Delia Floyd was a girl of more than ordinary attractions, and it is
not surprising that young Wallingford was drawn, fascinated, within the
charmed circle of her influence. She was, by no means, the weak, vain,
beautiful young woman, that the brief allusion I have made to her might
naturally lead the reader to infer. I had possessed good opportunities
for observing her, for our families were intimate, and she was
frequently at our house. Her father had given her a good education--not
showy; but of the solid kind. She was fond of books, and better read, I
think, in the literature of the day, than any other young lady in S----.
Her conversational powers were of a high order. Good sense, I had always
given her credit for possessing; and I believed her capable of reading
character correctly. She was the last one I should have regarded as
being in danger of losing a heart to Ralph Dewey.
In person, Delia was rather below than above the middle stature. Her
hair was of a dark brown, and so were her eyes--the latter large and
liquid. Her complexion was fresh, almost ruddy, and her countenance
animated, and quick to register every play of feeling.
In manner, she was exceedingly agreeable, and had the happy art of
putting even strangers at ease. It was no matter of wonder to me, as
I said before, that Henry Wallingford should fall in love with Delia
Floyd. But I did wonder, most profoundly, when I became fully assured,
that she had, for a mere flash man, such as Ralph Dewey seemed to me,
turned herself away from Henry Wallingford.
But women are enigmas to most of us--I don't include you, dear
Constance!--and every now and then puzzle us by acts so strangely out
of keeping with all that we had predicated of them, as to leave
no explanation within our reach, save that of evil fascination, or
temporary loss of reason. We see their feet often turning aside
into ways that we know lead to wretchedness, and onward they move
persistently, heeding neither the voice of love, warning, nor reproach.
They hope all things, believe all things, trust all things, and make
shipwreck on the breakers that all eyes but their own see leaping and
foaming in their course. Yes, woman is truly an enigma!
Squire Floyd was a plain, upright man, in moderately good circumstances.
He owned a water power on the stream that ran near our town, and had
built himself a cotton mill, which was yielding him a good annual
income. But he was far from being rich, and had the good sense not to
assume a style of living beyond his means.
Henry Wallingford was the son of an old friend of Squire Floyd's.
The elder Mr. Wallingford was not a man of the Squire's caution and
prudence. He was always making mistakes in matters of business, and
never succeeded well in any thing. He died when his son was about
eighteen years of age. Henry was at that time studying law with Judge
Bigelow. As, in the settlement of his father's estate, it was found to
be wholly insolvent, Henry, unwilling to be dependent on his mother, who
had a small income in her own right, gave notice to the Judge that he
was about to leave his office. Now, the Judge was a man of penetration,
and had already discovered in the quiet, reserved young man, just the
qualities needed to give success in the practice of law. He
looked calmly at his student for some moments after receiving this
announcement, conning over his face, which by no means gave indications
of a happy state of mind.
“You think you can find a better preceptor?” said the Judge, at last, in
his calm way.
“No, sir! no!” answered Henry, quickly. “Not in all this town, nor out
of it, either. It is not that, Judge Bigelow.”
“Then you don't fancy the law?”
“On the contrary, there is no other calling in life that presents to my
mind any thing attractive,” replied Henry, in a tone of despondency that
did not escape the Judge.
“Well, if that is the case, why not keep on? You are getting along
bravely.”
“I must support myself, sir--must do something besides sitting here and
reading law books.”
“Ah, yes, I see.” The Judge spoke to himself, as if light had broken
into his mind. “Well, Henry,” he added, looking at the young man, “what
do you propose doing?”
“I have hands and health,” was the reply.
“Something more than hands and health are required in this world. What
can you do?”
“I can work on a farm, if nothing better offers. Or, may be, I can get a
place in some store.”
“There's good stuff in the lad,” said Judge Bigelow to himself. Then
speaking aloud--
“I'll think this matter over for you, Henry. Let it rest for a day or
two. The law is your proper calling, and you must not give it up, if you
can be sustained in it.”
