"Such is the world, understand it, despise it, love it; cheerfully
hold on thy way through it, with thy eye on highest
loadstars."--_Carlyle._
It was a week since the party. Mrs. Hayden had been to the opera and
returned late. Her husband was absent on a business trip, and she felt a
vague uneasiness come over her as she entered the room. She knew not
why, but it seemed unusually lonely without him. She seldom went out
alone, but to-night she had gone out as much to while away the time as
to hear the music. After paying her usual visit to the nursery, she went
to bed, but slept little for several hours.
About 4 o'clock she was awakened by stifling fumes of smoke and
startling cries of fire. Was it too late? She sprang up and ran to the
nursery stairs, but the scorching flames met her, and she retreated to
the window, shrieking for help, only to get a glimpse of someone through
the smoke climbing toward her.
"Hold on!" cried the fireman, and reached out his arms for her just as
she fell back fainting. Grasping her firmly, the brave man dragged her
out of the window, and began his perilous descent. When about half way
down, the ladder fell, but its burden was expected, and mattress and
bed-clothing saved them from what might have been worse. As it was, the
fireman escaped with a few bruises and slight scorching, and Mrs.
Hayden with a broken limb. First they feared she was dead, but after a
few moments she revived and moaned feebly for husband and children.
Little Mabel clung desperately to her mother, and sobbingly told her
"only the house was burnt. Fred and Jamie were safe, and now she must
get up and be glad." Poor child, instinctively she knew the value of
life above all other things.
"How did it happen, where did it start, and who saw it first?" were the
queries on every side. Some one down at the foot of the hill had seen a
tiny blue flame licking the corner of the roof. The fire alarm was
touched, the bells set to ringing, and the observers leaped up the
terraced stairways and arrived at the top just as the whole house burst
into flames. The fire company had not arrived in time to do anything, as
it was impossible to climb the hill with their heavy trucks, and their
hose was not long enough to reach the flames, so the house was gone.
Many people had gathered from all quarters in the fashion peculiar to
fire crowds, but now they had seen the spectacle, and, as there was
nothing further to see or do, they slowly dispersed.
Mrs. Hayden and the children were removed to the hotel and a telegram
sent to Mr. Hayden, informing him of the catastrophe.
When he arrived, twelve hours later, he found his wife confined to the
bed with a nervous fever and a broken limb. The children were safe and
well cared for, and though his elegant home was in ruins, John Hayden
was deeply thankful. Marion would, of course, get over the trouble, and
things were much better than they might have been, he said. So he tried
to look on the bright side, and after a few cheering words and a loving
kiss he left her, to run up the hill and view the ruins.
It was early twilight, and as he beheld the smouldering _debris_, and
realized that the comforts and luxuries, possibly the necessities of
life had gone up in the smoke that even now curled in sullen wreaths
from the blackened heaps, he bowed his head and wept.
It was but a moment, but that moment was the bitterest of his whole
life. He knew better than anyone else that this was probably the
beginning of financial misfortune, for a very important transaction was
even now pending that he feared would take his all. As a merchant he had
an honorable reputation and position, but this unfortunate speculation
would ruin him. Failure seemed inevitable. But he hoped to save enough
to pay every debt and still be able to live, even though in a modest
way. Now he would not even get his insurance on his house, for in his
financial embarrassment he had failed to renew his policy, which had
expired but few days before. He would now have little besides this spot,
this beautiful hill. Yes, it was valuable, and in time could be sold for
what it was worth, but not now, and in the meantime what should he do?
How would Marion take it? Why had he not told her before he went away?
But he had known it himself only a few days.
"Oh, my dear wife, would that we could commence life as we did when we
were first married!" he groaned.
His mind went back to the past. He looked again into her sweet, girlish
face, into her clear, earnest eyes. He remembered how they had both
desired to live a religious life, how he, having been brought up in a
religious home, undertook in vain to explain the Bible where it was dark
and unreasonable to her. He remembered how fruitlessly she had tried to
be converted, and that he had found even through her earnest seeking
that he had naught but the letter of religion and was also as helpless
as to the manner of salvation. And then they had given up trying. She
sought, for a while, to satisfy herself by doing for others, giving her
time and energy to the poor that found her out and besieged her for
favors, while he had been satisfied to let religion alone and believe
with the majority concerning the doctrines and dogmas.
As the years went on, and prosperity came to them, he had grown more and
more indifferent, and finally, when they moved away from their early
home and entered a new city, they had begun a new life, as it were.
He remembered, regretfully, that she had entered the competitive ranks
of society, at his wish at first, because he thought it would add to his
popularity as a merchant and increase the number and quality of his
customers. Too well he remembered that the elegant parties and party
costumes were first his own instigation, and now that these were likely
to be taken away, he felt responsible for her happiness, and had a
secret misgiving, born of his early religious training perhaps, of
retribution and judgment. He hoped indeed that she would be able to
rise above circumstances, but he was utterly at a loss to know how she
would take it, for although he knew that deep down in her heart were
still traces of the early longings, he felt vaguely there was no way to
satisfy them any more now than in the past, and probably they would only
increase the difficulty of finding happiness.
John Hayden was kind-hearted and upright in all his ways, strictly
honest and conscientious, but apt to be a little one-sided in his
judgments, simply because, as a rule, he reasoned from one standpoint,
thought in one groove. He had never considered the questions from this
point of view, and therefore they were seriously perplexing. Like many
another he lived within his own world, and knew naught of any other. In
the later years of their married life he and Marion had grown a little
apart in the closest confidences, but it was caused by circumstances
more than anything else, and notwithstanding the present misery he was
sure of her love.
"Poor girl, I must hasten back to her," he murmured, as he rose from his
uncomfortable position. "After all, I can thank God for my family, my
health, my honor, for no matter how much _we_ may suffer, no one else
shall suffer through me."
There was a little pang at the thought of the privations in possible
store for the family through him, but he had resolved to make the best
of circumstances and be brave as possible. Once more he looked over the
scene, but there were only dim black shadows in the starlight, and he
went down toward the twinkling lights of the city below.