THE CRISIS.
Mr. Lincoln had failed. At the corners of the streets, groups of men
stood together, talking over the matter, and ascribing it, some to his
carelessness, some to his extreme good nature in indorsing for any one
who asked, and others, the knowing ones, winking slyly as they said
"they guessed he knew what he was about,--they'd known before of such
things as failing rich;" but the mouths of these last were stopped
when they heard that the household furniture, every thing, was given
up for the benefit of his creditors, and was to be sold at auction
during the coming week.
In their parlors at home wives and daughters also discussed the
matter, always ending by accusing Mrs. Lincoln of unwarrantable
extravagance, and wondering how the proud Rose would bear it, and
suggesting that "she could work in the factory just as her mother
did!". It was strange how suddenly Mrs. Lincoln's most intimate
friends discovered that she had once been a poor factory girl,
remembering too that they had often noticed an air of vulgarity about
her! Even Mrs. Campbell was astonished that she should have been so
deceived, though she pitied the daughters, "who were really refined
and lady-like, considering--" and then she thought of Henry, hoping
that Ella would be now willing to give him up.
But with a devotion worthy of a better object, Ella replied, that he
was dearer to her than ever. "I have not loved him for his wealth,"
said she, "and I shall not forsake him now." And then she wondered why
he staid so long away, as day after day went by, and still he came
not. It was in vain that Mary, who visited the house frequently, told
her of many things which might detain him. Ella saw but one. He
fancied she, too, would desert him, like the cold unfeeling world. And
then she begged so imploringly of her sister to go to him, and ask him
to come, that Mary, loth as she was to do so, finally complied. She
found him in his office, and fortunately alone. He was looking very
pale and haggard, the result of last night's debauch, but Mary did not
know of this. She only saw grief for his misfortune, and her voice and
manner were far more cordial than usual as she bade him good
afternoon.
"It is kind in you, Miss Howard, to come here," said he, nervously
pressing the hand she offered. "I knew _you_ would not forsake me, and
I'd rather have your sympathy than that of the whole world."
Wishing to end such conversation, Mary replied, "I came here, Mr.
Lincoln, at Ella's request. Ever since your father's failure she has
waited anxiously for you--"
She was prevented from saying more by Henry, who, with a feigned
bitterness of manner, exclaimed, "Ella need not feel troubled, for I
am too honorable to insist upon her keeping an engagement, which I
would to Heaven had never been made. Tell her she is free to do as she
pleases."
"You are mistaken, sir," answered Mary; "Ella does not wish to be
free. But come with me; I promised to bring you."
With an air of desperation, Henry took his hat, and started with Mary
for Mrs. Campbell's. Oh, how eagerly Ella sprang forward to meet him,
and burying her face in his bosom, she sobbed like a child.
"Hush, Ella, this is foolish," said he; and then seating her in a
chair, he asked, "why he was sent for."
"I was afraid,--afraid you might think I did not love you now,"
answered Ella.
"I could not blame you if you did not," said Henry. "Matters have
changed since we last met, and I am not mean enough to expect you to
keep your engagement."
"But if _I_ expect it,--If _I_ wish it?" asked Ella, raising her
tear-wet eyes to his face.
"You are excited now," said he, "but in a few days you'll thank me for
my decision. An alliance with poverty could be productive of nothing
but unhappiness to you; and while I thank you for your unselfish love,
I cannot accept it, for I am determined that, so long as I am poor, I
shall never marry; and the sooner you forget me, the better, for,
Ella, I am not deserving of your love."
Then, with a cold adieu, he left her; and when, half an hour
afterwards, Mary entered the parlor, she found her sister lying upon
the sofa, perfectly motionless, except when a tremor of anguish shook
her slight frame. A few words explained all, and taking her head in
her lap, Mary tried to soothe her. But Ella refused to be comforted;
and as she seemed to prefer being alone, Mary ere long left her, and
bent her steps towards Mr. Lincoln's dwelling, which presented a scene
of strange confusion. The next day was the auction, and many people of
both sexes had assembled to examine, and find fault with, the numerous
articles of furniture, which were being removed to the auction room.
