something to make him sleep. See! I cannot awake him. Something is
wrong, depend upon it!"
Mr. Campbell took the babe and endeavored to arouse him, but without
effect.
"Call her down here," he then said, in a quick, resolute voice.
Jane was called down.
"What have you given this child?" asked Mr. Campbell, peremptorily.
"Nothing," was the positive answer. "What could I have given him?"
"Call the waiter."
Jane left the room, and in a moment after the waiter entered.
"Go for Doctor B---- as fast as you can, and say to him I must see
him immediately."
The waiter left the house in great haste. In about twenty minutes
Dr. B---- arrived.
"Is there any thing wrong about this child?" Mr. Campbell asked,
placing little Henry in the doctor's arms.
"There is," was replied, after the lapse of about half a minute.
"What have you been giving it."
"Nothing. But we are afraid the nurse has."
"Somebody has been giving it a powerful anodyne, that is certain.
This is no natural sleep. Where is the nurse? let me see her."
Jane was sent for, but word was soon brought that she was not to be
found. She had, in fact, bundled up her clothes, and hastily and
quietly left the house. This confirmed the worst fears of both
parents and physician. But, if any doubt remained, a vial of
laudanum and a spoon, found in the washstand drawer in Jane's room,
dispelled it.
Then most prompt and active treatment was resorted to by Doctor
B---- in the hope of saving the child. But his anxious efforts were
in vain. The deadly narcotic had taken entire possession of the
whole system; had, in fact, usurped the seat of life, and was
poisoning its very fountain. At day dawn on the next morning the
flickering lamp went out, and the sad parents looked their last look
upon their living child.
"I have heard most dreadful news," Mrs. May said to her husband, on
his return home that day.
"You have! What is it?"
"Jane has poisoned Mrs. Campbell's child!"
"Ella!" and Mr. May started from his chair.
"It is true. She had it to wean, and gave it such a dose of
laudanum, that it died."
"Dreadful! What have they done with her?"
"She can't be found, I am told."
"You recommended her to Mrs. Campbell."
"Yes. But I didn't believe she was wicked enough for that."
"Though it is true she ill-treated little Charley, and we knew it. I
don't see how you can ever forgive yourself. I am sure that I don't
feel like ever again looking Mr. Campbell in the face."
"But, Mr. May, you know very well that you didn't want me to say any
thing against Jane to hurt her character."
"True. And it is hard to injure a poor fellow creature by blazoning
her faults about. But I had no idea that Jane was such a wretch!"
"We knew that she would steal, and that she was unkind to children;
and yet, we agreed to recommend her to Mrs. Campbell."
"But it was purely out of kind feelings for the girl, Ella."
"Yes. But is that genuine kindness? Is it real charity? I fear not."
Mr. May was silent. The questions probed him to the quick. Let every
one who is good-hearted in the sense that Mr. May was, ask seriously
the same questions.
SLOW AND SURE.
"YOU'D better take the whole case. These goods will sell as fast as
they can be measured off."
The young man to whom this was said by the polite and active partner
in a certain jobbing house in Philadelphia, shook his head and
replied firmly--
"No, Mr. Johnson. Three pieces are enough for my sales. If they go
off quickly, I can easily get more."
"I don't know about that, Mr. Watson," replied the jobber. "I shall
be greatly mistaken if we have a case of these goods left by the end
of a week. Every one who looks at them, buys. Miller bought two
whole cases this morning. In the original packages, we sell them at
a half cent per yard lower than by the piece."
"If they are gone, I can buy something else," said the cautious
purchaser.
"Then you won't let me sell you a case?"
"No, sir."
"You buy too cautiously," said Johnson.
"Do you think so?"
"I know so. The fact is, I can sell some of your neighbors as much
in an hour as I can sell you in a week. We jobbers would starve if
there were no more active men in the trade than you are, friend
Watson."
Watson smiled in a quiet, self-satisfied way as he replied--
"The number of wholesale dealers might be diminished; but failures
among them would be of less frequent occurrence. Slow and sure, is
my motto."
"Slow and sure don't make much headway in these times. Enterprise is
the word. A man has to be swift-footed to keep up with the general
movement."
"I don't expect to get rich in a day," said Watson.
"You'll hardly be disappointed in your expectation," remarked
Johnson, a little sarcastically. His customer did not notice the
feeling his tones expressed, but went on to select a piece or two of
goods, here and there, from various packages, as the styles happened
to suit him.
"Five per cent. off for cash, I suppose," said Watson, after
completing his purchase.
"Oh, certainly," replied the dealer. "Do you wish to cash the bill?"
"Yes; I wish to do a cash business as far as I can. It is rather
slow work at first; but it is safest, and sure to come out right in
the end."
"You're behind the times, Watson," said Johnson, shaking his head.
"Tell me--who can do the most profitable business, a man with a
capital of five thousand dollars, or a man with twenty thousand?"
"The latter, of course."
"Very well. Don't you understand that credit is capital?"
"It isn't cash capital."
"What is the difference, pray, between the profit on ten thousand
dollars' worth of goods purchased on time or purchased for cash?"
"Just five hundred dollars," said Watson.
"How do you make that out?" The jobber did not see the meaning of
his customer.
"You discount five per cent. for cash, don't you?" replied Watson,
smiling.
"True. But, if you don't happen to have the ten thousand dollars
cash, at the time you wish to make a purchase, don't you see what an
advantage credit gives you? Estimate the profit at twenty per cent.
on a cash purchase, and your credit enables you to make fifteen per
cent. where you would have made nothing."
"All very good theory," said Watson. "It looks beautiful on paper.
Thousands have figured themselves out rich in this way, but, alas!
discovered themselves poor in the end. If all would work just
right--if the thousands of dollars of goods bought on credit would
invariably sell at good profit and in time to meet the purchase
notes, then your credit business would be first rate. But, my little
observation tells me that this isn't always the case--that your
large credit men are forever on the street, money hunting, instead
of in their stores looking after their business. Instead of getting
discounts that add to their profits, they are constantly suffering
discounts of the other kind; and, too often, these, and the
accumulating stock of unsaleable goods--the consequence of credit
temptations in purchasing--reduce the fifteen per cent. you speak of
down to ten, and even five per cent. A large business makes large
store-expenses; and these eat away a serious amount of small profits
on large sales. Better sell twenty thousand dollars' worth of goods
at twenty per cent. profit, than eighty thousand at five per cent.
You can do it with less labor, less anxiety, and at less cost for
rent and clerk hire. At least, Mr. Johnson, this is my mode of
reasoning."
"Well, plod along," replied Johnson. "Little boats keep near the
shore. But, let me tell you, my young friend, your mind is rather
too limited for a merchant of this day. There is Mortimer, who began
business about the time you did. How much do you think he has made
by a good credit?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"Fifty thousand dollars."
"And by the next turn of fortune's wheel, may lose it all."
"Not he. Mortimer, though young, is too shrewd a merchant for that.
Do you know that he made ten thousand by the late rise in cotton;
and all without touching a dollar in his business?"
"I heard something of it. But, suppose prices had receded instead of
advancing? What of this good credit, then?"
"You're too timid--too prudent, Watson," said the merchant, "and
will be left behind in the race for prosperity by men of half your
ability."
"No matter; I will be content," was the reply of Watson.
It happened, a short time after this little interchange of views on
business matters, that Watson met the daughter of Mr. Johnson in a
company where he chanced to be. She was an accomplished and
interesting young woman, and pleased Watson particularly; and it is
but truth to say, that she was equally well pleased with him.
The father, who was present, saw, with a slight feeling of
disapprobation, the lively conversation that passed between the
young man and his daughter; and when an occasion offered, a day or
two afterwards, made it a point to refer to him in a way to give the
impression that he held him in light estimation. Flora, that was the
daughter's name, did not appear to notice his remark. One evening,
not long after this, as the family of Mr. Johnson were about leaving
the tea-table, where they had remained later than usual, a domestic
announced that there was a gentleman in the parlor.
"Who is it?" inquired Flora.
"Mr. Mortimer," was answered.
An expression of dislike came into the face of Flora, as she said--
"He didn't ask for me?"
"Yes," was the servant's reply.
"Tell him that I'm engaged, Nancy."
"No, no!" said Mr. Johnson, quickly. "This would not be right. _Are_
you engaged?"
"That means, father, that I don't wish to see him; and he will so
understand me."
"Don't wish to see him? Why not?"
"Because I don't like him."
"Don't like him?" Mr. Johnson's manner was slightly impatient.
"Perhaps you don't know him."
The way in which her father spoke, rather embarrassed Flora. She
cast down her eye and stood for a few moments.
"Tell Mr. Mortimer that I will see him in a little while," she then
said, and, as the domestic retired to give the answer, she ascended
to her chamber to make some slight additions to her toilet.
To meet the young man by constraint, as it were, was only to
increase in Flora's mind the dislike she had expressed. So coldly
and formally was Mortimer received, that he found his visit rather
unpleasant than agreeable, and retired, after sitting an hour,
somewhat puzzled as to the real estimation in which he was held by
the lady, for whom he felt more than a slight preference.
Mr. Johnson was very much inclined to estimate others by a
money-standard of valuation. A man was a man, in his eyes, when he
possessed those qualities of mind that would enable him to make his
way in the world--in other words, to get rich. It was this ability
in Mortimer that elevated him in his regard, and produced a feeling
of pleasure when he saw him inclined to pay attention to his
daughter. And it was the apparent want of this ability in Watson,
that caused him to be lightly esteemed.
Men like Mr. Johnson are never very wise in their estimates of
character; nor do they usually adopt the best means of attaining
their ends when they meet with opposition. This was illustrated in
the present case. Mortimer was frequently referred to in the
presence of Flora, and praised in the highest terms; while the bare
mention of Watson's name was sure to occasion a series of
disparaging remarks. The effect was just the opposite of what was
intended. The more her father said in favor of the thrifty young
merchant, the stronger was the repugnance felt towards him by Flora;
and the more he had to say against Watson, the better she liked him.
This went on until there came a formal application from Mortimer for
the hand of Flora. It was made to Mr. Johnson first, who replied to
the young man that if he could win the maiden's favor, he had his
full approval. But to win the maiden's favor was not so easy a task,
as the young man soon found. His offered hand was firmly declined.
"Am I to consider your present decision as final?" said the young
man, in surprise and disappointment.
"I wish you to do so, Mr. Mortimer," said Flora.
"Your father approves my suit," said he. "I have his full consent to
make you this offer of my hand."
"I cannot but feel flattered at your preference," returned Flora;
"but, to accept your offer, would not be just either to you or
myself. I, therefore, wish you to understand me as being entirely in
earnest."
This closed the interview and definitely settled the question. When
Mr. Johnson learned that the offer of Mortimer had been declined, he
was very angry with his daughter, and, in the passionate excitement
of his feelings, committed a piece of folly for which he felt an
immediate sense of shame and regret.
The interview between Mr. Mortimer and Flora took place during the
afternoon, and Mr. Johnson learned the result from a note received
from the disappointed young man, just as he was about leaving his
store to return home. Flora did not join the family at the
tea-table, on that evening, for her mind was a good deal disturbed,
and she wished to regain her calmness and self-possession before
meeting her father.
Mr. Johnson was sitting in a moody and angry state of mind about an
hour after supper, when a domestic came into the room and said that
Mr. Watson was in the parlor.
"What does he want here?" asked Mr. Johnson, in a rough, excited
voice.
"He asked for Miss Flora," returned the servant.
"Where is she?"
"In her room."
"Well, let her stay there. I'll see him myself."
And without taking time for reflection, Mr. Johnson descended to the
parlor.
"Mr. Watson," said he, coldly, as the young man arose and advanced
towards him.
His manner caused the visitor to pause, and let the hand he had
extended fall to his side.
