment
arose in his mind against him as unworthy such a preference, and in
the warmth of a moment's impulse, he corrected his will and cut him
off with a dollar. This was no sooner done than better emotions
stirred in the old man's bosom, and he regretted the hasty act; but
pride of consistency prevented his recalling it.
From that time old Mr. Lofton broke down rapidly. In six months he
seemed to have added ten years to his life. During that period no
news had come from Mark; who was not only angry with both his father
and grandfather, but felt that in doing what he had done, he had
offended them beyond the hope of forgiveness. He, therefore, having
taken a rash step, moved on in the way he had chosen, in a spirit of
recklessness and defiance. The ties of blood which had bound him to
his home were broken; the world was all before him, and he must make
his way in it alone. The life of a common sailor in a government
ship he found to be something different from what he had imagined,
when, acting under a momentary excitement, he was so mad as to
enlist in the service. Unused to work or ready obedience, he soon
discovered that his life was to be one not only of bodily toil,
pushed sometimes to the extreme of fatigue, but one of the most
perfect subordination to the will of others, under pain of corporeal
punishment. The first insolent word of authority passed to him by a
new fledged midshipman, his junior by at least three years, stung
him so deeply that it was only by a most violent effort that he
could master the impulse that prompted him to seize and throw him
overboard. He did not regret this successful effort at self-control,
when, a few hours afterwards, he was compelled to witness the
punishment of the cat inflicted on a sailor for the offence of
insolence to an officer. The sight of the poor man, writhing under
tile brutality of the lash, made an impression on him that nothing
could efface. It absorbed his mind and brought it into a healthier
state of reflection than it had yet been.
"I have placed myself in this position by a rash act," he said to
himself, as he turned, sick at heart, away from the painful and
disgusting sight. "And all rebellion against the authority around me
will but make plainer my own weakness. I have degraded myself; but
there is a lower degradation still, and that I must avoid. Drag me
to the gangway, and I am lost!"
Strict obedience and submission was from that time self-compelled on
the part of Mark Clifford. It was not without a strong effort,
however, that he kept down the fiery spirit within him. A word of
insolent command--and certain of the young midshipmen on board could
not speak to a senior even if he were old as their father, except in
a tone of insult--would send the blood boiling through his veins.
It was only by the narrowest chances that Mark escaped punishment
during the first six months of the cruise, which was in the Pacific.
If he succeeded in bridling his tongue, and restraining his hands
from violence he could not hide the indignant flash of his eyes, nor
school the muscles of his face into submission. They revealed the
wild spirit of rebellion that was in his heart. Intelligent
promptness in duty saved him.
This was seen by his superior officers, and it was so much in his
favor when complaints came from the petty tyrants of the ship who
sometimes shrunk from the fierce glance that in a moment of
struggling passion would be cast upon them. After a trying ordeal of
six months, he was favored by one of the officers who saw deeper
than the rest; and gathered from him a few hints as to his true
character. In pitying him, he made use of his influence to save him
from some of the worst consequences of his position.
Jenny Lawson was a changed girl after her brief meeting with Mark
Clifford. Before, she had been as light hearted and gay as a bird.
But, her voice was no longer heard pouring forth the sweet melodies
born of a happy heart. Much of her time she sought to be alone; and
when alone, she usually sat in a state of dreamy absent-mindedness.
As for her thoughts, they were most of the time on Clifford. His
hand had stirred the waters of affection in her gentle bosom; and
they knew no rest. Mr. Lofton frequently sent for her to come over
to the mansion house. He never spoke to her of Mark; nor did she
mention his name--though both thought of him whenever they were
together. The oftener Mr. Lofton saw Jenny, and the more he was with
her, the more did she remind him of his own lost child--his Jenny,
the mother of Mark--now in heaven. The incident of meeting with
young Clifford had helped to develop Jenny's character, and give it
a stronger type than otherwise would have been the case. Thus, she
became to Mr. Lofton companionable; and, ere a year had elapsed from
the time Mark went away, Mrs. Lee, having passed to her account, she
was taken into his house, and he had her constantly with him. As he
continued to fail, he leaned upon the affectionate girl more and
more heavily; and was never contented when she was away from him.
It would be difficult to represent clearly Jenny's state of feeling
during this period. A simple minded, innocent, true-hearted girl, in
whose bosom scarce beat a single selfish impulse, she found herself
suddenly approached by one in station far above her, in a way that
left her heart unguarded. He had stooped to her, and leaned upon
her, and she, obeying an impulse of her nature, had stood firmer to
support him as he leaned. Their tender, confiding, and delightful
intercourse, continued only for a brief season, and was then rudely
broken in upon; forced separation was followed by painful
consequences to the young man. When Jenny thought of how Mark had
been driven away on her account, she felt that in order to save him
from the evils that must be impending over him, she would devote
even her life in his service. But, what could she do? This desire to
serve him had also another origin. A deep feeling of love had been
awakened; and, though she felt it to be hopeless, she kept the flame
brightly burning.
Intense feelings produced more active thoughts, and the mind of
Jenny took a higher development. A constant association with Mr.
Lofton, who required her to read to him sometimes for hours each
day, filled her thoughts with higher ideas than any she had known,
and gradually widened the sphere of her intelligence. Thus she grew
more and more companionable to the old man, who, in turn, perceiving
that her mind was expanding, took pains to give it a right
direction, so far as external knowledge were concerned.
Soon after Mark went to sea, Jenny took pains to inform herself
accurately as to the position and duties of a common sailor on board
of a United States' vessel. She was more troubled about Mark after
this, for she understood how unfitted he was for the hard service he
entered upon so blindly.
One day, it was over a year from the time that Mark left Fairview,
Mr. Lofton sent for Jenny, and, on her coming into his room, handed
her a sealed letter, but without making any remark. On it was
superscribed her name; and it bore, besides, the word "Ship" in red
printed letters, "Valparaiso," also, was written upon it. Jenny
looked at the letter wonderingly, for a moment or two, and then,
with her heart throbbing wildly, left the room. On breaking the
seal, she found the letter to be from Mark. It was as follows:
"U. S. SHIP ----, Valparaiso, September 4, 18--,
"MY GENTLE FRIEND.--A year has passed since our brief meeting and
unhappy parting. I do not think you have forgotten me in that time;
you may be sure I have not forgotten you. The memory of one about
whom we conversed, alone would keep your image green in my thoughts.
