As on the previous evening, Mrs. Claire was alone for some time later
than usual, but now with an anxious, almost fearful looking for her
husband's return. Suddenly she had taken the alarm. A deep, brooding
shadow was on her heart, though she could not see the bird of night
from whose wings it had fallen. Frequently, during the afternoon,
tears had wet her cheek; and when an old friend of her mother's, who
lived in the country, and who had come to the city in order to make
a few purchases, called to see her, it was with difficulty she could
hide her disturbed feelings from observation.
The absent one came in at last, and with so much of the old, frank,
loving spirit in his voice and manner, that the troubled heart of Mrs.
Claire beat with freer pulsations. And yet something about her husband
appeared strange. There was a marked difference between his state of
mind now, and on the evening before. Even at dinner-time he was silent
and abstracted.
In fact, Edward Claire was, for the first time, acting a part toward
his wife; and, as in all such cases, there was sufficient over-action
to betray the artifice, or, at least, to awaken a doubt. Still, Edith
was greatly relieved by the change, and she chided herself for having
permitted doubt and vague questionings to find a harbour in her
thoughts.
During tea-time, Claire chatted freely, as was his custom; but he grew
serious as they sat together, after the table was cleared away, and
Edith had taken her sewing. Then, for the first time, he thought out
of himself sufficiently to remember his visit to the house of death in
the morning, and he said--
"I witnessed something this morning, dear, that has made me feel sad
ever since."
"What was that, Edward?" inquired the wife, looking instantly into his
face, with a strongly manifested interest.
"I don't think you knew Mr. Elder or his family--Ruben Elder?"
"I have heard the name, nothing more."
"Mr. Elder died last week."
"Ah! What family did he leave?"
"A wife and one child."
Mrs. Claire sighed.
"Did he leave them comfortably off in the world?" she asked, after a
brief silence.
"I don't know; but I'm afraid, he's not left much, if any thing. Mr.
Jasper has been appointed the executor."
"Mr. Jasper!"
"Yes. This morning he called to see Mrs. Elder, and found her in a
very low state. In fact, she died while he was there."
"Edward! Died?"
"Yes, died; and her only child, a sweet little girl, not five years
old, is now a friendless orphan."
"How very sad!"
"Sad enough, Edith, sad enough. Mr. Jasper, who has no taste for
scenes of distress, wished me to look after the funeral arrangements;
so I went to the house, and attended to matters as well as I could. Ah
me! It has cast a gloom over my feelings that I find it hard to cast
off."
"Did you see the child?" inquired Mrs. Claire, the mother's impulse
giving direction to her thoughts.
"Yes; and a lovely child it is. Poor thing!"
"There are near relatives, I presume?"
"None; at least, so Jasper says."
"What is to become of the child?"
"Dear above knows! As for her legal guardian, she has nothing to hope
from his humanity. She will naturally find a home somewhere--a home
procured for money. But her future comfort and well-being will depend
more on a series of happy accidents than on the good-will of the
hard-hearted man to whose tender mercies the dying parents have
committed her."
"Not happy accidents, Edward," said Mrs. Claire, with a tender smile;
"say, wise providences. There is no such thing as chance."
"As you will, dear," returned the husband, with a slight change in his
tone. "I would not call that providence wise by which Leonard Jasper
became the guardian of a friendless child."
"This is because you cannot see the end from the beginning, Edward.
The Lord's providence does not regard merely the external comfort and
well-being of his creatures; it looks far beyond this, and regards
their internal interests. It permits evil and suffering to-day, but
only that good, a higher than earthly good, may come on the morrow.
It was no blind chance, believe me, my husband, that led to the
appointment of Mr. Jasper as the guardian of this poor child. Eternal
purposes are involved therein, as surely as God is infinitely wise and
good. Good to one, perhaps to many, will grow out of what now seems a
deeply to be regretted circumstance."
"You're a happy reasoner, Edith. I wish I could believe in so
consoling a philosophy."
"Edward!" There was a change in Mrs. Claire's voice, and a look
blending surprise with a gentle rebuke in her countenance. "Edward,
how can you speak so? Is not mine the plain Christian doctrine? Is it
not to be found everywhere in the Bible?"
"Doubtless, Edith; but I'm not one of the pious kind, you know."