"Well, what is your wish?" asked Mr. Johnson. He looked with knit
brows into Watson's face.
"I have called to see your daughter Flora," returned the young man,
calmly.
"Then, I wish you to understand that your call is not agreeable,"
said the father of the young lady, with great rudeness of manner.
"Not agreeable to whom?" asked Watson, manifesting no excitement.
"Not agreeable to me," replied Mr. Johnson. "Nor agreeable to any
one in this house."
"Do you speak for your daughter?" inquired the young man.
"I have a right to speak for her, if any one has," was the evasive
answer.
Watson bowed respectfully, and, without a word more, retired from
the house.
The calm dignity with which he had received the rough treatment of
Mr. Johnson, rebuked the latter, and added a feeling of shame to his
other causes of mental disquietude.
On the next day Flora received a letter from Watson, in part in
these words--
"I called, last evening, but was not so fortunate as to see you.
Your father met me in the parlor, and on learning that my visit was
to you, desired me not to come again. This circumstance makes it
imperative on me to declare what might have been sometime longer
delayed--my sincere regard for you. If you feel towards me as your
father does, then I have not a word more to say; but I do not
believe this, and, therefore, I cannot let his disapproval, in a
matter so intimately concerning my happiness, and it may be yours,
influence me to the formation of a hasty decision. I deeply regret
your father's state of feeling. His full approval of my suit, next
to yours, I feel to be in every way desirable.
"But, why need I multiply words? Again, I declare that I feel for
you a sincere affection. If you can return this, say so with as
little delay as possible; and if you cannot, be equally frank with
me."
Watson did not err in his belief that Flora reciprocated his tender
sentiments; nor was he kept long in suspense. She made an early
reply, avowing her own attachment, but urging him; for her sake, to
do all in his power to overcome her father's prejudices. But this
was no easy task. In the end, however, Mr. Johnson, who saw, too
plainly, that opposition on his part would be of no avail, yielded a
kind of forced consent that the plodding, behind-the-age young
merchant, should lead Flora to the altar. That his daughter should
be content with such a man, was to him a source of deep
mortification. His own expectations in regard to her had been of a
far higher character.
"He'll never set the world on fire;" "A man of no enterprise;" "A
dull plodder;" with similar allusions to his son-in-law, were
overheard by Mr. Johnson on the night of the wedding party, and
added no little to the ill-concealed chagrin from which he suffered.
They were made by individuals who belonged to the new school of
business men, of whom Mortimer was a representative. He, too, was
present. His disappointment in not obtaining the hand of Flora, had
been solaced in the favor of one whose social standing and
money-value was regarded as considerably above that of the maiden
who had declined the offer of his hand. He saw Flora given to
another without a feeling of regret. A few months afterwards, he
married the daughter of a gentleman who considered himself fortunate
in obtaining a son-in-law that promised to be one of the richest men
in the city.
It was with a very poor grace that Mr. Johnson bore his
disappointment; so poor, that he scarcely treated the husband of his
daughter with becoming respect. To add to his uncomfortable feelings
by contrast, Mortimer built himself a splendid dwelling almost
beside the modest residence of Mr. Watson, and after furnishing it
in the most costly and elegant style, gave a grand entertainment.
Invitations to this were not extended to either Mr. Johnson's family
or to that of his son-in-law--an omission that was particularly
galling to the former.
A few weeks subsequent to this, Mr. Johnson stood beside Mr. Watson
in an auction room. To the latter a sample of new goods, just
introduced, was knocked down, and when asked by the auctioneer how
many cases he would take, he replied "Two."
"Say ten," whispered Mr. Johnson in his ear.
"Two cases are enough for my sales," quietly returned the young man.
"But they're a great bargain. You can sell them at an advance,"
urged Mr. Johnson.
"Perhaps so. But I'd rather not go out of my regular line of
business."
By this time, the auctioneer's repeated question of "Who'll take
another case?" had been responded to by half a dozen voices, and the
lot of goods was gone.
"You're too prudent," said Mr. Johnson, with some impatience in his
manner.
"No," replied the young man, with his usual calm tone and quiet
smile. "Slow and sure--that is my motto. I only buy the quantity of
an article that I am pretty sure will sell. Then I get a certain
profit, and am not troubled with paying for goods that are lying on
my shelves and depreciating in value daily."
"But these wouldn't have lain on your shelves. You could have sold
them at a quarter of a cent advance to-morrow, and thus cleared
sixty or seventy dollars."
"That is mere speculation."
"Call it what you will; it makes no difference. The chance of making
a good operation was before you, and you did not improve it. You
will never get along at your snail's pace."
There was, in the voice of Mr. Johnson, a tone of contempt that
stung Watson more than any previous remark or, action of his
father-in-law. Thrown, for a moment, off his guard, he replied with
some warmth--
"You may be sure of one thing, at least."
"What?"
"That I shall never embarrass you with any of my fine operations."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Mr. Johnson.
"Time will explain the remark," replied Watson, turning away, and
retiring from the auction room.
A coolness of some months was the consequence of this little
interview.
Time proves all things. At the end of fifteen years, Mortimer, who
had gone on in the way he had begun, was reputed to be worth two
hundred thousand dollars. Every thing he touched turned to money; at
least, so it appeared. His whole conversation was touching handsome
operations in trade; and not a day passed in which he had not some
story of gains to tell. Yet, with all his heavy accumulations, he
was always engaged in money raising, and his line of discounts was
enormous. Such a thing as proper attention to business was almost
out of the question, for nearly his whole time was taken up in
financiering--and some of his financial schemes were on a pretty
grand scale. Watson, on the other hand, had kept plodding along in
the old way, making his regular business purchases, and gradually
extending his operations, as his profits, changing into capital,
enabled him to do so. He was not anxious to get rich fast; at least,
not so anxious as to suffer himself to be tempted from a safe and
prudent course; and was, therefore, content to do well. By this
time, his father-in-law began to understand him a little better than
at first, and to appreciate him more highly. On more than one
occasion, he had been in want of a few thousand dollars in an
emergency, when the check of Watson promptly supplied the pressing
need.
As to the real ability of Watson, few were apprised, for he never
made a display for the sake of establishing a credit. But it was
known to some, that he generally had a comfortable balance in the
bank, and to others that he never exchanged notes, nor asked an
endorser on his business paper. He always purchased for cash, and
thus obtained his goods from five to seven per cent cheaper than his
neighbors; and rarely put his business paper in bank for discount at
a longer date than sixty days. Under this system, his profits were,
usually, ten per cent. more than the profits of many who were
engaged in the same branch of trade. His credit was so good, that
the bank where he kept his account readily gave him all the money he
asked on his regular paper, without requiring other endorsements;
while many of his more dashing neighbors, who were doing half as
much business again, were often obliged to go upon the street to
raise money at from one to two per cent. a month. Moreover, as he
was always to be found at his store, and ready to give his personal
attention to customers, he was able to make his own discriminations
and to form his own estimates of men--and these were generally
correct. The result of this was, that he gradually attracted a class
of dealers who were substantial men; and, in consequence, was little
troubled with bad sales.
Up to this time, there had been but few changes in the external
domestic arrangements of Mr. Watson. He had moved twice, and, each
time, into a larger house. His increasing family made this
necessary. But, while all was comfortable and even elegant in his
dwelling, there was no display whatever.
One day, about this period, as Watson was walking with his
father-in-law, they both paused to look at a handsome house that was
going up in a fashionable part of Walnut street. By the side of it
was a large building lot.
"I have about made up my mind to buy this lot," remarked Watson.
"You?" Mr. Johnson spoke in a tone of surprise.
"Yes. The price is ten thousand dollars. Rather high; but I like the
location."
"What will you do with it?" inquired Mr. Johnson.
"Build upon it."
"As an investment?"
"No. I want a dwelling for myself."
"Indeed! I was not aware that you had any such intentions."
"Oh, yes. I have always intended to build a house so soon as I felt
able to do it according to my own fancy."
Mr. Johnson felt a good deal surprised at this. No more was said,
and the two men walked on.
"How's this? For sale!" said Mr. Johnson. They were opposite the
elegant dwelling of Mr. Mortimer, upon which was posted a hand-bill
setting forth that the property was for sale.
"So it seems," was Watson's quiet answer.
"Why should he sell out?" added Mr. Johnson. "Perhaps he is going to
Europe to make a tour with his family," he suggested.
"It is more probable," said Watson, "that he has got to the end of
his rope."
"What do you mean by that remark?"
"Is obliged to sell in order to save himself."
"Oh, no! Mortimer is rich."
"So it is said. But I never call a man rich whose paper is floating
about by thousands on the street seeking purchasers at two per cent.
a month."
Just then the carriage of Mortimer drove up to his door, and Mrs.
Mortimer descended to the pavement and passed into the house. Her
face was pale, and had a look of deep distress. It was several years
since Mr. Johnson remembered to have seen her, and he was almost
startled at the painful change which had taken place.
A little while afterwards he looked upon the cheerful, smiling face
of his daughter Flora, and there arose in his heart, almost
involuntarily, an emotion of thankfulness that she was not the wife
of Mortimer. Could he have seen what passed a few hours afterwards,
in the dwelling of the latter, he would have been more thankful than
ever.
It was after eleven o'clock when Mortimer returned home that night.
He had been away since morning. It was rarely that he dined with his
family, but usually came home early in the evening. Since seven
o'clock, the tea-table had been standing in the floor, awaiting his
return. At eight o'clock, as he was still absent, supper was served
to the children, who, soon after, retired for the night. It was
after eleven o'clock as we have said, before Mortimer returned. His
face was pale and haggard. He entered quietly, by means of his
night-key, and went noiselessly up to his chamber. He found his wife
lying across the bed, where, wearied with watching, she had thrown
herself and fallen asleep. For a few moments he stood looking at
her, with a face in which agony and affection were blended. Then he
clasped his hands suddenly against his temples, and groaned aloud.
That groan penetrated the ears of his sleeping wife, who started up
with an exclamation of alarm, as her eyes saw the gesture and
expression of her husband.
"Oh, Henry! what is the matter? Where have you been? Why do you look
so?" she eagerly inquired.
Mortimer did not reply; but continued standing like a statue of
despair.
"Henry! Henry!" cried his wife, springing towards him, and laying
her hands upon his arm. "Dear husband! what is the matter?"
"Ruined! Ruined!" now came hoarsely from the lips of Mortimer, and,
with another deep groan, he threw himself on a sofa, and wrung his
hands in uncontrollable anguish.
"Oh, Henry! speak! What does this mean?" said his wife, the tears
now gushing from her eyes. "Tell me what has happened."
But, "Ruined! Ruined!" was all the wretched man would say for a long
time. At last, however, he made a few vague explanations, to the
effect that he would be compelled to stop payment on the next day.
"I thought," said Mrs. Mortimer, "that the sale of this house was to
afford you all the money you needed."
"It is not sold yet," was all his reply to this. He did not explain
that it was under a heavy mortgage, and that, even if sold, the
amount realized would be a trifle compared with his need on the
following day. During the greater part of the night, Mortimer walked
the floor of his chamber; and, for a portion of the time, his wife
moved like a shadow by his side. But few words passed between them.
When the day broke, Mrs. Mortimer was lying on the bed, asleep.
Tears were on her cheeks. In a crib, beside her, was a fair-haired
child, two years old, breathing sweetly in his innocent slumber; and
over this crib bent the husband and father. His face was now calm,
but very pale, and its expression of sadness, as he gazed upon his
sleeping child, was heart-touching. For many minutes he stood over
the unconscious slumberer; then stooping down, he touched its
forehead lightly with his lips, while a low sigh struggled up from
his bosom. Turning, then, his eyes upon his wife, he gazed at her
for some moments, with a sad, pitying look. He was bending to kiss
her, when a movement, as if she were about to awaken, caused him to
step back, and stand holding his breath, as if he feared the very
sound would disturb her. She did not open her eyes, however, but
turned over, with a low moan of suffering, and an indistinct murmur
of his name.