Of the rash step I took you have no doubt heard. In anger at unjust
treatment both from my father and grandfather, I was weak enough to
enter the United States' service as a sailor. Having committed this
folly, and being unwilling to humble myself, and appeal to friends
who had wronged me for their interest to get me released, I have
looked the hardship and degradation before me in the face, and
sought to encounter it manfully. The ordeal has been thus far most
severe, and I have yet two years of trial before me. As I am where I
am by my own act, I will not complain, and yet, I have felt it hard
to be cut off from all the sympathy and kind interest of my
friends--to have no word from home--to feel that none cares for me.
I know that I have offended both my father and grandfather past
forgiveness, and my mind is made up to seek for no reconciliation
with them. I cannot stoop to that. I have too much of the blood of
the Loftons in my veins.
"But why write this to you, Jenny? You will hardly understand how
such feelings can govern any heart--your own is so gentle and
innocent in all of its impulses. I have other things to say to you!
Since our meeting I have never ceased to think of you! I need no
picture of your face, for I see it ever before me as distinctly as
if sketched by the painter's art. I sometimes ask myself
wonderingly, how it is that you, a simple country maiden, could, in
one or two brief meetings, have made so strong an impression upon
me? But, you bore my mother's name, and your face was like her dear
face. Moreover, the beauty of goodness was in your countenance, and
a sphere of innocence around you; and I had not strayed so far from
virtue's paths as to be insensible to these. Since we parted, Jenny,
you have seemed ever present with me, as an angel of peace and
protection. In the moment when passion was about overmastering me,
you stood by my side, and I seemed to hear your voice speaking to
the rising storm, and hushing all into calmness. When my feet have
been ready to step aside, you instantly approached and pointed to
the better way. Last night I had a dream, and it is because of that
dream that I now write to you. I have often felt like writing
before; now I write because I cannot help it. I am moved to do so by
something that I cannot resist.
"Yesterday I had a difficulty with an officer who has shewn a
disposition to domineer over me ever since the cruise commenced. He
complained to the commander, who has, in more than one instance
shown me kindness. The commander said that I must make certain
concessions to the officer, which I felt as humiliating; that good
discipline required this, and that unless I did so, he would be
reluctantly compelled to order me to the gangway. Thus far I had
avoided punishment by a strict obedience to duty. No lash had ever
touched me. That degradation I felt would be my ruin; and in fear of
the result I bore much, rather than give any petty officer the power
to have me punished. 'Let me sleep over it, Captain,' said I, so
earnestly, that my request was granted.
"Troubled dreams haunted me as I lay in my hammock that night. At
last I seemed to be afloat on the wide ocean, on a single plank,
tossing about with the hot sun shining fiercely upon me, and
monsters of the great deep gathering around, eager for their prey. I
was weak, faint, and despairing. In vain did my eyes sweep the
horizon, there was neither vessel nor land in sight. At length the
sun went down, and the darkness drew nearer and nearer. Then I could
see nothing but the stars shining above me. In this moment, when
hope seemed about leaving my heart forever, a light came suddenly
around me. On looking up I saw a boat approaching. In the bow stood
my mother, and you sat guiding the helm! She took my hand, and I
stepped into the boat with a thrill of joy at my deliverance. As I
did so, she kissed me, looked tenderly towards you, and faded from
my sight. Then I awoke.
"The effect of all this was to subdue my haughty spirit. As soon as
an opportunity offered, I made every desired concession for my
fault, and was forgiven. And now I am writing to you, I feel as if
there was something in that dream, Jenny. Ah! Shall I ever see your
face again? Heaven only knows!
"I send this letter to you in care of my grandfather. I know that he
will not retain it or seek to know its contents. Unless he should
ask after me, do not speak to him or any one of what I have written
to you. Farewell! Do not forget me in your prayers.
"MARK CLIFFORD."
The effect of this letter upon Jenny, was to interest her intensely.
The swell of emotion went deeper, and the activity of her mind took
a still higher character. It was plain to her, when she next came
into Mr. Lofton's presence, that his thoughts had been busy about
the letter she had received. But he asked her no questions, and,
faithful to the expressed wish of Mark, she made no reference to the
subject whatever.
One part of Jenny's service to the failing old man, had been to read
to him daily from the newspapers. This made her familiar with what
was passing in the world, gave her food for thought, and helped her
to develop and strengthen her mind. Often had she pored over the
papers for some news of Mark, but never having heard the name of the
vessel in which he had gone to sea, she had possessed no clue to
find what she sought for. But now, whenever a paper was opened, her
first search was for naval intelligence.
With what a throb of interest did she one day, about a week after
Mark's letter came to hand, read an announcement that the ship ----
had been ordered home, and might be expected to arrive daily at
Norfolk.
A woman thinks quickly to a conclusion; or, rather, arrives there by
a process quicker than thought; especially where her conclusions are
to affect a beloved object. In an hour after Jenny had read the fact
just stated, she said to Mr. Lofton, who had now come to be much
attached to her--
"Will you grant me a favor?"
"Ask what you will, my child," replied Mr. Lofton, with more than
usual affection in his tones.
"Let me have fifty dollars."
"Certainly. I know you will use it for a good purpose."
Two days after this Jenny was in Washington. She made the journey
alone, but without timidity or fear. Her purpose made her
self-possessed and courageous. On arriving at the seat of
government, Jenny inquired for the Secretary of the Navy. When she
arrived at the Department over which he presided, and obtained an
interview, she said to him, as soon as she could compose herself--
"The ship ---- has been ordered home from the Pacific?"
"She arrived at Norfolk last night, and is now hourly expected at
the Navy Yard," replied the Secretary.
At this intelligence, Jenny was so much affected that it was some
time before she could trust herself to speak.
"You have a brother on board?" said the Secretary.
"There is a young man on board," replied Jenny, in a tremulous
voice, "for whose discharge I have come to ask."
The Secretary looked grave.
"At whose instance do you come?" he inquired.
"Solely at my own."
"Who is the young man?"
"Do you know Marshal Lofton?"
"I do, by reputation, well. He belongs to a distinguished family in
New York, to which the country owes much for service rendered in
trying times."
"The discharge I ask, is for his grandson."