"Where's them silver candlesticks, and that cake-basket that cost
up'ards of a hundred dollars?" asked one fussy, vulgar-looking old
woman, peering into closets and cupboards, and even lifting trunk
lids in her search. "I want some such things, and if they go for half
price or less, mebby Israel will bid; but I don't see 'em. I'll
warrant they've hid 'em."
Mary was just in time to hear this remark, and she modestly replied,
that Mr. Lincoln's creditors had generously presented him with all the
silver, which was now at Mr. Selden's.
The woman stared impudently at her a moment, and then said, "Now,
that's what I call downright cheatin'? What business has poor folks
with so much silver. Better pay their debts fust. That's my creed."
Mary turned away in disgust, but not until she heard the woman's
daughter whisper, "Don't, mother,--that's Miss Howard,--Mrs.
Campbell's niece," to which the mother replied, "Wall, who cares for
that? Glad I gin her a good one. Upper crust ain't no better than I
be."
Passing through the hall, where several other women were examining and
depreciating Mrs. Lincoln's costly carpets, pronouncing them "half
cotton," &c., Mary made her way up the stairs, where in a chamber as
yet untouched, she found Jenny and with her William Bender. Mrs.
Lincoln's cold, scrutinizing eyes were away, and Mr. Lincoln had
cordially welcomed William to his house, telling him of his own accord
where his daughter could be found. Many a time in his life for Mary's
sake had William wished that he was rich, but never had he felt so
intense a longing for money, as he did when Jenny sat weeping at his
side, and starting at each new sound which came up from the rabble
below.
"Oh, Mary, Mary!" she said, as the latter entered the room, "to-morrow
every thing will be sold, and I shall have no home. It's dreadful to
be poor."
Mary knew that from bitter experience, and sitting down by her young
friend, her tears flowed as freely as Jenny's had often flowed for
her, in the gray old woods near Chicopee poor-house. Just then there
was an unusual movement in the yard below, and looking from the
window, Jenny saw that they were carrying the piano away.
"This is worse than all," said she. "If they only knew how dear that
is to me, or how dear it will be when--"
She could not finish, but Mary knew what she would say. The piano
belonged to Rose, whose name was engraved upon its front, and when she
was dead, it would from that fact be doubly dear to the sister. A
stylish-looking carriage now drew up before the house, from which Mrs.
Campbell alighted and holding up her long skirts, ascended the stairs,
and knocked at Jenny's door.
"Permeely," called out the old lady who had been disappointed in her
search for the silver candlesticks, "wasn't that Miss Campbell? Wall,
she's gone right into one of them rooms where t'other gal went. I
shouldn't wonder if Mr. Lincoln's best things was hid there, for they
keep the door locked."
Accidentally Mr. Lincoln overheard this remark, and in his heart he
felt that his choicest treasure was indeed there. His wife, from whom
he naturally expected sympathy, had met him with desponding looks and
bitter words, reproaching him with carelessness, and saying, as in
similar circumstances ladies too often do, that "she had forseen it
from the first, and that had he followed her advice, 'twould not have
happened."
Henry, too, seemed callous and indifferent, and the father alone found
comfort in Jenny's words of love and encouragement. From the first she
had stood bravely by him refusing to leave the house until all was
over; and many a weary night, when the great city was hushed and
still, a light had gleamed from the apartment where, with her father,
she sat looking over his papers, and trying to ascertain as far as
possible, to what extent he was involved. It was she who first
suggested the giving up of every thing; and when Henry, less upright
than his noble sister, proposed the withholding of a part, she firmly
answered, "No, father don't do it. You have lost your property, but do
not lose your self-respect."
Always cheerful, and sometimes even gay in his presence, she had
succeeded in imbuing him with a portion of her own hopeful spirit, and
he passed through the storm far better than he could otherwise have
done. Mrs. Campbell's visit to the house was prompted partly from
curiosity, and partly from a desire to take away Jenny, who was quite
a favorite with her.
"Come, my dear," said she, pushing back the short, thick curls which
clustered around Jenny's forehead, "you must go home with me. This is
no place for you. Mary will go too," she continued; and then on an
"aside" to Mary, she added, "I want you to cheer up Ella; she sits
alone in her room, without speaking or noticing me in any way."