Mortimer did not again approach the bed-side, but stepped
noiselessly to the chamber door, and passed into the next room,
where three children, who made up the full number of his household
treasures, were buried in tranquil sleep. Long he did not linger
here. A hurried glance was taken of each beloved face, and a kiss
laid lightly upon the lips of each. Then he left the room, moving
down the stairs with a step of fear. A moment or two more, and he
was beyond the threshold of his dwelling.
When Mrs. Mortimer started up from unquiet slumber, as the first
beams of the morning sun fell upon her face, she looked around,
eagerly, for her husband. Not seeing him, she called his name. No
answer was received, and she sprung from the bed. As she did so, a
letter placed conspicuously on the bureau met her eyes. Eagerly
breaking the seal, she read this brief sentence:
"Circumstances make it necessary for me to leave the city by the
earliest conveyance. Say not a word of this to any one--not even to
your father. My safety depends on your silence. I will write to you
in a little while. May Heaven give you strength to bear the trials
through which you are about to pass!"
But for the instant fear for her husband, which this communication
brought into the mind of Mrs. Mortimer, the shock would have
rendered her insensible. He was in danger, and upon her discretion
depended his safety. This gave her strength for the moment. Her
first act was to destroy the note. Next she strove to repress the
wild throbbings of her heart, and to assume a calm exterior. Vain
efforts! She was too weak for the trial; and who can wonder that she
was?
Mr. Johnson was sitting in his store about half past three o'clock
that afternoon, when a man came in and asked him for the payment of
a note of five thousand dollars. He was a Notary.
"A protest!" exclaimed Mr. Johnson, in astonishment. "What does this
mean?"
"I don't understand this," said he, after a moment or two. "I have
no paper out for that amount falling due to-day. Let me see it?"
The note was handed to him.
"It's a forgery!" said he, promptly. "To whom is it payable?" he
added. "To Mortimer, as I live!"
And he handed it back to the Notary, who departed.
Soon after he saw the father-in-law of Mortimer go hurriedly past
his store. A glimpse of his countenance showed that he was strongly
agitated.
"Have you heard the news?" asked his son-in-law, coming in, half an
hour afterwards.
"What?"
"Mortimer has been detected in a forgery!"
"Upon whom?"
"His father-in-law."
"He has forged my name also."
"He has!"
"Yes. A note for five thousand dollars was presented to me by the
Notary a little while ago."
"Is it possible? But this is no loss to you."
"If he has resorted to forgery to sustain himself," replied Mr.
Johnson, looking serious, "his affairs are, of course, in a
desperate condition."
"Of course."
"I am on his paper to at least twenty thousand dollars."
"You!"
"Such, I am sorry to say, is the case. And to meet that paper will
try me severely. Oh, dear! How little I dreamed of this! I thought
him one of the soundest men in the city."
"I am pained to hear that you are so deeply involved," said Mr.
Watson. "But, do not let it trouble you too much. I will defer my
building intentions to another time, and let you have whatever money
you may need."
Mr. Johnson made no answer. His eyes were upon the floor and his
thoughts away back to the time when he had suffered the great
disappointment of seeing his daughter marry the slow, plodding
Watson, instead of becoming the wife of the enterprising Mortimer.
"I will try, my son," said he, at length, in a subdued voice, "to
get through without drawing upon you too largely. Ah, me! How blind
I have been."
"You may depend on me for at least twenty thousand dollars," replied
Watson, cheerfully; "and for even more, if it is needed."
It was soon known that Mortimer had committed extensive forgeries
upon various persons, and that he had left the city. Officers were
immediately despatched for his arrest, and in a few days he was
brought back as a criminal. In his ruin, many others were involved.
Among these was his father-in-law, who was stripped of every dollar
in his old age.
"Slow and sure--slow and sure. Yes, Watson was right." Thus mused
Mr. Johnson, a few months afterwards, on hearing that Mortimer was
arraigned before the criminal court, to stand his trial for forgery.
"It is the safest and the best way, and certainly leads to
prosperity. Ah, me! How are we drawn aside into false ways through
our eagerness to obtain wealth by a nearer road than that of patient
industry in legitimate trade. Where one is successful, a dozen are
ruined by this error. Slow and sure! Yes, that is the true doctrine.
Watson was right, as the result has proved. Happy for me that his
was a better experiment than that of the envied Mortimer!"
THE SCHOOL GIRL.
"WHERE now?" said Frederick Williams to his friend Charles Lawson,
on entering his own office and finding the latter, carpet-bag in
hand, awaiting his arrival.
"Off for a day or two on a little business affair," replied Lawson.
"Business! What have you to do with business?"
"Not ordinary, vulgar business," returned Lawson with a slight toss
of the head and an expression of contempt.
"Oh! It's of a peculiar nature?"
"It is--very peculiar; and, moreover, I want the good offices of a
friend, to enable me the more certainly to accomplish my purposes."
"Come! sit down and explain yourself," said Williams.
"Haven't a moment to spare. The boat goes in half an hour."
"What boat?"
"The New Haven boat. So come, go along with me to the slip, and
we'll talk the matter over by the way."
"I'm all attention," said Williams, as the two young men stepped
forth upon the pavement.
"Well, you must know," began Lawson, "that I have a first rate love
affair on my hands."
"You!"
"Now don't smile; but hear me."
"Go on--I'm all attention."
"You know old Everett?"
"Thomas Everett, the silk importer?"
"The same."
"I know something about him."
"You know, I presume, that he has a pretty fair looking daughter?"
"And I know," replied Williams, "that when 'pretty fair looking' is
said, pretty much all is said in her favor."
"Not by a great deal," was the decided answer of Lawson.
"Pray what is there beyond this that a man can call attractive?"
"Her father's money."
"I didn't think of that."
"Didn't you?"
"No. But it would take the saving influence of a pretty large sum to
give her a marriageable merit in my eyes."
"Gold hides a multitude of defects, you know, Fred."
"It does; but it has to be heaped up very high to cover a wife's
defects, if they be as radical as those in Caroline Everett. Why, to
speak out the plain, homespun truth, the girl's a fool!"
"She isn't over bright, Fred, I know," replied Lawson. "But to call
her a fool, is to use rather a broad assertion."
"She certainly hasn't good common sense. I would be ashamed of her
in company a dozen times a day if she were any thing to me."
"She's young, you know, Fred."
"Yes, a young and silly girl."
"Just silly enough for my purpose. But, she will grow older and
wiser, you know. Young and silly is a very good fault."
"Where is she now?"
"At a boarding school some thirty miles from New Haven. Do you know
why her father sent her there?"
"No."
"She would meet me on her way to and from school while in the city,
and the old gentleman had, I presume, some objections to me as a
son-in-law."
"And not without reason," replied Williams.
"I could not have asked him to do a thing more consonant with my
wishes," continued Lawson. "Caroline told me where she was going,
and I was not long in making a visit to the neighborhood. Great
attention is paid to physical development in the school, and the
young ladies are required to walk, daily, in the open air, amid the
beautiful, romantic, and secluded scenery by which the place is
surrounded. They walk alone, or in company, as suits their fancies.
Caroline chose to walk alone when I was near at hand; and we met in
a certain retired glen, where the sweet quiet of nature was broken
only by the dreamy murmur of a silvery stream, and there we talked
of love. It is not in the heart of a woman to withstand a scene like
this. I told, in burning words, my passion, and she hearkened and
was won." Lawson paused for some moments; but, as Williams made no
remark, he continued--
"It is hopeless to think of gaining her father's consent to a
marriage. He is pence-proud, and I, as you know, am penniless."
"I do not think he would be likely to fancy you for a son-in-law,"
said Williams.
"I have the best of reasons, for knowing that he would not. He has
already spoken of me to his daughter in very severe terms."
"As she has informed you?"
"Yes. But, like a sensible girl, she prefers consulting her own
taste in matters of the heart."
"A very sensible girl, certainly!"
"Isn't she! Well, as delays are dangerous, I have made up my mind to
consummate this business as quickly as possible. You know how hard
pressed I am in certain quarters, and how necessary it is that I
should get my pecuniary matters in a more stable position. In a
word, then, my business, on the present occasion, is to remove
Caroline from school, it being my opinion that she has completed her
education."
"Has she consented to this?"
"No; but she won't require any great persuasion. I'll manage all
that. What I want you to do is, first, to engage me rooms at
Howard's, and, second, to meet me at the boat, day after to-morrow,
with a carriage."
"Where will you have the ceremony performed?"
"In this city. I have already engaged the Rev. Mr. B---- to do that
little work for me. He will join us at the hotel immediately on our
arrival, and in your presence, as a witness, the knot will be tied."
"All very nicely arranged," said Williams.
"Isn't it! And what is more, the whole thing will go off like clock
work. Of course I can depend on you. You will meet us at the boat."
"I will, certainly."
"Then good by." They were by this time at the landing. The two young
men shook hands, and Lawson sprung on board of the boat, while
Williams returned thoughtfully to his office.
Charles Lawson was a young man having neither principle nor
character. A connection with certain families in New York, added to
a good address, polished manners, and an unblushing assurance, had
given him access to society at certain points, and of this facility
he had taken every advantage. Too idle and dissolute for useful
effort in society, he looked with a cold, calculating baseness to
marriage as the means whereby he was to gain the position at which
he aspired. Possessing no attractive virtues--no personal merits of
any kind, his prospects of a connection, such as he wished to form,
through the medium of any honorable advances, were hopeless, and
this he perfectly well understood. But, the conviction did not in
the least abate the ardor of his purpose. And, in a mean and
dastardly spirit, he approached one young school girl after another,
until he found in Caroline Everett one weak enough to be flattered
by his attentions. The father of Caroline, who was a man of some
discrimination and force of mind, understood his daughter's
character, and knowing the danger to which she was exposed, kept
upon her a watchful eye. Caroline's meetings with Lawson were not
continued long before he became aware of the fact, and he at once
removed her to a school at a distance from the city. It would have
been wiser had he taken her home altogether. Lawson could have
desired no better arrangement, so far as his wishes were concerned.
On the day succeeding that on which Lawson left New York, Caroline
was taking her morning walk with two or three companions, when she
noticed a mark on a certain tree, which she knew as a sign that her
lover was in the neighborhood and awaiting her in the secluded glen,
half a mile distant, where they had already met. Feigning to have
forgotten something, she ran back, but as soon as she was out of
sight of her companions, she glided off with rapid steps in the
direction where she expected to find Lawson. And she was not
disappointed.
"Dear Caroline!" he exclaimed, with affected tenderness, drawing his
arm about her and kissing her cheek, as he met her. "How happy I am
to see you again! Oh! it has seemed months since I looked upon your
sweet young face."
"And yet it is only a week since you were here," returned Caroline,
looking at him fondly.
"I cannot bear this separation. It makes me wretched," said Lawson.
"And I am miserable," responded Caroline, with a sigh, and her eyes
fell to the ground. "Miserable," she repeated.
"I love you, tenderly, devotedly," said Lawson, as he tightly
clasped the hand he had taken: "and it is my most ardent wish to
make you happy. Oh! why should a parent's mistaken will interpose
between us and our dearest wishes?"
Caroline leaned toward the young man, but did not reply.
"Is there any hope of his being induced to give his consent
to--to--our--union?"
"None, I fear," came from the lips of Caroline in a faint whisper.
"Is he so strongly prejudiced against me?"
"Yes."
"Then, what are we to do?"
Caroline sighed.
"To meet, hopelessly, is only to make us the more wretched," said
Lawson. "Better part, and forever, than suffer a martyrdom of
affection like this."