"Young Clifford, do you mean?" The Secretary looked surprised as he
spoke. "He is not in the service."
"He is on board the ship ---- as a common sailor."
"Impossible!"
"It is too true. In a moment of angry disappointment he took the
rash step. And, since then, no communication has passed between him
and his friends."
The Secretary turned to the table near which he was sitting, and,
after writing a few lines on a piece of paper, rung a small
hand-bell for the messenger, who came in immediately.
"Take this to Mr J----, and bring me an answer immediately."
The messenger left the room, and the Secretary said to Jenny--
"Wait a moment or two, if you please."
In a little while the messenger came back and handed the Secretary a
memorandum from the clerk to whom he had sent for information.
"There is no such person as Clifford on board the ship ----, nor, in
fact, in the service as a common sailor," said the Secretary,
addressing Jenny, after glancing at the memorandum he had received.
"Oh, yes, there is; there must be," exclaimed the now agitated girl.
"I received a letter from him at Valparaiso, dated on board of this
ship. And, besides, he wrote home to his father, at the time he
sailed, declaring what he had done."
"Strange. His name doesn't appear in the Department as attached to
the service. Hark! There's a gun. It announces, in all probability,
the arrival of the ship ---- at the Navy Yard."
Jenny instantly became pale.
"Perhaps," suggested the Secretary, "your best way will be to take a
carriage and drive down, at once, to the Navy Yard. Shall I direct
the messenger to call a carriage for you?"
"I will thank you to do so," replied Jenny, faintly.
The carriage was soon at the door. Jenny was much agitated when she
arrived at the Navy Yard. To her question as to whether the ship
---- had arrived, she was pointed to a large vessel which lay moored
at the dock. How she mounted its side she hardly knew; but, in what
seemed scarcely an instant of time, she was standing on the deck. To
an officer who met her, as she stepped on board, she asked for Mark
Clifford.
"What is he? A sailor or marine?"
"A sailor."
"There is no such person on board, I believe," said the officer.
Poor Jenny staggered back a few paces, while a deadly paleness
overspread her face. As she leaned against the side of the vessel
for support, a young man, dressed as a sailor, ascended from the
lower deck. Their eyes met, and both sprung towards each other.
"Jenny! Jenny! is it you!" fell passionately from his lips, as he
caught her in his arms, and kissed her fervently. "Bless you! Bless
you, Jenny! This is more than I had hoped for," he added, as he
gazed fondly into her beautiful young face.
"They said you were not here," murmured Jenny, "and my heart was in
despair."
"You asked for Mark Clifford?"
"Yes."
"I am not known in the service by that name. I entered it as Edward
James."
This meeting, occurring as it did, with many spectators around, and
they of the ruder class, was so earnest and tender, yet with all, so
mutually respectful and decorous, that even the rough sailors were
touched by the manner and sentiment of the interview; and mole than
one eye grew dim.
Not long did Jenny linger on the deck of the ----. Now that she had
found Mark, her next thought was to secure his discharge.
CHAPTER III.
IT was little more than half an hour after the Secretary of the Navy
parted with Jenny, ere she entered his office again; but now with
her beautiful face flushed and eager.
"I have found him!" she exclaimed; "I knew he was on board this
ship!"
The Secretary's interest had been awakened by the former brief
interview with Jenny, and when she came in with the announcement, he
was not only affected with pleasure, but his feelings were touched
by her manner. "How is it, then," he inquired, "that his name is not
to be found in the list of her crew?"
"He entered the service under the name of Edward James."
"Ah! that explains it."
"And now, sir," said Jenny, in a voice so earnest and appealing,
that her auditor felt like granting her desire without a moment's
reflection: "I have come to entreat you to give me his release."
"On what ground do you make this request?" inquired the Secretary,
gazing into the sweet young face of Jenny, with a feeling of respect
blended with admiration.
"On the ground of humanity," was the simple yet earnestly spoken
reply.
"How can you put it on that ground?"
"A young man of his education and abilities can serve society better
in another position."
"But he has chosen the place he is in."
"Not deliberately. In a moment of disappointment and blind passion
he took a false step. Severely has he suffered for this act. Let it
not be prolonged, lest it destroy him. One of his spirit can
scarcely pass through so severe an ordeal without fainting."
"Does Mr. Lofton, his grandfather, desire what you ask?"
"Mr. Lofton is a proud man. He entertained high hopes for Mark, who
has, in this act, so bitterly disappointed them, that he has not
been known to utter his name since the news of his enlistment was
received."
"And his father?"
Jenny shook her head, sighing--
"I don't know anything about him. He was angry, and, I believe, cast
him off."
"And you, then, are his only advocate?"
Jenny's eyes dropped to the floor, and a deeper tinge overspread her
countenance.
"What is your relation to him, and to his friends?" asked the
Secretary, his manner becoming more serious.
It was some moments before Jenny replied. Then she said, in a more
subdued voice:
"I am living with Mr. Lofton. But--"
She hesitated, and then became silent and embarrassed.
"Does Mr. Lofton know of your journey to Washington?"
Jenny shook her head.
"Where did you tell him you were going?"
"I said nothing to him, but came away the moment I heard the ship
was expected to arrive at Norfolk."
"Suppose I release him from the service?"
"I will persuade him to go back with me to Fairview, and then I know
that all will be forgiven between him and his grandfather. You don't
know how Mr. Lofton has failed since Mark went away," added Jenny in
a tone meant to reach the feelings of her auditor.
"He looks many years older. Ah, sir, if you would only grant my
request!"
"Will the young man return to his family! Have you spoken to him
about it?"
"No; I wished not to create hopes that might fail. But give me his
release, and I will have a claim on him."
"And you will require him to go home in acknowledgment of that
claim."
"I will not leave him till he goes back," said Jenny.
"Is he not satisfied in the service?"
"How could he be satisfied with it?" Jenny spoke with a quick
impulse, and with something like rebuke in her voice. "No! It is
crushing out his very life. Think of your own son in such a
position!"
There was something in this appeal, and in the way it was uttered,
that decided the Secretary's mind. A man of acute observation, and
humane feelings, he not only understood pretty clearly the relation
that Jenny bore to Mark and his family, but sympathised with the
young man and resolved to grant the maiden's request. Leaving her
for a few minutes, he went into an adjoining room. When he returned,
he had a sealed letter in his hand directed to the commander of the
ship ----.