Claire forced a smile to his face, but his wife looked serious, and
remarked--
"I don't like to hear you talk so, Edward. There is in it, to
me, something profane. Ah, my dear husband, in this simple yet
all-embracing doctrine of providence lies the whole secret of human
happiness. If our Creator be infinite, wise, and good, he will seek
the well-being of his creatures, even though they turn from him to do
violence to his laws; and, in his infinite love and wisdom, will so
order and arrange events as to make every thing conspire to the end
in view. Both bodily and mental suffering are often permitted to take
place, as the only agencies by which to counteract hereditary evils
that would otherwise destroy the soul."
"Ah, Edie! Edie!" said Claire, interrupting his wife, in a fond,
playful tone, "you are a wise preacher, and as good as you are wise.
I only wish that I could see and feel as you do; no doubt it would be
better for me in the end. But such a wish is vain."
"Oh, say not so, dear husband!" exclaimed Edith, with unexpected
earnestness; "say not so! It hurts me almost like words of personal
unkindness."
"But how can I be as good as you are? It isn't in me."
"I am not good, Edward. There is none good but God," answered the wife
solemnly.
"Oh yes, yes! You are an angel!" returned Claire, with a sudden
emotion that he could not control. "And I--and I--"
He checked himself, turned his face partly away to conceal its
expression, sat motionless for a moment, and then burying his face
on the bosom of his wife, sobbed for the space of nearly a minute,
overcome by a passion that he in vain struggled to master.
Never had Edith seen her husband so moved. No wonder that she was
startled, even frightened.
"Oh, Edward, dear Edward! what ails you?" were her eager, agitated
words, so soon as she could speak. "What has happened? Oh, tell me, my
husband, my dear husband!"
But Claire answered not, though he was gaining some control over his
feelings.
"Oh, Edward! won't you speak to me? Won't you tell me all your
troubles, all your heart? Am I not your wife, and do I not love you
with a love no words can express? Am I not your best and closest
friend? Would I not even lay down my life for your good? Dear Edward,
what has caused this great emotion?"
Thus urged, thus pleaded the tearful Edith. But there was no reply,
though the strong tremor which had thrilled through the frame of
Claire had subsided. He was still bowed forward, with his face hid
on her bosom, while her arm was drawn lovingly around him. So they
remained for a time longer. At length, the young man lifted himself
up, and fixed his eyes upon her. His countenance was pale and sad, and
bore traces of intense suffering.
"My husband! my dear husband!" murmured Edith.
"My wife! my good angel!" was the low, thrilling response; and Claire
pressed his lips almost reverently upon the brow of his wife.
"I have had a fearful dream, Edith!" said he; "a very fearful dream.
Thank God, I am awake now."
"A dream, Edward?" returned his wife, not fully comprehending him.
"Yes, love, a dream; yet far too real. Surely, I dreamed, or was
under some dire enchantment. But the spell is gone--gone, I trust, for
ever."
"What spell, love? Oh, speak to me a plainer language!"
"I think, Edith," said the young man, after remaining thoughtfully
silent for some time, "that I will try and get another place. I don't
believe it is good for me to live with Leonard Jasper. Gold is the god
he worships; and I find myself daily tempted to bend my knee in the
same idolatry."
"Edward!" A shadow had fallen on the face of Edith.
"You look troubled at my words, Edith," resumed the young man; "yet
what I say is true, too true. I wish it were not so. Ah! this
passage through the world, hard and toilsome as it is, has many, many
dangers."
"If we put our trust in God, we need have no fear," said Edith, in a
gentle yet earnest and penetrating voice, laying her hand lovingly on
the hot forehead of her husband, and gazing into his eyes.
"Nothing without can harm us. Our worst enemies are within."
"Within?"
"Yes, love; within our bosoms. Into our distrusts and unsatisfied
desires they enter, and tempt us to evil."
"True, true," said Claire, in an abstracted manner, and as if speaking
to himself.
"What more do we want to make us happy?" asked Edith, comprehending
still more clearly her husband's state of mind.
Claire sighed deeply, but made no answer.
"More money could not do it," she added.
"Money would procure us many comforts that we do not now possess,"
said the young man.
"I doubt this, Edward. It might give more of the elegancies of life;
but, as I have often said, these do not always produce corresponding
pleasure. If they come, without too ardent seeking, in the good
pleasure of Providence, as the reward of useful and honest labour,
then they may increase the delights of life; but never otherwise.