Still closer shrunk the weak and foolish girl to the young man's
side. She was like a bird in the magic circle of the charmer.
"Caroline," said Lawson, after another period of silence, and his
voice was low, tender and penetrating--"Are you willing, for my
sake, to brave your father's anger?"
"For your sake, Charles!" replied Caroline, with sudden enthusiasm.
"Yes--yes. His anger would be light to the loss of your affection."
"Bless your true heart!" exclaimed Lawson. "I knew that I had not
trusted it in vain. And now, my dear girl, let me speak freely of
the nature of my present visit. With you, I believe, that all hope
of your father's consent is vain. But, he is a man of tender
feelings, and loves you as the apple of his eye."
Thus urged the tempter, and Caroline listened eagerly.
"If," he continued, "we precipitate a union--if we put the marriage
rite between us and his strong opposition, that opposition will grow
weak as a withering leaf. He cannot turn from you. He loves you too
well."
Caroline did not answer; but, it needed no words to tell Lawson that
he was not urging his wishes in vain.
"I am here," at length he said, boldly, "for the purpose of taking
you to New York. Will you go with me?"
"For what end?" she whispered.
"To become my wife."
There was no starting, shrinking, nor trembling at this proposal.
Caroline was prepared for it; and, in the blindness of a mistaken
love, ready to do as the tempter wished. Poor lamb! She was to be
led to the slaughter, decked with ribbons and garlands, a victim by
her own consent.
Frederick Williams, the friend of Lawson, was a young attorney, who
had fallen into rather wild company, and strayed to some distance
along the paths of dissipation. But, he had a young and
lovely-minded sister, who possessed much influence over him. The
very sphere of her purity kept him from debasing himself to any
great extent, and ever drew him back from a total abandonment of
himself in the hour of temptation. He had been thrown a good deal
into the society of Lawson, who had many attractive points for young
men about him, and who knew how to adapt himself to the characters
of those with whom he associated. In some things he did not like
Lawson, who, at times, manifested such an entire want of principle,
that he felt shocked. On parting with Lawson at the boat, as we have
seen, he walked thoughtfully away. His mind was far from approving
what he had heard, and the more he reflected upon it, the less
satisfied did he feel. He knew enough of the character of Lawson to
be well satisfied that his marriage with Caroline, who was an
overgrown, weak-minded school girl, would prove the wreck of her
future happiness, and the thought of becoming a party to such a
transaction troubled him. On returning to his office, he found his
sister waiting for him, and, as his eyes rested upon her innocent
young countenance, the idea of her being made the victim of so base
a marriage, flashed with a pang amid his thoughts.
"I will have no part nor lot in this matter," he said, mentally. And
he was in earnest in this resolution. But not long did his mind rest
easy under his assumed passive relation to a contemplated social
wrong, that one word from him might prevent. From the thought of
betraying Lawson's confidence, his mind shrunk with a certain
instinct of honor; while, at the same time, pressed upon him the
irresistible conviction that a deeper dishonor would attach to him
if he permitted the marriage to take place.
The day passed with him uncomfortably enough. The more he thought
about the matter, the more he felt troubled. In the evening, he met
his sister again, and the sight of her made him more deeply
conscious of the responsibility resting upon him. His oft repeated
mental excuse--"It's none of my business," or, "I can't meddle in
other men's affairs," did not satisfy certain convictions of right
and duty that presented themselves with, to him, a strange
distinctness. The thought of his own sister was instantly associated
with the scheme of some false-hearted wretch, involving her
happiness in the way that the happiness of Caroline Everett was to
be involved; and he felt that the man who knew that another was
plotting against her, and did not apprize him of the fact, was
little less than a villain at heart.
On the next day Williams learned that there was a writ out against
the person of Charles Lawson on a charge of swindling, he having
obtained a sum of money from a broker under circumstances construed
by the laws into crime. This fact determined him to go at once to
Mr. Everett, who, as it might be supposed, was deeply agitated at
the painful intelligence he received. His first thought was to
proceed immediately to New Haven, and there rescue his daughter from
the hands of the young man; but on learning the arrangements that
had been made, he, after much reflecting, concluded that it would be
best to remain in New York, and meet them on their arrival.
In the mean time, the foolish girl, whom Lawson had determined to
sacrifice to his base cupidity, was half wild with delighted
anticipation. Poor child! Passion-wrought romances, written by men
and women who had neither right views of life, nor a purpose in
literature beyond gain or reputation, had bewildered her half-formed
reason, and filled her imagination with unreal pictures. All her
ideas were false or exaggerated. She was a woman, with the mind of
an inexperienced child; if to say this does not savor of
contradiction. Without dreaming that there might be thorns to pierce
her naked feet in the way she was about to enter, she moved forward
with a joyful confidence.
On the day she had agreed to return with Lawson, she met him early
in the afternoon, and started for New Haven, where they spent the
night. On the following day they left in the steamboat for New York.
All his arrangements for the marriage, were fully explained to
Caroline by Lawson, and most of the time that elapsed after leaving
New Haven, was spent in settling their future action in regard to
the family. Caroline was confident that all would be forgiven after
the first outburst of anger on the part of her father, and that they
would be taken home immediately. The cloud would quickly melt in
tears, and then the sky would be purer and brighter than before.
When the boat touched the wharf, Lawson looked eagerly for the
appearance of his friend Williams, and was disappointed, and no
little troubled, at not seeing him. After most of the passengers had
gone on shore, he called a carriage, and was driven to Howard's,
where he ordered a couple of rooms, after first enquiring whether a
friend had not already performed this service for him. His next step
was to write a note to the Rev. Mr. B----, desiring his immediate
attendance, and, also, one to Williams, informing him of his
arrival. Anxiously, and with a nervous fear lest some untoward
circumstance might prevent the marriage he was about effecting with
a silly heiress, did the young man await the response to these
notes, and great was his relief, when informed, after the lapse of
an hour, that the Reverend gentleman, whose attendance he had
desired, was in the house.
A private parlor had been engaged, and in this the ceremony of
marriage was to take place. This parlor adjoined a chamber, in which
Caroline awaited, with a trembling heart, the issue of events. It
was now, for the first time, as she was about taking the final and
irretrievable step, that her resolution began to fail her. Her
father's anger, the grief of her mother, the unknown state upon
which she was about entering, all came pressing upon her thoughts
with a sense of realization such as she had not known before.
Doubts as to the propriety of what she was about doing, came fast
upon her mind. In the nearness of the approaching event, she could
look upon it stripped of its halo of romance. During the two days
that she had been with Lawson, she had seen him in states of absent
thought, when the true quality of his mind wrote itself out upon his
face so distinctly that even a dim-sighted one could read; and more
than once she had felt an inward shrinking from him that was
irrepressible. Weak and foolish as she was, she was yet pure-minded;
and though in the beginning she did not, because her heart was
overlaid with frivolity, perceive the sphere of his impurity, yet
now, as the moment was near at hand when there was to be a
marriage-conjunction, she began to feel this sphere as something
that suffocated her spirit. At length, in the agitation of
contending thoughts and emotions, the heart of the poor girl failed
her, till, in the utter abandonment of feeling, she gave way to a
flood of tears and commenced wringing her hands. At this moment,
having arranged with the clergyman to begin the ceremony forthwith,
Lawson entered her room, and, to his surprise, saw her in tears.
"Oh, Charles!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands and extending them
towards him, "Take me home to my father! Oh, take me home to my
father!"
Lawson was confounded at such an unexpected change in Caroline. "You
shall go to your father the moment the ceremony is over," he
replied; "Come! Mr. B---- is all ready."
"Oh, no, no! Take me now! Take me now!" returned the poor girl in an
imploring voice. And she sat before the man who had tempted her from
the path of safety, weeping, and quivering like a leaf in the wind.
"Caroline! What has come over you!" said Lawson, in deep perplexity.
"This is only a weakness. Come! Nerve your heart like a brave, good
girl! Come! It will soon be over."
And he bent down and kissed her wet cheek, while she shrunk from him
with an involuntary dread. But, he drew his arm around her waist,
and almost forced her to rise.
"There now! Dry your tears!" And he placed his handkerchief to her
eyes. "It is but a moment of weakness, Caroline,--of natural
weakness."
As he said this, he was pressing her forward towards the door of the
apartment where the clergyman (such clergymen disgrace their
profession) awaited their appearance.
"Charles?" said Caroline, with a suddenly constrained calmness--"do
you love me?"
"Better than my own life!" was instantly replied.
"Then take me to my father. I am too young--too weak--too
inexperienced for this."
"The moment we are united you shall go home," returned Lawson. "I
will not hold you back an instant."
"Let me go now, Charles! Oh, let me go now!"
"Are you mad, girl!" exclaimed the young man, losing his
self-control. And, with a strong arm, he forced her into the next
room. For a brief period, the clergyman hesitated, on seeing the
distressed bride. Then he opened the book he held in his hand and
began to read the service. As his voice, in tones of solemnity,
filled the apartment, Caroline grew calmer. She felt like one driven
forward by a destiny against which it was vain to contend. All the
responses had been made by Lawson, and now the clergyman addressed
her. Passively she was about uttering her assentation, when the door
of the room was thrown open, and two men entered.
"Stop!" was instantly cried in a loud, agitated voice, which
Caroline knew to be that of her father, and never did that voice
come to her ears with a more welcome sound.
Lawson started, and moved from her side. While Caroline yet stood
trembling and doubting, the man who had come in with Mr. Everett
approached Lawson, and laying his hand upon him, said--"I arrest you
on a charge of swindling!"
With a low cry of distress, Caroline sprung towards her father; but
he held his hands out towards her as if to keep her off, saying, at
the same time--
"Are you his wife?"
"No, thank Heaven!" fell from her lips.
In the next moment she was in her father's arms, and both were
weeping.
Narrow indeed was the escape made by Caroline Everett; an escape
which she did not fully comprehend until a few months afterwards,
when the trial of Lawson took place, during which revelations of
villany were made, the recital of which caused her heart to shudder.
Yes, narrow had been her escape! Had her father been delayed a few
moments longer, she would have become the wife of a man soon after
condemned to expiate his crimes against society in the felon's cell!
May a vivid realization of what Caroline Everett escaped, warn other
young girls, who bear a similar relation to society, of the danger
that lurks in their way. Not once in a hundred instances, is a
school girl approached with lover-like attentions, except by a man
who is void of principle; and not once in a hundred instances do
marriages entered upon clandestinely by such persons, prove other
than an introduction to years of wretchedness.
UNREDEEMED PLEDGES.
TWO men were walking along a public thoroughfare in New York. One of
them was a young merchant--the other a man past the prime of life,
and belonging to the community of Friends. They were in
conversation, and the manner of the former, earnest and emphatic,
was in marked contrast with the quiet and thoughtful air of the
other.
"There is so much idleness and imposture among the poor," said the
merchant, "that you never know when your alms are going to do harm
or good. The beggar we just passed is able to work; and that woman
sitting at the corner with a sick child in her arms, would be far
better off in the almshouse. No man is more willing to give than I
am, if I only knew where and when to give."
"If we look around us carefully, Mr. Edwards," returned the Quaker,
"we need be at no loss on this subject. Objects enough will present
themselves. Virtuous want is, in most cases, unobtrusive, and will
suffer rather than extend a hand for relief. We must seek for
objects of benevolence in by-places. We must turn aside into
untrodden walks."
"But even then," objected Mr. Edwards, "we cannot be certain that
idleness and vice are not at the basis of the destitution we find. I
have had my doubts whether any who exercise the abilities which God
has given them, need want for the ordinary comforts of life in this
country. In all cases of destitution, there is something wrong, you
may depend upon it."