At first Jenny hesitated, but when William whispered that she had
better go; and Mrs. Campbell, as the surest way of bringing her to a
decision, said, "Mr. Bender will oblige me by coming to tea," she
consented, and closely veiled, passed through the crowd below, who
instinctively drew back, and ceased speaking, for wherever she was
known, Jenny was beloved. Arrived at Mrs. Campbell's, they found Ella,
as her mother had said, sitting alone in her room, not weeping, but
gazing fixedly down the street, as if expecting some one who did not
come!
In reply to Jenny's anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, Mary
frankly told all, and then Jenny, folding her arms around the young
girl, longed to tell her how unworthy was the object of such love. But
Henry was her brother, and she could not. Softly caressing Ella's
cheek, she whispered to her of brighter days which perhaps would come.
The fact that it was _his_ sister--Henry's sister--opened anew the
fountain of Ella's tears, and she wept for a long time; but it did her
good, and for the remainder of the afternoon she seemed more cheerful,
and inclined to converse.
The next day was the auction, and it required the persuasion of both
Mrs. Campbell and Mary to keep Jenny from going, she knew not whither
herself, but any where, to be near and take one more look at the dear
old furniture as it passed into the hands of strangers. At last Mrs.
Campbell promised that black Ezra, who had accompanied her from
Chicopee, should go and report faithfully all the proceedings, and
then Jenny consented to remain at home, though all the day she seemed
restless and impatient, wondering how long before Uncle Ezra would
return, and then weeping as in fancy she saw article after article
disposed of to those who would know little how to prize it.
About five o'clock Uncle Ezra came home, bringing a note from Ida,
saying that the carriage would soon be round for Mary and Jenny, both
of whom must surely come, as there was a pleasant surprise awaiting
them. While Mary was reading this, Jenny was eagerly questioning Uncle
Ezra with regard to the sale, which, he said, "went off uncommon
well," owing chiefly, he reckoned, "to a tall, and mighty good-lookin'
chap, who kept bidding up and up, till he got 'em about where they
should be. Then he'd stop for someone else to bid."
"Who was he?" asked Mary, coming forward, and joining Jenny.
"Dun know, Miss; never seen him afore," said Uncle Ezra, "but he's got
heaps of money, for when he paid for the pianner, he took out a roll
of bills near about big as my two fists!"
"Then the piano is gone," said Jenny sadly, while Mary asked how much
it brought.
"Three hundred dollars was the last bid I heard from that young
feller, and somebody who was biddin' agin him said, 'twas more'n 'twas
wuth."
"It wasn't either," spoke up Jenny, rather spiritedly, "It cost five
hundred, and it's never been hurt a bit."
"Mr. Bender bought that _little fiddle_ of your'n," continued Uncle
Ezra, with a peculiar wink, which brought the color to Jenny's cheeks;
while Mary exclaimed, "Oh, I'm so glad you can have your guitar
again."
Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the carriage,
which came for the young ladies, who were soon on their way to Mr.
Selden's, Mary wondering what the surprise was, and Jenny hoping
William would call in the evening. At the door they met Ida, who was
unusually merry,--almost too much so for the occasion, it seemed to
Mary, as she glanced at Jenny's pale, dispirited face. Aunt Martha,
too, who chanced to cross the hall, shook Mary's hand as warmly as if
she had not seen her for a year, and then with her broad, white
cap-strings flying back, she repaired to the kitchen to give orders
concerning the supper.
Mary did not notice it then, but she afterwards remembered, that Ida
seemed quite anxious about her appearance, for following her to her
room, she said, "You look tired, Mary. Sit down and rest you awhile.
Here, take my vinaigrette,--that will revive you." Then as Mary was
arranging her hair, she said, "Just puff out this side a little
more;--there, that's right. Now turn round, I want to see how you
look."
"Well, how do I?" asked Mary, facing about as Ida directed.
"I guess you'll do," returned Ida. "I believe Henry Lincoln was right,
when he said that this blue merino, and linen collar, was the most
becoming dress you could wear: but you look well in every thing, you
have so fine a form."
