"THE amount of that bill, if you please, sir."
The man thus unceremoniously addressed, lifted his eyes from the
ledger, over which he had been bending for the last six hours, with
scarcely the relaxation of a moment, and exhibited a pale, care-worn
countenance--and, though still young, a head over which were thickly
scattered the silver tokens of age. A sad smile played over his
intelligent features, a smile meant to shake the sternness of the
man who was troubling his peace, as he replied in a low, calm
voice--
"To-day, it will be impossible, sir."
"And how many times have you given me the same answer. I cannot
waste my time by calling day after day, for so paltry a sum."
A flush passed over the fine countenance of the man thus rudely
addressed. But he replied in the same low tone, which now slightly
trembled:
"I would not ask you to call, sir, if I had the money But what I
have not, I cannot give."
"And pray when _will_ you have the money?" The man paused for some
time, evidently calculating the future, and after a long-drawn sigh,
as if disappointed with the result, said:--
"It will be two or three months, before I can pay it and even then,
it will depend on a contingency."
"Two or three months?--a contingency? It must come quicker and surer
than that, sir."
"That is the best I can say."
"But not the best I can do, I hope.--Good-morning." After the
collector had gone, the man bent his head down, until his face
rested even upon the ponderous volume over which he had been poring
for hours. He thought, and thought, but thought brought no relief.
The most he could earn was ten dollars a week, and for his children,
two sweet babes, and for the comfort of a sick wife, he had to
expend the full sum of his wages. The debt for which he was now
troubled, was a rent-bill of forty dollars, held against him by a
man whose annual income was twenty thousand dollars. Finally, he
concluded to go and see Mr. Moneylove, and try to prevail upon him
to stop any proceedings that the collector might institute against
him. In the evening, he sought the dwelling of his rich creditor,
and after being ushered into his splendid parlour, waited with a
troubled heart for his appearance. Mr. Moneylove entered.
"How do you do, sir?"
"How do you do?" replied the debtor, in a low, troubled voice. The
manner of Mr. Moneylove changed, the moment he heard the peculiar
tone of his voice, although he did not know him. There was an
appealing language in its cadence that whispered a warning to his
ear, and he closed his heart on the instant.
"Well, sir," were his next words, "what is your will?"
"You hold a bill against me for rent."
"Well, sir, go to my agent."
"I have seen Mr.--."
"That will do, sir. He knows all about my business, and will arrange
to my entire satisfaction."
"But, sir, I cannot pay it now, and he threatens harsh measures."
"I have entire confidence in his judgment, sir, and am willing to
leave all such matters to his discretion."
"I am in trouble, sir, and in poverty beside, for the demands on me
are greater than I can meet."
"Your own fault, I suppose," retorted the landlord, with a sneer.
"That, any one might know, who took half a glance at you."
This remark caused the blood to mount suddenly to the face of the
man.
"Let me be judged by what I am, not by what I have been," was the
meek reply, after the troubled pause of a few moments. Then in a
more decided tone of voice, he said:--
"Will you not interfere?"
"Will I? _No!_ I never interfere with my agent. He gives me entire
satisfaction, and while he does so, I shall not interfere." And Mr.
Moneylove smiled with self-satisfaction at the idea of his careful
and thrifty agent, and his own worldly policy.
The petitioner slowly left the house--murmuring to himself:
"_Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors._" It was more than
an hour before he could compose his mind sufficiently to be able to
meet his wife with a countenance that was not too deeply shadowed
with care.
She was ill, and besides, under the pressure of many causes, was
suffering from a nervous lowness of spirits. Against this
depression, her husband saw that she was striving with all the
mental energy she possessed, but striving almost in vain. To know
that she even had cause for the exercise of such an internal power,
was, to him, painful in the extreme; and he was bitter in his
self-reproaches for being the cause of suffering to one he loved
with a pure and fervent love.
Turning, at last, resolutely towards his dwelling, and striving with
a strong effort to keep down the troubles that were sweeping in
rough waves over his spirit; it was not long before he set his foot
upon his own doorstone.
To give force to this scene, and to throw around what follows its
true interest, it will be necessary to go back and sketch some
things in the history of the individual here introduced.
His name was Theodore Wilmer. In earlier years, he was clerk in the
large mercantile house of Rensselaer, Wykoff & Co., in New York.