"Perhaps there is," said the Quaker. "Evil of some kind is ever the
cause of destitution and wretchedness. Such bitter waters as these
cannot flow from a sweet fountain. Still, many are brought to
suffering through the evil ways of others; and many whose own wrong
doings have reacted upon them in unhappy consequences, deeply repent
of the past, and earnestly desire to live better lives in future.
Both need kindness, encouragement, and, it may be, assistance; and
it is the duty of those who have enough and to spare, to stretch
forth their hands to aid, comfort and sustain them."
"Yes. That is true. But, how are we to know who are the real objects
of our benevolence?"
"We have but to open our eyes and see, Mr. Edwards," said the
Quaker. "The objects of benevolence are all around us."
"Show me a worthy object, and you will find me ready to relieve it,"
returned the merchant. "I am not so selfish as to be indifferent to
human suffering. But I think it wrong to encourage idleness and
vice; and for this reason, I never give unless I am certain that the
object who presents himself is worthy."
"True benevolence does not always require us to give alms," said the
Friend. "We may do much to aid, comfort and help on with their
burdens our fellow travellers, and yet not bestow upon them what is
called charity. Mere alms-giving, as thee has intimated, but too
often encourages vice and idleness. But thee desires to find a
worthy object of benevolence. Let us see if we cannot find one, What
have we here?" And as the Quaker said this he paused before a
building, from the door of which protruded a red flag, containing
the words, "Auction this day." On a large card just beneath the flag
was the announcement, "Positive sale of unredeemed pledges."
"Let us turn in here," said the Quaker. "No doubt we shall find
enough to excite our sympathies."
Mr. Edwards thought this a strange proposal; but he felt a little
curious, and followed his companion without hesitation.
The sale had already begun, and there was a small company assembled.
Among them, the merchant noticed a young woman whose face was
partially veiled. She was sitting a little apart from the rest, and
did not appear to take any interest in the bidding. But he noticed
that, after an article was knocked off, she was all attention until
the next was put up, and then, the moment it was named, relapsed
into a sort of listlessness or abstraction.
The articles sold embraced a great variety of things useful and
ornamental. In the main they were made up of watches, silver plate,
jewellery and wearing apparel. There were garments of every kind,
quality and condition, upon which money to about a fourth of their
real value had been loaned; and not having been redeemed, they were
now to be sold for the benefit of the pawnbroker.
The company bid with animation, and article after article was sold
off. The interest at first awakened by the scene, new to the young
merchant, wore off in a little while, and turning to his companion
he said--"I don't see that much is to be gained by staying here."
"Wait a little longer, and perhaps thee will think differently,"
returned the Quaker, glancing towards the young woman who has been
mentioned, as he spoke.
The words had scarcely passed his lips, when the auctioneer took up
a small gold locket containing a miniature, and holding it up, asked
for a bid.
"How much for this? How much for this beautiful gold locket and
miniature? Give me a bid. Ten dollars! Eight dollars! Five dollars!
Four dollars--why, gentlemen, it never cost less than fifty! Four
dollars! Four dollars! Will no one give four dollars for this
beautiful gold locket and miniature? It's thrown away at that
price."
At the mention of the locket, the young woman came forward and
looked up anxiously at the auctioneer. Mr. Edwards could see enough
of her face to ascertain that it was an interesting and intelligent
one, though very sad.
"Three dollars!" continued the auctioneer. But there was no bid.
"Two dollars! One dollar!"
"One dollar," was the response from a man who stood just in front of
the woman. Mr. Edwards, whose eyes were upon the latter, noticed
that she became much agitated the moment this bid was made.
"One dollar we have! One dollar! Only one dollar!" cried the
auctioneer. "Only one dollar for a gold locket and miniature worth
forty. One dollar!"
"Nine shillings," said the young woman in a low, timid voice.
"Nine shillings bid! Nine shillings! Nine shillings!"
"Ten shillings," said the first bidder.
"Ten shillings it is! Ten shillings, and thrown away. Ten
shillings!"
"Eleven shillings," said the girl, beginning to grow excited. Mr.
Edwards, who could not keep his eyes off of her face, from which the
veil had entirely fallen, saw that she was trembling with eagerness
and anxiety.
"Eleven shillings!" repeated the auctioneer, glancing at the first
bidder, a coarse-looking man, and the only one who seemed disposed
to bid against the young woman.
"Twelve shillings," said the man resolutely.
A paleness went over the face of the other bidder, and a quick
tremor passed through her frame.
"Twelve shillings is bid. Twelve shillings is bid. Twelve
shillings!" And the auctioneer now looked towards the young woman
who, in a faint voice, said--
"Thirteen shillings."
By this time the merchant began to understand the meaning of what
was passing before him. The miniature was that of a middle-aged
lady; and it required no great strength of imagination to determine
that the original was the mother of the young woman who seemed so
anxious to possess the locket.
"But how came it here?" was the involuntary suggestion to the mind
of Mr. Edwards. "Who pawned it? Did she?"
"Fourteen shillings," said the man who was bidding, breaking in upon
the reflections of Mr. Edwards.
The veil that had been drawn aside, fell instantly over the face of
the young woman, and she shrunk back from her prominent position,
yet still remained in the room.
"Fourteen shillings is bid. Fourteen shillings! Are you all done?
Fourteen shillings for a gold locket and miniature. Fourteen!
Once!---"
The companion of Mr. Edwards glanced towards him with a meaning
look. The merchants for a moment bewildered, found his mind clear
again.
"Twice!" screamed the auctioneer. "Once! Twice! Three----"
"Twenty shillings," dropped from the lips of Mr. Edwards.
"Twenty shillings! Twenty shillings!" cried the auctioneer with
renewed animation. The man who had been bidding against the girl
turned quickly to see what bold bidder was in the field: and most of
the company turned with him. The young woman at the same time drew
aside her veil and looked anxiously towards Mr. Edwards, who, as he
obtained a fuller view of her face, was struck with it as familiar.
"Twenty-one shillings," was bid in opposition.
"Twenty-five," said the merchant, promptly.
The first bidder, seeing that Mr. Edwards was determined to run
against him, and being a little afraid that he might be left with a
ruinous bid on his hands, declined advancing, and the locket was
assigned to the young merchant, who, as soon as he had received it,
turned and presented it to the young woman, saying as he did so--
"It is yours."
The young woman caught hold of it with an eager gesture, and after
gazing on it for a few moments, pressed it to her lips.
"I have not the money to pay for it," she said in a low sad voice,
recovering herself in a few moments; and seeking to return the
miniature.
"It is yours!" replied Mr. Edwards. Then thrusting back the hand she
had extended, and speaking with some emotion, he said--"Keep
it--keep it, in Heaven's name!"
And saying this he hastily retired, for he became conscious that
many eyes were upon him; and he felt half ashamed to have betrayed
his weakness before a coarse, unfeeling crowd. For a few moments he
lingered in the street; but his companion not appearing, he went on
his way, musing on the singular adventure he had encountered. The
more distinctly he recalled the young woman's face, the more
strangely familiar did it seem.
About an hour afterwards, as Mr. Edwards sat reading a letter, the
Quaker entered his store.
"Ah, how do you do? I am glad to see you," said the merchant, his
manner more than usually earnest. "Did you see anything more of that
young woman?"
"Yes," replied the Quaker. "I could not leave one like her without
knowing something of her past life and present circumstances. I
think even you will hardly be disposed to regard her as an object
unworthy of interest."
"No, certainly I will not. Her appearance, and the circumstances
under which we found her, are all in her favor."
"But we turned aside from the beaten path. We looked into a by-place
to us; or we would not have discovered her. She was not obtrusive.
She asked no aid; but, with the last few shillings that remained to
her in the world, had gone to recover, if possible, an unredeemed
pledge--the miniature of her mother, on which she had obtained a
small advance of money to buy food and medicine for the dying
original. This is but one of the thousand cases of real distress
that are all around us. We could see them if we did but turn aside
for a moment into ways unfamiliar to our feet."
"Did you learn who she was, and anything of her condition?" asked
Mr. Edwards.
"Oh yes. To do so was but a common dictate of humanity. I would have
felt it as a stain upon my conscience to have left one like her
uncared for in the circumstances under which we found her."
"Did you accompany her home?"
"Yes; I went with her to the place she called her home--a room in
which there was scarcely an article of comfort--and there learned
the history of her past life and present condition. Does thee
remember Belgrave, who carried on a large business in Maiden Lane
some years ago?"
"Very well. But, surely this girl is not Mary Belgrave?"
"Yes. It was Mary Belgrave whom we met at the pawnbroker's sale."
"Mary Belgrave! Can it be possible? I knew the family had become
poor; but not so poor as this!"
And Mr. Edwards, much disturbed in mind, walked uneasily about the
floor. But soon pausing, he said--
"And so her mother is dead!"
"Yes. Her father died two years ago and her mother, who has been
sick ever since, died last week in abject poverty, leaving Mary
friendless, in a world where the poor and needy are but little
regarded. The miniature which Mary had secretly pawned in order to
supply the last earthly need of her mother, she sought by her labor
to redeem; but ere she had been able to save up enough for the
purpose, the time for which the pledge had been taken, expired, and
the pawn broker refused to renew it. Under the faint hope that she
might be able to buy it in with the little pittance of money she had
saved, she attended the sale where we found her."
The merchant had resumed his seat, and although he had listened
attentively to the Quaker's brief history, he did not make any
reply, but soon became lost in thought. From this he was interrupted
by his visitor, who said, as he moved towards the door--
"I will bid thee good morning, friend Edwards."
"One moment, if you please," said the merchant, arousing himself,
and speaking earnestly, "Where does Mary Belgrave live?"
The Friend answered the question, and, as Mr. Edwards did not seem
inclined to ask any more, and besides fell back again into an
abstract state, he wished him good morning and retired.
The poor girl was sitting alone in her room sewing, late in the
afternoon of the day on which the incident at the auction room
occurred, musing, as she had mused for hours, upon the unexpected
adventure. She did not, in the excitement of the moment, know Mr.
Edwards when he first tendered her the miniature; but when he said
with peculiar emphasis and earnestness, turning away as he
spoke--"Keep it, in Heaven's name!" she recognized him fully. Since
that moment, she had not been able to keep the thought of him from
her mind. They had been intimate friends at one time; but this was
while they were both very young. Then he had professed for her a
boyish passion; and she had loved him with the childish fondness of
a young school-girl. As they grew older, circumstances separated
them more; and though no hearts were broken in consequence, both
often thought of the early days of innocence and affection with
pleasure.
Mary sat sewing, as we have said, late in the afternoon of the day
on which the incident at the auction room occurred, when there was a
tap at her door. On opening it, Mr. Edwards stood before her. She
stepped back a pace or two in instant surprise and confusion, and he
advanced into the desolate room. In a moment, however, Mary
recovered herself, and with as much self-possession as, under the
circumstances, she could assume, asked her unexpected visitor to
take a chair, which she offered him.
Mr. Edwards sat down, feeling much oppressed. Mary was so changed in
everything, except in the purity and beauty of her countenance,
since he had seen her years before, that his feelings were
completely borne down. But he soon recovered himself enough to speak
to her of what was in his mind. He had an old aunt, who had been a
friend of Mary's mother, and from her he brought a message and an
offer of a home. Her carriage was at the door--it had been sent for
her--and he urged her to go with him immediately. Mary had no good
reason for declining so kind an offer. It was a home that she most
of all needed; and she could not refuse one like this.
"There is another unredeemed pledge," said Mr. Edwards,
significantly, as he sat conversing with Mary about a year after she
had found a home in the house of his aunt. Allusion had been made to
the miniature of Mary's mother.
"Ah!" was the simple response.
"Yes. Don't you remember," and he took Mary's unresisting hand--"the
pledge of this hand which you made me, I cannot tell how many years
ago?"
"That was a mere girlish pledge," ventured Mary, with drooping eyes.