"Don't believe all her flattery," said Jenny, laughingly "She's only
comparing your tall, slender figure with little dumpy me; but I'm
growing thin,--see," and she lapped her dress two or three inches in
front.
"Come, now let's go down," said Ida, "and I'll introduce you, to
Jenny's surprise, first."
With Ida leading the way, they entered the music room, where in one
corner stood Rose's piano, open, and apparently inviting Jenny to its
side. With a joyful cry, she sprang forward, exclaiming, "Oh, how kind
in your father; I almost know we can redeem it some time. I'll teach
school,--any thing to get it again."
"Don't thank father too much," answered Ida, "for he has nothing to do
with it, except giving it house room, and one quarter's teaching will
pay that bill!"
"Who _did_ buy it, then?" asked Jenny; and Ida replied, "Can't tell
you just yet. I must have some music first. Come, Mary, you like to
play. Give me my favorite, 'Rosa Lee,' with variations."
Mary was passionately fond of music, and, for the time she had taken
lessons, played uncommonly well. Seating herself at the piano, she
became oblivious to all else around her, and when a tall figure for a
moment darkened the doorway, while Jenny uttered a suppressed
exclamation of surprise, she paid no heed, nor did she become
conscious of a third person's presence until the group advanced
towards her, Ida and Jenny leaning upon the piano, and the other
standing at her right, a little in the rear. Thinking, if she thought
at all, that it was William Bender, Mary played on until the piece was
finished, and then, observing that her companions had left the room,
she turned and met the dark, handsome eyes,--not of William Bender,
but of one who, with a peculiar smile, offered her his hand, saying,
"I believe I need no introduction to Miss Howard, except a slight
change in the name, which instead of being _Stuart_ is Moreland!"
Mary never knew what she said or did. She only remembered a dizzy
sensation in her head, a strong arm passed round her, and a voice
which fully aroused her as it called her "Mary," and asked if she were
faint. Just then Ida entered the room, announcing tea, and asking her
if she found "Mr. Stuart" much changed? At the tea-table Mary sat
opposite George, and every time she raised her eyes, she met his fixed
upon her, with an expression so like that of the picture in the golden
locket which she still wore, that she wondered she had not before
recognized George Moreland in the Mr. Stuart who had so puzzled and
mystified her. After supper she had an opportunity of seeing why
George was so much beloved at home. Possessing rare powers of
conversation, he seemed to know exactly what to say, and when to say
it, and with a kind word and pleasant smile for all, he generally
managed to make himself a favorite, notwithstanding his propensity to
tease, which would occasionally show itself in some way or other.
During the evening William Bender called, and soon after Henry Lincoln
also came in, frowning gloomily when he saw how near to each other
were William and his sister, while he jealously watched them, still
keeping an eye upon George and Mary, the latter of whom remembered her
young sister, and treated him with unusual coldness. At last,
complaining of feeling _blue_, he asked Ida to play, at the same time
sauntering towards the music room, where stood his sister's piano.
"Upon my word," said he, "this looks natural. Who bought it?" and he
drummed a few notes of a song.
"Mr. Moreland bought it. Wasn't he kind?" said Jenny, who all the
evening had been trying for a chance to thank George, but now when she
attempted to do so he prevented her by saying, "Oh don't--don't--I can
imagine all you wish to say, and I hate to be thanked. Rose and I are
particular friends, and it afforded me a great deal of pleasure to
purchase it for her--but," he added, glancing at his watch, "I must be
excused now, as I promised to call upon my ward."
"Who's that?" asked Jenny, and George replied that it was a Miss
Herndon, who had accompanied him from New Orleans to visit her aunt,
Mrs. Russell.
"He says she's an heiress, and very beautiful," rejoined Ida, seating
herself at the piano.
Instantly catching at the words "heiress" and "beautiful," Henry
started up, asking "if it would be against all the rules of propriety
for him to call upon her thus early."
"I think it would," was George's brief answer, while Mary's eyes
flashed scornfully upon the young man, who, rather crestfallen,
announced himself ready to listen to Ida whom he secretly styled "an
old maid," because since his first remembrance she had treated him
with perfect indifference.