"This will procure his dismissal from the service," said he, as he
reached it towards Jenny.
"May heaven reward you!" fell from the lips of the young girl, as
she received the letter. Then, with the tears glistening in her
eyes, she hurriedly left the apartment.
While old Mr. Lofton was yet wondering what Jenny could want with
fifty dollars, a servant came and told him that she had just heard
from a neighbor who came up a little while before from the landing,
that he had seen Jenny go on board of a steamboat that was on its
way to New York.
"It can't be so," quickly answered Mr. Lofton.
"Mr. Jones said, positively, that it was her."
"Tell Henry to go to Mr. Jones and ask him, as a favor, to step over
and see me."
In due time Mr. Jones came.
"Are you certain that you saw Jenny Lawson go on board the steamboat
for New York to-day?" asked Mr. Lofton, when the neighbor appeared.
"Oh, yes, sir; it was her," replied the man.
"Did you speak to her?"
"I was going to, but she hurried past me without looking in my
face."
"Had she anything with her?"
"There was a small bundle in her hand."
"Strange--strange--very strange," murmured the old man to himself.
"What does it mean? Where can she have gone?"
"Did she say nothing about going away?"
"Nothing--nothing!"
Mr. Lofton's eyes fell to the floor, and he sat thinking for some
moments.
"Mr. Jones," said he, at length, "can you go to New York for me?"
"I suppose so," replied Mr. Jones.
"When will the morning boat from Albany pass here?"
"In about two hours."
"Then get yourself ready, if you please, and come over to me. I do
not like this of Jenny, and must find out where she has gone."
Mr. Jones promised to do as was desired, and went to make all
necessary preparations. Before he returned, a domestic brought Mr.
Lofton a sealed note bearing his address, which she had found in
Jenny's chamber. It was as follows:
"Do not be alarmed at my telling you that, when you receive this, I
will be on a journey of two or three hundred miles in extent, and
may not return for weeks. Believe me, that my purpose is a good one.
I hope to be back much sooner than I have said. When I do get home,
I know you will approve of what I have done. My errand is one of
Mercy.
"Humbly and faithfully yours, JENNY."
It was some time before Mr. Lofton's mind grew calm and clear, after
reading this note. That Jenny's absence was, in some way, connected
with Mark, was a thought that soon presented itself. But, in what
way, he could not make out; for he had never heard the name of the
ship in which his grandson sailed, and knew nothing of her expected
arrival home.
By the time Mr. Jones appeared, ready to start on the proposed
mission to New York, Mr. Lofton had made up his mind not to attempt
to follow Jenny, but to wait for some word from her. Not until this
sudden separation took place did Mr. Lofton understand how necessary
to his happiness the affectionate girl had become. So troubled was
he at her absence, and so anxious for her safety, that when night
came he found himself unable to sleep. In thinking about the dangers
that would gather around one so ignorant of the world, his
imagination magnified the trials and temptations to which, alone as
she was, she would be exposed. Such thoughts kept him tossing
anxiously upon his pillow, or restlessly pacing the chamber floor
until day dawn. Then, from over-excitement and loss of rest, he was
seriously indisposed--so much so, that his physician had to be
called in during the day. He found him with a good deal of fever,
and deemed it necessary to resort to depletion, as well as to the
application of other remedies to allay the over-action of his vital
system. These prostrated him at once--so much so, that he was unable
to sit up. Before night he was so seriously ill that the physician
had to be sent for again. The fever had returned with great
violence, and the pressure on his brain was so great that he had
become slightly delirious.
During the second night, this active stage of the disease continued;
but all the worst symptoms subsided towards morning. Daylight found
him sleeping quietly, with a cool moist skin, and a low, regular
pulse. Towards mid-day he awoke; but the anxiety that came with
thought brought back many of the unfavorable symptoms, and he was
worse again towards evening. On the third day he was again better,
but so weak as to be unable to sit up.
How greatly did old Mr. Lofton miss the gentle girl, who had become
almost as dear to him as a child, during this brief illness, brought
on by her strange absence. No hand could smooth his pillow like
hers. No presence could supply her place by his side. He was
companionless, now that she was away; and his heart reached vainly
around for something to lean upon for support.
On the fourth day he was better, and sat up a little. But his
anxiety for Jenny was increasing. Where could she be? He read her
brief letter over and over again.
"May not return for weeks," he said, as he held the letter in his
hand. "Where can she have gone? Foolish child! Why did she not
consult with me? I would have advised her for the best."
Late on the afternoon of that day, Jenny, in company with Mark, the
latter in the dress of a seaman in the United States service, passed
from a steamboat at the landing near Fairview, and took their way
towards the mansion of Mr. Lofton. They had not proceeded far,
before the young man began to linger, while Jenny showed every
disposition to press on rapidly. At length Mark stopped.
"Jenny," said he, while a cloud settled on his face, "you've had
your own way up to this moment. I've been passive in your hands. But
I can't go on with you any further."
"Don't say that," returned Jenny, her voice almost imploring in its
tones. And in the earnestness of her desire to bring Mark back to
his grandfather, she seized one of his hands, and, by a gentle
force, drew him a few paces in the direction they had been going.
But he resisted that force, and they stood still again.
"I don't think I can go back, Jenny," said Mark, in a subdued voice:
"I have some pride left, much as has been crushed out of me during
the period of my absence, and this rises higher and higher in my
heart the nearer I approach my grandfather. How can I meet him!"
"Only come into his presence, Mark," urged Jenny, speaking tenderly
and familiarly. She had addressed him as Mr. Clifford, but he had
forbidden that, saying--
"To you my name is Mark--let none other pass your lips!"
"Only come into his presence. You need not speak to him, nor look
towards him. This is all I ask."
"But, the humiliation of going back after my resentment of his
former treatment," said Mark. "I can bear anything but this bending
of my pride--this humbling of myself to others."
"Don't think of yourself, Mark," replied Jenny. "Think of your
grandfather, on whom your absence has wrought so sad a change. Think
of what he must have suffered to break down so in less than two
years. In pity to him, then, come back. Be guided by me, Mark, and I
will lead you right. Think of that strange dream!"
At this appeal, Mark moved quickly forward by the side of the
beautiful girl, who had so improved in every way--mind and body
having developed wonderfully since he parted with her--that he was
filled all the while by wonder, respect and admiration. He moved by
her side as if influenced by a spell that subdued his own will.