"But one that the woman will redeem," said Edwards confidently,
raising the hand to his lips at the same time, and kissing it.
Mary leaned involuntarily towards him; and he, perceiving the
movement, drew his arm around her, and pressed his lips to her
cheek.
It was no very long time afterwards before the pledge was redeemed.
DON'T MENTION IT.
"DON'T mention it again for your life."
"No, of course not. The least said about such things the better."
"Don't for the world. I have told you in perfect confidence, and you
are the only one to whom I have breathed it. I wouldn't have it get
out for any consideration."
"Give yourself no uneasiness. I shall not allude to the subject."
"I merely told you because I knew you were a friend, and would let
it go no farther. But would you have thought it?"
"I certainly am very much surprised."
"So am I. But when things pass right before your eyes and ears,
there is no gainsaying them."
"No. Seeing is said to be believing."
"Of course it is."
"But, Mrs. Grimes, are you very sure that you heard aright?"
"I am positive, Mrs. Raynor. It occurred only an hour ago, and the
whole thing is distinctly remembered. I called in to see Mrs.
Comegys, and while I was there, the bundle of goods came home. I was
present when she opened it, and she showed me the lawn dress it
contained. There were twelve yards in it. 'I must see if there is
good measure,' she said, and she got a yard-stick and measured it
off. There were fifteen yards instead of twelve. 'How is this?' she
remarked. 'I am sure I paid for only twelve yards, and here are
fifteen.' The yard-stick was applied again. There was no mistake;
the lawn measured fifteen yards. 'What are you going to do with the
surplus?' I asked. 'Keep it, of course,' said Mrs. Comegys. 'There
is just enough to make little Julia a frock. Won't she look sweet in
it?,' I was so confounded that I couldn't say a word. Indeed, I
could hardly look her in the face. At first I thought of calling her
attention to the dishonesty of the act; but then I reflected that,
as it was none of my business, I might get her ill-will for meddling
in what didn't concern me."
"And you really think, then, that she meant to keep the three yards
without paying for them?
"Oh, certainly! But then I wouldn't say anything about it for the
world. I wouldn't name it, on any consideration. Of course you will
not repeat it."
"No. If I cannot find any good to tell of my friends, I try to
refrain from saying anything evil."
"A most excellent rule, Mrs. Raynor, and one that I always follow. I
never speak evil of my friends, for it always does more harm than
good. No one can say that I ever tried to injure another."
"I hope Mrs. Comegys thought better of the matter, upon reflection,"
said Mrs. Raynor.
"So do I. But I am afraid not. Two or three little things occur to
me now, that I have seen in my intercourse with her, which go to
satisfy my mind that her moral perceptions are not the best in the
world. Mrs. Comegys is a pleasant friend, and much esteemed by every
one. It could do no good to spread this matter abroad, but harm."
After repeating over and over again her injunction to Mrs. Raynor
not to repeat a word of what she had told her, Mrs. Grimes bade this
lady, upon whom she had called, good morning, and went on her way.
Ten minutes after, she was in the parlor of an acquaintance, named
Mrs. Florence, entertaining her with the gossip she had picked up
since their last meeting. She had not been there long, before,
lowering her voice, she said in a confidential way--
"I was at Mrs. Comegys' to-day, and saw something that amazed me
beyond every thing."
"Indeed!"
"Yes. You will be astonished when you hear it. Suppose you had
purchased a dress and paid for a certain number of yards; and when
the dress was sent home, you should find that the storekeeper had
made a mistake and sent you three or four yards more than you had
settled for. What would you do?"
"Send it back, of course."
"Of course, so say I. To act differently would not be honest. Do you
think so?"
"It would not be honest for me."
"No, nor for any one. Now, would you have believed it? Mrs. Comegys
not only thinks but acts differently."
"You must be mistaken, certainly, Mrs. Grimes."
"Seeing is believing, Mrs. Florence."
"So it is said, but I could hardly believe my eyes against Mrs.
Comegys' integrity of character. I think I ought to know her well,
for we have been very intimate for years."
"And I thought I knew her, too. But it seems that I was mistaken."
Mrs. Grimes then repeated the story of the lawn dress.
"Gracious me! Can it be possible?" exclaimed Mrs. Florence. "I can
hardly credit it."
"It occurred just as I tell you. But Mrs. Florence, you mustn't tell
it again for the world. I have mentioned it to you in the strictest
confidence. But I need hardly say this to you, for I know how
discreet you are."
"I shall not mention it."
"It could do no good."
"None in the world."
"Isn't it surprising, that a woman who is so well off in the world
as Mrs. Comegys, should stoop to a petty act like this?"
"It is, certainly."
"Perhaps there is something wrong here," and Mrs. Grimes placed her
finger to her forehead and looked sober.
"How do you mean?" asked the friend.
"You've heard of people's having a dishonest monomania. Don't you
remember the case of Mrs. Y----?"
"Very well."
"She had every thing that heart could desire. Her husband was rich,
and let her have as much money as she wanted. I wish we could all
say that, Mrs. Florence, don't you?"
"It would be very pleasant, certainly, to have as much money as we
wanted."
"But, notwithstanding all this, Mrs. Y---- had such a propensity to
take things not her own, that she never went into a dry goods store
without purloining something, and rarely took tea with a friend
without slipping a teaspoon into her pocket. Mr. Y---- had a great
deal of trouble with her, and, in several cases, paid handsomely to
induce parties disposed to prosecute her for theft, to let the
matter drop. Now do you know that it has occurred to me that,
perhaps, Mrs. Comegys is afflicted in this way? I shouldn't at all
wonder if it were so."
"Hardly."
"I'm afraid it is as I suspect. A number of suspicious circumstances
have happened when she has been about, that this would explain. But
for your life, Mrs. Florence, don't repeat this to any mortal!"
"I shall certainly not speak of it, Mrs. Grimes. It is too serious a
matter. I wish I had not heard of it, for I can never feel toward
Mrs. Comegys as I have done. She is a very pleasant woman, and one
with whom it is always agreeable and profitable to spend an hour."
"It is a little matter, after all," remarked Mrs. Grimes, "and,
perhaps, we treat it too seriously."
"We should never think lightly of dishonest practices, Mrs. Grimes.
Whoever is dishonest in little things, will be dishonest in great
things, if a good opportunity offer. Mrs. Comegys can never be to me
what she has been. That is impossible."
"Of course you will not speak of it again."
"You need have no fear of that."
A few days after, Mrs. Raynor made a call upon a friend, who said to
her,
"Have you heard about Mrs. Comegys?"
"What about her?"
"I supposed you knew it. _I've_ heard it from half a dozen persons.
It is said that Perkins, through a mistake of one of his clerks,
sent her home some fifteen or twenty yards of lawn more than she had
paid for, and that, instead of sending it back, she kept it and made
it up for her children. Did you ever hear of such a trick for an
honest woman?"
"I don't think any honest woman would be guilty of such an act. Yes,
I heard of it a few days ago as a great secret, and have not
mentioned it to a living soul."
"Secret? bless me! it is no secret. It is in every one's mouth."
"Is it possible? I must say that Mrs. Grimes has been very
indiscreet."
"Mrs. Grimes! Did it come from her in the first place?"
"Yes. She told me that she was present when the lawn came home, and
saw Mrs. Comegys measure it, and heard her say that she meant to
keep it."
"Which she has done. For I saw her in the street, yesterday, with a
beautiful new lawn, and her little Julia was with her, wearing one
precisely like it."
"How any woman can do so is more than I can understand."
"So it is, Mrs. Raynor. Just to think of dressing your child up in a
frock as good as stolen! Isn't it dreadful?"
"It is, indeed!"
"Mrs. Comegys is not an honest woman. That is clear. I am told that
this is not the first trick of the kind of which she has been
guilty. They say that she has a natural propensity to take things
that are not her own."
"I can hardly believe that."
"Nor can I. But it's no harder to believe this than to believe that
she would cheat Perkins out of fifteen of twenty yards of lawn. It's
a pity; for Mrs. Comegys, in every thing else, is certainly a very
nice woman. In fact, I don't know any one I visit with so much
pleasure."
Thus the circle of detraction widened, until there was scarcely a
friend or acquaintance of Mrs. Comegys, near or remote, who had not
heard of her having cheated a dry goods dealer out of several yards
of lawn. Three, it had first been alleged; but the most common
version of the story made it fifteen or twenty. Meantime, Mrs.
Comegys remained in entire ignorance of what was alleged against
her, although she noticed in two or three of her acquaintances, a
trifling coldness that struck her as rather singular.
One day her husband, seeing that she looked quite sober, said--
"You seem quite dull to-day, dear. Don't you feel well?"
"Yes, I feel as well as usual, in body."
"But not in mind?"
"I do not feel quite comfortable in mind, certainly, though I don't
know that I have any serious cause of uneasiness."
"Though a slight cause exists. May I ask what it is?"
"It is nothing more nor less than that I was coolly _cut_ by an old
friend to-day, whom I met in a store on Chesnut street. And as she
is a woman that I highly esteem, both for the excellence of her
character, and the agreeable qualities, as a friend, that she
possesses. I cannot but feel a little bad about it. If she were one
of that capricious class who get offended with you, once a month,
for no just cause whatever, I should not care a fig. But Mrs. Markle
is a woman of character, good sense and good feeling, whose
friendship I have always prized."
"Was it Mrs. Markle?" said the husband, with some surprise.
"Yes."
"What can possibly be the cause?"
"I cannot tell."
"Have you thought over every thing?"
"Yes, I have turned and turned the matter in my mind, but can
imagine no reason why she, of all others, could treat me coolly."
"Have you never spoken of her in a way to have your words
misinterpreted by some evil-minded person--Mrs. Grimes, for
instance--whose memory, or moral sense, one or the other, is very
dull?"
"I have never spoken of her to any one, except in terms of praise. I
could not do otherwise, for I look upon her as one of the most
faultless women I know."
"She has at least shown that she possesses one fault."
"What is that?"
"If she has heard any thing against you of a character so serious as
to make her wish to give up your acquaintance, she should at least
have afforded you the chance of defending yourself before condemning
you."
"I think that, myself."
"It may be that she did not see you," Mr. Comegys suggested.
"She looked me in the face, and nodded with cold formality."
"Perhaps her mind was abstracted."
"It might have been so. Mine would have been very abstracted,
indeed, to keep me from a more cordial recognition of a friend."
"How would it do to call and see her?"
"I have been thinking of that. But my feelings naturally oppose it.
I am not conscious of having done any thing to merit a withdrawal of
the friendly sentiments she has held towards me; still, if she
wishes to withdraw them, my pride says, let her do so."
"But pride, you know, is not always the best adviser."
"No. Perhaps the less regard we pay to its promptings, the better."
"I think so."
"It is rather awkward to go to a person and ask why you have been
treated coldly."
"I know it is. But in a choice of evils, is it not always wisest to
choose the least?"
"But is any one's bad opinion of you, if it be not correctly formed,
an evil?"
"Certainly it is."
"I don't know. I have a kind of independence about me which says,
'Let people think what they please, so you are conscious of no
wrong.'"
"Indifference to the world's good or bad opinion is all very well,"
replied the husband, "if the world will misjudge us. Still, as any
thing that prejudices the minds of people against us, tends to
destroy our usefulness, it is our duty to take all proper care of
our reputations, even to the sacrifice of a little feeling in doing
so."
Thus argued with by her husband, Mrs. Comegys, after turning the
matter over in her mind, finally concluded to go and see Mrs.
Markle. It was a pretty hard trial for her, but urged on by a sense
of right, she called upon her two or three days after having been
treated so coldly. She sent up her name by the servant. In about
five minutes, Mrs. Markle descended to the parlor, where her visitor
was awaiting her, and met her in a reserved and formal manner, that
was altogether unlike her former cordiality. It was as much as Mrs.