If the heart is set on them, their acquirement will surely end in
disappointment. Possession will create satiety; and the mind too
quickly turns from the good it has toiled for in hope so long, to fret
itself because there is an imagined higher good beyond. Believe me,
Edward, if we are not satisfied with what God gives us as the reward
of useful toil to-day, we will not be satisfied with what he gives
to-morrow."
"Perhaps you are right, Edith; I believe you are. My mind has a
glimpse of the truth, but to fully realize it is hard. Ah, I wish that
I possessed more of your trusting spirit!"
"We are both cared for, Edward, by the same infinite love--cared for,
whether we doubt and fear, or trust confidingly."
"It must be so. I see it now, I feel it now--see it and feel it in
the light of your clearer intuitions. Ah, how different from this pure
faith is the faith of the world! Men worship gold as their god; they
trust only in riches."
"And their god is ever mocking them. To-day he smiles upon his
votary, and to-morrow hides his face in darkness. To-day he gives
full coffers, that are empty to-morrow. But the true riches offered so
freely to all by the living God are blessed both in the getting and
in the keeping. These never produce satiety, never take to themselves
wings. Good affections and true thoughts continually nourish and
re-create the mind. They are the soul's wealth, the perennial
fountains of all true enjoyment. With these, and sufficient for the
body's health and comfort, all may be happy: without them, the riches
of the world have no power to satisfy."
A pause ensued, during which the minds of both wandered back a little.
"If you feel," said Edith, recalling the words of her husband, "that
there is danger in remaining where you are"--
"That was hastily spoken," Edward Claire interrupted his wife, "and in
a moment of weakness. I must resist the evil that assaults me. I must
strive with and overcome the tempter. I must think less of this world
and its riches; and in my thoughts place a higher value upon the
riches without wings of which you have spoken to me so often."
"Can you remain where you are, and be out of danger?" asked Edith.
"There is danger everywhere."
"Ay; but in some positions more imminent danger. Is it well to court
temptation?"
"Perhaps not. But I cannot afford to give up my place with Jasper."
"Yet, while remaining, you will be strongly tempted."
"Jasper is dishonest at heart. He is ever trying to overreach in
dealing, and expects every one in his employment to be as keen as
himself."
"Oh, Edward, do not remain with him a day longer! There is death to
the spirit in the very atmosphere around such a man. You cannot serve
such a master, and be true to yourself and to God. It is impossible."
"I believe you are right in that, Edith; I know you are right," said
the young man, with a strong emphasis on the last sentence. "But
what am I to do? Five hundred dollars a year is little enough for our
wants; I have, as you know, been dissatisfied with that. I can hardly
get as much in another situation. I know of but one opening, and that
is with Melleville."
"Go back to him, Edward," said his wife.
"And get but four hundred a year? It is all he can pay."
"If but three hundred, it were a situation far to be preferred to the
one you now hold."
"A hundred dollars a year, Edith, taken from our present income, would
deprive us of many comforts."
"Think of how much we would gain in true inward enjoyment, Edward, by
such a change. Have you grown happier since you entered the store of
Mr. Jasper?"
The young man shook his head sadly, and murmured, "Alas! no."
"Can anything compensate for the anguish of mind we have both suffered
in the last few hours, Edward?"
There was a quick flushing of the face, as Edith said this.
"Both suffered!" exclaimed Edward, with a look of surprise.
"Ay, both, love. Can the heart of my husband feel a jar of discord,
and mine not thrill painfully? Can he be in temptation, without an
overshadowing of my spirit? Can he be in darkness, and I at the same
time in light? No, no; that were impossible. You have been in great
peril; I knew that some evil threatened you, even before you confessed
it with your lips. Oh, Edward, we have both tasted, in the last few
hours, a bitterer cup than has yet been placed to our lips. May we not
be called upon to drink it to the very dregs!"
"Amen!" fell solemnly from the lips of Edward Claire, as a cold
shudder crept along his nerves. If there had been any wavering in his
mind before, there was none now. He resolved to make restitution in
the morning, and, as soon as opportunity offered, to leave a place
where he was so strongly tempted to step aside from the path of
integrity. The virtue of his wife had saved him.