In silence they walked along, side by side, the pressure of thought
and feeling on each mind being so strong as to take away the desire
to speak, until the old mansion house of Mr. Lofton appeared in
view. Here Mark stopped again; but the tenderly uttered "Come," and
the tearful glance of Jenny, effectually controlled the promptings
of an unbroken will. Together, in a few minutes afterwards, they
approached the house and entered.
"Where is Mr. Lofton?" asked Jenny of a servant who met them in the
great hall.
"He's been very ill," replied the servant.
"Ill!" Jenny became pale.
"Yes, very ill. But he is better now."
"Where is he?"
"In his own chamber."
For a moment Jenny hesitated whether to go up alone, or in company
with Mark. She would have preferred going alone; but fearing that,
if she parted even thus briefly from Mark, her strong influence over
him, by means of which she had brought him, almost as a struggling
prisoner, thus far, would be weakened, and be tempted to turn from
the house, she resolved to venture upon the experiment of entering
Mr. Lofton's sick chamber, in company with his grandson.
"Is he sitting up?" she asked of the servant.
"He's been sitting up a good deal to-day, but is lying down now."
"He's much better?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Come," said Jenny, turning to Mark, and moving towards the
stairway. Mark followed passively. On entering the chamber of Mr.
Lofton, they found him sleeping.
Both silently approached, and looked upon his venerable face,
composed in deep slumber. Tears came to the eyes of Mark as he gazed
at the countenance of his grandfather, and his heart became soft as
the heart of a child. While they yet stood looking at him, his lips
moved, and he uttered both their names. Then he seemed disturbed,
and moaned, as if in pain.
"Grandfather!" said Mark, taking the old man's hand, and bending
over him.
Quickly his eyes opened. For a few moments he gazed earnestly upon
Mark, and then tightened his hand upon that of the young man, closed
his eyes again, and murmured in a voice that deeply touched the
returning wanderer--
"My poor boy! My poor boy! Why did you do so? Why did you break my
heart? But, God be thanked, you are back again! God be thanked!"
"Jenny!" said the old man, quickly, as he felt her take his other
hand and press it to her lips. "And it was for this you left me!
Dear child, I forgive you!"
As he spoke, he drew her hand over towards the one that grasped that
of Mark, and uniting them together, murmured--
"If you love each other, it is all right. My blessing shall go with
you."
How mild and delicious was the thrill that ran through each of the
hearts of his auditors. This was more than they expected. Mark
tightly grasped the hand that was placed within his own, and that
hand gave back an answering pressure. Thus was the past reconciled
with the present; while a vista was opened toward a bright future.
Little more than a year has passed since this joyful event took
place. Mark Clifford, with the entire approval of his grandfather,
who furnished a handsome capital for the purpose, entered, during
the time, into the mercantile house of his father as a partner, and
is now actively engaged in business, well sobered by his severe
experience. He has taken a lovely bride, who is the charm of all
circles into which she is introduced; and her name is Jenny. But few
who meet her dream that she once grew, a beautiful wild flower, near
the banks of the Hudson.
Old Mr. Lofton could not be separated from Jenny; and, as he could
not separate her from her husband, he has removed to the city, where
he has an elegant residence, in which her voice is the music and her
smiles the ever present sunshine.
SHADOWS.
A HAPPY-HEARTED child was Madeline Henry, for the glad sunshine ever
lay upon the threshold of her early home. Her father, a cheerful,
unselfish man, left the world and its business cares behind him when
he placed his hand upon the door of entrance to his household
treasures. Like other men, he had his anxieties, his hopes and
losses, his disappointments and troubles; but he wisely and humanely
strove to banish these from his thoughts, when he entered the
home-sanctuary, lest his presence should bring a shadow instead of
sunshine.
Madeline was just twenty years of age, when, as the wife of Edward
Leslie, she left this warm down-covered nest, and was borne to a new
and more elegant home.
Mr. Leslie was her senior by eight or nine years. He began his
business life at the age of twenty-two, as partner in a well
established mercantile house, and, as he was able to place ten
thousand dollars in the concern, his position, in the matter of
profits, was good from the beginning. Yet, for all this,
notwithstanding more than one loving-hearted girl, in whose eyes he
might have found favor, crossed his path, he resolutely turned his
thoughts away, lest the fascination should be too strong for him. He
resolved not to marry until he felt able to maintain a certain style
of living.
Thus were the heart's impulses checked; thus were the first tender
leaves of affection frozen in the cold breath of mere calculation.
He wronged himself in this; yet, in his worldliness and ignorance,
did he feel proud of being above, what he called, the weaknesses of
other men.
It was but natural that Mr. Leslie should become, in a measure,
reserved towards others. Should assume a statelier step, and more
set forms of speech. Should repress, more and more, his heart's
impulses.
In Leslie, the love of money was strong; yet there was in his
character a firmly laid basis of integrity. Though shrewd in his
dealings, he never stooped to a system of overreaching. He was not
long, therefore, in establishing a good reputation among business
men. In social circles, where he occasionally appeared, almost as a
matter of course he became an object of interest.
Observation, as it regards character, is, by far, too superficial.
With most persons, merely what strikes the eye is sufficient ground
for an opinion; and this opinion is freely and positively expressed.
Thus, a good reputation comes, as a natural consequence, to a man
who lives in the practice of most of the apparent social virtues,
while he may possess no real kindness of heart, may be selfish to an
extreme degree.
Thus it was with Mr. Leslie. He was generally regarded as a model of
a man; and when he, at length, approached Madeline Henry as a lover,
the friends of the young lady regarded her as particularly
fortunate.
As for Madeline, she rather shrunk, at first, from his advances.
There was a coldness in his sphere that chilled her; a rigid
propriety of speech and action that inspired too much respect and
deference. Gradually, however, love for the maiden, (if by such a
term it might be called) fused his hard exterior, and his manner
became so softened, gentle and affectionate, that she yielded up to
him a most precious treasure--the love of her young and trusting
heart.
Just twenty years old, as we have said, was Madeline when she
passed, as the bride of Mr. Leslie, from the warm home-nest in which
she had reposed so happily, to become the mistress of an elegant
mansion. Though in age a woman, she was, in many things, but a child
in feelings. Tenderly cared for and petted by her father, her spirit
had been, in a measure, sustained by love as an aliment.