Being a young man of intelligence, good address, and good
principles, he was much esteemed, and valued by his employers, who
took some pains to introduce him into society. In this way he was
brought into contact with some of the first families in New York,
and, in this way, he became acquainted with Constance Jackson, the
daughter of a wealthy merchant. Constance was truly a lovely girl,
and one for whom Theodore soon began to entertain feelings akin to
love.
Mr. Jackson, (the father of Constance,) was the son of a man who had
begun life in New York, at the very bottom of fortune's wheel. He
was a native of Ireland, and came to this country very poor. For
some years, with his pack on his back, he gained a subsistence by
vending dry-goods, and unimportant trifles, through the counties and
small towns in the vicinity of New York. Gradually he laid up dollar
after dollar, until he was able to open a very small shop in Maiden
Lane, a kind of thread-and-needle store. Careful in his purchases,
and constant in his attendance on business, he soon began to find
his tens counting hundreds; and but few years rolled away, before
his hundreds began to grow into thousands. After a while he took a
larger store, and suddenly became known. and respected as "a
merchant." At the end of twenty years from the time he carried his
pack out of New York, he could write himself worth fifty thousand
dollars. Success continued to crown his efforts in business, and
when his children came on the stage of active life, they were raised
to consider themselves as far superior to mere mechanics, or those
who had to labour for their daily bread.
The father of Constance was the eldest son of old Mr. Jackson, and
inherited from him a large share of haughty pride. His wife was out
of a family with notions equally aristocratic. Constance was their
only child, and they had bestowed no little care in endeavouring to
make her the most accomplished young lady in New York. They loved
her tenderly, but pride divided with affection their interest in
her. She had already declined the hands of two young men of the
first families in the city, much to the displeasure of both her
parents, when she met Theodore Wilmer, who resided in the family of
Mr. Wykoff, partner in the house that employed the young man in the
capacity of clerk. In this family, Constance visited regularly, and
the intimacy which sprung up between the young couple, had a chance
of maturing into a more permanent affection, before Mr. or Mrs.
Jackson had the slightest suspicion of such an event. Indeed, the
first knowledge they had of the real state of affairs was obtained
through Wilmer himself, in the form of an application for the hand
of their daughter. It was made to Mr. Jackson, on whom it fell with
the unexpected suddenness of a flash from a clear sky in June.
"And pray, sir, who are you?" was his hasty and excited answer.
"Theodore Wilmer, clerk in the house of Rensselaer, Wykoff & Co."
"Are you really in earnest, young man?" said Mr. Jackson, in a
calmer voice, though his lips trembled with suppressed anger.
"Never more so in my life, sir."
"And does my daughter know of this application?"
"She does."
"And is it made by her consent?"
"Of course."
The calm, and "of course" manner of the young man was more than the
patience of Jackson could withstand. Hardly able to contain the
indignation that swelled within him, at the presumption of an
unknown clerk, thus to ask the hand of his daughter, he paused but a
moment, and then seizing Wilmer by the shoulder, and looking him
steadily in the face, while he almost foamed with anger, replied
thus to his last admission:--
"If that headstrong girl has dared to place her thoughts on you,
obscure underling! and dared, as you say, to consent to accept you,
I will cut her off this hour from fortune and affection. I will cast
her loose upon the world as unworthy. Go--go--and never presume to
come again into my presence!"
Opposition, denial, he had expected; but nothing like this. He had
hoped that when the parents saw a fixed resolution on the part of
Constance to accept none other, that gradually opposition would be
worn away. Such a termination he now saw to be hopeless. The father
did not seek an immediate interview with his child. Before meeting
her, he had found time to reflect upon the real position of affairs.
He was well enough taught in the theory, at least, of a woman's
affections. He had heard of instances where opposition in a love
affair had only added fuel to the flame; and one or two such cases
had fallen under his own eye. He, therefore, decided to make no
present show of opposition, and on no consideration to allow her to
know of the interview that had occurred between her lover and
himself. Mrs. Jackson, entering into her husband's view and
feelings, took upon herself the task of watching and silently
controlling all the movements of her daughter. Particular care was
taken to prevent her visiting the family of Mr Wykoff.
"Where are you going, love?" said her mother, to her the next day
after that of the interview, as Constance came out of her room,
dressed for a walk.
"I promised to walk with Laura Wykoff, ma, and am going to call for
her."
"I was just going to send for you to dress for a walk with me; I
want to make a call to-day on Madame Boyer. And this afternoon I am
to spend with Mrs. Claxton and her five daughters, and you must go
along, of course. So you will have to postpone your walk with Laura
today."