Comegys could do to keep from retiring instantly, and without a
word, from the house. But she compelled herself to go through with
what she had begun.
Mrs. Markle did, indeed, offer her hand; or rather the tips of her
fingers; which Mrs. Comegys, in mere reciprocation of the formality,
accepted. Then came an embarrassing pause, after which the latter
said--
"I see that I was not mistaken in supposing that there was a marked
coldness in your manner at our last meeting."
Mrs. Markle inclined her head slightly.
"Of course there is a cause for this. May I, in justice to myself as
well as others, inquire what it is?"
"I did not suppose you would press an inquiry on the subject,"
replied Mrs. Markle. "But as you have done so, you are, of course,
entitled to an answer."
There came another pause, after which, with a disturbed voice, Mrs.
Markle said--
"For some time, I have heard a rumor in regard to you, that I could
not credit. Of late it has been so often repeated that I felt it to
be my duty to ascertain its truth or falsehood. On tracing, with
some labor, the report to its origin, I am grieved to find that it
is too true."
"Please say what it is," said Mrs. Comegys, in a firm voice.
"It is said that you bought a dress at a dry goods store in this
city, and that on its being sent home, there proved to be some yards
more in the piece of goods than you paid for and that instead of
returning what was not your own, you kept it and had it made up for
one of your children."
The face of Mrs. Comegys instantly became like crimson; and she
turned her head away to hide the confusion into which this
unexpected allegation had thrown her. As soon as she could command
her voice, she said--
"You will, of course, give me the author of this charge."
"You are entitled to know, I suppose," replied Mrs. Markle. "The
person who originated this report is Mrs. Grimes. And she says that
she was present when the dress was sent home. That you measured it
in her presence, and that, finding there were several yards over,
you declared your intention to keep it and make of it a frock for
your little girl. And, moreover, that she saw Julia wearing a frock
afterwards, exactly like the pattern of the one you had, which she
well remembers. This seems to me pretty conclusive evidence. At
least it was so to my mind, and I acted accordingly."
Mrs. Comegys sat for the full space of a minute with her eyes upon
the floor, without speaking. When she looked up, the flush that had
covered her face had gone. It was very pale, instead. Rising from
her chair, she bowed formally, and without saying a word, withdrew.
"Ah me! Isn't it sad?" murmured Mrs. Markle, as she heard the street
door close upon her visitor. "So much that is agreeable and
excellent, all dimmed by the want of principle. It seems hardly
credible that a woman, with every thing she needs, could act
dishonestly for so small a matter. A few yards of lawn against
integrity and character! What a price to set upon virtue!"
Not more than half an hour after the departure of Mrs. Comegys, Mrs.
Grimes called in to see Mrs. Markle.
"I hope," she said, shortly after she was seated, "that you won't
say a word about what I told you a few days ago; I shouldn't have
opened my lips on the subject if you hadn't asked me about it. I
only mentioned it in the first place to a friend in whom I had the
greatest confidence in the world. She has told some one, very
improperly, for it was imparted to her as a secret, and in that way
it has been spread abroad. I regret it exceedingly, for I would be
the last person in the world to say a word to injure any one. I am
particularly guarded in this."
"If it's the truth, Mrs. Grimes, I don't see that you need be so
anxious about keeping it a secret," returned Mrs. Markle.
"The truth! Do you think I would utter a word that was not true?"
"I did not mean to infer that you would. I believe that what you
said in regard to Mrs. Comegys was the fact."
"It certainly was. But then, it will do no good to make a
disturbance about it. What has made me call in to see you is this;
some one told me that, in consequence of this matter, you had
dropped the acquaintance of Mrs. Comegys."
"It is true; I cannot associate on intimate terms with a woman who
lacks honest principles."
"But don't you see that this will bring matters to a head, and that
I shall be placed in a very awkward position?"
"You are ready to adhere to your statement in regard to Mrs.
Comegys?"
"Oh, certainly; I have told nothing but the truth. But still, you
can see that it will make me feel exceedingly unpleasant."
"Things of this kind are never very agreeable, I know, Mrs. Grimes.
Still we must act as we think right, let what will follow. Mrs.
Comegys has already called upon me to ask an explanation of my
conduct wards her."
"She has!" Mrs. Grimes seemed sadly distressed. "What did you say to
her?"
"I told her just what I had heard."
"Did she ask your author?" Mrs. Grimes was most pale with suspense.
"She did."
"Of course you did not mention my name."
"She asked the author of the charge, and I named you."
"Oh dear, Mrs. Markle! I wish you hadn't done that. I shall be
involved in a world of trouble, and the reputation of a tattler and
mischief-maker. What did she say?"
"Not one word."
"She didn't deny it?"
"No."
"Of course she could not. Well, that is some satisfaction at least.
She might have denied it, and tried make me out a liar, and there
would have been plenty to believe her word against mine. I am glad
she didn't deny it. She didn't say a word?"
"No."
"Did she look guilty?"
"You would have thought so, if you had seen her."
"What did she do?"
"She sat with her eyes upon the floor for some time, and then rose
up, and without uttering a word, left the house."
"I wish she had said something. It would have been a satisfaction to
know what she thought. But I suppose the poor woman was so
confounded, that she didn't know what to say."
"So it appeared to me. She was completely stunned. I really pitied
her from my heart. But want of principle should never be
countenanced. If we are to have social integrity, we must mark with
appropriate condemnation all deviations therefrom. It was
exceedingly painful, but the path of duty was before me, and I
walked in it without faltering."
Mrs. Grimes was neither so clear-sighted, nor so well satisfied with
what she had done, as all this. She left the house of Mrs. Markle
feeling very unhappy. Although she had been using her little unruly
member against Mrs. Comegys with due industry, she was all the while
on the most friendly terms with her, visiting at her house and being
visited. It was only a few days, before that she had taken tea and
spent an evening with her. Not that Mrs. Grimes was deliberately
hypocritical, but she had a free tongue, and, like too many in
society, more cautious about what they said than she, much better
pleased to see evil than good in a neighbour. There are very few of
us, perhaps, who have not something of this fault--an exceedingly
bad fault, by the way. It seems to arise from a consciousness of our
own imperfections and the pleasure we feel in making the discovery
that others are as bad, if not worse than we are.
Two days after Mrs. Comegys had called on Mrs. Markle to ask for
explanations, the latter received a note in the following words:
"MADAM.--I have no doubt you have acted according to your own views
of right in dropping as suddenly as you have done, the acquaintance
of an old friend. Perhaps, if you had called upon me and asked
explanations, you might have acted a little differently. My present
object in addressing you is to ask, as a matter of justice, that you
will call at my house to-morrow at twelve o'clock. I think that I am
entitled to speak a word in my own defense. After you have heard
that I shall not complain of any course you may think it right to
pursue.
"ANNA COMEGYS."
Mrs. Markle, could do no less than call as she had been desired to.
At twelve o'clock she rang the bell at Mrs. Comegys' door, and was
shown into the parlor, where, to her no small surprise, she found
about twenty ladies, most of them acquaintances, assembled, Mrs.
Grimes among the number. In about ten minutes Mrs. Comegys came into
the room, her countenance wearing a calm but sober aspect. She bowed
slightly, but was not cordial toward, or familiar with, any one
present. Without a pause she said--
"Ladies, I have learned within a few days, very greatly to my
surprise and grief, that there is a report circulated among my
friends, injurious to my character as a woman of honest principles.
I have taken some pains to ascertain those with whom the report is
familiar, and have invited all such to be here to-day. I learn from
several sources, that the report originated with Mrs. Grimes, and
that she has been very industrious in circulating it to my injury."
"Perhaps you wrong Mrs. Grimes there," spoke up Mrs. Markle. "She
did not mention it to me until I inquired of her if the report was
true. And then she told me that she had never told it but to a
single person, in confidence, and that she had inadvertently alluded
to it, and thus it became a common report. So I think that Mrs.
Grimes cannot justly be charged with having sought to circulate the
matter to your injury."
"Very well, we will see how far that statement is correct," said
Mrs. Comegys. "Did she mention the subject to you, Mrs. Raynor?"
"She did," replied Mrs. Raynor. "But in strict confidence, and
enjoining it upon me not to mention it to any one, as she had no
wish to injure you."
"Did you tell it to any one?"
"No. It was but a little while afterward that it was told to me by
some one else."
"Was it mentioned to you, Mrs. Florence?" proceeded Mrs. Comegys,
turning to another of the ladies present.
"It was, ma'am."
"By Mrs. Grimes?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"In confidence, I suppose?"
"I was requested to say nothing about it, for fear that it might
create an unfavorable impression in regard to you."
"Very well; there are two already. How was it in your case, Mrs.
Wheeler?"
This lady answered as the others had done. The question was then put
to each lady in the room, when it appeared that out of the twenty,
fifteen had received their information on the subject from Mrs.
Grimes, and that upon every one secrecy had been enjoined, although
not in every case maintained.
"So it seems, Mrs. Markle," said Mrs. Comegys, after she had
finished her inquiries, "that Mrs. Grimes has, as I alleged,
industriously circulated this matter to my injury."
"It certainly appears so," returned Mrs. Markle, coldly.
Thus brought into a corner, Mrs. Grimes bristled up like certain
animals, which are good at running and skulking, but which, when
fairly trapped, fight desperately.
"Telling it to a thousand is not half as bad as doing it, Mrs.
Comegys," she said, angrily. "You needn't try to screen yourself
from the consequences of your wrong doings, by raising a hue and cry
against me. Go to the fact, madam! Go to the fact, and stand
alongside of what you have done."
"I have no hesitation about doing that, Mrs. Grimes. Pray, what have
I done?"
"It is very strange that you should ask, madam."
"But I am charged, I learn, with having committed a crime against
society; and you are the author of the charge. What is the crime?"
"If it is any satisfaction to you, I will tell you. I was at your
house when the pattern of the lawn dress you now have on was sent
home. You measured it in my presence, and there were several yards
in it more than you had bought and paid for"--
"How many?"
Mrs. Grimes looked confused, and stammered out, "I do not now
exactly remember."
"How many did she tell you, Mrs. Raynor?"
"She said there were three yards."
"And you, Mrs. Fisher?"
"Six yards."
"And you, Mrs. Florence?"
"Fifteen yards, I think."
"Oh, no, Mrs. Florence; you are entirely mistaken. You misunderstood
me," said Mrs. Grimes, in extreme perturbation.
"Perhaps so. But that is my present impression," replied Mrs.
Florence.
"That will do," said Mrs. Comegys. "Mrs. Grimes can now go on with
her answer to my inquiry. I will remark, however, that the overplus
was just two yards."
"Then you admit that the lawn overran what you had paid for?"
"Certainly I do. It overran just two yards."
"Very well. One yard or a dozen, the principle is just the same. I
asked you what you meant to do with it, and you replied, 'keep it,
of course.' Do you deny that?"
"No. It is very likely that I did say so, for it was my intention to
keep it."
"Without paying for it?" asked Mrs. Markle.
Mrs. Comegys looked steadily into the face of her interrogator for
some moments, a flush upon her cheek, an indignant light in her eye.
Then, without replying to the question, she stepped to the wall and
rang the parlor bell. In a few moments a servant came in.
"Ask the gentleman in the dining-room if he will be kind enough to
step here." In a little while a step was heard along the passage,
and then a young man entered.
"You are a clerk in Mr. Perkins' store?" said Mrs. Comegys.
"Yes, ma'am."
"You remember my buying this lawn dress at your store?"
"Very well, ma'am. I should forget a good many incidents before I
forgot that."
"What impressed it upon your memory?"