One like Madeline is not fit to be the wife of such a man as Edward
Leslie. For him, a cold, calculating woman of the world were a
better companion. One who has her own selfish ends to gain; and who
can find, in fashion, gaiety, or personal indulgence, full
compensation for a husband's love.
Madeline was scarcely the bride of a week, ere shadows began to fall
upon her heart; and the form that interposed itself between her and
the sunlight, was the form of her husband. As a daughter, love had
ever gone forth in lavish expression. This had been encouraged by
all the associations of home. But, from the beginning of her wedded
life, she felt the manner of her husband like the weight of a hand
on her bosom, repressing her heart's outgushing impulses.
It was on the fifth evening of their marriage, about the early
twilight hour, and Madeline, alone, almost for the first time since
morning, sat awaiting the return of her husband. Full of pleasant
thoughts was her mind, and warm with love her heart. A few hours of
separation from Edward had made her impatient to meet him again.
When, at length, she heard him enter, she sprang to meet him, and,
with an exclamation of delight, threw her arms about his neck.
There was a cold dignity in the way this act was received by Edward
Leslie, that chilled the feelings of his wife. Quickly disengaging
her arms, she assumed a more guarded exterior; yet, trying all the
while, to be cheerful in manner. We say "trying;" for a shadow had
fallen on her young heart--and, to seem cheerful was from an effort.
They sat down, side by side, in the pensive twilight close to the
windows, through which came fragrant airs; and Madeline laid her
hand upon that of her husband. Checked in the first gush of
feelings, she now remained silent, yet with her yearning spirit
intently listening for words of tenderness and endearment.
"I have been greatly vexed to-day."
These were the very words he uttered. How chilly they fell upon the
ears of his expectant wife.
"What has happened?" she asked, in a voice of concern.
"Oh, nothing in reality more than usual. Men in business are exposed
to a thousand annoyances. If all the world were honest, trade would
be pleasant enough. But you have to watch every one you deal with as
closely as if he were a rogue. A man, whom I had confided in and
befriended, tried to overreach me today, and it has hurt me a good
deal. I couldn't have believed it of him."
Nothing more was said on either side for several minutes. Leslie,
absorbed in thoughts of business, so far forgot the presence of his
wife, as to withdraw the hand upon which her's was laid. How
palpable to her was the coldness of his heart! She felt it as an
atmosphere around him.
After tea, Leslie remarked, as he arose from the table, that he
wished to see a friend on some matter of business; but would be home
early. Not even a kiss did he leave with Madeline to cheer her
during his absence. His selfish dignity could not stoop to such
childishness.
The young bride passed the evening with no companionship but her
tears. When Leslie came home, and looked upon her sober face, he was
not struck with its aspect as being unusual. It did not enter his
imagination that she could be otherwise than happy. Was she not
_his_ wife? And had she not, around her, every thing to make the
heart satisfied? He verily believed that she had. He spoke to her
kindly, yet, as she felt, indifferently, while her heart was pining
for words of warm affection.
This was the first shadow that fell, darkly, across the young wife's
path. For hours after her husband's senses were locked in slumber,
she lay wakeful and weeping. He understood not, if he remarked the
fact, why her cheeks had less color and her eyes less brightness on
the morning that succeeded to this, on Madeline's part, never
forgotten evening.
We need not present a scene from the sixth, the seventh, or even the
twentieth day of Madeline's married life. All moved on with a kind
of even tenor. Order--we might almost say, mercantile order--reigned
throughout the household. And yet, shadows were filling more and
more heavily over the young wife's feelings. To be loved, was an
element of her existence--to be loved with expression. But,
expressive fondness was not one of the cold, dignified Mr. Leslie's
weaknesses. He loved Madeline--as much as he was capable of loving
anything out of himself. And he had given her the highest possible
evidence of this love, by making her his wife.--What more could she
ask? It never occurred to his unsentimental thought, that words and
acts of endearment were absolutely essential to her happiness. That
her world of interest was a world of affections, and that without
his companionship in this world, her heart would feel an aching
void.
Who will wonder that, as weeks and months went by, shadows were more
apparent on the sunny face of Madeline? Yet, such shadows, when they
became visible to casual eyes, did excite wonder. What was there to
break the play of sunshine on her countenance?
"The more some people have, the more dissatisfied they are,"
remarked one superficial observer to another, in reply to some
communication touching Mrs. Leslie's want of spirits.
"Yes," was answered. "Nothing but _real_ trouble ever brings such
persons to their senses."
Ah! Is not heart-trouble the most real of all with which we are
visited? There comes to it, so rarely, a balm of healing. To those
external evils which merely affect the personal comfort, the mind
quickly accommodates itself. We may find happiness in either
prosperity or adversity. But, what true happiness is there for a
loving heart, if, from the only source of reciprocation, there is
but an imperfect response? A strong mind may accommodate itself, in
the exercise of a firm religious philosophy, to even these
circumstances, and like the wisely discriminating bee, extract honey
from even the most unpromising flower. But, it is hard--nay, almost
impossible--for one like Madeline, reared as she was in so warm an
atmosphere of love, to fall back upon and find a sustaining power,
in such a philosophy. Her spirit first must droop. There must be a
passing through the fire, with painful purification. Alas! How many
perish in the ordeal!--How many gentle, loving ones, unequally
mated, die, daily, around us; moving on to the grave, so far as the
world knows, by the way of some fatal bodily ailment; yet, in truth,
failing by a heart-sickness that has dried up the fountains of life.
And so it was with the wife of Edward Leslie. Greatly her husband
wondered at the shadows which fell, more and more heavily, on
Madeline--wondered as time wore on, at the paleness of her
cheeks--the sadness which, often, she could not repress when he was
by; the variableness of her spirits--all tending to destroy the
balance of her nervous system, and, finally, ending in confirmed
ill-health, that demanded, imperiously, the diversion of his
thoughts from business and worldly schemes to the means of
prolonging her life.