If it had only been the walk with Laura Wykoff, Constance would not
have hesitated a moment, but her heart almost ached with suspense to
know from Theodore the result of his interview with her father. He
had promised to leave a note for her with Laura, who was their
mutual confidante. The mother, of course, noticed an air of regret
at her disappointment, and ingeniously remarked--
"So you would rather walk with Miss Wykoff, than your mother?"
The tears started into the eyes of Constance, and twining her arms
around the neck of her mother, she murmured,
"No, no, dear mother! How could you think so?"
Hiding her anxious desire to know the result of that interview upon
which hung her fate, she passed with apparent cheerfulness through
the weary day; and late at night sought her pillow from which sleep
had fled. On the next morning, much to her distress of mind, she
learned that a visit of a few weeks to a relation in Albany had been
suddenly determined upon, and that in company with her mother she
had to set off in the first boat that day. Her suspicions were at
once roused as to the real cause for this hasty movement, and she
determined to write to Theodore immediately on her arrival at
Albany.
The beautiful scenery of the Hudson was unappreciated by one eye of
the many brilliant ones that looked out from the majestic boat,
that, in the language of Carlyle, "travelled on fire-wings," through
the looming highlands. The watchful mother strove hard to divert the
mind of her child, but in vain. Her heart was away from the present
reality; and no effort of her own could bring it back. It was night
when the boat arrived, and no chance offered for writing before
retiring to bed. It seemed, indeed, as if the mother, suspicious
that some communication would be made in this way, kept so about
Constance all the next day, that she had no chance of dropping
Theodore even a line to say where she was, and that she still
remembered him with affection. And the next day passed in the same
way; not an hour, not a moment could she get for privacy or
uninterrupted self-communion. At last she determined to write to
Laura Wykoff, to which, of course, her mother could make no
objection. But she dared not mention the name of Theodore, or allude
to her present restrained condition, except remotely, for fear that
her mother would ask to see the letter. This letter was given to a
servant to convey to the post-office, in the presence of her mother.
It never reached its destination. And the mother knew well the
reason why. In it, she asked an immediate answer. Day after day
passed, and no answer came. She wrote again, and with the same
success. Finally, she gained a few minutes to pen a line or two to
Theodore, which she concealed, suspecting that there was something
wrong about the transmission of the letters, until a chance offered
for having it certainly placed in the right channel of conveyance.
This note reached Theodore, and removed a mountain from his
feelings. He had learned of her hasty journey to Albany, but this
was all he could ascertain, and suspecting the cause, his mind was
in a state of racking and painful suspense.
Day after day passed, until a month had expired, and still there was
no indication of a movement to return home. Once or twice a week her
father would come up from New York, and to the persuasions of the
relatives at whose house they were visiting, half-consented that
Constance and her mother should stay all summer. Finally, it was
decided, that Albany should be their place of residence for some
months.
Things assuming this decided appearance, Constance now set herself
resolutely to work to circumvent her mother's careful surveillance.
It was the first time in her life that she had seriously determined
to act towards the parent she had so long and so tenderly loved,
with duplicity. All at once she became more cheerful, and seemed to
enter with a joyful spirit into every plan proposed for spending the
time pleasantly. With a sprightly cousin, a young girl of her own
age, she cultivated a close intimacy, and finding her somewhat
romantic and independent, finally confided to her the secret that
was wearing into her heart from concealment. Readily did Ellen
Raymond enter into the scheme she at last proposed, which was to
write to Theodore, and give the letter into her charge. It was
promptly conveyed to the post-office. Theodore was directed to
address Ellen, and in the envelope to enclose a letter for
Constance. On the third day, the young ladies took a walk, and in
their way called at the post-office. A letter was handed out to
Ellen, and on breaking the seal, another appeared addressed to
Constance. She did not dare to open it in the street, but retired to
a confectioner's, and while Ellen was tasting an ice-cream,
Constance was devouring, with eager eyes, the first love-token she
had ever received from Theodore Wilmer.