"This circumstance. I was very much hurried at the time when you
bought it, and in measuring it off, made a mistake against myself of
two yards. There should have been four dresses in the piece. One had
been sold previous to yours. Not long after your dress had been sent
home, two ladies came into the store and chose each a dress from the
pattern. On measuring the piece, I discovered that it was two yards
short, and lost the sale of the dresses in consequence, as the
ladies wished them alike. An hour afterward you called to say that I
had made a mistake and sent you home two yards more than you had
paid for; but that as you liked the pattern very much, you would
keep it and buy two yards more for a dress for your little girl."
"Yes; that is exactly the truth in regard to the dress. I am obliged
to you, Mr. S----, for the trouble I have given you. I will not keep
you any longer."
The young man bowed and withdrew.
The ladies immediately gathered around Mrs. Comegys, with a thousand
apologies for having for a moment entertained the idea that she had
been guilty of wrong, while Mrs. Grimes took refuge in a flood of
tears.
"I have but one cause of complaint against you all," said the
injured lady, "and it is this. A charge of so serious a nature
should never have been made a subject of common report without my
being offered a chance to defend myself. As for Mrs. Grimes, I can't
readily understand how she fell into the error she did. But she
never would have fallen into it if she had not been more willing to
think evil than good of her friends. I do not say this to hurt her;
but to state a truth that it may be well for her, and perhaps some
of the rest of us, to lay to heart. It is a serious thing to speak
evil of another, and should never be done except on the most
unequivocal evidence. It never occurred to me to say to Mrs. Grimes
that I would pay for the lawn; that I supposed she or any one else
would have inferred, when I said I would keep it."
A great deal was said by all parties, and many apologies were made.
Mrs. Grimes was particularly humble, and begged all present to
forgive and forget what was past. She knew, she said, that she was
apt to talk; it was a failing with her which she would try to
correct. But that she didn't mean to do any one harm.
As to the latter averment, it can be believed or not as suits every
one's fancy. All concerned in this affair felt that they had
received a lesson they would not soon forget. And we doubt not, that
some of our readers might lay it to heart with great advantage to
themselves and benefit to others.
THE HEIRESS.
KATE DARLINGTON was a belle and a beauty; and had, as might be
supposed, not a few admirers. Some were attracted by her person;
some by her winning manners, and not a few by the wealth of her
family. But though sweet Kate was both a belle and a beauty, she was
a shrewd, clear-seeing girl, and had far more penetration into
character than belles and beauties are generally thought to possess.
For the whole tribe of American dandies, with their disfiguring
moustaches and imperials, she had a most hearty contempt. Hair never
made up, with her, for the lack of brains.
But, as she was an heiress in expectancy, and moved in the most
fashionable society, and was, with all, a gay and sprightly girl,
Kate, as a natural consequence, drew around her the gilded moths of
society, not a few of whom got their wings scorched, on approaching
too near.
Many aspired to be lovers, and some, more ardent than the rest,
boldly pressed forward and claimed her hand. But Kate did not
believe in the doctrine that love begets love in all cases. Were
this so, it was clear that she would have to love half a dozen, for
at least that number came kneeling to her with their hearts in their
hands.
Mr. Darlington was a merchant. Among his clerks was the son of an
old friend, who, in dying some years before, had earnestly solicited
him to have some care over the lad, who at his death would become
friendless. In accordance with this last request, Mr. Darlington
took the boy into his counting-room; and, in order that he might,
with more fidelity, redeem his promise to the dying father, also
received him into his family.
Edwin Lee proved himself not ungrateful for the kindness. In a few
years he became one of Mr. Darlington's most active, trustworthy and
intelligent clerks; while his kind, modest, gentlemanly deportment
at home, won the favor and confidence of all the family. With Edwin,
Kate grew up as with a brother. Their intercourse was of the most
frank and confiding character.
But there came, at last, a change. Kate from a graceful
sweet-tempered, affectionate girl, stepped forth, almost in a day,
it seemed to Edwin, a full-grown, lovely woman, into whose eyes he
could not look as steadily as before, and on whose beautiful face he
could no longer gaze with the calmness of feeling he had until now
enjoyed.
For awhile, Edwin could not understand the reason of this change.
Kate was the same to him; and yet not the same. There was no
distance--no reserve on her part; and yet, when he came into her
presence, he felt his heart beat more quickly; and when she looked
him steadily in the face, his eyes would droop, involuntarily,
beneath her gaze.
Suddenly, Edwin awoke to a full realization of the fact that Kate
was to him more than a gentle friend or a sweet sister. From that
moment, he became reserved in his intercourse with her; and, after a
short time, firmly made up his mind that it was his duty to retire
from the family of his benefactor. The thought of endeavoring to win
the heart of the beautiful girl, whom he had always loved as a
sister, and now almost worshipped, was not, for a moment
entertained. To him there would have been so much of ingratitude in
this, and so much that involved a base violation of Mr. Darlington's
confidence, that he would have suffered anything rather than be
guilty of such an act.
But he could not leave the home where he had been so kindly regarded
for years, without offering some reason that would be satisfactory.
The true reason, he could not, of course, give. After looking at the
subject in various lights, and debating it for a long time, Edwin
could see no way in which he could withdraw from the family of Mr.
Darlington, without betraying his secret, unless he were to leave
the city at the same time. He, therefore, sought and obtained the
situation of supercargo in a vessel loading for Valparaiso.
When Edwin announced this fact to Mr. Darlington, the merchant was
greatly surprised, and appeared hurt that the young man should take
such a step without a word of consultation with him. Edwin tried to
explain; but, as he had to conceal the real truth, his explanation
rather tended to make things appear worse than better.
Kate heard the announcement with no less surprise than her father.
The thing was so sudden, so unlooked for, and, moreover, so uncalled
for, that she could not understand it. In order to take away any
pecuniary reason for the step he was about to take, Mr. Darlington,
after holding a long conversation with Edwin, made him offers far
more advantageous than his proposed expedition could be to him,
viewed in any light. But he made them in vain. Edwin acknowledged
the kindness, in the warmest terms, but remained firm in his purpose
to sail with the vessel.
"Why will you go away and leave us, Edwin?" said Kate, one evening
when they happened to be alone, about two weeks before his expected
departure. "I do think it very strange!"
Edwin had avoided, as much as possible, being alone with Kate, a
fact which the observant maiden had not failed to notice. Their
being alone now was from accident rather than design on his part.
"I think it right for me to go, Kate," the young man replied, as
calmly as it was possible for him to speak under the circumstances.
"And when I think it right to do a thing, I never hesitate or look
back."
"You have a reason, for going, of course. Why, then, not tell it
frankly? Are we not all your friends?"
Edwin was silent, and his eyes rested upon the floor, while a deeper
flush than usual was upon his face. Kate looked at him fixedly.
Suddenly a new thought flashed through her mind, and the color on
her own cheeks grew warmer. Her voice from that moment was lower and
more tender; and her eyes, as she conversed with the young man, were
never a moment from his face. As for him, his embarrassment in her
presence was never more complete, and he betrayed the secret that
was in his heart even while he felt the most earnest to conceal it.
Conscious of this, he excused himself and retired as soon as it was
possible to do so.
Kate sat thoughtful for some time after he had left. Then rising up,
she went, with a firm step to her father's room.
"I have found out," she said, speaking with great self-composure,
"the reason why Edwin persists in going away."
"Ah! what is the reason, Kate? I would give much to know."
"He is in love," replied Kate, promptly.
"In love! How do you know that?"
"I made the discovery to-night."
"Love should keep him at home, not drive him away," said Mr.
Darlington.
"But he loves hopelessly," returned the maiden. "He is poor, and the
object of his regard belongs to a wealthy family."
"And her friends will have nothing to do with him."
"I am not so sure of that. But he formed an acquaintance with the
young lady under circumstances that would make it mean, in his eyes,
to urge any claims upon her regard."
"Then honor as well as love takes him away."
"Honor in fact; not love. Love would make him stay," replied the
maiden with a sparkling eye, and something of proud elevation in the
tones of her voice.
A faint suspicion of the truth now came stealing on the mind of Mr.
Darlington.
"Does the lady know of his preference for her?" he asked.
"Not through any word or act of his, designed to communicate a
knowledge of the fact," replied Kate, her eyes falling under the
earnest look bent upon her by Mr. Darlington.
"Has he made you his confidante?"
"No, sir. I doubt if the secret has ever passed his lips." Kate's
face was beginning to crimson, but she drove back the tell-tale
blood with a strong effort of the will.
"Then how came you possessed of it," inquired the father.
The blood came back to her face with a rush, and she bent her head
so that her dark glossy curls fell over and partly concealed it. In
a moment or two she had regained her self-possession, and looking up
she answered,
"Secrets like this do not always need oral or written language to
make them known. Enough, father, that I have discovered the fact
that his heart is deeply imbued with a passion for one who knows
well his virtues--his pure, true heart--his manly sense of honor;
with a passion for one who has looked upon him till now as a
brother, but who henceforth must regard him with a different and
higher feeling."
Kate's voice trembled. As she uttered the last few words, she lost
control of herself, and bent forward, and hid her face upon her
father's arm.
Mr. Darlington, as might well be supposed, was taken altogether by
surprise at so unexpected an announcement. The language used by his
daughter needed no interpretation. She was the maiden beloved by his
clerk.
"Kate," said he, after a moment or two of hurried reflection, "this
is a very serious matter. Edwin is only a poor clerk, and you--"
"And I," said Kate, rising up, and taking the words from her father,
"and I am the daughter of a man who can appreciate what is excellent
in even those who are humblest in the eyes of the world. Father, is
not Edwin far superior to the artificial men who flutter around
every young lady who now makes her appearance in the circle where we
move? Knowing him as you do, I am sure you will say yes."
"But, Kate----"
"Father, don't let us argue this point. Do you want Edwin to go
away?" And the young girl laid her hand upon her parent, and looked
him in the face with unresisting affection.
"No dear; I certainly don't wish him to go."
"Nor do I," returned the maiden, as she leaned forward again, and
laid her face upon his arm. In a little while she arose, and, with
her countenance turned partly away, said--
"Tell him not to go, father----"
And with these words she retired from the room.
On the next evening, as Edwin was sitting alone in one of the
drawing-rooms, thinking on the long night of absence that awaited
him, Mr. Darlington came in, accompanied by Kate. They seated
themselves near the young man, who showed some sense of
embarrassment. There was no suspense, however, for Mr. Darlington
said--
"Edwin, we none of us wish you to go away. You know that I have
urged every consideration in my power, and now I have consented to
unite with Kate in renewing a request for you to remain. Up to this
time you have declined giving a satisfactory reason for your sudden
resolution to leave; but a reason is due to us--to me in
particular--and I now most earnestly conjure you to give it."
The young man, at this became greatly agitated, but did not venture
to make a reply.
"You are still silent on the subject," said Mr. Darlington.
"He will not go, father," said Kate, in a tender, appealing voice.
"I know he will not go. We cannot let him go. Kinder friends he will
not find anywhere than he has here. And we shall miss him from our
home circle. There will be a vacant place at our board. Will you be
happier away, Edwin?"
The last sentence was uttered in a tone of sisterly affection.
"Happier!" exclaimed the young man, thrown off his guard. "Happier!
I shall be wretched while away."
"Then why go?" returned Kate, tenderly.
At this stage of affairs, Mr. Darlington got up, and retired; and we
think we had as well retire with the reader.
The good ship "Leonora" sailed in about ten days. She had a
supercargo on board; but his name was not Edwin Lee.
Fashionable people were greatly surprised when the beautiful Kate
Darlington married her father's clerk; and moustached dandies curled
their lip, but it mattered not to Kate. She had married a man in
whose worth, affection, and manliness of character, she could repose
a rational confidence. If not a fashionable, she was a happy wife.
End of Project Gutenberg's Heart-Histories and Life-Pictures, by T. S. Arthur