Alas! What a sad picture to look upon, would it be, were we to
sketch, even in outline, the passing events of the ten years that
preceded this conviction on the part of Mr. Leslie. To Madeline, his
cold, hard, impatient, and, too frequently, cruel re-actions upon
what he thought her unreasonable, captious, dissatisfied states of
mind, having no ground but in her imagination, were heavy
heart-strokes--or, as a discordant hand dashed among her
life-chords, putting them forever out of tune. Oh! The wretchedness,
struggling with patience and concealment, of those weary years. The
days and days, during which her husband maintained towards her a
moody silence, that it seemed would kill her. And yet, so far as the
world went, Mr. Leslie was among the best of husbands. How little
does the world, so called, look beneath the surface of things!
With the weakness of failing health, came, to Madeline, the loss of
mental energy. She had less and less self-control. A brooding
melancholy settled upon her feelings; and she often spent days in
her chamber, refusing to see any one except members of her own
family, and weeping if she were spoken to.
"You will die, Madeline. You will kill yourself!" said her husband,
repeating, one day, the form of speech so often used when he found
his wife in these states of abandonment. He spoke with more than his
usual tenderness, for, to his unimaginative mind had come a quickly
passing, but vivid realization, of what he would lose if she were
taken from him.
"The loss will scarcely be felt," was her murmured answer.
"Your children will, at least, feel it," said Mr. Leslie, in a more
captious and meaning tone than, upon reflection, he would have used.
He felt her words as expressing indifference for himself, and his
quick retort involved, palpably, the same impression in regard to
his wife.
Madeline answered not farther, but her husband's words were not
forgotten--"My children will feel my loss." This thought became so
present to her mind, that none other could, for a space, come into
manifest perception. The mother's heart began quickening into life a
sense of the mother's duty. Thus it was, when her oldest
child--named for herself, and with as loving and dependent a
nature--opened the chamber door, and coming up to her father, made
some request that he did not approve. To the mother's mind, her
desire was one that ought to have been granted; and, she felt, in an
instant, that the manner, as well as the fact of the father's
denial, were both unkind, and that Madeline's heart would be almost
broken. She did not err in this. The child went sobbing from the
room.
How distinctly came before the mind of Mrs. Leslie a picture of the
past. She was, for a time, back in her father's house; and she felt,
for a time, the ever-present, considerate, loving kindness of one
who had made all sunshine in that early home. Slowly came back the
mind of Mrs. Leslie to the present, and she said to herself, not
passively, like one borne on the current of a down-rushing stream,
but resolutely, as one with a purpose to struggle--to suffer, and
yet be strong--
"Yes; my children will feel my loss. I could pass away and be at
rest. I could lie me down and sleep sweetly in the grave. But, is
all my work done? Can I leave these little ones to his tender mer--"
She checked herself in the mental utterance of this sentiment, which
referred to her husband. But, the feeling was in her heart; and it
inspired her with a new purpose. Her thought, turned from herself,
and fixed, with a yearning love upon her children, gave to the blood
a quicker motion through the veins, and to her mind a new activity.
She could no longer remain passive, as she had been for hours,
brooding over her own unhappy state, but arose and left her chamber.
In another room she found her unhappy child, who had gone off to
brood alone over her disappointment, and to weep where none could
see her.
"Madeline, dear!" said the mother, in a loving, sympathetic voice.
Instantly the child flung herself into her arms, and laid her face,
sobbing, upon her bosom.
Gently, yet wisely--for there came, in that moment, to Mrs. Leslie,
a clear perception of all her duty--did the mother seek to soften
Madeline's disappointment, and to inspire her with fortitude to
bear. Beyond her own expectation came success in this effort. The
reason she invented or imagined, for the father's refusal, satisfied
the child; and soon the clouded brow was lit up by the heart's
sunshine.
From that hour, Mrs. Leslie was changed. From that hour, a new
purpose filled her heart. She could not leave her children, nor
could she take them with her if she passed away; and so, she
resolved to live for them, to forget her own suffering, in the
tenderness of maternal care. The mother had risen superior to the
unhappy, unappreciated wife.
All marked the change; yet in none did it awaken more surprise than
in Mr. Leslie. He never fully understood its meaning; and, no
wonder, for he had never understood her from the beginning. He was
too cold and selfish to be able fully to appreciate her character or
relation to him as a wife.
Yet, for all this change--though the long drooping form of Mrs.
Leslie regained something of its erectness, and her exhausted system
a degree of tension--the shadow passed not from her heart or brow;
nor did her cheeks grow warm again with the glow of health. The
delight of her life had failed; and now, she lived only for the
children whom God had given her.
A man of Mr. Leslie's stamp of character too rarely grows wiser in
the true sense. Himself the centre of his world, it is but seldom
that he is able to think enough out of himself to scan the effect of
his daily actions upon others. If collisions take place, he thinks
only of the pain he feels, not of the pain he gives. He is ever
censuring; but rarely takes blame. During the earlier portions of
his married life, Mr. Leslie's mind had chafed a good deal at what
seemed to him Madeline's unreasonable and unwomanly conduct; the
soreness of this was felt even after the change in her exterior that
we have noticed, and he often indulged in the habit of mentally
writing bitter things against her. He had well nigh broken her
heart; and was yet impatient because she gave signs indicative of
pain.
And so, as years wore on, the distance grew wider instead of
becoming less and less. The husband had many things to draw him
forth into the busy world, where he established various interests,
and sought pleasure in their pursuits, while the wife, seldom seen
abroad, buried herself at home, and gave her very life for her
children.
But, even maternal love could not feed for very many years the flame
of her life. The oil was too nearly exhausted when that new supply
came. For a time, the light burned clearly; then it began to fail,
and ere the mother's tasks were half done, it went out in darkness.
How heavy the shadows which then fell upon the household and upon
the heart of Edward Leslie! As he stood, alone, in the chamber of
death, with his eyes fixed upon the pale, wasted countenance, no
more to quicken with life, and felt on his neck the clinging arms
that were thrown around it a few moments before the last sigh of
mortality was breathed; and still heard the eager, "Kiss me, Edward,
once, before I die!"--a new light broke upon him,--and he was
suddenly stung by sharp and self-reproaching thoughts. Had he not
killed her, and, by the slowest and most agonizing process by which
murder can be committed? There was in his mind a startling
perception that such was the awful crime of which he had been
guilty.
Yes, there were shadows on the heart of Edward Leslie; shadows that
never entirely passed away.
THE THANKLESS OFFICE.