On that very day, Judge Bigelow saw Squire Floyd, and talked the matter
over with him. They had but one sentiment in the matter, and that was
favorable to Henry's remaining where he was.
“Can he be of any service to you, in your office, Judge--such as copying
deeds and papers, hunting up cases, and the like?” asked the Squire.
“Yes, he can be of service to me in that way; and is of service now.”
“You can afford to pay him something?” suggested Squire Floyd.
“It is usual,” replied the Judge, “to get this kind of service in return
for instruction and office privileges.”
“I know; but this case is peculiar. The death of Henry's father has left
him without a support, and he is too independent to burden his mother.
Unless he can earn something, therefore, he must abandon the law.”
“I understand that, Squire, and have already decided to compensate him,”
said the Judge. “But what I can offer will not be enough.”
“How much can you offer?”
“Not over a hundred dollars for the first year.”
“Call it two hundred, Judge,” was the ready answer.
The two men looked for a moment into each other's faces.
“His father and I were friends from boyhood,” said Squire Floyd. “He was
a warm-hearted man; but always making mistakes. He would have ruined
me two or three times over, if I had been weak enough to enter into
his plans, or to yield to his importunities in the way of risks and
securities. It often went hard for me to refuse him; but duty to those
dependent on me was stronger than friendship. But I can spare a hundred
dollars for his son, and will do it cheerfully. Only, I must not be
known in the matter; for it would lay on Henry's mind a weight of
obligation, not pleasant for one of his sensitive disposition to bear.”
“I see, Squire,” answered Judge Bigelow to this; “but then it won't
place me in the right position. I shall receive credit for your
benevolence.”
“Don't trouble yourself on that score,” answered the Squire, laughing.
“It may be that I shall want some law business done--though heaven
forbid! In that case, I will call on you, and you can let Henry do the
work. Thus the equilibrium of benefits will be restored. Let the salary
be two hundred.”
And so this matter being settled, Henry Wallingford remained in the
office of Judge Bigelow. The fact of being salaried by the Judge,
stimulated him to new efforts, and made him forward to relieve his kind
preceptor of all duties within the range of his ability. There
came, during the next year, an unusually large amount of office
practice--preparing deeds, making searches, and drawing up papers of
various kinds. In doing this work, Henry was rapid and reliable. So,
when Squire Floyd tendered his proportion of the young man's salary to
his neighbor, the Judge declined receiving it. The Squire urged; but the
Judge said--
“No; Henry has earned his salary, and I must pay it, in simple justice.
I did not think there was so much in him. Business has increased, and
without so valuable an assistant, I could not get along.”
So the way had opened before Henry Wallingford, and he was on the road
to a successful manhood. At the time of his introduction to the reader,
he was in his twenty-third year. On attaining his majority, he had
become so indispensable to Judge Bigelow, who had the largest practice
in the county, that no course was left for him but to offer the young
man a share in his business. It was accepted; and the name of Henry
Wallingford was thenceforth displayed in gilt letters, in the office
window of his preceptor.
From that time, his mind never rested with anything like care or anxiety
on the future. His daily life consisted in an almost absorbed devotion
to his professional duties, which grew steadily on his hands. His
affection was in them, and so the balance of his mind was fully
sustained. Ah, if we could all thus rest, without anxiety, on the
right performance of our allotted work! If we would be content to
wait patiently for that success which comes as the orderly result of
well-doing in our business, trades, or professions, what a different
adjustment would there be in our social condition and relations! There
would not be all around us so many eager, care-worn faces--so many
heads bowed with anxious thought--so many shoulders bent with burdens,
destined, sooner or later, to prove too great for the strength which now
sustains them. But how few, like Henry Wallingford, enter with anything
like pleasure into their work! It is, in most cases, held as drudgery,
and regarded only as the means to cherished ends in life wholly removed
from the calling itself. Impatience comes as a natural result. The hand
reaches forth to pluck the growing fruit ere it is half ripened. No
wonder that its taste is bitter to so many thousands. No wonder that
true success comes to so small a number--that to so many life proves but
a miserable failure.