This was the beginning of a correspondence which was regularly kept
up through the summer, of all of which both father and mother
remained profoundly ignorant. They were delighted to see their
daughter so soon recover from the first deep depression of spirits
which was occasioned by their sudden removal from New York, but
little suspected the cause. Less and less carefully did the mother
watch her daughter, and more frequently were the two young friends
alone in their chambers, even for hours together. Such times were
not spent idly by Constance. Thus the very
means--separation--resorted to by Mr. Jackson and his wife, to wean
the mind of their daughter from the "low-born" Wilmer, only proved,
from not having been thoroughly carried out, that which bound them
together in heart for ever. Give two lovers, pen, ink, and paper,
and their love will defy time and distance. The thousand expressed
fond regards, and weariness of absence, endear each to each; and
imagination, from affection, invests each with new and undiscovered
perfections. Three months had passed away since the hasty journey
from New York, and supposing Constance to be thoroughly weaned from
her foolish preference for a poor clerk, for she was now cheerful,
and expressed no wish to return--the parents proposed to go back to
the city. Preparation was accordingly made, and in a few days
Constance found herself, with a yearning desire to get home again,
gliding swiftly along the smooth surface of the Hudson. She had not
failed to inform Theodore of her return, and as the boat swept up to
the wharf, her quick eye caught his eager face bending over towards
her. A glance of glad, and yet painful recognition passed between
them, and in the next moment he had disappeared in the living mass
of human beings. For some time she was closely watched; but she
carefully lulled suspicion, and at last succeeded in managing to get
short and stolen interviews with Wilmer. Their first meeting was at
a young friend's, to whom she had confided her secret: this was not
Laura Wykoff, for her mother had managed to fall out with her
family, so as to have a good plea for denying to Constance the
privilege of visiting her. Regularly did the lovers meet, about once
every week, at this friend's; and, encouraged by her, they finally
took the hazardous and decisive step of getting married
clandestinely.
Three days after this event, Wilmer entered the store of the
merchants in whose service he had been for years, for the purpose of
resuming his regular duties which had been briefly interrupted. He
was met by the senior partner, with a manner that chilled him to the
heart.
"Is Mr. Wykoff in?" he asked.
"No," was the cold reply.
"He has not left town?"
"Yes. He went to New Orleans yesterday, and will not return for two
or three months."
"Did he leave a letter for me?"
"No."
Then came an embarrassing silence of some moments which was broken
by Wilmer's saying--
"I suppose that I can resume my duties, as usual?"
"We have supplied your place," was the answer to this.
Quick as thought, the young man turned away, and left the store, his
mind all in confusion. In marrying Constance in opposition to her
parents' wishes, he did so with a feeling of pride in the internal
power, and external facilities, which he possessed for rising
rapidly in the world, and showing ere long to old Mr. Jackson, that
he could stand upon an equal social eminence with himself. How
suddenly was this feeling of proud confidence dashed to the earth!
The external facilities upon which he had based his anticipations
were to be found in the friendship and ample means of the house of
Rensselaer, Wykoff & Co. That friendship had been suddenly
withdrawn, evidently in strong disapprobation of what he had done.
As he turned away, and walked slowly along, he knew not and scarcely
cared whither, a feeling of deep despondency took possession of his
mind. From a proud consciousness of ability to rise rapidly in the
world, and show to the friends of Constance that she had not chosen
one really beneath her, he sunk into that gloomy and depressing
state of mind in which we experience a painful inability to do
anything, while deeply sensible that unusual efforts are required at
our hands. The thought of not being able to lift his wife above the
obscure condition in which he must now inevitably remain, at least
for a long time, seemed as if it would drive him mad. Passing slowly
along, wrapped thus in gloomy meditations, he was suddenly aroused
by a hand upon his arm, and a cheerful voice, saying--
"Give us your hand, Theodore! Here's a hearty shake, and a hearty
congratulation at the same time! Run off with that purse--proud old
curmudgeon's daughter Ha! ha! I like you for that! You're a man of
mettle. But, halloo! What's the matter? You look as grave as a
barn-door, on the shady side. Not repenting, already, I hope?"
"Yes, Henry, I am repenting of that rash act from the very bottom of
my heart."
"O, no! Don't talk in that way, Theodore. Constance is one of the
sweetest girls in the city, and will make you a lovely wife. There
are hundreds who envy you."
"They need not; for this is the most wretched hour of my life."
"Why, what in the world is the matter, Wilmer?" his friend replied
to this. "You look as if you had buried instead of married a wife.
But come, you want a glass of something to revive you. Let us step
in here. I am a little dry myself."
Without hesitation or reply, Wilmer entered a drinking-house, with
the young man, where they retired to a box, and ordered brandy and
water. After this had been taken in silence, the friend, whose name
was Wilbert Arnold, said--
"The state of mind in which I find you, Theodore, surprises and
pains me greatly. If it is not trespassing too far upon private
matters, I should like very much to know the reason. I ask, because
I feel now, and always have felt, much interest in you."