That night before retiring the three girls sat down by the cheerful
fire in Mary's room to talk over the events of the day, when Mary
suddenly asked Ida to tell her truly, if it were not George who had
paid her bills at Mount Holyoke.
"What bills?" said Jenny, to whom the idea was new while Ida replied,
"And suppose it was?"
"I am sorry," answered Mary, laying her head upon the table.
"What a silly girl," said Ida. "He was perfectly able, and more than
willing, so why do you care?"
"I do not like being so much indebted to any one," was Mary's reply,
and yet in her secret heart there was a strange feeling of pleasure in
the idea that George had thus cared for her, for would he have done
so, if--. She dared not finish that question even to herself,--dared
not ask if she hoped that George Moreland loved her one half as well
as she began to think she had always loved him. Why should he, with
his handsome person and princely fortune, love one so unworthy, and so
much beneath him? And then, for the first time, she thought of her
changed position since last they met. Then she was a poor, obscure
schoolmistress,--now, flattered, caressed, and an heiress. Years
before, when a little pauper at Chicopee, she had felt unwilling that
George should know how destitute she was, and now in the time of her
prosperity she was equally desirous that he should, for a time at
least, remain ignorant of her present condition.
"Ida," said she, lifting her head from the table "does George know
that I am Mrs. Campbell's niece?"
"No," answered Ida, "I wanted to tell him, but Aunt Martha said I'd
better not."
"Don't then," returned Mary, and resuming her former position she fell
into a deep reverie, from which she was at last aroused, by Jenny's
asking "if she intended to sit up all night?"
The news that George Moreland had returned, and bought Rose Lincoln's
piano, besides several other articles, spread rapidly, and the day
following his arrival Mary and Ida were stopped in the street by a
group of their companions, who were eager to know how George bore the
news that his betrothed was so ill, and if it was not that which had
brought him home so soon, and then the conversation turned upon Miss
Herndon, the New Orleans lady who had that morning appeared in the
street; "And don't you think," said one of the girls, "that Henry
Lincoln was dancing attendance upon her? If I were you," turning to
Mary, "I'd caution my sister to be a little wary of him. But let me
see, their marriage is to take place soon?"
Mary replied that the marriage was postponed indefinitely, whereupon
the girls exchanged meaning glances and passed on. In less than
twenty-four hours, half of Ella's acquaintances were talking of her
discarding Henry on account of his father's failure, and saying "that
they expected it, 'twas like her."
Erelong the report, in the shape of a condolence, reached Henry, who
caring but little what reason was assigned for the broken engagement,
so that he got well out of it assumed a much injured air, but said "he
reckoned he should manage to survive;" then pulling his sharp-pointed
collar up another story, and brushing his pet mustache, wherein lay
most of his mind, he walked up street, and ringing at Mrs. Russell's
door, asked for Miss Herndon, who vain as beautiful, suffered his
attentions, not because she liked him in the least, but because she
was fond of flattery, and there was something exceedingly gratifying
in the fact that at the North, where she fancied the gentlemen to be
icicles, she had so soon made a conquest. It mattered not that Mrs.
Russell told her his vows were plighted to another. She cared nothing
for that. Her life had been one long series of conquests, until now at
twenty-five there was not in the whole world a more finished or
heartless coquette than Evren Herndon.
Days passed on, and at last rumors reached Ella, that Henry was
constant in his attendance upon the proud southern beauty, whose
fortune was valued by hundreds of thousands. At first she refused to
believe it, but when Mary and Jenny both assured her it was true, and
when she her self had ocular demonstration of the fact, she gave way
to one long fit of weeping; and then, drying her eyes, declared that
Henry Lincoln should see "that she would not die for him."
Still a minute observer could easily have seen that her gayety was
feigned, for she had loved Henry Lincoln as sincerely as she was
capable of loving, and not even George Moreland, who treated her with
his old boyish familiarity could make her for a moment forget one who
now passed her coldly by, or listened passively while the sarcastic
Evren Herndon likened her to a waxen image, fit only for a glass case!