"AN object of real charity," said Andrew Lyon to his wife, as a poor
woman withdrew from the room in which they were seated.
"If ever there was a worthy object, she is one," returned Mrs. Lyon.
"A widow, with health so feeble that even ordinary exertion is too
much for her; yet obliged to support, with the labor of her own
hands, not only herself, but three young children. I do not wonder
that she is behind with her rent."
"Nor I," said Mr. Lyon in a voice of sympathy. "How much did she say
was due to her landlord?"
"Ten dollars."
"She will not be able to pay it."
"I fear not. How can she? I give her all my extra sewing, and have
obtained work for her from several ladies; but, with her best
efforts she can barely obtain food and decent clothing for herself
and babes."
"Does it not seem hard," remarked Mr. Lyon, "that one like Mrs.
Arnold, who is so earnest in her efforts to take care of herself and
family, should not receive a helping hand from some one of the many
who could help her without feeling the effort? If I didn't find it
so hard to make both ends meet, I would pay off her arrears of rent
for her, and feel happy in so doing."
"Ah!" exclaimed the kind-hearted wife, "how much I wish that we were
able to do this. But we are not."
"I'll tell you what we can do," said Mr. Lyon, in a cheerful
voice--"or, rather what I can do. It will be a very light matter
for, say ten persons, to give a dollar a-piece, in order to relieve
Mrs. Arnold from her present trouble. There are plenty who would
cheerfully contribute for this good purpose; all that is wanted is
some one to take upon himself the business of making the
collections. That task shall be mine."
"How glad, James, to hear you say so," smilingly replied Mrs. Lyon.
"Oh! what a relief it will be to poor Mrs. Arnold. It will make her
heart as light as a feather. That rent has troubled her sadly. Old
Links, her landlord, has been worrying her about it a good deal,
and, only a week ago, threatened to put her things in the street if
she didn't pay up."
"I should have thought of this before," remarked Andrew Lyon. "There
are hundreds of people who are willing enough to give if they were
only certain in regard to the object. Here is one worthy enough in
every way. Be it my business to present her claims to benevolent
consideration. Let me see. To whom shall I go? There are Jones, and
Green, and Tompkins. I can get a dollar from each of them. That will
be three dollars--and one from myself, will make four. Who else is
there? Oh! Malcolm! I'm sure of a dollar from him; and, also, from
Smith, Todd, and Perry."
Confident in the success of his benevolent scheme, Mr. Lyon started
forth, early on the very next day, for the purpose of obtaining, by
subscription, the poor widow's rent. The first person he called on
was Malcolm.
"Ah, friend Lyon," said Malcolm, smiling blandly. "Good morning!
What can I do for you to-day?"
"Nothing for me, but something for a poor widow, who is behind with
her rent," replied Andrew Lyon. "I want just one dollar from you,
and as much more from some eight or nine as benevolent as yourself."
At the words "poor widow," the countenance of Malcolm fell, and when
his visiter ceased, he replied in a changed and husky voice,
clearing his throat two or three times as he spoke,
"Are you sure she is deserving, Mr. Lyon?" The man's manner had
become exceedingly grave.
"None more so," was the prompt answer. "She is in poor health, and
has three children to support with the product of her needle. If any
one needs assistance it is Mrs. Arnold."
"Oh! ah! The widow of Jacob Arnold."
"The same," replied Andrew Lyon.
Malcolm's face did not brighten with a feeling of heart-warm
benevolence. But, he turned slowly away, and opening his
money-drawer, _very slowly_, toyed with his fingers amid its
contents. At length he took therefrom a dollar bill, and said, as he
presented it to Lyon,--sighing involuntarily as he did so--
"I suppose I must do my part. But, we are called upon so often."
The ardor of Andrew Lyon's benevolent feelings suddenly cooled at
this unexpected reception. He had entered upon his work under the
glow of a pure enthusiasm; anticipating a hearty response the moment
his errand was made known.
"I thank you in the widow's name," said he, as he took the dollar.
When he turned from Mr. Malcolm's store, it was with a pressure on
his feelings, as if he had asked the coldly-given favor for himself.
It was not without an effort that Lyon compelled himself to call
upon Mr. Green, considered the "next best man" on his list. But he
entered his place of business with far less confidence than he had
felt when calling upon Malcolm. His story told, Green without a word
or smile, drew two half dollars from his pocket, and presented them.
"Thank you," said Lyon.
"Welcome," returned Green.
Oppressed with a feeling of embarrassment, Lyon stood for a few
moments. Then bowing, he said--
"Good morning."
"Good morning," was coldly and formally responded.
And thus the alms-seeker and alms-giver parted.
"Better be at his shop, attending to his work," muttered Green to
himself, as his visitor retired. "Men ain't very apt to get along
too well in the world who spend their time in begging for every
object of charity that happens to turn up. And there are plenty of
such, dear knows. He's got a dollar out of me; may it do him, or the
poor widow he talked so glibly about, much good."
Cold water had been poured upon the feelings of Andrew Lyon. He had
raised two dollars for the poor widow, but, at what a sacrifice for
one so sensitive as himself. Instead of keeping on in his work of
benevolence, he went to his shop, and entered upon the day's
employment. How disappointed he felt;--and this disappointment was
mingled with a certain sense of humiliation, as if he had been
asking alms for himself.
"Catch me at this work again!" he said, half aloud, as his thoughts
dwelt upon what had so recently occurred. "But this is not right,"
he added, quickly. "It is a weakness in me to feel so. Poor Mrs.
Arnold must be relieved; and it is my duty to see that she gets
relief. I had no thought of a reception like this. People can talk
of benevolence; but putting the hand in the pocket is another affair
altogether. I never dreamed that such men as Malcolm and Green could
be insensible to an appeal like the one I made."
"I've got two dollars towards paying Mrs. Arnold's rent," he said to
himself, in a more cheerful tone, sometime afterwards; "and it will
go hard if I don't raise the whole amount for her. All are not like
Green and Malcolm. Jones is a kind-hearted man, and will instantly
respond to the call of humanity. I'll go and see him."
So, off Andrew Lyon started to see this individual.
"I've come begging, Mr. Jones," said he, on meeting him. And he
spoke in a frank, pleasant manner.
"Then you've come to the wrong shop; that's all I have to say," was
the blunt answer.
"Don't say that, Mr. Jones. Hear my story, first."