======================================================================== WRITINGS OF TIMOTHY S ARTHUR - VOLUME 1 by Timothy S. Arthur ======================================================================== A collection of theological writings, sermons, and essays by Timothy S. Arthur (Volume 1), compiled for study and devotional reading. Chapters: 100 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TABLE OF CONTENTS ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1. 0.00 - Arthur, Timothy S. - Library 2. 01.00. A Dollar on the Conscience! 3. 02.00. Advice to Young Ladies on Their Duties and Conduct in Life 4. 02.01. Right Views of Life 5. 02.02. Entering Upon Life 6. 02.03. Habits of Order and Neatness 7. 02.04. Domestic and Culinary Affairs 8. 02.05. Improvement of the Mind 9. 02.06. External Condition 10. 02.07. Gossiping and Evil-speaking 11. 02.08. Dress 12. 02.09. Health 13. 02.10. Brothers 14. 02.11. Conduct Towards Parents 15. 02.12. Equality of the Sexes 16. 02.13. Conduct Towards Men 17. 02.14. Character of the Men Who Are Received as Visitors Receiving Attentions from Men 18. 02.15. Receiving Attentions From Men 19. 02.16. Early Marriages 20. 02.17. Marriage 21. 02.18. The Year After Marriage 22. 02.19. A Common Mistake 23. 02.20. Conclusion 24. 02A.00 - After A Shadow, and Other Stories 25. 02A.000 - Contents 26. 02A.01 - AFTER A SHADOW. 27. 02A.02 - IN THE WAY OF TEMPTATION. 28. 02A.03 - ANDY LOVELL. 29. 02A.04 - A MYSTERY EXPLAINED. 30. 02A.05 - WHAT CAN I DO? 31. 02A.06 - ON GUARD. 32. 02A.07 - A VISIT WITH THE DOCTOR. 33. 02A.08 - HADN'T TIME FOR TROUBLE. 34. 02A.09 - A GOOD NAME. 35. 02A.10 - LITTLE LIZZIE. 36. 02A.11 - ALICE AND THE PIGEON. 37. 02A.12 - DRESSED FOR A PARTY. 38. 02A.13 - COFFEE vs. BRANDY. 39. 02A.14 - AMY'S QUESTION. 40. 02A.15 - AN ANGEL IN DISGUISE. 41. 02A.16 - WHICH WAS MOST THE LADY? 42. 02A.17 - OTHER PEOPLE'S EYES. 43. 03.00. Advice to Young Men Their Duties and Conduct in Life 44. 03.01. Preliminary Remarks 45. 03.02. The Age of Maturity and Responsibility 46. 03.03. Spending Money 47. 03.04. Friends and Associates 48. 03.05. Improvement of the Mind 49. 03.06. Indolence and Lack of Order 50. 03.07. Self-Government 51. 03.08. Conduct among Men 52. 03.09. Music and Dancing 53. 03.10. Amusements 54. 03.11. Courage 55. 03.12. Religion 56. 03.13. Bad Habits 57. 03.14. Health 58. 03.15. Entering into Business 59. 03.16. Marriage 60. 04.00. After the Storm 61. 04.01. The War of the Elements 62. 04.02. Chapter 2. The Lovers 63. 04.03. Chapter 3. The Cloud and the Sign 64. 04.04. Chapter 4. Under the Cloud 65. 04.05. Chapter 5. The Bursting of the Storm 66. 04.06. Chapter 6. After the Storm 67. 04.07. Chapter 7. The Letter 68. 04.08. Chapter 8. The Flight and the Return 69. 04.09. Chapter 9. The Reconciliation 70. 04.10. Chapter 10. After the Storm 71. 04.11. Chapter 11. A New Acquaintance 72. 04.12. Chapter 12. In Chains! 73. 04.13. Chapter 13. The Reformers! 74. 04.14. Chapter 14. A Startling Experience 75. 04.15. Chapter 15. Captivated Again 76. 04.16. Chapter 16. Weary of Constraint 77. 04.17. Chapter 17. Gone Forever! 78. 04.18. Chapter 18. Young — but Wise 79. 04.19. Chapter 19. The Shipwrecked Life 80. 04.20. Chapter 20. The Palsied Heart 81. 04.21. Chapter 21. The Irrevocable Decree 82. 04.22. Chapter 22. Struck Down 83. 04.23. Chapter 23. The Haunted Vision 84. 04.24. Chapter 24. The Ministering Angel 85. 04.25. Chapter 25. Born for Each Other 86. 04.26. Chapter 26. Love Never Dies 87. 04.27. Chapter 27. Effects of the Storm 88. 04.28. Chapter 28. After the Storm 89. 04A. An American Story of Real Life 90. 04A.01 CHAPTER 1 91. 04A.02 CHAPTER 2. 92. 04A.03 CHAPTER 3. 93. 04A.04 CHAPTER 4. 94. 04A.05 CHAPTER 5. 95. 04A.06 CHAPTER 6. 96. 04A.06 CHAPTER 6. 97. 04A.08 CHAPTER 8. 98. 04A.09 CHAPTER 9. 99. 04A.10 CHAPTER 10. 100. 04A.11 CHAPTER 11. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 1: 0.00 - ARTHUR, TIMOTHY S. - LIBRARY ======================================================================== Arthur, Timothy S. - Library Arthur, Timothy S. - A Dollar on the Conscience Arthur, Timothy S. - Advice to Young Ladies on Their Duties and Conduct in Life Arthur, Timothy S. - Advice to Young Men on Their Duties and Conduct in Life Arthur, Timothy S. - After the Storm Arthur, Timothy S. - All’s for the Best Arthur, Timothy S. - An American Story of Real Life Arthur, Timothy S. - Angel and the Demons Arthur, Timothy S. - Cast Adrift Arthur, Timothy S. - Confessions of a Platonic Lover Arthur, Timothy S. - Danger Arthur, Timothy S. - Extravagant Living Arthur, Timothy S. - Family Pride Arthur, Timothy S. - Friends and Neighbors Arthur, Timothy S. - Hair Breadth Escapes Arthur, Timothy S. - Home Mission Arthur, Timothy S. - Home Scenes, and Home Influence Arthur, Timothy S. - Jenny Lawson Arthur, Timothy S. - Keeping Up Appearances Arthur, Timothy S. - Letters to a Young Wife, from a Married Lady Arthur, Timothy S. - Lizzy Glenn Arthur, Timothy S. - Lovers and Husbands Arthur, Timothy S. - Married and Single Arthur, Timothy S. - Married Life Its Shadows and Sunshine Arthur, Timothy S. - Nothing But Money Arthur, Timothy S. - Our Neighbors in the Corner House Arthur, Timothy S. - Out in the World Arthur, Timothy S. - Pride and Prudence Arthur, Timothy S. - Religion in Common Life Arthur, Timothy S. - Rising in the World Arthur, Timothy S. - Retiring from Business Arthur, Timothy S. - Saved as by Fire Arthur, Timothy S. - Sweethearts and Wives Arthur, Timothy S. - Ten Nights in a Bar-Room Arthur, Timothy S. - The Allen House Arthur, Timothy S. - The Book of Memory Arthur, Timothy S. - The Broken Heart Arthur, Timothy S. - The Debtor’s Daughter Arthur, Timothy S. - The Divorced Wife Arthur, Timothy S. - The Good Time Coming Arthur, Timothy S. - The Hand, But Not the Heart Arthur, Timothy S. - The Iron Rule Arthur, Timothy S. - The Lights and Shadows Real Life Arthur, Timothy S. - The Maiden--The Wife--The Mother Arthur, Timothy S. - The Two Wives Arthur, Timothy S. - The Ways of Providence Arthur, Timothy S. - The Withered Heart! Arthur, Timothy S. - Trial and Triumph Arthur, Timothy S. - True Path, and How to Walk Therein Arthur, Timothy S. - True Riches Arthur, Timothy S. - What Came Afterwards Arthur, Timothy S. - Wheat or Tares? Arthur, Timothy S. - Words For The Wise Arthur, Timothy S. - Words of Wisdom ======================================================================== CHAPTER 2: 01.00. A DOLLAR ON THE CONSCIENCE! ======================================================================== A Dollar on the Conscience! by Timothy Shay Arthur "Fifty-five cents a yard, I believe you said?" The customer was opening her purse. Now fifty cents a yard was the price of the goods, and so Mr. Masterson had informed the lady. She misunderstood him, however. In the community, Mr. Masterson had the reputation of being a conscientious, noble-minded man. He knew that he was thus highly estimated, and self-delight appropriated the good opinion as clearly his due. It came instantly to the lip of Mr. Masterson to say, "Yes, fifty-five." The love of gain was strong in his mind, and ever ready to accede to new plans for adding dollar to dollar. But, before the words were uttered, a disturbing perception of something wrong restrained him. "I wish twenty yards," said the customer taking it for granted that fifty-five cents was the price of the goods. Mr. Masterson was still silent; though he commenced promptly to measure off the goods. "Not too costly at that price," remarked the lady. "I think not," said the storekeeper. "I bought the case of goods from which this piece was taken very low." "Twenty yards at fifty-five cents! Just eleven dollars." The customer opened her purse as she thus spoke, and counted out the sum in glittering gold dollars. "That is right, I believe," and she pushed the money towards Mr. Masterson, who, with a kind of automatic movement of his hand, drew forward the coin and swept it into his cash box. "Send the bundle to No. 300 Argyle Street," said the lady, with a bland smile, as she turned from the counter, and the half-bewildered store-keeper. "Stay, madam! there is a slight mistake!" The words were in Mr. Masterson’s thoughts, and on the point of gaining utterance, but he had not the courage to speak. He had gained a dollar in the transaction beyond his due, and already it was lying heavily on his conscience. Willingly would he have thrown it off; but when about to do so, the quick suggestion came, that, in acknowledging to the lady the fact of her having paid five cents a yard too much, he might falter in his explanation, and thus betray his attempt to do her wrong. And so he kept silence, and let her depart beyond recall. Anything gained at the price of virtuous self-respect — is acquired at too large a cost. A single dollar on the conscience may press so heavily as to bear down a man’s spirits, and rob him of all the delights of life. It was so in the present case. Vain was it that Mr. Masterson sought self-justification. Argue the matter as he would, he found it impossible to escape the smarting conviction that he had just stolen a dollar from one of his customers. Many times through the day he found himself in a musing, abstracted state, and on rousing himself therefrom, became conscious, in his external thought, that it was the dollar by which he was troubled. "I’m very foolish," said he, mentally, as he walked homeward, after closing his store for the evening. "Very foolish to worry myself about a trifle like this. The goods were cheap enough at fifty-five cents, and she is quite as well contented with her bargain as if she had paid only fifty cents." But it would not do. The dollar was on his conscience, and he sought in vain to remove it by efforts of this kind. Mr. Masterson had a wife and three pleasant children. They were the sunlight of his home. When the business of the day was over, he usually returned to his own fireside with buoyant feeling. It was not so on this occasion. There was a pressure on his bosom — a sense of discomfort — a lack of self-satisfaction. The kiss of his wife, and the clinging arms of his children, as they were entwined around his neck, did not bring the old delight. "What is the matter with you this evening, dear? Are you not well?" inquired Mrs. Masterson, breaking in upon the thoughtful mood of her husband, as he sat in unwonted silence. "I am perfectly well," he replied, rousing himself, and forcing a smile. "You look sober." "Do I?" Another forced smile. "Something troubles you, I’m afraid." "O no; it’s all in your imagination." "Are you sick, papa?" now asked a bright little fellow, clambering upon his knee. "Why no, my love, I’m not sick. Why do you think so?" "Because you don’t play horses with me." "Oh dear! Is that the ground of your suspicion?" replied the father, laughing. "Come! we’ll soon scatter them to the winds." And Mr. Masterson commenced a game of romps with the children. But he tired long before they grew weary, nor did he, from the beginning, enter into this sport with his usual zest. "Does your head ache, papa?" inquired the child who had previously suggested sickness, as he saw his father leave the floor, and seat himself, with some gravity of manner, on a chair. "Not this evening, dear," answered Mr. Masterson. "Why don’t you play longer, then?" "Oh papa!" exclaimed another child, speaking from a sudden thought, "you don’t know what a time we had at school today!" "Ah! what was the cause?" "Oh! you’ll hardly believe it. But Eddy Jones stole a dollar from Maggy Enfield!" "Stole a dollar!" ejaculated Mr. Masterson. His voice was husky, and he felt a cold chill passing along every nerve. "Yes, papa! he stole a dollar! Oh, isn’t that dreadful?" "Perhaps he was wrongly accused," suggested Mrs. Masterson. "Emma Wilson saw him do it, and they found the dollar in his pocket. Oh! he looked so pale, and it made me almost sick to hear him cry as if his heart would break." "What did they do with him?" asked Mrs. Masterson. "They sent for his mother, and she took him home. Isn’t that dreadful?" "It must have been dreadful for his poor mother," Mr. Masterson ventured to remark. "But more dreadful for him," said Mrs. Masterson. "Will he ever forget his crime and disgrace? Will the pressure of that dollar on his conscience ever be removed? He may never do so wicked an act again; but the memory of this wrong deed cannot be wholly effaced from his mind." How rebukingly fell all these words on the ears of Mr. Masterson. Ah! what would he not then have given to have the weight of that dollar removed? Its pressure was so great, as almost to suffocate him. It was all in vain that he tried to be cheerful, or to take an interest in what was passing immediately around him. The innocent prattle of his children had lost its usual charm, and there seemed an accusing expression in the eye of his wife, as, in the concern his changed aspect had occasioned, she looked soberly upon him. Unable to bear all this, Mr. Masterson went out, something unusual for him, and walked the streets for an hour. On his return, the children were in bed, and he had regained sufficient self-control to meet his wife with a less disturbed appearance. On the next morning, Mr. Masterson felt somewhat better. Sleep had left his mind more tranquil. Still there was a pressure on his feelings, which thought could trace to that unlucky dollar. About an hour after going to his store, Mr. Masterson saw his customer of the day previous enter, and move along towards the place where he stood behind his counter. His heart gave a sudden bound, and the color rose to his face. An accusing conscience was quick to conclude as to the object of her visit. But he soon saw that no suspicion of wrong dealing was in the lady’s mind. With a pleasant half recognition, she asked to look at certain articles, from which she made purchases, and in paying for them, placed a ten dollar bill in the hand of the storekeeper. "That weight shall be off my conscience," said Mr. Masterson to himself, as he began counting out the change due his customer; and, purposely, he gave her one dollar more than was justly hers in that transaction. The lady glanced her eyes over the money, and seemed slightly bewildered. Then, much to the storekeeper’s relief, opened her purse and dropped it therein. "All is right again!" was the mental ejaculation of Mr. Masterson, as he saw the purse disappear in the lady’s pocket, while his bosom expanded with a sense of relief. The customer turned from the counter, and had nearly gained the door, when she paused, drew out her purse, and emptying the contents of one end into her hand, carefully noted the amount. Then walking back, she said, with a thoughtful air — "I think you’ve made a mistake in the change, Mr. Masterson." "I presume not, ma’am. I gave you four dollars and thirty-five cents," was the quick reply. "Four dollars and thirty-five cents," said the lady, musingly. "Yes, four dollars and thirty-five cents." "That’s right; yes, that’s right," Mr. Masterson spoke, somewhat nervously. "The article came to six dollars and sixty-five cents, I believe?" "Yes, yes; that was it!" "Then three dollars and thirty-five cents will be my right change," said the lady, placing a small gold coin on the counter. "You gave me too much." The customer turned away and retired from the store, leaving that dollar still on the conscience of Mr. Masterson. "I’ll throw it into the street!" said he to himself, impatiently. "Or give it to the first beggar that comes along." But conscience whispered that the dollar wasn’t his, either to give away or to throw away. Such waste, or impulsive benevolence, would be at the expense of another — and this could not mend the matter. "This is all squeamishness," said Mr. Masterson trying to argue against his convictions. But it was of no avail. His convictions remained as clear and rebuking as ever. The next day was Sunday, and Mr. Masterson went to church, as usual, with his family. Scarcely had he taken a seat in his pew, when, on raising his eyes, they rested on the countenance of the lady from whom he had abstracted the dollar! How quickly his cheek flushed! How troubled became, instantly, the beatings of his heart! Unhappy Mr. Masterson! He could not make the usual responses that day, in the services; and when the congregation joined in the swelling hymn of praise, his voice was heard not in the general thanksgiving. Scarcely a word of the eloquent sermon reached his ears, except something about "dishonest dealing;" he was too deeply engaged in discussing the question, whether or not he should get rid of the troublesome dollar by dropping it into the contribution box, at the close of the morning service, to listen to the words of the preacher. This question was not settled when the box came around, but, as a kind of desperate alternative, he cast the money into the box. For a short time, Mr. Masterson felt considerable relief of mind. But this disposition of the money proved only a temporary palliative. There was a pressure on his feelings; still a weight on his conscience that gradually became heavier. Poor man! What was he to do? How was he to get this dollar removed from his conscience? He could not send it back to the lady and tell her the whole truth. Such an exposure of himself would not only be humiliating, but hurtful to his character. It would be seeking to do right, in the infliction of a wrong to himself. At last, Mr. Masterson, who had ascertained the lady’s name and residence, inclosed her a dollar, anonymously, stating that it was her due; that the writer had obtained it from her, unjustly, in a transaction which he did not care to name, and could not rest until he had made restitution. Ah! the humiliation of spirit suffered by Mr. Masterson in thus seeking to get ease for his conscience! It was one of his bitterest life experiences. The longer the dollar remained in his possession, the heavier became its pressure, until he could endure it no longer. He felt not only disgraced in his own eyes, but humbled in the presence of his wife and children. Not for worlds would he have allowed them to look into his heart. If a simple act of restitution could have covered all the past, happy would it have been for Mr. Masterson. But this was not possible. The deed was entered in the book of his life — and nothing could efface the record. Though obscured by the accumulating dust of time, now and then a hand sweeps unexpectedly over the page — and the writing is revealed. Though that dollar has been removed from his conscience, and he is now guiltless of wrong — yet there are times when the old pressure is felt with painful distinctness. Earnest seeker after this world’s goods — take warning by Mr. Masterson, and beware how, in a moment of weak yielding, you get a dollar on your conscience. One of two evils must follow. It will give you pain and trouble — or make callous the spot where it rests. And the latter of these evils is that which is most to be deplored. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 3: 02.00. ADVICE TO YOUNG LADIES ON THEIR DUTIES AND CONDUCT IN LIFE ======================================================================== Advice to Young Ladies on Their Duties and Conduct in Life Advice to Young Ladies on Their Duties and Conduct in Life By Timothy Shay Arthur, 1849 TABLE OF CONTENTS Right Views of Life Entering upon Life Habits of Order and Neatness Domestic and Culinary Affairs Improvement of the Mind External Condition Gossiping and Evil-speaking Dress Health Brothers Conduct Towards Parents Equality of the Sexes Conduct Towards Men Character of the Men Who Are Received as Visitors Receiving Attentions from Men Early Marriages Marriage The Year after Marriage A Common Mistake Conclusion INTRODUCTION Right modes of thinking are the basis of all correct action. This is just as true of one gender as the other. Woman is a rational being, and must, in all the various relations in life, come under the guidance of right reason. It is from this cause that we shall, in addressing our young friends on their duties and conduct in life, appeal at once to their rational faculty. Specific forms and rules of action, to be observed on certain occasions, are very well as far as they go; but a mere formulary of good manners and right conduct is a poor substitute for that enlightened reason, by which a woman can at once determine for herself how she should speak and act under any and all circumstances. In society, as well as in books, we constantly hear it said that a young lady should act thus and thus in a specified case; but a sound reason why she should thus act, is too rarely given. She is expected to take the mere dictum of those more experienced than herself, whether the reasonableness of the thing is apparent to her own mind or not. The consequence is, that what parents and friends see and declare to be right — a young lady too often thinks an indifferent matter, and, led on by her inclinations or peculiar temperament, sees no harm in acting directly in opposition to the views and wishes of those older and wiser than herself. Many fatal errors have arisen from this cause. The advice thus given is, in most cases, good; but, being unaccompanied by a comprehensible reason — it is not regarded when it opposes a strong inclination to act differently. Right modes of thinking are the basis of all correct action. This we repeat, as a most important truism, and one which every young lady should regard as the foundation upon which her whole character should be laid. If she does not think right — then how can she act right? To learn to think right, is, therefore, a matter of primary concern. If there are right modes of thinking — then right actions will follow as a natural consequence. To aid in the attainment of this most desirable state, is one of the objects which will be kept in view by the writer, who will seek rather to give principles of action, than rules of conduct; although the latter will not be entirely neglected. False views of life everywhere prevail. We meet with them in our daily fellowship, in the social circle, and in books. From these flow many and various errors in life, the effects of which are often felt when it is too late to remedy them. And too frequently it happens that the sad experiences of a whole lifetime fail to correct the original error, or give the ability to guard, by right precepts, the young and inexperienced. It is from this reason, that, in giving advice, many people, who have attained an advanced age, urge the opposite extreme of their own early life as the true mode of conduct. The foundation of all error, in regard to life, lies in a single misconception — that of imagining self to be the center, instead of clearly understanding that each individual is only a part of a great whole, a member of a common body. This is a truth so essential to the well-being of society, and to the happiness of each individual, that it will be kept prominent throughout this volume. It is a truth as essential to a woman’s, as to a man’s happiness. Feeling and perception are the peculiar distinguishing features of a woman’s mind; and by these, more than by a process of reasoning on a subject — does she ordinarily arrive at conclusions, and determine her actions. By virtue of this her peculiar form of mind, she is able, in most cases, to determine a question of right and wrong correctly; but this she cannot always do. Her reason must, after all, be, in the main, a guide to her perceptions; and this reason, to be an unfailing guide — must be enlightened by truth. There must be true modes of thinking, or there cannot be uniform, correct action. The one is absolutely essential to the other. Our fair young friends will see, by these few introductory remarks, that we shall, as already said, address their reason. It is the highest gift bestowed upon them by God. It is, in fact, that which makes a man or a woman distinctively human. For a woman to think in her sphere, is as essential as for a man to think in his; and the more truths she has from which to think, the more accurate will be her conclusions. Still, there is a very great difference between the mind of a woman and the mind of a man — a difference that all should clearly see, and which we shall set forth in its proper place. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 4: 02.01. RIGHT VIEWS OF LIFE ======================================================================== RIGHT VIEWS OF LIFE A Religious view of life ought to be taken, in the beginning, by every woman. What is meant here by a religious view, is simply the forming of a correct idea of the true relation of man to man, and of man to his Creator. Such a relation does exist, and it is essential to the well-being of everyone to understand it. Blindly to shut all this out, and to press forward in thoughtless uncertainty, is surely not the course which a wise man or a wise woman would take. As we are created beings, there must be an orderly relation in which we stand to God and to each other, and any violation of this order by us, either through ignorance or design, must produce unhappiness. In fact, all the unhappiness that exists in the world is produced from this cause. How essential, then, is it for everyone, in starting out in life, to have right views on so important a subject! The first thing to be considered, in the effort to arrive at correct ideas here, is man’s origin, and the fact of his having fallen from his original state of purity. Man, in the order of his creation, did not love himself supremely. His love flowed out and sought objects of affection. Supremely he loved God; and next to this love, was the love of his fellow-man. That this was so, is plain from the statement made in the Bible, that man was created in the image and likeness of God. Now, God is love; not self-love, but a love of making others outside of himself happy. Such being his nature, the beings created by his hand, in his image and likeness, must have been, in their original state, lovers of others more than themselves, and seekers of the happiness of others. How different is all now! Man not only loves himself supremely — but seeks his own good with an almost total disregard to the good of his neighbor! Nay, his love of self is so strong, that hatred to others too often takes possession of his mind. The fall of man, in which he lost the image and likeness of his Creator, consisted in his ceasing to love God and his neighbor — and becoming a lover of self and the world. True religion is nothing more nor less than the returning of man to this true order, and the restoration of the lost image and likeness of God in his mind. Perfect happiness resulted from this true order; and misery has accompanied, and will continue to accompany, its loss. To love self, and to seek for the gratification of selfish ends — never has, and never will, produce happiness; for it is in direct contrariety to the original law of our being. It is opposed to the very nature of things. How important, then, is it, that every young woman, when she first begins to think, should think correctly on this subject, so vital to her happiness! But it is one thing to think right, and another thing to be able to bring right thoughts down into correct actions in our ordinary life in the world. To do this is a great achievement; it is, in fact, true Religion. There is a great deal said about religion; and numerous enough are those who profess to have what they call religion. But, at this day, there is very little of true religion in the world. There are external forms of sanctimoniousness and acts of piety; but these do not make religion, and too often serve only as cloaks for covering up the most direful and soul-destroying selfishness. It is no hard matter, however, to distinguish the true coin from the base counterfeit. There is a test by which the quality of all may be known, and this test must be applied to their every-day living, not to their Sunday life. Do they love God — or self, the neighbor — or the world, most? Look at their conduct in all that pertains to their business and social fellowship with the world — not at what they say or profess — and you will soon be able to decide the question. The tree is easily known by its fruits, the quality of the fountain is known by the water it sends forth. To be religious is not to be an ascetic, nor is it necessary to give up any of the pleasures or orderly enjoyments of life. The world, not the cloister, is the place where religion can alone find a permanent abiding-place — a real growth. What is called the religion of the cloister, is not true religion at all, but mere selfishness — a retiring from actual duty in the world, into an imaginary state of sanctimoniousness. It is only in life’s actualities, in the real every-day business and social contact of man with man, that there can be any genuine religious growth; for religion is love to the neighbor; and all love, to be genuine, must have an actual existence in deeds, as well as in words. Real religion comes into exercise in the every-day affairs of life. It is an easy matter for any one to sit in his closet and imagine that he feels a love for all mankind; but let him go into the world, and meet his fellow-man as he is, and feel the encroachments and rude contact of his selfish spirit — and he will find something rising in his bosom that he would not like to call love. The true spirit of religion is a love of being useful to others; and a religious life is the seeking, in all we do, the good of others — at the same time that we fully acknowledge that the ability to do so is not our own, but comes from God, who is the source and giver of all good. Everyone, to be happy, must lead such a life; and this is the reason why we urge the considerations now presented, upon the attention of those for whose particular benefit we write. A just regard for the good of others, will not require a woman to neglect any home duty — but will prompt to its more perfect and faithful discharge. Her charity will consist in doing all that her hands find to do, with cheerfulness and alacrity, for the sake of others. The comfort and happiness of others are always in her hands, and every act of her life either adds to or diminishes the comfort and happiness of one or many. In the beginning, let a young woman remember, that, as she cannot live for herself alone, it will be true wisdom for her to seek to live for others. Every day of her life, she will find herself placed in circumstances that, if improved, will enable her to give pleasure to, or perform some useful thing for, another; and her reward for so doing will be a delight sweeter far that can possibly spring from any selfish gratification. Two young ladies sat reading, when a child entered the room, in trouble about his playthings. Something had gone wrong, which he could not remedy. He came up to one of them with his useless toy, and asked her to fix it right for him; but she gently pushed him away with her hand, saying, "Go away, now; I cannot attend to you." He then went to the other, who laid aside her book with a smile, and repaired the toy. It was the work of only a minute — but it was a great matter for the child. His thanks were expressed in his brightening face. The musical ringing of his happy voice, as he bounded from the room, echoed back from the heart of the maiden. In blessing — she was herself blessed. "Let me wait upon the table, mother," said a daughter, as the family were assembling for tea. "Your head has ached all day, and you are not well this evening." The mother gave up her place at the head of the table, with a feeling of pleasure, at the affectionate consideration of her daughter, that sensibly diminished the pain of her aching head. It was a little matter, seemingly, this act of the daughter’s — but much was involved in it. The mother was happier, and the daughter felt a glow of internal satisfaction warming through her bosom. While the former was made happier for the moment, the latter was made better permanently. "Don’t go away, sister," said a poor little invalid, lifting his large brown eyes to the face of his sister, a young girl in her sixteenth year, who had just come into his room with her bonnet and shawl on. "I want you to stay with me." "Sister must go, dear," spoke up the mother. "She has been invited out, and has promised herself much pleasure in going. I will stay with you." "I want sister to stay too," replied the child. "I don’t want her to go away." The sister stood thoughtful for a few moments, and then, whispering something in her mother’s ear, took off her bonnet and shawl, and sat down by the bedside of her sick brother, whose eyes brightened up, and almost sparkled with pleasure. First she told him a story, and then, holding one of his hands in hers, she sang to him a little song. "Sing another, dear sister," said the child. The sister sang another and another song, her voice falling into a lower and more soothing tone. Presently she ceased, and looked up into the face of her mother with a smile. The dear little sufferer was asleep. The maiden bent down over the bed, and tenderly kissed the slumberer’s cheek; then rising up quickly, she replaced her bonnet and shawl, and glided lightly from the room. Never in her life had she enjoyed herself so well among her young companions, as she did during that evening. Need we tell our readers the cause? We might go on and instance a hundred different ways in which a young girl may be called on to practice self-denial for the good of others. If she has younger brothers and sisters, these calls will be made daily, and almost hourly. But, in obeying them, she will always find a higher and purer pleasure, than in disregarding them. The true spirit of religion, we have said, is the love of being useful to others. This love, no one has naturally. We are all lovers of ourselves — more than lovers of God; and lovers of the world — more than lovers of our neighbor; and it is hard for us to conceive how there is any real pleasure to be found in denying our own selfish desires in order to seek the good of another. A very little experience, however, will make us plainly see that the inward delight arising from the consciousness of having done good to another, is the sweetest of all delights we have ever known. But this love of being useful to others, does not easily take the place of our natural selfishness. And it never does, unless we oppose, vigorously, and from a religious ground, our natural propensity to regard only our own selves. What is here meant by a religious ground, is, a regard to God and an obedience to his laws, as the duty of a creature made by his hands and sustained by him every moment. These laws teach us to regard the good of others; and when we seek the good of others, because to do so is to live in obedience to the laws of God — we act from a religious principle. Every effort made in this spirit, is an efficient one, and actually produces a change in the inward mind, causing a love of others — to take the place of a love of self. To sin, is to act in opposition to these laws of God. In every instance, therefore, in which we neglect the good of another, in seeking some selfish gratification — we commit sin; for the law of God, in common society, is, for each to regard the good of the whole. A right view of life, then, which all should take at the outset, is the one we have presented. Let every young lady seriously reflect upon this subject. Let her remember that she is not designed by her Creator to live for herself alone — but has a higher and nobler destiny — that of doing good to others — of making others happy! The little world of self is not the limit that is to confine all her actions. Her love was not destined to waste its fires in the narrow chamber of a single human heart; no, a broader sphere of action is hers — a more expansive benevolence. The light and heat of her love are to be seen and felt far and wide. Who would not rather thus live a true life — than sit shivering over the smouldering embers of self-love? Happy is that maiden who seeks to live this true life! As time passes on, her own character will be elevated and purified. Gradually will she return towards that order of her being, which was lost in the declension of mankind from that original state of excellence in which they were created. She will become, more and more — a true woman; will grow wiser, and better, and happier. Her path through the world will be as a shining light, and all who know her will call her blessed. Who would not wish to lead such a life? Who does not desire to return from disorder and misery — to order and happiness? ======================================================================== CHAPTER 5: 02.02. ENTERING UPON LIFE ======================================================================== ENTERING UPON LIFE The first important era in the life of a young maiden, is when she finally leaves school. This is the time when she begins to think for herself, and is left in more than ordinary freedom to act for herself. Up to this period, she has lived in obedience to her parents, guardians, or teachers, in all things. She has gone to school, and pursued her studies there under the entire direction of others, submitting her will and her judgment to the will and judgment of others, as older and wiser than herself. For years, her mind has been fully occupied with the various branches of knowledge which it has been deemed by others right that she should acquire. But now, books of instruction are laid aside; the strict rules of the classroom are no longer observed; the mind that has been for a long time active in the pursuits of knowledge, sinks into repose. This, which we have called the first important era in a woman’s life, may, with justice, be rather called the most important era in her life; for her whole future life will be affected by whatever is right or wrong in her conduct, and mode of thinking and living, at this period. The habits of order and study which existed while at school — were not properly her own, for they were merely the result of obedience to laws prescribed by others; but now, acting in freedom, whatever she does is from herself, and stamps itself permanently upon the impressible substance of her forming character. If she, from natural indolence, sinks into idleness and self-indulgence — she will be in danger of forming a habit that will go with her through life; but if, from a sense of duty to herself and others, she still occupies all her time, and all the powers of her mind, in doing or acquiring something — she will gradually gain strength and force of character, as her mind expands, and takes, as a woman, in a few years, a woman’s true position of active use in her appropriate sphere. Up to the time of her leaving school, a young girl may be excused for acting from either impulse or obedience. But now she must begin to think, and her wisest thoughts will be on the subject of life and its requirements. If she does not think now, and act from an enlightened reason, let her be well-assured that the time will come when she will be compelled to think; but alas! when thought will avail but little in correcting some fatal error committed for lack of thought, the effects of which will run parallel with her whole life. First of then, let education and its design form the subject if a young girl’s sober reflections, after leaving school and returning into the bosom of her family. She will not be long in arriving at this most important conclusion, that the use of the education she has received, is to enable her to perform well the various duties of life, although she may not be able to see how all the branches to which she has applied herself can be made available to this end. By a very natural transition of thought, she will be led to consider the present, and to ask herself if she has not something to do in the present. The result of this will be the discovery, that, as much as she has learned, her education is very far from being complete, and that, to fit her for a life of active usefulness — the only true and only happy life — she has much yet to learn in the process of bringing down her skill and information into every-day uses and pursuits; nay, more, that she has new knowledge to gain, and new skill to acquire, which call for continued patience, industry, and perseverance. But in all she will find this difference — Before, there was abstract acquirement for the sake of the skill and the knowledge; but now, both skill and knowledge are ever flowing out into effects. She has not only the task of acquiring — but the delight of doing — and this is life’s highest delight. But we will be more particular and familiar. On leaving school, where all has been order, promptness, and industry — a young lady will find herself, as we have said, in great danger of sinking into indolence and inactivity. She will find, at first, little or nothing to do. Her mother has been so long in the regular routine of domestic duties, that she does not think of assigning any portion of them to her daughter. She continues to rise early and sit up late, while her daughter remains late in bed, and, wearied with a day of tiresome inactivity, retires early at night. It too often happens, in cases of this kind, that the daughter is either too indolent, or indifferent towards her mother, to step forward and lighten her care and labor by taking a portion of it upon herself. Or it may be, that her neglect to do so arises from lack of proper reflection. Her duty, however, is a very plain one, and needs only to be hinted at, to cause every right-feeling daughter not only to see it — but at once to enter upon its due performance. There are several reasons why a young lady should, on leaving school, engage actively is domestic duties. One has already been stated. Another reason is to be found in the fact, that, sooner or later, she will, in all probability — be at the head of a family, when the health, comfort, and happiness of those best beloved by her, will depend upon her knowledge of household and domestic economy. This knowledge can only be gained by practical experience. A man, when he marries, is expected to be master of some business, trade, or profession, by which he can earn sufficient money to maintain his wife and family in comfort; and a woman, when she marries, is expected to be able to take charge of her husband’s household, and do her part with as much skill and industry as he does his. That this latter is not always the case, is much to be regretted. But few, very few young ladies, at the time of their marriage, know anything about domestic economy. Not one in ten can bake a loaf of good bread, or cook a dinner. In fact, their ignorance on these subjects is a matter, ordinarily, more of pride than shame. We have over and over again heard young ladies boast of their deficiencies on these points, in a way to make it plainly apparent that such deficiency was considered by them as meritorious, instead of censurable! If to be useful; if to be able to make our best and dearest friends comfortable and happy, is disgraceful — then we can understand why such ignorance is a matter of pride — but on no other supposition. A singular error prevails to a very great extent, that there is something degrading in useful domestic employments. Some young ladies would almost rather be detected in a falsehood — as discovered by their young acquaintances in the performance of any household duty. It is no unusual thing to see them with ornamental needle-work in their hands; but you can never find them making a garment, or doing any work that is really needed in the family. The former is a pleasing pastime — but the latter is something useful, and the useful is esteemed vulgar and common, and, if engaged in at all, must be done so secretly that no one will have a suspicion of the fact. Besides engaging in, and becoming thoroughly conversant with, domestic affairs — there is another matter which every young woman should seriously consider, be her condition in life what it may. In this country, more than in any other, mutability is stamped upon the form and features of society. The rich man of today — is the poor man of tomorrow; and the poor man of today — is the rich man of tomorrow. There is no permanence, no stability. A man may count his thousands — may lay his hand firmly upon his wealth, and be sure of holding it in a firm grasp; but in a few years his gold has all melted away like snow-wreaths in the sunshine! Why this is so, is not the question now to be discussed. The fact is the thing that demands most serious consideration. No woman can know at what period of her life, reverses may overtake those upon whom she is dependent for all her external comforts. Her father may become poor, while she yet lingers in the old homestead; or her husband may be reduced from affluence to poverty, at a time when children are springing up around her with their thousand needs, few of which can now be supplied. And worse than all this, death often comes in and strikes down the very prop and support of life — leaving the widow and mother, friendless and penniless. "Why should I think of these things now?" asks a light-hearted maiden. "If I am to have trouble like this, it will be bad enough when it comes. I will be happy while I can." That such trouble, if it should ever come to you, may be lighter and more easily borne — is the reason why it is alluded to now. The sailor, when he puts forth to sea, does not know that he will encounter a storm. But he knows that storms do frequently occur, and that many ships have been lost. With wise forethought, he provides himself with life-boats, in case his ship should be wrecked; he has all his rigging in such perfect order, that his sails can be furled at a moment’s warning, on the approach of a storm, so that nothing but spars and ropes can be exposed to its fury. By such wise precautions, he is able, if a tempest arises, in most cases, to save his ship and the lives of all in it. Life is a voyage, and to most of us, it is a rough and stormy one. In commencing this voyage, let each one emulate the wisdom, prudence, and forethought of the sailor. The weaker we are, and the less able to endure the shock of a tempest — the more careful should we be that everything is right before we push off from the shore. It is clear, then, that, in the beginning of life, a woman who has less ability to contend in the world, and is more exposed to evils and hardships, should reverses come — ought to furnish herself thoroughly with the means of self-sustenance and self-protection. This she can only do by acquiring some useful knowledge or skill, the exercise of which will enable her to supply not only her own needs — but the needs of all who may be dependent upon her. There is no time in which this can be done so well, as in the few years which follow the period of a young lady’s final withdrawal from school. These years ought to be employed by all, no matter how high their station — in thoroughly mastering some branch of knowledge, or in acquiring some skill, from the exercise of which, as a regular employment, should necessity ever require it to be done — a livelihood may be obtained. Those young ladies who have had the advantages of a liberal education will find it only necessary to take up some one of the branches to which they have been giving attention, and perfect themselves in that. To some, music will present the best means of obtaining the desired end — to others, the languages, and particularly the French language. A good French teacher can always obtain a fair salary; and one well-skilled in the principles and practice of musical science, will find no difficulty in making her skill available, should necessity require her to do so. To those who have not enjoyed these advantages, or who have not sufficient taste for music to enable them to acquire much skill, or for the languages to give hope of great proficiency in mastering them thoroughly — some trade, such as dress or bonnet-making, ought, by all means, to be learned. Six months or a year’s devotion to one or the other of these may give the ability, long afterwards, to live in independence, or to keep a parent or children above the pressure of poverty. A case in point may give force to what we are trying to impress upon the minds of our readers. Some years ago, a merchant, who had experienced one or two vicissitudes, and who had seen a good deal of the rising and falling of families around him, was led to think of this subject by seeing the wife of a mercantile friend suddenly widowed, and left without a dollar in the world. She had been raised in affluence and luxury, and had lived in the same way until the death of her husband, whose estate proved to be bankrupt. Poverty found her without any resources in herself. She had three children dependent upon her for sustenance and education; but she could do nothing to sustain and educate them. The consequence was, that they were all separated from her — a distant relative took one, a friend of her husband’s another, and the third, a boy thirteen years of age, was apprenticed to a trade; while the mother, almost broken-hearted, sought refuge from poverty in the family of a poor cousin! This merchant had three daughters. The two oldest had just left school, and were preparing to come out upon the world’s stage, and take their places as women. He possessed considerable wealth, and was doing a large, and, he believed, a safe business. But he had seen enough of life to be satisfied of the uncertainty of all things, and of the wisdom of making every possible provision for the future. "Jane," he said to his oldest daughter, one day, "I have been thinking a good deal about you and Edith lately, and have at last come to a conclusion that may surprise you. It is seriously my opinion that you ought to qualify yourselves fully for gaining your own livelihoods, in case any reverse should meet you in after life." Jane was the daughter of a rich man, and had all her life been so far removed from anything like poverty, that the idea of ever being in the situation supposed by her father, had not once entered her mind. His remark might well occasion surprise, as it did. Jane looked doubtingly into her father’s face for a few moments, and then said — "Is there any danger of such a reverse, father?" "There is nothing certain in this life, Jane. Out of every ten families raised in affluence, at least one half, perhaps two thirds, are reduced to poverty, often even before the younger members have attained their majority. Do you see that young woman who has just rung the bell at the house opposite?" "Yes, sir; she is a seamstress, and works for Mrs. Blanchard" "Do you know who she is?" "No, sir." "That poor girl, Jane, who now goes out to sew for her living, is the daughter of a man who was once considered among the richest of our merchants. But he lost all he possessed, and died penniless." "Indeed!" "Yes, Jane. And I could point you to more than a dozen such instances. The tenure by which wealth is held in this country, is a very uncertain one. Industry, enterprise, and sagacity in business, are almost sure to make a man rich; but they do not always prove sufficient for the retention of wealth. It sometimes happens that a man goes on, year after year, successful in everything. Whatever he touches turns, to use a common saying, into gold. Then a change comes. Everything goes wrong. Men to whom he has sold goods for years, and who have always paid him promptly, fail. He sends a business adventure to sea, and meets a heavy loss. Prices fall, while he has a large stock of goods on hand. Thus his wealth diminishes as rapidly as it had accumulated, and, in the course of one or two years, the rich man is poor! Still, the instances in which men retain their wealth throughout life are not rare. Many large fortunes are divided among children at the death of their parents. But the instances are rare, indeed, in which these children retain the wealth they have inherited, longer than a few years." "Can this be really so?" inquired the daughter, with much surprise. "It is a truth known to all who have lived long enough to make any observations on the state of society around them," replied the father. "It is only a few days ago, since I noticed this remark in one of the newspapers, founded upon the very fact to which I have just alluded — ’Nothing, after all, is the best legacy a man can leave his children in this country.’" "Why nothing, father?" "Because a man with nothing feels the necessity of exertion, and wealth is the result of intelligent, unremitting exertion. But a young man who inherits wealth does not feel this necessity. He rarely makes a sagacious, enterprising, business man, and is almost sure to lose all he has, in a very few years. Usually, such a one marries into a rich family, and obtains thereby, a good addition to his wealth. But the more he gets in this way — the more extended, generally, become his business operations, and the more certain his ultimate ruin." "The picture you draw is not a very encouraging one, at least," said the daughter, half smiling, half serious. "But you may depend upon its being a true one," replied her father. "All that I describe I have seen over and over again, in real life." "Then we are in as much danger of being reduced to poverty as any around us." "Just as much, Jane. Twice I have lost every dollar I possessed in the world. Years and severe experience have made me more wary and prudent than I was earlier in life, and the chances of my retaining what I now have, are quite in my favor. But I shall pass away, long, it may be, before you, and you will receive and commit into the hands of another, the portion of my property that will fall to your share. As I have been unfortunate, so may he; and from ease and affluence — you may sink into poverty. God grant that it may not be so," the father said with emotion, "but the chances are greatly in favor of its occurrence. Warned in time, my child, as you now are, if you are wise — you will prepare yourself, while you can, for meeting even such a sad reverse of fortune. You have abilities of some kind, that may be so improved as to be to you a means of subsistence, should all external sources fail. Wisely improve them while you can. The very act of doing so, will give you more real pleasure than you now suppose." This wise counsel was not lost. Both Jane and her sister Edith had the good sense to understand their father, and the decision to act fully up to the spirit of his advice. To one of them he recommended the thorough study of French, Spanish, and Italian, and to the other music; but the tastes of neither of them seemed to lie much in this way. Somewhat to the disappointment of their father, and the utter astonishment of their mirthful young friends — Jane commenced learning the millinery, and Edith the dress-making business; and they persevered steadily for a year in what they had undertaken, going four days in each week to the work-rooms of a fashionable milliner and dress-maker, and gaining a knowledge of the art and mystery they sought to acquire by actual labor with their hands. Five years had not elapsed from this period, before, in one of the periodical commercial declines to which this country is subjected, the father lost every dollar he possessed. This misfortune was followed by one still more severe and afflicting; a stroke of the palsy deprived him of all physical power, and shut him up, a permanent invalid, in his chamber. Soon after the occurrence of these unlooked for and saddening events, Jane and Edith issued circulars, announcing their intention to commence the millinery and dress-making business, and had them distributed among their old and fashionable acquaintances. The two girls had always been remarked for their exquisite taste in dress: this fact, added to the two others, their reverses, and their practical knowledge of the business they had undertaken, at once brought them as much as their hands could do, and, in a very short time, so filled their rooms with work, that they were obliged to employ from fifteen to twenty assistants. It was not long before their establishment was the largest and most fashionable in the city, because their taste was good, and their skill was equal to their taste. The result need hardly be stated. Neither poverty nor privation, except such as were imposed by sickness, visited the parent, for whom they had a most tender affection. Their household was not broken up, nor were any of the advantages of a liberal education withheld from the younger members of the family. The income from the sisters’ business was ample for all their needs, and it was dispensed with the most unselfish freedom. Can any young lady, no matter how morbidly sensitive she may be about the false opinions of fashionable acquaintances, feel otherwise than proud of such representatives of her gender as Jane and Edith? Did they not act well and wisely? If every young lady, be her station as high as it may, would qualify herself for gaining a livelihood in some useful calling or pursuit, as they did, the yearly reverses which visit so many families would bring far less of suffering, both bodily and mental, than now result from these causes. A man without a trade or profession, who is thrown suddenly upon his own resources, finds it a very hard matter to keep his head fairly above the water. A woman reduced to the same condition is, in every respect, far more helpless. But we need urge this point no further. If, from what has already been presented, heed will not be taken by the young — nothing further that we could say, would be of any avail. To be useful is the highest achievement of our lives, and the only certain means of becoming happy. If every young woman could be made to comprehend this vital truth — there would be far less of doubt hanging over her future. Fewer disappointments, and more of life’s blessings, would be in store for her. If, instead of seeking for pleasure, as the chief object in view — she would seek to be useful in her sphere of life — then she would lay up in her mind the basis of a true character; that active virtue would build up into a beautiful, harmonious, and ever-to-be-loved and admired superstructure of moral excellence and beauty. Wherever her path through the world might lead her, blessings would attend her way; and, in blessing others, she would herself be doubly blessed. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 6: 02.03. HABITS OF ORDER AND NEATNESS ======================================================================== HABITS OF ORDER AND NEATNESS The habits of early life are those that remain with us longest. In fact, it is almost impossible, afterwards, fully to correct them, if bad. Habits of order are among the most important that can be formed; for, without them, every effort made through life to accomplish anything, will be hindered by defects. In seeking to form these habits, if a disposition to be orderly does not exist, a young lady should begin by having in her own room, a place for everything; and next she should be very careful always to have everything in its place. This will require a little thoughtful arrangement at first, and afterwards call for only a moderate degree of resolution and watchfulness. The fact of being in a hurry should never be admitted as an excuse for breaking through this rule. The time gained by throwing a thing down upon the bed, a chair, or a table — instead of restoring it to its appropriate place in the drawer, or closet, is so small that it is not worth considering. Fifteen or twenty seconds, or a minute at most, are always sufficient for this purpose. A proper regard for time is a thing of great importance, and absolutely necessary to the formation of an orderly habit of doing things. Some people will waste one hour, and then crowd into the next hour, the duties of both. Of course, the duties are discharged imperfectly. It could not be otherwise. This habit is the parent of much disorder. How often is it the case that a young lady has an engagement to pay some visits with a friend, for whom she is to call at a certain hour. The friend is ready precisely at the time appointed — but the young lady does not make her appearance for thirty or forty minutes. "O dear!" she exclaims, coming in all out of breath, and exhibiting sundry defects in her dressing arrangements, "I hope I haven’t kept you waiting. I got so interested in a book, that I entirely forgot the time, until I heard the clock strike the hour at which I was to be here. I have had almost to throw my clothes on, and no doubt look like a perfect fright!" Again, the same young lady is making a visit, and becomes so much interested in her companions that she lets the hour at which she is to take her lesson in French or music go by, leaving her teacher to wait impatiently for her, and neglecting a matter of real importance, for the enjoyment, it may be, of a little frivolous chit-chat. There is a time for all things, as well as a place for everything — and the doing of things at proper times, and the keeping of things in their proper places, are essential to the orderly and efficient discharge of life’s most serious as well as most trivial duties! The importance of orderly habits is never fully understood by the young who have family to care for them and supply their needs. But there comes a time in life when duties, various and pressing, meet a woman at every turn — duties which it will be impossible for her to discharge well, unless all is done in an orderly series. If thus done, they will rarely seem burdensome. It is the conflict of duties which frets the mind, not the number of them; and there is always this conflict, where there is no habit of order. One of the strongest reasons for urging upon the young the formation of habits of order, is the indisputable fact, that at the time in life when such habits are most needed, it is almost, if not quite, impossible to form them — the opposite habit of disorder having become, by long indulgence, too fixed for eradication. Lack of order in a woman is not a defect, the evils of which are visited upon herself alone. Every woman, as well as every man, must lead an active life, in some sphere or other. Nearly everything that we do, has reference to and affects others. There is scarcely a single action that is not felt, with the good or evil that appertains to it, by others. If, from any cause, we perform our allotted offices in the world defectively — we do others a wrong; and defect must attend every effort, which is not made and continued in an orderly way. If the mother has no habits of order — will not her children suffer in consequence? If the wife has similar defects — will they not be felt by her husband Such must be the inevitable result, not only in these instances — but in everything that pertains to a woman’s domestic and social relations. Order, then, is the essential prerequisite of every truly efficient action. Without it, nothing can be done well; with it, there is no duty in life that may not be rightly performed. Without it, the lightest task is burdensome; with it, that which to look at seems almost herculean, becomes a matter of easy accomplishment. But let it not be forgotten that the habit of orderliness must be formed in early years. When life’s most serious duties press upon the mind, and demand the exercise of all its energies — there is no time to think about systems of order, and little inclination to attempt doing so. Neatness almost invariably accompanies order; indeed, the one is nearly inseparable from the other. When we see a neat person, we expect to find one who is orderly in all her habits, and we are rarely mistaken. Neatness in dress should be regarded as much as neatness in everything that is done. A lack of neatness, as well as a lack of order — shows a defect in the mind, the correction of which, is essential to happiness. The only way to correct any such defect — is to act in opposition to it. Into every action there must come down, as its principle of life, some power or faculty of the mind. If, instead of doing everything carelessly, and letting all things around us fall into confusion, we compel ourselves to act with order and neatness — an orderly principle of the mind comes into activity, in an orderly form of ultimate life; and the disorderly principle, finding no form in the ultimate life for its activity, lies dormant on the circumference of the mind, and, unless there he a relapse into disorderly action, will lie there forever dormant. We would urge upon our young readers most earnestly to reflect upon what we have just said, and to endeavor, before passing on, to fully understand it; for the last paragraph we have written contains the most simple, and, at the same time, the only true philosophy of reformation. It is applicable as well to the whole life, and all that appertains to it, as to the particular thing to which we have applied it. It is only by compelling ourselves to act right, that we can do anything towards correcting the inherited disorders of our minds. We may have right thoughts — but if we only think right, and make no effort to do right — we do not advance a single step in the work of reformation. This is the reason why we so often meet with people who seem fully to understand the theory of right living — but who actually live in a manner very different from the ideal perfection which they presented with so much vividness and beauty. We remember once hearing a lady discourse with great eloquence on the use and power of order in all domestic arrangements. She spoke of its effects upon children, and drew a most glowing picture of a family in which order reigned supreme in all things. Some months afterwards, on becoming more intimately acquainted with this lady, who was a woman of some literary attainments, we accepted an invitation to take tea and spend an evening with her. The conversation alluded to was still fresh in our recollection, and we fully expected to see a family-model of neatness and order. But we were sadly disappointed. Worse behaved children, or a more disorderly household — we have never seen! The mother was a capital thinker — but that was all. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 7: 02.04. DOMESTIC AND CULINARY AFFAIRS ======================================================================== DOMESTIC AND CULINARY AFFAIRS A brief allusion has already been made to domestic duties. But their importance requires some more particular reference. At the outset, it may be as well to notice a singular — but very prevalent error, which has, strangely enough, crept into the minds of a great many, especially those who have acquired some literary taste, and have imbibed the modes of thinking of a certain philosophical school of literary ladies. This error lies in the notion that there is something in domestic duties, that, if not actually degrading to a refined and intelligent woman, is rather below the plane of her true social sphere. The consequence is, that to housekeepers, and nurses, and cooks, are given up, not only the actual doing of all that pertains to the household economy; but their intelligence, such as it is, and their government, pervade the whole — instead of the intelligence and government of the true mistress and head of the family. Men who not only see — but deeply feel, the evils arising from this error, and who strongly condemn it, are accused of wishing to degrade woman into the condition of a mere household drudge. But this is altogether a false issue. A household drudge, and a woman who rightly governs in her own family — are very different. But it is not to be concealed that no woman can properly govern in her family — and lead a life of idleness. The one is incompatible with the other. She can no more do it than a man can carry on his business successfully, without industry and attention. To prepare himself to do this, a man has, early in life, to spend years in attaining to a full and practical knowledge of that calling in life by which he expects to sustain himself and all who may be dependent on him; and the same must be true of every woman. Her sphere of use is in the domestic and home circle, and she must pass through a like course of preparation, or she will be no more able to discharge her duties efficiently, when the time comes for her to assume them — than he would be to discharge his duties, if he were alike neglectful. The simplest mode of viewing this matter may be, perhaps, in a comparison of what a man has to do in business, and a woman at home — and to decide whether the one is more burdensome and less honorable than the other. We will take a storekeeper, for instance — a grocer or a dry goods dealer. He has served, in the first place, an apprenticeship at the business, industriously working with his hands, as well as with his mind, for one, two, three, or four years. At length, he goes into business for himself, and, after a few years, takes a wife, and makes her the mistress of his household. His business, we will suppose to be successful. This being the case, we know that he must diligently attend to it, and give it the strength of his very best thoughts. Early in the morning, he goes to his store, and there he remains through the day, except when called out on business, or during a brief intermission of his duties for dinner. He stands at his counter, and serves out his goods to his customers; he looks over his accounts, and sees that all is done correctly; he carefully watches the markets, in order to buy with safety. In fact, all the powers of his mind and body are devoted to his business. He knows that there is no other way of success. If he were to pause to take his ease, or to think about the drudgery of his life — he knows too well that all would be in danger — that he would be unable to secure, for those best beloved by him, the comforts he now brings into his household. Now, is it requiring too much of the wife of such a man — is it degrading her into a household drudge — to ask her to see that, when he comes home wearied from his store, his meals are in time, and well and healthily cooked? — to ask her to think of his comfort, and to even work some with her hands to secure for him this comfort, if it can be done in no other way? Does she degrade herself by consulting his appetite, for instance, and seeking to gratify him by having something on the table that she knows will please him? or by seeing that order and comfort are in all parts of her household? We cannot believe that any woman truly loves her husband, who leaves all these matters to the cook or the housekeeper. What do they know of his peculiar tastes, or, knowing, care about them? They do their part for hire; but she should do her part for love — and love is ever seeking some new mode of blessing its object. How there is anything more degrading in making up and baking a loaf of bread, for instance, or in thinking about and making a dinner — than in selling goods over the counter — is something inconceivable to us. False, indeed, are her ideas of life, who can see any degrading distinctions here. In matters of this kind, our modern ladies have reached a degree of refinement far in advance of the ladies of former times, whose chief pride consisted in their being thoroughly acquainted with every branch of household economy. Nor were they less intelligent than those of the present day, who eschew these things as below them. In order that she may be qualified to act well her part in life, a young lady should acquire a thorough knowledge of all domestic and culinary affairs, so that, even if she should never be required by circumstances to go into the kitchen to cook a dinner, she will yet be able to give directions how to do it, and know when it is properly done. No one knows what a day may bring forth. Life is a scene of perpetual changes. We have known ladies who have been raised in entire freedom from labor, suddenly reduced to poverty, and compelled, for a time, to do what might well be called household drudgery, or see their husbands and children subjected to the severest privations. And even where no such reverse — but only a change from one section of the country to another, has taken place, the necessity for a practical knowledge of everything pertaining to housekeeping is frequently found to exist. A very beautiful and delicately-raised girl was married, not long ago, to a young man on the eve of his departure, with a stock of goods, to a small but thriving town in the west. Her parents were in moderate circumstances; but she was their only daughter, and they had raised her most tenderly. Every dollar that could be spared, was expended on her education. The highest accomplishments were sought for her. At the time of her marriage, she was a young, slender, graceful creature, who looked as if time had never showered anything but blossoms on her head. She could dance with the grace of a fairy, perform with great skill upon the piano, harp, or guitar, and sing exquisitely. But she knew as little about housekeeping as a boy just let loose from school. A few weeks after their marriage, the young couple started for their new home in the west. On arriving there, they found a little village of three or four hundred inhabitants, in which was a tavern, kept by a drunken Irishman. At this house they were compelled to stay for two or three weeks, until their furniture arrived. There was no other boarding-place in the village. By the time their furniture was received, they had rented the only vacant house there was. This was a small frame tenement, containing four rooms, two below and two above. It stood alone, on the outskirts of the village. Outside, all was cheerless enough. The yard contained about an eighth of an acre, and was enclosed by a post and rail fence. There was upon it no tree nor shrub; but plenty of rubbish from the house, which had just been built. Inside, everything was as meager and common as could well be. There were windows — but no shutters; rooms — but no closets; walls — but no paper — not even whitewash. All was as brown and coarse as when it came from the hands of the builder. The young bride shed many tears in prospect of being compelled to occupy so miserable and lonely a place, and the young husband was made to feel as wretched as could well be, in consequence. At length their furniture arrived; but there were no upholsterers to make and put down the carpets. Nor could anybody, with the ability to ply a needle, be obtained, in the village, to do the work. After various efforts and inquiries on the subject, the bride was coolly told by a plain-spoken matron, that she guessed she would have to make her carpet herself, adding, "People in these parts, have to help themselves." The making and putting down of carpets was more serious work than she had been used to, or ever thought of doing. But it was out of the question to think of living on bare floors; so, after taking a good hearty cry to herself, she went to work, and, after a time of steady application, got the carpets made and tacked down. It is not to be denied that some of the figures were a long ways from matching, and that a number of rough places in the seams attested the young lady’s lack of skill in such matters. But the work was done, after a fashion, and that was a good deal. The bedsteads were then put up, the furniture arranged, and the young couple took possession of their new home. But here a new and undreamed-of difficulty arose. A servant could not be had for love nor money. There was not a woman in the village who had any help, unless she were fortunate enough to have a grown-up daughter, a niece, or an unmarried sister living with her. "What am I to do?" asked the bride in despair, after she fully understood the disabilities with which housekeeping was to be attended. "I can’t cook and do all the work about the house. I never cooked a meal in my life!" "We can go back to the tavern and continue boarding, I suppose," said the young husband, uttering what he did with great reluctance; for the accommodations at the tavern were little better than no accommodations at all. "I wouldn’t be paid to stay another night in that place," was the quick reply. "The worst fare we can have here, will be better than going back to that wretched place!" "I fully agree with you," said the husband. "Bread and water here, would be preferable to the richest food there. Try and do the best you can, and I will help you all I know how. It would be a pity, it seems to me, if two young people, with health, and the means of living as we have — could not take care of themselves." So it seemed to the young wife; but, then, how was she to do it all? She could make a cup of tea — but that was about the most she could do. As to baking a loaf of bread, she knew no more about doing it than if she had never heard of bread; and the cooking of meat, or the making of pies or puddings, were mysteries of the culinary art far beyond her comprehension. The attempt to buy bread for the first meal proved unavailing. There was no baker yet in the village. The effort to beg or borrow was more successful. The young man called in at the house of their nearest neighbor, and frankly stated his difficulty. The woman to whom he applied understood the position of the young couple in a moment. She was of the better sort, and not only supplied them with a couple of large fresh loaves of good bread — but promised to step over in the morning, and give the inexperienced bride some little instruction in household affairs. She was as good as her word, and her young scholar was quite an apt one. The situation in which the latter found herself so unexpectedly placed, caused her to reflect upon and to be ashamed of her deficiencies. She had spent years in the acquirement of various branches of information, many of them little better than useless; but not one of them was now available in this her first attempt in life. Her education had been confined almost entirely to the ornamental — while the useful had been totally neglected. She had married, and commenced the world with her husband. He was fully prepared to do his part — but she was entirely deficient in ability to do hers. But she had the merit of possessing a fair proportion of common sense; had some quickness of perception; and, being willing to do the best she could, was not long, under the kind instruction of her neighbor, in acquiring a very fair knowledge of housekeeping. For six months, she did all her own cooking, baking, washing, and ironing. There was no help for her; unless she did it — it would have to remain undone. After that, she was fortunate enough to obtain a good servant, brought from the East by her husband, when he went there to purchase goods. A little previous instruction in housekeeping affairs would have saved this person from a good deal of mortification, trouble, and perplexity! A friend of ours, remarkable for his strong good sense, married a very accomplished and fashionable young lady — attracted more by her beauty and accomplishments than by anything else. In this, it must be owned that his strong good sense did not seem very apparent. His wife, however, proved to be a very excellent companion, and was deeply attached to him, though she still loved company, and spent more time abroad than he exactly approved. But, as his income was good, and his house furnished with a full supply of servants, he was not aware of any abridgments of comfort on this account, and he therefore made no objection to it. One day, some few months after his marriage, our friend, on coming home to dinner, saw no appearance of his usual meal — but found his wife in great trouble instead. "What’s the matter?" he asked. "Nancy went off at ten o’clock this morning," replied his wife, "and the chamber-maid knows no more about cooking a dinner than the man in the moon!" "Couldn’t she have done it under your direction?" inquired the husband, very coolly. "Under my direction? Goodness! I would like to see a dinner cooked under my direction!" "Why so?" asked the husband in surprise. "You certainly do not mean that you cannot cook a dinner." "I certainly do," replied his wife. "How would I know anything about cooking?" The husband was silent — but his look of astonishment perplexed and worried his wife. "You look very much surprised," she said, after a moment or two had elapsed. "And so I am," he answered, "as much surprised as I would be at finding the captain of one of my ships unacquainted with navigation! Don’t know how to cook, and the mistress of a family! Jane, if there is a cooking school anywhere in the city, go to it, and complete your education, for it is deficient in a very important particular!" The wife was hurt and offended at the words and manner of her husband; but she soon got over this. The next time the cook went away, there was no trouble about the dinner. Under ordinary circumstances, a woman whose husband enjoys a moderate income has no need to do much in the way of cooking; but as most of the servants to be obtained, know very little about this very important branch of household economy, it is absolutely necessary that the mistress of a family should herself be able to give the most particular directions on the subject — should, in fact, know how to cook every dish ordinarily served upon the table. But there are occasions when to no second hand should be delegated the task of preparing certain articles of food. We now allude to sickness. No hand but the hand of a wife should prepare the food of her husband when he is sick; and no hand but the hand of a mother, the food of her child. A remembrance of the badly-prepared, tasteless food, which almost every woman has had served to her, in sickness, from her own cook, will be felt as a sufficient reason for this declaration. To cook for the sick requires an experienced hand. A woman who knows nothing at all about cooking will fail entirely in the attempt, and if her husband is sick, he will be fortunate, indeed, if he can take more than a few spoonfuls of the tea, or a few morsels of the toast, which is brought to his bedside as he begins to convalesce. If for no other purpose — a young lady should learn the art of cooking, in order that she may be able to prepare the food of her parents, her brother, her sister; or, at some future time, the food of her husband, when sick. This may seem a little matter. But no one who has been sick will think it so. This subject is one that admits of a great deal more being said on it, than we have brought forward. Enough to cause every thinking young woman to reflect seriously on its importance, has, however, been introduced. It must not be inferred that we would shut every woman up, a prisoner in her house, and cause her to devote every hour of her time to domestic duties. All we contend for is, that a woman should govern in her household — as fully as a man governs in his store, office, counting-room, manufactory, or workshop; and that, in order to do this, she should qualify herself beforehand for her particular duties, as he has to qualify himself for his. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 8: 02.05. IMPROVEMENT OF THE MIND ======================================================================== IMPROVEMENT OF THE MIND We often find two people, who have been equally well educated at school, one of whom is greatly in advance of the other, in point of intelligence. This does not always arise from the superior ability of one — but because one of them had read, thought, and observed, more than the other. What we gain at school is only the means of becoming wise and useful. If we let it lie inactive in our minds — it will do us no good. How quickly does a young lady lose her power over the piano, if she neglects the instrument! How soon is a language forgotten, if we do not attempt to speak or write it! And this is true of nearly everything that is acquired at school. It lies merely in the outer court of the memory, and does not enter and make any permanent impression upon the mind, until it is practiced and made useful in every-day life. We often hear it said of a woman, in society, that she is a well-educated woman; and the inference usually drawn is, that she has received a liberal education at school. But the remark means something more; it means that she is a reading, observing, and reflecting woman. Hundreds have their memories crowded with the rudiments of an education, which lie there as inactive as food in the stomach of a dyspeptic; and they imagine themselves to be well educated; but it is all imagination. To be well educated is something very different from this. All real improvement of the mind commences at the time we first begin to think for ourselves; and this is after we have left school. At school, we merely acquire the means to be used in that true and higher order of education which every one must gain for himself. It matters not how many studies a young lady may have pursued at school, nor how thoroughly she may have mastered all she attempted to learn; if, after leaving school, she does not read, observe, and think — she will never make an intelligent woman. In every company a young lady will find two classes of people, distinctly separated from each other. If she mingles with those of one class, she will find their conversation to consist almost entirely of light and frivolous remarks on people’s habits, dress, and manners, with the occasional introduction of a graver theme, that is quickly set aside, or treated with a levity entirely at variance with its merits. But if she mingles with those of the other class, she will find herself at once upon a higher plane, and be impressed with the pleasing consciousness that she has a mind that can think and feel interested in subjects of general and more weighty interest. An hour spent with the one class leaves her mind obscure and vacant; while an hour spent with the other class elevates, expands, and strengthens its powers, and causes it to see in a clearer atmosphere. With one or the other of these classes, a young lady is almost sure to identify herself, and rise into an intelligent woman — or remain nearly upon the level she at first occupied. We need not say how important it is for her to identify herself with the right class. Of course, her own tastes and preferences will have much to do in this matter. But, if she inclines towards the unthinking and frivolous, she will be wise if she resists such an inclination, and compels herself, for a time, to mingle with those who look upon life with the eye of rational intelligence, and seek to live to some good purpose. The mental food received during the time she thus compels herself to mingle with them, will create an appetite that unsubstantial gossip and frothy chit-chat can no longer satisfy. The importance and necessity of reading need hardly be affirmed. Its use is fully understood and admitted. But there is great danger of enervating the mind by improper reading. For a young girl to indulge much in novel-reading is a very serious evil. Few of the popular novels of the day are fit to go into the hands of a young and imaginative girl. Apart from the false views of life which they present, and the false philosophy which they too often inculcate — they lift an inexperienced reader entirely above the real world, from whence she has too little inclination to come down; and whenever she does come down, she is unhappy, because she finds none of the ideal perfections around her, with which her imagination has become filled — but is forever coming into rude contact with something that shocks her over-refined sensibilities. Her own condition in life, she will be in great danger of contrasting with that of some favorite heroine of romance. If she does this, she will be almost sure to make herself miserable. A young lady who indulges much in novel-reading never becomes a woman of true intelligence. She may be able to converse fluently, and to make herself at times a very agreeable companion, even to those who are greatly her superiors; but she has no strength of intellect, nor has she right views of life. All works of fiction, however, are not bad. Where the author’s aim is to give right views of life, and to teach true principles, if he possesses the requisite ability to execute his design well — he may do great good. The reading of works of this kind forms not only a healthy mental recreation — but creates a true sympathy in the mind for virtuous actions, and inspires to emulation in good deeds. It is by means of this kind of writing, that the broadest contrasts between right and wrong are made, and so presented to the reader, that he cannot but love the one while he abhors the other. Who can read one of Miss Sedgwick’s admirable little books — "The Poor Rich Man and the Rich Poor Man," "Live and Let Live," or "Home," — without rising from its perusal with healthier views of life, and a more earnest desire in all things to do justly and to love mercy. Of this class of books there are a great many. The novels and tales of Miss Edgeworth, Miss Bremer, Mrs. Howitt, and Mrs. Opie, are good, and may be read with not only pleasure — but profit, by every young lady. The time spent in their perusal will not be lost. Indeed, some portion of the time occupied in reading just such books, is necessary to a well-balanced mind. In reading history, we sympathize only with masses of people, or admire some powerful leader; books of philosophy lift the mind up into an abstract region of thought; and poetry warms, inspires, and delights the imagination, while it purifies and refines the taste. All these are necessary to right intellectual culture; they form the very groundwork, solid walls, and inward garniture of a well-educated mind. But if reading is confined to these alone, there is danger of becoming cold and unsympathizing — of living in an intellectual world, more than in a real world of people, with like thoughts and like affections with ourselves. It is here that well-wrought fiction comes in with a humanizing tendency; giving to man a love for his fellow-man, and inspiring him with a wish to do good. In history, travels, and biography, we see man on the outside, as it were, and regard him at a distance, as a thinking and effective being; but in fiction, we perceive that he is fashioned in all things as we are; that he has like hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, and like aspirations after the good and the true, and we are gradually led to feel with and for him as a brother — we hold him by the hand, we look in his face, we see the very pulsations of his heart. All this is good — all this is necessary to the true formation of character. But for a young lady to limit her reading to this order of books, or even to spend a large part of the time allotted to reading to their perusal, will hinder her advancement in mental improvement. She will be very apt, also, to sink into the mere waste of sympathy toward idealistic personages, without seeing in them types of real classes that are in the world, and all around her. All right improvement of the mind will depend upon the leading motive which a young lady has in view, when she reads, thinks, or observes, with a careful eye, what passes around her. If her end be to acquire the power of conversing intelligently on various topics, and of exhibiting an acquaintance with books, in order to appear well in society, or to gain the reputation of being an intellectual and well-read woman, her advancement will not be as real as she supposes. All knowledge has its appropriate sphere of action, and that is in the doing of something useful; and until it comes into this — its true sphere, it never rises into intelligence. If therefore, a woman reads and thinks merely with an end to be thought wise, she never becomes more than a mere academic, who betrays, on all occasions, the shallowness of her pretensions; but if she uses the truth she acquires in seeking to advance the cause of truth for the sake of the power it gives to do good — then is she in the way of becoming intelligent and wise. A woman of true intelligence is a blessing at home, in her circle of friends, and in society. Wherever she goes, she carries with her a health-giving influence. There is a beautiful harmony about her character, that at once inspires a respect which soon warms into love. The influence of such a woman upon society is of the most beneficial kind. She strengthens right principles in the virtuous, incites the selfish and indifferent to good actions, and gives to even the light and frivolous a taste for food more substantial than the frothy gossip with which they seek to recreate their minds. To give particular rules for self-improvement, and to specify the books to be read, and the order of reading them, is a thing not easily done. Indeed, what would be a right order for one to pursue — would not suit another; and therefore we shall not attempt to lay down any rules on this subject. Extensive reading is all very good; but right thinking on what we read, even if the amount is small, is far better. The only sound advice we are prepared to give is, for a young lady to allow herself to be attracted towards the class of intelligent people which she will always find in society, and to which we have alluded in this chapter. If she permit herself to become interested in the subjects that interest them, and be guided by what they mainly approve, she will find no difficulty in the choice of books. And if she seeks improvement more from a love of truth than to be thought intelligent — she will soon be able to see truth so clearly in the light of her own understanding, as to be at no loss in making right discriminations on nearly all subjects that are presented to her mind. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 9: 02.06. EXTERNAL CONDITION ======================================================================== EXTERNAL CONDITION The lines of distinction, on account of external condition, are more clearly drawn in reference to women than men, and they are also much more difficult to pass. A poor young girl, without the advantages of education, finds it very difficult to rise above her original condition — while lads in the same circumstances, if they possess quickness and intelligence, are almost sure, when they become men, to take a higher place in society, than they seemed at first destined to occupy. Not one cause alone — but many causes combined, go to produce this result. There is much of actual disability to rise far above her condition, which tends to keep a young girl down, resulting from lack of education, refined and intelligent companionship, and the almost invariable necessity for constant and wearying labor with her hands. These all unite to hinder mental improvement, a cultivation of the taste, refinement of manner, and the attainment of those accomplishments so indispensable to a woman, and without which a poor girl cannot rise above her first estate in life. But all these combined need not hinder her elevation if she will but look up, and strive after the attainment of real virtue, intelligence, and grace of mind and body. It is not so much the condition into which a young woman is born, which excludes her from familiar fellowship with the intelligent and refined of her own and the other gender — as it is her lack of that intelligence and refinement which is in itself the social bond of union among them. Pride in those above her is not so strong to keep her down, as disabilities and unfitnesses in herself. These, at first, are her misfortunes; but, afterwards, they may become her faults. The mere introduction of one, born and educated in a low condition in life, into the society of those who are born into, or have been elevated into, a higher, more intelligent, and refined condition — would be rather an injury than a benefit, if she were not at the same time gifted with some portion of a corresponding intelligence and refinement. She could neither give nor receive anything — could add nothing to the general good and general enjoyment, nor receive any genuine good or true enjoyment in return. The wish to be thus introduced into refined society, without the requisite qualifications for such an introduction, has its origin in pride — as much as the wish to keep out from the benefits of refined society, those who are in an humble condition, because they are poor and humble, has its origin in pride. Among the poor, uneducated, and humble, there exists the same natural ability to be refined and intelligent, as among those born to a better condition: the difference lies in the difference of means available to each, arising from the peculiarity of external circumstances. While it is possible for a poor, uneducated girl to become a highly-accomplished and intelligent woman, yet, from the very nature of the disabilities surrounding her, this is a very difficult matter, and a thing but rarely attained. The chief end we have in view in particularly introducing this subject now, is to show that a certain degree of intelligence and refinement, while it adds to the happiness and means of doing good — is attainable by all, no matter how low their original condition, and should be striven after by all. The influence of an ignorant, vulgar-minded woman is necessarily bad, whether it is felt by her companions, relatives, husband, or children. As a maiden, she inspires no virtuous resolves in those with whom she associates. As a wife, she does not elevate the mind of her husband, and make him love what is really excellent, because personified in her. As a mother, she does not implant in the minds of her children that love of truth by which, in after life, they may be raised from the baseness and disorder of their natural condition. From this simple fact, it is at once seen, that upon the elevation of woman, depends the elevation of the lower classes of society. Everyone should bear this in mind, and especially woman herself — woman in a humble as well as in a high condition. A young girl who is poor, and unblessed by the advantages of a good education — will find little to awaken a desire for improvement, refinement, and self-elevation. Nearly all that surrounds her, tends to hold her just where she is. Obeying the social law of her being, she seeks companions; and these are young people of her own age, and in a like condition. Too rarely does she find among them a desire for self-improvement, and too often a love of what is base and vulgar. The time she passes with them is frequently spent in the most senseless frivolities, or in conversation about dress and beaux, and such matters as tend to give false views of life, and excite the lowest passions. Of the excellence of virtue, the love of being useful to others, the beauty of a modest deportment — she hears little, if anything at all, in this thoughtless circle. There is little to elevate her, little to awaken in her mind an earnest aspiration after the truly good and beautiful; but everything to hold her where she is, or to drag her down lower. Everyone thus situated, however, who really desires to elevate herself above the low position in which she finds herself placed, will always meet with some one or more among her associates of a better class than the rest. If she makes these, rather than the others, her companions — she will find much to aid, encourage, and strengthen her. Once in the upward movement, and self-elevation will be, comparatively, an easy thing. To sketch briefly the history of one thus situated, and to show how she elevated herself, will make a stronger impression upon the mind than any mere declaration of the means by which such an elevation is to be gained. This we shall attempt to do. Ann Liston was the daughter of a poor mechanic, who had a large family and a small income. The father was industrious, and so was his wife; but the income was so small, and the needs so many, that, with all their industry and efforts to save, they could not get ahead. As soon as Ann was old enough to do anything useful, she was under the necessity of assisting her mother. She was not over nine years of age when first obliged to work about the house, or to nurse the baby. But she was handy and willing, and this made her very useful to her mother, notwithstanding she was so young. The condition of Ann necessarily excluded her from the advantages of a good education. She went to school only a few quarters, and merely learned to read and to write a little, besides gaining some small acquaintance with numbers. There was nothing at home to excite a taste for reading, and few books within her reach to gratify that taste, had it been excited. The whole family library consisted of the Bible, Prayer Book, Pilgrim’s Progress, and one or two old books of history and travel. The father was not a reading man, nor was the mother at all inclined to books. But both were members of the church, and on Sunday read their Bible, and regularly attended worship with their children, teaching them to fear God and reverence sacred things. At the age of fourteen, Ann went from home to learn the trade of dress-making. Up to this period, her home duties had been so constant and engrossing, as to allow her but little time to mingle with young girls of her own age and condition. Her habits, feelings, and tastes were not, as may be supposed, at all refined, nor was there more than a rough polish to her manners. Five years of pretty constant and pretty hard labor about the house, had taken from her limbs and movements the natural grace of childhood, and left her somewhat clumsy and awkward. To counterbalance these defects of habit and education, Ann had an honest mind, and possessed a natural independence of thought and action, with some shrewdness, and a good deal of common sense. Thus furnished, she left her father’s house, and went forth to gain an independent livelihood in the world. Her first experiences were rather painful. She found herself in the midst of some ten or fifteen young girls, from her own age up to twenty, all engaged, like herself, in acquiring a knowledge of the business she had come to learn. Some of these, who had been blessed with advantages greater than hers, or who had seen more of the world, were not backward in ridiculing the unpolished girl for her defects of speech, dress, and manner. Ann was sensitive, and these things hurt her; but the result was good, for it caused her to think of the defects pointed out so rudely, and to make an effort to correct them. It likewise caused her to be retiring and observant — to think of her words, her manners, and her conduct. Many months did not pass, before there was a change in her external appearance, and in her manners, that was very apparent — a change that had been so gradual as not to attract sudden attention. She had also learned to think, and to contrast the good principles she had been taught at home — with what she saw and heard. Early impressed with a regard for the truth, to her great surprise she too often found it violated by those around her; and she was no less surprised to find in many of the young girls in the work-room, a total disregard to the interests of the person with whom they were learning their trade. Among her fellow-apprentices was one named Florence, to whom Ann early attached herself. She was the daughter of a widow, suddenly reduced from comfortable to needy circumstances, and was acquiring a knowledge of dress-making as a means of adding to their small and insufficient income. This girl had received an excellent education, and had moved in very good society. She was intelligent, polished in her manners, and possessed a finely-cultivated taste. The loss of friends, and a change in external circumstances, had subdued her whole character, and made her thoughtful. There was something about Ann, that caused her to respect the poor girl. Instead of ridiculing her for her deficiencies, she gently sought to correct them. This evidence of good-will touched the feelings of Ann, who hearkened to all her suggestions, and sought to correct every little defect of manner, or roughness of speech, that was kindly pointed out to her. The ease, grace, and womanly dignity of Florence were beautiful in the eyes of the humble-minded girl. She saw in them something really true and excellent, when contrasted with the crudeness and bold vulgarity of others in the work-room. Her whole character was a model of excellence in her eyes — a standard of emulation. We first begin to rise towards excellence of any kind — when we first begin to admire and love it. So it was with Ann Liston. She no sooner began to admire and love the whole character of Florence, than she began to form her own character, as far as she could do so, after a like model. In her leisure moments, she read such books as were placed in her hands by Florence. These were not the popular and exciting novels of the day, that were read by too many of her young companions; but books that made her think truly of life, and her own duties and responsibilities. By the time Ann had finished learning her trade, she was very much changed for the better. The whole expression of her face was altered. Her step was more graceful, her speech more polished, and her mind more enlightened. Contrasted with several of those who had ridiculed her for her deficiencies, when she first left her home — the difference was quite as strong as before; but now it was in her favor. The achievement of this much was not without passing through many temptations from some of the vulgar, low-minded girls around her. Several of these had their beaux, whom they used frequently to meet and walk with in the evening; and they often persuaded Ann to join them. Once or twice she did do so; but the young men she met were even more vulgar minded than her companions, who were, as it seemed to her, most unblushingly familiar with the young men. Shocked and disgusted with all this, she ventured no more into such company, contenting herself with reading alone, when not at work, or in congenial fellowship with Florence, and one or two others more like her than the rest. After having learned her trade, the next business of Ann was to go out and sew for her living. Modest in her deportment, quiet, and what might now be called lady-like in her manners, industrious and capable — Ann soon had as much, and more than she could do in families of good standing, in all of which she was respected and treated as she deserved. She continued in this capacity for about three years, during which time both mind and person steadily improved, until she became a really interesting and quite intelligent young woman. But, withal, she was exceedingly modest and retiring. A very fine young man, a clerk in the store of the husband of one of the ladies for whom she worked, had noticed Ann for more than a year. Her appearance, manner, and conversation, whenever he did hear her speak, which was seldom, pleased him very much. At last, encouraged by the lady just alluded to, who spoke in the highest praise of Ann, he formally addressed her, and was, after a time, fortunate enough to gain her consent to be married. She made him a frugal, industrious wife, and an excellent companion. About five years afterwards, he went into business on a small capital, which they had saved from his salary, and was quite successful. He did not become, it is true, a very rich man, nor his wife a great lady; but they were in good circumstances, and able to give their children every advantage of education, and the means of usefulness and advancement in the world. Out of ten young girls in the work-room where Ann learned her trade, all with no better advantages than she had possessed, seven married men of base minds and vulgar habits, and never rose above their original condition. Two were more like Ann, and they were sought by young men of a better class. One of them did not marry at all. No matter how many and great may be the disadvantages under which a young girl may labor — she may yet rise, if she will, very much above the external condition from which she started in life. And in proportion as she thus rises, will she find a higher degree of happiness, and be able to do far more good than otherwise would be possible to her. Everything that tends to elevate the lower classes of the community above what is crude, ignorant, and vulgar, adds to their happiness, because it makes them better and wiser; but this crudeness, ignorance, and vulgarity will prevail just so long as woman is kept down by the pressure of circumstances; for, in her influence upon the other gender — but mainly upon her children, lies the all-potent principle of social reformation. Let every young woman, if her lot is humble, and her advantages few, remember that she has a duty to perform to society as well as herself, and wisely seek to fulfill the obligations which rest upon her. At the same time, every young woman, who is blessed with the superior advantages of education and refinement, should as earnestly seek to lift up those below her, and inspire them with a love of what is useful, refined, and truly good. Those whose external condition is very different from what we have been describing, who are blessed with all the comforts, luxuries, and advantages attainable by wealth — are in some danger of entertaining false notions in regard to themselves, and of valuing themselves more on account of their exterior condition in life — than for the virtues they possess. This is of course a false evaluation; and whoever makes it commits an error that will lead to unhappiness sooner or later. Wealth affords great advantages — but it makes no one any the better. Gold never purchases virtue nor excellence of character; it is possessed alike by the good and the bad; and whoever values himself, as a man, on account of his wealth, shows himself to be a very weak man. A young girl, who has all the advantages that wealth affords, will be very apt to feel that she is superior to those in a lower condition, simply because she is surrounded with more of the elegances of life than they are, and moves in what is called a higher circle. But this feeling she should strive against as ignoble; for what have the elegances of life with which others have surrounded her, and the circle of friends into which a happy concurrence of circumstances has introduced her, to do with her real worth? Nothing whatever! One far below her in the reception and enjoyment of these external blessings, may really be far above her in all that goes to make up the true woman. Let her, then, make virtue the standard of excellence, and let her seek to do some good with the ability and superior advantages that God has given her, instead of sitting idly down in the vain imagination of her own superiority! ======================================================================== CHAPTER 10: 02.07. GOSSIPING AND EVIL-SPEAKING ======================================================================== GOSSIPING AND EVIL SPEAKING These are faults into which the young and thoughtless are very apt to be betrayed, and to indulge in to a most unjustifiable and sometimes pernicious extent, whereby the most trivial failing of a companion is magnified into a very serious offence against propriety; or an unguarded word made to do an injury never intended by the one who uttered it. A young lady should be very guarded, indeed, about speaking evil of anyone, and equally so how she repeats the disparaging remarks of another. Much of this evil speaking arises from thoughtless misjudgments of those who happen not to be very much liked. Whatever they do or say, is seen through a false medium, which gives to it an unnatural distortion, or an improper coloring. Of the injustice of this, nothing need be said, for all can see and acknowledge it. The difficulty is, to make each one who indulges this evil practice, conscious that she is really guilty of doing so, and therefore a wrong-doer to others. A disposition to see the faults and defects of others, instead of what is good in them — is one of our most common failings; and what we see, or think we see, is what we are most apt to speak of. This is the reason why we generally hear more evil than good spoken of, as appertaining to other people. The very common habit of making the sayings and doings of our acquaintances the principal subjects of conversation, is by no means a good one, and should be avoided as much as possible, for the reason that such conversation is rarely profitable, and very apt to betray us into allusions to their defects, as much more prominent than their excellencies. And as it does us no good to think of the faults of our friends, nor them any good for us to speak about them — the least said on such matters, the better. It is not possible, however, always to avoid allusions to what has been said and done by our friends, or to the appearance made by them on certain occasions. Two young ladies, for instance, will meet on the day after a fashionable party, and one of them will allude to the dress, appearance, or manners of some one or more, who either exhibited a sad lack of taste, or whose conduct attracted attention for its freedom and lack of delicacy. Such things always occur, and always cause disparaging remarks. The other young lady, even though she does not ordinarily take pleasure in noticing the faults of her acquaintances, cannot help assenting to what is said, and the temptation to express herself freely on the subject will be very strong. She should guard herself, however, and avoid magnifying what did really occur, and should seek to change the subject as quickly as possible. Something like the following mode of reply, in such cases, should be adopted — "Did you ever see such horrid taste as Miss Parker displayed?" remarks one young friend to another. "She looked like a stage-dancer." "She certainly was very much over-dressed." "Over-dressed! Goodness! She was dressed to death. Everybody remarked it. How silly it is for a girl like her to render herself so conspicuous!" "You noticed Miss Larson, did you not?" "O, yes! Wasn’t she dressed sweetly? I think I never saw her look so beautiful in my life." "Miss Larson is a girl of good taste." "And, you may add, good temper and good sense. Did you notice how Sarah Gifford flirted with young Smith? She is a terrible flirt! I had my eye on her all the evening. Although she doesn’t care the snap of a finger for Smith, she makes him believe that his company is most agreeable to her." "She is very wrong to do so. Truth and honesty should ever distinguish a young lady’s conduct. Such a charge, I am sure, cannot be made against Ellen Green." "No, you may well say that. She is the very soul of truth and honor. If all were like her, society would present far more beautiful and attractive features than it now does. There was another at the party who resembled her — Flora Bannister." "Truly said. I love Flora as tenderly as I do my own sister. How exquisitely do good taste, good feelings, and good principles blend in her character! You never hear her speak of another unless in praise. I always feel that I am better after spending an hour with Flora." "And so do I. I often wish that I was like her." "All of us may become like her, if we endeavor to act from the same good principles that govern in her whole life and conduct." "I don’t know. Were I to try ever so hard, I do not think I could become like Flora. I feel that there is as much difference between her character and mine, as between mine and Sarah Gifford’s." "Should not such thoughts and such a consciousness make us very careful how we judge the defects of others too severely? Some people are naturally deficient in true taste, and others have had their taste perverted by a bad education; some are naturally of an amiable temper, while others have much that is perverse to contend with. In all, there is some good; let us magnify that, rather than the evil we see." "I believe you are right," was the reply to this. "We are all too apt to see that in our friends which calls for censure, rather than praise." How much better is it thus to lead away the thoughts of a young friend, disposed to be critical and fault-finding — to the contemplation of excellencies in others! A great deal of unhappiness is created, and a great deal of harm done, by indulgence in the bad habit we are now condemning. Numerous instances might be given in illustration of this. We shall introduce but one, and this with the hope of making the fault appear in its truly odious light. Ellen Benoit was much given to the use of disparaging remarks in reference to her companions. Like most others who indulged in this reprehensible practice, she did not always confine herself strictly to the truth. Not that she designedly, and with evil intent, uttered falsehoods. She only embellished a little too highly, without seeing that, in doing this, she was magnifying foibles into faults, and perverting language from the true meaning it was intended to convey. "Your friend, Emily Rawson, seems to be a very fine girl," said a lady to her one day, after having spent her first half hour with the person referred to. "Yes," replied Ellen; "she is certainly a fine girl — but, like all the rest of us, she has her faults." "Not very serious ones, I hope," said the lady. "Why, that will depend pretty much upon how you view them. She has one fault that I call a pretty serious one." "What is that?" "A disposition to tattle." "Indeed! That is bad." "Not so bad as some other faults — but still bad enough. Whenever I am with her, I consider it necessary to be guarded in what I say; for, in consequence of her having once repeated some remark of mine, she involved me in a very unpleasant difficulty with a friend, and created a difference that has not been reconciled to this day." "With such a person, I am sure I should want as little to do as possible," replied the lady. "I am sorry to hear what you say, for I had formed a very good opinion of Emily, and felt like adding her to the number of my friends. But there is no telling what people are. As for her, the last fault I would have supposed her to be guilty of, is the one you mention." "I did not mean to convey quite so strong an impression to your mind," said Ellen Benoit, perceiving that she had really injured Emily. "I would not have you understand that Emily is a common tattler and busybody in other people’s matters, for she is not. I only meant to put you on your guard, in case you became well acquainted with her. Myself a sufferer from having a thoughtless remark repeated by her, it seemed to me only right that I should warn a friend in time." "Perfectly right, Ellen, and I thank you for what you have done. As to Emily Rawson, I believe I shall not follow up the acquaintance. I have a large circle of intimate friends, with whom I can be unreserved, without fear of having my confidence betrayed, or my unguarded words repeated to my own and the injury of others." In this decision the lady was firm. When she again met Emily, she was coldly polite to her, and that was all. The young girl, who had been pleased with her character, and strongly drawn towards her, felt this change severely. It was an unexpected repulse from one whose principles she had approved, and whose character had been presented to her as one of no common loveliness. That there was some cause for this change she knew; but of its nature she had not even a remote idea. Months passed, during which period Emily was thrown several times into the company of this lady, who always maintained towards her a coldness and reserve entirely at variance with the cordiality of manner exhibited on the occasion of their introduction to each other. This unaccountable difference caused Emily much pain of mind. It was, perhaps, a year subsequent to the time this lady had received her impression of Emily’s character, and after her marked coldness towards the latter had caused her to omit the usual word or nod of recognition on meeting, that a friend made some casual remarks about Emily. "I know very little about her," the lady replied, indifferently, "and that little has not prejudiced me much in her favor." "That’s strange," returned the friend; "for a person with fewer faults, and more sterling qualities of mind and heart, than Emily Rawson, is rarely met." "She has one fault that overshadows many good qualities," said the lady, coldly. "What is that?" was asked. "The fault of being a tattler!" "If she is freer from any one fault more than from another, it is that one you name!" "Perhaps you don’t know her," said the lady. "Don’t know Emily Rawson! If that was the case, I would almost begin to think I didn’t know myself. We have been like sisters for years." "Then you ought to know her." "I think so; and I know that she is not a tattler; and I must again express my wonder that you should have formed such an erroneous opinion in regard to her. From whom did you obtain it?" "From a very good source, I believe. Ellen Benoit warned me to be on my guard, and stated that she was herself a sufferer on account of Emily’s tattling propensities." "She did?" "Yes. My first impression of Emily’s character was good; but when I learned this, I thought it as well to have nothing to do with her, for I think a tattler a very despicable person." "I believe I understand it all, now," said the friend, after musing a while. "Ellen is herself a little given to the very thing she charges upon an innocent person. On one occasion, she repeated something she had heard alleged against a young girl, and considerably embellished her narrative. Emily was present. The impression made was very unfavorable to the individual alluded to. Of all who heard these unfavorable remarks, made to the great disparagement of an absent companion, Emily was the only one who was honest enough to go to her and apprize her of what had been said to her real injury, in order that, if innocent, she might vindicate her character. The allegations were at once pronounced false, and the author of them demanded. Ellen Benoit was named by Emily, who volunteered to go to her in company with the aggrieved person, in order to ascertain from her the source of the injurious charge. Ellen was very angry with Emily for what she had done, and refused at first to give any authority for what she had said. But Emily mildly argued with her on the folly of this, and, in extenuation of what she had done, assured her, that, if she herself had been the subject of the remarks in question, she would have felt it to be equally her duty to apprize her of the injury she was suffering. But Ellen could not see the matter in any better light than as a betrayal of confidence on the part of Emily. The result was, that, on tracing the charge made to the person given as her authority by Ellen, more than half of the averments of Ellen were denied, and a very different version of the whole story given, by which it was clear that she had added nearly all of the offensive matter; not as sheer fabrications — but as inferences from what had been said. It seems she has not forgiven Emily for honestly putting it into the power of an innocent person to vindicate herself from injurious charges — but has as grossly misrepresented and injured her, as she did the person whom Emily warned of the evil things said against her. You can now judge how far Emily Rawson is to be condemned as a tattler on the testimony of Ellen Benoit." "Clearly enough," replied the lady, with some warmth of manner. "I must at once renew my acquaintance with Emily. As for the other, on some suitable occasion I shall refer to the subject, and endeavor to make her see that she has been guilty of a very serious fault. I feel strongly tempted to drop her altogether; but as I committed an error in doing this with Emily Rawson, I will seek rather to correct her faults and strengthen her good qualities, than to decline all friendly fellowship." This is the way in which false impressions about almost everyone are propagated. The slightest fault, or peculiarity, is magnified into something serious, and the censorious whisper goes round, while the subject of it remains in entire ignorance of the detriment she suffers. Let every young lady set her face against this as a serious evil. Let her place a bridle upon her tongue, and upon her thoughts, lest she is betrayed, in an unguarded moment, into saying something against her young friend that may injure her in the estimation of others. The surest way to avoid this fault, is to look more at the good in our friends, than the evil. We are all perverse enough, all have evil tendencies enough, and are all frequently enough betrayed into acts and words that are wrong — to prompt us to be charitable towards others; and such reflections, if no others, should make us thoughtful and prudent in this matter. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 11: 02.08. DRESS ======================================================================== DRESS On this subject we do not feel competent to give any particular directions. In matters of female attire, a woman’s taste is, as a general thing, always superior to a man’s. Still, we see a great many badly-dressed women, where the defect does not arise from any lack of the means to dress — but from bad taste. The fault of overdressing is the most common, and this is almost always attended with an unharmonious arrangement of colors. All that pertains to the particular modes of dress, and to the harmony of colors, has been so fully set forth in the various books prepared for and accessible to young ladies, that for us to attempt anything of the kind here would be entirely useless, even if we had given sufficient attention to the subject to be able clearly to set the matter forth, which we confess that we have not. We can tell when we see a lady dressed in good taste — but we cannot tell a lady exactly how she should dress to be in good taste. It is much easier to detect a fault, than to produce a harmonious arrangement. And it is much easier for a man to see faults in a lady’s dress, than to give directions for dressing faultlessly. As we have just said, we do not feel competent to give particular directions here, and therefore shall not attempt to do so. We refer to dress, in this place, merely for the purpose of making one or two rather general remarks on the subject. As in almost everything else in this world, people are very apt to run into opposite extremes in the matter of dress. While we have one class of people who seem to think of nothing else but dress, and who load themselves with mirthful clothing and ornaments until they appear ridiculous in the eyes of sensible people, there is another class that as unwisely reject all ornaments, and array themselves in garments of the dullest hue. In this, as in all other things, the happy medium is the true one. In order to attain this happy medium, some attention must be paid to the end for which dress is regarded. If a love of admiration, and a mere fondness for appearing in mirthful attire, alone prompts a woman to give attention to dress, she will be almost sure to overstep the bounds of good sense and good taste. The hand of either pride or vanity always shows itself in a woman’s dress, in spite of every effort to hide it! To dress with neatness, taste, and propriety, is the duty of every young lady; and she should give just as much thought and attention to the subject as will enable her to do it, and no more. Unless she does give to it both thought and attention, however, she will not be able to dress with taste and propriety. Occasionally we meet with instances where young ladies affect, or really feel, indifference in regard to dress. Everything like ornament is eschewed as beneath the dignity of an intelligent being. The higher colors never appear in any of their garments, and ribbons are used with a degree of caution that is quite amusing. All this might be tolerated if good taste accompanied their simplicity of attire; but, unfortunately, a lack of good taste is, in most cases, the primary cause of the indifference they manifest. But, as there exists in woman a natural fondness for dress, the opposite extreme to this is the one into which young girls most frequently run, unless they are guided and controlled, as is usually the case, by the sounder and purer taste of a mother, an elder sister, or some judicious friend. In order to keep herself from running into this extreme, a young lady should guard against the common fault of dressing for the purpose of attracting attention. If she has a fondness for mirthful colors, let her use them — but not to excess; on the contrary, if her taste lead her to select those more subdued and less attractive, let her taste be her guide. In regard to ornaments, they are proper to be used, and, when worn by a person of good taste in their selection and arrangement, add very much to a woman’s appearance. An idea prevails very generally, among some people, that all attention to dress, or the following of the fashions, as they usually term it — is a useless waste of money and time, and an actual injury to the moral state of the person who thus pays a regard to dress. There is no doubt that following the fashions to an excess, and thinking about little else than dress, is just as great an evil as it is here alleged to be. But it is one thing to do this, and another thing to have such a regard for external order, beauty, and propriety, as shall make our appearance pleasing to our friends, and our presence welcome in circles of taste and refinement. If we dress with a singularity because of a weak prejudice against the prevailing fashions, or outrage all true taste by incongruities of attire, our presence cannot be pleasing to our friends, nor welcome in refined and intelligent circles. The true standard of dress for a young lady is that which happens to prevail in the present; but, in adopting it, she should carefully avoid its extremes. If it trenches upon modesty, or endangers her health — let her so far not follow it. These extremes she can easily avoid, and yet not appear singular. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 12: 02.09. HEALTH ======================================================================== HEALTH The highest degree of happiness and usefulness attainable in this world is not to be had by anyone who does not possess a sound mind in a sound body. Attention to health, therefore, is one of the first duties we owe to ourselves and society, because without a healthy body we cannot have a sound mind, nor efficiently perform our duties in life. This is so plain a proposition that all can at once comprehend it. Young ladies are proverbial for being careless in regard to health; and this, strangely enough, is particularly the case with those who have the most delicate constitutions. The hundreds who die annually of pulmonary problems, owe, in two cases out of every three, their early death to unwise and unnecessary exposure of themselves, thinly clad, in cold and damp weather. The warnings of physicians and friends seem alike unavailing; and their earnest representation of the real danger that threatens them is treated as a chimera, conjured up by over-anxiety, to frighten them. Even the fearfully rapid encroachments of a deadly disease do not, in too many instances, give the requisite prudence; and the unhappy victim sinks speedily into the grave, with little less than the crime of self-murder upon her head. These things are sad to think about; and their frequency and familiarity make them none the less painful subjects of reflection. But, as the only hope of reformation here lies in continued precept, we deem it a solemn duty, whenever an opportunity offers, to add our voice to the general voice of warning heard everywhere on this subject. The doing of anything that requires self-denial, or more than ordinary care, is dependent upon an adequate motive. One would think that there were motives strong enough to prompt every young lady to be careful of her health; and so there are; the difficulty is, that she cannot be made to feel that what she does, or omits to do, really injures her, because the ill effects do not become immediately apparent. That such is really the fact, the sad results of just such an abuse of health are to be seen all around us — results that all intelligent physicians, and all people of observation and common sense, know must flow from the causes just set forth. Surely, then, an adequate motive for prudence and care in these things is to be found in the fact, that, if no regard is paid to them, the health will be undermined, or destroyed altogether. Strict regard should also be had to the food that is eaten, and to the manner of eating it. The diet should be nutritious — but not stimulating, and the quantity of food taken ought never to be so great as to oppress the system. A good digestion, however, does not always depend upon the quality of the food taken; the best food in the world will be rendered indigestible if it be not sufficiently masticated, or is eaten too fast. If any of our young readers can see the importance of the subject, viewed in this light, they cannot but feel more deeply than ever the duty that rests upon them to preserve their health for the sake of the happiness of others, and the general well-being of society. The consequences arising from abuse of health does not always rest with an individual; and a knowledge of this, if no other motive be strong enough, should prompt every one to seek its preservation. Every young girl knows that she will, in a few years, have to take her place in society as a woman. Let her look at her mother and her mother’s friends, and see how much the well-being and happiness of others are dependent upon the retention of their lives and the preservation of their health. In a few years, she will, in all probability, stand in the same relation to society as her mother now does, and have as many duties to perform, involving the comfort and happiness of others. If, when this time comes, through her youthful folly and indiscretion, her health is gone, her lot will be a sad one indeed. Pain and disability will attend the performance of even the most trifling duty, and she will be a burden to herself, and the source of anxiety and grief to her nearest and best friends; and, it may be, just as the tenderest ties that can bind a woman to earth are formed, death will rudely break them asunder. What other considerations can we urge upon our fair young friends to induce them to regard the admonitions of those who love them, and are wiser than they are? The means of preserving health are accessible to all. There is not so much ignorance on this subject as disinclination to make a temporary sacrifice of present desires, in order to secure a great and lasting good. Such being the case, we have sought rather to present motives for the preservation of health, than rules for attaining the so much desired object. Where a disposition to take proper care of the health exists, a knowledge of the means necessary to be used are easily attained. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 13: 02.10. BROTHERS ======================================================================== BROTHERS Older brothers are not usually as attentive to their younger sisters, as the latter would feel to be agreeable. The little girls that were so long known as children, with the foibles, faults, and caprices of children, although now grown up into tall young ladies, who have left or are about leaving school, are still felt to be children, or but a little advanced beyond childhood, by the young men who have had some three or four years’ experience in the world. With these older brothers, there will not usually be, arising from this cause, much confidential and unreserved fellowship; at least, not until the sisters have added two or three years more to their ages, and assumed more of the quiet dignity of womanhood. Upon these older brothers, therefore, the conduct of sisters cannot, usually, have much effect. They are removed to a point chiefly beyond the circle of their influence. But upon brothers near about their own age, and younger than themselves, the influence of sisters may be brought to bear with the most beneficial results. The temptations to which young men are exposed, when first they come in contact with the world, are many, and full of the strongest allurements. Their virtuous principles are assailed in a thousand ways; sometimes boldly, and sometimes by the most insidious arts of the wicked and evil-minded. All, therefore, that can make virtue lovely in their eyes, and vice hideous — they need to strengthen the good principles stored up, from childhood, in their minds. For their sakes, home should be made as attractive as possible, in order to induce them frequently to spend their evenings in the place where, of all others, they will be safest. To do this, a young lady must consult the tastes of her brothers, and endeavor to take sufficient interest in the pursuits that interest them, as to make herself companionable. If they are fond of music, one of the strongest incentives she can have for attaining the highest possible skill in performing upon the piano, will be the hope of making home, thereby, the most attractive place where they can spend their evenings. If they are fond of reading, let her read, as far as she can, the books that interest them, in order that she may take part in their conversations; and let her, in every other possible way, furnish herself with the means of making home agreeable. There is no surer way for a sister to gain an influence with her brother, than to cultivate all exterior graces and accomplishments, and improve her mind by reading, thinking, and observation. By these means she not only becomes his intelligent companion — but "inspires him with a feeling of generous pride towards her, that, more than anything else, impresses her image upon his mind, brings her at all times nearer to him, and gives her a double power over him for good. The indifference felt by brothers towards their sisters, when it does exist, often arises from the fact that their sisters are inferior, in almost everything, to the women they are in the habit of meeting abroad. Where this is the case, such indifference is not so much to be wondered at. Sisters should always endeavor to gain, as much as possible, the confidence of their brothers, and to give them their confidence in return. Mutual good offices will result from this, and attachments that could only produce unhappiness, may be prevented. A man sees more of men than a woman does, and the same is true in regard to the other gender. This being so, a brother has it in his power at once to guard his sister against the advances of an unprincipled man, or a man whose habits he knows to be bad; and a sister has it in her power to reveal to her brother traits of character in a woman, for whom he is about forming an attachment, which would repel rather than attract him. Towards her younger brother a sister should be particularly considerate. In allusion to this subject, Mrs. Farrar has written so well that we cannot repress our wish to quote her. "If your brothers are younger than you, encourage them to be perfectly confidential with you; win their friendship by your sympathy in all their concerns, and let them see that their interests and their pleasures are liberally provided for in the family arrangements. Never disclose their little secrets, however unimportant they may seem to you; never repress their feelings by ridicule; but be their tenderest friend — and then you may become their ablest adviser. If separated from them by the course of school and college education, make a point of keeping up your intimacy by full, free, and affectionate correspondence; and when they return to the paternal roof, at that awkward age between youth and manhood, when reserve creeps over the mind like an impenetrable veil, allow it not to interpose between you and your brothers. Cultivate their friendship and intimacy with all the address and tenderness you possess; for it is of unspeakable importance to them that their sisters should be their confidential friends. Consider the loss of a ball or party, for the sake of making the evening pass pleasantly to your brothers at home, as a small sacrifice — one you should unhesitatingly make. If they go into company with you, see that they are introduced to the most desirable acquaintances, and show them that you are interested in their conducting themselves well." Having quoted so much from the "Young Lady’s Friend," we feel inclined to give a few passages more from the author’s admirable remarks on the relation of brother and sister. "So many temptations beset young men, of which young women know nothing, that it is of the utmost importance that your brothers’ evenings should be happily passed at home; that their friends should be your friends; that their engagements should be the same as yours; and that various innocent amusements should be provided for them in the family circle. Music is an accomplishment usually valuable as a home enjoyment, as rallying round the piano the various members of a family, and harmonizing their hearts, as well as their voices, particularly in devotional strains. I know no more agreeable and interesting spectacle than that of brothers and sisters playing and singing together those elevated compositions in music and poetry which gratify the taste and purify the heart, while their parents sit delighted by. I have seen and heard an elder sister thus leading the family choir, who was the soul of harmony to the whole household, and whose life was a perfect example of those virtues which I am here endeavoring to inculcate. Let no one say, in reading this chapter, that too much is here required of sisters; that no one can be expected to lead such a self-sacrificing life; for the sainted one to whom I refer, was all that I would ask my sister to be; and a happier person never lived. ’To do good and make others happy,’ was the rule of her life; and in this she found the art of making herself so." "Brothers will generally be found strongly opposed to the slightest indecorum in sisters. Their fellowship with all sorts of men enables them to judge of the construction put upon certain actions, and modes of dress and speech, much better than women can; and you will do well to take their advice on all such points." "I have been told by men, who had passed unharmed through the temptations of youth, that they owed their escape from many dangers to the intimate companionship of affectionate and pure-minded sisters. They have been saved from a hazardous meeting with idle company by some home engagement, of which their sisters were the charm; they have refrained from mixing with the impure, because they would not bring home thoughts and feelings which they could not share with those trusting and loving friends; they have put aside the wine-cup, because they would not profane with their fumes the holy kiss, with which they were accustomed to bid their sisters good-night." ======================================================================== CHAPTER 14: 02.11. CONDUCT TOWARDS PARENTS ======================================================================== CONDUCT TOWARDS PARENTS It often happens that a daughter possesses greatly superior advantages to those enjoyed, in early years, by either her father or mother. She is not compelled to labor as hard as they were obliged to labor when young; and she is blessed with the means of education far beyond what they had. Her associations, too, are of a different order, all tending to elevate her views of life, to refine her tastes, and to give her admission into a higher grade of society than they were fitted to move in. Unless very watchful of herself and very thoughtful of her parents, a daughter so situated will be led at times to draw comparisons between her own cultivated intellect and taste — and the lack of such cultivation in her parents, and to think indifferently of them, as really inferior, because not so well educated and accomplished as she is. A distrust of their judgment and a disrespect of their opinions will follow, as a natural consequence, if these thoughts and feelings are indulged. This result often takes place with thoughtless, weak-minded girls; and is followed by what is worse, a disregard to their feelings, wishes, and express commands. A sensible daughter, who loves her parents, will hardly forget to whom she is indebted for all the superior advantages she enjoys. She will also readily perceive that the experience which her parents have acquired, and their natural strength of mind, give them a real and great superiority over her, and make their judgment, in all matters of life, far more to be depended upon, than hers could possibly be. It may be that her mother has never learned to play upon the piano, has never been to a dancing-school, has never had anything beyond the merest rudiments of an education; but she has good sense, prudence, industry, economy; understands and practices all the virtues of domestic life; has a clear, discriminating judgment; has been her husband’s faithful friend and adviser for some twenty or thirty years; and has safely guarded and guided her children up to mature years. These evidences of a mother’s title to her respect and fullest confidence cannot long be absent from a daughter’s mind, and will prevent her acting in direct opposition to her judgment. Thoughtless indeed must be that child who can permit an emotion of disrespect towards her parents to dwell in her bosom for more than a single moment! Respect and love towards parents are absolutely necessary to the proper formation of the character, upon that true basis which will bring into just order and subordination all the powers of the mind. Without this order and subordination, there can be no true happiness. A child loves and respects his parents, because from them he derived his being, and from them receives every blessing and comfort. To them, and to them alone, does his mind turn as the authors of all the good gifts he possesses. As a mere child, it is right for him thus to regard his parents as the authors of his being, and the originators of all his blessings. But as reason gains strength and he sees more deeply into the nature and causes of things, which only takes place as the child approaches the years of maturity, it is then seen that the parents were only the agents through which life, and all the blessings accompanying it, came from God, the great Father of all. If the parents have been loved with a truly filial love, then the mind has been suitably opened and prepared for love towards God, and an obedience to his divine laws — without which there can be no true happiness. When this new and higher truth takes possession of the child’s mind, it in no way diminishes his respect for his earthly parents — but increases it. He no longer obeys them because they command obedience — but he regards the truth of their precepts, and in that truth hears the voice of God speaking to him. More than ever is he now careful to listen to their wise counsels, because he perceives in them the authority of reason, which is the authority of God. Most young ladies, on attaining the age of responsibility, will perceive a difference in the manner of their parents. Instead of opposing them, as heretofore, with authority — they will oppose them with reason, where opposition is deemed necessary. The mother, instead of saying, when she disapproves anything, "No, my child, you cannot do it;" or, "No, you must not go, dear;" will say, "I would rather not have you do so;" or, "I do not approve of your going." If you ask her reasons, she will state them, and endeavor to make you comprehend their force. It is far too often the case, that the daughter’s desire to do what her mother disapproves is so active, that neither her mother’s objections nor reasons are strong enough to counteract her wishes, and she follows her own inclinations instead of being guided by her mother’s better judgment. In these instances, she almost always does wrong, and suffers therefrom either bodily or mental pain. Obedience in childhood, is that by which we are led and guided into right actions. When we become men and women, reason takes the place of obedience; but, like a young bird just fluttering from its nest, reason at first has not much strength of wing; and we should therefore allow the reason of those who love us, like the mother-bird, to bear us up in our earlier efforts, lest we fall bruised and wounded to the ground. To whose reason should a young girl look to strengthen her own, so soon as to her mother’s, guided as it is by love? But it too often happens that, under the first impulses of conscious freedom — no voice is regarded but the voice of inclination and passion. The mother may oppose, and warn, and urge the most serious considerations — but the daughter turns a deaf ear to all. She thinks that she knows best. Let us give a case in point. "You are not going tonight, Mary?" said a mother, coming into her daughter’s room, and finding her dressing for a ball. She had been rather seriously indisposed, for some days, with a cold that had fallen upon her throat and chest, which was weak — but was now somewhat better. "I think I will, mother, for I am much better than I was yesterday, and have improved since morning. I have promised myself so much pleasure at this ball, that I cannot think of being disappointed." The mother shook her head. "Mary," she replied, "you are not well enough to go out. The air is damp, and you will inevitably take more cold. Think how badly your throat has been inflamed." "I don’t think it has been so very bad, mother." "The doctor told me it was badly inflamed, and said you would have to be very careful of yourself, or it might prove serious." "That was some days ago. It is a great deal better now." "But the least exposure may cause it to return." "I will be very careful not to expose myself. I will wrap up warm and go in a carriage. I am sure there is not the least danger, mother." "While I am sure that there is very great danger. You cannot pass from the door to the carriage without the damp air striking upon your face, and pressing into your lungs." "But I must not always exclude myself from the air, mother. Air and exercise, you know, the doctor says, are indispensable to health." "Dry, not damp air. This makes the difference. But you must act for yourself, Mary. You are now a woman, and must freely act in the light of that reason which God has given you. Because I love you, and desire your welfare, I thus seek to convince you that it is wrong to expose your health tonight. Your great desire to go blinds you to the real danger, which I can fully see." "You are over-anxious, mother," urged Mary. "I know how I feel, much better than you possibly can, and I know I am well enough to go." "I have nothing more to say, my child," returned the mother. "I wish you to act freely — but wisely. Wisely I am sure you will not act if you go tonight. A temporary illness may not alone be the consequence; your health may receive a shock from which it will never recover." "Mother wishes to frighten me," said Mary to herself, after her mother had left the room. "But I am not to be so easily frightened. I am sorry she makes such a serious matter about my going, for I never like to do anything that is not agreeable to her feelings. But I must go to this ball. William is to call for me at eight, and he would be as much disappointed as myself if I were not to go. As to taking more cold, what of that? I would willingly pay the penalty of a pretty severe cold, rather than miss the ball." Against all her mother’s earnestly urged objections, Mary went with her friend to the ball. She came home, at one o’clock, with a sharp pain through her chest, red spots on her cheeks, oppression of the chest, and considerable fever. On the next morning she was unable to rise from her bed. When the doctor, who was sent for, came in, he looked grave, and asked if there had been any exposure by which a fresh cold could be taken. "She was at the ball last night," replied the mother. "Not with your approval, madam!" he said quickly, looking with a stern expression into the mother’s face. "No, doctor. I urged her not to go; but Mary thought she knew best. She did not believe there was any danger." A strong expression rose to the doctor’s lips — but he repressed it, lest he should needlessly alarm the patient. On retiring from her chamber, he declared the case to be a very critical one; and so it proved to be. Mary did not leave her room for some months; and when she did, it was with a constitution so impaired that she could not endure the slightest fatigue, nor bear the least exposure. Neither change of climate nor medicine availed anything towards restoring her to health. In this feeble state, she married, about twelve months afterwards, the young man who had accompanied her to the ball. One year from the period at which that happy event took place, she died, leaving to stranger hands a babe that needed all her tenderest care, and a husband almost broken-hearted at his loss. This is not merely a picture from the imagination, and highly colored. It is from nature, and every line is drawn with the pencil of truth. Hundreds of young women yearly sink into the grave, whose friends can trace to some similar act of imprudence, committed in direct opposition to the earnest persuasions of parents or friends, the cause of their premature decay and death. And too often other, and sometimes even worse, consequences than death, follow a disregard of the mother’s voice of warning. Let no young lady, then, consider herself free to follow the impulse of her own feelings, because she is no longer under the authority of her parents. Let her remember that she is still to live in the strictest obedience — obedience to reason — and that, at her tender age, her own reason is not sufficiently matured — but must be strengthened and guided towards sound conclusions by the experience of others. To her parents she must, therefore, still look; and she is as much bound to obey the voice of reason speaking through them, as she was before bound to obey the voice of authority. If heedless of this voice of reason thus speaking — then she must not wonder if she commits serious errors, that may entail upon her years, it may be a lifetime, of suffering and repentance. From what has been said, let it not be supposed that a young lady should not cultivate the habit of thinking for herself, nor seek the guidance of her own reason, properly enlightened. No; this is essential to the moral health and true well-being of every individual. All that is meant is, that every young lady should willingly receive the aid of others’ reason and experience, to enable her to decide in her own mind what is right for her to do under certain circumstances. So much inclined will she be to act from feeling and impulse, that she will find all such aids of the first importance; and she will be in much more danger of acting from her own impulses and passions, and thus acting wrong, than she will be of acting blindly from the advice of parents or friends. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 15: 02.12. EQUALITY OF THE SEXES ======================================================================== EQUALITY OF THE SEXES Singularly enough, we have in this day a class of intellectual ladies, who boldly contend for the absolute equality of the sexes, and who write books for the purpose of proving this doctrine, and spreading it throughout society. As far as we are able to understand what they do believe, we infer that they hold the only radical difference that exists between a man and a woman to be the difference of physical difference — the social difference that is seen everywhere, arising from man’s superior physical power, by which he is able to keep woman in subjection. Some of the books written by advocates of these doctrines contain views of a most pernicious character, striking still more deeply at the very foundations of social well-being. As might be supposed, few of their writers understand or teach what is true in regard to marriage. And this is no matter of wonder; for how can anyone, who is not able to see the true difference between the sexes, teach what is true in regard to their union? In order to guard our young friends against the false reasonings, and equally false conclusions, of these advocates of the equality of the sexes, we will, in as plain and comprehensive a way as possible, set forth what is the true relation of one gender to the other; and in doing this we must explain the radical difference. As to equality in itself, this, no doubt, exists; but it is in the equal right of both to be useful and happy in the particular spheres for which God created them. The main point of equality which is contended for, and upon which all the rest is made to depend, is intellectual equality; and here the great error is committed, and it is committed by "intellectual" or "masculine" women, who hold the same false relation to their gender, that "effeminate" men hold to theirs. It is a little curious that the first use made, by these intellectual women, of their great mental powers, is to lead their followers into a most dangerous error! That there does exist as great a difference between the mental as between the physical structure of the sexes, is clear, from common perception, to almost everyone. That it must be so, will be seen from this: Every physical form that we see in nature is the outbirth of some spiritual and invisible cause; and the peculiarity of its form and quality depends solely upon the peculiarity of its cause. The cause that produces a rose is different from that which produces a lily, and ever remains different. The cause that produces a lion is different from that which produces a lamb. It is not circumstances, the peculiarity of education, nor any other external thing, that makes this difference, for it is radical. And as this is true in the broader, so is it true in all the minuter — shades of difference that exist in the world of nature. If there be any difference in form, there is a corresponding difference, be it ever so minute, in the producing cause. Keeping this in view, it may readily be seen, that what makes man a man, and woman a woman, is not the body — but the mind; and, as the body is formed from, by, or through the mind as a cause, the mind of a man must be different from the mind of a woman, because he has a different external conformation. This difference is not a slight one; it is a difference that pervades every part of the body. The question now comes — "In what does this difference specifically consist?" Before attempting to answer this fully, let it be remarked, that this difference is a uniting difference, not a separating one; and that inherent in the two sexes is an instinct that tends to a union of one with the other. This union, let it be further stated, is necessary to the formation of a perfect being: until it does take place, both the man and the woman must be, in a certain sense, imperfect — he only a thinking person, and she only a loving person. But when it is effected, then both unite to form one truly perfect person, with thought and affection in their fullest power. As clearly as it is possible for us to do it, will we now endeavor to show in what the difference of the sexes consists. The mind is composed of two faculties, Will and Understanding; the one the seat of affection, and the other the seat of thought. The brain is that organ by which the mind acts, and is marked by two grand divisions, the cerebrum and the cerebellum. The cerebrum occupies the highest and anterior part of the skull, while the cerebellum, or little brain, as it is sometimes called, occupies the lower and posterior part of the skull. It is by means of the cerebellum that the will acts, and by means of the cerebrum that the understanding acts. By the will, affections are excited; and by the understanding, thoughts. The will feels, or loves; the understanding thinks. The understanding is the agent of the will, and bodies forth or gives forms to its peculiar affections. The will is a person’s life or love, and the understanding is only the means by which the life or love of a person comes into activity, and thence into power. By keeping this division in the mind, the difference between the sexes, when stated, will be clearly apparent. A man has will and understanding, and a cerebellum and cerebrum by which they act; and so has a woman. In this they are alike. But in man the understanding predominates, and in woman the will; and here they are different. If this is so, we may, of course, expect to find a larger development of the cerebrum, or upper brain, in man, and a larger development of the cerebellum, or lower brain, in woman; and this is so. A man’s head is higher, and fuller in front, than a woman’s; while a woman’s head is broader and larger posterior than a man’s. From this it will be seen that man has a will and an understanding; and so has a woman; that both are thinking and loving beings — but that in one the understanding or intellect preponderates, and in the other the will or affections; and therefore to claim mental equality is absurd. A man is not equal to a woman, nor a woman equal to a man. As to the question of superiority, we leave that for others to decide; merely stating, however, that the will has reference to good, and the understanding to truth; the affections regarding quality or good, and the understanding being merely the discriminating power by which truth is perceived. Some think good higher than truth; and this is our own opinion. Good is, in fact, the essence, and truth the form, of a thing. The true difference between the sexes, is that which we have just stated. Now, let any sensible woman reflect upon the nature of this difference, and she will at once see that the claim of equality which is set up is altogether an erroneous one, and that the attempt to make woman equal in the way some contend that she should be, would be to do the greatest possible wrong, both to herself and society. That she has not the strong intellectual power that man possesses, no woman — but one blinded by her own pride and self-love, will for a moment attempt to maintain. There are men of weak intellect, and women of strong intellect; but take the whole mass of women and the whole mass of men, and everyone can see that there is an immense preponderance of intellect in the one over the other. By intellect do not understand us to say mind: we are only speaking of a faculty of the mind by which man is peculiarly distinguished. Love, the sweeter, purer, stronger quality of mind, is womanly. In the beginning, God made man male and female. There is a deep significance in this peculiar language. It is said in the Bible, speaking of a man and his wife, that the two shall be one flesh. And the common perception of mankind, brought down into common language, is, that "a man and his wife are one." This is not a mere figure of speech, a beautiful idealism. It is the truth. A man and his wife, truly so, are one. Now, how can two things, precisely alike, become one? A man and a man are alike, and so are a woman and a woman; but they cannot become one. There needs to be a uniting difference; and this we have in the preponderance of intellect in man, and affection in woman; and their union, mystical and holy, is needed to make one truly perfect, effective person. Of the nature of this mystical union we had thought of speaking here at some length; but the subject is rather difficult of comprehension, and hardly in place in a work like this. It follows, from what has been said, that marriage is essential to human perfection. This we firmly believe; and we also believe that where marriage is opposed from principle, (it never is from any other than a selfish principle,) the mind becomes perverted from its true order, and the intellect weakened. It may seem to some, that to say equality of the sexes is not the true mode of speaking, as a denial of this equality, leaves on the mind an idea of inferiority of one to the other. To some, the terms used will doubtless convey this meaning. The difficulty of choosing terms that express with perfect exactness what we desire to convey, is often very great, especially as to the same set of terms different people attach peculiar, and sometimes very important, shades of difference. By equal, as used in this chapter, is meant being alike as to mental conformation and mental power — which is denied. As to which is highest or lowest, superior or inferior — that is another matter. Here we believe woman to be the equal of man; not born to obedience — but to be his intelligent and loving companion. Let no young woman be deceived by the class of reformers, to which we made allusion in the commencement of this chapter. Some of them, stepping out of the sphere for which God and their own peculiar mental qualities designed them, speak with scoffing of the holy state of wedlock. No good, in any case, has ever arisen — but much evil, from the promulgation of their pernicious doctrines. Man, they are too much in the habit of representing as a selfish tyrant, and woman as his plaything or slave; and they are full of intemperate appeals to their gender to throw off the yoke that man has placed upon their necks. That there are men who are selfish tyrants, and make slaves of their wives — is not to be denied; but just as many women tyrannize over their husbands. These form the exceptions, not the rule; and to judge of all, by these exceptions, shows either a weak head or a bad heart. As far as we have observed these social reformers, we find that the great evil complained of, the head and front of all the wrong they suffer — lies in the necessity there is for the female gender to attend to domestic duties, while man steps abroad into the world, and makes himself a name and a place therein. They complain that every avenue to wealth, place, and preferment, is blocked up by men, and that a woman is not permitted, by the absurd customs of society, to contend for honors and wealth — but must meekly withdraw into her little circle at home, and be content with her husband’s honor, or the portion of his wealth he may choose to dole out to her. With this idea set steadily before their minds, at the same time that they are profoundly ignorant of what really makes the difference between man and woman, they see nothing but wrong and oppression in the usages of society, and charge upon man the authorship of what is only the legitimate result of a law impressed by the hand of God upon the human mind. In thus speaking, it is not meant to deny that many evils exist in society, and that women do not suffer sorely from these evils. This, alas! we know too well. But that which is pointed out by the people we allude to, as the cause, is not the true one. There is something really so absurd and revolting in the idea of taking woman out of her present sphere, and her present high and holy uses in society, and placing her side by side with man in the world’s rough arena, and in contest with him for honor, and fame, and wealth, that we cannot seriously argue against it. We have deemed it sufficient to show that, in the very nature of things, such can never be the case. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 16: 02.13. CONDUCT TOWARDS MEN ======================================================================== CONDUCT TOWARDS MEN There are two extremes which we constantly see among young women on first going into company, and coming into the society of men. The one is a simpering bashfulness, which looks and is very silly; while the other is exhibited in a bold, free air, that is even more offensive to good sense and propriety. A little more confidence will correct the one — and a little more modesty the other. Both are exceedingly unpleasant to meet with, though the former is much more tolerable to men of true feeling and discernment than the latter. These latter will always find plenty of young men ready to gossip, and flirt, and take liberties of speech with them — which the self-respect of any modest girl would cause her at once to repel; but the crowd they gather around them is far from being a crowd of real admirers; or, if weak enough to admire, they are far from being such admirers as a true woman would wish to have. They are mostly silly boys, or men who have lost all true respect for woman. On first going into company, a pure-minded, truly modest, inexperienced girl, will naturally feel a degree of reserve and embarrassment, especially on meeting with and being introduced to strange young men. This feeling of reserve she should not seek to throw off, unless the men have received their introduction to her through her father or brother, or some particular friend of the family, in whom her parents evidently place great confidence. When this is the case, politeness requires that she should endeavor to make herself agreeable and entertaining to the person so introduced, by joining in conversation with him upon some general topic, instead of merely replying in monosyllables to every remark he may offer — a custom that is very annoying to a person who is politely endeavoring to entertain another. Don’t say that you cannot do it — that you don’t know what to say. Compose your mind, and think, and thought will soon dictate what you ought to say. If, however, the person who is seeking your acquaintance, has been introduced, without your consent, by someone other than your father, brother, or your parents’ particular friend, you cannot be too reserved towards him. You have no guaranty for his character or his principles, and therefore you should not let him be upon easy and familiar terms with you. In regard to her acquaintances of the other gender, a young lady cannot be too particular. It is no proof that a young man is worthy to be numbered among her friends, because he is well dressed, good looking, converses intelligently, and visits at the house, or attends the parties given by this, that, or the other respectable person. The error of believing this is a too common — but a very dangerous one. Unfortunately, such evidences are no proofs of true respectability and virtue. As society is now constituted, the worst class of young men, as well as the best, are equally free to mingle in fashionable circles: all that is needed to give them access are family, education, and good manners. The most depraved, alike with the most virtuous — may possess these external advantages. How often is it the case that we see a young man, whose habits are as bad as a depraved heart can make them, in close and friendly conversation, and, it may be, impiously venturing to touch the hand of a pure-minded, innocent girl, who, if the quality of his mind could be made apparent to her, would shrink from him with horror! It is, we regret to say, an almost every-day occurrence. To prevent this as far as possible, a young lady should decline all proposed introductions, unless made by her nearest and best friends — those whom she knows to be discriminating, and who have her welfare deeply at heart. If introductions are forced upon her without her consent, she can do no less than treat the person so introduced with politeness; but she should limit the acquaintance to the particular occasion. Afterwards she should be careful to treat the individual as a stranger. If he, however, taking advantage of his introduction, should force himself upon her, she should not treat him with rudeness — no lady will do that — but with a degree of coldness that will sooner or later cause him to feel that his acquaintance is not agreeable. Reserve like this, is absolutely necessary to the protection of a pure-hearted maiden, in a society constituted as ours at present is. The semblances of all that is honorable and noble-minded are so perfect, that even mature age, with all its penetration, cannot sometimes see through the veil which hides corruption and moral deformity, much less the eyes of a young and inexperienced girl. Treated by the other gender as a woman, a maiden of seventeen, eighteen, or even twenty, is apt to forget that she knows little or nothing of the world, and that her knowledge of character is very limited. All around her, it seems as if a book were laid open, and she has but to read and obtain the fullest information on whatever appertains to life. But she has yet to learn that she sees only the appearances of things — and that realities are hidden beneath them, and cannot be seen by her except through the eyes of those who are older and more experienced. If she will believe this, it will make her modest and reserved; modesty and reserve will make her thoughtful; thinking is the mind’s seeing power, and by it, and it alone, will a young lady be able to see for herself what is right, and form her own judgment of the world into which she has been introduced, and where she has an important part to act as a woman. The men with whom she comes in contact are often from two to three, and sometimes from six to seven, years older than herself. They have seen more and thought more than she has. The first deceitful appearances of life have passed away with them, and they can see beneath the surface. When in company with men, therefore, a young lady should seek rather to follow than lead in the conversation; for, by doing this, she will gain much useful information and many desirable hints in regard to manners, character, social usages, books, and various other matters useful to be known. If, as will not infrequently be the case, young men begin some trifling chit-chat about fashion, or idle gossip, or calls attention to some peculiarity of dress, person, or manner in individuals present — a young lady should as adroitly as possible change the subject, and endeavor to lead her companion into a conversation on topics of more interest and importance. If she fails in doing this, she should maintain a rigid silence on the subjects introduced; they are unworthy of her, and their introduction should be felt as no compliment. It may be, that her companion is not able to talk about anything more sensible; if that is the case, the quicker he seeks to entertain those like him, the better, and a young lady of good sense will think stooping to gossip with him too dear a price to pay for his favorable opinion. Never converse with young men about your own private and personal matters, nor of the concerns of your family. They are merely your acquaintances — not your confidential friends, and never should be admitted to that distinction. Some young men will take a dishonorable advantage of such things, and repeat what you have said in order to make it appear that you entertain for them a particular preference. If what you have really said is not sufficient to give that construction to it, they will add a little coloring, so as to make it suit their purpose. Many a young lady, could she hear her own words repeated, with a certain construction placed upon them by young men, would weep with shame and mortification. It is impossible for you to be too guarded in this particular. If you could but once hear, as the writer has dozens of times heard, young men, after spending an evening in free, social fellowship with young ladies, relate what this, that, and the other one said to them, and the manner of saying it, with the construction placed upon both words and manner — you would almost be tempted to seal your lips in silence when again in company. In matters like this, the vanity of some young men causes them to see far more than ever existed. Be modest, thoughtful, and rather reserved — than free in your manner; repel with coldness and silence, all familiarity; take but little part in romantic conversations, if introduced, and repress any free expression of admiration for poetry, starlight, and moonshine, no matter how strong you may feel it. Be careful how you compliment a young man’s appearance, his manners, or his talents; and, above all, let your intentions and thoughts be right, and you need not fear any serious misjudgment of your feelings or character. Among the errors which young ladies are very prone to commit is one that all men notice, and which some men feel to be very annoying, especially as the error, in too many cases, is one that mature years does not seem to correct. In this country, politeness, deference, and attention to ladies, are considered cardinal virtues among well-bred men. The best places at table, the most comfortable seats in public conveyances, the most delicate and choice viands at a meal — in fact, everything that is most comfortable, or that can at all be a matter of preference — is generously yielded by gentlemen to ladies, not as their right — but from feelings of kindness, or from the dictate of that genuine politeness that always prefers another. So habitual is this to gentlemen, that a young lady meeting with deference and attention everywhere, is apt to fall into the error of supposing that it belongs to her gender as a right, instead of being yielded by good feeling. We can suppose no other to be the reason why so many ladies, instead of waiting for these preferences to be shown, boldly claim them; or, when shown, never seem to imagine that a polite acknowledgment of the kindness is the smallest return they can make. How often do we see a lady at a concert, or other public place, walk deliberately up to a gentleman who has come much earlier than she has, in order to secure a good seat, and stand in front of him, with a look or manner that says, as plain as words, "Come, sir! give place. I wish to have that seat." The same rudeness and lack of respect to the rights of the other gender, are daily seen by those who ride in the omnibuses. The coach is stopped, and a lady of this class comes to the door for the purpose of entering, and finds every seat taken. Instead of at once retiring, she coolly waits for the gentleman nearest the door to get out of the vehicle, in order that she may get in; and it most generally happens that, for the sake of appearances alone, some one of them yields his place — no matter whether he is too much indisposed to walk without great fatigue, or be in haste on important business — and the lady gets in, perfectly unconscious of the fact that every one of her male fellow-passengers feels that she has trespassed upon their good feelings as men. The true lady, the moment she discovers that the coach is full, retires; but it is very rarely that she is not immediately recalled by someone, who says he has but a short distance farther to go, or who will stand outside, or who professes to be in no hurry, and would just as soon walk as ride. When pains are thus taken to make room for a lady, she should, in most cases, accept the offered seat with an expression of thanks, as, by so doing, she will afford the person who offers it far more pleasure than if she were to decline the politeness. There is often more lady-like feeling displayed in accepting an offered kindness, than in declining it. It is not a little curious to see how these very ladies, who expect so much from gentlemen, seem to forget that anything is due from themselves. Who has not come to the door of an omnibus, one side of which had its complement of six, while upon the other side four ladies had spread themselves out, from end to end of the seat, not one of whom would move an inch to make place for another, who had an absolute right to a part they were ungenerously occupying? It is usually a matter of indifference whether the new passenger are a lady or a gentleman; no offer of a seat is made, and the passenger has to retire, while the owners of the vehicle are wronged out of a portion of their profits. All these things are noticed in a moment by gentlemen, and form subjects of remark among them. Some, with more independent firmness than others, make it a rule never to yield their rights to any woman who thus rudely demands a deference to her convenience; while to a true lady, they voluntarily render every attention, and yield every preference. Young ladies should, on entering society, learn to think correctly, that they may act correctly, in all matters relating to their fellowship with gentlemen. By always remembering that they have no real title to a preference in everything, they will be sure to receive with a proper feeling, and a proper acknowledgment of the kindness, all polite attentions and preferences that are accorded to them by the other gender. Instead of expecting to be always receiving attentions from gentlemen, there should be an effort made to reciprocate kind offices in every possible and proper way. The preference yielded, the attention offered, the generous self-denial made for your comfort, at the same time that it is accepted, should always be retained with an air that shows that you feel it to be a favor, and not a right to which you are entitled. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 17: 02.14. CHARACTER OF THE MEN WHO ARE RECEIVED AS VISITORS RECEIVING ATTENTIONS FROM MEN ======================================================================== Character of the Men Who Are Received as Visitors A young lady always has it in her power to limit her visiting acquaintances to those whose characters she fully approves. And this she owes it to herself to do. In forming an estimate of character, a young lady will always find some difficulty, because she must be ignorant of a young man’s habits, if bad, except so far as a knowledge of them happens to come to her through common report. To a very considerable extent, however, the instinctive perceptions of a virtuous young woman will materially aid her in forming an estimate of the young men into whose society she is thrown. If, from the first, the presence of anyone is repugnant to her, she will do well to avoid the society of that person, no matter how perseveringly he may seek to gain her good opinion. Around the mind of everyone is a sphere of its quality, as certainly as fragrance surrounds a flower; and this quality is perceived in attractions or repulsions, by all who are similar or dissimilar. The good are instinctively drawn towards each other — and so are the evil, without the real cause coming into the mind’s consciousness. The quality of the affections, likewise, whether good or evil, are expressed in the eye and on the face; and although we have no key to their interpretation, and cannot say, except in certain cases, what the mind’s true quality is, from what it stamps upon the face, yet we have an instinctive perception of it as good or evil, and are repelled or attracted involuntarily. To her first impressions of character, it will, therefore, always be well for a young lady to pay great respect, and always admit with caution, anyone who was at first repugnant to a friendly relation. She who will keep her mind pure, and carefully observe and be guided by her first impressions of character, will not be in much danger of making the acquaintance of young men of bad moral principles. But this test is not always practical, and, from many causes not necessary to be explained here, not always to be relied upon. Nor will the dislikes and prejudices of a young lady, as they will be called, always be considered by her friends as sufficient reasons for her declining the visits of certain young men who to them seem very unexceptionable. If she has brothers, their unfavorable opinion of a young man, even if no allegations are made against him, should generally be considered by a young lady, as a sufficient reason for keeping him at a distance. Her brothers have opportunities of knowing more about young men than she possibly has; for among young men, the habits and principles of each other are pretty well known. If she is in doubt, let her ask her mother’s opinion; and sufficient evidence to warrant a young man’s encouragement or repulsion as a visitor, will, in most cases, be soon furnished. When the character of a young man is known to be bad — if he has betrayed innocence, or been guilty of any dishonorable act — let him not, on any consideration, be admitted to a visiting acquaintance, nor, even in public assemblies, noticed, except with coldness and formality. His family connections, his education, manners, polish, intelligence, or ability to entertain — should be considered as nothing when put in the scale against his evil principles, and the irreparable wrong he has done in society. It has always been a matter of surprise and regret to the writer to see so different a custom from this prevailing in society; and he has often been led to question the purity of mind of those young girls who seemed so eager to gain the notice and return the attentions of certain young men, notorious for their lack of virtue. Until women themselves mark with appropriate condemnation, the known wicked conduct of young men, and rigidly exclude all such from intimate fellowship with them, they allow the moral atmosphere around them to remain in an unhealthy state; and its respiration, as a natural consequence, is detrimental to all who breathe it. One reason, and a most important one, why a young lady should not admit to a friendly acquaintance any young man whom she has not the very best reasons for believing to be virtuous and honorable, is this: The highest and best, and therefore the happiest, social relation is that of marriage. A young lady cannot visit young men for the purpose of making a selection of a husband; she has to remain at home and wait until someone chooses her out from all the rest, and asks her to become his partner through life. This is a matter in which, although she must remain passive, she is deeply and vitally interested; and she cannot but desire that her hand may be sought by one who has every virtue written upon his heart. To accept or reject an offer of marriage is always in her power, and this right she should exercise with deliberation, wisdom, and firmness. It will almost always follow, that he who seeks her hand will be of those who have been for a time her visiting friends, and with whom she has been on terms of more unrestrained fellowship than with any others. Viewed in this light, the importance of not admitting any but men of known excellence of character as visiting friends, will be clearly seen; for it may happen, that, if this rule is not followed, the most unsuitable, because the most unprincipled of all — may be the one who makes the offer of marriage; and the young woman thus addressed may be led, from being flattered by the preference, and dazzled by a specious exterior — to forget or disbelieve the common estimation in which he is everywhere held, and accept an offer which may entail upon her a lifetime of regrets, and perhaps of misery! It will, likewise, almost always happen that a young lady will be judged of by the company she keeps. A man of strict integrity and virtue, will be very apt to think lightly of any one at whose house he meets a person that he knows to be bad, especially if he seems to be on good terms there; and he will also be very apt to visit less frequently than would otherwise be the case. Thus, for lack of sufficient firmness, it may be, to repel the advances of a bad man — a young lady may have to give up the benefits of the society of a good man — a consequence that she should be most careful to avoid. In selecting from her casual acquaintances those that she feels willing and desirous of admitting to the privilege of visiting her on terms of social intimacy, a young lady should be careful that brilliant qualities of mind, a cultivated taste, and superior conversational powers — do not overcome her virtuous repugnance to base principles and a depraved life; or cause her to forget that these may exist under the most polished exterior! Those who possess sterling qualities of virtue, are not always as highly gifted as some others, and often, at first, seem very dull and very uninteresting people. Their silent and close observation of all that is passing around them, is frequently mistaken for dullness, when, at the very time this false estimation of them has been formed, they have read thoroughly, and without mistaking a letter, the whole characters of those who had misjudged them. No matter how well educated a young man may be, nor how varied may be his powers of entertainment — no young lady should permit him to visit her familiarly, if she has undoubted evidence of his moral depravity. There is pollution in the very atmosphere that surrounds him. The more attractive his exterior — the more dangerous he is as a companion for a young and inexperienced girl, and the more likely to dazzle and bewilder her mind, and give her false estimates of things, where true estimates are of the very first importance. A young lady who admits to her acquaintance a well-educated, polished, accomplished — but cold-hearted, unprincipled man of the world, has placed herself in a dangerous position. She is no equal for such a one. He can, with a subtlety almost beyond the power of her detection, change her ordinary views of things, confuse her judgment, and destroy her rational confidence in the discriminating powers of her own mind. At the same time that, by the most judicious and delicately-offered flattery — he keeps her always in a good opinion of herself. All this may be done without his having any particular design in view. He is fond of the company of ladies, and, while with them, from the abundance of his heart, will utterance come forth. In choosing her acquaintances, then, let a young lady look to good sense, good taste, and good principles — rather than to brilliancy of exterior without these. In doing so, she will find more upon which to base a true, improving, elevating, and refining companionship, than if she selects from a different but more imposing class. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 18: 02.15. RECEIVING ATTENTIONS FROM MEN ======================================================================== RECEIVING ATTENTIONS FROM MEN As there is always danger of misunderstanding what is meant by the particular attentions of young men, it is best to attach no particular meaning to them whatever — but to hold the mind in a state of rational equilibrium. If a young girl does not think about marriage and a lover, she will not be in much danger of misinterpreting either the words or manner of her male acquaintances — nor will they be in much danger of making mistakes as to the character of her regard for them. In the free, social fellowship of a young lady with her friends of the other gender, the idea of love, or a particular preference of one over the other, should never be permitted to enter her mind. She should look upon them as her intelligent friends, and feel that their association was for mutual advantage in elevating the mind, improving the taste, and strengthening the moral principles. It will frequently happen, however, that some of her acquaintances will be more marked in their attentions than the rest, and, from the privilege of being occasional visitors, seek to establish a still more familiar and unreserved fellowship. This will be shown, it may be, in the offer of presents, and in invitations to attend balls, the theater, a concert, or some other place of public resort. In regard to presents, a lady of much good sense and true discernment has thus written: "Accepting presents from gentlemen is a dangerous thing. Some men conclude from your taking one gift, that you will accept another — and think themselves encouraged by it to offer their hearts to you; but, even when no misapprehension of this kind follows, it is better to avoid every such obligation; and, if you make it a general rule never to accept a present from a gentleman, you will avoid hurting any one’s feelings, and save yourself from all further perplexity. Where ladies are known to be in the habit of refusing presents, and yet are objects of great admiration and devotion, they will often receive anonymous gifts, which it is impossible to elude. When this is the case, it is a good way to put them aside, out of sight, and never to mention them. The pleasure of seeing them on your table, and hearing them talked about, and the donor’s name speculated upon, is often sufficient to induce a repetition of the anonymous deed, or an acknowledgment of it, which is very embarrassing, as you must either break your rule, or hurt the feelings of the donor. Of all the votive offerings made to the young and the fair, flowers are the most beautiful and most acceptable. Where it is the fashion for gentlemen to present bouquets to their female friends, so many are given that it seems more like a tribute to the gender, than a mark of particular regard, and their perishable nature exempts them from the ban put upon more enduring memorials. You can accept and wear flowers without committing yourself, and to refuse them would be unnecessary rigor. If any peculiar circumstance makes you desirous of distancing a gentleman, you can take the flowers without wearing them." In regard to invitations from young men to go with them to places of public amusement, we think, as a general rule, they should be declined. And this for several reasons. We do not believe any young lady should appear at a ball, the theater, or concert, except in company with her parents, brother, cousin, or some very intimate friend of the family — unless she is under engagement of marriage, and then her lover becomes her legitimate protector and companion. In the first place, to accept of such attentions would be for a young lady to lay herself under an obligation that might, at some after period, be very embarrassing, or so interfere with her feelings of independence, as to make it difficult for her to act towards an individual, who had thus sought to gratify her, as both feeling and judgment dictated. And in the second place, her thus appearing in public with a young man known not to be an intimate friend of the family, would naturally give rise to the belief that she entertained for him a preference which did not exist, and thus place her in a false light in the eyes of her acquaintances; and this would more certainly be the case, if some other friend, whose invitation she felt compelled to decline, were to offer a like attention. If a young lady is fond of riding on horseback, and among her male acquaintances are those who are equally fond of the healthful exercise, there will be no impropriety in her accepting an invitation to ride, if one or more young ladies are to be of the company. But, in doing so, she should make it a rule always to have the horse she is to ride ordered from the stable by a servant, at her own or father’s expense. It may so happen that the circumstances of a young lady’s family are such, that the hire of a horse, even occasionally, is a matter of outlay that cannot be afforded. Where this is the case, she ought by all means to deny herself the gratification of riding out, rather than permit any young man, not her accepted lover, to bear the expense. We need hardly refer to the outrageous lack of all decent respect for herself, which would prompt a young lady to invite, by adroit references to an approaching concert, or to her extreme fondness for horseback exercise, a young man to be at the cost of gratifying the desire she feels to participate in these, or in any other pleasures. And yet such things are of too frequent occurrence, and among those who ought to have much better sense, and more modesty, than to even desire to be the companions of young men not entitled to the privilege, on such occasions. Those who do it, gain the pleasure of present gratification — at the expense of diminished respect in the eyes of the very men who seemed to take so much delight in obliging them. But little flattered would a young lady, who had been guilty of so flagrant a violation of good sense, good manners, and politeness, feel, to overhear a conversation like this: "Didn’t I see you at Hertz’s concert with Caroline Thompson?" "Yes." "How in the world did you come to have that honor?" The young man addressed shrugs his shoulders and arches his eyebrows — but makes no reply. "How was it, Harry? Tell me! I had no idea of your being particularly taken in that quarter." "Nor am I very much taken. The fact is, I couldn’t help myself." "Indeed!" "No, the gypsy asked me to take her, and I couldn’t refuse, of course." "O, no, Harry! That can’t be. Caroline Thompson would hardly do that." "She could — and she did. Not, it is true, in so many words; but she talked about Hertz’s concert in such a way that she left me no alternative but to ask her if I could not have the pleasure of accompanying her to his concert. I was in hopes she would have the good taste, on reflection, to decline; but no, she took me up on the spot! And I was compelled to go with her, and leave my sister Jane, who is almost dying to hear this great performer, at home." "Is it possible! Why, I never heard of such a thing. The girl cannot have a particle of respect for herself." "If she has, it is a very strange kind of respect. I wonder whom she will get to take her to Sivori’s concert. She alluded to him two or three times — but couldn’t make me understand her. Suppose you invite her to go." "O, no, thank you. I’d rather be excused. I’m not at all ambitious of the honor." "Nor I. The next time I am in her company, and any allusion is made to an approaching concert, I will change the subject!" But little flattered, we repeat, would any young lady feel to overhear a conversation like this, of which she was the subject; and yet this is precisely the light in which conduct such as we now allude to is viewed, and young men do not hesitate to speak of it, among each other, in even stronger terms than we have given. Before a young lady reaches the age of twenty years, she should, as a general rule, discourage all particular attentions from young men, and endeavor to hold her mind as balanced and independent in regard to all her male acquaintances as possible. The subject of marriage, except as an abstract question upon which certain opinions are held, should never be allowed to come up when thinking of, or in company with, her young friends and acquaintances. To have a lover before she is twenty, is, in most cases, a misfortune for a young girl. In nine cases out of ten, this lover is not the one that would be accepted if the affections were free at twenty or twenty-one. The love of boys and girls is never founded upon a true basis — but is merely the offspring of blind passion. It may turn out well. The parties, when their minds expand, and they become men and women — may be exactly suited to each other; but the chances are altogether against it. Nor is the love of a man, whose mind has attained maturity, for a girl who is still too young to wisely accept an offer of marriage — a love that promises happiness as the fruit. He cannot know her as a man ought to know the woman who becomes his wife — nor can she possibly know him as a woman ought to know the man she marries. Viewing the matter, then, in any light you please, the acceptance of a lover before twenty involves a great risk. If to accept a lover before this age is, then, a hazardous thing — then the permission of any marked attentions from any particular young man is unwise. Better treat all alike, and endeavor to feel for all alike; that is, as nearly as it can be done. Of course there must and will be preferences; but let these be the preferences of your taste and judgment, not of your heart. Thus, holding your affections free at this most important age, when the mind is first looking out intelligently upon the world, you will acquire a clearness of mental vision, a power of discrimination, and an insight into character — otherwise unattainable. But, if you permit yourself to fall in love, the balance of your mind is gone; you see nothing, you hear nothing, you feel nothing, that does not in some way connect itself with the object of your affections. All improvement of the mind ceases; the judgment, not yet arrived at its full stature, ceases to grow, and hardens into a diminutive form; your powers of discrimination expand no farther. You stop where you are, and rarely, if ever, make a woman whose influence in society is beneficially perceived. This is blind love — a very different thing from the strong, deep, intelligent affection of a true woman. How any man can be satisfied with the immature love of a silly young girl is beyond our conception. Indeed, we do not believe, as a general thing, that a man who is thus satisfied — is worthy of the affections he seeks to gain. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 19: 02.16. EARLY MARRIAGES ======================================================================== EARLY MARRIAGES On the subject of early marriages, a diversity of opinions prevails; and they generally swing, like the pendulum of a clock, from one extreme to the other. A young lady will hear someone strongly advocate early marriages today, and tomorrow hear an opposite opinion advanced and vigorously maintained. It is but rarely the case, that those who enter into these discussions really understand the subject of marriage, and therefore cannot declare what is absolutely true on this disputed question. And, besides, what one means by early marriage is a different thing from what another means. In most cases, these opinions are based upon the evil or good that has happened to result from what are considered early marriages, in instances which have fallen under the notice of those who advocate or condemn, instead of flowing from a knowledge of the true laws that ought to govern in marriage. The writer is an advocate of early marriages between men and women — not between boys and girls. That which makes man truly a man, and woman truly a woman, is rationality — not the legal age. Freedom from the restraints of youth, and an acquirement of the legal rights of majority, are very far from giving this. It comes from experience, to which have been added thinking and observation. Nothing is seen in its true aspect, when we first enter upon life; and it is only after our judgments have been matured by a few years of experience, that we can really see things around us in their true relation one to the other. A few years, too, makes us see not only deeper into what is outside of us — but also into what is within us; and scarcely a month of this period passes without our being led to correct some error or misconception into which we had fallen. If, during this period, mistakes are constantly made in matters of trivial importance — then what security is there that a mistake will not be made in that most important of all the acts of a woman’s life — marriage? There is none, and the fact that the saddest possible mistakes are made almost every day, ought to warn, if proper reflection will not — a young lady against the error of permitting her affections to be drawn out before at least two years have passed from the time of her leaving school as a young woman. Usually, she has it in her power to do this. Marriage from the age of twenty to twenty-two or three, we think an early marriage for a woman, and believe that evils almost always arise from an earlier consummation of a marriage contract. Mr. Combe is of opinion, "that many young people of both sexes fall as sacrifices to early marriages, who might have withstood the ordinary risks of life, and lived together in happiness, if they had delayed their union for a few years, and allowed time for the consolidation of their constitutions." And this must strike every reflecting mind as true, without the necessity of looking around to see the hundreds of young mothers with shattered constitutions, lingering over the grave, or sinking down into its chilling precincts. Neither physical nor mental health can follow a marriage that takes place too early. It is almost impossible to make a right choice, and the constitution is not well enough formed to bear the great physical changes that usually occur. If young ladies would learn to think above the fact of marriage, and not consider it a state in which they were merely to find the highest possible delight attainable on earth — but a state in which they could be most useful, and impart blessings and dispense happiness to others — they would not rush so thoughtlessly into this important relation — but would be very sure that what they loved in another was really worth loving, and that they were loved in return for their mental and moral qualities, and not merely for their external beauty. True love — that which abides — has its foundation in a knowledge and appreciation of moral qualities. These cannot be known without the power of discerning them, and this power is not sufficiently developed, in very young people, to enable them to decide upon the fitness of another to become a wife or a husband. Family connections, talents, beauty of person, and exterior grace, may all be decided upon; but other qualifications are required — without which marriage is only an external union — that call for a deeper discrimination than anyone possesses in the first years of his or her majority. Too early marriages, from the causes briefly alluded to here, are productive of much unhappiness. From their bewildering dream, a young couple, who have unwisely rushed into marriage before either of them was old enough really to understand what love meant, not infrequently awake, in the course of a very short time, to the painful consciousness that they have wedded unwisely. If in the mind of each is a groundwork of good sense and good feeling, the consequences may not be so very bad, although through life there will be times when each will deeply and sadly regret their early act of folly. But in most cases, either in one or the other, there exists a peculiarity of temperament that entirely mars the happiness of both. Open disagreements or secret bickerings turn the holy and happy state of marriage — into a condition of inexpressible misery, the larger share of which usually falls upon the head of the one least able to bear it — the wife. Or actual hatred of one towards the other is engendered, and they are driven asunder, and stand in society as the disfigured and disfiguring mementos of the folly of a too hasty marriage! When, however, a young lady has reached the age we have named, and a man, known to be virtuous and honorable, has formally offered her his hand, and been accepted — the marriage ought not long to be delayed, if no impediment exist, such as inability on the part of the young man to support a wife. Among the reasons that have been urged against a young lady’s contracting marriage immediately, is the following by Mrs. Farrar, which is well worth considering. She says, "The married school-girl deprives herself of a most delightful and useful stage in her existence — that of a grown-up daughter, maturing under the eye of a mother, and the influence of a home circle, with time enough for mental culture, and a useful experience of domestic affairs — without the care which belongs to the mistress of a family. She loses all the varied pleasures of a young lady, and skips at once from childhood to married life. Early marriage also prevents the literary education of a girl being carried far enough for it to go forward easily amid the cares of a family, and therefore it often ceases altogether; in a few years, she loses what little she acquired at school, and degenerates into a mere housekeeper and nurse." "I would gladly believe that I am writing for a class of ladies too young to need much advice upon love and marriage; and though I occasionally hear of school-girls who forfeit the privileges and pleasures of being grown-up young ladies, and jump at once into the cares of married life, I trust that increased knowledge and wisdom, on the part of the young and old, will prevent such immature marriages, and give women an opportunity of being more fully developed in body and mind, before they subject either to the severe trials which belong to wives and mothers." ======================================================================== CHAPTER 20: 02.17. MARRIAGE ======================================================================== MARRIAGE This is a subject upon which a great deal has been written and a great deal thought — but the world is yet very slow in perceiving and adopting what is true in relation to it; and such will continue to be the case until this important law is clearly understood and acknowledged, namely: that the end for which a thing is done — gives quality to the act. Whoever marries without having just ideas of so important a relation, runs great danger of committing an error which will render all the well-springs of her happiness, muddy for life. This being the case, we ask of our fair young friends to consider deeply what we shall say in this chapter, and endeavor to comprehend it fully. The law just stated — that the end for which a thing is done, qualifies the act — is one that applies with particular force to marriage. Marriage is a divine institution, ordained for the highest purposes; and a marriage contract between two people is the most important and solemn act of their whole lives; for it not only effects a change in things outward — but also in things appertaining to the spirit, for it brings into a relationship the most intimate possible two minds, that, if they do not harmonize — must act upon and react against each other with a disturbing force that necessarily precludes the soul’s true development and perfection. Now, unless the end for which a marriage contract is formed be a right end — the marriage cannot be a happy one; and just in the degree that the end has been selfish, and has regarded things external, as wealth, connections, beauty, or other mere personal attractions — so far will unhappiness be the result. To make this plainly apparent, let us suppose that a young lady is attracted by the brilliant talents of the man who addresses her; and that he is more attracted by her beauty of person, or the wealth she inherits, than by her virtues. Now, both of these reasons for loving (we should rather say for a preference, for there is no love in the question) are merely selfish. The lady does not desire a union with the man because she loves the moral perfections of his character, and seeks to become one with him; but her pride, overshadowing all such holy considerations, seeks to unite her name with his that she may stand higher in the world’s estimation. That this is so, will be plain to anyone who will think calmly on the subject. On the other hand, the man does not seek a union with her because he regards marriage with a high and sacred regard, as a means whereby a pure, virtuous, and loving spirit may become blended as one with his own, and both be more perfected by the union; he does not love her because she embodies the very virtues and perfections that seem purest and best in his eyes. No! He wants more money than he has yet been able to possess, and, loving money better than anything else, he takes her because she has enough of this valuable commodity to satisfy to some extent his cupidity. Or, having an admiration for beauty, and vanity enough to consider the acclaim attached to a beautiful wife as something desirable — he is guided in his choice by beauty alone, unregardful of the more important qualifications necessary to make a woman his true and loving companion. Here, it will be seen that the end which each had in view has given quality to the act of each. The choice has been made to rest on external considerations alone — and must be productive of disappointment and consequent unhappiness. It will take but a short time for the lady to make the sad discovery — that the brilliant reputation of her husband is no compensation for a morose temper, a love of dissipation, indifference to his wife, fault-finding, lack of principle, or, even worse, infidelity! Nor will it take him long to tire of her beauty, or to discover that, now that he has full possession of her property — her person is of little value! This is presenting an extreme case; yet such are every day occurring. In most cases of marriage, even when selfish considerations like these are predominant, there is yet in the parties sufficient good sense to be aware that indifference to purity and qualities of mind is an error that might prove fatal to happiness; and therefore they are careful to see that in those who possess the main prerequisites, there are no faults or peculiarities of character which could not well be borne. These marriages prove unhappy just in the degree that the leading end was of a selfish and external character; but the good sense that prompted some regard to qualities of mind, shows itself afterwards in an effort to make the very best of a bad bargain. Although the parties never know, by experience, what true felicity flows from a true marriage, they, nevertheless, in most cases, manage to get along as comfortably as possible, and avoid, as far as it can be done, all bickerings and collisions, for the sake of peace, their reputation, or their children. But, where qualities of mind are considered the first essential of marriage, and where it is entered into with all external things regarded as subordinate, from a pure love of the moral beauty of the one with whom a union is about to be formed — then happiness must flow as a natural consequence. This sure result, however, cannot follow, unless both are influenced by right ends; and it is, therefore, of as much consequence to a young lady, that he who seeks her hand should do so from right motives — as that she should accept him from right motives. To be as well assured of the purity of her lover’s ends as her own — she will find to be a matter of some difficulty. But, until all reasonable doubts on the subject are removed, she should hesitate about accepting his offer of marriage; for to do so would be running a risk greater than any young lady should incur! If, from evidence not to be questioned, a young lady is fully satisfied that only for her wealth, connections, beauty, accomplishments, or personal attractions, and not for something within her which is loved independent of these — her hand is sought in marriage — then she should reject the overture at no matter what cost of feeling to herself; for this will be a slight thing indeed, compared to the life-long suffering which such a marriage might entail upon her. All these external things are unstable attractions; but qualities of mind are enduring, and grow brighter and increase in power with the lapse of years. And besides, what woman of right feeling would think of accepting a man who did not love her — but was only induced to offer his heartless hand in marriage, in order that he might gain something from the union more desirable to his sordid feelings, than the devotion of a pure and loving heart? In many of the high-wrought and unnatural fiction books of the day, which are the offspring of perverted and impure minds, or of such as are really ignorant of what love is in its essence and true activity — we often find an innocent and pure-minded woman represented as loving, with a devotion little less than idolatry, a man whose heart teems with evil passions, and whose life is little else than one act after another of vice, brutality, and crime. All his neglect, outrage, and passion — she bears with meek endurance, loving on with a deeper and more fervent love; and she is, in most cases, at last rewarded by a union with one from whom such a woman as she is said to be, would shrink in disgust and horror. This union is represented as the high reward of her devotion, and the writer generally has the unblushing effrontery to tell us that she is supremely happy. As well could an angel be happy in the arms of a demon from the bottomless pit! It is all false! Such things never take place as represented. A woman may love, with the wild passions of an impure heart, a bold, bad man, whose brilliant qualities have dazzled her imagination, and caused it to gloss over his evils and magnify what she is pleased to call his generous qualities; she may be true to him, amid neglect, outrage, and wrong, and she may at last receive her reward, and become his wife. But we can neither admire her fidelity nor rejoice in her reward, for we know that happiness will not result from her marriage — but that her last days will be the most wretched of her life! A right-minded woman — one with a pure heart and a clear head — would rather shrink from, than be attracted by such a man! These pictures, set forth often in the most brilliant and attractive colors, do much to mislead the young, and give them false views on a subject in regard to which, everything depends upon their having the clearest perceptions. The heroine is admired, and her constancy and devotion believed to be virtues of the highest order, and worthy of imitation — when she is but too often the mere false creation of a corrupt mind, and has no counterpart in real life, because she cannot have. From this fault, even our best novelists are not wholly free. True love is not a wild, strong, fiery, impetuous passion. It is, on the contrary, calm, deep, and clear-seeing. It is attracted by moral qualities alone, and in search of these, it looks through all that is merely external; at the same time that it sees in external things — the images of things internal. There may be faults of character, there may be external defects, there may be much lacking, to give perfection to its object; but if the ruling ends are right, and if there is nothing in external things to mar and destroy the true development of what is within, and if, in addition to all this, there is that mysterious attraction of heart for heart which comes from above, and guides all aright who will wait for and be guided by its heavenly influences, then it finds its blessed fruition — but not till then. It is mere passion which loves blindly and irrationally; but true love is wise and discriminating, and its devotion more real and lasting. Marriage without such love is no marriage at all. It is merely an external union, from external grounds, and cannot be expected to, as it never does, yield any true happiness. Where no sizeably bad qualities exist in those who have contracted marriage from mere external considerations, it not infrequently happens, that the parties lead quiet and orderly lives, and seem to enjoy themselves very well, and imagine that they have all the pleasures attainable in the marital state. But they are more in error than they imagine. In the chapter on the "Equality of the Sexes," something of the real difference between man and woman was shown; and we there called that difference a "uniting difference." In the original creation of the sexes, God designed that a union should take place between them, and so organized them, spiritually, that such a union must take place — or both would be imperfect, and consequently unhappy; and the existence of the human race itself was made to depend upon this union. Marriage is, therefore, of divine ordination, and can never be entered into properly, except from the purest and the highest motives. But enough has been said, we would gladly believe, to make any young lady see the importance of being governed by right ends in a matter involving so deeply as this does, her best and dearest interests. As to the giving of any particular rules by which a young lady is to square her conduct in matters of the heart, we neither feel inclined to the task, nor competent to perform it. Our leading object is, to give such general principles as will enable each one for herself to decide upon a right course of action in a matter that is fraught with consequences of such vital importance. If a young lady has correct views on the subject of marriage — she will not be in much danger of committing any serious error. We would, however, say, that in all cases the mother ought to be fully advised of the state of her daughter’s affections. This is due to her relation, her experience, and her deep and unselfish love for her child. Many a young girl, who has fully confided everything to her mother, has been saved from blindly loving one who had been able to mislead her as to his true character — but could not deceive the mother. When an offer of marriage is made, whether it comes unexpectedly or not, it should neither be accepted nor rejected by a young lady without time for reflection, and a reference of the matter to her parents, or, if they are not living, to some friend whose age and experience give her the position of a sound adviser. If the person who makes the offer is not considered by the young lady as a suitable partner, let her firmly decline him, no matter how strongly her parents or friends urge a different course. If, on the contrary, she approves and they object, let her seriously consider the ground of their objections, and if they stand against his moral character, and are undoubtedly true — let her, as she values hers and their happiness, respect their objections. But if they are merely external objections, and do not touch his character and personal fitness to make her happy, and she is calmly and deeply conscious of loving him with a pure, fervent, and undying love, which has its origin in a knowledge and regard for his moral excellencies, let her not reject his offer. The objections of her parents will be a good reason for her not at once accepting the offer; but this reason she should state to her lover, and both should be content to wait patiently, if it be even as long as one or two years, in the hope of overcoming the prejudices that exist, before determining to marry against the wishes of her friends. This deference to their objections may have the effect of overcoming them, and the marriage be allowed to take place with their fullest sanction, without which, no matter how much she may love her husband, nor how worthy he may be of her love — a wife can never be truly happy. As to runaway matches, they usually turn out the worst! Of course, there are many exceptions to this; but, as a general thing, where parents positively forbid their daughter to keep company with a young man, there are pretty good reasons for it; and if the daughter is mad enough, in a moment of passion, to run away with and marry him, she generally has cause, in a few years — to bitterly to repent her folly. It is much better to wait a long time, in the hope of overcoming objections, than to take this rash and generally imprudent step. The position of an heiress is almost always a difficult and dangerous one. There are a great many unprincipled men in the world, who seek to better their fortunes by marriage, and who are constantly on the look-out for some rich young girl, whose affections they can win, and thus acquire a fortune without the labor of making it themselves. Some of these people cultivate every exterior grace of body and mind, with no other end than to make themselves attractive in the eyes of the other gender, and render more certain any conquest that may seem to them worth making. To fall a victim to the heartless enticements of such a man, would be, for any right-minded young woman, a sad misfortune; for happiness could not follow her union with him. And it is not to be concealed, that her danger is very great. Money is so convenient and desirable a thing, and the attainment of it by marriage, so much easier than earning it, that in a day when there is so little true appreciation of marriage as a divine and holy ordinance, instituted for the highest purposes by the Creator, as there is at present — the temptation for young men to seek for wealth in a union with someone who possesses it, is very great. The utterly unprincipled are not alone, those whose regard for a young girl is greatly biased by the amount of her father’s fortune, or the income she may hold in her own right. So absorbing is the universal desire for money, and so much in the habit is almost everyone of looking at it as the greatest good, and of seeking it rather as an end, than as a means of usefulness, that even those who, in the ordinary matters of life, are governed by the best of motives, are apt to think of money as a virtue indispensable in a wife, and allow themselves to be influenced in their choice by the groveling and disgraceful consideration of dollars and cents. As the end for which marriage is contracted will inevitably qualify the union, and bring unhappiness just in the degree that the end selfishly regards external things — it is not difficult to perceive that, if a young lady’s money has been the principal virtue in the eyes of her lover, a marriage with him must result in disappointment, and, perhaps, in the most heartfelt misery! One, therefore, who has the misfortune (shall we say?) to inherit riches, needs to be more watchful than any other, lest her hand be yielded to one who thinks more of her wealth than of her person and virtues. She will be in less danger from accepting the hand of one, born, like herself, to the possession of wealth, if he is virtuous, high-minded, and actively engaged in some useful employment as a professional man, or merchant — than in accepting the hand of one whose external condition is unequal to her own. In the former case, tastes, habits, and social relations, will be more equal, and the chances of happiness much more in her favor. But, if she believes herself to be sincerely loved for herself alone, by one who possesses intelligence, manly virtue, and tastes which harmonize with her own, and she truly and sincerely loves him in return — let her accept the offer of his hand, even if he has not a tenth of the wealth that has fallen to her lot. In marriage there should always exist a harmonizing equality in intellect, education, taste, and habits of thinking. No woman should ever accept the hand of a man of weaker intellect and grosser tastes than herself; for a union with him would be an unnatural one. Man, as we have shown, is characterized by intellect and woman by affection; and a true marriage never takes place, unless where a woman can love the moral wisdom of her husband; and this she cannot do if his intelligence and moral perceptions are inferior to her own. This is self-evident. We often see a woman of fine mind married to a man who is altogether her inferior in education, taste, refinement, good sense, and strength of intellect; and in such cases we always perceive sad evidences enough that by both, the union is felt to be an unequal one; and often the yoke that binds her to her companion is plainly enough seen to be deeply galling. Men of inferior minds are usually attracted by a woman of brilliant talents; and, strangely enough, women of this class are too apt to unite their fortunes with them — in too many instances, it is feared, on account of the mere external advantages that such a union will give them. But dearly enough do they usually pay for their unnatural folly. All genuine love is founded upon respect. No woman can have the kind of respect for a man who is inferior to herself upon grounds which love is founded — and therefore no woman can truly love a man who is her inferior in mental and moral endowments. If she cannot truly love him — she cannot be happy with him; and to marry him can only be an act of folly and madness! Similarity of religious faith should also be considered indispensable. Where there is a regard for religion, it forms the central idea in the mind; and a difference on a matter of so much importance cannot fail, at some time or other, to produce a jar of discord. It may not come until the interests of children are to be regarded, when one or the other will have to yield in a matter involving principles felt to be of the most vital importance. Who shall yield? Can the mother, in conscience, consent to have her children instructed in doctrines that she believes will lead them far away into the mazes of error, and endanger their best and highest interests? Can the father believe a system of religion to be true, and not teach it to his children? Will he not be deeply culpable, if he neglects to do so? Here there can be no neutral ground, no yielding on the part of either, if both are equally well convinced of the importance of giving their children early religious instruction. Painfully embarrassing, indeed, is the condition of parents thus situated, and sad are the results that too often flow therefrom. If what we have alleged in regard to marriage is really so, as we certainly believe it to be — then true internal marriage cannot take place between those who think differently in matters of religion. A man is truly a man by virtue of his ability to grow wise; and the true internal union which takes place between a husband and wife, is in her love of his wisdom and his love of her, because she is the love of his wisdom; or of those things that his intellect sees to be wisdom, and which he, by a life corresponding thereto, acquires to himself. By wisdom is not here meant mere knowledge of things, as of natural sciences. A man may possess the most extended knowledge — and yet not be truly wise. A wise man is a just man, and regards the good of all. He not only sees what is true — but he conforms his life to the truth. He seeks to gain all knowledge within his ability to acquire, in order that he may be useful to his fellow-man. Now, it is this kind of wisdom in a man, which a woman truly loves in a true marriage relation; and this is what conjoins them — this is what makes their union an internal one. And, if this is so, how is it possible for a woman to love her husband’s wisdom, if, at the very outset, she cannot believe with him in the most vital thing that concerns them — religion? Instead of internal union — there must exist internal discord. How can she respect his intelligence, when in a matter so plain to her, he cannot see anything but error? How can he love the reflection of his own intelligence and wisdom in her — when no such reflection is given? If this is not plain to anyone, let her consider well what has been said in regard to the religious education of children, and see in that a sufficient reason for making a similarity of faith an indispensable thing in the man she consents to marry. Much more could be said on the very important subject of marriage; but the limit of this work will not admit of our dwelling upon it any longer. From what we have set forth, almost anyone may deduce rules of action for her own government; and by strictly obeying them, she will save herself from the wretchedness of a marriage based upon false instead of true principles. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 21: 02.18. THE YEAR AFTER MARRIAGE ======================================================================== THE YEAR AFTER MARRIAGE Happy beyond expression in finding herself the wedded wife of the man in whom are centered, she would gladly believe, all the virtues of his gender — a young woman is apt to forget that the new position in which she is placed is not without its trials. But she must remember that neither herself nor her husband is perfect. Both are young and inexperienced, with characters not yet fully developed, and the hereditary taint of selfishness uncorrected. The first year after marriage is that which usually tries most severely the young wife, and awakens her to realities that sometimes, for a brief season, deeply sadden her spirit. It is by no means improbable that her husband suffers equally with herself. The cause lies in the fact that neither the one nor the other is faultless. Both, by nature, are selfish. They have this selfishness by hereditary transmission from their parents; and it cannot be removed until they have attained mature age, and then resist its perverting influences as evil. All their education from childhood up, with all the good principles taught them by parents and teachers, becomes means in their hands whereby they are to resist their natural tendencies to evil, and overcome them. But this is not the work of a moment — but of a whole lifetime. At the period when marriage usually takes place — but little progress has been made in overcoming the natural evil inclinations. From pride, selfishness, a love of reputation, or other causes, they are concealed from view; but whatever they are, they will inevitably show themselves to the young wife or young husband, before much time passes beyond the honeymoon. The selfishness of one or both, in some little or great matter, will inevitably exhibit itself, to the surprise and grief of the other! The young man has been, we will suppose, his own master for some two or three years. He has been in the habit of thinking for himself, and consulting his own reason and inclinations in everything. He has been in perfect freedom. But now he finds that he can no longer do this; he is no longer free. Another has come into so close a relationship with him, that he can scarcely think without in some way affecting her! There is another will, also, whose promptings have to be regarded. It is hardly to be supposed that he will at once be able to see his duty to his young wife — and do it at the sacrifice of feeling and inclination! Another source of unhappiness will arise from this fact: During the period of courtship, the young man consults the tastes, wishes, inclinations, and preferences of the young lady, and makes them his own. In everything, he defers to her. It is his highest delight to make her happy, and to effect this, he is ready for almost any sacrifice. After marriage, the bride still expects this entire devotion to her, and the same deference. But before long, she finds that the husband is less assiduous than the lover, and is unreasonable enough to have a will of his own, tastes of his own, inclinations and preferences of his own; and, what is worse, disposed to consult them where they differ from hers, instead of yielding all, as before. It may be, that, in the first excitement of the moment, on discovering this, she will set her will in opposition to her husband’s, and endeavor to put him down. Usually, this experiment proves a difficult one, and causes her to shed many bitter tears. She may become angry, and bring accusations of lack of affection, and selfishness, and all that, against her husband; and he, surprised and confounded at this unexpected turn of affairs, may act and speak in a very unreasonable, and perhaps unkind manner. All this had better be avoided, if possible, and might be avoided, if each party were more given to reflection than young couples usually are; but it is not so very serious a matter, nor so much to be wondered at, and will work its own cure — but not until, by being made very unhappy a good many times, the young wife perceives her error, and the young husband is conscious that he is a little too self-willed. It is not a trifling thing for two minds to come into such close contact and relationship with each other as marriage effects. And when we reflect that each inherits a tendency to love self supremely, and that each has indulged and given strength to this tendency, it is not at all to be wondered at, that there should at first be some strings of discord jarred. It would be stranger still were it otherwise; for every selfish affection, when it becomes active, seeks its own ends, regardless of the good of another. From these causes, the first year after marriage will usually be found the most trying and difficult one that a young couple has to pass. During that period, however, they will begin to understand themselves and each other better, and mutually correct the faults that produced unhappiness. It does not always happen that the young wife sets her will against that of her husband; but it almost always happens that she finds him much more disposed to consult his own tastes and inclinations, than he was previous to marriage; and she will, very naturally, feel disappointed at this, and be led to think that he does not love her as much as she was led to believe that he did. The perfections with which young lovers are apt to invest the objects of their choice, are usually about as much in imagination as reality! Faultlessness appertains to no human being. All have defects, and all are born evil. These evils, or the tendencies to them, cannot, as has before been said, be removed, except by each individual for himself. At the time when marriage takes place — but little has been done towards the removal of these evils, and their existence must therefore affect, in some measure, all who come into the very intimate relationship of man and wife. If, instead of being surprised and made unhappy, on feeling these effects, every young wife would seek to correct what was selfish and evil in her own heart — she would so far enable her husband to do the same, and so far really help to make him what, in the fond idolatry of her young heart, she at first was inclined to believe him. Let every young wife remember, that, to be truly happy, both herself and her husband must be governed by religious principles in all their conduct towards each other and society. If they give themselves up to a mere life of pleasure, they will commit a great mistake; for pleasure, sought as an end, always defeats itself. To do this, is to act from mere selfishness — a motive entirely unworthy of the human mind. The majority of young people who marry do not seem to have any idea of the true importance of the relation they have assumed. It does not seem to strike them as a very serious matter, or as involving duties and responsibilities of the most weighty character. They love, and, in simply attaining the object of their love, believe that they have arrived at the summit of happiness — and that happiness must continue to be theirs so long as this object is in possession. But, there being in this so much of mere selfishness, it is no wonder that, in a very short time, the scales fall from their eyes, and they are made sensibly to feel that something more is required of them, than idly to rest in the supreme felicity of loving and being beloved. It usually takes as long a period as a year to correct the misconceptions of a young married couple; and during this time, they often feel the jarring of discordant strings both in themselves and each other. Then they begin to see with a more purified vision, and to enter more seriously upon their duties in life, which call for earnestness of purpose, and a mutual looking to the same end. The very pressure of external circumstances brings them into a more intimate nearness to each other; and the effort to do right, in the various relations which they hold to each other and society, hides more and more the faults of each, and brings forth into a clearer view the excellencies that form the true groundwork of their characters. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 22: 02.19. A COMMON MISTAKE ======================================================================== A COMMON MISTAKE A common mistake which most young couples commit, is that of commencing the world in too imposing a manner. The desire to make an appearance is usually quite strong; and it often happens that the young husband is more disposed for a "dash," than the wife, especially if she has always been used to a good style of living in her father’s house. Pride will not permit him to place her in a lower external position than the one she left when she became his wife. Nor is he always content with this. A little more elegance and style is often assumed, and a rate of expenditure adopted that is frequently entirely out of all fair proportion to the income. It matters little whether this income is five thousand or five hundred dollars per annum; in the outset, the temptation to draw too heavily, or even to go beyond it, is very great. It most generally happens that the young wife never thinks of inquiring how far the means of her husband will warrant the rate of expenditure at which they are living. She naturally enough supposes that he will not go beyond his ability. Deceived by the freedom with which he spends his money, she is often led into extravagances of dress entirely at variance with their real condition in life, and remains utterly unconscious of the fact that she is an object of remark and censure to those who are much better acquainted with the real circumstances of her husband than she is. The consequences of errors of this kind are often very severely felt. Many a young couple’s fair prospects in life have been blighted by early extravagance, the result of weak pride on the part of the husband, and thoughtlessness and pride on the part of the wife. After marriage, the interests of a young couple become one, and the feeling of delicacy which prevents the wife from inquiring into her husband’s affairs, and becoming thoroughly acquainted with them, should be laid aside. All reserve on this subject ought now to cease, and the fullest confidence begin. The style of living adopted should be that which the judgments of both determine to be right, after clearly understanding the real or probable amount of their income; and it should be a matter of fixed principle never to go beyond — but always to keep within, this income. It will be much easier to begin right — than to get right after having made a wrong beginning! The error of young married people beginning the world in the style of those who have been ten, twenty, or thirty years in acquiring the means whereby to live in elegance or luxury — is a very common one. In order to support this style, they often expend every dollar of income, and too frequently are tempted to go beyond this, involving themselves in debt, and creating financial troubles which are never entirely gotten over. It will almost always be in the power of a young wife to prevent this. By assuming a modest style of living, and exercising economy in everything, in the first few years of married life, when all expenditures for real needs are never large, enough may always be saved to meet the increasing demands of later years. The pleasure of spending money uselessly never compensates for its lack — but rather embitters the privations that such need entails. If the husband’s means of supporting the style in which he wishes to see his wife live, and in which he proposes that she shall live, are really insufficient — then he cannot be wholly unaware of the fact, and will not feel inclined to oppose her strongly, if she voluntarily suggests that it may be better for them to assume a less expensive style. That she may have some distinct idea, in the outset, and before an error is committed, of how they ought to live — a young bride should always consult her parents on the subject. They know pretty nearly the extent of her husband’s income, how much he ought to spend, and what style it will be best for them to live in. Having this information, she will be able to act the part of a true wife, and wisely restrain her husband, if he should be disposed to run into extravagance, from beginning the world in a style of expenditure that cannot be long supported. A little prudence and economy in the outset, will go far towards preventing the financial reverses which so frequently overtake us in this life; for the modes of living with which we start, usually become habits with us. If these are extravagant, it will be a difficult matter ever afterwards to overcome them entirely; but if they are prudent and economical, they will not only save us from going beyond our means in the outset — but prove a guaranty of our success in the future. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 23: 02.20. CONCLUSION ======================================================================== CONCLUSION It would have been an easy matter to have said much more than we have said on each of the topics discussed in this book, and to have introduced other topics. But if, in matters of primary interest, we have correct views, these will guide us in all things subordinate. Right thinking, as we stated in the outset, is the basis of all right action; and it is therefore much better to learn to think right — than to burden the memory with modes of action in which no principle of right is clearly perceived. In the beginning, we called especial attention to the necessity of acting from a religious principle, as the only means of becoming truly useful and truly happy. We showed in the chapter on marriage, that the end gives quality to the act. This is as true of one act as of another. The dictates of common politeness prompt to a regard for the comfort and pleasure of others; but the end that governs in mere politeness is a selfish one — for it is grounded in a love of reputation, or a wish to be thought well-bred, and does not flow from a desire for the good of another. But a religious principle is a sincere desire for another’s good, based upon a denial of mere selfish feelings, because they are seen to be evil, and opposed to the divine laws which were originally written upon the heart, and which prompted everyone to seek the good of his neighbor. To act, therefore, from religious principles, is to act from the highest, purest, and best end that can influence a human being — an end that will surely lead to true usefulness and happiness. Where religious principles govern anyone, the danger of committing important errors is very small; for selfishness, which always blinds and deceives, is subordinate — and the wish to do good to others uppermost in the mind. Every act is then well considered, lest its effect be injurious to another, or entails disabilities upon the actor which will prevent him from discharging, at some future period, his duties to others, which would be to wrong them. To one who is inexperienced in life, and who feels that the most desirable thing in the world is the gratification of her own wishes and the seeking freely her own pleasures — there is nothing attractive in the idea of regarding the good of others in all she does. This seems to her like giving up everything that makes life desirable. But she has yet to learn the meaning of this divine law, that "it is more blessed to give, than to receive." She has yet to have her mind opened to the higher truth, that in seeking to make others happy — there is a delight inconceivably beyond what is to be found in any mere selfish and exclusive regard for our own happiness. Indeed, happiness is a thing that, when sought for as an end in itself, never comes. It is not something that the mind can seek for and find — but a consequence that flows from good actions. Idle pleasure-seeking is, therefore, a vain and worse than useless employment. It disappoints the expectations, and leaves the mind restless and dissatisfied. But a diligent and faithful performance, every day, of what the hands and intellect find to do, brings with it a heartfelt reward, a deep satisfaction. Thus, to diligently perform our every-day duties, because to neglect them would be to injure others, at the same time that we look to the Giver of all good for ability to enable us faithfully to do what is right — is to act from a religious, because an unselfish, principle. That which separates us from God, and produces all the mental disorders under which we labor, is selfishness. There is no means of returning to God, and to true order, except by denying self; and this we do when we seek, in all the various relations of life, to discharge our duties for the sake of good to others. Of ourselves, we cannot act from this high motive; it comes from God, who alone is good, and from whom all good flows. But we can shun the evil of selfishness, by denying it the gratification of its inordinate desires, and compelling ourselves faithfully to do whatever useful thing comes in our way; and then the love of doing good will flow into our minds, and we shall feel a higher delight than ever before thrilled through our bosoms. A woman, from the time she steps forth upon the stage of life, is surrounded by the means of being useful to, and doing good to others. She need not go out of her way to seek for objects to benefit. She need not lay down plans of usefulness that extend beyond the circle of her every-day domestic life. All around her are clustered the means of doing good to others; and one would think that a harder struggle were required to turn from them, than to enter diligently into the use of these means. How much good may not a sister do among her brothers and sisters! There is not a day, nor an hour in the day, that she may not, by some kind act or word, do a lasting good. In the divine providence she is thus placed, with ability, in the midst of those who need the exercise of her ability to do them good. She is thus placed, in order that she may do them good. In like circumstances, Providence provided those who could guide and instruct her, and minister to her needs. If, instead of faithfully performing her duty, she seeks rather her own pleasures — she acts from a selfish and debasing end, that, while it does wrong to others, leaves her own mind unsatisfied or positively unhappy. But if, from a love of these little ones, or a sense of her duty to them, she supply their needs, and does all in her power to elevate their thoughts and affections, and lead them to good — she will experience an inward peace and satisfaction, that will be felt as a sufficient reward. To her mother — the grown-up, unmarried daughter may, if she will, prove a comfort and a blessing. She can lighten her cares by assuming many of them herself; she can become her sympathizing friend and companion, and warm her heart with the sweet consciousness of being loved by her child with that genuine affection which ever seeks to bless its object. It is a painful sight to see a daughter manifesting indifference towards her mother, and seeming to think of her only when she wants some service. The unselfishness of a mother’s love — its untiring devotion — its anxious care — merit a better reward. If love does not prompt a young lady to think of her mother and seek to do her good — then let a sense of duty compel her to act with due consideration towards her, and she will soon find that to be a pleasure, which at first seemed irksome, and wonder at the selfishness of her heart that could have made her indifferent towards one who has so many claims upon her love and gratitude. Whenever we compel ourselves to do right, we come into new and better states, and are then enabled to persevere in well-doing from the warmth of a genuine affection, rather than from a coercive sense of duty. This truth should be laid up in the memory of every young lady; it will encourage her to well-doing even under the disheartening sense of a lack of high and generous motives, which we all sometimes feel. To her companions, every young lady has a duty to perform, which she will fail to do, unless governed by a religious principle. It is a very easy thing, in our associations with others, to think only of ourselves. To this we are all naturally inclined. But to do so, is to be unjust; for when we think only of our own pleasures and our own interests — we are sure to seek them at the expense of the pleasures and interests of others. This is the inevitable result of all selfish action. It is impossible for us to act in society without in some way affecting others, and according to the ends which govern us — will be the quality of our acts. If we have a generous regard for others in what we do — we shall be sure to make others happy; but if only a regard for ourselves — we shall as certainly, in something, trespass upon the rights or feelings of others. In the society of her light-hearted friends, a young lady will often find herself tempted to say, or respond affirmatively to, a disparaging word of an absent one; or she will feel disposed, from not wishing to disturb the self-delight of a friend, to hear unfavorable things said of another that she knows are untrue, and which a single remark from her can correct; or she may have an eager desire to secure some good to herself, at the expense of bitter disappointment in one less able to bear it than herself. In fact, there are a hundred ways in which the well-being, good name, or happiness of another is placed in her hands — and which she will be tempted to sacrifice. We need not say what her duty is under such circumstances. The higher and better perceptions of everyone will point to that. As year after year passes by, a young lady will be brought into circumstances of closer and closer relationship with others, until at length she finds herself occupying the important position of a wife and mother, in which every act of her life, and almost every thought and word, must necessarily have either a good or a bad effect upon others. Self-denial and regard for the good of others, she is now more than ever called upon to exercise; and in their exercise, she can alone find true peace of mind. All turning of thought inward upon self as an object of primary consideration, all looking to the attainment of selfish ends and selfish gratification — will react upon her with a disturbing force; for she cannot do this without interfering in some way with the comfort or happiness of those in whose comfort and happiness her own is inextricably involved. The mother who neglects her child in the eager pursuit of some phantom of pleasure, or for the attainment of ease, will make that child unhappy, and herself doubly so; for she can no more expel from her mind a consciousness of having wronged that child, than she can prevent being disturbed by the evidences of her neglect. The same will be true if she thinks more of her own ease and pleasure — than she does of her husband’s comfort. He cannot but feel this lack of true consideration for him both in mind and person; and he will certainly exhibit what he feels in a way to disturb the self-delight of his wife, even though his regard for her may be so strong as to make him careful not to do so intentionally. Thus, in any and all positions where a woman is placed, she will find that only in a faithful discharge of life’s varied duties, from a regard to the good of others, is there any true happiness; for this is to act from a religious principle. To act thus, brings more than an earthly reward; by such a life, she is prepared for heavenly felicities, which consist alone in the delight that springs from doing good. In Heaven no one thinks of self, nor seeks his own gratification; but all, from genuine love, seek the good of others, and their happiness consists in the delight which springs from the attainment of their ends. If we wish to come into a heavenly society at death — we must act from heavenly principles here. There is no other way. This is the straight and narrow path that leads to eternal felicity, and all who wish to gain that desirable state, must walk therein. And now, in conclusion, we beg of our fair young friends to lay deeply to heart the matters contained in this book, and to strive in all things to act from those godlike principles of love to others that were at first written on the human heart by the Creator. Every act of our lives affects someone — either for good or for evil. We are constantly lending an impulse to the great effort in human society to return to true order and happiness, or retarding its movements. Of course, the effects of our actions are not limited to the individuals who first feel them, nor to the time in which we live. Our act is felt and reproduced with a greater or diminished force by the one who receives it. If we help others in the development of good principles — we give them power to do good that may effect beneficially hundreds, yes, thousands. There is no telling where the widening circle of influence may stop. And the same is true, when by our acts we strengthen or force into activity, the evil qualities which anyone has inherited. From this it may be seen how great is the responsibility resting upon each one of us, and how much good or evil we may do in our way through life. THE END. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 24: 02A.00 - AFTER A SHADOW, AND OTHER STORIES ======================================================================== AFTER A SHADOW, AND OTHER STORIES. BY T. S. ARTHUR. NEW YORK: 1868 ======================================================================== CHAPTER 25: 02A.000 - CONTENTS ======================================================================== CONTENTS. I. AFTER A SHADOW. II. IN THE WAY OF TEMPTATION. III. ANDY LOVELL. IV. A MYSTERY EXPLAINED. V. WHAT CAN I DO? VI. ON GUARD. VII. A VISIT WITH THE DOCTOR. VIII. HADN’T TIME FOR TROUBLE. IX. A GOOD NAME. X. LITTLE LIZZIE. XI. ALICE AND THE PIGEON. XII. DRESSED FOR A PARTY. XIII. COFFEE VS. BRANDY. XIV. AMY’S QUESTION. XV. AN ANGEL IN DISGUISE. XVI. WHICH WAS MOST THE LADY? XVII. OTHER PEOPLE’S EYES. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 26: 02A.01 - AFTER A SHADOW. ======================================================================== I AFTER A SHADOW. "ARTY! Arty!" called Mrs. Mayflower, from the window, one bright June morning. "Arty, darling! What is the child after? Just look at him, Mr. Mayflower!" I leaned from the window, in pleasant excitement, to see what new and wonderful performance had been attempted by my little prodigy—my first born—my year old bud of beauty, the folded leaves in whose bosom were just beginning to loosen themselves, and send out upon the air sweet intimations of an abounding fragrance. He had escaped from his nurse, and was running off in the clear sunshine, the slant rays of which threw a long shadow before him. "Arty, darling!" His mother’s voice flew along and past his ear, kissing it in gentle remonstrance as it went by. But baby was in eager pursuit of something, and the call, if heard, was unheeded. His eyes were opening world-ward, and every new phenomenon—commonplace and unheeded by us—that addressed itself to his senses, became a wonder and a delight. Some new object was drawing him away from the loving heart and protecting arm. "Run after him, Mr. Mayflower!" said my wife, with a touch of anxiety in her voice. "He might fall and hurt himself." I did not require a second intimation as to my duty in the case. Only a moment or two elapsed before I was on the pavement, and making rapid approaches towards my truant boy. "What is it, darling? What is Arty running after?" I said, as I laid my hand on his arm, and checked his eager speed. He struggled a moment, and then stood still, stooping forward for something on the ground. "O, papa see!" There was a disappointed and puzzled look in his face as he lifted his eyes to mine. He failed to secure the object of his pursuit. "What is it, sweet?" My eyes followed his as they turned upon the ground. He stooped again, and caught at something; and again looked up in a perplexed, half-wondering way. "Why, Arty!" I exclaimed, catching him up in my arms. "It’s only your shadow! Foolish child!" And I ran back to Mrs. Mayflower, with my baby-boy held close against my heart. "After a shadow!" said I, shaking my head, a little soberly, as I resigned Arty to his mother. "So life begins—and so it ends! Poor Arty!" Mrs. Mayflower laughed out right merrily. "After a shadow! Why, darling!" And she kissed and hugged him in overflowing tenderness. "So life begins—so it ends," I repeated to myself, as I left the house, and walked towards my store. "Always in pursuit of shadows! We lose to-day’s substantial good for shadowy phantoms that keep our eyes ever in advance, and our feet ever hurrying forward. No pause—no ease—no full enjoyment of now. O, deluded heart!—ever bartering away substance for shadow!" I grow philosophic sometimes. Thought will, now and then, take up a passing incident, and extract the moral. But how little the wiser are we for moralizing! we look into the mirror of truth, and see ourselves—then turn away, and forget what manner of men we are. Better for us if it were not so; if we remembered the image that held our vision. The shadow lesson was forgotten by the time I reached my store, and thought entered into business with its usual ardor. I buried myself, amid letters, invoices, accounts, samples, schemes for gain, and calculations of profit. The regular, orderly progression of a fair and well-established business was too slow for my outreaching desires. I must drive onward at a higher speed, and reach the goal of wealth by a quicker way. So my daily routine was disturbed by impatient aspirations. Instead of entering, in a calm self-possession of every faculty, into the day’s appropriate work, and finding, in its right performance, the tranquil state that ever comes as the reward of right-doing in the right place, I spent the larger part of this day in the perpetration of a plan for increasing my gains beyond, anything heretofore achieved. "Mr. Mayflower," said one of the clerks, coming back to where I sat at my private desk, busy over my plan, "we have a new man in from the West; a Mr. B——, from Alton. He wants to make a bill of a thousand dollars. Do you know anything about him?" Now, even this interruption annoyed me. What was a new customer and a bill of a thousand dollars to me just at that moment of time? I saw tens of thousands in prospective. "Mr. B——, of Alton?" said I, affecting an effort of memory. "Does he look like a fair man?" "I don’t recall him. Mr. B——? Hum-m-m. He impresses you favorably, Edward?" "Yes, sir; but it may be prudent to send and get a report." "I’ll see to that, Edward," said I. "Sell him what he wants. If everything is not on the square, I’ll give you the word in time. It’s all right, I’ve no doubt." "He’s made a bill at Kline & Co.’s, and wants his goods sent there to be packed," said my clerk. "Ah, indeed! Let him have what he wants, Edward. If Kline & Co. sell him, we needn’t hesitate." And turning to my desk, my plans, and my calculations, I forgot all about Mr. B——, and the trifling bill of a thousand dollars that he proposed buying. How clear the way looked ahead! As thought created the means of successful adventure, and I saw myself moving forward and grasping results, the whole circle of life took a quicker motion, and my mind rose into a pleasant enthusiasm. Then I grew impatient for the initiatory steps that were to come, and felt as if the to-morrow, in which they must be taken, would never appear. A day seemed like a week or a month. Six o’clock found me in not a very satisfactory state of mind. The ardor of my calculations had commenced abating. Certain elements, not seen and considered in the outset, were beginning to assume shape and consequence, and to modify, in many essential particulars, the grand result towards which I had been looking with so much pleasure. Shadowy and indistinct became the landscape, which seemed a little while before so fair and inviting. A cloud settled down upon it here, and a cloud there, breaking up its unity, and destroying much of its fair proportion. I was no longer mounting up, and moving forwards on the light wing of a castle-building imagination, but down upon the hard, rough ground, coming back into the consciousness that all progression, to be sure, must be slow and toilsome. I had the afternoon paper in my hands, and was running my eyes up and down the columns, not reading, but, in a half-absent way, trying to find something of sufficient interest to claim attention, when, among the money and business items, I came upon a paragraph that sent the declining thermometer of my feelings away down towards the chill of zero. It touched, in the most vital part, my scheme of gain; and the shrinking bubble burst. "Have the goods sold to that new customer from Alton been delivered?" I asked, as the real interest of my wasted day loomed up into sudden importance. "Yes, sir," was answered by one of my clerks; "they were sent to Kline & Co.’s immediately. Mr. B——said they were packing up his goods, which were to be shipped to-day." "He’s a safe man, I should think. Kline & Co. sell him." My voice betrayed the doubt that came stealing over me like a chilly air. "They sell him only for cash," said my clerk. "I saw one of their young men this afternoon, and asked after Mr. B——’s standing. He didn’t know anything about him; said B——was a new man, who bought a moderate cash bill, but was sending in large quantities of goods to be packed—five or six times beyond the amount of his purchases with them." "Is that so!" I exclaimed, rising to my feet, all awake now to the real things which I had permitted a shadow to obscure. "Just what he told me," answered my clerk. "It has a bad look," said I. "How large a bill did he make with us?" The sales book was referred to. "Seventeen hundred dollars," replied the clerk. "What! I thought he was to buy only to the amount of a thousand dollars?" I returned, in surprise and dismay. "You seemed so easy about him, sir," replied the clerk, "that I encouraged him to buy; and the bill ran up more heavily than I was aware until the footing gave exact figures." I drew out my watch. It was close on to half past six. "I think, Edward," said I, "that you’d better step round to Kline & Co.’s, and ask if they’ve shipped B——’s goods yet. If not, we’ll request them to delay long enough in the morning to give us time to sift the matter. If B——’s after a swindling game, we’ll take a short course, and save our goods." "It’s too late," answered my clerk. "B——called a little after one o’clock, and gave notes for the amount of his bill. He was to leave in the five o’clock line for Boston." I turned my face a little aside, so that Edward might not see all the anxiety that was pictured there. "You look very sober, Mr. Mayflower," said my good wife, gazing at me with eyes a little shaded by concern, as I sat with Arty’s head leaning against my bosom that evening; "as sober as baby looked this morning, after his fruitless shadow chase." "And for the same reason," said I, endeavoring to speak calmly and firmly. "Why, Mr. Mayflower!" Her face betrayed a rising anxiety. My assumed calmness and firmness did not wholly disguise the troubled feelings that lay, oppressively, about my heart. "For the same reason," I repeated, steadying my voice, and trying to speak bravely. "I have been chasing a shadow all day; a mere phantom scheme of profit; and at night-fall I not only lose my shadow, but find my feet far off from the right path, and bemired. I called Arty a foolish child this morning. I laughed at his mistake. But, instead of accepting the lesson it should have conveyed, I went forth and wearied myself with shadow-hunting all day." Mrs. Mayflower sighed gently. Her soft eyes drooped away from my face, and rested for some moments on the floor. "I am afraid we are all, more or less, in pursuit of shadows," she said,—"of the unreal things, projected by thought on the canvas of a too creative imagination. It is so with me; and I sigh, daily, over some disappointment. Alas! if this were all. Too often both the shadow-good and the real-good of to-day are lost. When night falls our phantom good is dispersed, and we sigh for the real good we might have enjoyed." "Shall we never grow wiser?" I asked. "We shall never grow happier unless we do," answered Mrs. Mayflower. "Happiness!" I returned, as thought began to rise into clearer perception; "is it not the shadow after which we are all chasing, with such a blind and headlong speed?" "Happiness is no shadow. It is a real thing," said Mrs. Mayflower. "It does not project itself in advance of us; but exists in the actual and the now, if it exists at all. We cannot catch it by pursuit; that is only a cheating counterfeit, in guilt and tinsel, which dazzles our eyes in the ever receding future. No; happiness is a state of life; and it comes only to those who do each day’s work peaceful self-forgetfulness, and a calm trust in the Giver of all good for the blessing that lies stored for each one prepared to receive it in every hour of the coming time." "Who so does each day’s work in a peaceful self-forgetfulness and patient trust in God?" I said, turning my eyes away from the now tranquil face of Mrs. Mayflower. "Few, if any, I fear," she answered; "and few, if any, are happy. The common duties and common things of our to-days look so plain and homely in their ungilded actualities, that we turn our thought and interest away from them, and create ideal forms of use and beauty, into which we can never enter with conscious life. We are always losing the happiness of our to-days; and our to-morrows never come." I sighed my response, and sat for a long time silent. When the tea bell interrupted me from my reverie, Arty lay fast asleep on my bosom. As I kissed him on his way to his mother’s arms, I said,— "Dear baby! may it be your first and last pursuit of a shadow." "No—no! Not yet, my sweet one!" answered Mrs. Mayflower, hugging him to her heart. "Not yet. We cannot spare you from our world of shadows." ======================================================================== CHAPTER 27: 02A.02 - IN THE WAY OF TEMPTATION. ======================================================================== II IN THE WAY OF TEMPTATION. MARTIN GREEN was a young man of good habits and a good conceit of himself. He had listened, often and again, with as much patience as he could assume, to warning and suggestion touching the dangers that beset the feet of those who go out into this wicked world, and become subject to its legion of temptations. All these warnings and suggestions he considered as so many words wasted when offered to himself. "I’m in no danger," he would sometimes answer to relative or friend, who ventured a remonstrance against certain associations, or cautioned him about visiting certain places. "If I wish to play a game of billiards, I will go to a billiard saloon," was the firm position he assumed. "Is there any harm in billiards? I can’t help it if bad men play at billiards, and congregate in billiard saloons. Bad men may be found anywhere and everywhere; on the street, in stores, at all public places, even in church. Shall I stay away from church because bad men are there?" This last argument Martin Green considered unanswerable. Then he would say,— "If I want a plate of oysters, I’ll go to a refectory, and I’ll take a glass of ale with my oysters, if it so pleases me. What harm, I would like to know? Danger of getting into bad company, you say? Hum-m! Complimentary to your humble servant! But I’m not the kind to which dirt sticks." So, confident of his own power to stand safely in the midst of temptation, and ignorant of its thousand insidious approaches, Martin Green, at the age of twenty-one, came and went as he pleased, mingling with the evil and the good, and seeing life under circumstances of great danger to the pure and innocent. But he felt strong and safe, confident of neither stumbling nor falling. All around him he saw young men yielding to the pressure of temptation and stepping aside into evil ways; but they were weak and vicious, while he stood firm-footed on the rock of virtue! It happened, very naturally, as Green was a bright, social young man, that he made acquaintances with other young men, who were frequently met in billiard saloons, theatre lobbies, and eating houses. Some of these he did not understand quite as well as he imagined. The vicious, who have ends to gain, know how to cloak themselves, and easily deceive persons of Green’s character. Among these acquaintances was a handsome, gentlemanly, affable young man, named Bland, who gradually intruded himself into his confidence. Bland never drank to excess, and never seemed inclined to sensual indulgences. He had, moreover, a way of moralizing that completely veiled his true quality from the not very penetrating Martin Green, whose shrewdness and knowledge of character were far less acute than he, in his self-conceit, imagined. One evening, instead of going with his sister to the house of a friend, where a select company of highly-intelligent ladies and gentleman were to meet, and pass an evening together, Martin excused himself under the pretence of an engagement, and lounged away to an eating and drinking saloon, there to spend an hour in smoking, reading the newspapers, and enjoying a glass of ale, the desire for which was fast growing into a habit. Strong and safe as he imagined himself, the very fact of preferring the atmosphere of a drinking or billiard saloon to that in which refined and intellectual people breathe, showed that he was weak and in danger. He was sitting with a cigar in his mouth, and a glass of ale beside him, reading with the air of a man who felt entirely satisfied with himself, and rather proud than ashamed of his position and surroundings, when his pleasant friend, Mr. Bland, crossed the room, and, reaching out his hand, said, with his smiling, hearty manner,— "How are you, my friend? What’s the news to-day?" And he drew a chair to the table, calling at the same time to a waiter for a glass of ale. "I never drink anything stronger than ale," he added, in a confidential way, not waiting for Green to answer his first remark. "Liquors are so drugged nowadays, that you never know what poison you are taking; besides, tippling is a bad habit, and sets a questionable example. We must, you know, have some regard to the effect of our conduct on weaker people. Man is an imitative animal. By the way, did you see Booth’s Cardinal Wolsey?" "Yes." "A splendid piece of acting,—was it not? You remember, after the cardinal’s fall, that noble passage to which he gives utterance. It has been running through my mind ever since:—"’Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition: By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by’t? Love thyself last: Cherish those hearts that hate thee: Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues; be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell, Thou fall’st a blessed martyr.’ "’Love thyself last.—Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, thy God’s, and truth’s.’ Could a man’s whole duty in life be expressed in fewer words, or said more grandly? I think not." And so he went on, charming the ears of Green, and inspiring him with the belief that he was a person of the purest instincts and noblest ends. While they talked, two young men, strangers to Green came up, and were introduced by Bland as "My very particular friends." Something about them did not at first impress Martin favorably. But this impression soon wore off, they were so intelligent and agreeable, Bland, after a little while, referred again to the Cardinal Wolsey of Booth, and, drawing a copy of Shakspeare’s Henry VIII. from his pocket, remarked,— "If it wasn’t so public here, I’d like to read a few of the best passages in Wolsey’s part." "Can’t we get a private room?" said one of the two young men who had joined Bland and Green. "There are plenty in the house. I’ll see." And away he went to the bar. "Come," he said, returning in a few minutes; and the party followed a waiter up stairs, and were shown into a small room, neatly furnished, though smelling villanously of stale cigar smoke. "This is cosy," was the approving remark of Bland, as they entered. Hats and overcoats were laid aside, and they drew around a table that stood in the centre of the room under the gaslight. A few passages were read from Shakspeare, then drink was ordered by one of the the party. The reading interspersed with critical comments, was again resumed; but the reading soon gave way entire to the comments, which, in a little while, passed from the text of Shakspeare to actors, actresses, prima donnas, and ballet-dancers, the relative merits of which were knowingly discussed for some time. In the midst of this discussion, oysters, in two or three styles, and a smoking dish of terrapin, ordered by a member of the company—which our young friend Green did not know—were brought in, followed by a liberal supply of wine and brandy. Bland expressed surprise, but accepted the entertainment as quite agreeable to himself. After the supper, cigars were introduced, and after the cigars, cards. A few games were played for shilling stakes. Green, under the influence of more liquor than his head could bear, and in the midst of companions whose sphere he could not, in consequence, resist, yielded in a new direction for him. Of gambling he had always entertained a virtuous disapproval; yet, ere aware of the direction in which he was drifting, he was staking money at cards, the sums gradually increasing, until from shillings the ventures increased to dollars. Sometimes he won, and sometimes he lost; the winnings stimulating to new trials in the hope of further success, and the losses stimulating to new trials in order to recover, if possible; but, steadily, the tide, for all these little eddies of success, bore him downwards, and losses increased from single dollars to fives, and from fives to tens, his pleasant friend, Bland, supplying whatever he wanted in the most disinterested way, until an aggregate loss of nearly a hundred and fifty dollars sobered and appalled him. The salary of Martin Green was only four hundred dollars, every cent of which was expended as fast as earned. A loss of a hundred and fifty dollars was, therefore, a serious and embarrassing matter. "I’ll call and see you to-morrow, when we can arrange this little matter," said Mr. Bland, "on parting with Green at his own door. He spoke pleasantly, but with something in his voice that chilled the nerves of his victim. On the next day while Green stood at his desk, trying to fix his mind upon his work, and do it correctly, his employer said,— "Martin, there’s a young man in the store who has asked for you." Green turned and saw the last man on the earth he desired to meet. His pleasant friend of the evening before had called to "arrange that little matter." "Not too soon for you, I hope," remarked Bland, with his courteous, yet now serious, smile, as he took the victim’s hand. "Yes, you are, too soon," was soberly answered. The smile faded off of Bland’s face. "When will you arrange it?" "In a few days." "But I want the money to-day. It was a simple loan, you know." "I am aware of that, but the amount is larger than I can manage at once," said Green. "Can I have a part to-day?" "Not to-day." "To-morrow, then?" "I’ll do the best in my power." "Very well. To-morrow, at this time, I will call. Make up the whole sum if possible, for I want it badly." "Do you know that young man?" asked Mr. Phillips, the employer of Green, as the latter came back to his desk. The face of Mr. Phillips was unusually serious. "His name is Bland." "Why has he called to see you?" The eyes of Mr. Phillips were fixed intently on his clerk. "He merely dropped in. I have met him a few times in company." "Don’t you know his character?" "I never heard a word against him," said Green. "Why, Martin!" replied Mr. Phillips, "he has the reputation of being one of the worst young men in our city; a base gambler’s stool-pigeon, some say." "I am glad to know it, sir," Martin had the presence of mind, in the painful confusion that overwhelmed him, to say, "and shall treat him accordingly." He went back to his desk, and resumed his work. It is the easiest thing in the world to go to astray, but always difficult to return, Martin Green was astray, but how was he to get into the right path again? A barrier that seemed impassable was now lying across the way over which he had passed, a little while before, with lightest footsteps. Alone and unaided, he could not safely get back. The evil spirits that lure a man from virtue never counsel aright when to seek to return. They magnify the perils that beset the road by which alone is safety, and suggest other ways that lead into labyrinths of evil from which escape is sometimes impossible. These spirits were now at the ear of our unhappy young friend, suggesting methods of relief in his embarrassing position. If Bland were indeed such a character as Mr. Phillips had represented him, it would be ruin, in his employer’s estimation, to have him call again and again for his debt. But how was he to liquidate that debt? There was nothing due him on account of salary, and there was not a friend or acquaintance to whom he could apply with any hope of borrowing. "Man’s extremity is the devil’s opportunity." It was so in the present case, Green had a number of collections to make on that day, and his evil counsellors suggested his holding back the return of two of these, amounting to his indebtedness, and say that the parties were not yet ready to settle their bills. This would enable him to get rid of Bland, and gain time. So, acting upon the bad suggestion, he made up his return of collections, omitting the two accounts to which we have referred. Now it so happened that one of the persons against whom these accounts stood, met Mr. Phillips as he was returning from dinner in the afternoon, and said to him,— "I settled that bill of yours to-day." "That’s right. I wish all my customers were as punctual," answered Mr. Phillips. "I gave your young man a check for a hundred and five dollars." "Thank you." And the two men passed their respective ways. On Mr. Phillips’s return to his store, Martin rendered his account of collections, and, to the surprise of his employer, omitted the one in regard to which he had just been notified. "Is this all?" he asked, in a tone that sent a thrill of alarm to the guilty heart of his clerk. "Yes, sir," was the not clearly outspoken answer. "Didn’t Garland pay?" "N-n-o, sir!" The suddenness of this question so confounded Martin, that he could not answer without a betraying hesitation. "Martin!" Astonishment, rebuke, and accusation were in the voice of Mr. Phillips as he pronounced his clerk’s name. Martin’s face flushed deeply, and then grew very pale. He stood the image of guilt and fear for some moments, then, drawing out his pocket book, he brought therefrom a small roll of bank bills, and a memorandum slip of paper. "I made these collections also." And he gave the money and memorandum to Mr. Phillips. "A hundred and fifty dollars withheld! Martin! Martin! what does this mean?" "Heaven is my witness, sir," answered the young man, with quivering lips, "that I have never wronged you out of a dollar, and had no intention of wronging you now. But I am in a fearful strait. My feet have become suddenly mired, and this was a desperate struggle for extrication—a temporary expedient only, not a premeditated wrong against you." "Sit down, Martin," said Mr. Phillips, in a grave, but not severe, tone of voice. "Let me understand the case from first to last. Conceal nothing, if you wish to have me for a friend." Thus enjoined, Martin told his humiliating story. "If you had not gone into the way of temptation, the betrayer had not found you," was the remark of Mr. Phillips, when the young man ended his confession. "Do you frequent these eating and drinking saloons?" "I go occasionally, sir." "They are neither safe nor reputable, Martin. A young man who frequents them must have the fine tone of his manhood dimmed. There is an atmosphere of impurity about these places. Have you a younger brother?" "Yes, sir." "Would you think it good for him, as he emerged from youth to manhood, to visit refectories and billiard saloons?" "No, sir, I would do all in my power to prevent it." "Why?" "There’s danger in them, sir." "And, knowing this, you went into the way of danger, and have fallen!" Martin dropped his eyes to the floor in confusion. "Bland is a stool-pigeon and you were betrayed." "What am I to do?" asked the troubled young man. "I am in debt to him." "He will be here to-morrow." "Yes, sir." "I will have a policeman ready to receive him." "O, no, no, Sir. Pray don’t do that!" answered Martin, with a distressed look. "Why not?" demanded Mr. Phillips. "It will ruin me." "How?" "Bland will denounce me." "Let him." "I shall be exposed to the policeman." "An evil, but a mild one, compared with that to which you were rushing in order to disentangle yourself. I must have my way, sir. This matter has assumed a serious aspect. You are in my power, and must submit." On the next day, punctual to the hour, Bland called. "This is your man," said Mr. Phillips to his clerk. "Ask him into the counting-room." Bland, thus invited, walked back. As he entered, Mr. Phillips said,— "My clerk owes you a hundred and fifty dollars, I understand." "Yes, sir;" and the villain bowed. "Make him out a receipt," said Mr. Phillips. "When I receive the money," was coldly and resolutely answered. Martin glanced sideways at the face of Bland, and the sudden change in its expression chilled him. The mild, pleasant, virtuous aspect he could so well assume was gone, and he looked more like a fiend than a man. In pictures he had seen eyes such as now gleamed on Mr. Phillips, but never in a living face before. The officer, who had been sitting with a newspaper in his hand, now gave his paper a quick rattle as he threw it aside, and, coming forward, stood beside Mr. Phillips, and looked steadily at the face of Bland, over which passed another change: it was less assured, but not less malignant. Mr. Phillips took out his pocket-book, and, laying a twenty-dollar bill on the desk by which they were standing, said,— "Take this and sign a receipt." "No, sir!" was given with determined emphasis. "I am not to be robbed in this way!" "Ned," the officer now spoke, "take my advice, and sign a receipt." "It’s a cursed swindle!" exclaimed the baffled villain. "We will dispense with hard names, sir!" The officer addressed him sternly. "Either take the money, or go. This is not a meeting for parley. I understand you and your operations." A few moments Bland stood, with an irresolute air; then, clutching desperately at a pen, he dashed off a receipt, and was reaching for the money, when Mr. Phillips drew it back, saying,— "Wait a moment, until I examine the receipt." He read it over, and then, pushing it towards Bland, said,— "Write ’In full of all demands.’" A growl was the oral response. Bland took the pen again, and wrote as directed. "Take my advice, young man, and adopt a safer and more honorable business," said Mr. Phillips, as he gave him the twenty-dollar bill. "Keep your advice for them that ask it!" was flung back in his face. A look of hate and revenge burned in the fellow’s eyes. After glaring at Mr. Phillips and Martin in a threatening way for several moments, he left more hurriedly than he had entered. "And take my advice," said the officer, laying his hand on Martin’s arm,—he spoke in a warning tone,—"and keep out of that man’s way. He’ll never forgive you. I know him and his prowling gang, and they are a set of as hardened and dangerous villains as can be found in the city. You are ’spotted’ by them from this day, and they number a dozen at least. So, if you would be safe, avoid their haunts. Give drinking saloons and billiard rooms a wide berth. One experience like this should last you a life-time." Thus Martin escaped from his dangerous entanglement, but never again to hold the unwavering confidence of his employer. Mr. Phillips pitied, but could not trust him fully. A year afterwards came troublesome times, losses in business, and depression in trade. Every man had to retrench. Thousands of clerks lost their places, and anxiety and distress were on every hand. Mr. Phillips, like others, had to reduce expenses, and, in reducing, the lot to go fell upon Martin Green. He had been very circumspect, had kept away from the old places where danger lurked, had devoted himself with renewed assiduity to his employer’s interests; but, for all this, doubts were forever arising in the mind of Mr. Phillips, and when the question, "Who shall go?" came up, the decision was against Martin. We pity him, but cannot blame his employer. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 28: 02A.03 - ANDY LOVELL. ======================================================================== III ANDY LOVELL. ALL the village was getting out with Andy Lovell, the shoemaker; and yet Andy Lovell’s shoes fitted so neatly, and wore so long, that the village people could ill afford to break with him. The work made by Tompkins was strong enough, but Tompkins was no artist in leather. Lyon’s fit was good, and his shoes neat in appearance, but they had no wear in them. So Andy Lovell had the run of work, and in a few years laid by enough to make him feel independent. Now this feeling of independence is differently based with different men. Some must have hundreds of thousands of dollars for it to rest upon, while others find tens of thousands sufficient. A few drop below the tens, and count by units. Of this last number was Andy Lovell, the shoemaker. When Andy opened his shop and set up business for himself, he was twenty-four years of age. Previous to that time he had worked as journeyman, earning good wages, and spending as fast as he earned, for he had no particular love of money, nor was he ambitious to rise and make an appearance in the world. But it happened with Andy as with most young men he fell in love; and as the village beauty was compliant, betrothal followed. From this time he was changed in many things, but most of all in his regard for money. From a free-handed young man, he became prudent and saving, and in a single year laid by enough to warrant setting up business for himself. The wedding followed soon after. The possession of a wife and children gives to most men broader views of life. They look with more earnestness into the future, and calculate more narrowly the chances of success. In the ten years that followed Andy Lovell’s marriage no one could have given more attention to business, or devoted more thought and care to the pleasure of customers. He was ambitious to lay up money for his wife’s and children’s sake, as well as to secure for himself the means of rest from labor in his more advancing years. The consequence was, that Andy served his neighbors, in his vocation, to their highest satisfaction. He was useful, contented, and thrifty. A sad thing happened to Andy and his wife after this. Scarlet fever raged in the village one winter, sweeping many little ones into the grave. Of their three children, two were taken; and the third was spared, only to droop, like a frost-touched plant, and die ere the summer came. From that time, all of Andy Lovell’s customers noted a change in the man; and no wonder. Andy had loved these children deeply. His thought had all the while been running into the future, and building castles for them to dwell in. Now the future was as nothing to him; and so his heart beat feebly in the present. He had already accumulated enough for himself and his wife to live on for the rest of their days; and, if no more children came, what motive was there for a man of his views and temperament to devote himself, with the old ardor, to business? So the change noticed by his customers continued. He was less anxious to accommodate; disappointed them oftener; and grew impatient under complaint or remonstrance. Customers, getting discouraged or offended, dropped away, but it gave Andy no concern. He had, no longer, any heart in his business; and worked in it more like an automaton than a live human being. At last, Andy suddenly made up his mind to shut up his shop, and retire from business. He had saved enough to live on—why should he go on any longer in this halting, miserable way—a public servant, yet pleasing nobody? Mrs. Lovell hardly knew what to say in answer to her husband’s suddenly formed resolution. It was as he alleged; they had laid up sufficient; to make them comfortable for the rest of their lives; and, sure enough, why should Andy worry himself any longer with the shop? As far as her poor reason went, Mrs. Lovell had nothing to oppose; but all her instincts were on the other side—she could not feel that it would be right. But Andy, when he made up his mind to a thing, was what people call hard-headed. His "I won’t stand it any longer," meant more than this common form of speech on the lips of ordinary men. So he gave it out that he should quit business; and it was soon all over the village. Of course Tompkins and Lyon were well enough pleased, but there were a great many who heard of the shoemaker’s determination with regret. In the face of all difficulties and annoyances, they had continued to depend on him for foot garniture, and were now haunted by unpleasant images of cramped toes, corns, bunyons, and all the varied ill attendant on badly made and badly fitting shoes, boots, and gaiters. The retirement of Andy, cross and unaccommodating as he had become, was felt, in many homes, to be a public calamity. "Don’t think of such a thing, Mr. Lovell," said one. "We can’t do without you," asserted another. "You’ll not give up altogether," pleaded a third, almost coaxingly. But Andy Lovell was tired of working without any heart in his work; and more tired of the constant fret and worry attendant upon a business in which his mind had ceased to feel interest. So he kept to his resolution, and went on with his arrangements for closing the shop. "What are you going to do?" asked a neighbor. "Do?" Andy looked, in some surprise, at his interrogator. "Yes. What are you going to do? A man in good health, at your time of life, can’t be idle. Rust will eat him up." "Rust?" Andy looked slightly bewildered. "What’s this?" asked the neighbor, taking something from Andy’s counter. "An old knife," was the reply. "It dropped out of the window two or three months ago and was lost. I picked it up this morning." "It’s in a sorry condition," said the neighbor. "Half eaten up with rust, and good for nothing." "And yet," replied the shoemaker, "there was better stuff in that knife, before it was lost, than in any other knife in the shop." "Better than in this?" And the neighbor lifted a clean, sharp-edged knife from Andy’s cutting-board. "Worth two of it." "Which knife is oldest?" asked the neighbor. "I bought them at the same time." "And this has been in constant use?" "Yes." "While the other lay idle, and exposed to the rains and dews?" "And so has become rusted and good for nothing. Andy, my friend, just so rusted, and good for nothing as a man, are you in danger of becoming. Don’t quit business; don’t fall out of your place; don’t pass from useful work into self-corroding idleness, You’ll be miserable—miserable." The pertinence of this illustration struck the mind of Andy Lovell, and set him to thinking; and the more he thought, the more disturbed became his mental state. He had, as we have see, no longer any heart in his business. All that he desired was obtained—enough to live on comfortably; why, then, should he trouble himself with hard-to-please and ill-natured customers? This was one side of the question. The rusty knife suggested the other side. So there was conflict in his mind; but only a disturbing conflict. Reason acted too feebly on the side of these new-coming convictions. A desire to be at once, and to escape daily work and daily troubles, was stronger than any cold judgement of the case. "I’ll find something to do," he said, within himself, and so pushed aside unpleasantly intruding thoughts. But Mrs. Lovell did not fail to observe, that since, her husband’s determination to go out of business, he had become more irritable than before, and less at ease in every way. The closing day came at last. Andy Lovell shut the blinds before the windows of his shop, at night-fall, saying, as he did so, but in a half-hearted, depressed kind of a way, "For the last time;" and then going inside, sat down in front of the counter, feeling strangely and ill at ease. The future looked very blank. There was nothing in it to strive for, to hope for, to live for. Andy was no philosopher. He could not reason from any deep knowledge of human nature. His life had been merely sensational, touching scarcely the confines of interior thought. Now he felt that he was getting adrift, but could not understand the why and the wherefore. As the twilight deepened, his mental obscurity deepened also. He was still sitting in front of his counter, when a form darkened his open door. It was the postman, with a letter for Andy’s wife. Then he closed the door, saying in his thought, as he had said when closing the shutters, "For the last time," and went back into the house with the letter in his hand. It was sealed with black. Mrs. Lovell looked frightened as she noticed this sign of death. The contents were soon known. An only sister, a widow, had died suddenly, and this letter announced the fact. She left three young children, two girls and a boy. These, the letter stated, had been dispensed among the late husband’s relatives; and there was a sentence or two expressing a regret that they should be separated from each other. Mrs. Lovell was deeply afflicted by this news, and abandoned herself, for a while, to excessive grief. Her husband had no consolation to offer, and so remained, for the evening, silent and thoughtful. Andy Lovell did not sleep well that night. Certain things were suggested to his mind, and dwelt upon, in spite of many efforts to thrust them aside. Mrs. Lovell was wakeful also, as was evident to her husband from her occasional sighs, sobs, and restless movements; but no words passed between them. Both rose earlier than usual. Had Andy Lovell forgotten that he opened his shop door, and put back the shutters, as usual? Was this mere habit-work, to be corrected when he bethought himself of what he had done? Judging from his sober face and deliberate manner—no. His air was not that of a man acting unconsciously. Absorbed in her grief, and troubled with thoughts of her sister’s orphaned children, Mrs. Lovell did not, at first, regard the opening of her husband’s shop as anything unusual. But, the truth flashing across her mind, she went in where Lovell stood at his old place by the cutting-board, on which was laid a side of morocco, and said,— "Why, Andy! I thought you had shut up the shop for good and all." "I thought so last night, but I’ve changed my mind," was the low-spoken but decided answer. "Changed your mind! Why?" "I don’t know what you may think about it, Sally; but my mind’s made up." And Andy squared round, and looked steadily into his wife’s face. "There’s just one thing we’ve got to do; and it’s no use trying to run away from it. That letter didn’t come for nothing. The fact is, Sally, them children mustn’t be separated. I’ve been thinking about it all night, and it hurts me dreadfully." "How can we help it? Mary’s dead, and her husband’s relations have divided the children round. I’ve no doubt they will be well cared for," said Mrs. Lovell. She had been thinking as well as her husband, but not to so clear a result. To bring three little children into her quiet home, and accept years of care, of work, of anxiety, and responsibility, was not a thing to be done on light consideration. She had turned from the thought as soon as presented, and pushed it away from every avenue through which it sought to find entrance. So she had passed the wakeful night, trying to convince herself that her dead sister’s children would be happy and well cared for. "If they are here, Sally, we can be certain that they are well cared for," replied Andy. "O, dear! I can never undertake the management of three children!" said Mrs. Lovell, her countenance expressing the painful reluctance she felt. Andy turned partly away from his wife, and bent over the cutting-board. She saw, as he did so, an expression of countenance that rebuked her. "A matter like this should be well considered," remarked Mrs. Lovell. "That’s true," answered her husband. "So take your time. They’re your flesh and blood, you know, and if they come here, you’ll have the largest share of trouble with them." Mrs. Lovell went back into the house to think alone, while Andy commenced cutting out work, his hands moving with the springs of a readier will than had acted through them for a long time. It took Mrs. Lovell three or four days to make up her mind to send for the children, but the right decision came at last. All this while Andy was busy in his shop—cheerfully at work, and treating the customers, who, hearing that he had changed his mind, were pressing in upon him with their orders, much after the pleasant fashion in which he had treated them in years gone by. He knew that his wife would send for the children; and after their arrival, he knew that he would have increased expenses. So, there had come a spur to action, quickening the blood in his veins; and he was at work once more, with heart and purpose, a happier man, really, than he had been for years. Two or three weeks passed, and then the long silent dwelling of Andy Lovell was filled with the voices of children. Two or three years have passed since then. How is it with Andy? There is not a more cheerful man in all the village, though he is in his shop early and late. No more complaints from customers. Every one is promptly and cheerfully served. He has the largest run of work, as of old; and his income is sufficient not only to meet increased expenses, but to leave a surplus at the end of every year. He is the bright, sharp knife, always in use; not the idle blade, which had so narrowly escaped, falling from the window, rusting to utter worthlessness in the dew and rain. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 29: 02A.04 - A MYSTERY EXPLAINED. ======================================================================== IV A MYSTERY EXPLAINED. "GOING to the Falls and to the White Mountains!" "Yes, I’m off next week." "How long will you be absent?" "From ten days to two weeks." "What will it cost?" "I shall take a hundred dollars in my pocket-book! That will carry me through." "A hundred dollars! Where did you raise that sum? Who’s the lender? Tell him he can have another customer." "I never borrow." "Indeed! Then you’ve had a legacy." "No, and never expect to have one. All my relations are poor." "Then unravel the mystery. Say where the hundred dollars came from." "The answer is easy. I saved it from my salary." "What?" "I saved it during the last six months for just this purpose, and now I am to have two weeks of pleasure and profit combined." "Impossible!" "I have given you the fact." "What is your salary, pray?" "Six hundred a year." "So I thought. But you don’t mean to say that in six months you have saved one hundred dollars out of three hundred?" "Yes; that is just what I mean to say." "Preposterous. I get six hundred, and am in debt." "No wonder." "Why no wonder?" "If a man spends more than he receives, he will fall in debt." "Of course he will. But on a salary of six hundred, how is it possible for a man to keep out of debt?" "By spending less than he receives." "That is easily said." "And as easily done. All that is wanted is prudent forethought, integrity of purpose, and self-denial. He must take care of the pennies, and the pounds will take care of themselves." "Trite and obsolete." "True if trite; and never obsolete. It is as good doctrine to-day as it was in poor Richard’s time. Of that I can bear witness." "I could never be a miser or a skinflint." "Nor I. But I can refuse to waste my money in unconsidered trifles, and so keep it for more important things; for a trip to Niagara and the White Mountains, for instance." The two young men who thus talked were clerks, each receiving the salary already mentioned—six hundred dollars. One of them, named Hamilton, understood the use of money; the other, named Hoffman, practised the abuse of this important article. The consequence was, that while Hamilton had a hundred dollars saved for a trip during his summer vacation, Hoffman was in debt for more than two or three times that amount. The incredulous surprise expressed by Hoffman was sincere. He could not understand the strange fact which had been announced. For an instant it crossed his mind that Hamilton might only have advanced his seeming impossible economy as a cover to dishonest practices. But he pushed the thought away as wrong. "Not much room for waste of money on a salary of six hundred a year," answered Hoffman. "There is always room for waste," said Hamilton. "A leak is a leak, be it ever so small. The quart flagon will as surely waste its precious contents through a fracture that loses only a drop at a time, as the butt from which a constant stream is pouring. The fact is, as things are in our day, whether flagon or butt, leakage is the rule not the exception." "I should like to know where the leak in my flagon is to be found," said Hoffman. "I think it would puzzle a finance committee to discover it." "Shall I unravel for you the mystery?" "You unravel it! What do you know of my affairs?" "I have eyes." "Do I waste my money?" "Yes, if you have not saved as much as I have during the last six months; and yes, if my eyes have given a true report." "What have your eyes reported?" "A system of waste, in trifles, that does not add anything substantial to your happiness and certainly lays the foundation for a vast amount of disquietude, and almost certain embarrassment in money affairs, and consequent humiliations." Hoffman shook his head gravely answering, "I can’t see it." "Would you like to see it?" "O, certainly, if it exists." "Well, suppose we go down into the matter of expenditures, item by item, and make some use of the common rules of arithmetic as we go along. Your salary, to start with, is six hundred dollars, and you play the same as I do for boarding and washing, that is, four and a half dollars per week, which gives the sum of two hundred and thirty-four dollars a year. What do your clothes cost?" "A hundred and fifty dollars will cover everything!" "Then you have two hundred and sixteen dollars left. What becomes of that large sum?" Hoffman dropped his eyes and went to thinking. Yes, what had become of these two hundred and sixteen dollars? Here was the whole thing in a nutshell. "Cigars," said Hamilton. "How many do you use in a day?" "Not over three. But these are a part of considered expenses. I am not going to do without cigars." "I am only getting down to the items," answered the friend. "We must find out where the money goes. Three cigars a day, and, on an average, one to a friend, which makes four." "Very well, say four." "At six cents apiece." Hamilton took a slip of paper and made a few figures. "Four cigars a day at six cents each, cost twenty-four cents. Three hundred and sixty-five by twenty-four gives eighty-seven dollars and sixty cents, as the cost of your cigars for a year." "O, no! That is impossible," returned Hoffman, quickly. "There is the calculation. Look at it for yourself," replied Hamilton, offering the slip of paper. "True as I live!" ejaculated the other, in unfeigned surprise. "I never dreamed of such a thing. Eighty-seven dollars. That will never do in the world. I must cut this down." "A simple matter of figures. I wonder you had not thought of counting the cost. Now I do not smoke at all. It is a bad habit, that injures the health, and makes us disagreeable to our friends, to say nothing of the expense. So you see how natural the result, that at the end of the year I should have eighty-seven dollars in band, while you had puffed away an equal sum in smoke. So much for the cigar account. I think you take a game of billiards now and then." "Certainly I do. Billiards are innocent. I am very fond of the game, and must have some recreation." "Exactly so. The question now is, What do they cost?" "Nothing to speak of. You can’t make out a case here." "We shall see. How often do you play?" "Two or three times a week." "Say twice a week." "Yes." "Very well. Let it be twice. A shilling a game must be paid for use of the table?" "Which comes from the loser’s pocket. I, generally, make it a point to win." "But lose sometimes." "Of course. The winning is rarely all on one side." "One or two games a night?" "Sometimes." "Suppose we put down an average loss of three games in a week. Will that be too high?" "No. Call it three games a week." "Or, as to expense, three shillings. Then, after the play, there comes a glass of ale—or, it may be oysters." "Usually." "Will two shillings at week, taking one week with another, pay for your ale and oysters?" Hoffman did not answer until he had reflected for a few moments, Then he said,— "I’m afraid neither two nor four shillings will cover this item. We must set it down at six." "Which gives for billiards, ale and oysters, the sum of one dollar and a shilling per week. Fifty-two by a dollar twelve-and-a-half, and we have the sum of fifty-eight dollars and fifty cents. Rather a serious item this, in the year’s expense, where the income is only six hundred dollars!" Hoffman looked at his friend in a bewildered kind of way. This was astounding. "How often do you go to the theatre and opera?" Hamilton went on with his questions. "Sometimes once a week. Sometimes twice or thrice, according to the attraction." "And you take a lady now and then?" "Yes." "Particularly during the opera season?" "Yes. I’m not so selfish as always to indulge in these pleasures alone." "Very well. Now for the cost. Sometimes the opera is one dollar. So it costs two dollars when you take a lady." "Which is not very often." "Will fifty cents a week, averaging the year, meet this expense?" After thinking for some time, Hoffman said yes, he thought that fifty cents a week would be a fair appropriations. "Which adds another item of twenty-six dollars a year to your expenses." "But would you cut off everything?" objected Hoffman. "Is a man to have no recreations, no amusements?" "That is another question," coolly answered Hamilton. "Our present business is to ascertain what has become of the two hundred and sixteen dollars which remained of your salary after boarding and clothing bills were paid. That is a handsome gold chain. What did it cost?" "Eighteen dollars." "Bought lately?" "Within six months." "So much more accounted for. Is that a diamond pin?" Hoffman colored a little as he answered,— "Not a very costly one. Merely a scarf-pin, as you see. Small, though brilliant. Always worth what I paid for it." "Cost twenty-five or thirty dollars?" "Twenty-five." "Shall I put that down as one of the year expenses?" "Yes, you may do so." "What about stage and car hire? Do you ride or walk to and from business?" "I ride, of course. You wouldn’t expect me to walk nearly a mile four times a day." "I never ride, except in bad weather. The walk gives me just the exercise I need. Every man, who is confined in a store or counting-room during business hours, should walk at least four miles a day. Taken in installments of one mile at a time, at good intervals, there is surely no hardship in this exercise. Four rides, at six-pence a ride and we have another item of twenty-five cents at day. You go down town nearly every evening?" "Yes." "And ride both ways? "Yes." "A shilling more, or thirty seven and a half cents daily for car and stage hire. Now for another little calculation. Three hundred days, at three shillings a day. There it is." And Hamilton reached a slip of paper to his friend. "Impossible!" The latter actually started to his feet. "A hundred and twelve dollars and fifty cents!" "If you spend three shillings a day, you will spend that sum in a year. Figures are inexorable." Hoffman sat down again in troubled surprise, saying, "Have you got to the end?" "Not yet," replied his companion. "Very well. Go on." "I often notice you with candies, or other confections; and you are, sometimes, quite free in sharing them with your friends. Burnt almonds, sugar almonds, Jim Crow’s candied fruits, macaroons, etc. These are not to be had for nothing; and besides their cost they are a positive injury to the stomach. You, of course, know to what extent you indulge this weakness of appetite. Shall we say that it costs an average of ten cents a day?" "Add fruit, in and out of season, and call it fifteen cents," replied Hoffman. "Very well. For three hundred days this will give another large sum—forty-five dollars?" "Anything more?" said Hoffman in a subdued, helpless kind of way, like one lying prostrate from a sudden blow. "I’ve seen you driving out occasionally; sometimes on Sunday. And, by the way, I think you generally take an excursion on Sunday, over to Staten Island, or to Hoboken, or up the river, or—but no matter where; you go about and spend money on the Sabbath day. How much does all this cost? A dollar a week? Seventy-five cents? Fifty cents? We are after the exact figures as near as maybe. What does it cost for drives and excursions, and their spice of refreshment?" "Say thirty dollars a year." "Thirty dollars, then, we will call it. And here let us close, in order to review the ground over which we have been travelling. All those various expenses, not one of which is for things essential to health, comfort, or happiness, but rather for their destruction, amount to the annual sum of four hundred and two dollars sixty cents,—you can go over the figures for yourself. Add to this three hundred and eighty-four dollars, the cost of boarding and clothing, and you swell the aggregate to nearly eight hundred dollars; and your salary is but six hundred!" A long silence followed. "I am amazed, confounded!" said Hoffman, resting his head between his hands, as he leaned on the table at which they were sitting. "And not only amazed and confounded," he went on, "but humiliated, ashamed! Was I a blind fool that I did not see it myself? Had I forgotten my multiplication table?" "You are like hundreds—nay, thousands," replied the friend, "to whom a sixpence, a shilling, or even a dollar spent daily has a very insignificant look; and who never stop to think that sixpence a day amounts to over twenty dollars in a year; a shilling a day to over forty; and a dollar a day to three hundred and sixty-five. We cannot waste our money in trifles, and yet have it to spend for substantial benefits. The cigars you smoked in the past year; the games of billiards you played; the ale and oysters, cakes, confections, and fruit consumed; the rides in cars and stages; the drives and Sunday excursions, crave only the briefest of pleasures, and left new and less easily satisfied desires behind. It will not do, my friend, to grant an easy indulgence to natural appetite and desire, for they ever seek to be our masters. If we would be men—self-poised, self-controlling, self-possessing men—we must let reason govern in all our actions. We must be wise, prudent, just, and self-denying; and from this rule of conduct will spring order, tranquillity of mind, success, and true enjoyment. I think, Hoffman, that I am quite as happy a man as you are; far happier, I am sure, at this moment; and yet I have denied myself nearly all theses indulgences through which you have exhausted your means and embarrassed yourself with debt. Moreover, I have a hundred dollars clear of everything, with which I shall take a long-desired excursion, while you will be compelled, for lack of the very money which has been worse than wasted, to remain a prisoner in the city. Pray, be counselled to a different course in future." "I would be knave or fool to need further incentive," said Hoffman, with much bitterness. "At the rate I am going on, debt, humiliation, and disgrace are before me. I may live up to my income without actually wronging others—but not beyond it. As things are now going, I am two hundred dollars worse off at the end of each year when than I began, and, worse still, weaker as to moral purpose, while the animal and sensual natures, from constant indulgence, have grown stronger. I must break this thraldom now; for, a year hence, it may be too late! Thank, you, my friend, for your plain talk. Thank you for teaching me anew the multiplication table, I shall, assuredly, not forget it again." ======================================================================== CHAPTER 30: 02A.05 - WHAT CAN I DO? ======================================================================== V WHAT CAN I DO? HE was a poor cripple—with fingers twisted out of all useful shape, and lower limbs paralyzed so that he had to drag them after him wearily when he moved through the short distances that limited his sphere of locomotion—a poor, unhappy, murmuring, and, at times, ill-natured cripple, eating the bread which a mother’s hard labor procured for him. For hours every fair day, during spring, summer, and autumn, he might be seen in front of the little house where he lived leaning upon the gate, or sitting on an old bench looking with a sober face at the romping village children, or dreamily regarding the passengers who moved with such strong limbs up and down the street. How often, bitter envy stung the poor cripple’s heart! How often, as the thoughtless village children taunted him cruelly with his misfortune, would he fling harsh maledictions after them. Many pitied the poor cripple; many looked upon him with feelings of disgust and repulsion; but few, if any, sought to do him good. Not far from where the cripple lived was a man who had been bedridden for years, and who was likely to remain so to the end of his days. He was supported by the patient industry of a wife. "If good works are the only passport to heaven," he said to a neighbor one day, "I fear my chances will be small." "’Well done, good and faithful servant,’ is the language of welcome," was replied; and the neighbor looked at the sick man in a way that made him feel a little uncomfortable. "I am sick and bedridden—what can I do?" he spoke, fretfully. "When little is given, little is required. But if there be only a single talent it must be improved." "I have no talent," said the invalid. "Are you sure of that?" "What can I do? Look at me! No health, no strength, no power to rise from this bed. A poor, helpless creature, burdening my wife. Better for me, and for all, if I were in my grave." "If that were so you would be in your grave. But God knows best. There is something for you to do, or you would be no longer permitted to live," said the neighbor. The sick man shook his head. "As I came along just now," continued the neighbor, "I stopped to say a word to poor Tom Hicks, the cripple, as he stood swinging on the gate before his mother’s house, looking so unhappy that I pitied him in my heart. ’What do you do with yourself all through these long days, Tom?’ I asked. ’Nothing,’ he replied, moodily. ’Don’t you read sometimes?’ I queried. ’Can’t read,’ was his sullen answer. ’Were you never at school?’ I went on. ’No: how can I get to school?’ ’Why don’t your mother teach you?’ ’Because she can’t read herself,’ replied Tom. ’It isn’t too late to begin now,’ said I, encouragingly; ’suppose I were to find some one willing to teach you, what would you say?’ The poor lad’s face brightened as if the sunshine had fallen upon it; and he answered, ’I would say that nothing could please me better.’ I promised to find him a teacher; and, as I promised, the thought of you, friend Croft, came into my mind. Now, here is something that you can do; a good work in which you can employ your one talent." The sick man did not respond warmly to this proposition. He had been so long a mere recipient of good offices,—had so long felt himself the object towards which pity and service must tend,—that he had nearly lost the relish for good deeds. Idle dependence had made him selfish. "Give this poor cripple a lesson every day," went on the neighbor, pressing home the subject, "and talk and read to him. Take him in charge as one of God’s children, who needs to be instructed and led up to a higher life than the one he is now living. Is not this a good and a great work? It is, my friend, one that God has brought to your hand, and in the doing of which there will be great reward. What can you do? Much! Think of that poor boy’s weary life, and of the sadder years that lie still before him. What will become of him when his mother dies? The almshouse alone will open its doors for the helpless one. But who can tell what resources may open before him if stimulated by thought. Take him, then, and unlock the doors of a mind that now sits in darkness, that sunlight may come in. To you it will give a few hours of pleasant work each day; to him it will be a life-long benefit. Will you do it?" "Yes." The sick man could not say "No," though in uttering that half-extorted assent he manifested no warm interest in the case of poor Tom Hicks. On the next day the cripple came to the sick man, and received his first lesson; and every day, at an appointed hour, he was in Mr. Croft’s room, eager for the instruction he received. Quickly he mastered the alphabet, and as quickly learned to construct small words, preparatory to combining them in a reading lesson. After the first three or four days the sick man, who, had undertaken this work with reluctance, began to find his heart going down into it. Tom was so ready a scholar, so interested, and so grateful, that Mr. Croft found the task of instructing him a real pleasure. The neighbor, who had suggested this useful employment of the invalid’s time, looked in now and then to see how matters were progressing, and to speak words of encouragement. Poor Tom was seen less frequently than before hanging on the gate, or sitting idly on the bench before his mother’s dwelling; and when you did find him there, as of old, you saw a different expression on his face. Soon the children, who had only looked at him, half in fear, from a distance, or come closer to the gate where he stood gazing with his strange eyes out into the street, in order to worry him, began to have a different feelings for the cripple, and one and another stopped occasionally to speak with him; for Tom no longer made queer faces, or looked at them wickedly, as if he would harm them if in his power, nor retorted angrily if they said things to worry him. And now it often happened that a little boy or girl, who had pitied the poor cripple, and feared him at the same time, would offer him a flower, or an apple, or at handful of nuts in passing to school; and he would take these gifts thankfully, and feel better all day in remembrance of the kindness with which they had been bestowed. Sometimes he would risk to see their books, and his eyes would run eagerly over the pages so far in advance of his comprehension, yet with the hope in his heart of one day mastering them; for he had grown all athirst for knowledge. As soon as Tom could read, the children in the neighborhood, who had grown to like him, and always gathered around him at the gate, when they happened to find him there, supplied him with books; so that he had an abundance of mental food, and now began to repay his benefactor, the bedridden man, by reading to him for hours every day. The mind of Tom had some of this qualities of a sponge: it absorbed a great deal, and, like a sponge, gave out freely at every pressure. Whenever his mind came in contact with another mind, it must either absorb or impart. So he was always talking or always listening when he had anybody who would talk or listen. There was something about him that strongly attracted the boys in the neighborhood, and he usually had three or four of them around him and often a dozen, late in the afternoon, when the schools were out. As Tom had entered a new world,—the world of books,—and was interested in all he found there, the subjects on which he talked with the boys who sought his company were always instructive. There, was no nonsense about the cripple: suffering of body and mind had long ago made him serious; and all nonsense, or low, sensual talk, to which boys are sometimes addicted, found no encouragement in his presence. His influence over these boys was therefore of the best kind. The parents of some of the children, when they found their sons going so often to the house of Tom Hicks, felt doubts as to the safety of such intimate intercourse with the cripple, towards whom few were prepossessed, as he bore in the village the reputation of being ill-tempered and depraved, and questioned them very closely in regard to the nature of their intercourse. The report of these boys took their parents by surprise; but, on investigation, it proved to be true, and Tom’s character soon rose in the public estimation. Then came, as a natural consequence, inquiry as to the cause of such a change in the unfortunate lad; and the neighbor of the sick man who had instructed Tom told the story of Mr. Croft’s agency in the matter. This interested the whole town in both the cripple and his bedridden instructor. The people were taken by surprise at such a notable interest of the great good which may sometimes be done where the means look discouragingly small. Mr. Croft was praised for his generous conduct, and not only praised, but helped by many who had, until now, felt indifferent, towards his case—for his good work rebuked them for neglected opportunities. The cripple’s eagerness to learn, and rapid progress under the most limited advantages, becoming generally known, a gentleman, whose son had been one of Tom’s visitors, and who had grown to be a better boy under his influence, offered to send him in his wagon every day to the school-house, which stood half a mile distant, and have him brought back in the afternoon. It was the happiest day in Tom’s life when he was helped down from the wagon, and went hobbling into the school-room. Before leaving home on that morning he had made his way up to the sick room of Mr. Croft. "I owe it all to you," he said, as he brought the white, thin hand of his benefactor to his lips. It was damp with more than a kiss when he laid it back gently on the bed. "And our Father in heaven will reward you." "You have done a good work," said the neighbor, who had urged Mr. Croft to improve his one talent, as he sat talking with him on that evening about the poor cripple and his opening prospects; "and it will serve you in that day when the record of life is opened. Not because of the work itself, but for the true charity which prompted the work. It was begun, I know, in some self-denial, but that self-denial was for another’s good; and because you put away love of ease, and indifference, and forced yourself to do kind offices, seeing that it was right to help others, God will send a heavenly love of doing good into your soul, which always includes a great reward, and is the passport to eternal felicities. "You said," continued the neighbor, "only a few months ago, ’What can I do?’ and spoke as a man who felt that he was deprived of all the means of accomplishing good; and yet you have, with but little effort, lifted a human soul out of the dark valley of ignorance, where it was groping ill self-torture, and placed it on an ascending mountain path. The light of hope has fallen, through your aid, with sunny warmth upon a heart that was cold and barren a little while ago, but is now green with verdure, and blossoming in the sweet promise of fruit. The infinite years to come alone can reveal the blessings that will flow from this one act of a bedridden man, who felt that in him was no capacity for good deeds." The advantages of a school being placed within the reach of Tom Hicks, he gave up every thought to the acquirement of knowledge. And now came a serious difficulty. His bent, stiff fingers could not be made to hold either pen or pencil in the right position, or to use them in such a way as to make intelligible signs. But Tom was too much in earnest to give up on the first, or second, or third effort. He found, after a great many trials, that he could hold a pencil more firmly than at first, and guide his hand in some obedience to his will. This was sufficient to encourage him to daily long-continued efforts, the result of which was a gradual yielding of the rigid muscles, which became in time so flexible that he could make quite passable figures, and write a fair hand. This did not satisfy him, however. He was ambitious to do better; and so kept on trying and trying, until few boys in the school could give a fairer copy. "Have you heard the news?" said a neighbor to Mr. Croft, the poor bedridden man. It was five years from the day he gave the poor cripple, Tom Hicks, his first lesson. "What news?" the sick man asked, in a feeble voice, not even turning his head towards the speaker. Life’s pulses were running very low. The long struggle with disease was nearly over. "Tom Hicks has received the appointment of teacher to our public school." "Are you in earnest?" There was a mingling of surprise and doubt in the low tones that crept out upon the air. "Yes. It is true what I say. You know that after Mr. Wilson died the directors got Tom, who was a favorite with all the scholars, to keep the school together for a few weeks until a successor could be appointed. He managed so well, kept such good order, and showed himself so capable as an instructor, that, when the election took place to-day, he received a large majority of votes over a number of highly-recommended teachers, and this without his having made application for the situation, or even dreaming of such a thing." At this moment the cripple’s well-known shuffling tread and the rattle of crutches was heard on the stairs. He came up with more than his usual hurry. Croft turned with an effort, so as to get a sight of him as he entered the room. "I have heard the good news," he said, as he reached a hand feebly towards Tom, "and it has made my heart glad." "I owe it all to you," replied the cripple, in a voice that trembled with feeling. "God will reward you." And he caught the shadowy hand, touched it with his lips, and wet it with grateful tears, as once before. Even as he held that thin, white hand the low-moving pulse took an lower beat—lower and lower—until the long-suffering heart grew still, and the freed spirit went up to its reward. "My benefactor!" sobbed the cripple, as he stood by the wasted form shrouded in grave-clothes, and looked upon it for the last time ere the coffin-lid closed over it. "What would I have been except for you?" Are your opportunities for doing good few, and limited in range, to all appearances, reader? Have you often said, like the bedridden man, "What can I do?" Are you poor, weak, ignorant, obscure, or even sick as he was, and shut out from contact with the busy outside world? No matter. If you have a willing heart, good work will come to your hands. Is there no poor, unhappy neglected one to whom you can speak words of encouragement, or lift out of the vale of ignorance? Think! Cast around you. You may, by a single sentence, spoken in the right time and in the right spirit, awaken thoughts in some dull mind that may grow into giant powers in after times, wielded for the world’s good. While you may never be able to act directly on society to any great purpose, in consequence of mental or physical disabilities, you may, by instruction and guidance, prepare some other mind for useful work, which, but for your agency, might have wasted its powers in ignorance or crime. All around us are human souls that may be influenced. The nurse, who ministers to you in sickness, may be hurt or helped by you; the children, who look into your face and read it daily, who listen to your speech, and remember what you say, will grow better or worse, according to the spirit of your life, as it flows into them; the neglected son of a neighbor may find in you the wise counsellor who holds him back from vice. Indeed, you cannot pass a single day, whether your sphere be large or small, your place exalted or lowly, without abundant opportunities for doing good. Only the willing heart is required. As for the harvest, that is nodding, ripe for the sickle, in every man’s field. What of that time when the Lord of the Harvest comes, and you bind up your sheaves and lay them at his feet? ======================================================================== CHAPTER 31: 02A.06 - ON GUARD. ======================================================================== VI. ON GUARD. "O, MAMMA! See that wicked-looking cat on the fence! She’ll have one of those dear little rabbits in a minute!" Mattie’s sweet face grew pale with fear, and she trembled all over. "It’s only a picture, my dear," said Mattie’s mother. "The cat can’t get down, and so the rabbits are safe." "But it looks as if she could—as if she’d jump right upon the dear little things. I wish there was a big dog, like Old Lion, there. Wouldn’t he make her fly?" "But it’s only a picture. If there was a dog there, he couldn’t bark nor spring at the cat." "Why didn’t the man who made the picture put in a dog somewhere, so that we could see him, and know the rabbits were safe?" "Maybe he didn’t think of it," said Mattie’s mother. "I wish he had." "Perhaps," said the mother, "he wished to teach us this lesson, that, as there are evil and hurtful things in the world, we should never be so entirely off of our guard as the children playing, with the rabbits seem to be. Dear little things! How innocent and happy they are! There is not a thought of danger in their minds. And yet, close by them is a great cat, with cruel eyes, ready to spring upon their harmless pets. Yes; I think the artist meant to teach a lesson when he drew this picture." "What lesson, mother?" asked Mattie. "O, I remember," she added quickly. "You said that it might be to teach us never to be off of our guard, because there are evil and hurtful things in the world." "Yes; and that is a lesson which cannot be learned too early. Baby begins to learn it when he touches the fire and is burnt; when he pulls the cat too hard and she scratches him; when he runs too fast for his little strength, and gets a fall. And children learn it when they venture too near vicious animal and are kicked or bitten; when they tear their clothes, or get their hands and faces scratched with thorns and briers; when they fall from trees, or into the water, and in many other ways that I need not mention. And men and women learn, it very, very, often in pains and sorrows too deep for you to comprehend." Mattie drew a long sigh, as she stood before her mother, looking, soberly into her face. "I wish there wasn’t anything bad in the world," she said. "Nothing that could hurt us." "Ah, dear child!" answered the mother, her voice echoing Mattie’s sigh, "from millions and millions of hearts that wish comes up daily. But we have this to cheer us: if we stand on guard—if we are watchful as well as innocent—we shall rarely get hurt. It is the careless and the thoughtless that harm reaches." "And so we must always be on guard," said Mattie, still looking very sober. "There is no other way, my child. ’On guard’ is the watchword of safety for us all, young and old. But the harm that comes from the outside is of small account compared with the harm that comes from within." "From within, mother! How can harm could from within?" "You read about the ’hawk among the birds’?" "Yes, yes—O, now I understand what you mean! Bad thoughts and feelings can do us harm." "Yes; and the hurt is deeper and more deadly than any bodily harm, for it is done to the soul. These rabbits are like good and innocent things of the mind, and the cat like evil and cruel things. If you do not keep watch, in some unguarded moment angry passions evil arise and hurt or destroy your good affections; just as this cat, if she were real, would tear or kill the tender rabbits." "O, mother! Is it as bad as that?" said Mattie. "Yes, my dear; just as bad as that. And when any of these good and innocent feelings are destroyed by anger, hatred, jealousy, envy, revenge and the like, then just so much of heavenly good dies in us and just so far do we come under the power of what is evil and hurtful. Then we turn aside from safe and pleasant ways and walk among briers and thorns. Dear Mattie! consider well the lesson of this picture, and set a watch over your heart daily. But watching is not all. We are told in the Bible to pray as well as watch. All of us, young and old, must do this if we would be in safety; for human will and human effort would all be in vain to overcome evil if divine strength did not flow into them. And unless we desire and pray for this divine strength we cannot receive it." ======================================================================== CHAPTER 32: 02A.07 - A VISIT WITH THE DOCTOR. ======================================================================== VII. A VISIT WITH THE DOCTOR. "HOW are you to-day, Mrs. Carleton?" asked Dr. Farleigh, as he sat down by his patient, who reclined languidly in a large cushioned chair. "Miserable," was the faintly spoken reply. And the word was repeated,—"Miserable." The doctor took one of the lady’s small, white hands, on which the network of veins, most delicately traced, spread its blue lines everywhere beneath the transparent skin. It was a beautiful hand—a study for a painter or sculptor. It was a soft, flexible hand—soft, flexible, and velvety to the touch as the hand of a baby, for it was as much a stranger to useful work. The doctor laid his fingers on the wrist. Under the pressure he felt the pulse beat slowly and evenly. He took out his watch and counted the beats, seventy in a minute. There was a no fever, nor any unusual disturbance of the system. Calmly the heart was doing its appointed work. "How is your head, Mrs. Carleton?" The lady moved her head from side to side two or three times. "Anything out of the way there?" "My head is well enough, but I feel so miserable—so weak. I haven’t the strength of a child. The least exertion exhausts me." And the lady shut her eyes, looking the picture of feebleness. "Have you taken the tonic, for which I left a prescription yesterday?" "Yes; but I’m no stronger." "How is your appetite?" "Bad." "Have you taken the morning walk in the garden that I suggested?" "O, dear, no! Walk out in the garden? I’m faint by the time I get to the breakfast-room! I can’t live at this rate, doctor. What am I to do? Can’t you build me up in some way? I’m burden to myself and every one else." And Mrs. Carleton really looked distressed. "You ride out every day?" "I did until the carriage was broken, and that was nearly a week ago. It has been at the carriage-maker’s ever since." "You must have the fresh air, Mrs. Carleton," said the doctor, emphatically. "Fresh air, change of scene, and exercise, are indispensable in your case. You will die if you remain shut up after this fashion. Come, take a ride with me." "Doctor! How absurd!" exclaimed Mrs. Carleton, almost shocked by the suggestion. "Ride with you! What would people think?" "A fig for people’s thoughts! Get your shawl and bonnet, and take a drive with me. What do you care for meddlesome people’s thoughts? Come!" The doctor knew his patient. "But you’re not in earnest, surely?" There was a half-amused twinkle in the lady’s eyes. "Never more in earnest. I’m going to see a patient just out of the city, and the drive will be a charming one. Nothing would please me better than to have your company." There was a vein of humor, and a spirit of "don’t care" in Mrs. Carleton, which had once made her independent, and almost hoydenish. But fashionable associations, since her woman-life began, had toned her down into exceeding propriety. Fashion and conventionality, however, were losing their influence, since enfeebled health kept her feet back from the world’s gay places; and the doctor’s invitation to a ride found her sufficiently disenthralled to see in it a pleasing novelty. "I’ve half a mind to go," she said, smiling. She had not smiled before since the doctor came in. "I’ll ring for your maid," and Dr. Farleigh’s hand was on the bell-rope before Mrs. Carleton had space to think twice, and endanger a change of thought. "I’m not sure that I am strong enough for the effort," said Mrs. Carleton, and she laid her head back upon the cushions in a feeble way. "Trust me for that," replied the doctor. The maid came in. "Bring me a shawl and my bonnet, Alice; I am going to ride out with the doctor." Very languidly was the sentence spoken. "I’m afraid, doctor, it will be too much for me. You don’t know how weak I am. The very thought of such an effort exhausts me." "Not a thought of the effort," replied Dr. Farleigh. "It isn’t that." "What is it?" "A thought of appearances—of what people will say." "Now, doctor! You don’t think me so weak in that direction?" "Just so weak," was the free-spoken answer. "You fashionable people are all afraid of each other. You haven’t a spark of individuality or true independence. No, not a spark. You are quite strong enough to ride out in your own elegant carriage but with the doctor!—O, dear, no! If you were certain of not meeting Mrs. McFlimsey, perhaps the experiment might be adventured. But she is always out on fine days." "Doctor, for shame! How can you say that?" And a ghost of color crept into the face of Mrs. Carleton, while her eyes grew brighter—almost flashed. The maid came in with shawl and bonnet. Dr. Farleigh, as we have intimated, understood his patient, and said just two or three words more, in a tone half contemptuous. "Afraid of Mrs. McFlimsey!" "Not I; nor of forty Mrs. McFlimseys!" It was not the ghost of color that warmed Mrs. Carleton’s face now, but the crimson of a quicker and stronger heart-beat. She actually arose from her chair without reaching for her maid’s hand and stood firmly while the shawl was adjusted and the bonnet-strings tied. "We shall have a charming ride," said the doctor, as he crowded in beside his fashionable lady companion, and took up the loose reins. He noticed that she sat up erectly, and with scarcely a sign of the languor that but a few minutes before had so oppressed her. "Lean back when you see Mrs. McFlimsey’s carriage, and draw your veil closely. She’ll never dream that it’s you." "I’ll get angry if you play on that string much longer!" exclaimed Mrs. Carleton; "what do I care for Mrs. McFlimsey?" How charmingly the rose tints flushed her cheeks! How the light rippled in her dark sweet eyes, that were leaden a little while before! Away from the noisy streets, out upon the smoothly-beaten road, and amid green field and woodlands, gardens and flower-decked orchards, the doctor bore his patient, holding her all the while in pleasant talk. How different this from the listless, companionless drives taken by the lady in her own carriage—a kind of easy, vibrating machine, that quickened the sluggish blood no more than a cushioned rocking chair! Closely the doctor observed his patient. He saw how erectly she continued to sit; how the color deepened in her face, which actually seemed rounder and fuller; how the sense of enjoyment fairly danced in her eyes. Returning to the city by a different road, the doctor, after driving through streets entirely unfamiliar to his companion, drew up his horse before a row of mean-looking dwellings, and dropping the reins, threw open the carriage door, and stepped upon the pavement—at the same time reaching out his hand to Mrs. Carleton. But she drew back, saying,— "What is the meaning of this, doctor?" "I have a patient here, and I want you to see her." "O, no; excuse me, doctor. I’ve no taste for such things," answered the lady. "Come—I can’t leave you alone in the carriage. Ned might take a fancy to walk off with you." Mrs. Carleton glanced at the patient old horse, whom the doctor was slandering, with a slightly alarmed manner. "Don’t you think he’ll stand, doctor?" she asked, uneasily. "He likes to get home, like others of his tribe. Come;" and the doctor held out his hand in a persistent way. Mrs. Carleton looked at the poor tenements before which the doctor’s carriage had stopped with something of disgust and something of apprehension. "I can never go in there, doctor." "Why not?" "I might take some disease." "Never fear. More likely to find a panacea there." The last sentence was in an undertone. Mrs. Carleton left the carriage, and crossing the pavement, entered one of the houses, and passed up with the doctor to the second story. To his light tap at a chamber door a woman’s voice said,— "Come in." The door was pushed open, and the doctor and Mrs. Carleton went in. The room was small, and furnished in the humblest manner, but the air was pure, and everything looked clean and tidy. In a chair, with a pillow pressed in at her back for a support, sat a pale, emaciated woman, whose large, bright eyes looked up eagerly, and in a kind of hopeful surprise, at so unexpected a visitor as the lady who came in with the doctor. On her lap a baby was sleeping, as sweet, and pure, and beautiful a baby as ever Mrs. Carleton had looked upon. The first impulse of her true woman’s heart, had she yielded to it, would have prompted her to take it in her arms and cover it with kisses. The woman was too weak to rise from her chair, but she asked Mrs. Carleton to be seated in a tone of lady-like self-possession that did not escape the visitor’s observation. "How did you pass the night, Mrs. Leslie?" asked the doctor. "About as usual," was answered, in a calm, patient way; and she even smiled as she spoke. "How about the pain through your side and shoulder?" "It may have been a little easier." "You slept?" "Yes, sir." "What of the night sweats?" "I don’t think they have diminished any." The doctor beat his eyes to the floor, and sat in silence for some time. The heart of Mrs. Carleton was opening towards—the baby and it was a baby to make its way into any heart. She had forgotten her own weakness—forgotten, in the presence of this wan and wasted mother, with a sleeping cherub on her lap, all about her own invalid state. "I will send you a new medicine," said the doctor, looking up; then speaking to Mrs. Carleton, he added,— "Will you sit here until I visit two or three patients in the block?" "O, certainly," and she reached out her arms for the baby, and removed it so gently from its mother’s lap that its soft slumber was not broken. When the doctor returned he noticed that there had been tears in Mrs. Carleton’s eyes. She was still holding the baby, but now resigned the quiet sleeper to its mother, kissing it as she did so. He saw her look with a tender, meaning interest at the white, patient face of the sick woman, and heard her say, as she spoke a word or two in parting,— "I shall not forget you." "That’s a sad case, doctor," remarked the lady, as she took her place in the carriage. "It is. But she is sweet and patient." "I saw that, and it filled me with surprise. She tells me that her husband died a year ago." "Yes." "And that she has supported herself by shirt-making." "Yes." "But that she had become too feeble for work, and is dependent on a younger sister, who earns a few dollars, weekly, at book-folding." "The simple story, I believe," said the doctor. Mrs. Carleton was silent for most of the way home; but thought was busy. She had seen a phase of life that touched her deeply. "You are better for this ride," remarked the doctor, as he handed her from the carriage. "I think so," replied Mrs. Carleton. "There has not been so fine a color on your face for months." They had entered Mrs. Carleton’s elegant residence, and were sitting in one of her luxurious parlors. "Shall I tell you why?" added the doctor. Mrs. Carleton bowed. "You have had some healthy heart-beats." She did not answer. "And I pray you, dear madam, let the strokes go on," continued Dr. Farleigh. "Let your mind become interested in some good work, and your hands obey your thoughts, and you will be a healthy woman, in body and soul. Your disease is mental inaction." Mrs. Carleton looked steadily at the doctor. "You are in earnest," she said, in a calm, firm way. "Wholly in earnest, ma’am. I found you, an hour ago, in so weak a state that to lift your hand was an exhausting effort. You are sitting erect now, with every muscle tautly strung. When will your carriage be home?" He asked the closing question abruptly. "To-morrow," was replied. "Then I will not call for you, but—" He hesitated. "Say on, doctor." "Will you take my prescription?" "Yes." There was no hesitation. "You must give that sick woman a ride into the country. The fresh, pure, blossom-sweet air will do her good—may, indeed, turn the balance of health in her favor. Don’t be afraid of Mrs. McFlimsey." "For shame, doctor! But you are too late in your suggestion. I’m quite ahead of you." "Ah! in what respect?" "That drive into the country is already a settled thing. Do you know, I’m in love with that baby?" "Othello’s occupation’s gone, I see!" returned the doctor, rising. "But I may visit you occasionally as a friend, I presume, if not as a medical adviser?" "As my best friend, always," said Mrs. Carleton, with feeling. "You have led me out of myself, and showed me the way to health and happiness; and I have settled the question as to my future. It shall not be as the past." And it was not. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 33: 02A.08 - HADN'T TIME FOR TROUBLE. ======================================================================== VIII. HADN’T TIME FOR TROUBLE. MRS. CALDWELL was so unfortunate as to have a rich husband. Not that the possession of a rich husband is to be declared a misfortune, per se, but, considering the temperament of Mrs. Caldwell, the fact was against her happiness, and therefore is to be regarded, taking the ordinary significance, of the term, as unfortunate. Wealth gave Mrs. Caldwell leisure for ease and luxurious self-indulgence, and she accepted the privileges of her condition. Some minds, when not under the spur, sink naturally into, a state of inertia, from which, when any touch of the spur reaches them, they spring up with signs of fretfulness. The wife and mother, no matter what her condition, who yields to this inertia, cannot escape the spur. Children and servant, excepting all other causes, will not spare the pricking heel. Mrs. Caldwell was, by nature, a kind-hearted woman, and not lacking in good sense. But for the misfortune of having a rich husband, she might have spent an active, useful, happy life. It was the opportunity which abundance gave for idleness and ease that marred everything. Order in a household, and discipline among children, do not come spontaneously. They are the result of wise forecast, and patient, untiring, never-relaxing effort. A mere conviction of duty is rarely found to be sufficient incentive; there must be the impelling force of some strong-handed necessity. In the case of Mrs. Caldwell, this did not exist; and so she failed in the creation of that order in her family without which permanent tranquillity is impossible. In all lives are instructive episodes, and interesting as instructive. Let us take one of them from the life of this lady, whose chief misfortune was in being rich. Mrs. Caldwell’s brow was clouded. It was never, for a very long time, free from, clouds, for it seemed as if all sources of worry and vexation were on the increase; and, to make matters worse, patience was assuredly on the decline. Little things, once scarcely observed, now give sharp annoyance, there being rarely any discrimination and whether they were of accident, neglect, or wilfulness. "Phoebe!" she called, fretfully. The voice of her daughter answered, half-indifferently, from the next room. "Why don’t you come when I call you?" Anger now mingled with fretfulness. The face of a girl in her seventeenth year, on which sat no very amiable expression, was presented at the door. "Is that your opera cloak lying across the chair, and partly on the floor?" Phoebe, without answering, crossed the room, and catching up the garment with as little carefulness as if it had been an old shawl threw it across her arm, and was retiring, when her mother said, sharply,— "Just see how you are rumpling that cloak! What do you mean?" "I’m not hurting the cloak, mother," answered Phoebe, coolly. Then, with a shade of reproof, she added, "You fret yourself for nothing." "Do you call it nothing to abuse an elegant garment like that?" demanded Mrs. Caldwell. "To throw it upon the floor, and tumble it about as if it were an old rag?" "All of which, mother mine, I have not done." And the girl tossed her head with an air of light indifference. "Don’t talk to me in that way, Phoebe! I’ll not suffer it. You are forgetting yourself." The mother spoke with a sternness of manner that caused her daughter to remain silent. As they stood looking at each other, Mrs. Caldwell said, in a changed voice,— "What is that on your front tooth?" "A speck of something, I don’t know what; I noticed it only yesterday." Mrs. Caldwell crossed the room hastily, with a disturbed manner, and catching hold of Phoebe’s arm, drew her to a window. "Let me see!" and she looked narrowly at the tooth, "Decay, as I live!" The last sentence was uttered in a tone of alarm. "You must go to the dentist immediately. This is dreadful! If your teeth are beginning to fail now, you’ll not have one left in your head by the time you’re twenty-five." "It’s only a speck," said Phoebe, evincing little concern. "A speck! I And do you know what a speck means?" demanded Mrs. Caldwell, with no chance in the troubled expression of her face. "What does it mean?" asked Phoebe. "Why, it means that the quality of your teeth is not good. One speck is only the herald of another. Next week a second tooth may show signs of decay, and a third in the week afterwards. Dear—dear! This is too bad! The fact is, you are destroying your health. I’ve talked and talked about the way you devour candies and sweetmeats; about the way you sit up at night, and about a hundred other irregularities. There must be a change in all. This, Phoebe, as I’ve told you dozens and dozens of times." Mrs. Caldwell was growing more and more excited. "Mother! mother!" replied Phoebe, "don’t fret yourself for nothing. The speck can be removed in an instant." "But the enamel is destroyed! Don’t you see that? Decay will go on." "I don’t believe that follows at all," answered Phoebe, tossing her head, indifferently, "And even if I believed in the worst, I’d find more comfort in laughing than crying." And she ran off to her own room. Poor Mrs. Caldwell sat down to brood over this new trouble; and as she brooded, fancy wrought for her the most unpleasing images. She saw the beauty of Phoebe, a few years later in life, most sadly marred by broken or discolored teeth. Looking at that, and that alone, it magnified itself into a calamity, grew to an evil which overshadowed everything. She was still tormenting herself about the prospect of Phoebe’s loss of teeth, when, in passing through her elegantly-furnished parlors, her eyes fell on a pale acid stain, about the size of a shilling piece, one of the rich figures in the carpet. The color of this figure was maroon, and the stain, in consequence, distinct; at least, it became very distinct to her eye as they dwelt upon it as if held there by a kind of fascination. Indeed, for a while, Mrs. Caldwell could see nothing else but this spot on the carpet; no, not even though she turned her eyes in various directions, the retina keeping that image to the exclusion of all others. While yet in the gall of this new bitterness, Mrs. Caldwell heard a carriage stop in front of the house, and, glancing through the window, saw that it was on the opposite side of the street. She knew it to be the carriage of a lady whose rank made her favor a desirable thing to all who were emulous of social distinction. To be of her set was a coveted honor. For her friend and neighbor opposite, Mrs. Caldwell did not feel the highest regard; and it rather hurt her to see the first call made in that quarter, instead of upon herself. It was no very agreeable thought, that this lady-queen of fashion, so much courted and regarded, might really think most highly of her neighbor opposite. To be second to her, touched the quick of pride, and hurt. Only a card was left. Then the lady reentered her carriage. What? Driving away? Even so. Mrs. Caldwell was not even honored by a call! This was penetrating the quick. What could it mean? Was she to be ruled out of this lady’s set? The thought was like a wounding arrow to her soul. Unhappy Mrs. Caldwell! Her daughter’s careless habits; the warning sign of decay among her pearly teeth; the stain on a beautiful carpet, and, worse than all as a pain-giver, this slight from a magnate of fashion;—were not these enough to cast a gloom over the state of a woman who had everything towards happiness that wealth and social station could give, but did not know how to extract from them the blessing they had power to bestow? Slowly, and with oppressed feelings, she left the parlors, and went up stairs. Half an hour later, as she sat alone, engaged in the miserable work of weaving out of the lightest material a very pall of shadows for her soul, a servant came to the door, and announced a visitor. It was an intimate friend, whom she could not refuse to see—a lady named Mrs. Bland. "How are you, Mrs. Caldwell?" said the visitor, as the two ladies met. "Miserable," was answered. And not even the ghost of a smile played over the unhappy face. "Are you sick?" asked Mrs. Bland, showing some concern. "No, not exactly sick. But, somehow or other, I’m in a worry about things all the while. I can’t move a step in any direction without coming against the pricks. It seems as though all things were conspiring against me." And then Mrs. Caldwell went, with her friend, through the whole series of her morning troubles, ending with the sentence,— "Now, don’t you think I am beset? Why, Mrs. Bland, I’m in a purgatory." "A purgatory of your own creating, my friend," answered Mrs. Bland with the plainness of speech warranted by the intimacy of their friendship; "and my advice is to come out of it as quickly as possible." "Come out of it! That is easily said. Will you show me the way?" "At some other time perhaps. But this morning I have something else on hand. I’ve called for you to go with me on an errand of mercy." There was no Christian response in the face of Mrs. Caldwell. She was too deep amid the gloom of her own, wretched state to have sympathy for others. "Mary Brady is in trouble," said Mrs. Bland. "What has happened?" Mrs. Caldwell was alive with interest in a moment. "Her husband fell through a hatchway yesterday, and came near being killed." "Mrs. Bland!" "The escape was miraculous." "Is he badly injured?" "A leg and two ribs broken. Nothing more, I believe. But that is a very serious thing, especially where the man’s labor is his family’s sole dependence." "Poor Mary!" said Mrs. Caldwell, in real sympathy. "In what a dreadful state she must be! I pity her from the bottom of my heart." "Put on your things, and let us go and see her at once." Now, it is never a pleasant thing for persons like Mrs. Caldwell to look other people’s troubles directly in the face. It is bad enough to dwell among their own pains and annoyances, and they shrink from meddling with another’s griefs. But, in the present case, Mrs. Caldwell, moved by a sense of duty and a feeling of interest in Mrs. Brady, who had, years before, been a faithful domestic in her mother’s house, was, constrained to overcome all reluctance, and join her friend in the proposed visit of mercy. "Poor Mary! What a state she must be in!" Three or four times did Mrs. Caldwell repeat this sentence, as they walked towards that part of the town in which Mrs. Brady resided. "It makes me sick, at heart to think of it," she added. At last they stood at the door of a small brick house, in a narrow street, and knocked. Mrs. Caldwell dreaded to enter, and even shrank a little behind her friend when she heard a hand on the lock. It was Mary who opened the door—Mary Brady, with scarcely a sign of change in her countenance, except that it was a trifle paler. "O! Come in!" she said, a smile of pleasure brightening over her face. But Mrs. Caldwell could not smile in return. It seemed to her as if it would be a mockery of the trouble which had come down upon that humble dwelling. "How is your husband, Mary?" she asked with a solemn face, as soon as they had entered. "I only heard a little while ago of this dreadful occurrence." "Thank you, ma’am," replied Mrs. Brady, her countenance hardly falling to a serious tone in its expression. "He’s quite comfortable to-day; and it’s such a relief to see him out of pain. He suffered considerably through the night, but fell asleep just at day dawn, and slept for several hours. He awoke almost entirely free from pain." "There are no internal injuries, I believe," said Mrs. Bland. "None, the doctor says. And I’m so thankful. Broken bones are bad enough, and it is hard to see as kind and good a husband as I have suffer,"—Mary’s eyes grew wet, "but they will knit and become strong again. When I think how much worse it might have been, I am condemned for the slightest murmur that escapes my lips." "What are you going to do, Mary?" asked Mrs. Caldwell. "Your husband won’t be fit for work in a month, and you have a good many mouths to fill." "A woman’s wit and a woman’s will can do a great deal," answered Mrs. Brady, cheerfully. "You see"—pointing to a table, on which lay a bundle—"that I have already been to the tailor’s for work. I’m a quick sewer, and not afraid but what I can earn sufficient to keep the pot boiling until John is strong enough to go to work again. ’Where there’s a will, there’s a way,’ Mrs. Caldwell. I’ve found that true so far, and I reckon it will be true to the end. John will have a good resting spell, poor man! And, dear knows, he’s a right to have it, for he’s worked hard, and with scarcely a holiday, since we were married." "Well, well, Mary," said Mrs. Caldwell, in manifest surprise, "you beat me out! I can’t understand it. Here you are, under circumstances that I should call of a most distressing and disheartening nature, almost as cheerful as if nothing had happened. I expected to find you overwhelmed with trouble, but, instead, you are almost as tranquil as a June day." "The truth is," replied Mrs. Brady, drawing, almost for shame, a veil of sobriety over her face, "I’ve had no time to be troubled. If I’d given up, and set myself down with folded hands, no doubt I should have been miserable enough. But that isn’t my way, you see. Thinking about what I shall do, and their doing it, keep me so well employed, that I don’t get opportunity to look on the dark side of things. And what would be the use? There’s always a bright side as well as a dark side, and I’m sure it’s pleasant to be on the bright side, if we can get there; and always try to manage it, somehow." "Your secret is worth knowing, Mary," said Mrs. Bland. "There’s no secret about it," answered the poor woman, "unless it be in always keeping busy. As I said just now, I’ve no time to be troubled, and so trouble, after knocking a few times at my door, and not gaining admittance, passes on to some other that stands ajar—and there are a great many such. The fact is, trouble don’t like to crowd in among busy people, for they jostle her about, and never give her a quiet resting place, and so she soon departs, and creeps in among the idle ones. I can’t give any better explanation, Mrs. Bland." "Nor, may be, could the wisest philosopher that lives," returned that lady. The two friends, after promising to furnish Mrs. Brady with an abundance of lighter and more profitable sewing than she had obtained at a clothier’s, and saying and doing whatever else they felt to be best under the circumstances, departed. For the distance of a block they walked in silence. Mrs. Caldwell spoke first. "I am rebuked," she said; "rebuked, as well as instructed. Above all places in the world, I least expected to receive a lesson there." "Is it not worth remembering?" asked the friend. "I wish it were engraved in ineffaceable characters on my heart. Ah, what a miserable self-tormentor I have been! The door of my heart stand always ajar, as Mary said, and trouble comes gliding in that all times, without so much as a knock to herald his coming. I must shut and bar the door!" "Shut it, and bar it, my friend!" answered Mrs. Bland. "And when trouble knocks, say to her, that you are too busy with orderly and useful things—too earnestly at work in discharging dutiful obligations, in the larger sphere, which, by virtue of larger means, is yours to work in—to have any leisure for her poor companionship, and she will not tarry on your threshold. Throw to the winds such light causes of unhappiness as were suffered to depress you this morning, and they will be swept away like thistle down." "Don’t speak of them. My cheek burns at the remembrance," said Mrs. Caldwell. They now stood at Mrs. Caldwell’s door. "You will come in?" "No. The morning has passed, and I must return home." "When shall I see you?" Mrs. Caldwell grasped tightly her friends’ hand. "In a day or two." "Come to-morrow, and help me to learn in this new book that has been opened. I shall need a wise and a patient teacher. Come, good, true, kind friend!" "Give yourself no time for trouble," said Mrs. Bland, with a tender, encouraging smile. "Let true thoughts and useful deeds fill all your hours. This is the first lesson. Well in the heart, and all the rest is easy." And so, Mrs. Caldwell found it. The new life she strove to lead, was easy just in the degree she lived in the spirit of this lesson, and hard just in the degree of her departure. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 34: 02A.09 - A GOOD NAME. ======================================================================== IX. A GOOD NAME. TWO boys, named Jacob Peters and Ralph Gilpin were passing along Chestnut Street one evening about ten years ago, when one of them, stopped, and said,— "Come, Ralph, let us have some oysters. I’ve got a quarter." They were in front of an oyster-cellar. "No," replied Ralph, firmly. "I’m not going down there." "I didn’t mean that we should get anything to drink," replied the other. "No matter: they sell liquor, and I don’t wish to be seen in such a place." "That’s silly," said Jacob Peters, speaking with some warmth. "It can’t hurt you to be seen there. They sell oysters, and all we should go there for would be to buy oysters. Come along. Don’t be foolish!" And Jacob grasped the arm of Ralph, and tried to draw him towards the refectory. But Ralph stood immovable. "What harm can it do?" asked Jacob. "It might do at great deal of harm." "In what way?" "By hurting my good name." "I don’t understand you." "I might be seen going in or coming out by some one who know me, and who might take it for granted that my visit, was for liquor." "Well, suppose he did? He would be wrong in his inference; and what need you care? A clear conscience, I have heard my uncle say, is better than any man’s opinion, good or bad." "I prefer the clear conscience and the good opinion together, if I can secure both at the same time," said Ralph. "O, you’re too afraid of other people’s opinions," replied Jacob, in a sneering manner. "As for me, I’ll try to do right and be right, and not bother myself about what people may think. Come, are you going to join me in a plate of oysters?" "No." "Very well. Good by. I’m sorry you’re afraid to do right for fear somebody may think you’re going to do wrong," and Jacob Peters descended to the oyster-cellar, while Ralph Gilpin passed on his way homeward. As Jacob entered the saloon he met a man who looked at him narrowly, and as Jacob thought, with surprise. He had seen this man before, but did not know his name. A few weeks afterwards, the two boys, who were neighbor, sat together planning a row-boat excursion on the Schuylkill. "We’ll have Harry Elder, and Dick Jones, and Tom Forsyth," said Jacob. "No, not Tom Forsyth," objected Ralph. "Why not? He’s a splendid rower." "I don’t wish to be seen in his company," said Ralph. "He doesn’t bear a good character." "O, well; that’s nothing to us." "I think it is a great deal to us. We are judged by the company we keep." "Let people judge; who cares?" replied Jacob; "not I." "Well, I do, then," answered Ralph. "I hate to see a boy so ’fraid of a shadow as you are." "A tainted name is no shadow; but a real evil to be afraid of." "I don’t see how our taking Tom Forsyth along is going to taint your name, or mine either." "He’s a bad boy," Ralph firmly objected. "He uses profane language. You and I have both seen him foolish from drink. And we know that he was sent home from a good place, under circumstances that threw suspicion on his honesty. This being so, I am not going to be seen in his company. I think too much of my good name." "But, Ralph," urged Jacob, in a persuasive manner, "he’s such a splendid rower. Don’t be foolish about it; nobody’ll see us. And we shall have such a grand time. I’ll make him promise not to use a wicked word all day." "It’s no use to talk, Jacob. I’m not going in company with Tom Forsyth if I never go boating." "You’re a fool!" exclaimed Jacob, losing his temper. Ralph’s face burned with anger, but he kept back the sharp words that sprung to his lips, and after a few moments said, with forced composure,— "There’s no use in you’re getting mad about it, Jacob. If you prefer Tom to me, very well. I haven’t set my heart on going." "I’ve spoken to Tom already," said Jacob, cooling off a little. "And he’s promised to go; so there’s no getting away from it. I’m sorry you’re so over nice." The rowing party came off, but Ralph was not of the number. As the boys were getting into the boat at Fairmount, Jacob noticed two or three men standing on the wharf; and on lifting his eyes to the face of one of them, he recognized the same individual who had looked at him so intently as he entered the oyster saloon. The man’s eyes rested upon him for a few moments, and then turned to the boy, Tom Forsyth. Young Peters might have been mistaken, but he thought he saw on the man’s face a look of surprise and disapprobation. Somehow or other he did not feel very comfortable in mind as the boat pushed off from shore. Who was this man? and why had he looked at him twice so intently, and with something of disapproval in his face? Jacob Peters was fifteen years old. He had left school a few weeks before, and his father was desirous of getting him into a large whole-sale house, on Market Street. A friend was acquainted with a member of the firm, and through his kind offices he hoped to make the arrangement. Some conversation had already taken place between the friend and merchant, who said they wished another lad in the store, but were very particular as to the character of their boys. The friend assured him that Jacob was a lad of excellent character; and depending on this assurance, a preliminary engagement had been made, Jacob was to go into the store just one week from the day on which he went on the boating excursion. Both his own surprise and that of his father may be imagined when a note came, saying that the firm in Market Street had changed its views in regard to a lad, and would not require the services of Jacob Peters. The father sent back a polite note, expressing regret at the change of view, and asking that his son should still be borne in mind, as he would prefer that situation for him to any other in the city. Jacob was the bearer of this note. When he entered the store, the first person he met was the man who looked at him so closely in the oyster saloon and on the wharf at Fairmount. Jacob handed him the note, which he opened and read, and then gave him cold bow. A glimpse of the truth passed through Jacob’s mind. He had been misjudged, and here was the unhappy result. His good name had suffered, and yet he had done nothing actually wrong. But boys, like men, are judged by the company they keep and the places in which they are seen. "I’m going into a store next week," said Ralph Gilpin, to his friend Jacob, about a week afterwards. "Where?" asked Jacob. "On Market Street." "In what store?" "In A. & L.’s," replied Ralph. "O, no!" ejaculated Jacob, his face flushing, "not there!" "Yes," replied Ralph. "I’m going to A. & L.’s. Father got me the place. Don’t you think I’m lucky? They’re very particular about the boys they taking that store. Father says he considers their choice of me quite a compliment. I’m sure I feel proud enough about it." "Well, I think they acted very meanly," said Jacob, showing sonic anger. "They promised father that I should have the place." "Are you sure about that?" asked the young friend. "Certainly I am. I was to go there this week. But they sent father a note, saying they had changed their minds about a boy." "Perhaps," suggested Ralph, "it you were seen going into a drinking saloons or in company with Tom Forsyth. You remember what I said to you about preserving a good name." Jacob’s face colored, and his eyes fell to the ground. "O, that’s only your guess," he replied, tossing his head, and putting on an incredulous look; but he felt in his heart that the suggestion of Ralph was true. It was over six months before Jacob Peters was successful in getting a place, and then he had to go into a third-rate establishment, where the opportunity for advancement was small, and where his associates were not of the best character. The years passed on; and Ralph continued as careful as in the beginning to preserve a good name. He was not content simply with doing right; but felt that it was a duty to himself, and to all who might, in any way be dependent on him, to appear right also. He was, therefore, particular in regard to the company he kept and the places he visited. Jacob, on the contrary, continued to let inclination rather than prudence govern him in these matters. His habits were probably as good as those of Ralph, and his business capacity fully equal. But he was not regarded with the same favor, for he was often seen in company with young men known to be of loose morals, and would occasionally, visit billiard-saloons, tenpin-alleys, and other places where men of disreputable character are found. His father, who observed Jacob closely, remonstrated with him occasionally as the boy advanced towards manhood; but Jacob put on an independent air, and replied that he went on the principle of being right with himself. "You can’t," he would say, "keep free from misjudgment, do what you will. Men are always more inclined to think evil of each other than good. I do nothing that I’m ashamed of." So he continued to go where he pleased, and to associate with whom he pleased, not caring what people might say. It is no very easy thing for as young man to make his way in the world. All the avenues to success are thickly crowded with men of talent, industry, and energy, and many favorable circumstances must conspire to help him who gets very far in advance. Talent and industry are wanted in business, but the passport of a good character must accompany them, or they cannot be made rightly available to their possessor. It is, therefore, of the first importance to preserved a good name, for this, if united with ability and industry, with double your chances of success in life; for men will put confidence in you beyond what they can in others, who do not stand so fairly in common estimation. In due time Ralph Gilpin and Jacob Peters entered the world as men, but not at equal advantage. They had learned the same business, and were both well acquainted with its details; but Ralph stood fairer in the eyes of business men, with whom he had come in contact, because he had been more careful about his reputation. While Jacob was twenty-three years of age, he was getting a salary of one thousand dollars a year; but this was too small a sum to meet the demands that had come upon him. His father, to whom he was tenderly attached, had lost his health and failed in business. In consequence of this, the burden of maintaining the family fell almost entirely on Jacob. It would not have been felt as a burden if his income had been sufficient for their support. But it was not, unless their comfortable style of living was changed, and all shrunk together in a smaller house. He had sisters just advancing towards womanhood, and for their sakes, particularly, did he regret the stern necessity that required a change. About this time, the death of a responsible clerk in the house of A.& L. left a vacancy to be filled, and as Jacob was in every way competent to take the position, which commanded a salary of eighteen hundred dollars he made application; Ralph Gilpin, who was a salesman in the house, said all that he could in Jacob’s favor; but the latter had not been careful to preserve a good name, and this was against him. The place was one of trust, and the members of the firm, after considering the matter, decided adversely. Nothing as to fact was alleged or known. Not a word as to his conduct in life was said against him. But he had often been seen in company with young men who did not bear a solid reputation, and where doubt existed, it was not considered safe to employ him. So that good opportunity was lost—lost through his own fault. Poor Jacob felt gloomy and disappointed for a time; talked of "fate," "bad luck," and all that kind of nonsense, when the cause of his ill-success was to be attributed solely to an unwise disregard of appearances. "We shall have to remove," he said to his mother in a troubled way, after this disappointment. "If I had secured the situation at A. & L.’s all would have been well with us. But now nothing remains but to seek a humbler place to remain here will only involve us in debt; and that, above all things, we must avoid. I am sorry for Jane and Alice; but it can’t be helped." His mother tried to answer cheerfully and hopefully: but her words did not dispel a single shadow from his mind. A few days after this, a gentleman said to Jacob Peters,— "I’ll give you a hint of something that is coming in the way of good fortune. A gentleman, whose name I do not feel at liberty to mention, contemplates going into your business. He has plenty of capital, and wishes to unite himself with a young, active, and experienced man. Two or three have been thought of—you among the rest; find I believe it has been finally settled that Jacob Peters is to be the man. So let me congratulate you, my young friend, on this good fortune." And he grasped the hand of Jacob, and shook it warmly. From the vale of despondency, the young man was at once elevated to the mountain-top of hope, and felt, for a time, bewildered in prospect of the good fortune awaited him. Almost in that very hour the capitalist, to whom his friend referred, was in conversation with Mr. A., of the firm of A. & L. "I have about concluded to associate with myself in business young Jacob Peters," said the former; "but before coming to a final conclusion, I thought it best to ask your opinion in the matter. You know the young man?" "Yes," replied Mr. A., "I have known him in a business way for several years. We have considerable dealing with the house in which he is employed." "What do you think of him?" "He is a young man of decided business qualities." "So it appear’s to me. And you think favorably of him?" "As to the business qualification I do," replied Mr. A., placing an emphasis on the word business. "Then you do not think favorably of him in some other respect?" Mr. A. was silent. "I hope," said the other, "that you will speak out plainly. This is a matter, to me, of the first importance. If you know of any reason why I should not associate this young man with me in business I trust you will speak without reserve." Mr. A. remained silent for some moments, and then said,— "I feel considerably embarrassed in regard to this matter. I would on no account give a wrong impression in regard to the young man. He may be all right; is all right, perhaps; but—" "But what, sir?" "I have seen him in company with young men whose characters are not fair. And I have seen him entering into and coming out of places where it is not always safe to go." "Enough, sir, enough!" said the gentleman, emphatically, "The matter is settled. It may be all right with him, as you say. I hope it is. But he can never be a partner of mine. And now, passing from him, I wish to ask about another young man, who has been in my mind second to Peters. He is in your employment." "Ralph Gilpin, you mean." "Yes." "In every way unexceptionable. I can speak of him with the utmost confidence. He is right in all respects—right as to the business quality, right as to character, and right as to associations. You could not have a better man." "The matter is settled, then," replied the gentleman. "I will take Ralph Gilpin if neither you nor he objects." "There will be no objection on either side, I can answer for that," said Mr. A., and the interview closed. From the mountain-top of hope, away down into the dark vale of despondency, passed Jacob Peters, when it was told him that Ralph Gilpin was to be a partner in the new firm which he had expected to enter. "And so nothing is left to us," he said to himself, in bitterness of spirit, "but go down, while others, no better than we are, move steadily upwards. Why should Ralph Gilpin be preferred before me? He has no higher ability nor stricter integrity. He cannot be more faithful, more earnest, or more active than I would have been in the new position. But I am set aside and he is taken. It is a bitter, bitter disappointment!" Three years have passed, and Ralph Gilpin is on the road to fortune, while Jacob Peters remains a clerk. And why? The one was careful of his good name; the other was not. My young reader, take the lesson to heart. Guard well your good name; and as name signifies quality, by all means guard your spirit, so that no evil thing enter there; and your good name shall be only the expression of your good quality. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 35: 02A.10 - LITTLE LIZZIE. ======================================================================== X. LITTLE LIZZIE. "IF they wouldn’t let him have it!" said Mrs. Leslie, weeping. "O, if they wouldn’t sell him liquor, there’d be no trouble! He’s one of the best of men when he doesn’t drink. He never brings liquor into the house; and he tries hard enough, I know, to keep sober, but he cannot pass Jenks’s tavern." Mrs. Leslie was talking with a sympathizing neighbor, who responded, by saying, that she wished the tavern would burn down, and that, for her part, she didn’t feel any too good to apply fire to the place herself. Mrs. Leslie sighed, and wiped away the tears with her checked apron. "It’s hard, indeed, it is," she murmured, "to see a man like Jenks growing richer and richer every day out of the earnings of poor working-men, whose families are in want of bread. For every sixpence that goes over his counter some one is made poorer—to some heart is given a throb of pain." "It’s a downright shame!" exclaimed the neighbor, immediately. "If I had my way with the lazy, good-for-nothing fellow, I’d see that he did something useful, if it was to break stone on the road. Were it my husband, instead of yours, that he enticed into his bar, depend on’t he’d get himself into trouble." While this conversation was going on, a little girl, not over ten years of age, sat listening attentively. After a while she went quietly from the room, and throwing her apron over head, took her way, unobserved by her mother, down the road. Where was little Lizzie going? There was a purpose in her mind: She had started on a mission. "O, if they wouldn’t sell him liquor!" These earnest, tearful words of her, mother had filled her thoughts. If Mr. Jenks wouldn’t sell her father anything to drink, "there would be no more trouble." How simple, how direct the remedy! She would go to Mr. Jenks, and ask him not to let her father have any more liquor, and then all would be well again. Artless, innocent child! And this was her mission. The tavern kept by Jenks, the laziest man in Milanville,—he was too lazy to work, and therefore went to tavern-keeping,—stood nearly a quarter of a mile from the poor tenement occupied by the Leslies. Towards this point, under a hot, sultry sun, little Lizzie made her way, her mind so filled with its purpose that she was unconscious of heat of fatigue. Not long before a traveller alighted at the tavern. After giving directions to have his horses fed, he entered the bar-room, and went to where Jenks stood, behind the counter. "Have something to drink?" inquired the landlord. "I’ll take a glass of water, if you please." Jenks could not hide the indifference at once felt towards the stranger. Very deliberately he set a pitcher and a glass upon the counter, and then turned partly away. The stranger poured out a tumbler of water, and drank it off with an air of satisfaction. "Good water, that of yours, landlord," said he. "Is it?" was returned, somewhat uncourteously. "I call it good water—don’t you?" "Never drink water by itself." As Jenks said this, he winked to one of his good customers, who was lounging, in the bar. "In fact, it’s so long since I drank any water, that I forgot how it tastes. Don’t you, Leslie?" The man, to whom this was addressed, was not so far lost to shame as Jenks. He blushed and looked confused, as he replied,— "It might be better for some of us if we had not lost our relish for pure water." "A true word spoken, my friend!" said the stranger, turning to the man, whose swollen visage, and patched, threadbare garments, too plainly told the story of his sad life. "’Water, pure water, bright water;’ that is my motto. It never swells the face, nor inflames the eyes, nor mars the countenance. Its attendants are health, thrift, and happiness. It takes not away the children’s bread, nor the toiling wife’s garments. Water!—it is one of God’s chiefest blessings! Our friend, the landlord here, says he has forgotten how it tastes; and you have lost all relish for the refreshing draught! Ah, this is a sad confession!—one which the angels might weep to hear!" There were two or three customers in the bar besides Leslie, to whom this was addressed; and all of them, in spite of the landlord’s angry and sneering countenance, treated the stranger with attention and respect. Seeing this, Jenks could not restrain himself; so, coming from behind his bar, he advanced to his side, and, laying his hand quite rudely on his shoulder, said, in a peremptory manner,— "See here, my friend! If you are about making a temperance lecture, you can adjourn to the Town Hall or the Methodist Chapel." The stranger moved aside a pace or two, so that the hand of Jenks might fall from his person, and then said, mildly,— "There must be something wrong here if a man may not speak in praise of water without giving offense." "I said you could adjourn your lecture!" The landlord’s face was now fiery red, and he spoke with insolence and passion. "O, well, as you are president of the meeting, I suppose we must let you exercise an arbitrary power of adjournment," said the stranger, good-humoredly. "I didn’t think any one had so strong a dislike for water as to consider its praise an insult." At this moment a child stepped into the bar-room. Her little face was flushed, and great beads of perspiration were slowly moving down her crimson cheeks. Her step was elastic, her manner earnest, and her large, dark eyes bright with an eager purpose. She glanced neither to the right nor the left, but walking up to the landlord, lifted to him her sweet young face, and said, in tones that thrilled every heart but his,— "Please, Mr. Jenks, don’t sell papa any more liquor!" "Off home with you, this instant!" exclaimed Jenks, the crimson of his face deepening to a dark purple. As he spoke, he advanced towards the child, with his hand uplifted in a threatening attitude. "Please don’t, Mr. Jenks," persisted the child, not moving from where she stood, nor taking her eyes front the landlord’s countenance. "Mother says, if you wouldn’t sell him liquor, there’d be no trouble. He’s kind and good to us all when he doesn’t drink." "Off, I say!" shouted Jenks, now maddened beyond self-control; and his hand was about descending upon the little one, when the stranger caught her in his arms, exclaiming, as he did so, with deep emotion,— "God bless the child! No, no, precious one!" he added; "don’t fear him. Plead for your father—plead for your home. Your petition must prevail! He cannot say nay to one of the little ones, whose angels do always behold the face of their Father in heaven. God bless the child!" added the stranger, in a choking voice. "O, that the father, for whom she has come on this touching errand, were present now! If there were anything of manhood yet left in his nature, this would awaken it from its palsied sleep." "Papa! O, papa!" now cried the child, stretching forth her hands. In the next moment she was clinging to the breast of her father, who, with his arms clasped tightly around her, stood weeping and mingling his tears with those now raining from the little one’s eyes. What an oppressive stillness pervaded that room! Jenks stood subdued and bewildered, his state of mental confusion scarcely enabling him to comprehend the full import of the scene. The stranger looked on wonderingly, yet deeply affected. Quietly, and with moist eyes, the two or three drinking customers who had been lounging in the bar, went stealthily out; and the landlord, the stranger and the father and his child, were left the only inmates of the room. "Come, Lizzie, dear! This is no place for us," said Leslie, breaking the deep silence. "We’ll go home." And the unhappy inebriate took his child by the hand, and led her towards the door. But the little one held back. "Wait, papa; wait!" she said. "He hasn’t promised yet. O, I wish he would promise!" "Promise her, in Heaven’s name!" said the stranger. "Promise!" said Leslie, in a stern yet solemn voice, as he turned and fixed his eyes upon the landlord. "If I do promise, I’ll keep it!" returned Jenks, in a threatening tone, as he returned the gaze of Leslie. "Then, for God’s sake, promise!" exclaimed Leslie, in a half-despairing voice. "Promise, and I’m safe!" "Be it so! May I be cursed, if ever I sell you a drop of drinking at this bar, while I am landlord of the ’Stag and Hounds’!" Jenks spoke with with an angry emphasis. "God be thanked!" murmured the poor drunkard, as he led his child away. "God be thanked! There is hope for me yet." Hardly had the mother of Lizzie missed her child, ere she entered, leading her father by the hand. "O, mother!" she exclaimed, with a joy-lit countenance, and in a voice of exultation, "Mr. Jenks has promised." "Promised what?" Hope sprung up in her heart, on wild and fluttering wings, her face flushed, and then grew deadly pale. She sat panting for a reply. "That he would never sell me another glass of liquor," said her husband. A pair of thin, white hands were clasped quickly together, an ashen face was turned upwards, tearless eyes looked their thankfulness to heaven. "There is hope yet, Ellen," said Leslie. "Hope, hope! And O, Edward, you have said the word!" "Hope, through our child. Innocence has prevailed over vice and cruelty. She came to the strong, evil, passionate man, and, in her weakness and innocence, prevailed over him. God made her fearless and eloquent." A year afterwards a stranger came again that way, and stopped at the "Stag and Hounds." As before, Jenks was behind his well-filled bar, and drinking customers came and went in numbers. Jenks did not recognize him until he called for water, and drank a full tumbler of the pure liquor with a hearty zest. Then he knew him, but feigned to be ignorant of his identity. The stranger made no reference to the scene he had witnessed there a twelvemonth before, but lingered in the bar for most of the day, closely observing every one that came to drink. Leslie was not among the number. "What has become of the man and the little girl I saw here, at my last visit to Milanville?" said the stranger, speaking at last to Jenks. "Gone to the devil, for all I care," was the landlord’s rude answer, as he turned off from his questioner. "For all you care, no doubt," said the stranger to himself. "Men often speak their real thoughts in a passion." "Do you see that little white cottage away off there, just at the edge of the wood? Two tall poplars stand in front." Thus spoke to the stranger one who had heard him address the landlord. "I do. What of it?" he answered. "The man you asked for lives there." "Indeed!" "And what is more, if he keeps on as he has begun, the cottage will be all his own in another year. Jenks, here, doesn’t feel any good blood for him, as you may well believe. A poor man’s prosperity is regarded as so much loss to him. Leslie is a good mechanic—one of the best in Milanville. He can earn twelve dollars a week, year in and year out. Two hundred dollars he has already paid on his cottage; and as he is that much richer, Jenks thinks himself just so much poorer; for all this surplus, and more too, would have gone into his till, if Leslie had not quit drinking." "Aha! I see! Well, did Leslie, as you call him, ever try to get a drink here, since the landlord promised never to let him have another drop?" "Twice to my knowledge." "And he refused him?" "Yes. If you remember, he said, in his anger, ’May I be cursed, if I sell him another drop.’" "I remember it very well." "That saved poor Leslie. Jenks is superstitious in some things. He wanted to get his custom again,—for it was well worth having,—and he was actually handing him the bottle one day, when I saw it, and reminded him of his self-imprecation. He hesitated, looked frightened, withdrew the bottle from the counter, and then, with curses, drove Leslie from his bar-room, threatening, at the same time, to horsewhip him if ever he set a foot over his threshold again." "Poor drunkards!" mused the stranger, as he rode past the neat cottage of the reformed man a couple of hours afterwards. "As the case now stands, you are only saved as by fire. All law, all protection, is on the side of those who are engaged in enticing you into sin, and destroying you, body and soul. In their evil work, they have free course. But for you, unhappy wretches, after they have robbed you of worldly goods, and even manhood itself, are provided prisons and pauper homes! And for your children,"—a dark shadow swept over the stranger’s face, and a shudder went through his frame. "Can it be, a Christian country in which I live, and such things darken the very sun at noonday!" he added as he sprung his horse into a gallop and rode swiftly onward. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 36: 02A.11 - ALICE AND THE PIGEON. ======================================================================== XI. ALICE AND THE PIGEON. ONE evening in winter as Alice, a dear little girl whom everybody loved, pushed aside the curtains of her bedroom window, she saw the moon half hidden by great banks of clouds, and only a few stars peeping out here and there. Below, the earth lay dark, and cold. The trees looked like great shadows. There was at change in her sweet face as she let fall the curtain and turned from the window. "Poor birds!" she said. "They are all safe," answered her mother, smiling. "God has provided for every bird a place of rest and shelter, and each one knows where it is and how to find it. Not many stay here in the winter time, but fly away to the sunny south, where the air is warm and the trees green and fruitful." "God is very good," said the innocent child. Then she knelt with folded hands, and prayed that her heavenly further would bless everybody, and let his angels take care of her while she slept. Her mother’s kiss was still warm upon her lips as she passed into the world of pleasant dreams. In the morning, when Alice again pushed back the curtains from her window, what a sight of wonder and beauty met her eyes! Snow had fallen, and everything wore a garment of dazzling whiteness. In the clear blue sky, away in the cast, the sun was rising; and as his beams fell upon the fields, and trees, and houses, every object glittered as if covered all over with diamonds. But only for a moment or two did Alice look upon this beautiful picture, for a slight movement drew her eyes to a corner of the window-sill, on the outside, and there sat a pigeon close against the window-pane, with its head drawn down and almost hidden among the feathers, and its body shivering with cold. The pigeon did not seem to be afraid of her, though she saw its little pink eyes looking right into her own. "O, poor, dear bird!" she said in soft, pitying tones, raising the window gently, so that it might not be frightened away. Then she stepped back and waited to see if the bird would not come in. Pigeon raised its brown head in a half scared away; turned it to this side and to that; and after looking first at the comfortable chamber and then away at the snow-covered earth, quietly hopped upon the sill inside. Next he flew upon the back of a chair, and then down upon the floor. "Little darling," said Alice, softly. Then she dressed herself quickly, and went down stairs for some crumbs of bread, which she scattered on the floor. The pigeon picked them up, with scarcely a sign of fear. As soon as he had eaten up all the crumbs, he flew back towards the window and resting on the sill, swelled his glossy throat and cooed his thanks to his little friend. After which darted away, the morning sunshine glancing from wings. A feeling of disappointment crept into the heart of Alice as the bird swept out of sight. "Poor little darling!" she sighed. "If he had only known how kind I would have been, and how safe he was here, what nice food and pure water would have been given, he wouldn’t have flown away." When Alice told about the visit of pigeon, at breakfast time, a pleasant surprise was felt by all at the table. And they talked of, doves and wood-pigeons, her father telling her once or two nice stories, with which she was delighted. After breakfast, her mother took a volume from the library containing Willis’s exquisite poem, "The little Pigeon," and gave it to Alice to read. She soon knew it all by heart. A great many times during the day Alice stood at the open door, or looked from the windows, in hope of seeing the pigeon again. On a distant house-top, from which the snow had been melted or blown away, or flying through the air, she would get sight of a bird now and then; but she couldn’t tell whether or not it was the white and brown pigeon she had sheltered and fed in the morning. But just before sundown, as she stood by the parlor window, a cry of joy fell from her lips. There was the pigeon sitting on a fence close by, and looking, it seemed to her, quite forlorn. Alice threw open the window, and then ran into the kitchen for some crumbs of bread. When she came back, pigeon was still on the fence. Then she called to him, holding out her her hand scattering a few crumbs on the window-sill. The bird was hungry and had sharp eyes, and when he saw Alice he no doubt remembered the nice meal she had given him in the morning, in a few moments he flew to the window, but seemed half afraid. So Alice stood a little back in the room, when he began to pick up the crumbs. Then she came nearer and nearer, holding out her hand that was full of crumbs, and as soon as pigeon had picked up all that was on the sill, he took the rest of his evening meal from the dear little girl’s hand. Every now and then he would stop and look up at his kind friend, as much as to say, "Thank you for my nice supper. You are so good!" When he had eaten enough, he cooed a little, bobbed his pretty head, and then lifted his wings and flew away. He did not come back again. At first Alice, was disappointed, but this soon wore off, and only a feeling of pleasure remained. "I would like so much to see him and feed him," she said. "But I know he’s better off and happier at his own home, with a nice place to sleep in and plenty to eat, than sitting on a window-sill all night in a snow storm." And then she would say over that sweet poem, "The City Pigeon," which her mother had given her to get by heart. Here it is, and I hope every one of my little readers will get it by heart also:— "Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove! Thy daily visits have touched my love. I watch thy coming, and list the note That stirs so low in thy mellow throat, And my joy is high To catch the glance of thy gentle eye. "Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves, And forsake the wood with its freshened leaves? Why dost thou haunt the sultry street, When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet? How canst thou bear This noise of people—this sultry air? "Thou alone of the feathered race Dost look unscared on the human face; Thou alone, with a wing to flee, Dost love with man in his haunts to be; And the ’gentle dove’ Has become a name for trust and love. "A holy gift is thine, sweet bird! Thou’rt named with childhood’s earliest word! Thou’rt linked with all that is fresh and wild In the prisoned thoughts of the city child; And thy glossy wings Are its brightest image of moving things. "It is no light chance. Thou art set apart, Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart, To stir the love for the bright and fair That else were sealed in this crowded air I sometimes dream Angelic rays front thy pinions stream. "Come then, ever, when daylight leaves The page I read, to my humble eaves, And wash thy breast in the hollow spout, And murmur thy low sweet music out! I hear and see Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee!" ======================================================================== CHAPTER 37: 02A.12 - DRESSED FOR A PARTY. ======================================================================== XII. DRESSED FOR A PARTY. A LADY sat reading. She was so absorbed in her book as to be nearly motionless. Her face, in repose, was serious, almost sad; for twice a score of years had not passed without leaving the shadow of a cloud or the mark of a tempest. The door opened, and, as she looked up, pleasant smile lay softly on her lips. A beautiful girl, elegantly attired for an evening party, came in. "All ready?" said the lady, closing her volume, and looking at the maiden with a lively interest, that blended thoughtfulness with affection. "All ready," aunt Helen. "And now what do you think of me? What is the effect?" Tone, expression, and manner, all gave plainly enough speaker’s own answer to her questions. She thought the make up splendid—the effect striking. "Shall I say just what I think, Alice?" A thin veil of shadows fell over the bright young countenance. "Love will speak tenderly. But even tenderly-spoken things, not moving with the current of our feelings, are not pleasant to hear." "Say on, aunt Helen. I can listen to anything from you. You think me overdressed. I see it in your eyes." "You have read my thought correctly, dear." "In what particular am I overdressed? Nothing could be simpler than a white illusion." "Without an abundance of pink trimming, it would be simple and becoming enough. Your dressmaker has overloaded it with ribbon; at least, so it appears to me. But, passing that let me suggest a thought touching those two heavy bracelets. One, on the exposed arm, is sufficiently attractive. Two will create the impression that you are weakly fond of ornament; and in the eyes of every one who feels this, the effect of your dress will be marred. Men and women see down into our states of feeling with wonderful quick intuitions, and read us while we are yet ignorant in regard to ourselves." Alice unclasped, with a faint sigh, one of the bracelets, and laid it on her aunt’s bureau. "Is that better?" she asked. "I think so." "But the arm is so naked, aunt. It wants something, just for relief." "To me the effect would be improved if arms and neck were covered. But, as it is, if you think something required to draw attention from the bare skin, let one ornament be the most simple in your jewel box. You have a bracelet of hair, with neat mountings. Take that." Alice stood for a while pondering her aunt’s suggestion. Then, with half-forced cheerfulness of tone, she answered,— "May be you’re right, I’ll take the hair bracelets instead. And now, what else?" "The critic’s task is never for me a pleasant one, Alice. Least pleasant when it touches one I love. If you had not asked what I thought of your appearance, I would have intruded no exceptions. I have been much in society since I was very young, and have always been an observer. Two classes of women, I notice, usually make up the staple of our social assemblages: those who consult taste in dress, and those who study effect; those who think and appreciate, and those who court admiration. By sensible people,—and we need not pay much regard to the opinion of others,—these two classes are well understood, and estimated at their real value." "It is quite plain, aunt Helen," said Alice, her color much heightened, "that you have set me over to the side of those who study effect and court admiration." "I think you are in danger of going over to that side, my dear," was gently answered, "and I love you too well not to desire something better for my niece. Turn your thought inward and get down, if possible, to your actual state of mind. Why have you chosen this very effective style of dress? It is not in good taste—even you, I think, will agree with me so far." "Not in good taste, aunt Helen!" "A prima donna, or a ballet—" "How, aunt!" Alice made a quick interruption. "You see, my child, how I am affected. Let me say it out in plain words—your appearance, when, you came in a few minutes ago actually shocked me." "Indeed, indeed, aunt Helen, you are too severe in your tastes! We are not Friends." "You are not going in the character of a May queen, Alice, that you should almost hide your beautiful hair in ribbons and flowers. A stiff bouquet in a silver holder is simply an impediment, and does not give a particle of true womanly grace. That necklace of pearls, if half hidden among soft laces, would be charming; but banding the uncovered neck and half-exposed chest, it looks bald, inharmonious, and out of place. White, with a superfluity of pink trimming, jewelry and flowers, I call on the outside of good taste; and if you go as you are, you will certainly attract all eyes, but I am sure you will not win admiration for these things from a single heart whose regard is worth having. Don’t be hurt with me, Alice. I am speaking with all love and sincerity, and from a wider experience and observation than it is possible for you to have reached. Don’t go as you are, if you can possibly make important changes. What time is left?" Alice stood silent, with a clouded face. Her aunt looked at her watch. "There is a full half hour. You may do much in that time. But you had best refer to your mother. Her taste and mine may not entirely accord." "O, as to that, mother is on your side. But she is always so plain in her notions," said Alice, with a slight betrayal of impatience. "A young lady will always be safest in society, Alice—always more certain to make a good impression, if she subordinate her love of dress and ornament as much as possible to her mother’s taste. In breaking away from this, my dear, you have gone over to an extreme that, if persisted in, will class you with vain lovers of admiration; with mere show girls, who, conscious of no superior moral and mental attractions, seek to win by outward charms. Be not of them, dear Alice, but of the higher class, whose minds are clothed in beautiful garments whose loveliest and most precious things are, like jewels, shut within a casket." Alice withdrew, silent, almost hurt, though not offended, and more than half resolved to give up the party. But certainly recollections checked this forming resolve before it reached a state of full decision. "How will this do?" She pushed open the door of her aunt’s room half an hour afterwards with this sentence on her lips. Her cheeks were glowing, and her eyes full of sparkles. So complete was the change, that for a brief space the aunt gazed at her wonderingly. She wore a handsome fawn-colored silk, made high in the neck, around which was a narrow lace collar of exceeding fineness, pinned with a single diamond. A linked band of gold, partly hidden by the lace undersleeve, clasped one of her wrists. A small spray of pearls and silver formed the only ornament for her hair, and nestled, beautifully contrasted among its dark and glossy braids. "Charming!" replied aunt Helen, in no feigned admiration. "In my eyes you are a hundred times more attractive than you were, a little while ago, and will prove more attractive to all whose favor is worth the winning." And she arose and kissed her nice lovingly. "I am not overdressed." Alice smiled. "Better underdressed than overdressed, always, my dear, If there is any fault, it is on the right side." "I am glad you are pleased, aunt Helen." "Are you not better pleased with yourself?" was asked. "I can’t just say that, aunt. I’ve worn this dress in company several times, and it’s very plain." "It is very becoming, dear; and we always appear to best advantage in that which most accords with our style of person and complexion. To my eyes, in this more simple yet really elegant apparel, you look charming. Before, you impressed me with a sense of vulgarity; now, the impression, is one of refinement." "Thank you for such flattering words, aunt Helen. I will accept the pictures in your eyes as justly contrasted. Of one thing I am sure, I shall feel more at ease, and less conscious of observation, than would have been the case had I gone in my gayer attire. Good evening. It is growing late, and I must be away." The maiden stooped, and kissed her aunt affectionately. "Good evening, dear, and may the hours be pleasant ones." When Alice entered the drawing-room, where the company were assembling her eyes were almost dazzled with the glitter of jewelry and the splendor of colors. Most of the ladies present seemed ambitious of display, emulous of ornament. She felt out of place, in her grave and simple costume, and moved to a part of the room where she would be away from observation. But her eyes were soon wandering about, scanning forms and faces, not from simple curiosity, but with an interest that was visible in her countenance. She looked for the presence of one who had been, of late, much in her thoughts: of one for whose eyes, more than for the eyes of any other, she apparelled herself with that studied effect which received so little approval from her aunt Helen. Alice felt sober. If she entertained doubts touching her change of dress they were gone now. Plainly, to her convictions, aunt Helen was wrong and she had been wrong in yielding her own best judgement of the case. Alice had been seated only for a little while, when she saw the young man to whom we have just referred. He was standing at the extreme end of the room, talking in a lively manner with a gayly-dressed girl, who seemed particularly pleased with his attentions. Beside her Alice would have seemed almost Quaker-like in plainness. And Alice felt this with something like a pang. Soon they passed across the room, approaching very near, and stood within a few feet of her for several minutes. Then they moved away, and sit down together not far off, still chatting in the lively manner at first observed. Once or twice the young man appeared to look directly at Alice, but no sign of recognition was visible on his face. After the first emotions of disappointment in not being recognized had subsided, the thoughts of Alice began to lift her out of the state in much she had been resting. "If fine feathers make the fine bird," she said to herself, "let him have the gay plumage. As for me, I ask a higher estimate. So I will be content." With the help of pride she rose above the weakness that was depressing her. A lady friend joined her at the moment, and she was soon interested in conversation. "Excuse me for a personal reference, Alice," said this friend in a familiar way, "and particularly for speaking of dress. But the fact is, you shame at least one half of us girls by your perfect subordination of everything to good taste. I never saw you so faultlessly attired in my life." "The merit, if there is any," replied Alice, "is not mine. I was coming like a butterfly, but my aunt Helen, who is making us a visit, objected so strongly that I took off my party dress and head-dress, made for the occasion, and, in a fit of half-don’t-care desperation, got myself up after this modest fashion that you are pleased to call in such good taste." "Make your aunt Helen my compliments, and say to her that I wish she were multiplied a thousands times. You will be the belle to-night, if there are many sensible man present. Ah, there comes Mr. Benton!" At this name the heart of Alice leaped. "He has spied you out already. You are the attraction, of course, not me." Mr. Benton, who had been, of late, so much in her thought, now stood bowing before the two young ladies, thus arresting their conversation. The last speaker was right. Alice had drawn him across the room, as was quickly apparent, for to her alone he was soon addressing himself. To quite the extent allowable in good breeding, was Alice monopolized by Mr. Benton during the evening and when he left her, with scarcely-concealed reluctance, another would take his place, and enjoy the charm of her fine intelligence. "Have you been introduced to Alice T——?" she heard one gentleman ask of another, as she stood near a window opening into the conservatory, and partly hidden by curtains. "Yes," was the answer. "She is a pleasant girl." "By odds the most charming I have met to-night. And then she has had the good taste to dress in a modest, womanly manner. How beautifully she contrasts with a dozen I could name, all radiant with colors as a bed of tulips." She heard no more. But this was enough. "You had a pleasant evening judging from your face," said aunt Helen, when she meet her niece on the next morning. "Yes; it was a very pleasant one—very pleasant." Her color deepened and her eyes grew brighter. "You were not neglected on account of you attractive style of dress?" "Judging from the attentions I received, it must have been very attractive. A novelty, perhaps. You understand human nature better than I do, aunt Helen." "Was it the plainest in the room?" "It was plainer than that of half a dozen ladies old enough to have grandchildren." The aunt smiled. "Then it has not hurt your prospects?" The question was in jest; but aunt Helen saw instantly into the heart of her niece. For a moment their eyes lingered in each other; then Alice looked down upon the floor. "No it has not hurt my prospects." The answer was in a softer voice, and then followed a long-drawn inspiration, succeeded by the faintest of sighs. A visit from Mr. Benton, on the next evening, removed all doubt from the dress question, if any remained. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 38: 02A.13 - COFFEE VS. BRANDY. ======================================================================== XIII. COFFEE vs. BRANDY. "WE shall have to give them a wedding party," said Mrs. Eldridge to her husband. Mr. Eldridge assented. "They will be home to-morrow, and I think of sending out of invitations for Thursday." "As you like about that," replied Mr. Eldridge. "The trouble will be yours." "You have no objections?" "O, none in the world. Fanny is a good little girl, and the least we can do is to pay her this compliment on her marriage. I am not altogether satisfied about her husband, however; he was rather a wild sort of a boy a year or two ago." "I guess he’s all right now," remarked Mrs. Eldridge; "and he strikes me as a very kind-hearted, well-meaning young man. I have flattered myself that Fanny has done quite well as the average run of girls." "Perhaps so," said Mr. Eldridge, a little thoughtfully. "Will you be in the neighborhood of Snyder’s?" inquired the lady. "I think not. We are very busy just now, and I shall hardly have time to leave the store to-day. But I can step around there to-morrow." "To-morrow, or even the next day, will answer," replied Mrs. Eldridge. "You must order the liquors. I will attend to everything else." "How many are you going to invite?" inquired Mr. Eldridge. "I have not made out a list yet, but it will not fall much short of seventy or eighty." "Seventy or eighty!" repeated Mr. Eldridge. "Let me see. Three dozen of champagne; a dozen of sherry; a dozen of port; a dozen of hock, and a gallon of brandy,—that will be enough to put life into them I imagine." "Or death!" Mrs. Eldridge spoke to herself, in an undertone. Her husband, if he noticed the remark, did not reply to it, but said, "Good morning," and left the house. A lad about sixteen years of age sat in the room during this conversation, with a book in his hand and his eyes on the page before him. He did not once look up or move; and an observer would have supposed him so much interested in his book as not to have heard the passing conversation. But he had listened to every word. As soon as Mr. Eldridge left the room his book fell upon his lap, and looking towards Mrs. Eldridge, he said, in an earnest but respectful manner,— "Don’t have any liquor, mother." Mrs s Eldridge looked neither offended nor irritated by this remonstrance, as she replied,— "I wish it were possible to avoid having liquor, my son; but it is the custom of society and if we give a party it must be in the way it is done by other people." This did not satisfy the boy, who had been for some time associated with the Cadets of Temperance, and he answered, but with modesty and great respect of, manner,—"If other people do wrong, mother—what then?" "I am not so sure of its being wrong, Henry." "O, but mother," spoke out the boy, quickly, "if it hurts people to drink, it must be wrong to give them liquor. Now I’ve been thinking how much better it would be to have a nice cup of coffee. I am sure that four out of five would like it a great deal better than wine or brandy. And nobody could possibly receive any harm. Didn’t you hear what father said about Mr. Lewis? That he had been rather wild? I am sure I shall never forget seeing him stagger in the street once. I suppose he has reformed. But just think, if the taste should be revived again and at our house, and he should become intoxicated at this wedding party! O, mother! It makes me feel dreadfully to think about it. And dear Cousin Fanny! What sorrow it would bring to her!" "O, dear, Henry! Don’t talk in that kind of a way! You make me shudder all over. You’re getting too much carried away by this subject of temperance." And Mrs. Eldridge left the room to look after her domestic duties. But she could not push from her mind certain uneasy thoughts which her son’s suggestions had awakened. During the morning an intimate lady friend came in to whom Mrs. Eldridge spoke of the intended party. "And would you believe it," she said, "that old-fashioned boy of mine actually proposed that we should have coffee instead of wine and brandy." "And you’re going to adopt the suggestion," replied the lady, her face lighten up with a pleasant smile. "It would suit my own views exactly; but then such an innovation upon a common usage as that; is not to be thought of for a moment." "And why not?" asked the lady. "Coffee is safe, while wine and brandy are always dangerous in promiscuous companies. You can never tell in what morbid appetite you may excite an unhealthy craving. You may receive into your house a young man with intellect clear, and moral purposes well-balanced, and send him home at midnight, to his mother, stupid from intoxication! Take your son’s advice, my friend. Exclude the wine and brandy, and give a pleasant cup of coffee to your guests instead." "O, dear, no, I can’t do that!" said Mrs. Eldridge. "It would look as if we were too mean to furnish wines and brandy. Besides, my husband would never consent to it." "Let me give you a little experience of my own. It may help you to a right decision in this case." The lady spoke with some earnestness, and a sober cast of thought in her countenance. "It is now about three years since I gave a large party, at which a number of young men were present,—boys I should rather say. Among these was the son of an old and very dear friend. He was in his nineteenth year,—a handsome, intelligent, and most agreeable person—full of life and pleasant humor. At supper time I noticed him with a glass of champagne in his hand, gayly talking with some ladies. In a little while after, my eyes happening to rest on him, I saw him holding, a glass of port wine to his lips, which was emptied at a single draught. Again passing near him, in order to speak to a lady, I observed a tumbler in his hand, and knew the contents to be brandy and water. This caused me to feel some concern, and I kept him, in closer observation. In a little while he was at the table again, pouring out another glass of wine. I thought it might be for a lady upon whom he was in attendance; but no, the sparkling liquor touched his own lips. When the company returned to the parlors, the flushed face, swimming eyes, and over-hilarious manner of my young friend, showed too plainly that he had been drinking to excess. He was so much excited as to attract the attention of every one, and his condition became the subject of remark. He was mortified and distressed at the occurrence, and drawing him from the room, made free to tell him the truth. He showed some indignation at first, and intimated that I had insulted him but I rebuked him sternly, and told him he had better go home. I was too much excited to act very wisely. He took me at my word, and left the house. There was no sleep for my eyes on that night, Mrs. Eldridge. The image of that boy going home to his mother at midnight, in such a condition, and made so by my hand haunted me like a rebuking spectre; and I resolved never again to set out a table with liquors to a promiscuous company of young and old, and I have kept that word of promise. My husband is not willing to have a party unless there is wine with the refreshments, and I would rather forego all entertainments than put temptation in the way of any one. Your son’s suggestion is admirable. Have the independence to act upon it, and set an example which many will be glad to follow. Don’t fear criticism or remark; don’t stop to ask what this one will say or that one think. The approval of our own consciences is worth far more than the opinions of men. Is it right? That is the question to ask; not How will it appear? or What will people say? There will be a number of parties given to your niece, without doubt; and if you, lead off with coffee instead of wine, all the rest of Fanny’s friends may follow the good example." When Mr. Eldridge came home at dinner-time, his wife said to him,— "You needn’t order any liquors from Snyder." "Why not?" Mr. Eldridge looked at his wife with some surprise. "I’m going to have coffee, instead of wine, and brandy," said Mrs. Eldridge, speaking firmly. "Nonsense! You’re jesting." "No, I’m in earnest. These liquors are not only expensive, but dangerous things to offer freely in mixed companies. Many boys get their first taste for drink at fashionable parties, and many reformed men have the old fiery thirst revived by a glass of wine poured out for them in social hospitality. I am afraid to have my conscience burdened with the responsibility which this involves." "There is no question as to the injury that is done by this free pouring out of liquors at our fashionable entertainments. I’ve long enough seen that," said Mr. Eldridge; "but she will be a bold lady who ventures to offer a cup of coffee in place of a glass of wine. You had better think twice on this subject before you act once." "I’ve done little else I but think about it for the last two hours, and the more I think about it the more settled my purpose becomes." "But what put this thing into your head?" inquired Mr. Eldridge. "You were in full sail for party this morning, liquor and all; this sudden tacking for a new course is a little surprising. I’m puzzled." "Your son put it into my head," replied Mrs. Eldridge. "Henry? Well, that boy does beat all!" Mr. Eldridge did not speak with disapprobation, but with a tone of pleasure in his voice. "And so he proposed that we should have coffee instead of wine and brandy?" "Yes." "Bravo for Henry! I like that. But what will people say, my dear? I don’t want to become a laughing stock." "I’d rather have other people laugh at me for doing right," said Mrs. Eldridge, "than to have my conscience blame me for doing wrong." "Must we give the party?" asked Mr. Eldridge, who did not feel much inclined to brave public opinion. "I don’t see that we can well avoid doing so. Parties will be given, and as Fanny is our niece, it will look like a slight towards her if we hold back. No, she must have a party; and as I am resolved to exclude liquor, we must come in first. Who knows but all the rest may follow our example." "Don’t flatter yourself on any such result. We shall stand alone, you may depend upon it." The evening of the party came and a large company assembled at the house of Mr. and Mrs. Eldridge. At eleven o’clock they passed to the supper-room. On this time the thoughts of the host and hostess had passed, ever and anon, during the whole evening, and not without many misgivings as to the effect their entertainment would produce on the minds of the company. Mr. Eldridge was particularly nervous on the subject. There were several gentlemen present whom he knew to be lovers of good wine; gentlemen at whose houses he had often been entertained, and never without the exhilarating glass. How would they feel? What would they think? What would they say? These questions fairly haunted him; and he regretted, over and over again, that he had yielded to his wife and excluded the liquors. But there was no holding back now; the die was cast, and they must stand to the issue. Mr. Eldridge tried to speak pleasantly to the lady on his arm, as he ascended to the supper-room; but the words came heavily from his tongue, for his heart was dying in him. Soon the company were around the table, and eyes, critical in such matters, taking hurried inventories of what it contained. Setting aside the wine and brandy, the entertainment was of the most liberal character, and the whole arrangement extremely elegant. At each end of the table stood a large coffee-urn, surrounded with cups, the meaning of which was not long a mystery to the company. After the terrapin, oysters, salad, and their accompaniments, Mr. Eldridge said to a lady, in a half-hesitating voice, as if he were almost ashamed to ask the question,— "Will you have a cup of coffee?" "If you please," was the smiling answer. "Nothing would suit me better." "Delicious!" Mr. Eldridge heard one of the gentlemen, of whom he stood most in dread, say. "This is indeed a treat. I wouldn’t give such a cup of coffee for the best glass of wine you could bring me." "I am glad you are pleased," Mr. Eldridge could not help remarking, as he turned to the gentleman. "You couldn’t have pleased me better," was replied. Soon the cups were circling through the room, and every one seemed to enjoy the rich beverage. It was not the ghost of coffee, nor coffee robbed of its delicate aroma; but clear, strong, fragrant, and mellowed by the most delicious cream. Having elected to serve coffee, Mrs. Eldridge was careful that her entertainment should not prove a failure through any lack of excellence in this article. And it was very far from proving a failure. The first surprise being over, one and another began to express an opinion on the subject to the host and hostess. "Let me thank you," said a lady, taking the hand of Mrs. Eldridge, and speaking very warmly, "for your courage in making this innovation upon a custom of doubtful prudence. I thank you, as a mother, who has two sons here to-night." She said no more, but Mrs. Eldridge understood well her whole meaning. "You are a brave man, and I honor you," was the remark of a gentleman to Mr. Eldridge. "There will be many, I think, to follow your good example. I should never have had the courage to lead, but I think I shall be brave enough to follow, when it comes my turn to entertain my friends." Henry was standing by his father when this was said listening with respectful, but deeply gratified attention. "My son, sir," said Mr. Eldridge. The gentleman took the boy by the hand, and while he held it, the father added,— "I must let the honor go to where it really is due. The suggestion came from him. He is a Cadet of Temperance, and when the party was talked of, he pleaded so earnestly for the substitution of coffee for wine and brandy, and used such good reason for the change, that we saw only one right course before us, and that we have adopted." The gentleman, on hearing this, shook the lad’s hand warmly, and said,— "Your father has reason to be proud of you, my brave boy! There is no telling what good may grew out of this thing. Others will follow your father’s example, and hundreds of young men be saved from the enticements of the wine cup." With what strong throbs of pleasure did the boy’s heart beat when these words came to his ears! He had scarcely hoped for success when he pleaded briefly, but earnestly, with his mother. Yet he felt that he must speak, for to his mind, what she proposed doing was a great evil. Since it had been resolved to banish liquor from the entertainment, he had heard his father and mother speak several times doubtfully as to the result; and more than once his father expressed result that any such "foolish" attempt to run in the face of people’s prejudices had been thought of. Naturally, he had felt anxious about the result; but now that the affair had gone off so triumphantly, his heart was outgushing with pleasure. The result was as had been predicted. Four parties were given to the bride, and in each case the good example of Mrs. Eldridge was followed. Coffee took the place of wine and brandy, and it was the remark of nearly all, that there had been no pleasant parties during the season. So much for what a boy may do, by only a few right words spoken at the right time, and in the right manner. Henry Eldridge was thoughtful, modest, and earnest-minded. His attachment to the cause of temperance was not a mere boyish enthusiasm, but the result of a conviction that intemperance was a vice destructive, to both soul and body, and one that lay like a curse and a plague-spot on society, He could understand how, if the boys rejected, entirely, the cup of confusion, the next, generation of men would be sober; and this had led him to join the Cadets, and do all in his power to get other lads to join also. In drawing other lads into the order, he had been very successful; and now, in a few respectfully uttered, but earnest words, he had checked the progress of intemperance in a circle far beyond the ordinary reach of his influence. Henry Eldridge was a happy boy that night. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 39: 02A.14 - AMY'S QUESTION. ======================================================================== XIV. AMY’S QUESTION. "AMY!" Mrs. Grove called from the door that opened towards the garden. But no answer came. The sun had set half an hour before, and his parting, rays, were faintly tinging with gold and purple few clouds that lay just alone the edge of the western sky. In the east, the full moon was rising in all her beauty, making pale the stars that were sparking in the firmament. "Where is Amy?" she asked. "Has any one seen her come in?" "I saw her go up stairs with her knitting in her hand half an hour ago," said Amy’s brother, who was busily at work with his knife on a block of pine wood, trying to make a boat. Mrs. Grove went to the foot of the stairs, and called again. But there was no reply. "I wonder where the child can be," she said to herself, a slight feeling of anxiety crossing her mind. So she went up stairs to looks for her. The door of Amy’s bedroom was shut, but on pushing it open Mrs. Grove saw her little girl sitting at the open window, so lost in the beauty of the moonlit sky and her own thoughts that she did not hear the noise of her mother’s entrance. "Amy," said Mrs. Grove. The child started, and then said quickly,— "O, mother! Come and see! Isn’t it lovely?" "What are you looking at, dear?" asked Mrs. Grove, as she sat down by her side, and drew an arm around her. "At the moon, and stars, and the lake away off by the hill. See what a great road of light lies across the water! Isn’t it beautiful, mother? And it makes me feel so quiet and happy. I wonder why it is?" "Shall I tell you the reason?" "O, yes, mother, dear! What is the reason?" "God made everything that is good and beautiful." "O, yes, I know that!" "Good and beautiful for the sake of man; because man is the highest thing of creation and nearest to God. All things below him were created for his good; that is, God made them for him to use in sustaining the life of his body or the life of his soul." "I don’t see what use I can make of the moon and stars," said Amy. "And yet," answered her mother, "you said only a minute ago that the beauty of this moon-light evening made you feel so quiet and happy." "O, yes! That is so; and you were going to tell me why it was." "First," said the mother, "let me, remind you that the moon and stars give us light by night, and that, if you happened to be away at a neighbor’s after the sun went down, they would be of great use in showing you the path home-ward." "I didn’t think of that when I spoke of not seeing what use I could make, of the moon and stars," Amy replied. Her mother went on,— "God made everything that is good and beautiful for the stake of man, as I have just told you; and each of these good and beautiful things of creation comes to us with a double blessing,—one for our bodies and the other for our souls. The moon and stars not only give light this evening to make dark ways plain, but their calm presence fills our souls with peace. And they do so, because all things of nature being the work of God, have in them a likeness of something in himself not seen by our eyes, but felt in our souls. Do you understand anything of what I mean, Amy?" "Just a little, only," answered the child. "Do you mean, mother dear, that God is inside of the moon and stars, and everything else that he has made?" "Not exactly what I mean; but that he has so made them, that each created thin is as a mirror in which our souls may see something of his love and his wisdom reflected. In the water we see an image of his truth, that, if learned, will satisfy our thirsty minds and cleanse us from impurity. In the sun we see an image of his love, that gives light, and warmth, and all beauty and health to our souls." "And what in the moon?" asked Amy. "The moon is cold and calm, not warm and brilliant like the sun, which tells us of God’s love. Like truths learned, but not made warm and bright by love, it shows us the way in times of darkness. But you are too young to understand much about this. Only keep in your memory that every good and beautiful thing you see, being made by God, reflects something of his nature and quality to your soul and that this is why the lovely, the grand, the beautiful, the pure, and sweet things of nature fill your heart with peace or delight when you gaze at them." For a little while after this they sat looking out of the window, both feeling very peaceful in the presence of God and his works. Then voice was heard below, and Amy, starting up, exclaimed,— "O, there is father!" and taking her mother’s hand, went down to meet him. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 40: 02A.15 - AN ANGEL IN DISGUISE. ======================================================================== XV. AN ANGEL IN DISGUISE. IDLENESS, vice, and intemperance had done their miserable work, and the dead mother lay cold and still amid her wretched children. She had fallen upon the threshold of her own door in a drunken fit, and died in the presence of her frightened little ones. Death touches the spring of our common humanity. This woman had been despised, scoffed at, and angrily denounced by nearly every man, woman, and child in the village; but now, as the fact of, her death was passed from lip to lip, in subdued tones, pity took the place of anger, and sorrow of denunciation. Neighbors went hastily to the old tumble-down hut, in which she had secured little more than a place of shelter from summer heats and winter cold: some with grave-clothes for a decent interment of the body; and some with food for the half-starving children, three in number. Of these, John, the oldest, a boy of twelve, was a stout lad, able to earn his living with any farmer. Kate, between ten and eleven, was bright, active girl, out of whom something clever might be made, if in good hands; but poor little Maggie, the youngest, was hopelessly diseased. Two years before a fall from a window had injured her spine, and she had not been able to leave her bed since, except when lifted in the arms of her mother. "What is to be done with the children?" That was the chief question now. The dead mother would go underground, and be forever beyond all care or concern of the villagers. But the children must not be left to starve. After considering the matter, and talking it over with his wife, farmer Jones said that he would take John, and do well by him, now that his mother was out of the way; and Mrs. Ellis, who had been looking out for a bound girl, concluded that it would be charitable in her to make choice of Katy, even though she was too young to be of much use for several years. "I could do much better, I know," said Mrs. Ellis; "but as no one seems inclined to take her, I must act from a sense of duty expect to have trouble with the child; for she’s an undisciplined thing—used to having her own way." But no one said "I’ll take Maggie." Pitying glances were cast on her wan and wasted form and thoughts were troubled on her account. Mothers brought cast-off garments and, removing her soiled and ragged clothes, dressed her in clean attire. The sad eyes and patient face of the little one touched many hearts, and even knocked at them for entrance. But none opened to take her in. Who wanted a bed-ridden child? "Take her to the poorhouse," said a rough man, of whom the question "What’s to be done with Maggie?" was asked. "Nobody’s going to be bothered with her." "The poorhouse is a sad place for a sick and helpless child," answered one. "For your child or mine," said the other, lightly speaking; "but for tis brat it will prove a blessed change, she will be kept clean, have healthy food, and be doctored, which is more than can be said of her past condition." There was reason in that, but still it didn’t satisfy. The day following the day of death was made the day of burial. A few neighbors were at the miserable hovel, but none followed dead cart as it bore the unhonored remains to its pauper grave. Farmer Jones, after the coffin was taken out, placed John in his wagon and drove away, satisfied that he had done his part. Mrs. Ellis spoke to Kate with a hurried air, "Bid your sister good by," and drew the tearful children apart ere scarcely their lips had touched in a sobbing farewell. Hastily others went out, some glancing at Maggie, and some resolutely refraining from a look, until all had gone. She was alone! Just beyond the threshold Joe Thompson, the wheelwright, paused, and said to the blacksmith’s wife, who was hastening off with the rest,— "It’s a cruel thing to leave her so." "Then take her to the poorhouse: she’ll have to go there," answered the blacksmith’s wife, springing away, and leaving Joe behind. For a little while the man stood with a puzzled air; then he turned back, and went into the hovel again. Maggie with painful effort, had raised herself to an upright position and was sitting on the bed, straining her eyes upon the door out of which all had just departed, A vague terror had come into her thin white face. "O, Mr. Thompson!" she cried out, catching her suspended breath, "don’t leave me here all alone!" Though rough in exterior, Joe Thompson, the wheelwright, had a heart, and it was very tender in some places. He liked children, and was pleased to have them come to his shop, where sleds and wagons were made or mended for the village lads without a draft on their hoarded sixpences. "No, dear," he answered, in a kind voice, going to the bed, and stooping down over the child, "You sha’n’t be left here alone." Then he wrapped her with the gentleness almost of a woman, in the clean bedclothes which some neighbor had brought; and, lifting her in his strong arms, bore her out into the air and across the field that lay between the hovel and his home. Now, Joe Thompson’s wife, who happened to be childless, was not a woman of saintly temper, nor much given to self-denial for others’ good, and Joe had well-grounded doubts touching the manner of greeting he should receive on his arrival. Mrs. Thompson saw him approaching from the window, and with ruffling feathers met him a few paces from the door, as he opened the garden gate, and came in. He bore a precious burden, and he felt it to be so. As his arms held the sick child to his breast, a sphere of tenderness went out from her, and penetrated his feelings. A bond had already corded itself around them both, and love was springing into life. "What have you there?" sharply questioned Mrs. Thompson. Joe, felt the child start and shrink against him. He did not reply, except by a look that was pleading and cautionary, that said, "Wait a moment for explanations, and be gentle;" and, passing in, carried Maggie to the small chamber on the first floor, and laid her on a bed. Then, stepping back, he shut the door, and stood face to face with his vinegar-tempered wife in the passage-way outside. "You haven’t brought home that sick brat!" Anger and astonishment were in the tones of Mrs. Joe Thompson; her face was in a flame. "I think women’s hearts are sometimes very hard," said Joe. Usually Joe Thompson got out of his wife’s way, or kept rigidly silent and non-combative when she fired up on any subject; it was with some surprise, therefore, that she now encountered a firmly-set countenance and a resolute pair of eyes. "Women’s hearts are not half so hard as men’s!" Joe saw, by a quick intuition, that his resolute bearing had impressed his wife and he answered quickly, and with real indignation, "Be that as it may, every woman at the funeral turned her eyes steadily from the sick child’s face, and when the cart went off with her dead mother, hurried away, and left her alone in that old hut, with the sun not an hour in the sky." "Where were John and Kate?" asked Mrs. Thompson. "Farmer Jones tossed John into his wagon, and drove off. Katie went home with Mrs. Ellis; but nobody wanted the poor sick one. ’Send her to the poorhouse,’ was the cry." "Why didn’t you let her go, then. What did you bring her here for?" "She can’t walk to the poorhouse," said Joe; "somebody’s arms must carry her, and mine are strong enough for that task." "Then why didn’t you keep on? Why did you stop here?" demanded the wife. "Because I’m not apt to go on fools’ errands. The Guardians must first be seen, and a permit obtained." There was no gainsaying this. "When will you see the Guardians?" was asked, with irrepressible impatience. "To-morrow." "Why put it off till to-morrow? Go at once for the permit, and get the whole thing off of your hands to-night." "Jane," said the wheelwright, with an impressiveness of tone that greatly subdued his wife, "I read in the Bible sometimes, and find much said about little children. How the Savior rebuked the disciples who would not receive them; how he took them up in his arms, and blessed them; and how he said that ’whosoever gave them even a cup of cold water should not go unrewarded.’ Now, it is a small thing for us to keep this poor motherless little one for a single night; to be kind to her for a single night; to make her life comfortable for a single night." The voice of the strong, rough man shook, and he turned his head away, so that the moisture in his eyes might not be seen. Mrs. Thompson did not answer, but a soft feeling crept into her heart. "Look at her kindly, Jane; speak to her kindly," said Joe. "Think of her dead mother, and the loneliness, the pain, the sorrow that must be on all her coming life." The softness of his heart gave unwonted eloquence to his lips. Mrs. Thompson did not reply, but presently turned towards the little chamber where her husband had deposited Maggie; and, pushing open the door, went quietly in. Joe did not follow; he saw that, her state had changed, and felt that it would be best to leave her alone with the child. So he went to his shop, which stood near the house, and worked until dusky evening released him from labor. A light shining through the little chamber windows was the first object that attracted Joe’s attention on turning towards the house: it was a good omen. The path led him by this windows and, when opposite, he could not help pausing to look in. It was now dark enough outside to screen him from observation. Maggie lay, a little raised on the pillow with the lamp shining full upon her face. Mrs. Thompson was sitting by the bed, talking to the child; but her back was towards the window, so that her countenance was not seen. From Maggie’s face, therefore, Joe must read the character of their intercourse. He saw that her eyes were intently fixed upon his wife; that now and then a few words came, as if in answers from her lips; that her expression was sad and tender; but he saw nothing of bitterness or pain. A deep-drawn breath was followed by one of relief, as a weight lifted itself from his heart. On entering, Joe did not go immediately to the little chamber. His heavy tread about the kitchen brought his wife somewhat hurriedly from the room where she had been with Maggie. Joe thought it best not to refer to the child, nor to manifest any concern in regard to her. "How soon will supper be ready?" he asked. "Right soon," answered Mrs. Thompson, beginning to bustle about. There was no asperity in her voice. After washing from his hands and face the dust and soil of work, Joe left the kitchen, and went to the little bedroom. A pair of large bright eyes looked up at him from the snowy bed; looked at him tenderly, gratefully, pleadingly. How his heart swelled in his bosom! With what a quicker motion came the heart-beats! Joe sat down, and now, for the first time, examining the thin free carefully under the lamp light, saw that it was an attractive face, and full of a childish sweetness which suffering had not been able to obliterate. "Your name is Maggie?" he said, as he sat down and took her soft little hand in his. "Yes, sir." Her voice struck a chord that quivered in a low strain of music. "Have you been sick long?" "Yes, sir." What a sweet patience was in her tone! "Has the doctor been to see you?" "He used to come." "But not lately?" "No, sir." "Have you any pain?" "Sometimes, but not now." "When had you pain?" "This morning my side ached, and my back hurt when you carried me." "It hurts you to be lifted or moved about?" "Yes, sir." "Your side doesn’t ache now?" "No, sir." "Does it ache a great deal?" "Yes, sir; but it hasn’t ached any since I’ve been on this soft bed." "The soft bed feels good." "O, yes, sir—so good!" What a satisfaction, mingled with gratitude, was in her voice! "Supper is ready," said Mrs. Thompson, looking into the room a little while afterwards. Joe glanced from his wife’s face to that of Maggie; she understood him, and answered,— "She can wait until we are done; then I will bring her somethings to eat." There was an effort at indifference on the part of Mrs. Thompson, but her husband had seen her through the window, and understood that the coldness was assumed. Joe waited, after sitting down to the table, for his wife to introduce the subject uppermost in both of their thoughts; but she kept silent on that theme, for many minutes, and he maintained a like reserve. At last she said, abruptly,— "What are you going to do with that child?" "I thought you understood me that she was to go to the poorhouse," replied Joe, as if surprised at her question. Mrs. Thompson looked rather strangely at her husband for sonic moments, and then dropped her eyes. The subject was not again referred to during the meal. At its close, Mrs. Thompson toasted a slice of bread, and softened, it with milk and butter; adding to this a cup of tea, she took them into Maggie, and held the small waiter, on which she had placed them, while the hungry child ate with every sign of pleasure. "Is it good?" asked Mrs. Thompson, seeing with what a keen relish the food was taken. The child paused with the cup in her hand, and answered with a look of gratitude that awoke to new life old human feelings which had been slumbering in her heart for half a score of years. "We’ll keep her a day or two longer; she is so weak and helpless," said Mrs. Joe Thompson, in answer to her husband’s remark, at breakfast-time on the next morning, that he must step down and see the Guardians of the Poor about Maggie. "She’ll be so much in your way," said Joe. "I sha’n’t mind that for a day or two. Poor thing!" Joe did not see the Guardians of the Poor on that day, on the next, nor on the day following. In fact, he never saw them at all on Maggie’s account, for in less than a week Mrs. Joe Thompson would as soon leave thought of taking up her own abode in the almshouse as sending Maggie there. What light and blessing did that sick and helpless child bring to the home of Joe Thompson, the poor wheelwright! It had been dark, and cold, and miserable there for a long time just because his wife had nothing to love and care for out of herself, and so became soar, irritable, ill-tempered, and self-afflicting in the desolation of her woman’s nature. Now the sweetness of that sick child, looking ever to her in love, patience, and gratitude, was as honey to her soul, and she carried her in her heart as well as in her arms, a precious burden. As for Joe Thompson, there was not a man in all the neighborhood who drank daily of a more precious wine of life than he. An angel had come into his house, disguised as a sick, helpless, and miserable child, and filled all its dreary chambers with the sunshine of love. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 41: 02A.16 - WHICH WAS MOST THE LADY? ======================================================================== XVI. WHICH WAS MOST THE LADY? "DID you ever see such a queer looking figure?" exclaimed a young lady, speaking loud enough to be heard by the object of her remark. She was riding slowly along in an open carriage, a short distance from the city, accompanied by a relative. The young man, her companion, looked across the road at a woman, whose attire was certainly not in any way very near approach to the fashion of the day. She had on a faded calico dress, short in the waist; stout leather shoes; the remains of what had once been a red merino long shawl, and a dingy old Leghorn bonnet of the style of eighteen hundred and twenty. As the young man turned to look at the woman, the latter raised her eyes and fixed them steadily upon the young lady who had so rudely directed towards her the attention of her companion. Her face, was not old nor faded, as the dress she wore. It was youthful, but plain almost to homeliness; and the smallness of her eyes, which were close together and placed at the Mongolian angle, gave to her countenance a singular aspect. "How do you do, aunty?" said the young man gently drawing on the rein of his horse so as still further to diminish his speed. The face of the young girl—for she was quite young—reddened, and she slackened her steps so as to fall behind the rude, unfeeling couple, who sought to make themselves merry at her expense. "She is gypsy!" said the young lady, laughing. "Gran’mother! How are catnip and hoarhound, snakeroot and tansy, selling to-day? What’s the state of the herb market?" joined the young man with increasing rudeness. "That bonnet’s from the ark—ha! ha!" "And was worn by the wife of Shem, Ham or Japheth. Ha! now I’ve got it! This is the great, great, great granddaughter of Noah. What a discovery! Where’s Barnum? Here’s a chance for another fortune!" The poor girl made no answer to this cruel and cowardly assault, but turned her face away, and stood still, in order to let the carriage pass on. "You look like a gentleman and a lady," said a man whom was riding by, and happened to overhear some of their last remarks; "and no doubt regard yourselves as such. But your conduct is anything but gentlemanly and lady-like; and if I had the pleasure of knowing your friends, I would advise them to keep you in until you had sense and decency enough not to disgrace yourselves and them!" A fiery spot burned instantly on the young man’s face, and fierce anger shot from his eyes. But the one who had spoken so sharply fixed upon him a look of withering contempt, and riding close up to the carriage, handed him his card, remarking coldly, as he did so,— "I shall be pleased to meet you again, sir. May I ask your card in return?" The young man thrust his hand indignantly into his pocket, and fumbled there for some moments, but without finding a card. "No matter," said he, trying to speak fiercely; "you will hear from me in good time." "And you from me on the spot, if I should happen to catch you at such mean and cowardly work as you were just now engaged in," said the stranger, no seeking to veil his contempt. "The vulgar brute! O, he’s horrid!" ejaculated the young lady as her rather crestfallen companion laid the whip upon his horse and dashed ahead. "How he frightened me!" "Some greasy butcher or two-fisted blacksmith," said the elegant young man with contempt. "But," he added boastfully, "I’ll teach him a lesson!" Out into the beautiful country, with feeling a little less buoyant than when they started, rode our gay young couple. As the excitement of passion died away both feel a little uncomfortable in mind, for certain unpleasant convictions intruded themselves, and certain precepts in the code of polite usage grew rather distinct in their memories. They had been thoughtless, to say the least of it. "But the girl looked so queer!" said the young lady. "I couldn’t help laughing to save my life. Where on earth did she come from?" Not very keen was their enjoyment of the afternoon’s ride, although the day was particularly fine, and their way was amid some bits of charming scenery. After going out into the country some five or six miles, the horse’s head was turned, and they took their way homeward. Wishing to avoid the Monotony of a drive along the same road the young man struck across the country in order to reach another avenue leading into the city, but missed his way and bewildered in a maze of winding country roads. While descending a steep hill, in a very secluded place, a wheel came off, and both were thrown from the carriage. The young man received only a slight bruise, but the girl was more seriously injured. Her head had struck against a stone with so strong a concussion as to render her insensible. Eagerly glancing around for aid, the young man saw, at no great distance from the road, a poor looking log tenement, from the mud chimney of which curled a thin column of smoke, giving signs of inhabitants. To call aloud was his first impulse, and he raised his voice with the cry of "Help!" Scarcely had the sound died away, ere he saw the door of the cabin flung open, and a woman and boy looked eagerly around. "Help!" he cried again, and the sound of his voice directed their eyes towards him. Even in his distress, alarm, and bewilderment, the young man recognized instantly in the woman the person they had so wantonly insulted only an hour or two before. As soon as she saw them, she ran forward hastily, and seeing the white face of the insensible girl, exclaimed, with pity and concern,— "O, sir! is she badly hurt?" There was heart in that voice of peculiar sweetness. "Poor lady!" she said, tenderly, as she untied the bonnet strings with gentle care, and placed her hand upon the clammy temples. "Shall I help you to take her over to the house?" she added, drawing an arm beneath the form of the insensible girl. "Thank you!" There was a tone of respect in the young man’s voice. "But I can carry her myself;" and he raised the insensible form in his arms, and, following the young stranger, bore it into her humble dwelling. As he laid her upon a bed, he asked, eagerly,— "Is there a doctor near?" "Yes, sir," replied the girl. "If you will come to the door, I will show you the doctor’s house; and I think he must be at home, for I saw him go by only a quarter of an hour since. John will take care of your horse while you are away, and I will do my best for the poor lady." The doctor’s house, about a quarter of a mile distant, was pointed out, and the young man hurried off at a rapid speed. He was gone only a few minutes when his insensible companion revived, and, starting up, looked wildly around her. "Where am I? Where is George?" she asked, eagerly. "He has gone for the doctor; but will be back very soon," said the young woman, in a kind, soothing voice. "For the doctor! Who’s injured?" She had clasped her hands across her forehead, and now, on removing them, saw on one a wet stain of blood. With a frightened cry she fell backs upon the pillow from which she had risen. "I don’t think you are much hurt," was said, in a tone of encouragement, as with a damp cloth the gentle stranger wiped very tenderly her forehead. "The cut is not deep. Have you pain anywhere?" "No," was faintly answered. "You can move your arms; so they are uninjured. And now, won’t you just step on to the floor, and see if you can bear your weight? Let me raise you up, There, put your foot down—now the other—now take a step—now another. There are no bones broken! How glad I am!" How earnest, how gentle, how pleased she was. There was no acting in her manner. Every tone, expression, and gesture showed that heart was in everything. "O, I am glad!" she repeated. "It might have been so much worse." The first glance into the young girl’s face was one of identification; and even amid the terror that oppressed her heart, the unwilling visitor felt a sense of painful mortification. There was no mistaking that peculiar countenance. But how different she seemed! Her voice was singularly sweet, her manner gentle and full of kindness, and in her movements and attitude a certain ease that marked her as one not to be classed, even by the over-refined young lady who was so suddenly brought within her power, among the common herd. All that assiduous care and kind attention could do for the unhappy girl, until the doctor’s arrival, was done. After getting back to the bed from which she had been induced to rise, in order to see if all her limbs were sound, she grew sick and faint, and remained so until the physician came. He gave it as his opinion that she had received some internal injuries, and that it would not be safe to attempt her removal. The young couple looked at each other with dismay pictured in their countenances. "I wish it were in my power to make you more comfortable," said the kind-hearted girl, in whose humble abode they were. "What we have is at your service in welcome, and all that it is in my power to do shall be done for you cheerfully. If father was only at home—but that can’t be helped." The young man dazed upon her in wonder and shame—wonder at the charm that now appeared in her singularly marked countenance, and shame for the disgraceful and cowardly cruelty with which he had a little while before so wantonly assailed her. The doctor was positive about the matter, and so there was no alternative. After seeing his unhappy relative in as comfortable a condition as possible, the young man, with the doctor’s aid, repaired his crippled vehicle by the restoration of a linchpin, and started for the city to bear intelligence of the sad accident, and bring out the mother of the injured girl. Alone with the person towards whom she had only a short time before acted in such shameless violation of womanly kindness and lady-like propriety, our "nice young lady" did not feel more comfortable in mind than body. Every look—every word—every tone—every act of the kind-hearted girl—was a rebuke. The delicacy of her attentions, and the absence of everything like a desire to refund her of the recent unpleasant incident, marked her as possessing, even if her face and attire were plain, and her position humble, all the elements of a true lady. Although the doctor, when he left, did not speak very encouragingly, the vigorous system of the young girl began to react and she grew better quite rapidly so that when her parents arrived with the family physician, she was so much improved that it was at once decided to take her to the city. For an hour before her parents came she lay feigning to be in sleep, yet observing every movement and word of her gentle attendant. It was an hour of shame, self-reproaches, and repentance. She was not really bad at heart; but false estimates of things, trifling associations, and a thoughtless disregard of others, had made her far less a lady in act than she imagined herself to be in quality. Her parents, when they arrived, overwhelmed the young girl with thankfulness; and the father, at parting, tried to induce her to accept a sum of money. But the offers seemed to disturb her. "O, no, sir!" she said, drawing back, while a glow came into her pale face, and made it almost beautiful; "I have only done a simple duty." "But you are poor," he urged, glancing around. "Take this, and let it make you more comfortable." "We are contented with what God has given to us," she replied, cheerfully. "For what he gives is always the best portion. No, sir; I cannot receive money for doing only a common duty." "Your reward is great," said the father, touched with the noble answer, "may God bless you, my good girl! And if you will not receive my money, accept my grateful thanks." As the daughter parted from the strange young girl, she bent down and kissed her hand; then looking up into her face, with tearful eyes, she whispered for her ears alone,— "I am punished, and you are vindicated. O, let your heart forgive me!" "It was God whom you offended," was whispered back. "Get his forgiveness, and all will be right. You have mine, and also the prayer of my heart that you may be good and wise, for only such are happy." The humbled girl grasped her hand tightly, and murmured, "I shall never forget you—never!" Nor did she. If the direct offer of her father was declined, indirect benefits reached, through her means, the lonely log cottage, where everything in time put on a new and pleasant aspect, wind the surroundings of the gentle spirit that presides there were more in agreement with her true internal quality. To the thoughtless young couple the incidents of that day were a life-lesson that never passed entirely from their remembrance. They obtained a glance below the surface of things that surprised them, learning that, even in the humblest, there may be hearts in the right places—warm with pure feelings, and inspired by the noblest sentiments of humanity; and that highly as they esteem themselves on account of their position, there was one, at least, standing below them so far as external advantages were concerned, who was their superior in all the higher qualities that go to make up the real lady and gentleman. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 42: 02A.17 - OTHER PEOPLE'S EYES. ======================================================================== XVII. OTHER PEOPLE’S EYES. "OUR parlor carpet is beginning to look real shabby," said Mrs. Cartwright. "I declare! if I don’t feel right down ashamed of it, every time a visitor, who is anybody, calls in to see me." "A new one will cost—" The husband of Mrs. Cartwright, a good-natured, compliant man, who was never better pleased than when he could please his wife, paused to let her finish the sentence, which she did promptly, by saying,— "Only forty dollars. I’ve counted it all up. It will take thirty-six yards. I saw a beautiful piece at Martin’s—just the thing—at one dollar a yard. Binding, and other little matters, won’t go beyond three or four dollars, and I can make it myself, you know." "Only forty dollars! Mr. Cartwright glanced down at the carpet which had decorated the floor of their little parlor for nearly five years. It had a pleasant look in his eyes, for it was associated with many pleasant memories. Only forty dollars for a new one! If the cost were only five, instead of forty, the inclination to banish this old friend to an out-of-the-way chamber would have been no stronger in the mind of Mr. Cartwright. But forty dollars was an item in the calculation, and to Mr. Cartwright a serious one. Every year he was finding it harder to meet the gradually increasing demand upon his purse; for there was a steadily progressive enlargement of his family, and year after year the cost of living advanced. He was thinking of this when his wife said,— "You know, Henry, that cousin Sally Gray is coming here on a visit week after next. Now I do want to put the very best face on to things while she is here. We were married at the same time, and I hear that her husband is getting rich. I feel a little pride about the matter, and don’t want her to think that we’re growing worse off than when we began life, and can’t afford to replace this shabby old carpet by a new one." No further argument was needed. Mr. Cartwright had sixty dollars in one of the bureau drawers,—a fact well known to his wife. And it was also well known to her that it was the accumulation of very careful savings, designed, when the sum reached one hundred dollars, to cancel a loan made by a friend, at a time when sickness and a death in the family had run up their yearly expenses beyond the year’s income. Very desirous was Mr. Cartwright to pay off this loan, and he had felt lighter in heart as those aggregate of his savings came nearer and nearer to the sum required for that purpose. But he had no firmness to oppose his wife in anything. Her wishes in this instance, as in many others, he unwisely made a law. The argument about cousin Sally Gray was irresistible. No more than his wife did he wish to look poor in her eyes; and so, for the sake of her eyes, a new carpet was bought, and the old one—not by any means as worn and faded as the language of his wife indicated—sent up stairs to do second-hand duty in the spare bedroom. Not within the limit of forty dollars was the expense confined. A more costly pattern than could be obtained for one dollar a yard tempted the eyes of Mrs. Cartwright, and abstracted from her husband’s savings the sum of over fifty dollars. Mats and rugs to go with the carpet were indispensable, to give the parlor the right effect in the eyes of cousin Sally Gray, and the purchase of these absorbed the remainder of Mr. Cartwright’s carefully hoarded sixty dollars. Unfortunately, for the comfortable condition of Mrs. Cartwright’s mind, the new carpet, with its flaunting colors, put wholly out of countenance the cane-seat chairs and modest pier table, and gave to the dull paper on the wall a duller aspect. Before, she had scarcely noticed the hangings on the Venetian blinds, now, it seemed as if they had lost their freshness in a day; and the places where they were broken, and had been sewed again, were singularly apparent every time her eye rested upon them. "These blinds do look dreadfully!" she said to her husband, on the day after the carpet went down. "Can you remember what they cost?" "Eight dollars," replied Mr. Cartwright. "So much?" The wife sighed as she spoke. "Yes, that was the price. I remember it very well." "I wonder what new hangings would cost?" Mrs. Cartwright’s manner grew suddenly more cheerful, as the suggestion of a cheaper way to improve the windows came into her thought. "Not much, I presume," answered her husband. "Don’t you think we’d better have it done?" "Yes," was the compliant answer. "Will you stop at the blind-maker’s, as you go to the store, and tell him to send up for them to-day? It must be attended to at once, you know, for cousin Sally will be here on next Wednesday." Mr. Cartwright called at the blind-maker’s, as requested, and the blind-maker promised to send for the blinds. From there he continued onto the store in which he was employed. There he found a note on his desk from the friend to whom he was indebted for the one hundred dollars. "Dear Cartwright" (so the note ran), "if it is possible for you to let me have the one hundred dollars I loaned you, its return to-morrow will be a particular favor, as I have a large payment to make, and have been disappointed in the receipt of a sum of money confidently expected." A very sudden change of feeling did Mr. Cartwright experience. He had, in a degree, partaken of his wife’s pleasure in observing the improved appearances of their little parlor but this pleasure was now succeeded by a sense of painful regret and mortification. It was nearly two hours before Mr. Cartwright returned an answer to his friend’s note. Most of that time had been spent in the vain effort to discover some way out of the difficulty in which he found himself placed. He would have asked an advance of one hundred dollars on his salary, but he did not deem that a prudent step, and for two reasons. One was, the known character of his employers; and the other was involved in the question of how he was to support his family for the time he was working out this advance? At last, in sadness and humiliation, he wrote a brief reply, regretting his inability to replace the loan now, but promising to do it in a very short time. Not very long after this answer was sent, there came another note from his friend, written in evident haste, and under the influence of angry feelings. It was in these words:— "I enclose your due bill, which I, yesterday, thought good for its face. But, as it is worthless, I send it back. The man who buys new carpets and new furniture, instead of paying his honest debts, can be no friend of mine. I am sorry to have been mistaken in Henry Cartwright." Twice did the unhappy man read this cutting letter; then, folding it up slowly, he concealed it in one of his pockets. Nothing was said about it to his wife, whose wordy admiration of the new carpet, and morning, noon, and night, for the next two or three days, was a continual reproof of his weakness for having yielded to her wishes in a matter where calm judgement and a principle of right should have prevailed. But she could not help noticing that he was less cheerful; and once or twice he spoke to her in a way that she thought positively ill-natured. Something was wrong with him; but what that something was, she did not for an instant imagine. At last the day arrived for cousin Sally Gray’s visit. Unfortunately the Venetian blinds were still at the blind-maker’s, where they were likely to remain for a week longer, as it was discovered, on the previous afternoon, that he had never touched them since they came into his shop. Without them the little parlor had a terribly bare look; the strong light coming in, and contrasting harshly the new, gaudy carpet with the old, worn, and faded furniture. Mrs. Cartwright fairly cried with vexation. "We must have something for the windows, Henry," she said, as she stood, disconsolate, in the parlor, after tea. "It will never do in the world to let cousin Sally find us in this trim." "Cousin Sally will find a welcome in our hearts," replied her husband, in a sober voice, "and that, I am sure, will be more grateful to her than new carpets and window blinds." The way in which this was spoken rather surprised Mrs. Cartwright, and she felt just a little rebuked. "Don’t you think," she said, after a few moments of silence on both sides, "that we might afford to buy a few yards of lace to put up to the windows, just for decency’s sake?" "No," answered the husband, firmly. "We have afforded too much already." His manner seemed to Mrs. Cartwright almost ill-natured. It hurt her very much. Both sat down in the parlor, and both remained silent. Mrs. Cartwright thought of the mean appearance everything in that "best room" would have in the eyes of cousin Sally, and Mr. Cartwright thought of his debt to his friend, and of that friend’s anger and alienation. Both felt more uncomfortable than they had been for a long time. On the next day cousin Sally arrived. She had not come to spy out the nakedness of the land,—not for the purpose of making contrasts between her own condition in life and that of Mr. Cartwright,—but from pure love. She had always been warmly attached to her cousin; and the years during which new life-associations had separated them had increased rather than diminished this attachment. But the gladness of their meeting was soon overshadowed; at least for cousin Sally. She saw by the end of the first day’s visit that her cousin was more concerned to make a good appearance in her eyes,—to have her understand that she and her husband were getting along bravely in the world,—than to open her heart to her as of old, and exchange with her a few pages in the history of their inner lives. What interest had she in the new carpet, or the curtainless window, that seemed to be the most prominent of all things in the mind of her relative? None whatever! If the visit had been from Mary Cartwright to herself, she would never have thought for an instant of making preparations for her coming in the purchase of new furniture, or by any change in the externals of her home. All arrangements for the reception would have been in her heart. Cousin Sally was disappointed. She did not find the relative, with whom so many years of her life had been spent in sweet intercourse, as she had hoped to find her. The girlish warmth of feelings had given place to a cold worldliness that repelled instead of attracting her. She had loved, and suffered much; had passed through many trials, and entered through many opening doors into new experiences, during the years since their ways parted. And she had come to this old, dear friend, yearning for that heart intercourse,—that reading together of some of the pages of their books of life,—which she felt almost as a necessity. What interest had she for the mere externals of Mary’s life? None! None! And the constant reference thereto, by her cousin, seemed like a desecration. Careful and troubled about the little things of life, she found the dear old friend of her girlish days, to whom she had come hopefully, as to one who could comprehend, as in earlier years, the feelings, thoughts, and aspirations which had grown stronger, deeper, and of wider range. Alas! Alas! How was the fine gold dimmed in her eyes! "Dear Mary!" she said to her cousin, on the morning of the day that was, to end her visit,—they were sitting, together in the little parlor, and Mrs. Cartwright had referred, for the fortieth time, to the unshaded windows, and declared herself mortified to death at the appearance of things,—"Dear Mary! It was to see you, not your furniture, that I came. To look into your heart and feel it beating against mine as of old; not to pry, curiously, into your ways of living, nor to compare your house-furnishing with my own. But for your constant reference to these things, I should not have noticed, particularly, how your house was attired; and if asked about them, could only have answered, ’She’s living very nicely.’ Forgive me for this plain speech, dear cousin. I did not mean to give utterance to such language; but the words are spoken now, and cannot be recalled." Mrs. Cartwright, if not really offended, was mortified and rebuked and these states of feeling united with pride, served to give coldness to her exterior. She tried to be cordial in manner towards her cousin; to seem as if she had not felt her words; but this was impossible, for she had felt them too deeply. She saw that the cherished friend and companion of her girlhood was disappointed in her; that she had come to look into her heart, and not into the attiring of her home; and was going away with diminished affection. After years of divergence, their paths had touched; and, separating once more, she felt that they would never run parallel again. A few hours later, cousin Sally gave her a parting kiss. How different in warmth to the kiss of meeting! Very sad, very dissatisfied with herself,—very unhappy did Mrs. Cartwright feel, as she sat musing alone after her relative had departed. She was conscious of having lost a friend forever, because she had not risen to the higher level to which that friend had attained—not in external, but in the true internal life. But a sharper mortification was in store for her. The letter of her husband’s friend, in which he had returned the due bill for one hundred dollars, fell accidentally into her hands, and overwhelmed her with consternation. For that new carpet, which had failed to win more than a few extorted sentences of praise from cousin Sally Gray, her husband had lost the esteem of one of his oldest and best friends, and was now suffering, in silence, the most painful trial of his life. Poor, weak woman! Instead of the pleasure she had hoped to gain in the possession of this carpet, it had made her completely wretched. While sitting almost stupefied with the pressure that was on her feelings, a neighbor called in, and she went down to the parlor to meet her. "What a lovely carpet!" said the neighbor, in real admiration. "Where did you buy it?" "At Martin’s," was answered. "Had they any more of the same pattern?" inquired the neighbor. "This was the last piece." The neighbor was sorry. It was the most beautiful pattern she had ever seen; and she would hunt the city over but what she would find another just like it. "You may have this one," said Mrs Cartwright, on the impulse of the moment. "My husband doesn’t particularly fancy it. Your parlor is exactly the size of mine. It is all made and bound nicely as you can see; and this work on it shall cost you nothing. We paid a little over fifty dollars for the carpet before a stitch was taken in it; and fifty dollars will make you the possessor." "Are you really in earnest?" said the neighbor. "Never more so in my life." "It is a bargain, then." "Very well." "When can I have it?" "Just as soon as I can rip it from the floor," said Mrs. Cartwright, in real earnest. "Go to work," replied the neighbor, laughing out at the novelty of the affair. "Before your task is half done, I will be back with the fifty dollars, and a man to carry home the carpet." And so she was. In less than half an hour after the sale was made, in this off-hand fashion, Mrs. Cartwright sat alone in her parlor, looking down upon the naked floor. But she had five ten-dollar gold pieces in her hand, and they were of more value in her eyes than twenty carpets. Not long did she sit musing here. There was other work to do. The old carpet must be replaced upon the parlor floor ere her husband’s return. And it was replaced. In the midst of her hurried operations the old blinds with the new hangings came in, and were put up to the windows. When Mr. Cartwright returned home, and stepped inside of the little parlor, where he found his wife awaiting him, he gave an exclamation of surprise. "Why, Mary! What is the meaning of this? Where is the new carpet?" She laid the five gold pieces in his hand, and then looked earnestly, and with tears in her eyes, upon his wondering face. "What are these, Mary? Where did they come from?" "Cousin Sally is gone. The carpet didn’t seem attractive in her eyes, and it has lost all beauty in mine. So I sold the unlovely thing, and here is the money. Take it, dear Henry, and let it serve the purpose for which it was designed." "All right again!" exclaimed Mr. Cartwright, as soon as the whole matter was clear to him. "All right, Mary, dear! That carpet, had it remained, would have wrecked, I fear, the happiness of our home. Ah, let us consult only our own eyes hereafter, Mary—not the eyes of other people! None think the better of us for what we seem—only for what we are. It is not from fine furniture that our true pleasure in life is to come, but from a consciousness of right-doing. Let the inner life be right, and the outer life will surely be in just harmony. In the humble abode of virtue there is more real happiness than in the palace-homes of the unjust, the selfish, and wrong-doers. The sentiment is old as the world, but it must come to every heart, at some time in life, with all the force of an original utterance. And let it so come to us now, dear wife!" And thus it did come. This little experience showed them an aspect of things that quickened their better reasons, and its smart remained long enough to give it the power of a monitor in all their after lives. They never erred again in this wise. For two or three years more the old carpet did duty in their neat little parlor, and when it was at last replaced by a new one, the change was made for their own eyes, and not for the eyes of another. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 43: 03.00. ADVICE TO YOUNG MEN THEIR DUTIES AND CONDUCT IN LIFE ======================================================================== Advice to Young Men on Their Duties and Conduct in Life By Timothy Shay Arthur, 1855 Preliminary Remarks The Age of Maturity and Responsibility Spending Money Friends and Associates Improvement of the Mind Indolence and Lack of Order Self-Government Conduct among Men Music and Dancing Amusements Courage Religion Bad Habits Health Entering into Business Marriage PREFACE This book is the result of an application to the writer to prepare a volume addressed to young men. In reflecting upon the subject, after having agreed to write the book, it was assumed that there are two classes of young men — one made up of those who feel the force of good principles, and are in some willingness to act from them; and the other composed of such as are led mainly by their impulses, feelings, passions, and selfish interests. And it was also assumed that, as society looks to the former as her regenerators, and not to the latter, it would be most useful to present such views of life as would help the former to see and feel the importance of their position, and the necessity there was for them to act from the highest principles. This volume is therefore addressed to the thinking faculty, and seeks to lead young men to just conclusions, from reflections upon what they are, and what are their duties in society, as integral parts of the common body. It is therefore a serious book — or, it might be called a thoughtful book — and should be read in a thoughtful spirit. To those who will thus read it, it is believed that it will prove deeply interesting; and all whom it interests it must benefit. Satisfied that those who read it as it should be read, cannot fail to have their good purposes strengthened, and their minds elevated into sounder views of life than usually prevail in common society — the writer, having completed his task, dismisses it from his hands, and turns to the consideration of other matters that require his attention. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 44: 03.01. PRELIMINARY REMARKS ======================================================================== Preliminary Remarks We solicit, in the beginning, the earnest attention of those for whom we write. We have a purpose in view, which cannot be clearly seen and appreciated, unless all that is said is understood and carefully considered. False views of life prevail everywhere, and especially with those just attaining the age of moral accountability. The books that are written for the young, the oral precepts that fall from the lips of age, too often give erroneous ideas of man’s true nature and the end of his being. There is too great a disposition to offer precepts that regard only temporal well-doing — to furnish the means by which wealth is acquired — to regard mere natural life as of primary importance. Since the days of the adage, "A penny saved, is a penny gained," people seem to have forgotten that there is something to be saved and gained more precious than even gold or silver. They seem to have forgotten that man has a destiny beyond the attainment of mere wealth. And, as the leading views held and practiced upon by the majority of a whole people must be transmitted to, and impressed upon, the minds of the young — and, in turn, influence their whole lives, the natural consequence is, that a large proportion of young men, as soon as they begin to think and act for themselves, seem to have all ideas and ends merged in the one great pursuit of wealth for its own sake. The time seems to have arrived for a clear and strong presentation of the real truth on this important subject. Whether the writer of this volume has the ability to do so, or not, will appear in the sequel. In pursuing his task, his object will be to make his readers not only think with him, but to furnish them with leading truths that will cause them to think for themselves, and decide for themselves, in all the varied relations of life in which circumstances may place them. Mere precepts for the young are of little use; they are rarely, if ever, regarded; and it is because they do not appeal to the mind’s reasoning faculty. They are but abstract enunciations, which come not into the mind as parts of its own conclusions. What is essential is, that a whole idea of life should be imparted, and the young man made to feel that the correctness of the great result — when the problem is, at last, worked out — will depend as much upon the wisdom of his actions at the outset of life, as at any other period — nay, more so; for the nearer to the beginning of a problem the error lies, the farther will the final result be from the truth. Thus much briefly premised, we shall begin at the beginning, and, first of all, speak of man’s origin, nature, and destiny. Without a correct knowledge of these, life-precepts are as likely to be wrong as right, and man is upon the surface of a vast ocean, without helm, chart, or compass. This portion of our work need not be dry and uninteresting — we are sure it will not be so to any who are in a state of mind to derive benefit from a book written for young men. We especially ask for it a thoughtful perusal. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 45: 03.02. THE AGE OF MATURITY AND RESPONSIBILITY ======================================================================== Age of Maturity and Responsibility Up to the age of twenty-one years, or to that period when a young man is free from the control of his parents, guardian, or master, his rational mind is not fully developed. He acts from others more than from himself, and others are responsible, to a very great extent, for his actions. But when he becomes a full-grown man, when both mind and body have attained sufficient maturity to enable him to think and act wisely and efficiently for himself, then he takes the reigns of government into his own hands, and becomes entirely responsible for his actions, both as regards human and divine laws. This is the most important period in his whole life; for the consequences of an error here are felt at every subsequent stage of existence. A serious consideration this, and one that ought to press, with no ordinary weight, upon the mind of every young man; and the more especially so when the undeniable fact is announced to him, that scarcely one in ten fail at this period of their lives, to fall into some error that entails upon after life more or less of disability and unhappiness. Calm and sober reflection, and not thoughtless self-indulgence, should distinguish every young man at this time. The destiny of an immortal being, created in the likeness and image of God, is in his hands. Through the intricate mazes of life, by his own wisdom and prudence — enlightened, it is true, from God, if he will but look up — he must guide this being either to a sun-bright haven at last, or to destruction upon the gloomy shores of despair and misery! Considerations like these are, surely, enough to make the most thoughtless pause, and regard with prudent caution, every footfall in the way of life. But reflection and prudence need not bring gloom, but cheerful confidence. When a man opens his eyes, and sees that, in a path he was about to walk in with heedless steps, there are innumerable dangers, and wisely chooses a better and a safer way — he has cause for emotions of delight, rather than depression. And such is the result with every young man who, when just entering upon a life of freedom and responsibility, wisely reflects, and shuns all the allurements of false pleasures, and the excesses into which all, at this period, are tempted to run. A common error into which very many fall at this period, is the belief that they may run into various excesses, and indulge themselves inordinately in sensual pleasures for a few years, or during the brighter days of their spring-time, and, after that, assume the more important and real business of life. This is a most dangerous error, and for the reason that it is an immutable law of order in the human mind — that all which precedes in a man’s life, goes to make up his character in all its subsequent formations. This can only be seen by those who understand something about the real nature of man, as a spiritually organized being. To those who think superficially, and only from appearances, the idea of substance and form appertains only to material things, and, so far as man is concerned, to his body only. But the real truth is, man’s substantial part is his spirit, while his body is only a form, organized and built up from inert material particles, as a piece of beautiful machinery, by which the soul can act in the material world. It is this spiritual soul which is the true man. The material eye, for instance, does not see. It, as matter, has no power of vision; but it is a window through which the eye of the spirit can look out and see natural objects. The mere closing of this window does not destroy the spiritual eye; it only takes away its medium of sight into the natural world. So of the ear, and so of all the external senses — they are but the avenues through which the senses of the soul take cognizance of things in the outer and lower world of matter. The true sight of the spirit is its power to perceive truth, and its sense of hearing, its willingness to obey the truth so perceived. That this is so, all mankind have a common perception. For, when one attempts to present a truth to your understanding, he says, "Don’t you see?" And when a father wishes to impress the necessity of obedience to a precept upon his child, he says, "Do you hear?" The ground of this lies in the fact, as just stated, that there is in the human mind a perception that the soul’s vision is its power to see truth, and its hearing is its willingness to obey. From this it may be seen that man’s spiritual body — his soul — is a real something — that it can see and hear, and that the natural body has, really, no eye nor ear, but only organized forms by which the spiritual eye and ear can see into and hearken in the natural world. Now, if this is true of the eye and the ear, it is true of the whole body in every general and particular thing appertaining to it; and, as the natural body, which is an outbirth from the spiritual body, is a form beautifully organized in all its parts, and is called a substance as well as a form — is it not clear that the spiritual body, the soul, is also a substance and a form? nay, that the only true substantiality is in the spiritual body, which can never die, but which retains its existence and its powers forever? Keeping this in view, it may readily be perceived that impressions can be made on this spiritual form and substance, which will be as lasting as any thing made upon the body. That this is so, mankind have seen, in all ages, and hence the adage — "Just as the twig is bent — the tree is inclined;" and the thousand wise precepts in the codes of morality to be found in all nations, referring to the power of habit. The position here taken is, that the natural body is the material form with which the spiritual body, the soul, clothes itself, in order to act in the material world; if this be true — and we are sure no rational man can for a moment question it — then we may, by analogy, determine some of the laws which govern the soul, by observing those which govern the natural body. Now, the laws of natural health are those which govern the natural body, and, when obeyed, all its machinery goes on right; and it is but a wise inference to say that the laws of spiritual health are those which govern in the spiritual body, and, when obeyed, spiritual health must be the result. If we disregard the laws of natural health — diseased impressions are made upon the body, more or less apparent, which ever after remain, and show themselves, no matter how careful we may be, in after life, under certain and particular circumstances, and deprive us of some measure of ability to perform fully our duties or wishes in life. If the laws of health have been grossly abused, more serious consequences follow; and, sometimes, men’s whole lives are rendered burdensome, and they, perhaps, unfitted for nearly all active duties, in consequence. Precisely similar will be the result where the laws of spiritual health have been disregarded. "What are the laws of spiritual health?" is asked. We answer, the Decalogue, or the Ten Commandments, contains the laws of spiritual health, as laid down by the Creator of man, who alone can know what is in man, and what laws to establish for his government, in order to secure his happiness. The violation of any one of these laws, even in intention, will bring spiritual disease, as certainly as the violation of any law of natural health will produce natural disease; and this disease will impress the substance and form of the soul, and produce a change from true order, that no subsequent obedience to right precepts will ever entirely restore. It would be easy to show how the indulgence of every inordinate desire — to do which young men are so strongly tempted — is a violation of some precept of the Decalogue, and tends to destroy spiritual health; but to do so, would extend this preliminary part of our work too far. What we have already advanced is deemed essential to the formation of true ideas in regard to life and its responsibilities, and we cannot but think that its bearing will be clearly seen. In other parts of our work, we shall keep in view the laws here laid down, and show their bearing in actual life. From what is advanced in this chapter, we think every reflecting young man will feel the necessity of examining his ends, as well as guarding his actions, and be exceedingly careful what impressions are made in the substance and form of his soul. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 46: 03.03. SPENDING MONEY ======================================================================== Spending Money! The most common error into which young men fall at this era in their lives — as was intimated in the last chapter — is to consider the age of freedom from the control of others, as a period of license for self-indulgence. Far too many run into extremes, and either injure their health, or form evil habits that ever after stand in the way of virtuous respectability, or success, as professional or business men. That this is a very serious error, need not here be said. These bad habits are of various kinds. We will notice one of them in this chapter, as the most prevalent. The habit of spending money too freely in the gratification of a host of imaginary wants, is one into which young men of generous minds are too apt to fall. Limited to a small income previously, and compelled to deny themselves at nearly every point, they find it almost impossible to resist the impulse that prompts to self-gratification, and are thus led to spend, perhaps for years, the entire sum of their earnings, and, more than probable, to run into debt. The folly of this, everyone can see and acknowledge, and yet many have not the resolution to act up to their convictions. This habit of spending money uselessly has marred the fortunes of more young men than any other cause. It is a weakness that should be firmly and constantly resisted by every one. Money should be considered as a means by which man has power to act usefully in the world — and he ought to endeavor to obtain it with that end in view. The greater a man’s wealth, the broader may be, if he but wills it — the sphere of his usefulness. It is true that men do not seek for wealth under the impulse of such high considerations, and, in the present condition of the human mind, from causes just explained, it cannot be expected that they would do so. But the first thing a man has to do in the work of self-elevation, is to shun what is evil because it is evil. And if a young man, who is constantly tempted to spend his money foolishly, should refrain from doing so from the consideration that it was wrong to waste that by which he might ultimately be useful to his fellows, he will be very apt, in after life, to feel, under all circumstances of expenditure, that he must not be entirely unmindful of the effect of his acts upon others. One means for the correction of this fault, may be found in a regular account of receipts and expenditures. A young man, whose income was one hundred and fifty pounds a year, was asked by a friend how much money he had saved. He had been receiving this salary about four years, and had no expenses whatever except those that were personal. "Saved!" returned the young man, in surprise. "I can’t save anything out of one hundred and fifty pounds a year." "I saved money on a salary of one hundred pounds," was the friend’s quick reply. "I would be most happy to know your secret," said the other. "I have tried fifty times to save up something, but its no use." "What does your boarding cost you?" "Fifteen shillings a week." "Or not quite forty pounds a year. Add your washing, and it will make forty-four pounds. Next comes your tailor’s bill. How much is that?" "Generally about twenty-five pounds." "Fifteen pounds more, I suppose, will pay for your boots, and the various little etceteras of clothing not included in your tailor’s bill?" "O, yes, fully, I should think." "Very well. Where are the remaining sixty-six pounds?" "Heaven knows, for I don’t," was the young man’s reply. "What does your account book say?" "Account book! I don’t keep an account book. I never dreamed of such a thing." "That is strange! Why, I keep my own cash account as carefully as I do my employer’s." "I don’t know any particular good that does," said the young man. "Keeping an account of your money doesn’t make it go any further." "O, yes it does. Keep an account of every item spent for a month, and read it over carefully on the first of the following one, and my word for it, if you have any disposition to prudence in you, it will cause you to be more careful of your money; for you will see there the haunting ghosts of too many pounds spent in foolish self-indulgence, the pleasures of which endured but for a brief season, and left you a less contented mind than you had previously enjoyed. In a little while, such account keeping, if you adopt it, will show you where your sixty pounds a year have gone. My reason for asking you the question was this: one of the best opportunities for going into a safe and profitable business that I have yet seen, has just presented itself. To enter into it, will require a capital of four hundred pounds. I have laid aside two hundred, and fully believed you had accumulated as much, and that jointly we might improve so rare an opportunity. But this, I am sorry to find, is not the case. I must seek for someone else who has the sum that is needed." This lesson the young man laid to heart, and profited by it. From that day, he kept a regular account of his expenses, and soon found that, with the data it afforded, and a little resolution and self-denial, he could save up money — a thing he had before deemed impossible. A good resolution, perhaps the best a young man can form on this subject, is always to live below his income, let it be whatever it will. It may require, in some cases, a good deal of self-denial to do this; but such self-denial will be well repaid. We know a young man, who, at the age of twenty-two, married, while his income was but two pounds a week. Instead of renting a whole house and going in debt for furniture — he rented a single room in the house of a friend, with the privilege of the kitchen, for about ten pounds a year. His resolution had long before been taken that he would always manage to spend less than he received, and he chose this modest style of living as a means of attaining his end. None of his friends or acquaintances thought the less of him for his prudence, but rather commended him. By living thus economically, he was able to lay aside twenty pounds during the first year, and the same for two or three years longer. Then a good opportunity offered for going into business, which was embraced. Some ten years since that period have elapsed, and he has just retired with a snug little competence of eight hundred to a thousand pounds. This bad habit of living up to the income, seems to be the bane of all success. The cause of it is not in a small income — but in unsatisfied desires. The young man who spends his salary of eighty or a hundred pounds, is almost sure to run through everything he receives, when that salary is doubled. The gratification of one desire only makes way for another still more exacting. It is, therefore, of the first importance for a young man to guard himself here; if he does not, he is in danger of forming a habit that will go with him through life, and mar his fairest prospects. The prospects of thousands of young men have been thus marred. A still worse error than spending the entire income, and one the effects of which are far more blighting to a young man’s worldly prospects — is that of living beyond the income — either under the doubtful hope that it will be increased next year equal to the deficit of the present, or from the neglect of keeping a careful eye upon the relation existing between receipts and expenditures. The most common way in which this going beyond the income occurs, is in making purchases on credit, instead of buying everything for cash. If a want is felt, and the means of satisfying it are not in hand — the true way is to wait until such means are received, rather than anticipate their receipt by running in debt. At the beginning of a quarter, too many make purchases to be paid at its expiration — instead of waiting until its close, and then, with cash in hand, buying just what they need, and no more. Their salaries are received and all paid away, for clothes worn, and board due, and they are left to anticipate another quarter’s income, long before it comes into their hands. Going in debt for clothing is a very common, but a very foolish practice. No one does it, who is not compelled to pay at least from ten to twenty percent more than he would if he always paid the cash down; and he is, besides, tempted to buy more than he otherwise would, and to choose more expensive garments. Then, while his six or twelve months’ account is running on toward maturity, he is spending, little by little, foolishly, the money that ought to be saved for its payment; and when the day for payment comes, he often finds it impossible to satisfy the large demand against him, unless by borrowing from a friend, or getting an advance on his salary. Does all this make him feel any happier? Is the consciousness of being in debt so very pleasant to a sensitive and honest mind? One would think that a young man’s natural pride of independence would cause him to shrink from such a position, and use every means in his power to avoid it, instead of going into debt with his eyes open, as so many do. It is wiser and more honorable for a man to wear his coat three or six months longer, until he has the money with which to buy a new one — than it is to go in debt for the garment, and thus lay a tax upon his future income, or run the risk of not being able to pay for what he has worn, at the time agreed upon. A common subject of remark among young men, is their tailors’ bills, and the difficulty of paying them. For a young man, with a fixed salary, and only himself to support, to have any tailor’s bill at all, is no good sign, and speaks badly of his habits and future prospects. Debt — debt! A young man is mad, we had almost said, to go in debt under any pretext whatever. We remember a bookbinder who from intemperance, got into debt; on reforming, he lived on broken biscuits, at a cent or two a pound, with tea made in his little kettle — he sleeping at night in the shaving-tub. This economical mode of living was continued until he got out of debt! How much better would it have been to have lived thus frugally, in order to have kept out of debt, had the necessity for so doing existed! Almost any sacrifice of pride, feeling, and comfort, should be made by a young man — rather than run in debt; for, once get behindhand, and it seems next to impossible ever to recover yourself. You may toil early and late, and yet it will seem all in vain; and if you do, at length, get your feet on firm ground — it will be by the severest struggles. The facility with which young men can get credit, is a great temptation to many, who feel that it is a very pleasant thing to get all they want, even without a shilling in their pockets, and have four, five, or six months given them to pay the bill. How utterly unconscious do they seem of the shortness of the period of six months! They look at it ahead, and it seems afar off, and approaching with but a slow pace. Before they are aware, however, it is upon them, and, they too often find — upon them much too soon. This taxing the efforts of the future to pay for the expenditures of the present — is a folly so apparent, that one would think even a child must see and avoid it as a great evil. No one knows what is in the future, nor what will be his future ability to meet even his current expenditures — much less to take up the burdens of former times. If in the present we find it hard to provide for all our present wants, surely there should arise a dictate in regard to the future, and a carefulness how we spend next year, not only its own burdens, but a portion of those which belong to this year. How does a young man know, when he contracts a debt to be paid in six months, that long before that time sickness, or the reduction of his income — may not make it very hard for him to meet even his bare expenses then, much less pay a bill contracted for previous wants — or more probably self-indulgence in something that a wise forethought would have prompted him to do without? Not the least annoying and mortifying of the inseparable accompaniments of debt — is the liability to have demands made for money owed, at times when it is utterly impossible to satisfy them. How often is the honest intention hurt, the reputation destroyed, or a hopeful confidence in life chilled — by such sudden and imperative demands for payment of debt! ======================================================================== CHAPTER 47: 03.04. FRIENDS AND ASSOCIATES ======================================================================== Friends and Associates A lack of prudence in the use of money, at the beginning, may be confirmed into habits that will mar a man’s fortunes for life — but a lack of due caution in regard to our associates is fraught with consequences far more direful! The effects of the first error are felt mainly in the inconveniences and disabilities of natural life; but the effects of the latter reach far deeper, and impress themselves upon man’s mind and soul. The laws of friendship are governed by mental and moral affinities, and are based upon qualities of mind and heart. The good are attracted toward each other, and the same thing occurs with the evil, when reciprocal interchanges of thoughts and feelings take place. Now, in every association of either the good or the evil, there is a sphere of the quality of that association pervading the whole; and all who come into it, and voluntarily remain there, are more or less strongly affected by this sphere, and think and feel with the rest. Let a man who has a respect for order and obedience to the laws, go into a mob, and voluntarily remain there for a time, and he will be surprised to find his liveliest sympathies on the side of mob law; and the reason of it is, he feels the sphere of the quality of that mob’s mind set — he is in it, and breathes it, and feels an impulse to act from it. Who does not from his heart condemn the reprehensible practice of steamboat racing, for instance? yet who has ever stood upon the deck of a noble boat during a trial of speed with another boat of nearly equal or superior capacity, and among a crowd of eager spectators — who has not forgotten all danger and waived all disposition to censure the officers of the boat, in his sympathy with the general feeling? From these two instances may clearly be seen the great importance of choosing, with care, our associates. If we mingle with those who make light of both human and divine laws — we shall be led into the same error, and sink, instead of rising, in the scale of moral excellence. But if we choose more wisely our companions, we shall not only be elevated ourselves, but help to elevate others. Only just so far as each man elevates himself by refraining from all evil acts, does he, or can he, do anything for the general return to true social order. He may build churches, and send forth missionaries, and be devout in his observances of all religious ordinances; but still he has done nothing in this great work, unless he has actually shunned evils in his own life, as sins. If this is done, he has really and truly removed some evil in the world, and made way for the influx of good. Every young man may see how much depends upon his choice of associates. If he mingles with those who are governed by right principles, his own good purposes will be strengthened, and he will strengthen others in return. But if he mingles with those who make light of virtue, and revel in selfish and sensual indulgences, he will find his own respect for virtue growing weaker, and he will gradually become more and more in love with the grosser enjoyments of sense, which drag a man downward, instead of lifting him upward, and throw a mist of obscurity over all his moral perceptions. Let every young man, then, seek for associations in life; but let him be exceedingly careful how he makes his selection. Almost everything depends upon its being done with prudence. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 48: 03.05. IMPROVEMENT OF THE MIND ======================================================================== Improving the Mind No truth in science or morals, nor any skill or accomplishment which a man obtains, is ever lost to him. Some time in his life he will find it useful. Youth is the season of acquirement — and maturer years the time of action; and the action of maturer years will be perfect or imperfect, in an exact ratio with our earlier acquirements. As but few young men venture upon the uncertain experiment of business immediately on becoming of age, most of them have several years of freedom from its absorbing cares, and an opportunity for study, in which many things may be learned, that will, some time in after-life, be found of great importance. The character of these studies should be governed very much by the particular calling in which a young man is engaged. As, for instance, if he has chosen commercial pursuits, he will find in an acquirement of a knowledge of the modern languages a very important means of future advancement. If honest and competent as a clerk, he may be selected as best fitted, from his acquaintance with German, French, or Spanish, to conduct a voyage as supercargo, which will not only materially increase his income, but give him an opportunity of seeing foreign nations and coming into actual business contact with them — that most important means of enlarging our ideas, correcting false impressions, and maturing our judgments in those matters of the world that are so essential to success. And so of every other pursuit or calling in which a young man may be engaged. Some particular branch of information will be found to aid materially his advancement therein, and secure his future well-doing. How to direct aright his efforts, every one must decide for himself, from the circumstances of his own position. But even where no means of using the information proposed to be obtained is presented to the mind, every opportunity for improvement should be embraced, and those branches of knowledge cultivated, which accord best with the tastes and inclinations. One or two hours of well-directed study, each day, will furnish the mind, in a few years, with a vast amount of information on all subjects, not a single item of which will be valueless, but, sometime in life, be of use to the possessor. Books of facts and books of principles should make by far the larger portion of a young man’s reading, and works of imagination and fiction be resorted to only as mental recreations, or the means of improving the taste. The first are essential to the formation of his rational mind; they contain the food by which it is nourished, and from which it grows into maturity and vigor. If, instead of this kind of reading, mere fiction is resorted to — a puny intellectual growth will be the consequence, and, instead of there being the soundness of true mental force and discrimination, there will be only the weakness of a trifling sentimentality. History, biography, and travels, furnish the mind with the main facts to be obtained by mere reading, while the abstruser facts of science, even more necessary than these to be known, must be acquired by something more than this superficial mode — by patient and laborious study; but this patience and labor receive a rich reward. Another and equally important branch of reading is that of mental and moral philosophy. There is danger here of acquiring false views; for these abound in nearly every philosophical work extant. History records the naked facts that have transpired; biography tells the story of a man’s life; and the book of travel opens up to us the manners, customs, and peculiarities of other nations. We read them all, and form our own conclusions from the facts stated. But books of philosophy come to us as serious teachers, with precepts for our government in actual life. They assume to understand the constituents of the human mind, and to lay down laws for its government. Of these books, there are many, and all with systems more or less variant with each other. They cannot all be true, of course. "What, then, am I to do? Who is to lead me into a true system of philosophy?" we hear asked; and we answer, "Your own reason, guided by an earnest desire for the truth for its own sake." Prove all things, and hold fast that which is good. This, at first sight, may seem very unsatisfactory kind of advice; but it is the only advice we can conscientiously give. No man can truly believe anything that he does not understand; and, therefore, nothing can be truth to him, which does not come within the scope of his own reason. Systems of philosophy, when presented to him, ought to be examined; but nothing that they advance should be received as truth, unless his own rationality approves. The test of all truth is its ability to lead to good. To take a thing for granted because it is gravely stated as truth by a man who has the reputation of being a great philosopher — is the worst of folly. Even if the proposition is true, it is a truth to no one unless it is rationally perceived. A man may assent to it, but it is not a living, but only a dead assent. He is none the wiser. As the precept, "Man, know yourself," is to all one of vital importance, and as no man can properly know himself unless he understands something of his mental and moral nature — we will make a few plain statements on the subject, from which anyone may derive clear ideas, and be able to understand his own mental operations, and the laws that govern them. Such a knowledge will enable him to separate the wheat from the chaff in books, and store up the wheat in the garner of his innermost thoughts. Man’s study of himself, aided by certain data in the outset, is full of interest, and fraught with the most important results. He who carefully observes the operations of his own mind, is soon able to correct false views, and soon acquires a soundness of thinking on all subjects. He makes a stronger impression on society; his influence widens daily. Very many considerations might be urged upon young men by which to make them feel the importance of improving their minds in every possible way; the highest consideration we can urge is that of man’s duties to common society, and the impossibility of his discharging them efficiently, unless every power of his mind is cultivated to the extent of the opportunities afforded him. But too few are able to feel so unselfish a consideration as this, and they must be moved by the baser influences of respectability, eminence, or the possession of wealth, all or some of which are the rewards that follow the cultivation of man’s intellectual ability. An ignorant man may get rich, but he cannot rise into intellectual society; he can never be anything in the world except a mere money-maker, nor be esteemed for anything but his wealth. He contributes nothing toward the world’s true advancement; he is, after all, but a drone in the social hive; and when he dies, his memory soon perishes with him, unless he provides for having it inscribed upon some imposing edifice, built by the money he could no longer use for his own selfish purposes — to no truly great man an enviable fame. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 49: 03.06. INDOLENCE AND LACK OF ORDER ======================================================================== Indolence and Lack of Order More young men are hindered from arriving at positions of honor and eminent usefulness, by indolence and lack of order, than from any other causes. Nothing great is ever achieved, except by industry and earnest application, combined with an orderly arrangement of all the means necessary to the accomplishment of the object in view. From this may be clearly seen the importance of habits of industry and order. Without them, little can be done; with them, almost everything. An active and energetic mind may achieve much, even where there is great lack of order; but indolence chains a man down, and keeps him fast in one position; it is, therefore, the most serious defect of the two, and should be striven against with unwearying perseverance. The lack of an adequate purpose is what makes a man indolent. The Indian will spend days and weeks in slothfulness and inactivity, and to an observer seem the most inefficient and powerless of human beings; but let the war-whoop sound, or a deer go bounding past his wigwam, and he is instantly as full of fire, strength, and endurance as a war-horse. All his slumbering energies have aroused themselves. He feels the force of an adequate purpose. A man’s love is his life; and here we see its illustration. The very life’s love of the Indian is war and the chase. In the pursuit of them, every energy of body and mind is brought into activity. But when the tomahawk is buried, or he comes home from his hunting-grounds, he sinks into apparent imbecility. Activity is the result of some end or affection of the mind. Where no purpose is in the mind, there is indolence; but when there is an end in view of sufficient importance, all the powers of the mind come into spontaneous activity. Now, will any young man say that there are not objects for him to attain of sufficient importance to awaken him from his habits of indolence, no matter how much he has confirmed himself in them? We know there is not one who does not, at times, feel the necessity of concentrating every energy he possesses upon the accomplishment of some end; but the evil is, the thoughts are not kept steadily fixed upon the end, but are allowed to wander off to sport with unimportant things, or to retire in mere idle musings — and then comes indolence; for if there is no purpose — there will be no activity. The first thing to be done, in the correction of this bad habit, is deliberately to resolve upon doing something that will require effort, and that a prolonged one. Let the object in view be worth attaining, and let there be an end in the mind beyond its mere attainment — an end of use. If the end is not one of some importance, there will be danger of its not inspiring the mind to an energetic continuance of its efforts. In determining the object of pursuit, a good question for anyone to ask of himself is, "In what am I deficient?" There will be answers enough to this question to awaken up all a man’s energies, and keep them awake for some time. The next question ought to be, "What will it be most useful for me first to do?" When this question is determined, then let the individual determining it resolve that he will pursue the study — for it ought to be the study of something that will give the mind new abilities to act, either in or out of the life-calling in which he may be engaged with diligence, until he has acquired all that is necessary for the attainment of the end in view. And let him also resolve, that he will fight against all his natural habits of indolence and indisposition to effort, that have too long hindered his progress. And let him not only make these resolutions, but let him keep them faithfully, as he values his highest and best interests. Most of us sleep too much. From six and a half to seven hours sleep in a day, are said by physicians to be all that a healthy man requires. Not more than ten or twelve hours are taken up in business, nor should be. Properly-directed effort will do as much in that time as it could possibly do if more hours were consumed in business; for the mind, over-wearied, day after day, in bending itself in one direction, will lose its ability for making right efforts. In every twenty-four hours, therefore, there are from five to six or seven hours, which every man is under obligation to both society and himself to turn to some good account. He is insane if he spends it in mere slothfulness and pleasure-taking. In rightly improving this time, every young man, who is earnestly seeking to unfold the native energies of his mind by giving it the food which God designed that it should receive, will soon discover, that, after a night’s repose, his mind is clearer and more vigorous than after a day spent in labor, and, perhaps, anxiety; and he will naturally seek to give as much time for study in the morning as possible. Early rising, will bring to him a twofold benefit; it will strengthen both mind and body. To a young man who has acquired the habit of indulging himself in morning slothfulness, it will be something of a trial to rise at five o’clock, in both winter and summer; but the self-denial practiced in doing this will be so fully repaid, in a little while, that we are sure no one, who has wakened up the responsibility of his position, and the incalculable benefits which must result from efforts such as he is making, will sink down again into disgraceful indolence. It is no hardship to rise early; it only requires an effort at first; and when one is fairly awake, and begins to drink in the pure morning air, and to feel a refreshing sense of new life and vigor, he is glad that he is not lost in dullness or leaden insensibility. The heavy torpor that we find so hard to overcome in the morning, and which we rest in as a pleasant sensation, is misery compared to the sense of life which runs through every nerve of body and mind, after pure cold water has touched the face, and the lungs have expanded with the fresh and vigorous morning air. But not only in the morning, but at all times, should we strive against this feeling of indolence. Every man has it; but only those whose purposes are strong enough to enable them to overcome it, rise to any eminence in the world. The demands of nature keep others at work at their daily tasks. Enough earned to satisfy these, and the mind and body sink again into inaction. In all, there is an almost unconquerable reluctance to effort of any kind. We are oppressed by an inertia that it requires some force to overcome. But we must exercise this force, and do it daily; and we shall find the task more and more easily accomplished, until diligence and effort become to us almost a second nature. Next to indolence, with which all are more or less affected — comes lack of order, which in some is a constitutional defect, and in others the result of education — or, more correctly speaking, lack of education. Some children are never taught the importance of order; and, as very few have naturally a love of order, nearly all who are thus neglected are very deficient in this respect when they become men. But it is never too late to correct this bad habit; and the quicker a young man begins to do so, the better. Let him commence by having in his own room, for instance, a place for everything, and by being careful to have everything in its place. If a clerk, the same order should be observed at his desk. First, there should be a system established, by which to arrange all his books and papers in the best way for access and reference, and then, when a book has been used, or a paper referred to, it should invariably be returned to its proper place, before anything else is done. The same rule, of a place for everything — and everything in its place, should be observed by all, in every calling. The most fruitful source of disorder lies in the habit most people have of laying a thing down in the first place that presents itself, after using it, instead of restoring it to where it properly belongs. It seems to many, when in a hurry, a waste of time to carefully return a thing to the place from which they have taken it, instead of throwing it down anywhere; but this is a great mistake; the very reverse is the truth. If in all the little matters of daily business or domestic arrangement, a system of order is observed, it will become so impressed upon the mind as to show itself in things of more importance. From adopting in things of lesser importance, an orderly arrangement, a man will naturally pursue an orderly arrangement in all his more important affairs, and thus insure success, which would otherwise have been extremely doubtful. As nothing great can be accomplished without industry and an earnest purpose, so nothing great can be accomplished without order. The one is indispensable to the other, and they go hand in hand, as co-workers, in man’s success. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 50: 03.07. SELF-GOVERNMENT ======================================================================== Self-Government There are two kinds of self-government, or the controlling of evil and disorderly propensities — the one springing from a regard to external considerations — such as the love of reputation, ease, or wealth; and the other from a regard to right principles. Self-government, from the first of these considerations, which is that which most prevails in common society, does not give a man any real power over himself. His inward disorders are only caged as wild beasts, not subdued and brought under the control of opposite good principles; and when these restraints cease — they show themselves again with renewed power and activity. We see this in those who have attained an advanced age, without truly, and from an internal ground, reforming the leading impulses of their lives. How melancholy a sight it is to see an irritable, impatient, passionate old man! And to this everyone is sure to become — if life is prolonged to second childhood, who does not subdue his irritability, impatience, and passion, by struggling against them as evil tendencies of a corrupt nature — instead of merely concealing them from others in his ordinary interactions in life, when it answers his purpose to do so, that his reputation may be preserved, and his selfish ends answered. But, alas! how few spend their lives well! how few are governed by a regard for good and true principles! how few strive for the attainment of ends not thoroughly selfish! From what has now been advanced, the great importance of right self-government may be clearly seen. Every young man will discover in himself disorderly tendencies, and a disposition to infringe the rights and comforts of others, in seeking his own gratification. These are all evils, and must come under proper control, from right ends, or old age will find him, at last, with a host of ungovernable impulses struggling in his bosom, and overmastering him in every feeble effort he makes to subdue them. Right ends are a regard to others’ good as well as our own; and this regard may be felt and exercised as much in an effort to reform a habit of mind that acts as a hindrance to success in the world, as in the shunning of an evil that directly injures our fellow-man; for anything that interferes with our success circumscribes our means of usefulness. We hardly deem it necessary to enter into any minute particulars as to the manner of self-government. Everyone understands enough of his own character to see its defects; and when he understands the great importance of correcting these, and controlling those propensities, habits, and inclinations, which stand in the way of his elevation, both as to things external and things that appertain to his mind, he will not be at a loss how to act. The willingness to act is the great desideratum. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 51: 03.08. CONDUCT AMONG MEN ======================================================================== Conduct Among Men Thrown, of necessity, among men of all characters, habits, and professions, a young man will often find himself in circumstances that require him to act without his being able to see clearly, at first, how he should act. He will also find himself so situated at times, that, do as he may, offence will be given. All that is required, in cases like these, is to act from honorable principles; that is, to regard truth, right, and justice. Mere personal considerations, as how this one or that one may feel, think, or act, ought not to be regarded, when truth, right, or justice, is concerned. Nor should personal consequences be taken into account, where a principle of integrity is involved. Let every man do right, according to the honest dictates of his reason, and he has nothing to fear. It should be settled as a principle in the mind of everyone, in his fellowship among men, never, by word, act, or smile, to countenance vice, or encourage that despicable spirit which finds delight in seeking out and magnifying the faults of others. If a young friend indulges in obscene remarks, do not laugh at him, but rather seek to change the subject of discourse. If he takes more freedom, and speaks of his immoralities, censure them as wrong without a moment’s flinching from your duty, and do it with a degree of seriousness that will make him feel that you are in earnest. By an opposite course — you will encourage vice; but by this you may help a friend to shun evils, that, if indulged in, will debase his mind, and make his influence in society a curse instead of a blessing. As for men of confirmed bad habits and principles, make it a point to have no more intimate fellowship with them than what comes in the way of business. If you do, you are not only in some danger yourself, but you endorse them as virtuous men, thus approving their characters to those who do not know them, and who may be led astray by their influence. Let every young man, in stepping out upon the world’s arena, consider well the principles upon which he ought to act in common society. Let him look to what is right — more than to what is expedient. Let him try to forget himself, when called upon to act, in a consideration of what is due to others on the abstract principles of justice. He need not fear that such conduct will be ever bringing him into unpleasant collision with others — although this may sometimes be the case — for the truth of his character will soon be seen, felt, and appreciated. The good will confide in his integrity — and the bad will respect him. He will be known in the community as an honest and honorable man, and this character will sustain him in any trial he may find it necessary to endure for the sake of right. Deference to age, superior wisdom, and station in society, may be observed without a young man’s violating his self-respect, or showing any undue regard for mere conventional forms. The failure to do so arises from a false notion of one’s own importance. Real worth is modest, and always ready to defer to others; in fact, often too much so, in society, for the general good, while shallow conceit is ever thrusting itself rudely forward, and occupying the place of wiser and better men. There should always be respect and deference to age and superior wisdom, for reasons that everyone perceives and understands; and this should also be shown to those who occupy elevated stations in society, as representatives of the common good. The deference ought not to be paid to the person, but to the office. The office is one established for the good of the many, and whoever fills it ought to seek the common good, and should have respect and deference because he does do so, or is supposed to do so. He may be a bad officer, but still the office is good; and while he fills it, he should have respect for the sake of the office, lest that come to be disregarded, or lightly thought of, in the community. Of course, a mere deference to rank or station, for the sake of being noticed by those who hold elevated positions, and thence being thought of as important, or for the purpose of attaining some selfish end, is wrong. A young man, when he first enters society, should think much, observe accurately, and say little. By this means he will learn far more than if he were forward and talkative; and when he does express his opinions, they will have their due weight. It is a mistake which very many fall into, when they first take their place among men, that they know a great deal more than most people whom they meet, because there are not many who talk freely, or think it necessary to tell all they know; but in time they begin to learn that the most of their knowledge of men and things was only in the memory, while those they deemed dull or superficial had lived and felt in the world, until their lips had become well near sealed in silence. A modest deportment is that which best befits a young man when in the company of those who are older than himself. They may not have as much of certain kinds of knowledge as he has; but they are far more learned in the book of human life, and can teach him many a lesson that it will be good for him to learn. How often does the forwardness, confidence, and dogmatism of a young man, cause a quiet smile to rest upon the lips of his seniors! It is, therefore, wiser for a young man to think, observe, and question, but to make up his opinions with caution, and not be too free about expressing them. For it is more than probable, that a few years will show him the fallacy of nearly all his first conclusions. One of the first things which a young man will notice in those into whose society he is thrown, will be a habit of detraction. When allusion is made to an absent person — some censorious remark will follow; or there may possibly be allegations made, touching, remotely, his integrity; though these will, in general, be exceedingly guarded, yet sufficiently plain to create a prejudice in any honest mind. We would give a double caution on this subject — first, not to believe much of what may be alleged against the absent; and second, to be exceedingly careful not to repeat anything that has been said, and for two reasons — lest injustice be done to an innocent person, and lest your remark should reach the ear of the party traduced, and you be called upon to prove the allegations, which you might find it very difficult to do. If possible, never be a party in the petty misunderstandings that are of too frequent occurrence, growing out of serious or unimportant charges made against one individual by another, from malice, or a foolish habit of repeating everything that is said. Some people are always involved in troubles of this kind. The best way to avoid them is, to make it a rule of conduct never to say anything against another, except for the purpose of guarding those who are likely to be injured by a corrupt or dishonest person. Whenever an utterance of what you know to be the truth, will do this, your duty is a plain one; you must tell the truth, and be willing to take the consequences. If a misunderstanding occurs between you and another, seek an explanation immediately. Do not stop to listen to the plausible suggestions of your pride, but go at once to the party, and have a clear understanding of the point of difference. In nine cases in ten, you will find that no real cause for the difficulty exists. Either he or you has misconceived the other’s words or actions; or something either you or he has said has been repeated with offensive additions. This is always a trouble worth taking. Even if it does not result in settling the difficulty, it enables you to understand exactly the cause of the unhappy estrangement; and this is some little satisfaction. More serious consequences than a simple closing of friendly fellowship need not occur, except in very extreme cases. But, sometimes, it will happen that you are obliged to do more than merely give up the acquaintance of an individual; justice to others may require the exposure of something said or done by an unprincipled individual, by which he becomes your enemy. Such a person will, as a general thing, seek to injure you in all possible ways by false representations. The best antidote to all he may say, is a blameless life. This will be your best justification in the community. The character of every man makes a certain impression, and if anything not in accordance with this impression be said against him, it is never fully believed. Still, anyone will suffer more or less in the good opinion of society, if an evil-minded person industriously circulates false accusations against him; and proper means should be used to silence him, if his charges amount to dishonesty or immoral conduct. This may sometimes be done by demanding an interview in the presence of mutual friends, and then requiring proof of his allegations, or a denial of them. A common traducer is generally exceedingly tender of his own reputation; while he calls into activity a very whirlwind of evil accusations against others, the first breath of censure that falls upon his own fair fame disturbs him to the very center. Once convict such a person, before witnesses, of having made false accusations against you, and you not only strip him of power to do you much injury in the future, but make him exceedingly cautious about what he says of one who has the nerve and decision to call him to an account for what his malignant spirit may cause him to say. Pride and a hasty temper occasion disagreements of the most serious character, and often bring into open hostility those who have once been the warmest friends. No immorality of conduct, no departure from integrity, no wrong lies at the foundation of the unhappy disagreement. An insult has been given; but whether intentional or unintentional, it is often hard to make out; and the party really insulted, or only imagining himself to be so, has flung back the outrage into the other’s face with maddening violence. This occurs on the instant, between perfect strangers as well as between intimate friends; and too often the final result is angry antagonisms. Instead of the parties themselves meeting for the purpose of ascertaining precisely the feelings and intentions of each other, and learning whether an insult were really intended — the insult is taken for granted, and mutual friends are called in to obtain formal and specific retractions of things said and done. These friends hold, as they imagine, the honor of their respective principals in pledge, and each requires of the antagonist party greater concessions and acknowledgments than he can feel it possible for him to make under such circumstances; and thus the breach is made wider instead of being healed, as it would be, in nine cases in ten, it one or the other of the parties themselves had sought for and obtained a personal interview. We remember seeing two people, perfect strangers to each other, come into collision from a supposed insult, where it was clear none was intended. It occurred, strangely enough, at a lecture given to young men on their right conduct in life. The room was so much crowded that all could not find seats, and near the door a number were standing. They were arranged against and near the wall, leaving a space of some yards between them and the first row of seats. A young man, who had been sitting for about one-half of the time occupied by the lecture, generously arose, and, stepping across the vacant space to where another young man was standing, offered him his seat. In doing this, the eyes of a number were necessarily fixed upon him. Instead of promptly accepting the offer when so much trouble had been taken, the individual standing declined doing so, and did it in a manner that was felt to be particularly offensive, although no offence could have been meant. Be that as it may, the young man retired to his seat in anger and mortification, and instead of resting satisfied in reflecting that what he had done was a generous offer of self-denial for the sake of another, and that no gentleman could wantonly insult one who thus acted towards him, he brooded over what had occurred during the whole time the lecture continued, and finally brought himself to the conclusion that he had been grossly insulted in public, and that nothing remained for him to do, but to demand satisfaction. Accordingly, the moment the lecture closed, he stepped hastily up to the young man, and, with intemperate warmth, in the midst of a crowd of both ladies and gentlemen, abruptly and insultingly demanded an explanation of his conduct. Surprised, yet indignant, at being thus rudely, and, as he felt, causelessly assailed, the other replied in about the same spirit as that in which he had been addressed. Blows were about to be exchanged, when others interfered — and the belligerents parted in mutual anger. As the parties were strangers to us, we saw no more of them, and presume that no exchange of shots took place in consequence, as the newspapers at the time did not chronicle any such event. In this we see a fair specimen of the origin, or what might be appropriately called the causeless cause, of duels. It is no more than probable that the mind of the young man, who was standing during the lecture, had become so much interested in the discourse as not to be clearly conscious of what he did when his attention was disturbed by the kind offer of the other to give him up his seat; and it is not at all improbable that he saw a moment after it was too late, that he had acted with little less than rudeness to a stranger, and meditated an apology as soon as the lecture closed. But all these better impulses were destroyed by a sudden and rude assault, for which there was no kind of justification. It usually happens that the person who imagines himself insulted, makes a reconciliation difficult, if not almost impossible, by offering in return a real insult, and then insisting upon acknowledgments and retractions from the other, while he never dreams of making an apology for his own conduct. It almost always happens, in matters of this kind, that both parties are to some extent to blame, and all difficulty may at once be arrested, if either party will reflect carefully upon his own conduct, and determine to make an acknowledgment of the thing in which he has wronged the other. This should be done as a matter of simple justice, spite of all inflammatory suggestions of false pride. Because another has wronged you, or insulted you, does that justify your wrongs or insults? You imperiously demand of another an apology for what he has done or said, and yet are not willing to offer an apology for your own conduct. First do what you require of him, and depend upon it, you will not find him backward in confession of error, or a readiness to throw over the unhappy past the mantle of oblivion. To do this is not disgraceful, but honorable and magnanimous. It is a triumph of reason over passion, of right over false pride and a morbid self-esteem. If it should happen that a misunderstanding takes place with a young friend and another, and he calls upon you to confer with the friend of the offending or offended party for the settlement of the difficulty, do not hesitate about accepting the office of mediator, but, in doing so, let it be with the determination to heal, not widen the breach. Your first duty will be to hear from your friend a full statement of all the facts in the case, and then get from the friend of the other party all that he has to allege against the person you represent. Honestly, conscientiously, and impartially weigh all the circumstances, without any personal bias whatever; and if you are satisfied that your friend has done wrong, tell him so, and insist upon his acknowledging that wrong as a most imperative duty. This he may do without dishonor: to refuse to do so would be dishonorable in the highest degree, for it would be a refusal to repair a wrong, which, if not done, may lead on to the most direful consequences. The other party may have done wrong, and be just as conscious of it; but pride may keep back its confession. The acknowledgment of your friend will be almost sure, if made in the right spirit, to bring back a fuller and more hearty acknowledgment of wrong from the opposite party, and then the work of reconciliation will be easy. Truly magnanimous conduct is that which involves self-sacrifice of some kind for the good of others. Nothing is so hard to sacrifice as false pride; yet the conquest is always a noble one, for it is made for the good of others. As a third party to any unhappy difference, be most careful to avoid anything calculated to inflame the pride of your friend; lead him rather to reflect more upon what he has himself said and done, than upon the wrongs that he has suffered from the other. This will give reason a chance to act, and help him to see what it is his duty to do, as well as his pleasure to require of another. The great barrier that interposes itself in serious difficulties of this kind, is the disposition manifested by the belligerent parties to exact concessions, but to make none; and in this they are too often encouraged by the friends who have been chosen to represent them. A resort to deadly weapons, for the purpose of settling a difficulty, is in no case justifiable, the custom being founded upon false pride and a false idea of honor. As the principal in a difficulty, your duty is to seek by all right means to satisfy the individual to whom you have given offence, that it was not your intention to insult him, or that you had been led away by passion to say or do something that in your cooler moments you would not have said or done; the supposition is, that you, under no provocation, would seek redress by a resort to dueling. If this will not satisfy, and there is a clear determination evinced to force you into a deadly conflict, make a firm resolution to refuse to accept a challenge, and abide by that resolution. You have no more right to take the life of another, than to give up your own. Most men who fight duels are urged on to do so as much by the fear of being branded with cowardice as from inflamed passions. But the truth is, it is cowardice, and not courage, that makes them fight. They are afraid of the unjust censure of the world; they are afraid to do right, lest it be called wrong. The truly brave man, is ever ready to suffer martyrdom for the sake of truth, whether he is burned at the stake, or immolated at the shrine of a hasty and false-judging public. As to dueling itself, or a resort to deadly weapons for the purpose of settling a difficulty, a moment’s cool reflection must satisfy anyone that it is a most absurd practice, to say nothing of the fatal wrong that it too often inflicts upon society. There is nothing in it that tends to ennoble the human mind, but rather to debase it. In nothing that appertains to the duel is there anything of generous regard to another’s good — of noble self-sacrifice — of manly effort to raise the common standard of virtue; but, instead, there is a narrow and blinding regard for self, and a trampling under foot of the noble and manly spirit of forgiveness. Self, and only self, rules. And what is gained by the combat? One of the parties may be killed; but does that make the other a better man? It may gratify his malignant spirit of revenge, it is true; but that makes him more the child of Hell than of Heaven; and man’s true destiny is Heaven, and his right employment here a preparation for this high estate. Society has claims upon every man, which he is bound to meet. His life is not, therefore, his own to fling away at pleasure. To do so, is to act unjustly; and will this make a man any more honorable? From such considerations, it is clear that a man may not only refuse a challenge to mortal combat without disgrace, but it is also clear that to accept such a challenge is both dishonorable and disgraceful; for it involves a wrong to society, and encourages a practice that is cruel, and therefore of Hellish origin. We have dwelt upon the reprehensible practice of dueling, because it is an evil that still exists in society, and because every high-spirited, quick tempered young man is liable to get himself into difficulties with other young men of like temperament. Reason is given to all as a guide in life, and this teaches that there is only one thing to do in such a case; and that is, to repair the wrong done, no matter at how great a sacrifice of feeling and pride. This is every man’s plain duty. If another offers you an insult, and refuses to withdraw it — shooting him is certainly an evil mode of redress. The feeling that could prompt you to do so, could be nothing less than revenge. Someone has very forcibly said, in referring to matters of this kind, "A gentleman will not insult me; none other can." This is sensible doctrine; and if men had sufficient firmness to act upon it in all cases, there would be no duels. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 52: 03.09. MUSIC AND DANCING ======================================================================== Music and Dancing Music, dancing, and a truly polished and graceful manner in social fellowship, with a knowledge of those modes and forms that are founded upon a just regard of man for man, which prevail in society, are known as polished accomplishments. With regard to the first of these, there is but little difference of opinion; the second has many warm advocates, and many bitter and unrelenting opponents, who see in it evil, and only evil; and there are some who appear to think any serious regard to the latter, especially the making of rules for observance, a sign of weakness and folly. As respects MUSIC, it is clear to us that, if a young man has any taste at all in that way, he ought by all means to cultivate it. It will not only extend greatly his own means of enjoyment, but give him the power of contributing much to the enjoyment of others. We do not think it would be wise for him to devote all his leisure time to music, to the neglect of other and graver pursuits; but there are times when the mind wearies of thought, and will be refreshed and strengthened to attempt new efforts, if its slumbering affections are awakened into life and activity by music. While words give utterance to the thoughts of the mind, music expresses its affections; and thoughts when uttered, and feelings when expressed, are in greater fullness and power. So well satisfied are we that there is great use in the cultivation of music, that we believe all men who are ignorant of the science have defects which no cultivation of the intellect alone can possibly overcome. Against DANCING much has been urged, but nothing that we have seen having any basis in rational truth. It has been called sinful; but nothing is sinful except what is done from evil intent. Some have said that it awakens impure thoughts; but they who allege this either have impure minds or have never danced. Such is well known not to be the case. It is a frivolous waste of time, say others, and unworthy the dignity of men and women. If it is made to interfere with any duty, it is certainly a waste of time; as to the "dignity," the objection will be worth considering, when it is understood in what a man’s true dignity consists. It is a fact worthy of observation, that the most strenuous opposers of dancing are those who have least charity, so called, for their neighbors; and that one of these people will spend an evening in slandering upon the faults and foibles of others, and indulging in a spirit of ill-will and censoriousness — while those engaged in dancing during the time have been blessing each other with a spontaneous and generous reciprocation of the kindest feelings. It is a bitter spirit, indeed, that does hot feel kindly emotions while threading the graceful mazes of a cotilion, every step and every motion of the body harmonizing with sweet music. The whole truth, in regard to the objections against dancing which prevail, lies in the fact that it is erroneously imagined that all pleasures are incompatible with religion, than which there cannot possibly be a greater mistake! The pleasures of sense are not evil in themselves, but good; the evil lies in their perversion and abuse. The partaking of food is a highly-gratifying sensual pleasure; but it is not evil, except where eating is abused to the injury of the health. It cannot be evil for the ear, so finely attuned, to take in the harmonies of music; although for anyone to neglect all the duties of life in giving himself up to the enjoyment of music — would certainly be a great evil. It cannot be evil to enjoy the fragrance of sweet flowers, nor to delight in viewing an exquisite picture, or piece of statuary, or a beautiful landscape; and yet these are all pleasures of the senses, so called, though in reality the pleasures of the soul, as it looks out upon and hearkens unto the world of nature, and there sees and hears those things that correspond to affections and principles in itself. The law of our spiritual constitution is, that all things of the mind come into their fullest power and delight in the lowest or sensual plane; and all who hinder in any way this descent of the soul into the orderly plane of its activity — destroy much of its vital force, and take away its power of clear intellectual discrimination. Dancing is nothing more nor less than graceful movements of the body in time with music, and is joined in by two, three, or a much greater number, all acting in concert. The brightening eye, the glowing cheek, and the smiling lip, attest the pleasure that is felt by each. A pleasure in what? In consummating an evil purpose? None will say that. There is delight, and it must be either in good or evil. Is it in evil? and if so, in what does it consist? The dancers are virtuous maidens and young men of good principles, who, to the sound of music, have arranged themselves upon the floor, and are moving their bodies in harmony with it. It is not evil, we unhesitatingly say, but good; for it is always good for the mind to flow down into external acts that are in themselves innocent, and encourage kindness and good-will from one toward another; and this is precisely what occurs in dancing. The objections against its abuse are as good as objections against the abuse of anything else, but no better. Another use of dancing is, that it gives a young man an easier and more graceful carriage, with more freedom in his social fellowship. It also aids him in acquiring a self-possession in company, which is so necessary for the pleasure of all, yet so hard to attain in mere conversational circles. By all means, take lessons in dancing, if you have not yet done so, we would say to every young man. Don’t let an awkward bashfulness prevent your doing so; for it is one of the very best means you can adopt for its correction. You are a social being, and are bound to mingle in society, both for your own good and the good of others. You are under obligation to give your quota to the general enjoyment, and under a like obligation to take your own in return, for the sake of that healthy flow of spirits so essential to the right performance of all our duties in life. And, unless you have those accomplishments that are common in polite society, you can neither give nor receive all the benefits that spring from right social fellowship. The laws of etiquette, or those conventional forms of good breeding, which prevail in society, when they are founded upon a just regard of man for man, should always be observed. Among these laws, as found in books of etiquette, are many which have in them no vital principle — which are the mere offspring of a sickly pride. They may be known from the fact that they are not based upon a generous consideration of others. These may be observed or not, as anyone thinks best; and, when among those who make it a point to observe them, we should think it wise not to interrupt the general good feeling by their violation, unless a principle were involved. It is not wrong in itself to drink tea from your saucer instead of your cup, nor to eat with your knife instead of your fork; still, as these are usages of polite society, a man of good common sense will observe them when in company, no matter how partial he may be to his knife and saucer. We would recommend to every young man to read carefully one or more books on etiquette and good-breeding, and thereby acquaint himself with the laws that are observed in polite society. We would not, however, advise him to adopt all the forms and observances there laid down, but to take each one, and analyze it carefully, and see upon what it is based — pride, or the kind consideration of others; and where he finds that a violation of the law will subject anyone to unnecessary pain or annoyance, he should carefully obey it under all circumstances. A true gentleman — that is, one who really regards with feelings of unselfish kindness his fellow-man — will rarely commit any glaring violation of good manners. To such a one, the study of those rules established as usages in polite society, will afford much matter for reflection, and he will readily distinguish between the good and the bad. He will find much that is the mere offspring of pride, vanity, and a imagined idea of importance; but he will find much more that is based upon a just regard of man for man. We were particularly struck with the closing paragraph of a book of this kind, which contains much more than a fair proportion of bad reasons for observing some very good rules. It is as follows: "Gentility is neither in birth, manner, nor fashion, but in the Mind. A high sense of honor — those who determination never to take a mean advantage of another — an adherence to truth, delicacy, and politeness toward those with whom you have any dealings, are the essential and distinguishing characteristics of a Gentleman." This is every word true. A man may have the most accurate knowledge of all the rules of etiquette, and most carefully observe them; but if he has not the above qualities, he is not a gentleman. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 53: 03.10. AMUSEMENTS ======================================================================== AMUSEMENTS Every young man should enter upon life with an earnest purpose. He will have need of patience, fortitude, energy, and intense thought, in overcoming the difficulties that must be encountered before his day of trial is over. Life has been called a warfare — and is truly so called. It is a warfare with enemies both within and without — enemies of the flesh and enemies of the spirit. He has to contend, in the world, against the selfishness that would crush every man’s interest in the attainment of its own ends; and to contend with the same spirit of selfishness in his own heart, that is ever prompting him to seek an advantage at the sacrifice of others’ good. Happy for him if, when he falls into temptation, he stand fast by his integrity. "If life, then, be so grave a matter — what has man to do with amusements?" we hear asked. "In these conflicts with foes within and without, one would think the heart could never heave up with a glad emotion, the eye never brighten, nor the lip smile." And such could never be the case, if the strife were incessant — if, after a fierce conflict, there did not come a season of repose, in which both mind and body could rest, and be refreshed and invigorated for new combats. It has been assumed — and it is evidently a true position — that inaction is not the rest that re-invigorates the exhausted energies of either the mind or body — but a new direction of effort, by which new muscles of the body, or new faculties of the mind, are brought into activity. The true repose, then, which should follow every life-conflict — and they are of almost daily occurrence — is an entire diversion of the thoughts and feelings into some new channel. If this is not done, there can be no rest; for the current of thought will flow on unchecked, until the mind becomes diseased, and loses half its power. And herein we see the use of amusements, or those innocent employments that divert the mind, and fill it with pleasing emotions. After the business of the day is over, these come in their natural order, to refresh and strengthen for new efforts; and it is more in accordance with the dictates of right reason to seek for re-invigoration in these than is dull inaction. To play a game of cards or chess will do a man more good, after a day of labor and care, than to spend his evening is lounging on the sofa. And he will find the mirthful doings of a social party of far more benefit to him, if he enters into the spirit of that party — than he will to sit out his evening, brooding over the disappointments and crosses of today, or sadly contemplating the trials of tomorrow. Amusements, therefore, we hold to be essential to the health of both body and mind. But, like every other good, they are liable to be abused and perverted; and the young are more in danger of perverting them than those who have passed the prime of life. Nearly all the various amusements, public and private, that are entered into at this day, are innocent and useful in themselves, although some of them are sadly perverted to evil ends. Dancing, games, concerts, the opera, scenic representations, etc., are all good in themselves, and may be enjoyed innocently and beneficially by all. In cards, for instance, there is no evil abstractly, nor in a game of cards; but gambling is a great evil — one from which every honest mind shrinks with horror. When made a school of morals, the theater is a powerful teacher, because it shows us vice or virtue in living personifications; but as it now is, we are compelled to acknowledge that it is a poor place of resort for the strengthening of virtuous principles. At all suitable times, young men will find it useful to seek for recreations and innocent amusements. It will give their minds a healthier tone, and bring them into associations different from business associations, by which they will be able to see new phases of character, and judge more kindly of their fellows. In business, each one seeks his own interest; there is no generous deference to the interests of others, and men grow daily more and more selfish; but in social fellowship, one defers to another; there is the form of self-sacrifice for the good of others, at least. From this brief presentation of the subject, every one must see that the views taken by those who rail against amusements, as either sinful or entirely useless, are erroneous, and founded upon false notions of man’s moral nature. Our life here is for the development and perfection of our characters as immortal beings, created originally in true order, and now afforded all possible means for a return to true order. In true order, every affection of the mind, when it comes into activity, produces delight; and as a love of good is the vital principle of true order, when man is restored to what he has lost, his highest and purest delight will be in doing good. Delight or pleasure, then, is not evil, but good, provided it does not flow from the consummation of an evil purpose. It is the healthy reaction of the mind upon orderly effort, and strengthens and prepares it for new and higher efforts. Take away all delight as the reward of effort — and see how quickly the cheek fades and the eye grows dim. If, then, delight or pleasure is not wrong in abstract, the seeking of amusements, as recreation, after the mind is over wearied by long and oft-repeated efforts, cannot be wrong; and this every mind not sadly warped by false views, must see. But to seek amusements as a means of "killing time," as some do, or as the occupations instead of the occasional recreations of life, is to pervert them from their true object, and to make them highly injurious, instead of beneficial. To engage, night after night, in a trial of skill in games — to spend two or three evenings every week at balls and parties, or attending theatric or operatic performances — must enervate instead of strengthening the mind, and will inevitably hinder any young man from rising into distinguished positions of usefulness in society. After the business of the day, the mind will ordinarily find a means of healthy reaction in intellectual pursuits, which form a part of some leading purpose by which a man’s life is governed; amusements come in as occasional means of restoring the wasted energies, and should be entered into at intervals, as absolutely essential to the continued healthy activity of our minds. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 54: 03.11. COURAGE ======================================================================== COURAGE There are two kinds of courage, the one mere physical or brute courage, as it is sometimes called, and the other moral courage. Again, bravery in some is the result of an almost entire unconsciousness of danger, no matter how impending it may be; while in others it is the result of a strong moral purpose overcoming a natural timidity and fear of consequences. We find men who say that they have never known fear — and men whose coward hearts shrink at the very thought of danger, acting with equal bravery under certain circumstances. The one meets the encounter with scarcely a thought of consequences — while it requires all the efforts of the other to overcome his natural dread of suffering and death. The latter is, without doubt, entitled to most credit for bravery; for he meets the danger with a far more real knowledge of its character than the other. The most exalted courage is, therefore, the result of a high moral purpose, and this is the courage that every man should have: its foundation lies in a determination to do right, at any sacrifice, even of life itself, if that is required. It will often require as much courage to act right under certain circumstances — as to march up to a cannon; and the man who will compel himself to face the world’s opinions and prejudices in doing what he believes to be right, has great moral courage. Every young man should feel that cowardice to be a disgrace, and bravery a virtue that he is bound to practice. True bravery has no occasion to vaunt itself, for it does not seek, like the knights of old, for adventures. It is a sleeping power in the mind, that only rouses itself on occasions of more than ordinary importance; and then it acts calmly, but with firmness and decision. A man who properly reflects, is rarely a coward. Some are more inclined to shrink from bodily pain than others, and some are nervously sensitive in regard to the opinions of the world; but reflection from right grounds will correct both of these defects, and enable a man to act with bravery under all circumstances. It is a thing of rare occurrence that a man loses his life at a time when he has put it in jeopardy in order to save the life of another; and yet we hear, almost every day, of people being saved from almost certain death by the generous self-devotion of others. Of course, acts of this kind should not be done with a mere recklessness that has in it no hope of success. It would be madness, not true bravery, for a man who could not swim to throw himself into the sea in order to save a person who was drowning, or to jump into a well filled with noxious gas in the hope of lifting therefrom one who was on the point of perishing from its poisonous influence. A truly brave man looks at the means as well as the end, and will not risk his life unless there be a fair chance that in doing so he will be able to save the life of another. A brave man is one who looks away from himself, and seeks the good of others. Every man should, from principle, resist oppression, and oppose an unyielding front to all attempts at invading his rights. He should do this as well for his own protection, and that of those who are dependent upon him, as in order to weaken the confidence of evil-minded men, who seek to oppress everyone, thus making them more cautious how they put into practice their evil purposes. One unflinching adherent to right principles in the community, saves numbers from becoming the victims of wrong. Without courage a man is a curse to himself, and often a curse to others who may happen to depend upon him. He is a victim to causeless fears; is ever dreading some evil that he has not the bravery to meet with a bold front, and strive vigorously to conquer, he sees some evil thing stealthily approaching his unconscious neighbor, but, fearful lest he may suffer consequences himself, fails to give the alarm, and thus, with a base cowardice, permits an injury to take place that he might have turned aside. It is no wonder that a coward receives the brand of infamy. In the present state of the world, the courage to act right in common society is the virtue most needed, and this every young man should have. He should never flinch from speaking the truth where its utterance will counteract evil designs, or advance the knowledge and practice of good principles. He is bound to do this by every consideration that regards the well-being of society. As to what this one or the other may say, he has nothing to do with that. He should have the courage to disregard all such appeals to his self-love, or to the feeling of deference to the good opinions of weak-minded or bad men. The cardinal virtue in society is a determination to do right because it is right, regardless of consequences. This is true courage. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 55: 03.12. RELIGION ======================================================================== RELIGION There are three classes of men in the world — the civil man, the moral man, and the spiritual man. The civil man lives in mere external obedience to civil laws, because his own well-being is secured thereby. The moral man not only regards the civil law, but lives also in obedience to moral laws. While the spiritual man obeys divine laws. The first obeys only the civil law; the second obeys the civil law as well as the moral law, for both are involved in the latter; but the spiritual man obeys both civil and moral as well as divine laws, because the divine law includes all the rest. From this it is clearly seen that the spiritual, or truly religious man, must be a moral as well as a civil man; that, in fact, he is the only true man in society, or he who regards the good of the whole from an internal and spiritual ground, and not from any external and selfish considerations. Although the very life and true vital energy of society is religion, yet it is a subject of difficult introduction in a work like this. Christendom is divided into so many sects with variant and opposing doctrines — and doctrine is absolutely necessary to religious belief — that there is great danger of giving offence where none is intended, and injuring the usefulness of the book by creating a prejudice against it. Still it is felt to be of such vast importance, that we would consider our work as greatly deficient if we were to pass it by. Whoever has read carefully the first three chapters of this book, will clearly see the necessity of religion, or a means whereby man may return to a state of heavenly order and consequent happiness. Truth must be the basis of religion, for that leads to good; the false and the evil are inseparable companions. The Bible is the word of God, or divine truth, and therefore that must be the basis of true religion. And yet we have doctrines of the most opposite characters; and those who hold them all appeal to the Bible, and profess to find proofs therein to substantiate them. Of course, all cannot be true, for there is only one true system of religious doctrines, and all that is variant to that must be error. Let every young man who has arrived at mature age, when the whole responsibility of life and its consequences begin to rest upon his own shoulders, look at the subject of his religious views with an earnest desire to know the truth for its own sake, and in this spirit canvass them thoroughly. The means which God has given him for the determination of truth when presented to his mind, is his reason; and this he must exercise vigorously, holding, at the same time, his mind in freedom to adopt whatever he clearly sees to be rational as well as Scriptural. Because my father has believed a set of religious doctrines, that cannot make them true to me, unless I can understand them clearly. While I was a child, and he was responsible for my religious belief, he was bound to teach me the doctrines he conscientiously believed to be true. But when I became a man, and the responsibility was transferred to me, my first duty was to canvass the whole matter fairly, and adopt or reject according to the best light I could obtain. And this course should be pursued by everyone, on the ground that nothing is truth to the mind, that it does not clearly understand. To adopt a thing as true because others believe it to be so, never advances a man a step, never gives him the smallest ability to fight against evil in his own heart. It is by truth alone, that a man combats with what is false and evil; and this must be truth to him. From this every young man, who thinks seriously on the subject of religion, will see the obligation under which he lies to examine into the very foundation of his religious belief. If it is a true belief, it will bear any amount of scrutiny, and show its own brightness and excellence the more thoroughly it is canvassed. If it is not true — then the quicker that discovery is made, the better. Is there anyone who loves the truth for its own sake, who can object to this? No, there cannot be. Some writers, who have given advice to young men, when they came to treat of religion, have recommended them to attend church regularly, and to assume devout appearances when there, because, by so doing, they would be thought moral and religious, and thus stand a much better chance of being taken by the hand, and pushed forward in the world. We have not only seen such advice in books, but have heard it repeatedly urged upon young men, by people calling themselves religious. For a young man to do this, we would say, would be for him to act hypocritically. Anyone who attends church, and assumes a religious exterior from mere selfish and worldly ends, does himself a greater injury than he supposes. Far better would it be for him to remain at home. Too many young men both think lightly and speak lightly of religion, as if it were something not intended for sensible people. But, as religion is the means by which a man is able to overcome the corrupt and evil tendencies of his nature, and rise into a life of heavenly order — we think it a matter of sufficiently grave importance to command the earnest attention of every one. Mere canting and blind enthusiasm, of course, are not true religion, and those who ridicule and censure these, should be very careful not, at the same time, to make assertions or create impressions injurious to true religion. All true religion is founded upon a just idea of God. A false notion of God results inevitably from a false religion. The most important thing in the outset is, therefore, the formation of a just idea of the divine Being. The Bible tells us that "God is love." Now, infinite and divine love must seek to bless others outside of itself; and from this we conclude that God is ever seeking the good of his creatures, and that religion is nothing more than such a love to God and man, as leads us to obey the precepts of the one and seek the good of the other. The assumption, therefore, of exterior forms of sanctity are nothing, if love to God and man are not in the heart. Religion is a something that is eminently practical; it goes with a man into all his daily avocations, and regulates every transaction of his life. If, in his business, he pursues his own interest so eagerly as to hurt his neighbor’s interests — he, of course, does violence to a true religious principle. No matter what he professes to believe or be; in that act he has offended against the doctrine that "religion is love to God and man," and therefore done evil before his Maker, whose very essence is Love. The religion of far too many is a Sunday religion. It does very well for the Sabbath, when there are no worldly interests to be looked after, and when an exterior of sanctity is not in the least in the way of a sharp bargain. But when Monday comes, other matters are to be looked after, which it would not do to associate with religion, lest a thing so holy should suffer violence and be brought into disrepute. The religion of these people consists in a faith in certain doctrines, by which they are to be saved, and the bringing of religion down into the world, by which it is in danger of suffering violence, as they understand it, is to talk about these doctrines among men of the world, with whom they are daily engaged in driving hard bargains. No doubt the least said, the better, under these circumstances; and in keeping silence, therefore, they are right. But what is really meant by bringing religion into the world, is for men to take with them, in their business and social fellowship, that regard for the neighbor’s good which will prevent the taking of any advantage of him whatever. Whoever attempts to do this will not find it, however, a very easy task. His self-love will be ever prompting him to do as others do; that is, to sacrifice others’ good in striving to secure his own; but if he is truly endeavoring to act from a religious principle, he will shun the evil of overreaching his neighbor, because it is a sin against God; and in so doing he will receive divine power to overcome it. Here we have given a simple instance of how religion is to be brought down into every-day life. From this all may see how in every act a man may make a principle of religion the governing law. If all men pursued their business upon a basis such as this, we would see none of those fluctuations and disturbances, throughout the whole commercial world, which now make the success of an honest man so very doubtful. There would be health in the entire body, from the skin to the vital regions of the heart and lungs. If a true regard to religion will produce health in so diseased a community as that engaged in trade, where nearly all, in the eager pursuit of wealth, care not who loses if they gain — it is every man’s duty to endeavor, as far as he is concerned, to bring it down from the church — into real life. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 56: 03.13. BAD HABITS ======================================================================== Bad Habits Under this head we wish to say a word or two on smoking, drinking, and swearing — three very bad habits. In regard to the first — that is, SMOKING, we would earnestly recommend every young man not already addicted to it, to avoid contracting a habit that must injure the health, and which is exceedingly disagreeable to almost everyone. Tobacco is a vile and offensive weed, and the extensive use of it that now prevails, is one of the most singular circumstances, connected with the history of the past and present centuries, that has occurred. We see men of intelligence and refinement snuffing it up their noses, chewing it, and smoking it, with an earnestness that would be really amusing, were it not that a feeling of disgust quiets the mind down into sobriety. What the use of it is, no one can tell, while nearly all agree that it seriously injures the health. Smoking, or the use of tobacco in any form, is not a gentlemanly practice, for the simple reason that it is a selfish habit, which is always disagreeable to others, while true gentility is a deference to the comfort, convenience, and frequently to the prejudices, of others. To have the room in which you are sitting filled with the fumes of tobacco, or to have the smoke of a cigar puffed in your face, is certainly very disagreeable; but it does not stop there: your clothes are filled with the vile odor, your handkerchief is rendered offensive and useless, and your lips are covered with a bitter and irritating deposit. The offence committed by the smoker is not limited to these disagreeables. When he talks to you, his breath nauseates you, and his clothes fling around you a strong but stale odor of tobacco. If you visit him at his room, the atmosphere is rank and oppressive. If you lend him a book, when you get it back you are almost tempted to throw it into the fire, instead of returning it to its place on the shelf. How a young man can go into the company of ladies after smoking, is more than we can comprehend. We hardly think he would if he knew how offensive an odor he carried with him, and how disagreeable to the nostrils of his fair friends is his breath constantly blown into their faces. We have heard bitter complaints from ladies in regard to this thing. Smoking is vulgar enough, but smoking in the street is rarely practiced, except by people of base habits. As to the habit of DRINKING, little more is necessary than to condemn it as a very bad habit. There has been so much said and written on the subject within the last few years, that everyone must understand its evils by this time. The fact that it is very unhealthy, and is an exceedingly dangerous habit, would be sufficient in themselves to condemn it, were not the sad evidences of its direful consequences scattered so thickly around us. The practice of SWEARING is another habit among young men, and certainly a very weak and foolish one, to say nothing of its profanity. The worst part of it is the frequent taking of the Lord’s name in vain, which is expressly forbidden by God himself. Does it not seem strange that a man should speak lightly, irreverently, and often blasphemously of the Being who created him, and who sustains him every moment of his life, from whom he has every blessing he enjoys, and who is ever seeking his good? Such a one will speak indignantly of the ingratitude of another — but what ingratitude is greater than his! A young man who has a proper respect for himself, will never swear. The habit is so entirely useless, and the language so offensive to religion, morality, and good taste, that he will avoid it naturally. Whenever a young man is heard to use these vulgar and profane expletives, it is a sure sign that he has been keeping base company; for in none other do they commonly prevail. Besides the three bad habits named, some young men fall into the practice of using the slang or vulgar phrases common to the lowest classes of society. For this there is no excuse in the world. The practice might be gravely argued against, and its evil shown; but that would be treating it with too much seriousness. The best corrective of it is a simple declaration of the fact, that the habit is exceedingly offensive to good taste, and that a young man, who is so silly as to make use of "slang" in good society, is at once set down as base-minded and vulgar. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 57: 03.14. HEALTH ======================================================================== HEALTH Late hours, irregular habits, and lack of attention to diet, are common errors with most young men, and these gradually, but at first imperceptibly, undermine the health, and lay the foundation for various forms of disease in after life. It is a very difficult thing to make young people comprehend this. They sit up as late as twelve, one, and two o’clock, frequently without experiencing any ill effects; they go without a meal today, and tomorrow eat to excess, with only temporary inconvenience. One night they will sleep three or four hours, and the next nine or ten; or one night, in their eagerness to get away into some agreeable company, they will take no food at all, and the next, perhaps, will eat a hearty supper, and go to bed upon it. These, with various other irregularities, are common to the majority of young men, and are, as just stated, the cause of much bad health in mature life. Indeed, nearly all the shattered constitutions, with which too many are cursed, are the result of a disregard to the plainest precepts of health in early life. As health is the indispensable prerequisite to a proper discharge of the duties of life, every man is under obligation to society not to do anything, which, by producing a diseased condition of the body, renders him unfit to attend efficiently to his work or office. This is the view that we are anxious to impress upon the minds of those for whom we write. Although a man, feeling and thinking altogether from self, may imagine that he "is his own man," as some express it and therefore at liberty to do with himself as he pleases — a little reflection must lead him to see that this is a great error. No man stands alone in society, or can be independent of others. Each forms a part of the great social body, and must faithfully and diligently do what he can for the common good. There exists in society a community of interests, and each works for the whole, whether he designs to do so or not. The farmer tills the soil, and draws therefrom his abundant harvests of grain and other products meet for the sustenance of man and beast. But it is not for himself, and those immediately dependent upon him, that his fields are rich with grain; they could not consume the product of one year in ten or twenty years. No, his work is for the whole, and he receives his proportion from the labor of the whole. The manufacturer cannot wear the hundreds and thousands of yards of cloth that are produced by his looms in any year; they go to clothe the whole community. The builder can occupy but one house; and yet he builds many. The handiwork of the artisan is nearly all for the comfort, convenience, and luxury of others. While thus we see that every man labors for the good of the whole, we find that every man receives back from the labor of the whole, all that he requires for health and comfort. It is the labor of others which produces the clothes that warm and protect him, the food that he eats, the house that he lives in, and the furniture which makes that house convenient and comfortable for himself and family. It is rarely, indeed, that his own hands produce any of the things absolutely essential to life, health, and comfort. Bearing this in mind, it can easily be seen that no man has a right to abuse his health — and thus lessen his ability to do his part in society for the common good. What one man has a natural and absolute right to do — that is the inalienable right of all; and if one man has a right to abuse his health, regardless of its effect upon others — then every one has a right to do so. But, were all to sacrifice their health to pleasure, all agricultural labors, all manufacturing and mechanic arts, would be imperfectly done, and the whole community would suffer. Or, if all who tilled the ground were to destroy their ability to labor steadily by irregularities of life, while the manufacturer and the artisan pursued their work with vigorous health — a great wrong would be done to the latter. They would give to the farmer clothes, and the various utensils needed by him in the house or field — while he would return them but scanty food, and that, perhaps, poor in quality. What is true of the whole is true of the part; and therefore, if it is wrong for the whole community to lead irregular lives to the destruction of health and the ability to perform those uses necessary to the well-being of the whole human race — then it is wrong for any individual to do so; for every failure on his part to work to the extent of his ability as a healthy man — is an injury to some other member of the common body. This is an immutable law. Regarding the subject in this point of view, every young man who reflects at all, and who is not so thoroughly wedded to self as to be utterly indifferent to the well-being of others — will see that he is under a solemn obligation to seek the preservation of his health, in order that he may be able to do his part for the common good. To act from this end, is to act wisely and nobly. But, as there are few, if any, in this thoroughly selfish age, who can or will thus act — then considerations of another, though less exalted kind, must be urged upon young men, in order to make them see the necessity of preserving their health. But before doing so, it may be necessary to repeat the declaration with which we set out — that late hours, irregular habits, and inattention to diet — will certainly undermine the health, and lay the foundation for diseased conditions in after life. The effect will be various in different constitutions. One may destroy the healthy tone of his stomach, and become, for the best half of his life, a miserable dyspeptic. Thus, for a few years of inordinate indulgence in the pleasures of the table — be obliged to pay the penalty of abstinence from nearly all generous and palatable food, and suffer from the entire derangement of every healthy organ in his system. The inability to perform perfectly the work of his office, will not only injure the community, but himself; for it is a law in the social economy, that he who contributes most to the common stock — shall receive most in return. To bodily sufferings of a most distressing kind, will therefore be added the deficiencies of worldly goods, arising from unequal and unsustained exertions. Another, inheriting a predisposition to diseases of the lungs, may so weaken and disturb the vital forces by irregularities and excesses, as to render the lungs highly susceptible to all disturbing causes, and find all his hopes and energies blasted just in the prime of life, by the development of an incurable pulmonary disease. While another may so shatter his nervous system as to be unable to bear any business excitement, any prolonged effort, or any exposure or fatigue whatever — at a time when all these are absolutely necessary to the sustenance of a family. As everyone inherits from his parents predispositions to diseases of body, as well as to diseases of the mind — the health of the one, as well as the other, depends upon an obedience to just laws, both physical and moral. Whoever violates these, inevitably entails upon himself disabilities and sufferings; and the earlier in life this is done, the deeper will be the impression made, and the more lasting its injurious consequences. Let every young man, therefore, pay strict regard to his health. Let him be temperate in eating and drinking, and regular in all his habits. And let him also see that he does not allow himself to indulge in any evil passions of the mind, as anger, malice, jealousy, envy, revenge, or any inordinate desires; for these are as fatal to health as abuses of the body, and do, in reality, lead to these latter abuses, almost inevitably. In fact, the cause of all the irregularities of youth, are in the mind. Let a young man, then, keep his desires, his appetites, and his passions, under proper subjection — and he will be in no danger of running into those excesses which sow, in his physical system, the seeds of all diseases. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 58: 03.15. ENTERING INTO BUSINESS ======================================================================== Entering into Business Entering into business is, except marriage, the most important act of a young man’s life. And, as the proportion of those who are unsuccessful in their first efforts is as much as two out of three — it behooves everyone to look well to what he is doing before taking a step that may involve him in serious losses or difficulties. The result of our own observation is, that a young man who enters into business under the age of twenty-five, unless he is taken into partnership in an established firm, is almost sure to fail. If he has money — he will lose it; and if credit is his only capital — he will get involved in debt. There are, of course, some exceptions to this, but they are very few. One necessary pre-requisite to success in business, is a thorough knowledge of that branch into which a man enters. It is, therefore, always a hazardous step for anyone, to commence a business, of the details of which he is ignorant, no matter how flattering may be the inducements held out. This is a prominent cause of failure. Another cause of failure, is the young man’s impatience to get ahead fast, and realize great profits in a very short period. But this is not the history of successful businesses, nor of men who have acquired great wealth. Safe and sure beginnings are always small, and the growth gradual. Sudden inflations, meet with just as sudden collapses. A young man who has been a clerk in a respectable house, that has been growing gradually for years, determines upon going into business for himself. But he is not content with a small beginning. He must have as handsome an establishment and as fine a stock of goods as his old, substantial employers, and strains his credit to the utmost to gratify his pride and false notions in regard to the true means necessary to success in trade. Without sufficient capital to bear the heavy losses that too often attend a heavy business, and the large accumulation of unsaleable goods, a few years tell the story of his rise and fall. This is the history of hundreds in our large cities. Every year sees the passing away of some scores of businesses established in this way, and yet the lesson seems to do no good; for every year scores of others are ready to take the places of their unfortunate predecessors, without any more of the elements of success about them. Many young men are tempted into business, and induced to make a bold start, upon the always uncertain basis of credit, from hearing so much said about this one and another who has commenced life without a shilling, and in a few years retired with an independent fortune. There is a great deal of this kind of gossip among clerks and those who have just entered into business. They can name hundreds of instances where young men have launched boldly out, and made from four thousand to twenty thousand pounds in a few years; and will actually point out this, that, and the other one, as the veritable personages. Now, it is one thing for a man in business to say that he has made ten thousand pounds, for instance, and another thing really to have made it. We have seen the end of a good many who had made fortunes in a wonderfully short space of time, and the winding up generally showed them to be worse than nothing. The reason why the notion is so generally prevalent that a fortune may be made in this country in a very few years, if a man has sufficient boldness, activity, and enterprise, is because, in periods of inflation which have occurred, everything obtains a fictitious value. The time has been when a piece of property, purchased today for one thousand pounds, has sold for ten thousand before the lapse of twelve months; or stocks which cost two thousand pounds last week have netted four thousand this week. In times like those, when the volume of paper money was immense, goods could be sold freely and at large profits. This would make the gains of business very great in a few years. Far more than all the profits, however, were usually trusted out to people who bought freely because they could buy on credit. From engaging in speculations when there was an upward tendency in everything, and from making a few fortunate speculations, combined with an active trade, when everything was brisk — young men, who have had only a few thousands to begin with, have, in a very short period, become quite wealthy. But it was generally the case that this wealth consisted in property said to be worth so much, and which might, at the time, sell for its valuation to somebody, who would give his note for it at six, nine, twelve, or twenty-four months. There are a few instances where people thus successful have had the prudence to convert their property into something more substantial than notes of hand drawn by Tom, Dick, and Harry, or town lots of land from which the first spadeful of earth had not yet been lifted. But in most cases, when the storms came which always follow such periods of sunshine, these men were among the first to be driven under. The story of their rapidly-acquired fortunes is still told, but the real cause of their speedy elevation is not understood, nor is the sequel known or alluded to. A prudent young man will hardly suffer himself to be deceived by stories of this kind, and tempted into business in the hope of making a fortune by a bold dash: if he should be thus drawn, he will be almost certain to lose what money he may happen to have, and get involved in debt beside; for with the views of business he will hold, such a thing as a small beginning and cautious operations will be out of the question. As before said, the elements of success in business are to be found in a thorough knowledge of the particular branch in which a young man is about to engage, and in a maturity of judgment acquired by a few years of experience and observation in the world as a man. Along with this, there must exist a willingness to be content for a time with small things — to be willing to wait for the seed sown to germinate, the tender blade to shoot forth, and the stock gradually to increase, and grow, and gain strength to mature and support the grain. It is far better to advance slowly, and wait even as long as ten years before the gains of labor begin to be of much importance, than to rush ahead for a time, and, long before ten years have rolled around, be thrown to the earth, and embarrassed by debts, to pay which the ability may never come. As the true way to begin is to begin with moderate expectations and a small business, the first rule to adopt is, the determination to make the personal expenses as light as possible. The error which most young men commit is, to increase their personal expenses as soon as they enter into business. The spending of three hundred pounds a year, instead of one hundred and fifty, takes just one hundred and fifty out of the business, and sinks it absolutely. The saving of one hundred and fifty pounds each year for three or four years, and keeping the amount in the business, will, of itself, be an important matter, and may actually save the business in an extremity, or unexpected loss, when, if it had been spent, destruction would be inevitable. Care in regard to the expenses attendant upon the prosecution of business is also an important matter. In rents, personal expenses, clerk hire, and petty expenditures of various kinds — more than the entire profits of a new business may be consumed. If there is any borrowed capital, and interest to pay thereon, necessity for the strictest economy will be even more imperative. But entering into business is one thing, and conducting it on right principles another. Enough has already been said in this work to make anyone see and feel the force of the position, that the common good ought to be regarded by every man, and that whoever seeks to secure the common good — most effectually secures his own. This does not mean that a man should throw all his earnings into the treasury of the commonwealth, or do any act of a similar kind; or that he should neglect his own interest in seeking to forward the interests of others. The arrangement of society, under the direction of an all-wise Providence, provides for every man’s well-being in the pursuit of some employment which benefits the whole; and the conducting of these employments on right principles is nothing more than each man attending diligently to his own business in life, but without in any way interfering with his neighbor’s business, or taking the slightest advantage of him in any mutual transactions. If such were the acknowledged laws of trade, the well-being of all would be secured. He who most served the public good in the greater extent of his useful products — would receive the greatest return; and he who was less active and diligent — a smaller return. Such, however, are not the laws that govern trade in these evil and degenerate days. Most men seek so eagerly to increase their worldly gains, as to disregard entirely the interests of others; nay, not only to disregard them, but actually to invade them with deliberate purpose. Thus, we have cheating of all grades, from the speculator’s overreaching operations down to the selling of goods by spurious weights and measures, or obtaining them under false pretenses. But let every young man who is about entering into business, no matter what it may be, or who commences the practice of a profession for which he has duly qualified himself, resolve, before he takes the first step, that he, for one, will be an honest man in the community; that he will diligently seek to advance himself in his business or profession by all right means; but that he will in no case take even the smallest advantage of his neighbor. He need not be anxious about the final result; all he has to do is to use diligence, wisdom, and prudence — and these will carry him through, even amid the wrongs and disorders of society as it now exists. He may not grow rich as rapidly as his neighbor who can manage by cheating to make a larger profit on his goods, and by false pretenses to gain a greater amount of custom; but his advancement will be rapid enough to give him all that is needful for health, comfort, and a good conscience. It is seriously argued, by many who are engaged in business, that deception and false representation are absolutely necessary to success; that it is impossible for a strictly honest man to succeed in business. But this is not true. We believe, however, that in a business community where nearly all take unfair advantages in trade — an honest man will find it difficult to sustain himself, unless he is wary, active, and energetic; for he will lose by the dishonesty of others, without being able to repair the loss by dishonest practices in turn. But what right-thinking man would not rather suffer the loss of worldly goods — than the loss of honor? Who would not be content with a smaller portion of wealth, accompanied by a consciousness of having done what was just and right between man and man — than to be the possessor of millions obtained by dishonesty and a system of successful fraud not recognizable by the laws? Any undue advantage in business is stealing; for it is taking another’s goods without his consent or cognizance. There are various modes of overreaching in business, against which every honest young man will set his face. Nearly all speculations are dishonest means, by which one man gains a certain amount of money in a transaction, which another loses. A merchant gains news of a rise in the price of some article in a neighboring market. He goes to his neighbor, who is yet ignorant of this rise, and buys from him all of that article which he has at the prevailing prices of the day, and thus secures both his own and his neighbor’s profits. This is a very common transaction, but, judged by the rule we have laid down, a very dishonest one. Again, a merchant buys up all of an article there is in the market, at a time when he knows there will be a scarcity, and doubles the price. This is not honest; for he is enriching himself by extorting from others an exorbitant rate for a necessary article. All stock speculations are conducted on the broadest principles of loss and gain — like gambling. We doubt very much if any man who engages actively in them can be governed by an honest regard for the interests of his fellow-man. It seems to be nothing but an eager scramble for money, no matter to whom it properly belongs. These are bold and palpable modes of overreaching in business, and men enter into them unblushingly. The concealed and underhand methods are far more numerous. They appertain to every trade and calling, and are practiced under the most perfectly assumed exteriors of fairness and honesty. These are short weights and measures, false representations as to quality, exorbitant prices where the buyer is ignorant, and various other frauds upon purchasers. The craftsman slights his work in places where it cannot be readily seen, and thus is enabled to sell cheaper than his neighbor who makes a good article. And throughout all trades and professions, there prevails a system of fraud upon the public which is becoming apparent in the gradual deterioration of almost every article of general consumption — while the makers stun the public ear with declarations of the superior quality of everything they produce. Thus the effort of each calling to secure its own interests, at the expense of the whole, has been the effort of all; and the consequence is, that all are worse off for it. But this result is no matter of surprise. It is the legitimate effect of an adequate cause. The only remedy for this is for each man, acting from a principle of integrity, to strive honestly to perform all that appertains to his calling. If he is a craftsman, let him not look altogether to the money he is to receive for his work, but consider as well him for whom the work is intended, and be careful that it be of a good quality, and worth the price he receives for it. If he is a merchant, let him buy with judgment, and sell with a just regard to the rights of others. And let all men, no matter what may be their calling, faithfully regard the good of others as well as their own. To do this, is simply to refrain from injuring others in any transactions had with them. If every young man, now entering upon life, were to act from the principles here laid down, how different, in a few years, would be the aspect of affairs in the business world! Trade would be in a far more healthy condition, and every man in business would feel himself more firmly established. And the reason is obvious. There would be no overreaching; no disturbance of the regular course of trade by eager, selfish speculators; no interference with one man’s business by another, as is now often the case, by which it not infrequently happens that his prospects for life are ruined. Instead of sudden and great accumulations of money in a few hands, for the purpose of affecting the market for selfish ends, to the injury, perhaps, of hundreds — there would be, in time, a greater equalization of capital, and the simple and true law of demand and supply, as a regularly-existing state, subject to but few, and they not sudden and broad fluctuations, would be the balance wheel to trade. This would be a blessing to all. Most earnestly do we urge upon young men, just entering or about to enter into business, to look this matter fully in the face, and endeavor to feel it as a subject vital to the true well-being of society. Whenever a reform begins, it must begin with them. To them society looks as its regenerators. Let every young man endeavor to feel the responsibility that rests upon him as an individual, and act well and wisely his part, when he finds himself standing in the world’s arena. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 59: 03.16. MARRIAGE ======================================================================== MARRIAGE On this subject, very few think seriously, and those who make it a matter of much reflection, too generally think erroneously. We allude, of course, to young people. Those of more mature age have clearer views; but too often these are consequent upon either seeing or feeling the evils that result from marriages entered into from blind passions or improper motives. The great difficulty, with regard to those who most need proper instruction on this subject, is, that they will not hearken to what is said to them — but either follow the leadings of impulse and passion, or look with cool deliberation to the attainment of some selfish end. In either case, mutual unhappiness is the almost inevitable result. Marriage is the most important event in a man’s life, because it brings him into the very closest relationship with another — and therefore subjects him to the disturbance of every incongruous or opposite thing in the character of his new companion. This is one reason, but there are others which are more vital and important, and which can only be understood when there is some knowledge of the true laws which ought to govern in marriage. These laws have their origin in the distinctive difference which exists, and has existed from creation, between man and woman. This difference does not lie in the mere form of body peculiar to each. It is far more deeply grounded. The difference is in the mental and emotional form; it is, therefore, of a most radical kind. To make the whole subject of this difference clearly comprehended would require a treatise of greater extent than our entire work; and we shall not, therefore, risk misapprehension by the mere enunciation of the conclusions to which such a treatise would bring every reflecting mind. The main thing to be understood, however, is, that man and woman are so created as to be imperfect, except in marriage union, and therefore that marriage is an orderly state. In man we find a peculiar development of brain — the organ by which the mind acts — that marks his difference from the woman; and in woman there is a peculiar development that marks her difference from the man. In man, the intellectual region shows a larger development, and in woman, that region of the brain by which the affections of the mind come into activity — yet both have intelligence and affection. But the one is a thinking man, and the other a loving man; and, in union, they make one perfect man. The affections of a man are, as a general thing, guided by his reason; and the reason of a woman, as a general thing, is guided by her affections. Of course, there are exceptions, as in masculine women, so called, and effeminate men; but these are looked upon as social monsters; and it is very well known that they do little to advance society towards a state of true order, although the first class sometimes make a great noise in the world, and do their full share of harm. But only when they unite their mental forces in a just marriage — that is, when, in the marital union, the intelligence of the man and the affection of the woman are also married, and look to one end — is there a perfect man in the world. If this does not take place — and, alas! its occurrence is a rare thing in these times — there will be more or less discord and unhappiness between married partners. To illustrate this so as to bring it home with some kind of force to even minds not given to close and abstract reflection, we will suppose that a woman, who possesses a fortune, is addressed by a man whom she believes to be high-minded, intelligent, and truly moral. These are what she, as a right-minded woman, can love in a man. After marriage, however, she makes the discovery that it was not for her virtues that she was loved and wooed by this man, but for her wealth; and that, so far from being high-minded and honorable — he is base-minded and dishonorable. Could there possibly be any union of souls between these two people? Could his intelligence and her affections ever blend and become as one mind? No! So long as life lasted, they must be in discord. And the same will be the case if beauty alone, or the desire to form a respectable or distinguished connection, or any other worldly or selfish motive, be the leading end in a man’s mind when he seeks to gain the affections of a woman. No woman believes herself loved for any external grace, accomplishment, or possession, by the man whom she loves in return — but for herself alone. If, after marriage, she discovers that she has been mistaken — from that moment her confidence in her husband is destroyed; and the date of her unhappiness, as well as his own, has commenced. He will find that, notwithstanding she may be faithful to all her duties as a wife, no union of mind takes place, nor can take place; that she will not, and cannot, love his intelligence, nor give him any counsel or strength in the performance of his duties in life. In most things, she will be inclined to differ with rather than agree with him, if matters are referred to her; but, usually, she will be altogether passive in things of general concern, contenting herself with her domestic duties alone. As a consequence, he will grow more and more self-willed; for he must trust to his own reason for everything, unwarmed by the glow of her affections; and her mind will contract itself more and more within its own little sphere, because not drawn out and attended by sympathy with his more widely reaching intelligence — and both will be unhappy. If a young man would escape these sad consequences, let him shun the rocks upon which so many have made shipwreck. Let him disregard, totally, all considerations of wealth, beauty, external accomplishments, fashion, connections in society, and every other mere selfish and worldly end — and look into the mind and heart of the woman he thinks of marrying. If he cannot love her for herself alone — that is, for all that goes to make up her character as a woman — let him disregard every external inducement, and shun a marriage with her as the greatest evil to which he could be subjected. And if he has in him a spark of virtuous feeling — if he has one unselfish and generous emotion — he will shun such a marriage for the woman’s sake also; for it would be sacrificing her happiness as well as his own. From what is here set forth, every young man can see how vitally important it is for him to make his choice in marriage from a right end. Wealth cannot bring happiness, and is ever in danger of taking to itself wings. Beauty cannot last long where there is grief at the heart. And distinguished connections are a very poor substitute for the pure love of a true woman’s heart. All that has been said refers to the ends which should govern in the choice of a wife. Directions as to the choice itself can only be of a general character; for the circumstances surrounding each one, and the particular circles into which he is thrown, will have specific influences, which will bias the judgment either one way or another. One good rule, it will, however, be well to observe; and that is, to be on your guard against those young ladies who seek evidently to attract your attention. It is unfeminine, and proves that there is something lacking to make up the perfect woman. In retiring modesty you will be far more apt to find the virtues after which you are seeking. A brilliant belle may make a loving, faithful wife and mother; but the chances are somewhat against her, and a prudent young man will satisfy himself well by a close observation of her in private and domestic life, before he makes up his mind to offer her his hand. But the most we can do, and what we mainly wish to do, in giving precepts for the choice of a wife, has already been done; and that is, to impress upon young men the necessity of acting from right ends. If these are pure, there will be little danger of a mistake. If they be not pure, all particular directions how to choose a wife will be in vain. To some extent there prevails a disposition to regard marriage as an evil, by those who do not understand its true nature, and who look at the unhappy results which too often flow from it as effects of the institution itself, instead of the abuses. Others, again, speak lightly of the matter, and compare marriage to a lottery, with few prizes and many blanks — and say that the gaining of a prize is always a matter of chance. But the evils and chances all lie in the perverse and selfish ends which govern men in their choice of wives. Let these be corrected, and the whole matter will present a different and brighter aspect. To the question often asked of young men as to why they do not marry, we sometimes hear the reply, "I am not able to support a wife." In one case out of three, perhaps, this may be so; but as a general thing, the true reply would be, "I am not able to support the style in which I think my wife ought to live." In this, again, we see a false view of marriage; a looking to an appearance in the world — instead of a union with a loving woman for her own sake. There are very few men, of industrious habits, who cannot maintain a wife, if they are willing to live economically, and without reference to the false opinions of the world. The great evil is, that young couples are not content to begin life humbly, to retire together into an obscure position, and together work their way in the world — he by industry in his calling, and she by dispensing, with prudence, the money which he earns. But they must stand out and attract the attention of others by their fine house, fine furniture, and fine clothes, even if debt is incurred, in order to maintain this silly show! As a general thing, we find these men, who do not think themselves able to support a wife, always affected with the same disability. Although an advocate for early marriages — yet we are no advocate for the dashing out which so often attends them. Even a married couple may save money on a small income, and yet live comfortably enough, if their pride is not too active. And the economical habits thus cultivated, will lay the foundation for future success which would have been sought for in vain, had the young man spent all, or nearly all, he earned for four or five years, waiting until he got able to marry. In regard to an increase of family, our observation satisfies us, if we looked no further, that increased means will always be the consequences. He who sends children — will help you to take care of them, if you put yourself in the way of being helped. A married man, if he has right views, will always proceed with more caution than a single man, because more depends upon him; and this is a good reason why he is more certain to advance in the world steadily, if it be slowly. In regard to early marriages, this may be safely said. If an engagement has been formed, and both parties are willing to live strictly within the limits of the young man’s income; and if he, or they between them, have sufficient money to meet all the expenses consequent upon marriage; and, moreover, if there is a prospect of the continuance of his income — let them marry, say we. It will be better for them. As the natural result of marriage is offspring, and as children inherit from their parents propensities to either good or evil, the same as they inherit physically a tendency to disease or health — the subject assumes a still more serious aspect than any we have yet given it, and exhibits the responsibilities and duties of married partners in a still stronger light. Parents love their children, and seek their good in various ways. They deny themselves many comforts; they toil early and late, and will sometimes risk even life itself for their children. The evil tendencies which show themselves almost as soon as the mind moves in its first activities — cause them deep grief, for they know that such tendencies, if indulged, will produce unhappiness, and they strive anxiously to repress them, but find the task a difficult and almost impossible one. The error of the parents lies in the fact, that they have commenced the work of reform too late. "Too late," we hear asked, "when it is commenced as soon as the infant mind moves in its first activities." Yes, it is too late; and all that can now be done, will be to repress the evils as they show themselves, and strive, at the same time, to implant opposite good principles, by means of which when these children become men and women they may contend with, and, if they will overcome the evils which they had derived from their parents. This subject, of the hereditary transmission of good or evil qualities of mind, is one to which but little attention has been paid; and yet it is a matter of great importance. Whatever a man does from principle and a confirmed habit, be it good or evil, orderly or disorderly — that he transmits to his children in a tendency to do the same thing. A man who does not think it wrong to overreach his neighbor in bargaining, must not be surprised if he discovers in his son a tendency to steal, which he tries in vain to correct; nor he who has no regard for truth, wonder why his son should prove a liar. If the father and mother are disorderly in their habits, or passionate, or envious of their neighbors — how is it possible for their children to be otherwise, when the natural and invariable law that "like produces like" is considered? Why we said the work of reform was commenced too late by parents, may now be clearly seen. We must fight the evils and disorders by which the human race is cursed, in our own hearts — if we would truly overcome them in our children. If this is not done, the task of correcting their evils will be a painful and difficult, if not an almost impossible one. If we shun the evil of overreaching our neighbor, because it is evil; it falsehood is avoided, and held in abhorrence; if we resist evil tendencies of every kind — we shall do more for our children than if we were to amass for them wealth equal to that of Croesus! True love of offspring will prompt to the sacrifice of evil principles of all kinds, and the strengthening of good principles as rules of action in the mind of every parent. To a young man who thinks seriously of marriage, this subject ought to be one of grave consideration. If he would not entail a curse upon his children, let him examine himself well, and begin at once the correction of every evil habit and propensity. If he does not do so, the time may come, when, like David of old, he will exclaim, "O Absalom! my son! my son! O that I had died in your stead!" Conclusion The reading of a book like this will do a young man but little good, if he throws it down without seriously reflecting upon its contents. He must consider the truths it teaches as truths for his guidance, as well as for the guidance of others. The views here taken of life are too important to be lightly passed by. They are of vital interest both to the individual and the community. The elevation of society depends mainly upon the reception of right principles by the young. Those who have attained to some age, from feeling the consequences of their own ignorance and errors in the outset of life, can give wiser precepts to the young than they themselves received when they stepped boldly forth, proud in their new-felt freedom and power. There will always be some ready to listen to and act upon these precepts, and they will elevate the standard of right feeling and acting in their generation. The greater the number of those who act from these wiser precepts — the more decided will be their influence, and the higher, in consequence, will rise the generation to which they belong. Thus will society advance towards perfection with a slow but certain progress. From this view, every young man can see how great is the responsibility resting upon him as an individual. If he commences with right principles as his guide — that is, if in every action he has regard to the good of the whole, as well as to his own good — he will not only secure his own well-being, but aid in the general advancement towards a state of order. But if he disregards all the precepts of experience and reason, and follows only the impulses of his evil appetites and passions, he will retard the general return to true order, and secure for himself that unhappiness in the future which is the invariable consequence of all violations of natural or divine laws. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 60: 04.00. AFTER THE STORM ======================================================================== After the Storm Timothy Shay Arthur, 1868 ======================================================================== CHAPTER 61: 04.01. THE WAR OF THE ELEMENTS ======================================================================== Chapter 1. The War of the Elements No June day ever opened with a fairer promise. Not a single cloud flecked the sky, and the sun coursed onward through the azure sea until past meridian, without throwing to the earth a single shadow. Then, low in the west, appeared something obscure and hazy, blending the hill-tops with the horizon. An hour later, three or four small fleecy islands were seen, clearly outlined in the airy ocean, and slowly ascending — couriers of a coming storm. Following these were mountain peaks, snow-capped and craggy, with desolate valleys between. Then, over all this arctic panorama, fell a sudden shadow. The white tops of the cloudy hills lost their clear, gleaming outlines and their slumbrous stillness. The atmosphere was in motion, and a white cloud began to drive across the heavy, dark masses of clouds that lay far back against the sky in mountain-like repose. How grandly now began the onward march of the tempest, which had already invaded the sun’s domain and shrouded his face in the smoke of approaching battle. Dark and heavy it lay along more than half the visible horizon — while its crown invaded the zenith. As yet, all was silence and portentous gloom. Nature seemed to pause and hold her breath in dread anticipation. Then came a muffled, jarring sound, as of far distant artillery, which died away into an oppressive stillness. Suddenly from zenith to horizon, the cloud was cut by a fiery stroke, an instant visible. Following this, a heavy thunder-peal shook the solid earth, and rattled in booming echoes along the hillsides and amid the cloudy caverns above. At last, the storm came down on the wind’s strong pinions, swooping fiercely to the earth, like an eagle to its prey. For one wild hour, it raged as if the angel of destruction were abroad. At the window of a house standing picturesquely among the Hudson Highlands, and looking down upon the river, stood a maiden and her lover, gazing upon this wild war among the elements. Fear had pressed her closely to his side, and he had drawn an arm around her in assurance of safety. Suddenly the maiden clasped her hands over her face, cried out and shuddered. The lightning had shivered a tree upon which her gaze was fixed, rending it as she could have rent a sheet of paper! "God is in the storm," said the lover, bending to her ear. He spoke reverently and in a voice that had in it no tremor of fear. The maiden withdrew her hands from before her shut eyes, and looking up into his face, answered in a voice which she strove to make steady: "Thank you, Hartley, for the words. Yes, God is present in the storm — as in the sunshine." "Look!" exclaimed the young man, suddenly, pointing to the river. A boat had just come in sight. It contained a man and a woman. The former was striving with a pair of oars to keep the boat right in the eye of the wind; but while the maiden and her lover still gazed at them, a wild gust swept down upon the water and drove their frail bark under! There was no hope in their case; the floods had swallowed them, and would not give up their living prey. A moment afterward, and an elm, whose great arms had for nearly a century spread themselves out in the sunshine tranquilly or battled with the storms — fell crashing against the house, shaking it to the very foundations. The maiden drew back from the window, overcome with terror! These shocks were too much for her nerves. But her lover restrained her, saying, with a concealed chiding in his voice, "Stay, Irene! There is a wild delight in all this, and are you not brave enough to share it with me?" But she struggled to release herself from his arm, replying with a shade of impatience — "Let me go, Hartley! Let me go!" The flexed arm was instantly relaxed, and the maiden was free. She went back, hastily, from the window, and, sitting down on a sofa, buried her face in her hands. The young man did not follow her, but remained standing by the window, gazing out upon Nature in her strong convulsion. It may, however, be doubted whether his mind took note of the wild images that were pictured in his eyes. A cloud was in the horizon of his mind, dimming its heavenly azure. And the maiden’s sky was shadowed also. For two or three minutes the young man stood by the window, looking out at the writhing trees and the rain pouring down an avalanche of water, and then, with a movement that indicated a struggle and a conquest, turned and walked toward the sofa on which the maiden still sat with her face hidden from view. Sitting down beside her, he took her hand. It lay passive in his. He pressed it gently; but she gave back no returning pressure. There came a sharp, quick gleam of lightning, followed by a crash that jarred the house. But Irene did not startle — we may question whether she even saw the one, or heard the other, except as something remote. "Irene!" She did not stir. The young man leaned closer, and said, in a tender voice — "Irene — darling — " Her hand moved in his — just moved — but did not return the pressure of his own. "Irene." And now his arm stole around her. She yielded, and, turning, laid her head upon his shoulder. There had been a little storm in the maiden’s heart, resulting upon the slight restraint ventured on her by her lover when she drew back from the window; and it was only now subsiding. "I did not mean to offend you," said the young man, penitently. "Who said that I was offended?" She looked up, with a smile that only half obliterated the shadow. "I was frightened, Hartley. It is a fearful storm!" And she glanced toward the window. The lover accepted this affirmation, though he knew better in his heart. He knew that his slight attempt at constraint, had chafed her naturally impatient spirit, and that it had taken her some time to regain her lost self-control. Without, the wild rush of winds was subsiding, the lightning gleamed out less frequently, and the thunder rolled at a farther distance. Then came that deep stillness of nature which follows in the wake of the tempest, and in its hush, the lovers stood again at the window, looking out upon the wrecks that were strewn in its path. They were silent, for on both hearts was a shadow, which had not rested there when they first stood by the window, although the sky was then more deeply veiled. So slight was the cause on which these shadows depended, that memory scarcely retained its impression. He was tender — and she was yielding; and each tried to atone by loving acts for a moment of willfulness. The sun went down while yet the skirts of the storm were spread over the western sky — and without a single glance at the ruins which lightning, wind and rain had scattered over the earth’s fair surface. But he arose gloriously in the coming morning, and went upward in his strength, consuming the vapors at a breath, and drinking up every bright dewdrop that welcomed him with a quiver of joy. The branches shook themselves in the gentle breezes his presence had called forth, to dally amid their foliage and sport with the flowers; and every green thing put on a fresher beauty in delight at his return; while from the bosom of the trees — from hedgerow and from meadow — went up the melody of birds. In the brightness of this morning, the lovers went out to look at the storm-wrecks that lay scattered around. Here, a tree had been twisted off, where the tough wood measured by feet, instead of inches. There, stood the white and shivered trunk of another sylvan lord, blasted in an instant by a lightning stroke. And there lay, prone upon the ground, giant limbs, which, but the day before, spread themselves abroad in proud defiance of the storm. Vines were torn from their fastenings; flower-beds destroyed; choice shrubbery, tended with care for years, was shorn of its beauty. Even the solid earth had been invaded by floods of water, which ploughed deep furrows along its surface. And, saddest of all, two human lives had gone out, while the mad tempest raged in uncontrollable fury. As the lover and maiden stood looking at the signs of violence so thickly scattered around, the former said, in a cheerful tone — "For all his wild, desolating power — the tempest is vassal to the sun and dew. He may spread his sad trophies around in brief, blind rage; but they soon obliterate all traces of his path, and make beautiful, what he has scarred with wounds or disfigured by the trample of his iron heel." "Not so, my children," said the calm voice of the maiden’s father, to whose ears the remark had come. "Not so, my children. The sun and dew never fully restore, what the storm has broken and trampled upon. They may hide disfiguring marks, and cover with new forms of life and beauty the ruins which time can never restore. This is something, and we may take the blessing thankfully, and try to forget what is lost, or so changed as to be no longer desirable. "Look at this fallen and shattered elm, my children. Is there any hope for that in the dew, the rain and sunshine? Can these build it up again, and spread out its arms as of old, bringing back to me, as it has done daily, the image of my early years? No, my children. After every storm, are ruins which can never be repaired. Is it not so with that lightning-stricken oak? And what art can restore to its exquisite loveliness, this statue of hope, thrown down by the ruthless hand of the unsparing tempest? Moreover, is there human vitality in the sunshine and fructifying dew? Can they put life into the dead? "No — no — my children. And take the lesson to heart. Outward tempests but typify and represent the fiercer tempests that too often desolate the human soul. In either case, something is lost that can never be restored. Beware, then, of storms — for wreck and ruin follow as surely as the passions rage!" ======================================================================== CHAPTER 62: 04.02. CHAPTER 2. THE LOVERS ======================================================================== Chapter 2. The Lovers Irene Delancy was a girl of quick, strong feelings, and an undisciplined will. Her mother died before she reached her tenth year. From that time, she was either at home under the care of servants, or within the scarcely more favorable surroundings of a boarding-school. She grew up beautiful and accomplished, but capricious and with a natural impatience of control, that unwise reactions on the part of those who attempted to govern her in no degree tempered. Hartley Emerson, as a boy, was self-willed and passionate, but possessed many fine qualities. A weak mother yielded to his resolute struggles to have his own way, and so he acquired, at an early age, control over his own movements. He went to college, studied hard, because he was ambitious, and graduated with honor. Law he chose as a profession; and, in order to secure the highest advantages, entered the office of a distinguished attorney in the city of New York, and gave to its study the best efforts of a clear, acute and logical mind. Self-reliant, proud, and in the habit of reaching his ends by the nearest ways, he took his place at the bar with a promise of success rarely exceeded. From his widowed mother, who died before he reached his majority, Hartley Emerson inherited a moderate fortune with which to begin the world. Few young men started forward on their life-journey with so small a number of vices, or with so spotless a moral character. The fine intellectual cast of his mind, and his devotion to study — lifted him above the baser allurements of sense and kept his garments pure. Such were Irene Delancy and Hartley Emerson — lovers and betrothed at the time we present them to our readers. They met, two years before, at Saratoga, and drew together by a mutual attraction. She was the first to whom his heart had bowed in homage; and until she looked upon him, her pulse had never beat quicker at sight of a manly form. Mr. Edmund Delancy, a gentleman of some wealth and advanced in years, saw no reason to interpose objections. The family of Emerson occupied a social position equal with his own; and the young man’s character and habits were blameless. So far, the course of love ran smooth; and only three months intervened until the wedding-day. The closer relation into which the minds of the lovers came after their betrothal and the removal of a degree of deference and self-constraint, gave opportunity for the real character of each to show itself. Irene could not always repress her willfulness, and impatience of another’s control; nor her lover hold a firm hand on quick-springing anger when anything checked his purpose. Pride and tenacity of character, under such conditions of mind, were dangerous foes to peace; and both were proud and tenacious. The little break in the harmonious flow of their lives, noticed as occurring while the tempest raged, was one of many such incidents; and it was in consequence of Mr. Delancy’s observation of these unpromising features in their relationship, that he spoke with so much earnestness about the irreparable ruin that followed in the wake of storms. At least once a week Emerson left the city, and his books and cases, to spend a day with Irene in her tasteful home; and sometimes he lingered there for two or three days at a time. It happened, almost invariably, that some harsh notes jarred in the music of their lives during these pleasant seasons, and left on both their hearts, a feeling of oppression, or, worse — a brooding sense of injustice. Then there grew up between them an affected opposition and indifference, and a kind of half-sportive, half-earnest wrangling about trifles, which too often grew serious. Mr. Delancy saw this with a feeling of regret, and often interposed to restore some broken links in the chain of harmony. "You must be more conciliating, Irene," he would often say to his daughter. "Hartley is earnest and impulsive, and you should yield to him gracefully, even when you do not always see and feel as he does. This constant opposition and standing on your opinion about trifles, is fretting both of you, and bodes evil in the future." "Would you have me assent if he said black was white?" she answered to her father’s remonstrance one day, balancing her little head firmly and setting her lips together in a resolute way. "It might be wiser to say nothing — than to utter dissent, if, in so doing, both were made unhappy," returned her father. "And so let him think me a passive fool?" she asked. "No; a prudent girl, shaming his unreasonableness and her self-control." "I have read somewhere," said Irene, "that all men are self-willed tyrants — the words do not apply to you, my father, and so there is an exception to the rule." She smiled a tender smile as she looked into the face of a parent who had ever been too indulgent. "But, from my experience with a lover, I can well believe the sentiment based in truth. Hartley must have me think just as he thinks, and do what he wants me to do — or he gets ruffled. Now I don’t expect, when I am married, to sink into a mere nobody — to be my husband’s echo and shadow; and the quicker I can make Hartley comprehend this, the better will it be for both of us! A few rufflings of his feathers now, will teach him how to keep them smooth and glossy in the time to come." "You are in error, my child," replied Mr. Delancy, speaking very seriously. "Between those who love — a cloud should never interpose; and I beg you, Irene, as you value your peace and that of the man who is about to become your husband, to be wise in the very beginning, and dissolve with a smile of affection every vapor that threatens a coming storm. Keep the sky always bright!" "I will do everything that I can, father, to keep the sky of our lives always bright, except give up my own freedom of thought and independence of action. A wife should not sink her individuality in that of her husband, any more than a husband should sink his individuality in that of his wife. They are two equals — and should be content to remain equals. There is no love in subordination." Mr. Delancy sighed deeply: "Is argument of any avail with her? Can words stir conviction in her mind?" He was silent for a time, and then said — "Better, Irene, that you stop where you are, and go through life alone — than venture upon marriage, in your state of feeling, with a man like Hartley Emerson." "Dear father, you are altogether too serious!" exclaimed the warm-hearted girl, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him. "Hartley and I love each other too well to be made very unhappy by any little jar that takes place in the first reciprocal movement of our lives. We shall soon come to understand each other, and then the harmonies will be restored." "The harmonies should never be lost, my child," returned Mr. Delancy. "In that lies the danger. When the enemy gets into the citadel — who can say that he will ever be dislodged? There is no safety — but in keeping him out." "You are still too serious, father," said Irene. "There is no danger to be feared from any formidable enemy. All these are very little things." "It is the little foxes which spoil the tender grapes, my daughter," Mr. Delancy replied; "and if the tender grapes are spoiled, what hope is there in the time of vintage? Alas for us, if in the later years, the wine of life shall fail!" There was so sad a tone in her father’s voice, and so sad an expression on his face — that Irene was touched with a new feeling toward him. She again put her arms around his neck and kissed him tenderly. "Do not fear for us," she replied. "These are only little summer showers, that make the earth greener and the flowers more beautiful. The sky is of a more heavenly azure when they pass away, and the sun shines more gloriously than before." But the father could not be satisfied, and answered — "Beware of even summer showers, my darling. I have known fearful ravages to follow in their path — seen many a goodly tree go down. After every storm, though the sky may be clearer, the earth upon which it fell has suffered some loss which is a loss forever. Begin, then, by conciliation and forbearance. Look past the external, which may seem at times too exacting or imperative, and see only the true heart pulsing beneath — the true, brave heart, that would give to every muscle the strength of steel for your protection if danger threatened. Can you not be satisfied with knowing that you are loved — deeply, truly, tenderly? What more can a woman ask? Can you not wait until this love puts on its rightly-adjusted exterior, as it assuredly will. It is yet mingled with self-love, and its action modified by impulse and habit. Wait — wait — wait, my daughter. Bear and forbear for a time — as you value peace in your marriage." "I will try, father, for your sake, to guard myself," she answered. "No, no, Irene. Not for my sake — but for the sake of right," returned Mr. Delancy. They were sitting in the vine-covered portico that looked down, over a sloping lawn toward the river. "There is Hartley now!" exclaimed Irene, as the form of her lover came suddenly into view, moving forward along the road that approached from the landing, and she sprung forward and went rapidly down to meet him. There an ardent kiss, an entwining of arms, warmly spoken words and earnest gestures. Mr. Delancy looked at them as they stood fondly together, and sighed. He could not help it, for he knew there was trouble before them. After standing and talking for a short time, they began moving toward the house — but paused at every few paces — sometimes to admire a picturesque view — sometimes to listen one to the other, and respond to pleasant sentiments — and sometimes in fond dispute. This was Mr. Delancy’s reading of their actions and gestures, as he sat looking at and observing them closely. A little way from the path by which they were advancing toward the house, was a rustic arbor, so placed as to command a fine sweep of river from one line of view — and West Point from another. Irene paused and made a motion of her hand toward this arbor, as if she wished to go there; but Hartley looked to the house and plainly signified a wish to go there first. At this Irene pulled him gently toward the arbor; he resisted, and she drew upon his arm more resolutely, when, planting his feet firmly, he stood like a rock. Still she urged and still he declined going in that direction. It was play at first — but Mr. Delancy saw that it was growing to be earnest. A few moments longer, and he saw Irene separate from Hartley and move toward the arbor; at the same time the young man came forward in the direction of the house. Mr. Delancy, as he stepped from the portico to meet him, noticed that his color was heightened and his eyes unusually bright. "What’s the matter with that self-willed girl of mine?" he asked, as he took the hand of Hartley, affecting a lightness of tone that did not correspond with his real feelings. "Oh, nothing serious," the young man replied. "She’s only in a little peeve because I wouldn’t go with her to the arbor, before I paid my respects to you." "She’s a spoiled little puss," said the father, in a fond yet serious way, "and you’ll have to humor her a little at first, Hartley. She never had the wise discipline of a mother, and so has grown up unused to that beneficial control which is so necessary for young people. But she has a warm, true heart and pure principles; and these are the foundation-stones on which to build the temple of happiness." "Don’t fear but that it will be all right between us. I love her too well to let any flitting humors affect me." He stepped upon the portico as he spoke and sat down. Irene had before this reached the arbor and taken a seat there. Mr. Delancy could do no less than resume the chair from which he had arisen on the young man’s approach. In looking into Hartley’s face, he noticed a resolute expression about his mouth. For nearly ten minutes they sat and talked, Irene remaining alone in the arbor. Mr. Delancy then said, in a pleasant off-handed way, "Come, Hartley, you have punished her long enough. I don’t like to see you even play at disagreement." He did not seem to notice the remark — but started a subject of conversation that it was almost impossible to dismiss for the next ten minutes. Then he stepped down from the portico, and was moving leisurely toward the arbor when he perceived that Irene had already left it and was returning by another path. So he came back and seated himself again, to await her approach. But, instead of joining him, she passed around the house and entered on the opposite side. For several minutes he sat, expecting every instant to see her come out on the portico — but she did not make her appearance. It was early in the afternoon. Hartley, affecting not to notice the absence of Irene, kept up an animated conversation with Mr. Delancy. A whole hour went by, and still the young lady was absent. Suddenly starting up, at the end of this time, Hartley exclaimed — "As I live, there comes the boat! and I must be in New York tonight!" "Stay," said Mr. Delancy, "until I call Irene." "I can’t linger for a moment, sir. It will take quick walking to reach the landing by the time the boat is there." The young man spoke hurriedly, shook hands with Mr. Delancy, and then sprung away, moving at a rapid pace. "What’s the matter, father? Where is Hartley going?" exclaimed Irene, coming out into the portico and grasping her father’s arm. Her face was pale and her lips trembled. "He is going to New York," relied Mr. Delancy. "To New York!" She looked almost frightened. "Yes. The boat is coming, and he says that he must be in the city tonight." Irene sat down, looking pale and troubled. "Why have you remained away from Hartley ever since his arrival?" asked Mr. Delancy, fixing his eyes upon Irene, and evincing some displeasure. Irene did not answer, but her father saw the color coming back to her face. "I think, from his manner, that he was hurt by your singular treatment. What possessed you to do so?" "Because I was not pleased with him," said Irene. Her voice was now steady. "Why not?" "I wished him to go to the arbor." "He was your guest, and, in simple courtesy, if there was no other motive, you should have let his wishes govern your movements," Mr. Delancy replied. "He is always opposing me!" said Irene, giving way to a flood of tears and weeping for a time bitterly. "It is not at all unlikely, my daughter," replied Mr. Delancy, after the tears began to flow less freely, "that Hartley is now saying the same thing of you, and treasuring up bitter things in his heart. I have no idea that any business calls him to New York tonight." "Nor I. He takes this means to punish me," said Irene. "Don’t take that for granted. Your conduct has hurt him, and he is acting now from blind impulse. Before he is half-way to New York, he will regret this hasty step as sincerely as I trust you are already regretting its occasion." Irene did not reply. "I did not think," he resumed, "that my late earnest remonstrance, would have so soon received an illustration like this. But it may be as well. Trifles as light as air have many times proved the beginning of life-long separations between friends and lovers who possessed all the substantial qualities for a life-long and happy companionship. Oh, my daughter, beware! beware of these little beginnings of discord. How easy would it have been for you to have yielded to Hartley’s wishes! — how hard will it to endure the pain that must now be suffered! And remember that you do not suffer alone; your conduct has made him an equal sufferer. He came up all the way from the city, full of sweet anticipations. It was for your sake that he came; and love pictured you as embodying all attractions. But how has he found you? Ah, my daughter, your self-will has wounded the heart that turned to you for love. He came in joy — but goes back in sorrow." Irene went up to her chamber, feeling sadder than she had ever felt in her life; yet, mingling, with her sadness and self-reproaches, were complaining thoughts of her lover. For a little half-playful pettishness, was she to be visited with a punishment like this? If he had really loved her — so she queried — would he have flung himself away after this hasty fashion? Pride came to her aid in the conflict of feeling, and gave her self-control and endurance. At tea-time she met her father, and surprised him with her calm, almost cheerful, aspect. But his glance was too keen not to penetrate the disguise. After tea, she sat reading — or at least affecting to read — in the portico, until the evening shadows came down, and then she retired to her chamber. Not many hours of sleep, brought forgetfulness of suffering through the night that followed. Sometimes the unhappy girl heaped mountains of reproaches upon her own head; and sometimes pride and indignation, gaining rule in her heart, would whisper self-justification, and throw the weight of responsibility upon her lover. Her pale face and troubled eyes, revealed too plainly, on the next morning — the conflict through which she had passed. "Write him a letter of apology or explanation," said Mr. Delancy. But Irene was not in a state of mind for this. Pride came whispering too many humiliating objections in her ear. Morning passed, and in the early hours of the afternoon, when the New York boat usually came up the river, she was out on the portico watching for its appearance. Hope whispered that, repenting of his hasty return on the day before — her lover was now hurrying back to meet her. At last the white hull of the boat came gliding into view, and in less than half an hour it was at the landing. Then it moved on its course again. Almost to a second of time, had Irene learned to calculate the minutes it required for Hartley to make the distance between the landing and the nearest point in the road where his form could meet her view. She held her breath in eager expectation as that moment of time approached. It came — it passed; the white spot in the road, where his handsome form first revealed itself, was touched by no obscuring shadow. For more than ten minutes Irene sat motionless, gazing still toward that point; then, sighing deeply, she arose and went up to her room, from which she did not come down until summoned to join her father at tea. The next day passed as this had done, and so did the next. Hartley neither came nor sent a message of any kind. The maiden’s heart began to fail. Grief and fear took the place of accusation and self-reproach. What if he had left her forever! The thought made her heart shiver, as if an icy wind had passed over it. Two or three times she took up her pen to write him a few words and entreat him to come back to her again. But she could form no sentences against which pride did not come with strong objection; and so she suffered on, and made no attempt to write. A whole week at last intervened. Then the enduring heart began to grow stronger to bear, and, in self-protection, to put on sterner moods. Hers was not a spirit to yield weakly in any struggle. She was formed for endurance — pride and self-reliance giving her strength above common natures. But this did not really lessen her suffering, for she was not only capable of deep affection — but really loved Hartley almost as her own life; and the thought of losing him, whenever it grew distinct, filled her with terrible anguish. With pain her father saw the color leave her cheeks, her eyes grow fixed and dreamy, and her lips shrink from their full outline. "Write to Hartley," he said to her one day, after a week had passed. "Never!" was her quick, firm, almost sharply uttered response. "I would die first!" "But, my daughter — " "Father," she interrupted him, two bright spots suddenly burning on her cheeks, "don’t, I beg you, urge me on this point. I have courage enough to break — but I will not bend. I gave him no offence. What right has he to assume that I was not engaged in domestic duties while he sat talking with you? He said that he had an engagement in New York. Very well; there was a sufficient reason for his sudden departure; and I accept the reason. But why does he remain away? If simply because I preferred a seat in the arbor, to one in the portico — why, the whole thing is so unmanly, that I can have no patience with it. Write to him, and humor a whim like this! No, no — Irene Delancy is not made of the right stuff. He went away from me — and he must return again. I cannot go to him. My pride forbids it. And so I shall remain silent and passive — even if my heart breaks!" It was in the afternoon, and they were sitting in the portico, where, at this hour, Irene might have been found every day for the past week. The boat from New York came in sight as she closed the last sentence. She saw it — for her eyes were on the look-out — the moment it turned the distant point of land that hid the river beyond. Mr. Delancy also observed the boat. Its appearance was an incident of sufficient importance, taking things as they were, to check the conversation, which was far from being satisfactory on either side. The figure of Irene was half buried in a deep cushioned chair, which had been wheeled out upon the portico, and now her small, slender form seemed to shrink farther back among the cushions, and she sat as motionless as one asleep. Steadily onward came the boat, throwing backward her dusky trail and lashing the quiet waters into foamy turbulence, with her great revolving wheels. Onward, until the dark crowd of human forms could be seen upon her decks; then, turning sharply, she was lost to view behind a bank of forest trees. Ten minutes more, and the shriek of escaping steam was heard as she stopped her ponderous machinery at the landing. From that time, Irene almost held her breath, as so she counted the moments that must elapse before Hartley could reach the point of view in the road that led up from the river, should he have been a passenger in the steamboat. The number was fully counted — but it was today, as it was yesterday. There was no sign of his coming. And so the eyelids, weary with vain expectation, drooped heavily over the dimming eyes. But she had not stirred, nor shown a sign of feeling. A little while she sat with her long lashes shading her pale cheeks; then she slowly raised them and looked out toward the river again. What a quick start she gave! Did her eyes deceive her? No, it was Hartley, just in the spot she had looked to see him only a minute or two before. But how slowly he moved, and with what a weary step! and, even at this long distance, his face looked white against the wavy masses of his dark-brown hair. Irene started up with an exclamation, stood as if in doubt for a moment, then, springing from the portico, she went flying to meet him, as swiftly as if moving on winged feet. All the forces of her ardent, impulsive nature were bearing her forward. There was no remembrance of coldness or imagined wrong — pride did not even struggle to lift its head — love conquered everything. The young man stood still, from weariness or surprise, before she reached him. As she drew near, Irene saw that his face was not only pale, but thin and wasted. "Oh, Hartley! dear Hartley!" came almost wildly from her lips, as she flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him over and over again, on lips, cheeks and brow, with an ardor and tenderness that no maiden delicacy could restrain. "Have you been sick, or hurt? Why are you so pale, darling?" "I have been ill for a week — ever since I was last here," the young man replied, speaking in a slow, tremulous voice. "And I knew it not!" Tears were glittering in her eyes and pressing out in great pearly beads from between the fringing lashes. "Why did you not send for me, Hartley?" And she laid her small hands upon each side of his face, as you have seen a mother press the cheeks of her child, and looked up tenderly into his love-beaming eyes. "But come, dear," she added, removing her hands from his face and drawing her arm within his — not to lean on, but to offer support. "My father, who has, with me, suffered great anxiety on your account, is waiting your arrival at the house." Then, with slow steps, they moved along the upward sloping way, crowding the moments with loving words. And so the storm passed — and the sun came out again in the sky of their souls. But did he looked down on no tempest-marks? Had not the ruthless tread of bitterness marred the earth’s fair surface? Were no goodly trees uptorn, or clinging vines wrenched from their support? Alas! was there ever a storm that did not leave some ruined hope behind? ever a storm that did not strew the sea with wrecks, or mar the earth’s fair beauty? As when the pain of a crushed limb ceases, there comes to the sufferer, a sense of precious ease; so, after the storm had passed, the lovers sat in the warm sunshine and dreamed of unclouded happiness in the future. But in the week that Hartley spent with his betrothed, were revealed to their eyes, many times, desolate places where flowers had been; and their hearts grew sad as they turned their eyes away, and sighed because of hopes departed, faith shaken, and untroubled confidence in each other for the future before them, forever gone. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 63: 04.03. CHAPTER 3. THE CLOUD AND THE SIGN ======================================================================== Chapter 3. The Cloud and the Sign In alternating storm and sunshine, their lives passed on — until the appointed day arrived that was to see them bound, not by the graceful true-lovers’ knot, which either might untie — but by a chain as light as downy fetters if borne in mutual love; and galling as ponderous iron links, if heart answered not heart, and the chafing spirit struggled to get free. Hartley Emerson loved truly the beautiful, talented and affectionate, but badly-disciplined, quick-tempered, self-willed girl he had chosen for a wife. And Irene Delancy would have gone to prison and to death, for the sake of the man to whom she had yielded up the rich treasures of her young heart. In both cases the great drawback to happiness, was the absence of self-discipline, self-denial and self-conquest. They could overcome difficulties, brave danger, set the world at defiance, if need be, for each other, and not a coward nerve give way. But when pride and disagreement came between them, each was a child in weakness, pride and blind self-will. Unfortunately, persistence of character was strong in both. They were of such stuff as martyrs were made of in the fiery times of power and persecution. A brighter, purer morning than that on which their marriage vows were said — the year had not given to the smiling earth. Clear and softly blue as the eye of childhood — bent the summer sky above them. There was not a cloud in all the tranquil heavens to give suggestion of dreary days to come, or to wave a sign of warning. The blithe birds sung their morning melodies amid the branches that hung their leafy drapery around and above Irene’s windows, in seeming echoes to the songs which love was singing in her heart. Nature put on the loveliest attire in all her ample wardrobe, and decked herself with wreaths of flowers, which loaded the air with sweetness. "May your lives flow together like two pure streams that meet in the same valley; and as bright a sky bend always over you — as gives its serene promise for today." Thus spoke the minister as the ceremonials closed that wrought the external bond of union between them. His words were uttered with feeling and solemnity; for marriage, in his eyes, was no light thing. He had seen too many sad hearts struggling in chains that only death could break, ever to regard marriage with other than sober thoughts that went questioning away into the future. The "amen" of Mr. Delancy was not audibly spoken, but it was deep-voiced in his heart. There was to be a honeymoon of a few weeks, and then the young couple were to take possession of a new home in the city, which Hartley had prepared for his bride. The earliest boat that came up from New York was to bear the party to Albany — Saratoga being the first point of their destination. After the closing of the marriage ceremony, some two or three hours passed before the time of departure came. The warm congratulations were followed by a mirthful, festive scene, in which glad young hearts had a merry-making time. How beautiful the bride looked! and how proudly the gaze of her newly-installed husband turned ever and ever toward her, move which way she would among her maidens, as if she were a magnet to his eyes. He was standing in the portico that looked out upon the distant river, about an hour after the wedding, talking with one of the bridesmaids, when the latter, pointing to the sky, said, laughing — "There comes your fate!" Hartley’s eyes followed the direction of her finger. "You speak in riddles," he replied, looking back into the maiden’s face. "What do you see?" "A little white blemish on the deepening azure," was answered. "There it lies, just over that stately chestnut tree, whose branches arch themselves into the outline of a great cathedral window." "A scarcely perceptible cloud?" "Yes, no bigger than a hand; and just below it, is another." "I see; and yet you still propound a riddle. What has that cloud to do with my fate?" "You know the old superstition connected with wedding-days?" "What?" "That as the aspect of the day is — so will the wedded life be." "Ours, then, is full of promise. There has been no fairer day than this," said the young man. "Yet many a day that opened as bright and cloudless — has sobbed itself away in tears." "True; and it may be so again. But I am no believer in superstitions." "Nor I," said the young lady, again laughing. The bride came up at this moment and, hearing the remark of her young husband, said, as she drew her arm within his — "What about superstitions, Hartley?" "Miss Rose Carman has just reminded me of the superstition about wedding-days, as typical of life." "Oh yes, I remember," said Irene, smiling. "If the day opens clear, then becomes cloudy, and goes out in storm — there will be happiness in the beginning, but sorrow at the close; but if clouds and rain herald its awakening, then pass over and leave the sky blue and sunny — there will be trouble at first, but smiling peace as life progresses and declines. Our sky is bright as heart could wish." And the bride looked up into the deep blue ether. Miss Carman laid one hand upon her arm and with the other pointed lower down, almost upon the horizon’s edge, saying, in a tone of mock solemnity — "As I said to Mr. Emerson, so I now say to you — There comes your fate." "You don’t call that the herald of an approaching storm?" "Weather-wise people say," answered the maiden, "that a sky without a cloud is soon followed by stormy weather. Since morning until now there has not a cloud been seen."’ "Weather-wise people and almanac-makers speak very oracularly, but the day of superstition is over," replied Irene. "Science," said Hartley, "is beginning to find reasons in the nature of things, for results that once seemed only coincidental, yet followed with remarkable certainty the same phenomena. It discovers a relation of cause and effect, where ignorance only recognizes some power working in the dark." "So you pass me over to the side of ignorance!" Irene spoke in a tone that Hartley’s ear recognized too well. His remark had touched her pride. "Not by any means," he answered quickly, eager to do away the impression. "Not by any means," he repeated. "The day of mere superstitions and omens is over. Whatever natural phenomena appear, are dependent on natural causes, and men of science are beginning to study the so-called superstitions of farmers and seamen, to find out, if possible, the philosophical elucidation. Already a number of curious results have followed investigation in this field." Irene leaned on his arm still — but she did not respond. A little cloud had come up and lay just upon the verge of her soul’s horizon. Her husband knew that it was there; and this knowledge caused a cloud to dim also the clear azure of his mind. There was a singular correspondence between their mental sky, and the fair azure without. Fearing to pursue the theme on which they were conversing, lest some unwitting words might shadow still further the mind of Irene — Hartley changed the subject, and was, to all appearance, successful in dispelling the little cloud. The hour came, at length, when the bridal party must leave. After a tender, tearful partings with her father, Irene turned her steps away from the home of her childhood into a new path, that would lead her out into the world, where so many thousands upon thousands, who saw only a way of velvet softness before them — have cut their tended feet upon flinty rocks, even to the very end of their tearful journey. Tightly and long did Mr. Delancy hold his child to his heart, and when his last kiss was given and his fervent "May God give you a happy life, my daughter!" said — he gazed after her departing form with eyes from which manly firmness could not hold back the tears. No one knew better than Mr. Delancy the perils that lay before his daughter. That storms would darken her sky and desolate her heart — he had too good reason to fear. His hope for her lay beyond the summer-time of life, when, chastened by suffering and subdued by experience — a tranquil autumn would crown her soul with blessings that might have been earlier enjoyed. He was not superstitious, and yet it was with a feeling of concern that he saw the white and golden clouds gathering like enchanted land along the horizon, and piling themselves up, one above another, as if in sport, building castles and towers that soon dissolved, changing away into fantastic forms, in which the eye could see no meaning; and when, at last, his ear caught a far-distant sound that jarred the air, a sudden pain shot through his heart. Like something instinct with life, the stately steamer, quivering with every stroke of her iron heart, swept along the gleaming river on her upward passage, bearing to their destination her freight of human souls. Among these was our bridal party, which, as the day was so clear and beautiful, was gathered upon the upper deck. As Irene’s eyes turned from the closing vision of her father’s beautiful home, where the first cycle of her life had recorded its golden hours, she said, with a sigh, speaking to one of her companions — "Farewell, Ivy Cliff! I shall return to you again — but not the same being I was when I left your pleasant scenes this morning." "A happier being I trust," replied Miss Carman, one of her bridesmaids. Rose Carman was a young friend, residing in the neighborhood of her father, to whom Irene was tenderly attached. Irene responded, "Something here says no." And Irene, bending toward Miss Carman, lovingly pressed one of her hands against her. "The weakness of an hour like this," answered her friend with an assuring smile. "It will pass away like the morning cloud and the early dew." Hartley noticed the shade upon the face of his bride, and drawing near to her, said, tenderly — "I can forgive you a sigh for the past, Irene. Ivy Cliff is a lovely spot, and your home has been all that a maiden’s heart could desire. It would be strange, indeed, if the chords that have so long bound you there did not pull at your heart in parting." Irene did not answer — but let her eyes turn backward with a pensive almost longing glance toward the spot where the distant trees the home of her early years, lay hidden among. A deep shadow had suddenly fallen upon her spirits. Whence it came, she knew not and asked not; but with the shadow was a dim foreboding of evil. There was tact and delicacy enough in the companions of Irene to lead them to withdraw observation and to withhold further remarks until she could recover the self-possession she had lost. This came back in a little while, when, with an effort, she put on the light, easy manner so natural to her. "Looking at the signs in the sky?" said one of the party, half an hour afterward, as she saw the eyes of Irene ranging along the sky, where clouds were now seen towering up in steep masses, like distant mountains. "If I were a believer of signs," replied Irene, placing her arm within that of the maiden who had addressed her, and drawing her partly aside, "I might feel sober at this portent. But I am not. Still, sign or no sign, I trust we are not going to have a storm. It would greatly mar our pleasure." But long before the boat reached Albany, rain began to fall, accompanied by lightning and thunder; and soon the clouds were dissolving in a mimic deluge. Hour after hour, the wind and rain and lightning held fierce revelry, and not until near the completion of the voyage, did the clouds hold back their watery treasures, and the sunbeams force themselves through the storm’s dark barriers. When the stars came out that evening, studding the heavens with light, there was no obscuring spot on all the overarching sky. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 64: 04.04. CHAPTER 4. UNDER THE CLOUD ======================================================================== Chapter 4. Under the Cloud The wedding party was to spend a week at Saratoga, and it was now the third day since its arrival. The time had passed pleasantly, or wearily, according to the state of mind or social habits and resources of the individual. The bride, it was remarked by some of the party, seemed dull; and Rose Carman, who knew her friend better, perhaps, than any other individual in the company, and kept her under close observation, was concerned to notice an occasional curtness of manner toward her husband, that was evidently not relished. Something had already transpired to jar the chords so lately attuned to harmony. After dinner, a ride was proposed by one of the company. Hartley responded favorably — but Irene was indifferent. He urged her, and she gave an evidently reluctant consent. While the gentlemen went to make arrangement for carriages, the ladies retired to their rooms. Miss Carman accompanied the bride. She had noticed her manner, and felt slightly troubled at her state of mind, knowing, as she did, her impulsive character and blind self-will when excited by opposition. "I don’t want to ride today!" exclaimed Irene, throwing herself into a chair as soon as she had entered her room; "and Hartley knows that I do not." Her cheeks burned and her eyes sparkled. "If it will give him pleasure to ride about," said Rose, in a gentle soothing manner, "you cannot but have the same feeling in accompanying him." "I beg your pardon!" replied Irene, briskly. "If I don’t want to ride — then no company can make the act agreeable. Why can’t people learn to leave others in freedom? If Hartley had shown the same unwillingness to join this riding party that I manifested, do you think I would have uttered a second word in favor of going? No. I am provoked at his persistence." "There, there, Irene!" said Miss Carman, drawing an arm tenderly around the neck of her friend; "don’t trust such sentences on your lips. I can’t bear to hear you talk so. It isn’t my sweet friend speaking." "You are a dear, good girl, Rose," replied Irene, smiling faintly, "and I only wish that I had a portion of your calm, gentle spirit. But I am as I am — and must act out if I act at all. I must be myself, or nothing." "You can be as considerate of others, as of yourself," said Rose. Irene looked at her companion inquiringly. "I mean," added Rose, "that you can exercise the virtue of self-denial in order to give pleasure to another — especially if that other one is an object very dear to you. As in the present case, seeing that your husband wants to join this riding party, you can, for his sake, lay aside your indifference, and enter, with a hearty good-will, into the proposed pastime." "And why cannot he, seeing that I do not care to ride, deny himself a little for my sake, and not drag me out against my will? Is all the yielding and concession to be on my side? Must his will rule in everything? I can tell you what it is, Rose — this will never suit me. There will be open war between us before the honeymoon has waxed and waned, if he goes on as he has begun." "Hush! hush, Irene!" said her friend, in a tone of entreaty. "The lightest sense of wrong gains undue magnitude, the moment we begin to complain. We see almost anything to be of greater importance when from the obscurity of thought, we bring it out into the daylight of speech." "It will be just as I say, and saying it will not make it any more so," was Irene’s almost sullen response to this. "I have my own ideas of things and my own individuality, and neither of these do I mean to abandon. If Hartley hasn’t the good sense to let me have my own way in what concerns myself — then I will take my own way. As to the troubles that may come afterward, I do not give them any weight in the argument. I would die a martyr’s death, rather than become the passive creature of another." "My dear friend, why will you talk so?" Rose spoke in a tone of grief. "Simply because I am in earnest. From the hour of our marriage, I have seen a disposition on the part of my husband to assume control — to make his will the general law of our actions. It has not exhibited itself in things of importance, but in trifles, showing that the spirit was there. I say this to you, Rose, because we have been like sisters, and I can tell you of my inmost thoughts. There is a cloud already in the sky, and it threatens an approaching storm." "Oh, my friend, why are you so blind, so weak, so self-deceived? You are putting forth your hands, to drag down the temple of happiness. If it falls, it will crush you beneath a mass of ruins; and not you only, but the one you have so lately pledged yourself before God, to love." "And I do love him as deeply as ever man was loved. Oh that he knew my heart! He would not then shatter his image there. He would not trifle with a spirit formed for intense, yielding, passionate love — but rigid as steel and cold as ice when its freedom is touched. He should have known me better, before linking his fate with mine." One of her darker moods had come upon Irene, and she was beating about in the blind obscurity of bitterness. As she began to give utterance to complaining thoughts — new thoughts formed themselves, and what was only vague feelings, grew into ideas of wrong-doing on the part of Hartley; and these, when once spoken, assumed a magnitude unimagined before. In vain did her friend strive with her. Argument, remonstrance, persuasion — only seemed to bring greater obscurity and to excite a more bitter feeling in her mind. And so, despairing of any good result, Rose withdrew, and left her with her own unhappy thoughts. Not long after Miss Carman retired, Hartley came in. At the sound of his approaching footsteps, Irene had, with a strong effort, composed herself and swept back the deeper shadows from her face. "Not ready yet?" he said, in a pleasant, half-chiding way. "The carriages will be at the door in ten minutes." "I am not going to ride out," returned Irene, in a quiet, seemingly indifferent tone of voice. Hartley mistook her manner for sport, and answered pleasantly — "Oh yes you are, my little lady." "No, I am not." There was no misapprehension now. "Not going to ride out?" Hartley’s brows contracted. "No, I am not going to ride out today!" Each word was distinctly spoken. "I don’t understand you, Irene." "Are not my words plain enough?" "Yes, they are too plain — so plain as to make them involve a mystery. What do you mean by this sudden change of purpose?" "I don’t wish to ride out," said Irene, with assumed calmness of manner; "and that being so, may I not have my will in the case?" "No . . ." A red spot burned on Irene’s cheeks and her eyes flashed. "No," repeated her husband; "not after you have given up that will to another." "To you!" Irene started to her feet in instant passion. "And so I am to be nobody — and you the lord and master. My will is to be nothing — and yours the law of my life." Her lip curled in contemptuous anger. "You misunderstand me," said Hartley, speaking as calmly as was possible in this sudden emergency. "I did not refer specially to myself, but to all of our party, to whom you had given up your will in a promise to ride out with them, and to whom, therefore, you were bound." "An easy evasion," retorted the excited bride, who had lost her mental equipoise. "Irene," the young man spoke sternly, "are those the right words for your husband? An easy evasion!" "I have said them." "And you must unsay them." Both had passed under the cloud which pride and anger had raised. "Must! I thought you knew me better, Hartley." Irene grew suddenly calm. "If there is to be love between us, all barriers must be removed." "Don’t say must to me, sir! I will not endure the word." Hartley turned from her and walked the floor with rapid steps, angry, grieved and in doubt as to what it were best for him to do. The storm had broken on him without a sign of warning, and he was wholly unprepared to meet it. "Irene," he said, at length, pausing before her, "this conduct on your part is wholly inexplicable. I cannot understand its meaning. Will you explain yourself?" "Certainly. I am always ready to give a reason for my conduct," she replied, with cold dignity. "Say on, then." Hartley spoke with equal coldness of manner. "I did not wish to ride out, and said so in the beginning. That ought to have been enough for you. But no — my wishes were nothing — your will must be law." "And that is all! the totality of my offending!" said Hartley, in a tone of surprise. "It isn’t so much the thing itself that I object to, as the spirit in which it is done," said Irene. "A spirit of overbearing self-will!" said Hartley. "Yes, if you choose. That is what my soul revolts against. I gave you my heart and my hand — my love and my confidence — not my freedom! The last is a part of my being — and I will maintain it while I have life." "Perverse girl! What insane spirit has got possession of your mind?" exclaimed Hartley, chafed beyond endurance. "Say on," retorted Irene; "I am prepared for this. I have seen, from the hour of our marriage, that a time of strife would come; that your will would seek to make itself ruler — and that I would not submit. I did not expect the issue to come so soon. I trusted in your love to spare me, at least, until I could be bidden from general observation when I turned myself upon you and said, Thus far you may go — but no farther. But, come the struggle early or late — now or in twenty years — I am prepared." There came at this moment a rap at their door. Hartley opened it. "The carriage is waiting," said a servant. "Say that we will be down in a few minutes," responded Hartley The door closed. "Come, Irene," said Hartley. "You spoke very confidently to the servant, and said we would be down in a few minutes," responded Irene. "There, there, Irene! Let this folly die; it has lived long enough. Come! Make yourself ready with all speed — our party is delayed by this prolonged absence." "You think me trifling, and treat me as if I were a captious child," said Irene, with chilling calmness; "but I am neither!" "Then you will not go?" "I will not go!" She said the words slowly and deliberately, and as she spoke looked her husband steadily in the face. She was in earnest — and he felt that further remonstrance would be in vain. "You will repent of this," he replied, with enough of menace in his voice to convey to her mind a great deal more than was in his thoughts. And he turned from her and left the room. Going downstairs, he found the riding-party waiting for their appearance. "Where is Irene?" was asked by one and another, on seeing him alone. "She does not care to ride out this afternoon, and so I have excused her," he replied. Miss Carman looked at him narrowly, and saw that there was a shadow of trouble on his countenance, which he could not wholly conceal. She would have remained behind with Irene — but that would have disappointed the friend who was to be her companion in the drive. As the party was in couples, and as Hartley had made up his mind to go without his young wife, he had to ride alone. The absence of Irene was felt as a drawback to the pleasure of all the company. Miss Carman, who understood the real cause of Irene’s refusal to ride, was so much troubled in her mind that she sat almost silent during the two hours they were out. Hartley left the party after they had been out for an hour, and returned to the hotel. His excitement had cooled off, and he began to feel regret at the unbending way in which he had met his bride’s unhappy mood. "Her over-sensitive mind has taken up a wrong impression," he said, as he talked with himself; "and, instead of saying or doing anything to increase that impression, I should, by word and act of kindness, have done all in my power for its removal. Two wrongs never make a right. Passion met by passion results not in peace. I should have soothed and yielded, and so won her back to reason. As a man, I ought to possess a cooler and more rationally balanced mind. She is a being of feeling and impulse — loving, ardent, proud, sensitive and strong-willed. Knowing this, it was madness in me to chafe — instead of soothing her; to oppose her — when gentle concession would have torn from her eyes an illusive veil. Oh that I could learn wisdom in time! I was in no ignorance as to her peculiar character. I knew her faults and her weaknesses, as well as her nobler qualities; and it was for me to stimulate the one and bear with the others. Duty, love, honor, humanity, all pointed to this." The longer Hartley’s thoughts ran in this direction, the deeper grew his feeling of self-condemnation, and the more tenderly yearned his heart toward the young creature he had left alone with the enemies of their peace nestling in her bosom, and filling it with passion and pain. After separating himself from his party, he drove back toward the hotel at a speed that soon put his horses into a foam. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 65: 04.05. CHAPTER 5. THE BURSTING OF THE STORM ======================================================================== Chapter 5. The Bursting of the Storm Mr. Delancy was sitting in his library on the afternoon of the fourth day since the wedding-party left Ivy Cliff, when the entrance of someone caused him to turn toward the door. "Irene!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anxiety and alarm, as he started to his feet; for his daughter stood before him. Her face was pale, her eyes fixed and sad, her dress in disorder. "Irene, in heaven’s name, what has happened?" "The worst," she answered, in a low, hoarse voice, not moving from the spot where she first stood still. "Speak plainly, my child. I cannot bear suspense." "I have left my husband and returned to you!" was the firmly uttered reply. "Oh, folly! Oh, madness! What evil counselor has prevailed with you, my unhappy child?" said Mr. Delancy, in a voice of anguish. "I have counseled with no one but myself." "Never a wise counselor — never a wise counselor! But why, why have you taken this desperate step?" "In self-protection," replied Irene. "Sit down, my child. There!" and he led her to a seat. "Now let me remove your bonnet and shawl. How wretched you look, my poor, misguided one! I could have laid you in the grave with less agony than I feel in seeing you thus!" Her heart was touched at this, and tears fell over her face. In the selfishness of her own sternly-borne trouble — she had forgotten the sorrow she was bringing to her father’s heart. "Poor child! poor child!" sobbed the old man, as he sat down beside Irene and drew her head against his bosom. And so both wept together for a time. After they had grown calm, Mr. Delancy said — "Tell me, Irene, without disguise of any kind, the meaning of this step which you have so hastily taken. Let me have the beginning, progress and consummation of the sad misunderstanding." While yet under the government of blind passion, before her husband returned from the drive which Irene had refused to take with him — she had, acting from a sudden suggestion that came to her mind, left her room and, taking the coaches, passed down to Albany, where she remained until morning at one of the hotels. In silence and loneliness she had, during the almost sleepless night that followed, ample time for reflection and repentance. And both came, with convictions of error and deep regret for the unwise, almost disgraceful step she had taken, involving not only suffering, but humiliating exposure of herself and husband. But it was felt to be too late now to look back. In the morning, without partaking of food, Irene left in the New York boat, and passed down the river toward the home from which she had gone forth, only a few days before, a happy bride — returning with the cup, then full of the sweet wine of life — now brimming with the bitterest potion that had ever touched her lips. And so she had come back to her father’s house. In all the hours of mental anguish which had passed since her departure from Saratoga, there had been an accusing spirit at her ear. The cause of this unhappy rupture was so slight, the first provocation so insignificant — that she felt the difficulty of making out her case before her father. As to the world, pride counseled silence. With but little concealment or extenuation of her own conduct, Irene told the story of her disagreement with Hartley. "And that was all!" exclaimed Mr. Delancy, in amazement, when she ended her narrative. "All, but enough!" she answered, with a resolute manner. Mr. Delancy arose and walked the floor in silence for more than ten minutes, during which time Irene neither spoke nor moved. "Oh, misery!" ejaculated the father, at length, lifting his hands above his head and then bringing them down with a gesture of despair. Irene started up and moved to his side. "Dear father!" She spoke tenderly, laying her hands upon him; but he pushed her away, saying — "Wretched girl! you have laid upon my old head a burden of disgrace and wretchedness that you have no power to remove." "Father! father!" She clung to him — but he pushed her away. His manner was like that of one suddenly bereft of reason. She clung still — but he resolutely tore himself from her, when she fell exhausted and fainting upon the floor. Alarm now took the place of other emotions, and Mr. Delancy was endeavoring to lift the insensible body, when a quick, heavy tread in the portico caused him to look up, just as Hartley pushed open one of the French windows and entered the library. He had a wild, anxious, half-frightened look. Mr. Delancy let the body fall from his almost paralyzed arms and staggered to a chair, while Hartley sprung forward, catching up the fainting form of his young bride and bearing it to a sofa. "How long has she been in this way?" asked the young man, in a tone of agitation. "She fainted this moment," replied Mr. Delancy. "How long has she been here?" "Not half an hour," was answered; and as Mr. Delancy spoke, he reached for the bell and jerked it two or three times violently. The waiter, startled by the loud, prolonged sound, came hurriedly to the library. "Send Margaret here, and then get a horse and ride over swiftly for Dr. Edmundson. Tell him to come immediately!" The waiter stood for a moment, looking in a half-terrified way upon the white, deathly face of Irene, and then fled from the room. No grass grew beneath his horse’s feet as he held him to his utmost speed for the distance of two miles, which lay between Ivy Cliff and the doctor’s residence. Margaret, startled by the hurried, half-incoherent summons of the waiter, came flying into the library. The moment her eyes rested upon Irene, who still lay insensible upon the sofa, she screamed out, in terror — "Oh, she’s dead! she’s dead!" and stood still as if suddenly paralyzed; then, wringing her hands, she broke out in a wild, sobbing tone — "My poor, poor child! Oh, she is dead, dead!" "No, Margaret!" said Mr. Delancy, as calmly as he could speak, "she is not dead; it is only a fainting fit. Bring some water, quickly." Water was brought and dashed into the face of Irene; but there came no sign of returning consciousness. "Hadn’t you better take her up to her room, Hartley?" suggested Margaret. "Yes," he replied; and, lifting the insensible form of his bride in his arms, the unhappy man bore her to her chamber. Then, sitting down beside the bed upon which he had placed her, he kissed her pale cheeks and, laying his face to hers, sobbed and moaned, in the abandonment of his grief, like a distressed child weeping in despair for some lost treasure. "Come," said Margaret, who was an old family servant, drawing Hartley from the bedside, "leave her alone with me for a little while." And the husband and father retired from the room. When they returned, at the call of Margaret, they found Irene in bed, her white, unconscious face scarcely relieved against the snowy pillow on which her head was resting. "She is alive," said Margaret, in a low and excited voice; "I can feel her heart beat." "Thank God!" ejaculated Hartley, bending again over the motionless form and gazing anxiously down upon the face of his bride. But there was no utterance of thankfulness in the heart of Mr. Delancy. For her to come back again to conscious life was, he felt — but a return to wretchedness. If the true prayer of his heart could have found voice, it would have been for death, and not for life. In silence, fear, and suspense, they waited an hour before the doctor arrived. Little change in Irene took place during that time, except that her respiration became clearer and the pulsations of her heart distinct and regular. The application of warm stimulants was immediately ordered, and their good effects soon became apparent. "All will come right in a little while," said Dr. Edmundson, encouragingly. "It seems to be only a fainting fit of unusual length." Hartley drew Mr. Delancy aside. "It will be best that I should be alone with her when she recovers," said he. "You may be right in that," said Mr. Delancy, after a moment’s reflection. "I am sure that I am," was returned. "You think she will recover soon?" said Mr. Delancy, approaching the doctor. "Yes, at any moment. She is breathing deeper, and her heart beats with a fuller impulse." "Let us, retire, then;" and he drew the doctor from the room. Pausing at the door, he called to Margaret in a half whisper. She went out also, Hartley alone remaining. Taking his place by the bedside, he waited, in trembling anxiety, for the moment when her eyes should open and recognize him. At last there came a quivering of the eyelids and a motion about the sleeper’s lips. Hartley bent over and took one of her hands in his. "Irene!" He called her name in a voice of the tenderest affection. The sound seemed to penetrate to the region of consciousness, for her lips moved with a murmur of inarticulate words. He kissed her, and said again — "Irene!" There was a sudden lighting up of her face. "Irene, my love! darling!" The voice of Hartley was burdened with tenderness. "Oh, Hartley!" she exclaimed, opening her eyes and looking with a kind of glad bewilderment into his face. Then, half rising and drawing her arms around his neck, she hid her face on his bosom, murmuring — "Thank God that it is only a dream!" "Yes, thank God!" replied her husband, as he kissed her in a kind of wild fervor; "and may such dreams never come again!" She lay very still for some moments. Thought and memory were beginning to act feebly. The response of her husband had in it something that set her to questioning. But there was one thing that made her feel happy — the sound of his loving voice was in her ears; and all the while she felt his hand moving, with a soft, caressing touch, over her cheek and temple. "Dear Irene!" he murmured in her ears; and then her hand tightened on his. And thus she remained until conscious life regained its full activity. Then the trial came. Suddenly lifting herself from the bosom of her husband, Irene gave a hurried glance around the well-known chamber, then turned and looked with a strange, fearful questioning glance into his face: "Where am I? What does this mean?" "It means," replied Hartley, "that the dream, thank God! is over, and that my dear wife is awake again." He placed his arms again around her and drew her to his heart, almost smothering her, as he did so, with kisses. She lay passive for a little while; then, disengaging herself, she said, faintly — "I feel weak and bewildered; let me lie down." She closed her eyes as Hartley placed her back on the pillow, a sad expression covering her still pallid face. Sitting down beside her, he took her hand and held it with a firm pressure. She did not attempt to withdraw it. He kissed her, and a warmer flush came over her face. "Dear Irene!" His hand pressed tightly upon hers, and she returned the pressure. "Shall I call your father? He is very anxious about you." "Not yet." And she caught slightly her breath, as if feeling were growing too strong for her. "Let it be as a dream, Hartley." Irene lifted herself up and looked calmly — but with a very sad expression on her countenance, into her husband’s face. "Between us two, Irene, even as a dream from which both have awakened," he replied. She closed her eyes and sunk back upon the pillow. Hartley then went to the door and spoke to Mr. Delancy. On a brief consultation it was thought best for Dr. Edmundson not to see her again. A knowledge of the fact that he had been called in, might give occasion for more disturbing thoughts than were already pressing upon her mind. And so, after giving some general directions as to the avoidance of all things likely to excite her mind unpleasantly, the doctor withdrew. Mr. Delancy saw his daughter alone. The interview was long and earnest. On his part was the fullest disapproval of her conduct and the most solemnly spoken admonitions and warnings. She confessed her error, without any attempt at excuse or palliation, and promised a wiser conduct in the future. "There is not one husband in five," said the father, "who would have forgiven an act like this, placing him, as it does, in such a false and humiliating position before the world. He loves you with too deep and true a love, my child — for girlish trifling like this. And let me warn you of the danger you incur of turning against you, the spirit of such a man. I have studied his character closely, and I see in it an element of firmness that, if it once sets itself, will be as inflexible as iron. If you repeat acts of this kind, the day must come when his forbearance will cease; and then, in turning from you, it will be never to turn back again. Harden him against you once — and it will be for all time." Irene wept bitterly at this strong representation, and trembled at thought of the danger she had escaped. To her husband, when she was alone with him again, she confessed her fault, and begged him to let the memory of it pass from his mind forever. On his part was the fullest denial of any purpose whatever, in the late misunderstanding, to bend her to his will. He assured her that if he had dreamed of any serious objection on her part to the ride, he would not have urged it for a moment. It involved no promised pleasure to him, apart from pleasure to her; and it was because he believed that she would enjoy the drive, that he had urged her to make one of the party. All this was well, as far as it could go. But repentance and mutual forgiveness did not restore everything to the old condition — did not obliterate that one sad page in their history, and leave them free to make a new and better record. If the folly had been in private, the effort at forgiving and forgetting would have been attended with fewer annoying considerations. But it was committed in public, and under circumstances calculated to attract attention and occasion invidious remarks. And then, how were they to meet the different members of the wedding-party, which they had so suddenly thrown into consternation? On the next day, the anxious members of this party made their appearance at Ivy Cliff, not having, up to this time, received any news of the fugitive bride. Mr. Delancy did not attempt to excuse to them the unjustifiable conduct of his daughter, beyond the admission that she must have been temporarily deranged. Something was said about resuming the bridal tour, but Mr. Delancy said, "No; the quiet of Ivy Cliff will yield more pleasure, than the excitement of travel." And all felt this to be true. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 66: 04.06. CHAPTER 6. AFTER THE STORM ======================================================================== Chapter 6. After the Storm After the storm. Alas! that there should be a wreck-strewn shore so soon! That within three days of the bridal morning, a tempest should have raged, scattering on the wind, sweet blossoms which had just opened to the sunshine, tearing away the clinging vines of love, and leaving marks of desolation which no dew and sunshine could ever obliterate! It was not a blessed honeymoon to them. How could it be, after what had passed? Both were hurt and mortified; and while there was mutual forgiveness and great tenderness and fond concessions, one toward the other — there was a sober, thoughtful state of mind, not favorable to happiness. Mr. Delancy hoped the lesson — a very severe one — might prove the guarantee of future peace. It had, without doubt, awakened Irene’s mind to sober thoughts — and closer self-examination than usual. She was convicted in her own heart of folly, the memory of which could never return to her without a sense of pain. At the end of three weeks from the day of their marriage, Mr. and Mrs. Hartley went down to the city to take possession of their new home. On the eve of their departure from Ivy Cliff, Mr. Delancy had a long conference with his daughter, in which he implored her, by all things sacred, to guard herself against that blindness of passion which had already produced such unhappy consequences. She repeated, with many tears, her good resolutions for the future, and showed great sorrow and contrition for the past. "It may come out right," said the old man to himself; as he sat alone, with a pressure of foreboding on his mind, looking into the dim future, on the day of their departure for New York. His only and beloved child had gone forth to return no more — unless in sorrow or wretchedness. "It may come out right — but my heart has sad misgivings." There was a troubled suspense of nearly a week, when the first letter came from Irene to her father. He broke the seal with unsteady hands, fearing to let his eyes fall upon the opening page. "My dear, dear father! I am a happy young wife." "Thank God!" exclaimed the old man aloud, letting the hand fall that held Irene’s letter. It was some moments before he could read farther; then he drank in, with almost childish eagerness, every sentence of the long letter. "Yes, yes, it may come out right," said Mr. Delancy; "it may come out right." He uttered the words, so often on his lips, with more confidence than usual. The letter strongly urged him to make her a visit, if it was only for a day or two. "You know, dear father," she wrote, "that most of your time is to be spent with us — all your winters, certainly; and we want you to begin the new arrangement as soon as possible." Mr. Delancy sighed over the trip. He had not set his heart on this arrangement. It might have been a pleasant thing for him to anticipate; but there was not the hopeful basis for anticipation which a mind like his required. Not love alone prompted Mr. Delancy to make an early visit to New York; a feeling of anxiety to know how it really was with the young couple, acted quite as strongly in the line of incentive. And so he went down to the city and passed nearly a week there. Both Irene and her husband knew that he was observing them closely all the while, and a consciousness of this put them under some constraint. Everything passed harmoniously, and Mr. Delancy returned with the half-hopeful, half-doubting words on his lips, so often and often repeated — "Yes, yes, it may come out right." But it was not coming out altogether right. Even while the old man was under her roof, Irene had a brief season of self-willed reaction against her husband, consequent on some unguarded word or act, which she felt to be a trespass on her freedom. To save appearances while Mr. Delancy was with them, Hartley yielded and offered conciliation — but all the while, his spirit chafed sorely. The departure of Mr. Delancy for Ivy Cliff was the signal for both Irene and her husband to lay aside a portion of the restraint which each had borne with a certain restlessness that longed for a time of freedom. On the very day that he left, Irene showed so much that seemed to her husband like perverseness of will that he was seriously offended, and spoke an unguarded word that was as fire to stubble. It took nearly a week of suffering to discipline the mind of Hartley to the point of conciliation. On the part of Irene, there was not the thought of yielding. Her will, supported by pride — was as rigid as iron. Reason had no power over her. She felt, rather than thought. Thus far, both as lover and husband, in all their alienations, Hartley had been the first to yield; and it was so now. He was strong-willed and persistent; but cooler reason helped him back into the right way, and he had, thus far, found it quicker than Irene. Not that he suffered less or repented sooner. Irene’s suffering was far deeper — but she was blinder and more self-determined. Again the sun of peace smiled down upon them, but, as before, on something shorn of its strength or beauty. "I will be more guarded," said Hartley to himself. "Knowing her weakness — why should I not protect her against everything that wounds her sensitive nature? Love concedes, is long suffering and full of patience. I love Irene — words cannot tell how deeply. Then why should I not, for her sake, bear and forbear? Why should I think of myself and grow fretted because she does not yield as readily as I could desire, to my wishes?" So Hartley talked with himself and resolved. But who does not know the feebleness of resolution when opposed to temperament and confirmed habits of mind? How weak is mere human strength! Alas! how few, depending on that alone, are ever able to bear up steadily, for any length of time, against the tide of passion! Off his guard in less than twenty-four hours after resolving thus with himself, the young husband spoke in captious disapproval of something which Irene had done or proposed to do — and the consequence on her part, was the assumption of a cold, reserved manner, which hurt and annoyed him beyond measure. Pride led him to treat her in the same way; and so for days they met in silence or formal courtesy, all the while suffering a degree of wretchedness almost impossible to be endured; and all the while, which was worst of all, writing bitter things against each other on their hearts. To Hartley, as before, the better state first returned — and the sunshine of his countenance, drove the shadows from hers. Then for a season they were loving, thoughtful, forbearing and happy. But the clouds came back again, and storms marred the beauty of their lives. All this was sad — very sad. There were good and noble qualities in the hearts of both. They were not narrow-minded and selfish, like so many of your placid, accommodating, calculating people, but generous in their feelings and broad in their sympathies. They had ideals of life that went reaching out far beyond themselves. Yes, it was sad to see two such hearts beating against and bruising each other — instead of taking the same pulsation. But there seemed to be no help for them. Irene’s jealous guardianship of her freedom, her quick temper, pride and self-will made the position of her husband so difficult — that it was almost impossible for him to avoid giving offence. The summer and fall passed away without any serious rupture between the sensitive couple, although there had been seasons of great unhappiness to both. Irene had been up to Ivy Cliff many times to visit her father, and now she was, beginning to urge his removal to the city for the winter; but Mr. Delancy, who had never given his full promise to this arrangement, felt less and less inclined to leave his old home as the season advanced. Almost from boyhood he had lived there, and his habits were formed for rural instead of city life. He pictured the close streets, with their rows of houses, that left for the eye only narrow patches of ethereal blue — and contrasted this with the broad winter landscape, which for him had always spread itself out with a beauty rivaled by no other season, and his heart failed him. The brief December days were on them, and Irene grew more urgent. "Come, dear father," she wrote. "I think of you, sitting all alone at Ivy Cliff, during these long evenings, and grow sad at heart in sympathy with your loneliness. Come at once. Why linger a week or even a day longer? We have been all in all to each other these many years, and ought not to be separated now." But Mr. Delancy was not ready to exchange the pure air and wide-spreading scenery of the Highlands, for a city residence, even in the desolate winter, and so wrote back doubtingly. Irene and her husband then came up to add the persuasion of their presence at Ivy Cliff. It did not avail, however. The old man was too deeply wedded to his home. "I would be miserable in New York," he replied to their earnest entreaties; "and it would not add to your happiness to see me going about with a sober, discontented face, or to be reminded every little while that if you had left me to my winter’s hibernation, I would have been a contented instead of a dissatisfied old man. No, no, my children — Ivy Cliff is the best place for me. You shall come up and spend Christmas here, and we will have a mirthful season." There was no further use in argument. Mr. Delancy would have his way; and he was right. Irene and her husband went back to the city, with a promise to spend Christmas at the old homestead. Two weeks passed. It was the twentieth of December. Without previous intimation, Irene came up alone to Ivy Cliff, startling her father by coming in suddenly upon him one dreary afternoon, just as the leaden sky began to scatter down the winter’s first offering of snow. "My daughter!" he exclaimed, so surprised that he could not move from where he was sitting. "Dear father!" she answered with a loving smile, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him. "Where is Hartley?" asked the old man, looking past Irene toward the door through which she had just entered. "Oh, I left him in New York," she replied. "In New York! Have you come alone?" "Yes. Christmas is only five days off, you know, and I am here to help you prepare for it. Of course, Hartley cannot leave his business." She spoke in an excited, almost mirthful tone of voice. Mr. Delancy looked at her earnestly. Unpleasant doubts flitted through his mind. "When will your husband come up?" he inquired. "At Christmas," she answered, without hesitation. "Why didn’t you write, my love?" asked Mr. Delancy. "You have taken me by surprise, and set my nerves in a flutter." "I only thought about it last evening. One of my sudden resolutions." And she laughed a low, fluttering laugh. It might have been an error — but her father had a fancy that it did not come from her heart. "I will run upstairs and put off my things," she said, moving away. "Did you bring a trunk?" "Oh yes; it is at the landing. Will you send for it?" And Irene went, with quick steps, from the room, and ran up to the chamber she still called her own. On the way she met Margaret. "Miss Irene!" exclaimed the latter, pausing and lifting her hands in astonishment. "Why, where did you come from?" "Just arrived in the boat. Have come to help you get ready for Christmas." "Please goodness, how you frightened me!" said the warm-hearted servant, who had been in the family ever since Irene was a child, and was strongly attached to her. "How’s Hartley?" "Oh, he’s well, thank you, Margaret." "Well now, child, you did set me all into a fluster. I thought maybe you’d got into one of your tantrums, and come off and left your husband!" "Why, Margaret!" A crimson flush mantled the face of Irene. "You must excuse me, child — but just that came into my head," replied Margaret. "You’re very stubborn and determined sometimes; and there isn’t anything hardly that you wouldn’t do if the spirit was on you. I’m glad it’s all right. Dear me! dear me!" "Oh, I’m not quite so bad as you all make me out," said Irene, laughing. "I don’t think you are bad," answered Margaret, in kind entreaty, yet with a freedom of speech warranted by her years and attachment to Irene. "But you go off in such strange ways — get so wrong-headed sometimes — that there’s no counting on you." Then, growing more serious, she added — "The fact is, Miss Irene, you keep me feeling kind of uneasy all the time. I dreamed about you last night, and maybe that has helped to put me into a fluster now." "Dreamed about me!" said Irene, with a degree of interest in her manner. "Yes. But don’t stand here, Miss Irene; come over to your room." "What kind of a dream did you have, Margaret?" asked the young wife, as she sat down on the side of the bed where, pillowed in sleep, she had dreamed so many of girlhood’s pleasant dreams. "I was dreaming all night about you," replied Margaret, looking sober-faced. "And you saw me in trouble?" "Oh dear, yes; in nothing but trouble. I thought once that I saw you in a great room full of wild beasts. They were chained or in cages; but you would keep going close up to the bars of the cages, or near enough for the chained animals to spring upon you. And that wasn’t all. You put the end of your little parasol in between the bars, and a fierce tiger struck at you with his great cat-like paw, tearing the flesh from your arm. Then I saw you in a little boat, down on the river. You had put up a sail, and was going out all alone. I saw the boat move off from the shore just as plainly as I see you now. I stood and watched until you were in the middle of the river. Then I thought Hartley was standing by me, and that we both saw a great monster — a whale, or something else — chasing after your boat. Hartley was in great distress, and said, ’I told her not to go — but she is so self-willed.’ And then he jumped into a boat and, taking the oars, went gliding out after you as swiftly as the wind. I never saw mortal arm make a boat fly as he did that little skiff. And I saw him strike the monster with his oar just as his huge jaws were opened to devour you. Dear! dear; but I was frightened, and woke up all in a tremble!" "Before he had saved me?" said Irene, taking a deep breath. "Yes; but I don’t think there was any chance of saving you; and I was glad that I waked up when I did." "What else did you dream?" asked Irene. "Oh, I can’t tell you all I dreamed. Once I saw you fall from the high rock just above West Point and go dashing down into the river. Then I saw you chased by a mad bull." "And no one came to my rescue?" "Oh yes, there was more than one who tried to save you. First, your father ran in between you and the bull; but he dashed over him. Then I saw Hartley rushing up with a pitchfork, and he got before the mad animal and pointed the sharp prongs at his eyes; but the bull tore down on him and tossed him way up into the air. I awoke as I saw him falling on the sharp-pointed horns that were held up to catch him." "Well, Margaret, you certainly had a night of horrors," said Irene, in a sober way. "Indeed, miss, and I had; such a night as I don’t wish to have again." "And your dreaming was all about me?" "Yes." "And I was always in trouble or danger?" "Yes, always; and it was mostly your own fault, too. And that reminds me of what the minister told us in his sermon last Sunday. He said that there were a great many kinds of trouble in this world — some coming from the outside and some coming from the inside. He said that the outside troubles, which we couldn’t help, were generally easiest to be borne; while the inside troubles, which we might have prevented, were the bitterest things in life, because there was remorse as well as suffering. I understood very well what he meant." "I am afraid," said Irene, speaking partly to herself, "that most of my troubles come from the inside." "I’m afraid they do," spoke out the frank servant. "Margaret!" "Indeed, miss, and I do think so. If you’d only get right here" — laying her hand upon her bosom — "somebody beside yourself would be a great deal happier. There now, child, I’ve said it; and you needn’t go to getting angry with me." "They are often our best friends — who use the plainest speech," said Irene. "No, Margaret, I am not going to be angry with one whom I know to be true-hearted." "Not truer-hearted than your husband, Miss Irene; nor half so loving." "Why did you say that?" Margaret startled at the tone of voice in which this interrogation was made. "Because I think so," she answered naively. Irene looked at her for some moments with a penetrating gaze, and then said, with an affected carelessness of tone — "Your preacher and your dreams have made you quite a moralist." "They have not taken from my heart any of the love it has felt for you," said Margaret, tears coming into her eyes. "I know that, Margaret. You were always too kind and indulgent, and I always too wayward and unreasonable. But I am getting years on my side, and shall not always be a foolish girl." Snow had now begun to fall thickly, and the late December day was waning toward the early twilight. Margaret went downstairs and left Irene alone in her chamber, where she remained until nearly tea-time before joining her father. Mr. Delancy did not altogether feel satisfied in his mind about this unheralded visit from his daughter, with whose wayward moods he was too familiar. It might be all as she said — but there were intrusive misgivings that troubled him. At tea-time, she took her old place at the table in such an easy, natural way, and looked so pleased and happy, that her father was satisfied. He asked about her husband, and she talked of him without reserve. "What day is Hartley coming up?" he inquired. "I hope to see him on the day before Christmas," returned Irene. There was a falling in her voice that, to the ears of Mr. Delancy, betrayed a feeling of doubt. "He will not, surely, put it off later," said the father. "I don’t know," said Irene. "He may be prevented from leaving early enough to reach here before Christmas morning. If there should be a cold snap, and the river freeze up — it will make the journey difficult and attended with delay." "I think the winter has set in;" and Mr. Delancy turned his ear toward the window, against which the snow and hail were beating with violence. "It’s a pity Hartley didn’t come up with you." A sober hue came over the face of Irene. This did not escape the notice of her father; but it was natural that she should feel sober in thinking of her husband as likely to be kept from her by the storm. That such were her thoughts, her words made evident, for she said, glancing toward the window — "If there should be a deep snow, and the boats stop running — how can Hartley reach here in time?" On the next morning, the sun rose bright and warm for the season. Several inches of snow had fallen, giving to the landscape a wintry whiteness — but the wind was coming in from the south, as genial as spring. Before night, half the snowy covering was gone. "We had our fears for nothing," said Mr. Delancy, on the second day, which was as mild as the preceding one. "All things promise well. I saw the boats go down as usual; so the river is open still." Irene did not reply. Mr. Delancy looked at her curiously — but her face was partly turned away and he did not get its true expression. The twenty-fourth came. No letter had been received by Irene, nor had she written to New York since her arrival at Ivy Cliff. "Isn’t it singular that you don’t get a letter from Hartley?" said Mr. Delancy. Irene had been sitting silent for some time, when her father made this remark. "He is very busy," she said, in reply. "That’s no excuse. A man is never too busy to write to his absent wife." "I haven’t expected a letter, and so am not disappointed. But he’s on his way, no doubt. How soon will the boat arrive?" "Between two and three o’clock." "And it’s now ten." The hours passed on, and the time of arrival came. The windows of Irene’s chamber looked toward the river, and she was standing at one of them alone when the boat came in sight. Her face was almost colorless, and contracted by an expression of deep anxiety. She remained on her feet for the half hour that intervened before the boat could reach the landing. It was not the first time that she had watched there, in the excitement of doubt and fear, for the same form her eyes were now straining themselves to see. The shrill sound of escaping steam ceased to quiver on the air, and in a few minutes the boat shot forward into view and went gliding up the river. Irene scarcely breathed, as she stood, with colorless face, parted lips and eager eyes — looking down the road which led to the landing. But she looked in vain; the form of her husband did not appear — and it was Christmas Eve! What did it mean? ======================================================================== CHAPTER 67: 04.07. CHAPTER 7. THE LETTER ======================================================================== Chapter 7. The Letter Yes, what did it mean? Christmas Eve, and Hartley still absent? Twilight was falling when Irene came down from her room and joined her father in the library. Mr. Delancy looked into her face narrowly as she entered. The dim light of the closing day was not strong enough to give him its true expression; but he was not deceived as to its troubled aspect. "And so Hartley will not be here today," he said, in a tone that expressed both disappointment and concern. "No. I looked for him confidently. It is strange." There was a constraint, a forced calmness in Irene’s voice that did not escape her father’s notice. "I hope he is not sick," said Mr. Delancy. "Oh no." Irene spoke with a sudden earnestness; then, with failing tones, added — "He should have been here today." She sat down near the open grate, shading her face with a hand-screen, and remained silent and abstracted for some time. "There is scarcely a possibility of his arrival tonight," said Mr. Delancy. He could not get his thoughts away from the fact of his son-in-law’s absence. "He will not be here tonight," replied Irene, a cold dead level in her voice, that Mr. Delancy well understood to be only a smoke-screen thrown up to conceal her deeply-disturbed feelings. "Do you expect him tomorrow, my daughter?" asked Mr. Delancy, a few moments afterward, speaking as if from a sudden thought or a sudden purpose. There was a meaning in his tones that showed his mind to be in a state not prepared to brook evasion. "I do," was the unhesitating answer; and she turned and looked calmly at her father, whose eyes rested with a fixed, inquiring gaze upon her countenance. But half her face was lit by a reflection from the glowing fireplace, while half lay in shadow. His reading, therefore was not clear. If Irene had shown surprise at the question, her father would have felt better satisfied. He meant it as a probe; but if a tender spot was reached, she had the self-control not to give a sign of pain. At the tea-table Irene rallied her spirits and talked lightly to her father; it was only by an effort that he could respond with even apparent cheerfulness. Complaining of a headache, Irene retired, soon after tea, to her room, and did not come down again during the evening. The next day was Christmas. It arose as clear and mild as a day in October. When Irene came down to breakfast, her pale, almost haggard, face showed too plainly that she had passed a night of sleeplessness and suffering. She said, "Merry Christmas," to her father, on meeting him — but there was no heart in the words. It was almost impossible to disguise the pain that almost stifled respiration. Neither of them did more than make a pretense at eating. As Mr. Delancy arose from the table, he said to Irene — "I would like to see you in the library, my daughter." She followed him passively, closing the door behind her as she entered. "Sit down. There." And Mr. Delancy placed a chair for her, a little way from the grate. Irene dropped into the chair like one who moved by another’s volition. "Now, daughter," said Mr. Delancy, taking a chair, and drawing it in front of the one in which she was seated, "I am going to ask a plain question, and I want a direct answer." Irene rallied herself on the instant. "Did you leave New York with the knowledge and consent of your husband?" The blood mounted to her face and stained it a deep crimson: "I left without his knowledge. I never ask his consent." The old proud spirit was in her tones. "I feared as much," replied Mr. Delancy, his voice falling. "Then you do not expect Hartley today?" "I expected him yesterday. He may be here today. I am almost sure he will come." "Does he know you are here?" "Yes." "Why did you leave without his knowledge?" "To punish him." "Irene!" "I have answered without evasion. It was to punish him." "I do not remember in the marriage vows you took upon yourselves anything relating to punishments," said Mr. Delancy. "There were explicit things said of love and duty — but I do not recall a sentence that referred to the right of one party to punish the other." Mr. Delancy paused for a few moments — but there was no reply to this rather novel and unexpected view of the case. "Did you by anything in the rite acquire authority to punish your husband when his conduct didn’t just suit your fancy?" Mr. Delancy pressed the question. "It is idle, father," said Irene, with some sharpness of tone, "to make an issue like this. It does not touch the case. Away back of marriage contracts, lie individual rights, which are never surrendered. The right of self-protection is one of these; and if retaliation is needed as a guarantee of future peace, then the right to punish is included in the right of self-protection." "A peace gained through coercion of any kind, is not worth having. It is but the semblance of peace — it is war in chains," replied Mr. Delancy. "The moment two married partners begin the work of coercion and punishment — that moment love begins to fail. If love gives not to their hearts a common beat, no other power is strong enough to do the work. Irene, I did hope that the painful experiences already passed through would have made you wiser. It seems not, however. It seems that self-will, pride and a spirit of retaliation are to govern your actions — instead of patience and love. Well, my child, if you go on sowing this noxious seed in your garden now in the spring-time of life — then you must not murmur when autumn gives you a harvest of thorns and thistles. If you sow tares in your field — then you must not expect to find corn there when you put in your sickle to reap. You can take back your morning salutation. It is not a ’merry Christmas’ to you or to me; and I think we are both done with merry Christmases." "Father!" The tone in which this word was uttered was almost a cry of pain. "It is even so, my child — even so," replied Mr. Delancy, in a voice of irrepressible sadness. "You have left your husband a second time. It is not every man who would forgive the first offence; not one in twenty who would pardon the second. You are in great peril, Irene. This storm that you have conjured up, may drive you to hopeless shipwreck. You need not expect Hartley today. He will not come. I have studied his character well, and know that he will not pass this conduct over lightly." Even while this was said, a servant, who had been over to the village, brought in a letter and handed it to Mr. Delancy, who, recognizing in the superscription the handwriting of his daughter’s husband, broke the seal hurriedly. The letter was in these words: My Dear Sir: As your daughter has left me, no doubt with the purpose of finally abandoning the effort to live in that harmony so essential to happiness in married life, I shall be glad if you will choose some judicious friend to represent her in consultation with a friend whom I will select, with a view to the arrangement of a divorce, as favorable to her in its provisions as it can possibly be made. In view of the peculiarity of our temperaments, we made a great error in this experiment. My hope was that love would be counselor to us both; that the law of mutual forbearance would have rule. But we are both too impulsive, too self-willed, too undisciplined. I do not pretend to throw all the blame on Irene. We are as flint and steel. But she has taken the responsibility of separation, and I am left without alternative. May God lighten the burden of pain which her heart will have to bear in the ordeal through which she has elected to pass. Your unhappy son-in-law, Hartley Emerson Mr. Delancy’s hand shook so violently before he had finished reading, that the paper rattled in the air. On finishing the last sentence he passed it, without a word, to his daughter. It was some moments before the strong agitation produced by the sight of this letter, and its effect upon her father, could be subdued enough to enable her to read a line. "What does it mean, father? I don’t understand it," she said, in a hoarse, deep whisper, and with pale, quivering lips. "It means," said Mr. Delancy, "that your husband has taken you at your word." "At my word! What word?" "You have left the home he provided for you, I believe?" "Father!" Her eyes stood out staringly. "Let me read the letter for you." And he took it from her hand. After reading it aloud and slowly, he said — "That is plain talk, Irene. I do not think anyone can misunderstand it. You have, in his view, left him finally, and he now asks me to name a judicious friend to meet his friend, and arrange a basis of divorce as favorable to you in its provisions as it can possibly be made." "A divorce, father! Oh no, he cannot mean that!" And she pressed her hands strongly against her temples. "Yes, my daughter, that is the simple meaning." "Oh no, no, no! He never meant that." "You left him?" "But not in that way; not in earnest. It was only in fitful anger — half sport, half serious." "Then, in Heaven’s name, sit down and write him so, and that without the delay of an instant. He has put another meaning on your conduct. He believes that you have abandoned him." "Abandoned him! Madness!" And Irene, who had risen from her chair, commenced moving about the room in a wild, irresolute kind of way, something like an actress under tragic excitement. "This is meant to punish me!" she said, stopping suddenly, and speaking in a voice slightly touched with indignation. "I understand it all, and see it as a great outrage. Hartley knows as well I do, that I left as much in sport as in earnest. But this is carrying the joke too far. To write such a letter to you! Why didn’t he write to me? Why didn’t he ask me to appoint a friend to represent me in the arrangement proposed?" "He understood himself and the case entirely," replied Mr. Delancy. "Believing that you had abandoned him — " "He didn’t believe any such thing!" exclaimed Irene, in strong excitement. "You are deceiving yourself, my daughter. His letter is calm and deliberate. It was not written, as you can see by the date, until yesterday. He has taken time to let passion cool. Three days were permitted to elapse, that you might be heard from in case any change of purpose occurred. But you remained silent. You abandoned him." "Oh, father, why will you talk in this way? I tell you that Hartley is only doing this to punish me; that he has no more thought of an actual divorce than he has of dying." "Admit this to be so, which I only do in the argument," said Mr. Delancy, "and what better aspect does it present?" "The better aspect of sport as compared with earnest," replied Irene. "At which both will continue to play until earnest is reached — and a worse earnest than the present. Take the case as you will, and it is one of the saddest and least hopeful that I have seen." Irene did not reply. "You must elect some course of action, and that with the least possible delay," said Mr. Delancy. "This letter requires an immediate answer. Go to your room and, in communion with God and your own heart, come to some quick decision upon the subject." Irene turned away without speaking and left her father alone in the library. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 68: 04.08. CHAPTER 8. THE FLIGHT AND THE RETURN ======================================================================== Chapter 8. The Flight and the Return We will not speak of the cause that led to this serious rupture between Irene and Hartley. It was as light as vanity — an airy nothing in itself — a spark that would have gone out on a baby’s cheek without leaving a sign of its existence. On the day that Irene left the home of her husband, he had parted from her silent, moody and with ill-concealed anger. Hard words, reproaches and accusations had passed between them on the night previous; and both felt unusually disturbed. The cause of all this, as we have said, was light as vanity. During the day Hartley, who was always first to come to his senses, saw the folly of what had occurred, and when he turned his face homeward, after three o’clock, it was with the purpose of ending the unhappy state by revoking a word to which he had given thoughtless utterance. The moment our young husband came to this sensible conclusion, his heart beat with a freer motion and his spirits rose again into a region of tranquility. He felt the old tenderness toward his wife returning, dwelt on her beauty, accomplishments, virtues and high mental endowments with a glow of pride — and called her defects of character, light in comparison. "If I were more a man, and less a child of feeling and impulse," he said to himself, "I would be more worthy to hold the place of husband to a woman like Irene. She has strong peculiarities — who has not peculiarities? Am I free from them? She is no ordinary woman, and must not be confined by ordinary tame routine. She has quick impulses; therefore, if I love her, should I not guard them, lest they leap from her feebly restraining hand in the wrong direction? She is sensitive to control; why, then, let her see the hand that must lead her, sometimes, aside from the way she would walk through the promptings of her own will? Do I not know that she loves me? And is she not as dear to me as my own life? What folly to strive with each other! What madness to let angry feelings shadow for an instant our lives!" It was in this state of mind that Hartley returned home. There were a few misgivings in his heart as he entered, for he was not sure as to the kind of reception Irene would offer his overtures for peace; but there was no failing of his purpose to sue for peace and obtain it. With a quick step he passed through the hall, and, after glancing into the parlors to see if his wife were there, went up stairs with two or three light bounds. A hurried glance through the chambers showed him that they had no occupant. He was turning to leave them, when a letter, placed upright on a bureau, attracted his attention. He caught it up. It was addressed to him in the well-known hand of his wife. He opened it and read: "I leave for Ivy Cliff today. IRENE." Two or three times Hartley read the line — "I leave for Ivy Cliff today" — and looked at the signature, before its meaning came fully into his thought. "Gone to Ivy Cliff!" he said, at last, in a low, hoarse voice. "Gone, and without a word of intimation or explanation! Gone, and in the heat of anger! Has it come to this, and so soon! God help us!" And the unhappy man sunk into a chair, as heart-stricken and weak as a child. For nearly the whole of the night that followed, he walked the floor of his room, and the next day found him in a feverish condition of both mind and body. Not once did the thought of following his wife to Ivy Cliff, if it came into his mind, rest there for a moment. She had gone home to her father with only an announcement of the fact. He would wait some intimation of her further purpose; but, if they met again, she must come back to him. This was his first, spontaneous conclusion; and it was not questioned in his thought, nor did he waver from it an instant. She must come back of her own volition, if she came back at all. It was on the twentieth day of December that Irene left New York. Not until the twenty-second could a letter from her reach Hartley, if, on reflection or after conference with her father, she desired to make a communication. But the twenty-second came and departed without a word from the absent one. So did the twenty-third. By this time Hartley had grown very calm, self-adjusted and resolute. He had gone over and over again the history of their lives since marriage bound them together, and in this history he could see nothing hopeful as bearing on the future. He was never certain of Irene. Things said and done in moments of thoughtlessness or excitement, and not meant to hurt or offend — were constantly disturbing their peace. It was clouds, and rain, and fitful sunshine all the while. There were no long seasons of serene delight. "Why," he said to himself, "seek to prolong this effort to blend into one — two lives which seem hopelessly antagonistic. Better stand as far apart as the two poles — than live in perpetual strife. If I should go to Irene, and, through concession or entreaty, win her back again — what guarantee would I have for the future? None, none whatever. Sooner or later we must be driven asunder by the violence of our ungovernable passions, never to draw again together. We are apart now, and it is well. I shall not take the first step toward a reconciliation." Hartley was a young man of cool purpose and strong will. For all that, he was quick-tempered and undisciplined. It was from the possession of these qualities, that he was steadily advancing in his profession, and securing a practice at the bar which promised to give him a high position in the future. Persistence was another element of his character. If he adopted any course of conduct, it was a difficult thing to turn him aside. When he laid his hand upon the plough — he was of those who rarely look back. Unfortunate qualities these for a crisis in life, such as now existed. On the morning of the twenty-fourth of December, no word having come from his wife, Hartley coolly penned the letter to Mr. Delancy which is given in the preceding chapter, and mailed it so that it would reach him on Christmas day. He was in earnest — sternly in earnest — as Mr. Delancy, on reading his letter, felt him to be. The honeymoon flight was one thing; this abandonment of a husband’s home, was another thing. Hartley gave to them a different weight and quality. Of the first act, he could never think without a burning cheek — a sense of mortification — a pang of wounded pride; and long before this, he had made up his mind that if Irene ever left him again — it would be forever, so far as perpetuity depended on his action in the case. He would never follow her nor seek to win her back. Yes, he was in earnest. He had made his mind up for the worst, and was acting with a desperate coolness only faintly imagined by Irene on receipt of his letter to her father. Mr. Delancy, who understood Hartley’s character better, was not deceived. He took the communication in its literal meaning, and felt appalled at the ruin which impended. Hartley passed the whole of Christmas day alone in his house. At meal-times he went to the table and forced himself to partake lightly of food, in order to blind the servants, whose curiosity in regard to the absence of Irene was, of course, all on the alert. After taking tea he went out. His purpose was to call upon a friend in whom he had great confidence, and confide to him the unhappy state of his affairs. For an hour he walked the streets in debate on the propriety of this course. Unable, however, to see the matter clearly, he returned home with the secret of his domestic trouble still locked in his own bosom. It was past eight o’clock when he entered his dwelling. A light was burning in one of the parlors, and he stepped into the room. After walking for two or three times the length of the room, Hartley threw himself on a sofa, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he did so. At the same moment he heard a step in the passage, and the rustling of a woman’s garments, which caused him to rise again to his feet. In moving his eyes met the form of Irene, who advanced toward him, and throwing her arms around his neck, sobbed, "Dear husband! can you, will you forgive my childish folly?" His first impulse was to push her away, and he, even grasped her arms and attempted to draw them from his neck. She perceived this, and clung to him more eagerly. "Dear Hartley!" she said, "will you not speak to me?" "Irene!" His voice was cold and deep, and as he pronounced her name he withdrew himself from her embrace. At this, she grew calm and stepped a pace back from him. "Irene, we are not children," he said, in the same cold, deep voice, the tones of which were even and measured. "That time is past. Nor foolish young lovers, who fall out and make up again twice or thrice in a two weeks; but man and wife, with the world and its sober realities before us." "Oh, Hartley," exclaimed Irene, as he paused; "don’t talk to me in this way! Don’t look at me so! It will kill me. I have done wrong. I have acted like foolish child. But I am penitent. It was half in sport that I went away, and I was so sure of seeing you at Ivy Cliff yesterday that I told father you were coming." "Irene, sit down." And Hartley took the hand of his wife and led her to a sofa. Then, after closing the parlor door, he drew a chair and seated himself directly in front of her. There was a coldness and self-possession about him, that chilled Irene. "It is a serious thing," he said, looking steadily in her face, "for a wife to leave her husband’s house in anger, for that of her father." She tried to make some reply and moved her lips in attempted utterance — but the organs of speech refused to perform their office. "You left me once before in anger — and I went after you. But it was clearly understood with myself then, that if you repeated the act it would be final in all that appertained to me; that unless you returned, it would be a lifelong separation. You have repeated the act; and, knowing your pride and tenacity of will, I did not anticipate your return. And so I was looking the sad, stern future in the face, as steadily as possible, and preparing to meet it as a man conscious of right should be prepared to meet whatever trouble lies in store for him. I went out this evening, after passing the Christmas day alone, with the purpose of consulting an old and discreet friend as to the wisest course of action. But the thing was too painful to speak of yet. So I came back — and you are here!" She looked at him steadily while he spoke, her face as white as marble, and her colorless lips drawn back from her teeth. "Irene," he continued, "it is folly for us to keep on in the way we have been going. I am wearied out, and you cannot be happy in a relation that is forever reminding you that your own will and thought are no longer sole arbiters of your actions; that there is another will and another thought that must at times be consulted, and even obeyed. I am a man, and a husband; you a woman, and a wife — we are equal as to rights and duties — equal in the eyes of God; but to the man and husband appertains a certain precedence in action; consent, cooperation and approval, if he is a thoughtful and judicious man, appertaining to the wife." As Hartley spoke thus, he noticed a sign of returning warmth in her pale face, and a dim, distant flash in her eyes. Her proud spirit did not accept this view of their relation to each other. He went on: "If a wife has no confidence in her husband’s manly judgment, if she cannot even respect him — then the case is altered. Such a woman must lead both him and herself if he is weak enough to consent. But the relation is not a true one; and marriage, under this condition of things, is only a pretension." "And that is your belief about marriage?" said Irene. There was a shade of surprise in her voice which lingered huskily in her throat. "That is my belief," was Hartley’s firmly spoken answer. Irene sighed heavily. Both were silent for some moments. At length Irene said, lifting her hands and bringing them down with an action of despair, "In chains! In chains!" "No, no!" Her husband replied quickly and earnestly. "Not in chains — but in true freedom, if you will — the freedom of reciprocal action." "Like bat and ball," she answered, with bitterness in her tones. "No, like heart and lungs," he returned, calmly. "Irene! dear wife! Why misunderstand me? I have no wish to rule, and you know I have never sought to place you in chains. I have had only one desire, and that is to be your husband in the highest and truest sense. But, I am a man — you a woman. There are two wills and two understandings which must act in the same direction. Now, in the nature of things, the mind of one must, helped by the mind of the other to see right — take, as a general thing, the initiative where action is concerned. Unless this is so — constant collisions will occur. And this takes us back to the question which lies at the basis of all order and happiness — which of the two minds shall lead?" "A man and his wife are equal," said Irene, firmly. The strong individuality of her character was asserting its claims even in this hour of severe mental pain. "Equal in the eyes of God, as I have said before — but where action is concerned, one must take precedence of the other, for, it cannot be, seeing that their office and duties are different, that their judgment in the general affairs of life can be equally clear. A man’s work takes him out into the world, and throws him into sharp collision with other men. He learns, as a consequence, to think carefully and with deliberation, and to decide with caution, knowing that action, based on erroneous conclusions, may ruin his prospects in an hour. Thus, like the oak, which, grows up exposed to all the changes of the elements — his judgment gains strength, while his perceptions, constantly trained, acquire clearness. But a woman’s duties lie almost wholly within this region of strife and action, and she remains, for the most part, in a tranquil atmosphere. Allowing nothing for a radical difference in mental constitution, this difference of training must give a difference of mental power. The man’s judgment in affairs generally must be superior to the woman’s, and she must acquiesce in its decisions — or there can be no right union in marriage." "Must lose herself in him," said Irene, coldly. "Become a cipher, a slave! That will not suit me, Hartley!" And she looked at him with firmly compressed mouth and steady eyes. It came to his lips to reply, "Then you had better return to your father" — but he caught the words back before they leaped forth into sound, and, rising, walked the floor for the space of more than five minutes, Irene not stirring from the sofa. Pausing at length, he said in a voice which had lost its steadiness: "You had better go up to your room, Irene. We are not in a condition to help each other now." Irene did not answer, but, rising, left the parlor and went as her husband had suggested. He stood still, listening, until the sound of her steps and the rustle of her garments had died away into silence, when he commenced slowly walking the parlor floor with his head bent down, and continued thus, as if he had forgotten time and place, for over an hour. Then, awakened to consciousness by a sense of dizziness and exhaustion, he laid himself upon a sofa, and, shutting his eyes, tried to arrest the current of his troubled thoughts, and sink into sleep and forgetfulness. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 69: 04.09. CHAPTER 9. THE RECONCILIATION ======================================================================== Chapter 9. The Reconciliation For such a reception, the young wife was wholly unprepared. Suddenly her husband had put on a new character and assumed a right of control — against which her sensitive pride and native love of freedom arose in strong rebellion. That she had done wrong in going away, she acknowledged to herself, and had acknowledged to him. But he had met her confession in a spirit so different from what was anticipated, and showed an aspect so cold, stern, and exacting — that she was bewildered. She did not, however, mistake the meaning of his language. It was plain that she understood the man’s position to be one of command and control. As to submission — it was not in all her thoughts. Wrung to agony as her heart was, and appalled as she looked, trembling and shrinking into the future — she did not yield a moment to weakness. Midnight found Irene alone in her chamber. She had flung herself upon a bed when she came up from the parlor, and fallen asleep after an hour of fruitless beating about in her mind. Awaking from a maze of troubled dreams, she started up and gazed, half fearfully, around the dimly-lighted room. "Where am I?" she asked herself. Some moments elapsed before the painful events of the past few days began to reveal themselves to her consciousness. "And where is Hartley?" This question followed as soon as all grew clear. Sleep had tranquilized her state, and restored a measure of just perception. Stepping from the bed, she went from the room and passed silently down stairs. A light still burned in the parlor where she had left her husband some hours before, and streamed out through the partly opened door. She stood for some moments, listening — but there was no sound of life within. A sudden fear crept into her heart. Her hand shook as she laid it upon the door and pressed it open. Stepping within, she glanced around with a frightened air. On the sofa lay Hartley, with his face toward the light. It was pale and troubled, and the brows were contracted as if from intense pain. For some moments Irene stood looking at him; but his eyes were shut and he lay perfectly still. She drew nearer and bent down over him. He was sleeping — but his breath came so faintly, and there was so little motion of his chest, that the thought flashed through her with an electric thrill that he might be dying! Only by a strong effort of self-control did she repress a cry of fear, or keep back her hands from clasping his neck. In what a strong tide did love rush back upon her soul! Her heart overflowed with tenderness, was oppressed with yearning. "Oh, Hartley, my husband, my dear husband!" she cried out — love, fear, grief and anguish blending wildly in her voice, as she caught him in her arms and awoke him with a rain of tears and kisses. "Irene! Love! Darling! What ails you? Where are we?" were the confusedly uttered sentences of Hartley, as he started from the sofa and, holding his young wife from him, looked into her weeping face. "Call me again ’love’ and ’darling,’ and I care not where we are!" she answered, in tones of passionate entreaty. "Oh, Hartley, my dear, dear husband! A desert island, with you, would be a paradise! A paradise, without you, would be a weary desert! Say the words again. Call me ’darling!’" And she let her head fall upon his bosom. "God bless you!" he said, laying his hand upon her head. He was awake and clearly conscious of place and position. His voice was distinct — but tremulous and solemn. "God bless you, Irene, my wife!" "And make me worthy of your love," she responded faintly. "Mutually worthy of each other," said he. "Wiser — better — more patient and forbearing. Oh, Irene," and his voice grew deep and tender, "why may we not be to each other, all that our hearts desire?" "We can — we must — we will!" she answered, lifting her hidden face from his bosom and turning it up fondly to his. "God helping me, I will be to you a better wife in the future." "And I a more patient, loving, and forbearing husband," he replied. "Oh that our hearts might beat together as one heart!" For a little while Irene continued to gaze into her husband’s countenance with looks of the tenderest love, and then hid her face on his bosom again. And thus were they again reconciled. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 70: 04.10. CHAPTER 10. AFTER THE STORM ======================================================================== Chapter 10. After the Storm And they were reconciled. The clouds rolled back; the sun came out again with his radiant smiles and genial warmth. But was nothing broken? nothing lost? Did each flower in the garden of love lift its head as bravely as before? In every storm of passion — something is lost. Anger is a blind fury, who tramples ruthlessly on tenderest and holiest things. Alas for the ruin that waits upon her footsteps! The day that followed this night of reconciliation had many hours of sober introversion of thought for both Hartley and his wife; hours in which memory reproduced language, conduct and sentiments that could not be dwelt upon without painful misgivings for the future. They understood each other too well to make light account of things said and done, even in anger. In going over, as Irene did many times, the language used by her husband on the night before, concerning their relation as man and wife, and his prerogative, she felt the old spirit of revolt arising. She tried to let her thought fall into his rational presentation of the question involving who is to rule, and even said to herself that he was right; but her pride was strong, and kept lifting itself in her mind. She saw, most clearly, the hardest aspect of the case. It was, in her view, his command — and her obedience. And she knew that submission was, for her, impossible. On the part of Hartley, the day’s sober thought left his mind in no more hopeful condition than that of his wife. The pain suffered in consequence of her temporary flight from home, though lessened by her return, had not subsided. A portion of confidence in her was lost. He felt that he had no guarantee for the future — that at any moment, in the heat of passion, she might leave him again. He remembered, too distinctly, her words on the night before, when he tried to make her comprehend his view of the relation between man and wife — "That will not suit me, Hartley!" And he felt that she was in earnest; that she would resist every effort he might make to lead and control in certain things as a husband — just as she had done from the beginning. In matrimonial quarrels, you cannot kiss and make up again, as children do, forgetting all the stormy past in the sunshiny present. And this was painfully clear to both Hartley and Irene, as she, alone in her chamber, and he, alone in his office — pondered, on that day of reconciliation, the past and the future. Yet each resolved to be more forbearing and less exacting; to strive for concession, rather than exaction; to let love, uniting with reason — hold pride and self-will in close submission. Their meeting, on Hartley’s return home, at his usual late hour in the afternoon, was tender — but not full of the joyous warmth of feeling that often showed itself. Their hearts were not light enough for ecstasy. But they were kind in their attentions to each other, desirous of affectionate words and actions, yielding and considerate. And yet this mutual, almost formal, recognition of a recent state of painful antagonism, left on each mind a feeling of embarrassment, checked words and sentences before they came to utterance, and threw amid their pleasant talks, many intermittent pauses. Often through the day had Hartley, as he dwelt on the unhappy relation existing between himself and his wife, made up his mind to renew the subject of their true relationship to each other, as briefly touched upon in their meeting of the night before — and as often changed his purpose, in fear of another breach. Yet to him it seemed of the first importance that this matter, as a basis of future peace — should be settled between them, and settled at once. If he held one view and she another, and both were sensitive, quick-tempered and tenacious of individual freedom — then fierce antagonism might occur at any moment. He had come home inclined to the affirmative side of the question, and many times during the evening it was on his lips to introduce the subject. But he was so sure that it would prove a theme of sharp discussion, that he had not the courage to risk the consequences. There was peace again after this conflict — but it was not, by any means, a hopeful peace. It had no well-considered basis. The causes which had produced a struggle, were still in existence, and liable to become active, by provocation, at any moment. No change had taken place in the characters, dispositions, temperaments or general views of marriage, in either of the parties. Strife had ceased between them, only in consequence of the pain it involved. A deep conviction of this fact so sobered the mind of Hartley, and altered, in consequence, his manner toward Irene — that she felt its reserve and coldness as a rebuke that chilled the warmth of her tender impulses. And this manner did not greatly change as the days and weeks moved onward. Memory kept too vividly in the mind of Hartley that one act, and the danger of its repetition on some sudden provocation. He could not feel safe and at ease with his temple of peace built close to a slumbering volcano, which was liable at any moment to blaze forth and bury it in lava and ashes. Irene did not comprehend her husband’s state of mind. She felt painfully, the change in his manner — but failed in reaching the true cause. Sometimes she attributed his coldness to resentment; sometimes to defect of love; and sometimes to a settled determination on his part to inflict punishment. Sometimes she spent hours alone, weeping over these sad ruins of her peace, and sometimes, in a spirit of revolt, she laid down for herself a line of conduct intended to react against her husband. But something in his calm, kind, self-reliant manner, when she looked into his face, broke down her purpose. She was afraid of throwing herself against a rock which, while standing immovable — might bruise her tender limbs or extinguish life in the strong collision. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 71: 04.11. CHAPTER 11. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE ======================================================================== Chapter 11. A New Acquaintance Both Hartley and his wife came away from this experience, changed in themselves and toward each other. A few days had matured them beyond what might have been looked for in as many years. Life suddenly put on more sober hues, and the future laid off its smiles and beckonings onward to greener fields and mountain-heights of felicity. There was a certain air of manly self-confidence; a firmer, more deliberate way of expressing himself on all subjects; and an evidence of mental clearness and strength — which gave to Irene the impression of power and superiority not wholly agreeable to her self-will, yet awakening emotions of pride in her husband, when she contrasted him with other men. As a man among men, he was, as he had ever been, her beau ideal. But as a husband, she felt a daily increasing spirit of resistance and antagonism, and it required constant watchfulness over herself to prevent this feeling from exhibiting itself in act. On the part of Hartley, the more he thought about this subject of the husband’s domestic duties — thought as a man and as a lawyer — the more strongly did he feel about it, and the more tenacious of his assumed rights did he become. Matters which seemed in the beginning of such light importance as scarcely to attract his attention — now loomed up before him as things of importance. Thus, if he spoke of their doing some particular thing in a certain way, and Irene suggested a different way — instead of yielding to her view, he would insist upon his own. If she tried to show him a reason why her way was best, he would give no weight to her argument or representation. On the other hand, it is but just to say, that he rarely opposed her independent suggestions or interfered with her freedom; and if she had been as considerate toward him — the danger of trouble would have been lessened. It is the little foxes which spoil the tender grapes, and so it is the little reactions of two spirits against each other — which spoil the tender blossoms of love and destroy the promised vintage. Steadily, day by day, and week by week, were these light reactions marring the happiness of our undisciplined young friends, and destroying in them, germ after germ, and bud after bud, which, if left to growth and development, would have brought forth ripe, luscious fruit in the later summer of their lives. Trifles, as light as air were noticed, and their importance magnified. Words, looks, actions, insignificant in themselves, were made to represent states of will or antagonism which really had no existence. Unhappily for their peace, Irene had a brooding disposition. She held in her memory, utterances and actions forgotten by her husband, and, by dwelling upon — magnified and gave them an importance to which they were not entitled. Still more unhappily for their peace, Irene met about this time, and became attached to, a lady of fine intellectual attainments and fascinating manners, who was an extremist in opinion on the subject of marital equality. She was married — but to a man greatly her inferior, though possessing some literary talent, which he managed to turn to better account than she did her finer powers. He had been attracted by her brilliant qualities, and in approaching her, scorched his wings — and ever after lay at her feet. She had no very high respect for him — but found a husband on many accounts a convenient thing, and so held on to the appendage. If he had been man enough to remain silent on the themes she was so fond of discussing on all occasions, people of common sense and common perception would have respected him for what he was worth. But he gloried in his bondage, and rattled his chains as gleefully as if he were discoursing sweet music. What she announced oracularly — he attempted to demonstrate by bald and feeble arguments. He was the lackey to her perverted will. The name of this lady was Mrs. Talbot. Irene met her soon after her marriage and removal to New York, and was charmed with her from the beginning. Hartley, on the contrary, liked neither her nor her sentiments, and considered her a dangerous friend for his wife. He expressed himself freely in regard to her at the commencement of the intimacy; but Irene took her part so warmly, and used such strong language in her favor, that Hartley deemed it wisest not to create a new conflict with his wife. Within a week from that memorable Christmas day on which Irene came back from Ivy Cliff, Mrs. Talbot, who had taken a fancy to the spirited, independent, undisciplined wife of Hartley, called in to see her new friend. Irene received her cordially. She was, in fact, of all her acquaintances, the one she most desired to meet. "I’m right glad you thought of making a visit to me," said Irene, as they sat down together. "I’ve felt as dull as an hermit, all the morning." "You dull!" Mrs. Talbot affected surprise, as she glanced round the tasteful room in which they were sitting. "What is there to cloud your mind? With such a home and such a husband as you possess, life ought to be one long, bright holiday." "Good things in their way," replied Irene. "But not everything." She said this in a kind of thoughtless deference to Mrs. Talbot’s known views on the subject of marriage and husbands — which she had not hesitated to call women’s prisons and women’s jailers. "Indeed! And have you made that discovery?" Mrs. Talbot laughed a low, gurgling sort of laugh, leaning, at the same time, in a confidential kind of way, closer to Irene. "Discovery!" "Yes." "It is no discovery," said Irene. "The fact is self-evident. There is much that a woman needs for happiness, beside a home and a husband." "Right, my young friend, right!" Mrs. Talbot’s manner grew earnest. "No truer words were ever spoken. Yes — yes — a woman needs a great deal more than these to fill the measure of her happiness; and it is through the attempt to restrict and limit her to such poor substitutes for a world-wide range and freedom that she has been so dwarfed in mental stature, and made the unhappy creature and slave of man’s hard ambition and indomitable love of power. There were Amazons of old — as the early Greeks knew to their cost — strong, self-reliant, courageous women, who acknowledged no male superiority. Is the Amazonian spirit dead in the earth? Not so! It is alive, and clothing itself with will, power and persistence. Already it is grasping the reins, and the mettled steed stands impatient to feel the rider’s impulse in the saddle. The times of woman’s degradation and humiliation is completed. A new era in the world’s social history has dawned for her, and the mountain-tops are golden with the coming day." Irene listened with delight and even enthusiasm to these sentiments, uttered with ardor and eloquence. "It is not woman’s fault, taking her in the aggregate, that she is so weak in body, and such a passive slave to man’s will," continued Mrs. Talbot. "In the degradation of races toward barbarism — mere muscle, in which alone man is superior to woman, prevailed. Physical strength set itself up as master. Might made right. And so unhappy woman was degraded below man, and held under his despotism, until nearly all independent life has been crushed out of her. As civilization has lifted nation after nation out of the dark depths of barbarism, the condition of woman has been improved. For the sake of his children, if from no better motive, man has come to treat his wife with a more considerate kindness. If she is still but the hewer of his wood and the drawer of his water — he has, in many cases, elevated her to the position of dictatress in these humble affairs. He allows her ’help!’ But, mentally and socially, he continues to degrade her. In law she is scarcely recognized, except as a criminal. She is punished if she does wrong — but has no legal protection in her rights as an independent human being. She is only man’s shadow. The public opinion that affects her, is made by him. The earliest literature of a country is man’s expression; and in this, man’s view of woman is always apparent. The sentiment is repeated generation after generation, and age after age — until the barbarous idea comes down, scarcely questioned, to the days of high civilization, culture and refinement. "Here, my young friend, you have the simple history of woman’s degradation in this age of the world. Now, so long as she submits — man will hold her in fetters. Power and dominion are sweet. If a man cannot govern a state — then he will be content to govern a household. But govern he will, if he can find a submissive subject anywhere." "Man is born a tyrant — that I have always felt," said Irene. "You see it in a family of sisters and brothers. The boys always attempt to rule their sisters, and if the latter do not submit, then comes discord and contention." "I have seen this, in hundreds of instances," replied Mrs. Talbot. "It was fully illustrated in my own case. I had two brothers, who undertook to exercise their love of domineering on me. But they did not find a passive subject — no, not by any means. I was never obedient to their will, for I had one of my own. We made the house often a bedlam for our poor mother; but I never gave way — no, not for an instant, come what might. I had different stuff in me from that of common girls, and in time, the boys were glad to let me alone." "Are your brothers living?" asked Irene. "Yes. One resides in New York, and the other in Boston. One is a merchant, the other a physician." "How was it, as you grew older?" "About the same. They are like nearly all men — despisers of woman’s intellect." Irene sighed, and, letting her eyes fall to the floor, sat lost in thought for some moments. The suggestions of her friend were not producing agreeable states of mind. "They reject the doctrine of an equality in the sexes?" said Irene. "Of course. All men do that," replied Mrs. Talbot. "Your husband among the rest?" "Talbot? Oh, he’s well enough in his way!" The lady spoke lightly, tossing her head in a manner that involved both indifference and contempt. "I never take him into account when discussing these matters. That point was settled between us long and long ago. We jog on without trouble. Talbot thinks as I do about the women — or pretends that he does, which is all the same." "A rare exception to the general run of husbands," said Irene, thinking at the same time how immeasurably superior Hartley was to this weakling, and despising him in her heart for submitting to be ruled by a woman. Thus nature and true perception spoke in her, even while she was seeking to blind herself by false reasonings. "Yes, he’s a rare exception; and it’s well for us both that it is so. If he were like your husband, for instance, one of us would have been before the legislature for a divorce within twelve months of our marriage night." "Like my husband! What do you mean?" Irene drew herself up, with half real and half affected surprise. "Oh, he’s one of your men who have positive qualities about them — strong in intellect and will." Irene felt pleased with the compliment bestowed upon her husband. "But wrong in his ideas of woman." "How do you know?" asked Irene. "How do I know? As I know all men with whom I come in contact. I probe them." "And you have probed my husband?" "Undoubtedly." "And do not regard him as sound on this subject?" "No sounder than other men of his class. He regards woman as man’s inferior." "I think you state the case too strongly," said Irene, a red spot burning on her cheek. "He thinks them mentally different." "Of course he does." "But not different as to superiority and inferiority," replied Irene. "Mere hair-splitting, my child. If they are mentally different, one must be more highly equipped than the other, and of course, superior. Hartley thinks a man’s rational powers stronger than a woman’s, and that, therefore, he must direct in affairs generally, and she follow his lead. I know; I’ve talked with and drawn him out on this subject." Irene sighed again faintly, while her eyes dropped from the face of her visitor and sunk to the floor. A shadow was falling on her spirit — a weight coming down with a gradually increasing pressure upon her heart. She remembered the night of her return from Ivy Cliff and the language then used by her husband on this very subject, which was mainly in agreement with the range of opinions attributed to him by Mrs. Talbot. "Marriage, to a spirited, self-willed woman," she remarked, in a pensive undertone, "is a doubtful experiment." "Always," returned her friend. "As woman stands now in the estimate of man — her chances for happiness are almost wholly on the side of old-maidism. Still, freedom is the price of struggle and combat; and woman will first have to show, in actual strife, that she is the equal of her present lord." "Then you would turn every home into a battlefield?" said Irene. "Every home in which there is a tyrant and an oppressor," was the prompt answer. "Many fair lands, in all ages, have been trampled down ruthlessly by the iron feet of war; and that were better, as the price of freedom, than slavery." Irene sighed again, and was again silent. "What," she asked, "if the oppressor is so much stronger than the oppressed, that successful resistance is impossible? that with every struggle, the links of the chain that binds her — sink deeper into her quivering flesh?" "Every age and every land have seen noble martyrs in the cause of freedom. It is better to die for liberty — than live as an ignoble slave," answered the tempter. "And I will die a free woman!" This Irene said in her heart. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 72: 04.12. CHAPTER 12. IN CHAINS! ======================================================================== Chapter 12. In Chains! Sentiments like these, coming to Irene as they did while she was yet chafing under a recent collision with her husband, and while the question of submission was yet an open one — were nearly proving to be a quick match to a slumbering tinder in her spirit, and had not her husband been in a more passive state than usual, there might have been an explosion which would have driven them asunder with such terrific force, that reunion must have been next to impossible. It would have been well if their effects had died with the passing away of that immediate danger. But as we think — so we incline to act. Our sentiments are our governors; and of all imperious tyrants — false sentiments are the most ruthless! The beautiful, the true, the good — they trample out of the heart with a fiery malignity that knows no touch of pity; for the false is the bitter enemy of the true — and makes with it no terms of peace. The coldness which had followed their reconciliation might have gradually given way before the warmth of genuine love — if Irene had been left to the counsels of her own heart; if there had been no enemy to her peace, like Mrs. Talbot, to throw in wild, vague thoughts of oppression and slavery among the half-developed opinions which were forming in her mind. As it was, a jealous scrutiny of words and actions, took the place of that tender confidence which was coming back to Irene’s heart, and she became watchfully on the alert; not, as she might have been — lovingly accommodating. Only a few days were permitted to elapse after the call of this unsafe friend, before Irene returned the visit, and spent two hours with her, talking over the subject of woman’s rights and woman’s wrongs. Mrs. Talbot introduced her to writers on the vexed question, who had touched the theme with argument, sarcasm, invective and bold, brilliant, sophisticated generalities. She read to her from their books; commented on their deductions, and uttered sentiments on the subject of reform and resistance, as radical as the most extreme. "We must agitate — we must act — we must do good deeds of valor and self-sacrifice for our gender!" she said, in her enthusiastic way. "Every woman, whether of high or low condition, of humble powers or vigorous intellect — has a duty to perform, and she is false to the honor and rights of her gender if she does not array herself on the side of freedom. You have great responsibilities resting upon you, my young friend. I say it soberly, even solemnly. Responsibilities which may not be disregarded without evil consequences to yourself and others. You are young, clear-thoughted and resolute — you have will, purpose and endurance. You are married to a young man destined, I think, to make his mark in the world; but, as I have said before, a false education has given him erroneous ideas on this great and important subject. Now what is your duty?" The lady paused, as if for an answer. "What is your duty, my dear young friend?" she repeated. "I will answer for you," she continued. "Your duty is to be true to yourself, and to your sisters in chains." "In chains! I in chains!" Mrs. Talbot touched her to the quick. "Are you a free woman?" The inquiry was calmly made. Irene started to the floor and moved across the room, then turned and came back again. Her cheeks burned and her eyes flashed. She stood before Mrs. Talbot and looked at her steadily. "The question has disturbed you?" said the lady. "It has!" was the brief answer. "Why should it disturb you?" Irene did not answer. "I can tell you." "Say on." "You are in chains — and feel the fetters!" "Mrs. Talbot!" "It is so, my poor child, and you know it as well as I do. From the beginning of our acquaintance, I have seen this; and more than once, in our various conversations, you have admitted the fact." "I?" "Yes, you!" Irene let her thoughts run back through the sentiments and opinions which she had permitted herself to utter in the presence of her friend, to see if she had so fully shown her plight. She could not recall the distinct language — but it was plain that Mrs. Talbot had her secret, and therefore reserve on the subject was useless. "Well," she said, after standing for some time before Mrs. Talbot, "if I am in chains — it is not because I do not worship freedom." "I know that," was the quickly-spoken answer. "And it is because I wish to see you a free woman — that I point to your chains. Now is the time to break them — now, before years have increased their strength — now, before habit has made tyranny a part of your husband’s nature. He is your ruler, because the social sentiment is in favor of manly domination. There is hope for you now — and now only. You must begin the work of reaction while both are young. Let your husband understand, from this time, that you are his equal. It may go a little hard at first. He will, without doubt, hold on to the reins, for power is sweet; but if there be true love for you in his heart, he will yield in the struggle, and make you his companion and equal, as you should be. If his love is not genuine, why — " She checked herself. It might be going a step too far with her young friend to utter the thought that was coming to her lips. Irene did not question her as to what more she was about to say. There was stimulus enough in the words already spoken. She felt all the strength of her nature rising into opposition. "Yes, I will be free," she said in her heart. "I will be his equal — not his slave!" "It may cost you some pain in the beginning," resumed the tempter. "I am not afraid of pain," said Irene. "A brave heart spoke there. I wish we had more on our side with the stuff which you are made of. There would be hope of a speedier reform than is now promised." "Heaven send the reform right early! It cannot come a day too soon." Irene spoke with rising ardor. "It will be our own fault," said Mrs. Talbot, "if we bow our necks to the yoke longer, or move obedient to our task-masters! Let us lay the axe to the very root of this evil — and hew it down!" "Even if we are crushed by the tree in falling!" responded Irene, in the spirit of a martyr. From this interview, our wrong-directed young friend went home with more clearly defined purposes regarding her conduct toward her husband, than she had hitherto entertained. She saw him in a new aspect, and in a character more definitely outlined. He loomed up in more colossal proportions, and put on sterner features. All disguises were thrown away — and he stood forth, not a loving husband — but the tyrant of her home! Weak, proud, passion-tossed child! how this strong, self-willed, false woman of the world had bewildered her thoughts, and pushed her forth into an arena of strife, where she could only beat about blindly, and hurt herself and others, yet accomplish no good! From her interview with Mrs. Talbot, Irene went home, bearing more distinct ideas of resistance in her mind. In this great crisis of her life, she felt that she needed just such a friend, who could give direction to her striving spirit, and clothe for her in thoughts, the native impulses that she knew only as a love of freedom. She believed now that she understood herself better than before, and comprehended more clearly her duties and responsibilities. It was in this mood of mind, that she met her husband when he returned in the afternoon from his office. Happily for them, he was in a quiet, non-resistant state, and in a special good-humor with himself and the world. Professional matters had shaped themselves to his wishes, and left his mind at peace. Irene had, in consequence, everything pretty much her own way. Hartley did not fail to notice a certain sharpness of manner about her, and a certain spiciness of sentiment when the subject of their intermittent talks verged on themes relating to women; but he felt no inclination whatever for argument or opposition, and so her arrows struck a polished shield, and turned harmlessly aside. "Shall we go and have a merry laugh with Matthews tonight?" said Hartley, as they sat at the tea-table. "I feel just in the mood." "No, thank you," replied Irene, curtly. "I don’t incline to the laughing mood, just now." "Laughing is contagious," suggested Hartley. "I shall not go tonight!" And she balanced her little head with the perpendicularity of a plumb-line. "Can’t I persuade you?" He was in a real good-humor, and smiled as he said this. "No, sir! You may waive both argument and persuasion. I am in earnest." "And when a woman is in earnest — you might as well try to move the Pillars of Hercules." "You might as well in my case," answered Irene, without any softening of tone or features. "Then I shall not attempt, after a hard day’s work, a task so difficult. I am in a mood for rest and quiet," said the young husband. "Perhaps," he resumed, after a little pause, "you may feel somewhat musical. There is to be a vocal and instrumental concert tonight. What do you say to going there? I think I could enjoy some good singing." Irene closed her lips firmly, and shook her head. "Not musically inclined this evening?" "No!" she replied. "Got a regular stay-at-home feeling?" "Yes!" "Enough," said Hartley, with unshadowed good-humor, "we will stay at home then." And he sung a snatch of the familiar song — "There’s no place like home," rising, as he did so, from the table, and offering Irene his arm. She could do no less than accept the courtesy, and so they went up to their cozy sitting-room arm-in-arm — he chatty, and she almost silent. "What’s the matter, my pet?" he asked, in a fond way, after trying for some time — but in vain, to draw her out into pleasant conversation. "Are you well tonight?" Now, so far as her bodily state was concerned, Irene never felt better in her life. So she could not plead sickness. "I feel well," she replied, glancing up into her husband’s face in a cold, embarrassed kind of way. "Then your looks belie your condition — that’s all. If it isn’t the body — then it must be the mind. What’s gone wrong, darling?" The tenderness in Hartley’s tones was genuine, and the heart of Irene leaped to his voice with a responsive throe. But was he not her master and tyrant? How that thought chilled the sweet impulse! "Nothing wrong!" she answered, with a sadness of tone which she was unable to conceal. "But I feel dull, and cannot help it." "You should have gone with me to laugh with Matthews. He would have shaken all these cobwebs from your brain. Come! it is not yet too late." But the rebel spirit was in her heart; and to have acceded to he husband’s wishes, would have been to submit herself to his control. "You must excuse me," she replied. "I feel as if home were the better place for me tonight." An impatient answer was on her tongue; but she checked its utterance, and spoke from a better spirit. Not ever had Hartley shown more considerate tenderness than marked all his conduct toward Irene this evening. His mind was in a clear-seeing region, and his feelings tranquil. The sphere of her antagonism failed to reach him. He did not understand the meaning of her opposition to his wishes, and so pride, self-love and self-will remained arresting in his heart. How peacefully unconscious was he of the fact that his feet were standing over a landmine, and that a single spark of passion struck from him, would have sprung that mine in fierce explosion! He read to Irene from a volume which he knew to be her favorite; talked to her about Ivy Cliff and her father; suggested an early visit to the pleasant old river home; and thus charmed away the evil spirits which had found a lodgment in her bosom. But how different it might have been! ======================================================================== CHAPTER 73: 04.13. CHAPTER 13. THE REFORMERS! ======================================================================== Chapter 13. The Reformers! Social theories that favor our passions, peculiarities, defects of character, or weaknesses — are readily adopted, and, with minds of an ardent temper, often become hobby-horses. There is a class of people who are never content with riding their own hobbies; they must have others mount with them. All the world is going wrong because it moves past them — trotting, pacing or galloping, as it may be, upon its own hobbies. And so they try to arrest this movement or that, or, gathering a company of aimless people, they brainwash them with their own wild purposes, and start them forth into the world on deluded errands. These people are never content to wait for the slow changes that are included in all orderly developments. Because a thing seems right to them in the abstract — it must be done now. They cannot wait for old things to pass away, as preliminary to the inauguration of what is new. "If I had the power," we have heard one of this class say, "evil and sorrow and pain would cease from the earth in a moment!" And in saying this, the thought was not concealed that God had this power — but failed to exercise it. With them no questions of expediency, no regard for time-endowed beliefs, no weak spirit of waiting, no looking for the fullness of time — could have any influence. What they willed to be done must be done now; and they are impatient and angry at everyone who stood in their way or opposed their theories. In most cases, you will find these "reformers," as they generally style themselves, governed more by a love of ruling and influencing others — than by a spirit of love for humanity. They are one-sided people, and can only see one side of a subject in clear light. It matters little to them what is destroyed — just so that they can build. If they possess the gift of language, either as writers or talkers — have wit, brilliancy and sarcasm — they make disciples of the less gifted, and influence larger or smaller circles of men and women. Flattered by this homage to their talents, they grow more ardent in the cause which they have espoused — and see, or affect to see, little else of any importance in the world. They do some good and much harm. Good, in drawing general attention to social evils which need reforming — evil, in causing weak people to forget common duties, in their ambition to set the world right. There is always danger in breaking suddenly away from the regular progression of things and taking the lead in some new and antagonistic movement. Such things must and will be; but they who set up for social reformers must be men and women of pure hearts, clear minds and the broadest human sympathies. They must be lovers of humanity, not lovers of themselves; brave as patriots, not as soldiers of fortune who seek for booty and renown. Not many of these true reformers — all honor to them! — are found among the noisy coteries which infest the land and turn so many foolish people away from real duties. One of the dangers attendant on association with the class to which we refer, lies in the fact that they draw around them certain free-thinking, sensual personages, of no very stable morality, who are ready for anything that gives excitement to their morbid conditions of mind. Social disasters, of the saddest kind, are constantly occurring through this cause. Men and women become at first unsettled in their opinions, then unsettled in their conduct — and finally throw off all virtuous restraint. Mrs. Talbot, the new friend of Irene, belonged to the better sort of reformers in one respect. She was a pure-minded woman; but this did not keep her out of the circle of those who were of freer thought and action. Being an extremist on the subject of woman’s social position, she met and assimilated with others on the basis of a common sentiment. This threw her in contact with many from whom she would have shrunk with instinctive aversion, had she known their true morality. Still, to her the evil of old conservative ideas in regard to the institution of marriage, was a gradual wearing away, by the power of steady attrition. There was always a great deal said on this subject, in a light way, by people for whose opinions on other subjects she had the highest respect, and this had its influence. Insensibly her views and feelings changed, until she found herself, in some cases, the advocate of sentiments that she once would have been rejected with instinctive repugnance. This was the woman who went about acquiring a strong influence over the undisciplined, self-willed and too self-reliant young wife of Hartley Emerson; and this was the class of personages among whom her dangerous friend was about introducing her. At the house of Mrs. Talbot, where Irene became a frequent visitor, she met a great many brilliant, talented and fascinating people, of whom she often spoke to her husband, for she was too independent to have any concealments. She knew that he did no like Mrs. Talbot — but this rather inclined her to a favorable estimation, and really led to a more frequent fellowship than would otherwise have been the case. Once a week Mrs. Talbot held a special meeting, at which brilliant people, and people with fascinating hobbies met to hear themselves talk. Mr. and Mrs. Emerson had a standing invitation to be present at these reunions, and, as Irene wished to go, her husband saw it best not to interpose obstacles. Besides, as he knew that she went to Mrs. Talbot’s often in the day-time, and met a good many people there, he wished to see for himself who they were, and judge for himself as to their quality. Of the men who frequented the parlors of Mrs. Talbot, the larger number had some prefix to their names, as Professor, Doctor, Major, or Colonel. Most of the ladies were of a decidedly literary turn — some had written books, some were magazine contributors, one was a physician, and one a public lecturer. Nothing against them in all this — but much to their honor if their talents and acquirements were used for the common good. The themes of conversation at these weekly gatherings were varied — but social relations and social reform, were in most cases the leading topics. Two or three evenings at Mrs. Talbot’s were enough to satisfy Hartley that the people who met there were not of a character to exercise a good influence upon his wife. But how was he to keep her from associations that evidently presented strong attractions? He feared to make direct opposition, for the experience of a few months had been sufficient to show him that she would resist all attempts on his part to exercise a controlling influence. He tried at first to keep her away by pretending slight sickness, or weariness, or disinclination to go out, and so lead her to exercise some self-denial for his sake. But her mind was too firmly bent on going to be turned so easily from its purpose; she did not consider trifles like these, of sufficient importance to interfere with the pleasures of an evening at one of Mrs. Talbot’s special meetings. Hartley felt hurt at his wife’s plain disregard of his comfort and wishes, and said within himself, with bitterness of feeling, that she was heartless. One day, at dinner-time, he said to her — "I shall not be able to go to Mrs. Talbot’s tonight." "Why?" Irene looked at her husband in surprise, and with a shade of disappointment on her countenance. "I have business of importance with a gentleman who resides in Brooklyn, and have promised to meet him at his house this evening." "You might call for me on your return," said Irene. "The time of my return will be uncertain. I cannot now tell how late I may be detained in Brooklyn." "I’m sorry." And Irene bent down her eyes in a thoughtful way. "I promised Mrs. Talbot to be there tonight," she added. "Mrs. Talbot will excuse you when she knows why you were absent." "I don’t know about that," said Irene. "She must be a very unreasonable woman," remarked Hartley. "That doesn’t necessarily follow. You could take me there, and Mrs. Talbot could find me an escort home." "Who?" Hartley knit his brows and glanced sharply at his wife. The suggestion struck him unpleasantly. "Major Willard, for instance;" and she smiled in a half-amused, half-mischievous way. "You cannot be in earnest, surely?" said Hartley. "Why not?" queried his wife, looking at her husband with calm, searching eyes. "You would not, in the first place, be present there, unaccompanied by your husband; and, in the second place, I hardly think my wife would be seen in the street, at night, on the arm of Major Willard." Hartley spoke like a man who was in earnest. "Do you know anything wrong of Major Willard?" asked Irene. "I know nothing about him, right or wrong," was replied. "But, if I have any skill in reading men, he is very far from being a moral man." "Why, Hartley! You have let some prejudice come in to warp your estimation." "No. I have mixed some with men, and, though my opportunity for observation has not been large, I have met two or three of your Major Willards. They are polished and attractive on the surface — but unprincipled and corrupt." "I cannot believe this of Major Willard," said Irene. "It might be safer for you to believe it," replied Hartley. "Safer! I don’t understand you! You talk in riddles? How safer?" Irene showed some irritation. "Safer as to your good name," replied her husband. "My good name is in my own keeping," said the young wife, proudly. "Then, for Heaven’s sake, remain its safe custodian," replied Hartley. "Don’t let even the shadow of a man like Major Willard fall upon it." "I am sorry to see you so prejudiced," said Irene, coldly; "and sorry, still further, that you have so poor an opinion of your wife." "You misapprehend me," returned Hartley. "I am neither prejudiced nor suspicious. But seeing danger in your way, as a prudent man I lift a voice of warning. I am out in the world more than you are, and see more of its worst side. My profession naturally opens to me doors of observation that are shut to many. I see the inside of character, where others look only upon the fair outside." "And so learn to be suspicious of everybody," said Irene. "No — only to read indices that to many others are unintelligible." "I must learn to read them also." "It would be well if your gender and place in the world gave the right opportunity," replied Hartley. "Truly said. And that touches the main question. Women, immured as they now are, and never allowed to go out into the world unless guarded by husband, brother or discreet managing friend — will continue as weak and undiscriminating as the great mass of them now are. But, so far as I am concerned, this system is destined to change. I must be permitted a larger liberty, and opportunities for independent observation. I wish to read character for myself, and make up my own mind in regard to the people I meet." "I am only sorry," rejoined her husband, "that your first effort at reading character and making up independent opinions in regard to men and principles, had not found scope in another direction. I am afraid that, in trying to get close enough to the people you meet at Mrs. Talbot’s for accurate observation, you will draw so near to dangerous fires — as to scorch your garments." "Compliments to Mrs. Talbot!" "The remark simply gives you my estimate of some of her favored visitors." "And compliments to your wife," added Irene. "My wife," said Hartley, in a serious voice, "is, like myself, young and inexperienced, and should be particularly cautious in regard to all new acquaintances — men or women — particularly if they be some years her senior, and particularly if they show any marked desire to cultivate her acquaintance. People with a large worldly experience, like most of those we have met at Mrs. Talbot’s, take you and I at disadvantage. They read us through at a single sitting, while it may take us months, even years, to penetrate the disguises they know so well how to assume." "Nearly all of which, concerning the pleasant people we meet at Mrs. Talbot’s, is assumed," replied Irene, not at all moved by her husband’s earnestness. "You may learn to your sorrow, when the knowledge comes too late," he responded, "that even more than I have assumed is true." "I am not in fear of the sorrow," was answered lightly. As Irene, against all argument, persuasion and remonstrance on the part of her husband — persisted in her determination to go to Mrs. Talbot’s; Hartley engaged a carriage to take her there and to call for her at eleven o’clock. "Come away alone," he said, with impressive earnestness, as he parted from her. "Don’t let any courteous offer induce you to accept an attendant when you return home." ======================================================================== CHAPTER 74: 04.14. CHAPTER 14. A STARTLING EXPERIENCE ======================================================================== Chapter 14. A Startling Experience Irene did not feel altogether comfortable in mind as she rode away from her door alone. She was going unattended by her husband, and against his warmly-spoken remonstrance, to pass an evening with people of whom she knew but little, and against whom he had strong prejudices. "It were better to have remained at home," she said to herself more than once before her arrival at Mrs. Talbot’s. The marked attentions she received, as well from Mrs. Talbot as from several of her guests, soon brought her spirits up to the old elevation. Among those who seemed most attracted by her, was Major Willard, to whom reference has already been made. "Where is your husband?" was almost his first inquiry on meeting her. "I do not see him in the room." "He had to meet a gentleman on business over in Brooklyn this evening," replied Irene. "Ah, business!" said the major, with a shrug, a movement of the eyebrows and a motion in the corners of his mouth which were not intelligible signs to Irene. That they meant something more than he was prepared to utter in words, she was satisfied — but whether of favorable or unfavorable import concerning her absent husband, she could not tell. The impression on her mind was not agreeable, and she could not help remembering what Hartley had said about the major. "I notice," remarked the latter, "that we have several ladies here who come usually without their husbands. Gentlemen are not always attracted by the feast of reason and the flow of soul. They require something more substantial. Oysters and turtles are nearer to their fancy." "Not more to my husband’s fancy," replied Irene, in a tone of vindication, as well as rebuke at such freedom of speech. "Beg your pardon a thousand times, madam!" returned Major Willard, "if I have even seemed to speak lightly of one who holds the honored position of your husband. Nothing could have been farther from my thought. I was only trifling." Irene smiled her forgiveness, and the major became more polite and attentive than before. But his attentions were not wholly agreeable. Something in the expression of his eyes as he looked at her, produced an unpleasant repulsion. She was constantly remembering some of the cautions spoken by Hartley in reference to this man, and she wished scores of times that he would turn his attentions to someone else. But the major seemed to have no eyes for any other lady in the room. In spite of the innate repulsion to which we have referred, Irene was flattered by the polished major’s devotion of himself almost wholly to her during the evening, and she could do no less in return than make herself as agreeable as possible. At eleven o’clock she had notice that her carriage was at the door. The major was by, and heard the communication. So, when she came down from the dressing-room, he was waiting for her in the hall, ready cloaked and gloved. "No, Major Willard, I thank you," she said, on his making a movement to accompany her. She spoke very positively. "I cannot see you go home unattended." And the major bowed with graceful politeness. "Oh no," said Mrs. Talbot. "You must not leave my house alone. Major, I shall expect you to attend my young friend." It was in vain that Irene objected and remonstrated, the gallant major would listen to nothing; and so, perforce, she had to yield. After handing her into the carriage, he spoke a word or two in an undertone to the driver, and then entering, took his place by her side. Irene felt strangely uncomfortable and embarrassed, and shrunk as far from her companion as the narrow space they occupied would permit; while he, it seemed to her, approached as she receded. There was a different tone in his voice when he spoke as the carriage moved away, from any she had noticed heretofore. He drew his face near to hers in speaking — but the rattling of the wheels made hearing difficult. He had, during the evening, referred to a star actress then occupying public attention, of whom some scandalous things had been said, and declared his belief in her innocence. To Irene’s surprise — almost disgust — his first remark after they were seated in the carriage was about this actress. Irene did not respond to his remark. "Did you ever meet her in private circles?" he next inquired. "No, sir," she answered, coldly. "I have had that pleasure," said Major Willard. There was no responsive word. "She is a most fascinating woman," continued the major. "That goddess-like beauty which so distinguishes her on the stage scarcely shows itself in the drawing-room. On the stage she is queenly — in private, soft, delightful and winning as an angel. I don’t wonder that she has crowds of admirers." The major’s face was close to that of his companion, who felt a wild sense of repugnance, so strong as to be almost suffocating. The carriage bounded as the wheels struck an inequality in the street, throwing them together with a slight collision. The major laid his hand upon that of Irene, as if to support her. But she instantly withdrew the hand he had presumed to touch. He attempted the same familiarity again — but she placed both hands beyond the possibility of accidental or designed contact with his, and shrank still closer into the corner of the carriage, while her heart fluttered and a tremor ran through her frame. Major Willard spoke again of the actress — but Irene made no reply. "Where are we going?" she asked, after the lapse of some ten minutes, glancing from the window and seeing, instead of the tall rows of stately houses which lined the streets along the whole distance between Mrs. Talbot’s residence and her own house, base-looking tenements. "The driver knows his route, I presume," was answered. "This is not the way, I am sure," said Irene, a slight quiver of alarm in her voice. "Our drivers know the shortest cuts," replied the major, "and these do not always lead through the most attractive quarters of the town." Irene shrunk back again in her seat and was silent. Her heart was throbbing with a vague fear. Suddenly the carriage stopped and the driver alighted. "This is not my home," said Irene, as the driver opened the door, and the major stepped out upon the pavement. "Oh, yes. This is No. 240 Lambert street. Yes, ma’am," added the driver, "this is the number that the gentleman told me." "What gentleman?" asked Irene. "This gentleman, if you please, ma’am." "Drive me home instantly, or this may cost you dear!" said Irene, in as stern a voice as surprise and fear would permit her to assume. "Madam . . ." Major Willard commenced speaking. "Silence, sir! Shut the door, driver, and take me home instantly!" The major made a movement as if he were about to enter the carriage, when Irene said, in a low, steady, threatening voice — "At your peril, remain outside! Driver, shut the door. If you permit that man to enter, my husband will hold you to a strict account." "Stand back!" exclaimed the driver, in a resolute voice. But the major was not to be put off in this way. He did not move from the open door of the carriage. In the next moment the driver’s vigorous arm had hurled him across the pavement. The door was shut, the box mounted and the carriage whirled away, before the astonished man could rise, half stunned, from the place where he fell. A few base, bitter, impotent curses fell from his lips, and then he walked slowly away, muttering threats of vengeance. It was nearly twelve o’clock when Irene reached home. "You are late," said her husband, as she came in. "Yes," she replied, "later than I intended." "What’s the matter?" he inquired, looking at her narrowly. "Why do you ask?" She tried to put on an air of indifference. "You look pale and your voice is disturbed." "The driver went through parts of the town in returning that made me feel nervous, as I thought of my lonely and unprotected situation." "Why did he do that?" "It wasn’t to make the way shorter, for the direct route would have brought me home ten minutes ago. I declare! The fellow’s conduct made me right nervous. I thought a dozen improbable things." "It is the last time I will employ him," said Hartley. "How dare he go a single block away from a direct course, at this late hour?" He spoke with rising indignation. At first, Irene resolved to inform her husband of Major Willard’s conduct — but it will be seen by this conversation that she had changed her mind, at least for the present. Two or three things caused her to hesitate until she could turn the matter over in her thoughts more carefully. Pride had its influence. She did not care to admit that she had been in error and Hartley right, as to Major Willard. But there was a more sober aspect of the case. Hartley was excitable, brave and strong-willed. She feared the consequences that might follow if he were informed of Major Willard’s outrageous conduct. A personal confrontation she saw to be almost inevitable in this event. Mortifying publicity, if not the shedding of blood, would ensue. So, for the present at least, she resolved to keep her own secret, and evaded the close queries of her husband, who was considerably disturbed by the alleged conduct of the driver. One good result followed this rather startling experience. Irene said no more about attending the meetings of Mrs. Talbot. She did not care to meet Major Willard again, and as he was a regular visitor at Mrs. Talbot’s, she couldn’t go there without encountering him. Her absence on the next social evening was remarked by her new friend, who called on her the next day. "I didn’t see you last night," said the agreeable Mrs. Talbot. "No, I remained at home," replied Irene, the smile with which she had received her friend fading partly away. "Not sick, I hope?" "No." "But your husband was! Talk it right out, my pretty one!" said Mrs. Talbot, in a mirthful, bantering tone. "Indisposed in mind. He doesn’t like the class of people one meets at my house. Men of his stamp never do." It was on the lips of Irene to say that there might be ground for his dislike of some who were met there. But she repressed even a remote reference to an affair that, for the gravest of reasons, she still desired to keep as her own secret. So she merely answered — "The indisposition of mind was on my part." "On your part? Oh dear! That alters the case. And, pray, what occasioned this indisposition? Not a previous mental excess, I hope." "Oh no. I never get an excess in good company. But people’s states vary, as you are aware. I had a stay-at-home feeling last night, and indulged myself." "Very prettily said, my dear. I understand you entirely, and like your frank, outspoken way. This is always best with friends. I desire all of mine to enjoy the largest liberty — to come and see me when they feel like it, and to stay away when they don’t feel like coming. We had a delightful time. Major Willard was there. He’s a charming man! Several times through the evening he asked for you. I really think your absence worried him. Now, don’t blush! A handsome, accomplished man may admire a handsome and accomplished woman, without anything wrong being involved. Because one has a husband, is she not to be spoken to or admired by other men? Nonsense! That is the world’s weak prudery, or rather the common social sentiment based on man’s tyranny over woman." As Mrs. Talbot ran on in this strain, Irene had time to reflect and school her exterior. Toward Major Willard her feelings were those of disgust and detestation. The utterance of his name shocked her womanly delicacy — but when it was coupled with a sentiment of admiration for her, and an intimation of the probable existence of something reciprocal on her part — it was with difficulty that she could restrain a burst of indignant feeling. But her strong will helped her, and she gave no intelligible sign of what was really passing in her thoughts. The subject being altogether disagreeable, she changed it as soon as possible. In this interview with Mrs. Talbot a new impression in regard to her was made on the mind of Irene. Something impure seemed to pervade the mental atmosphere with which she was surrounded, and there seemed to be things involved in what she said, that shadowed a latitude in morals wholly outside of Christian duty. When they separated, much of the enthusiasm which Irene had felt for this sophisticated, unsafe acquaintance was gone, and her power over her was in the same measure lessened. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 75: 04.15. CHAPTER 15. CAPTIVATED AGAIN ======================================================================== Chapter 15. Captivated Again But it is not so easily escaping from a woman like Mrs. Talbot, when an acquaintanceship is once formed. In less than a week she called again, and this time in company with another lady, a Mrs. Lloyd, whom she introduced as a very dear friend. Mrs. Lloyd was a tall, lean woman, with an intellectual face, bright, restless, penetrating eyes, a clear musical voice, subdued — but winning manners. She was a little past thirty, though sickness of body or mind had stolen the bloom of early womanhood, and carried her forward, apparently, to the verge of forty. Irene had never before heard of this lady. But half an hour’s conversation completely captivated her. Mrs. Lloyd had traveled through Europe, and spoke in a familiar way of the celebrated personages whom she had met abroad — talked of art, music and architecture, literature, artists and literary men — displayed such high culture and easy acquaintance with themes quite above the range usually met with among ordinary people, that Irene felt really flattered with the compliment of a visit. "My good friend, Mrs. Talbot," said Mrs. Lloyd, during their conversation, "has spoken of you so warmly that I could do no less than make overtures for an acquaintance, which I trust may prove agreeable. I anticipated the pleasure of seeing you at her house last week — but was disappointed." "The interview of today," remarked Mrs. Talbot, coming in adroitly, "will only make pleasanter your meeting on tomorrow night." "At your house?" said Mrs. Lloyd. "Yes." And Mrs. Talbot threw a winning smile upon Irene. "You will be there?" "I think not," was replied. "Oh — but you must come, my dear Irene! We cannot do without you." "I have promised my husband to go out with him." "Your husband!" The voice of Mrs. Talbot betrayed too plainly her contempt of husbands. "Yes, my husband." Irene let her voice dwell with meaning on the word. The other ladies looked at each other for a moment or two with meaning glances; then Mrs. Talbot remarked, in a quiet way — but with a little pleasantry in her voice, as if she were not right clear in regard to her young friend’s state of feeling, "Oh dear! these husbands are dreadfully in the way, sometimes! Haven’t you found it so, Mrs. Lloyd?" The eyes of Irene were turned instantly to the face of her new acquaintance. She saw a slight change of expression in her pale face that took something from its agreeable aspect. And yet Mrs. Lloyd smiled as she answered, in a way meant to be pleasant, "They are very good — in their place." "The trouble," remarked Mrs. Talbot, in reply, "is to make them keep their place." "At our feet!" Irene laughed as she said this. "No," answered Mrs. Lloyd — "at our sides, as equals." "And beyond that," said Mrs. Talbot, "we want them to give us as much freedom in the world as they take for themselves. They come in and go out when they please, and submit to no questioning on our part. Very well; I don’t object — I only claim the same right for myself. ’I will ask my husband.’ Don’t you hear this said every day? Pah! I’m always tempted to cut the acquaintance of a woman when I hear these words from her lips. Does a man, when a friend asks him to do anything or go anywhere, say, ’I’ll ask my wife?’ Not he. A lady who comes occasionally to our weekly reunions — but whose husband is too much of a man to put himself down to the level of our set — is permitted the enjoyment of an evening with us, now and then — but on one condition." "Condition!" There was a throb of indignant feeling in the voice of Mrs. Lloyd. "Yes, on condition that no male visitor at my house shall accompany her home. A carriage is sent for her precisely at ten o’clock, when she must leave, and alone." "How humiliating!" ejaculated Mrs. Lloyd. "Isn’t it? I can scarcely have patience with her. Major Willard has, at my insistence, several times made an effort to accompany her, and once actually entered her carriage. But the lady commanded him to retire, or she would leave the carriage herself. Of course, when she took that position, the gallant major had to leave the field." "Such a restriction would scarcely have suited my fancy," said Mrs. Lloyd. "Nor mine. What do you think of that?" And Mrs. Talbot looked into the face of Irene, whose color had risen beyond its usual tone. "Circumstances alter cases," replied the latter, crushing out all feeling from her voice and letting it fall into a dead level of indifference. "But circumstances don’t alter facts, my dear. There are the hard facts of restrictions and conditions — made by a man, and applied to his equal, a woman. Does she say to him, You can’t go to your club unless you return alone in your carriage, and leave the club-house precisely at ten o’clock? Oh no. He would laugh in her face, or, perhaps, consult the family physician concerning her sanity!" This mode of putting the question rather bewildered the mind of our young wife, and she dropped her eyes from those of Mrs. Talbot and sat looking upon the floor in silence. "Can’t you get your husband to release you from this engagement of which you have spoken?" asked Mrs. Lloyd. "I would like above all things to meet you tomorrow evening." Irene smiled as she answered, "Husbands have rights, you know, as well as wives. We must consult their pleasure sometimes, as well as our own." "Certainly — certainly." Mrs. Lloyd spoke with visible impatience. "I promised to go with my husband tomorrow night," said Irene; "and, much as I may desire to meet you at Mrs. Talbot’s, I am not at liberty to go there." "In chains! Ah me! Poor wives!" sighed Mrs. Talbot, in affected pity. "Not at liberty! The admission which comes to us from all sides." She laughed in her gurgling, hollow way as she said this. "Not bound to my husband — but to my word of promise," replied Irene, as pleasantly as her disturbed feelings would permit her to speak. The ladies were pressing her a little too closely, and she both saw and felt this. They were stepping beyond the bounds of reason and delicacy. Mrs. Lloyd saw the state of mind which had been produced, and at once changed the subject. "May I flatter myself with the prospect of having this call returned?" she said, handing Irene her card as she was about leaving. "It will give me great pleasure to know you better, and you may look to seeing me right early," was the bland reply. And yet Irene was not really attracted by this woman, but, on the contrary, repelled. There was something in her keen, searching eyes, which seemed to be looking right into the thoughts, that gave her a feeling of doubt. "Thank you. The favor will be all on my side," said Mrs. Lloyd, as she held the hand of Irene and gave it a warm pressure. The visit of these ladies did not leave the mind of Irene in a very satisfactory state. Some things that were said she rejected, while other things lingered and occasioned suggestions which were not favorable to her husband. While she had no wish to be present at Mrs. Talbot’s on account of Major Willard, she was annoyed by the thought that Hartley’s fixing on the next evening for her to go out with him, was to prevent her attendance at the weekly meeting. Irene did not mention to her husband the fact that she had received a visit from Mrs. Talbot, in company with a pleasant stranger, Mrs. Lloyd. It would have been far better for her if she had done so. Many times it was on her lips to mention the call — but as often she kept silent, one or the other of two considerations having influence. Hartley did not like Mrs. Talbot, and therefore the mention of her name, and the fact of her calling — would not be pleasant theme. The other consideration had reference to a woman’s independence. "He doesn’t tell me of every man he meets through the day, and why should I feel under obligation to speak of every lady who calls?" So she thought. "As to Mrs. Lloyd, he would have a hundred prying question’s to ask, as if I were not competent to judge of the character of my own friends and acquaintances?" Within a week the call of Mrs. Lloyd was reciprocated by Irene; not in consequence of feeling drawn toward that lady — but she had promised to return the friendly visit, and must keep her word. She found her domiciled in a fashionable boarding-house, and was received in the common parlor, in which were two or three ladies and a gentleman, besides Mrs. Lloyd. The greeting she received was warm, almost affectionate. In spite of the prejudice that was creeping into her mind in consequence of an unfavorable first impression, Irene was flattered by her reception, and before the termination of her visit she was satisfied that she had not, in the beginning, formed a right estimate of this really fascinating woman. "I hope to see you right soon," she said, as she bade Mrs. Lloyd good-morning. "It will not be my fault if we do not soon know each other better." "Nor mine either," replied Mrs. Lloyd. "I think I shall find you just after my own heart." The voice of Mrs. Lloyd was a little raised as she said this, and Irene noticed that a gentleman who was in the parlor when she entered — but to whom she had not been introduced, turned and looked at her with a steady, curious gaze, which struck her at the time as being on the verge of unfitness. Only two or three days passed before Mrs. Lloyd returned this visit. Irene found her more interesting than ever. She had seen a great deal of society, and had met, according to her own story, with most of the distinguished men and women of the country, about whom she talked in a very agreeable manner. She described their personal appearance, habits, peculiarities and manners, and related pleasant anecdotes about them. On authors and books — she was entirely at home. But there was an undercurrent of feeling in all she said that a wiser and more experienced woman than Irene would have noted. It was not a feeling of admiration for moral beauty — but for intellectual beauty. She could dissect a character with wonderful skill — but always passed the quality of morality, as not taken into account. In her view, this quality did not seem to be a positive element. When Mrs. Lloyd went away, she left the mind of Irene stimulated, restless and fluttering with vague imaginations. She felt envious of her new friend’s accomplishments, and ambitious to move in as wide a sphere as she had compassed. The visit was returned at an early period, and, as before, Irene met Mrs. Lloyd in the public parlor of her boarding-house. The same gentleman whose manner had a little annoyed her was present, and she noticed several times, on glancing toward him, that his eyes were fixed upon her, and with an expression that she did not understand. After this, the two ladies met every day or two, and sometimes walked Broadway together. The only information that Irene had in regard to her attractive friend — she received from Mrs. Talbot. According to her statement, she was a widow whose married life had not been a happy one. Her husband, like most husbands, was an overbearing tyrant — and Mrs. Lloyd, having a spirit of her own, resisted his authority. Trouble was the consequence, and Mrs. Talbot thought, though she was not certain, that a divorce took place before Mr. Lloyd’s death. She had a moderate income, which came from her husband’s estate, on which she lived in a kind of idle independence. So she had plenty of time to read, visit and enjoy herself in the ways her imagination or inclination might prompt. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 76: 04.16. CHAPTER 16. WEARY OF CONSTRAINT ======================================================================== Chapter 16. Weary of Constraint Time moved on, and Irene’s intimate city friends were those to whom she had been introduced, directly or indirectly, through Mrs. Talbot. Of these, the one who had most influence over her was Mrs. Lloyd, and that influence was not of the right kind. Singularly enough, it so happened that Hartley never met this lady at his house, though she spent hours there every week; and, more singular still, Irene had never spoken about her to her husband. She had often been on the point of doing so — but an impression that Hartley would take up an unreasonable prejudice against her, kept the name of this friend back from her lips. Months now followed each other without the occurrence of events marked by special interest. Hartley grew more absorbed in his profession as cases multiplied on his hands; and Irene, interested in her circle of bright-minded, independent-thinking women, found the days and weeks gliding on pleasantly enough. But habits of estimating things a little differently from the common sentiment, and views of life not by any means consonant with those prevailing among the larger numbers of her gender — were gradually taking root. Young, inexperienced, self-willed and active in mind, Irene had most unfortunately been introduced among a class of people whose influence upon her could not fail to be hurtful. Their conversation was mainly of art, literature, social progress and development; the drama, music, public sentiment on leading topics of the day; the advancement of liberal ideas, the necessity of a larger liberty and a wider sphere of action for woman, and the equality of the sexes. All well enough, all to be commended when viewed in their just relation to other themes and interests — but actually pernicious when separated from the homely and useful things of daily life, and made so to overshadow these as to warp them into comparative insignificance. Here lay the evil. It was this elevation of her ideas above the region of use and duty — into the mere aesthetic and reformatory that was hurtful to one like Irene — that is, in fact, hurtful to any woman; for it is always hurtful to take away from the mind its interest in common life — the life, we mean, of daily useful work. Work! We know the word has not a pleasant sound to many ears, that it seems to include degradation, and a kind of social slavery, and lies away down in a region to which your fine, cultivated, intellectual woman cannot descend without, in her view, soiling her garments. But for all this, it is alone in daily useful work of mind or hands, work in which service and benefits to others are involved — that a woman (or a man) gains any true perfection of character. And this work must be her own, must lie within the sphere of her own relations to others, and she must engage in it from a sense of duty that takes its promptings from her own consciousness of right. No other woman can judge of her relation to this work, and she who dares to interfere or turn her aside, should be considered an enemy — not a friend. No wonder, if this be true, that we have so many women of taste, cultivation, and often brilliant intellectual powers — blazing about like comets or shooting stars in our social firmament. They attract admiring attention, excite our wonder, give us themes for conversation and criticism; but as guides and indicators while we sail over the dangerous sea of life — what are they in comparison with some humble star of the sixth magnitude that ever keeps its true place in the heavens, shining on with its small but steady ray, a perpetual blessing? And so the patient, thoughtful, loving wife and mother, doing her daily work for human souls and bodies — though her intellectual powers may be humble, and her taste but poorly cultivated — fills more honorably her sphere, than any of her more brilliant sisters, who cast off what they consider the shackles by which custom and tyranny have bound them down to mere home duties and the drudgery of household care. If down into these they would bring their superior powers, their cultivated tastes, their larger knowledge — how quickly would some desert homes in our land put on refreshing greenness; and desolate gardens blossom like the rose! We would have, instead of vast imaginary Utopias in the future — model homes in the present — the light and beauty of which, shining abroad, would give higher types of social life for common emulation. Ah, if the Genius of Social Reform would only take her stand centrally! If she would make the renewal of homes the great achievement of our day — then would she indeed come with promise and blessing. But, alas! she is so far vagrant in her habits — a fortune-telling gipsy — not a true, loving, useful woman. Unhappily for Irene, it was the weird-eyed, fortune-telling gipsy, whose philosophic utterances had bewildered her mind. The reconciliation which followed the Christmas-time troubles of Irene and her husband, had given both more prudent self-control. They guarded themselves with a care that threw around the manner of each, a certain reserve — which was often felt by the other as coldness. To both this was, in a degree, painful. There was tender love in their hearts — but it was overshadowed by self-will and false ideas of independence on the one side; and by a brooding spirit of accusation and unaccustomed restraint on the other. Many times, each day of their lives, did words and sentiments, just about to be uttered by Hartley, die unspoken, lest in them something might appear which would stir the quick feelings of Irene into antagonism. There was no guarantee of happiness in such a state of things. Mutual forbearance existed, not from self-discipline and tender love — but from fear of consequences. They were both burnt children, and dreaded, as well they might, the fire! With little change in their relations to each other, and few events worthy of notice, a year went by. Mr. Delancy came down to New York several times during this period, spending a few days at each visit, while Irene went frequently to Ivy Cliff, and stayed there, occasionally, as long as two or three weeks. Hartley always came up from the city while Irene was at her father’s — but never stayed longer than a single day, business requiring him to be at his office or in court. Mr. Delancy never saw them together without closely observing their manner, tone of speaking and language. Both, he could see, were maturing rapidly. Irene had changed most. There was a style of thinking, a familiarity with popular themes and a womanly confidence in her expression of opinions, that at times surprised him. With her views on some subjects, his own mind was far from being in agreement, and they often had warm arguments. Occasionally, when her husband was at Ivy Cliff — a difference of sentiment would arise between them. Mr. Delancy noticed, when this was the case, that Irene always pressed her view with ardor — and that her husband, after a brief but pleasant combat, retired from the field. He also noticed that in most cases, after this giving up of the contest by Hartley — he was more than usually quiet and seemed to be pondering things not wholly agreeable. Mr. Delancy was gratified to see that there was no harsh jarring between them. But he failed not at the same time to notice something else that gave him uneasiness. The warmth of feeling, the tenderness, the lover-like ardor which displayed itself in the beginning — no longer existed. They did not even show that fondness for each other which is so beautiful a trait in young married partners. And yet he could trace no signs of alienation. The truth was, the action of their lives had been inharmonious. Deep down in their hearts, there was no defect of love. But this love was compelled to hide itself away; and so, for the most part, it lay concealed from even their own consciousness. During the second year of their married life there came a change of state in both Irene and her husband. They had each grown weary of constraint when together. It was irksome to be always on guard, lest some word, tone or act should be misunderstood. In consequence, old conflicts were renewed, and Hartley often grew impatient and even contemptuous toward his wife, when she ventured to speak of social progress, woman’s rights, or any of the kindred themes in which she still took a warm interest. Angry retort usually followed on these occasions, and periods of coldness ensued, the effect of which was to produce states of alienation. If a babe had come to soften the heart of Irene, to turn thought and feeling in a new direction, to awaken a mother’s love with all its holy tenderness — how different would all have been! — different with her, and different with him. There would then have been an object on which both could center interest and affection, and thus draw lovingly together again, and feel, as in the beginning, heart beating to heart in sweet accordings. They would have learned their love-lessons over again, and understood their meanings better. Alas that the angels of infancy found no place in their dwelling! With no central attraction at home, her thoughts stimulated by association with a class of intellectual, restless women, who were wandering on life’s broad desert, in search of green places and refreshing springs, each day’s journey bearing them farther and farther away from landscapes of perpetual verdure — Irene grew more and more interested in subjects that lay for the most part entirely out of the range of her husband’s sympathies; while he was becoming more deeply absorbed in a profession that required close application of thought, intellectual force and clearness, and cold, practical modes of looking at all questions that came up for consideration. The consequence was that they were, in all their common interests, modes of thinking and habits of regarding the affairs of life — steadily receding from each other. Their evenings were now less frequently spent together. If home had been a pleasant place to him, Hartley would have usually remained at home after the day’s duties were over; or, if he went abroad, it would have been usually in company with his wife. But home was getting to be dull, if not positively disagreeable. If a conversation was started — it soon involved disagreement in sentiment, and then came argument, and perhaps ungentle words, followed by silence and a mutual writing down of bitter things in their minds. If there was no conversation, Irene buried herself in a book — some absorbing novel, usually of the progressive thought school. Naturally, under this state of things, Hartley, who was social in disposition, sought companionship elsewhere, and with his own gender. Brought into contact with men of different tastes, feelings and habits of thinking, he gradually selected a few as intimate friends, and, in association with these, formed, as his wife was doing, a social point of interest outside of his home; thus widening still further the space between them. The home duties involved in housekeeping, indifferently as they had always been discharged by Irene — were now becoming more and more distasteful to her. This daily care about mere eating and drinking, seemed unworthy of a woman who had noble aspirations, such as burned in her breast. That was work for women-drudges who had no higher ambition; "and Heaven knows," she would often say to herself, "there are enough and to spare of these drones!" "What’s the use of keeping up an establishment like this, just for two people?" she would often remark to her husband; and he would usually reply, "For the sake of having a home into which one may retire and shut out the world." Irene would sometimes suggest the lighter expense of renting. "If it cost twice as much, I would prefer to live in my own house," was the invariable answer. "But see what a burden of care it lays on my shoulders." Now Hartley could only with difficulty repress a word of impatient rebuke when this argument was used. He thought of his own daily devotion to business, prolonged often into the night, when an important case was on hand, and mentally charged his wife with a selfish love of ease. On the other hand, it seemed to Irene that her husband was selfish in wishing her to bear the burdens of housekeeping, just for his pleasure or convenience — when they might live as comfortably in a boarding-house. On this subject Hartley would not enter into a discussion. "It’s no use talking, Irene," he would say, when she grew in earnest. "You cannot tempt me to give up my home. It includes many things that with me are essential to comfort. I detest boarding-houses; they are only places for sojourning, not living." As agreement on this subject was out of the question, Irene did not usually urge considerations in favor of abandoning their pleasant home. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 77: 04.17. CHAPTER 17. GONE FOREVER! ======================================================================== Chapter 17. Gone Forever! One evening — it was nearly three years from the date of their marriage — Hartley and his wife were sitting opposite to each other at the center-table, in the evening. She had a book in her hand and he held a newspaper before his face — but his eyes were not on the printed columns. He had spoken only a few words since he came in, and his wife noticed that he had the manner of one whose mind is in doubt or perplexity. Letting the newspaper fall upon the table at length, Hartley looked over at his wife and said, in a quiet tone, "Irene, did you ever meet a lady by the name of Mrs. Lloyd?" The color mounted to the face of Irene as she replied, "Yes, I have met her often." "Since when?" "I have known her intimately for the past two years." "What!" Hartley started to his feet and looked for some moments steadily at his wife, his countenance expressing the profoundest astonishment. "And never once mentioned to me her name! Has she ever called here?" "Yes." "Often?" "As often as two or three times a week." "Irene!" Irene, bewildered at first by her husband’s manner of interrogating her, now recovered her self-possession, and, rising, looked steadily at him across the table. "I am wholly at a loss to understand you," she now said, calmly. "Have you ever visited her at her boarding-house?" demanded Hartley. "I have, often." "And walked Broadway with her?" "Certainly." "Good heavens! can it be possible!" exclaimed the excited man. "Why do you ask about Mrs. Lloyd?" said Irene. "A disgraceful woman!" was answered passionately. "That is false!" said Irene, her eyes flashing as she spoke. "I don’t care who says so, I pronounce the words false!" Hartley stood still and gazed at his wife for some moments without speaking; then he sat down at the table from which he had arisen and, shading his face with his hands, remained motionless for a long time. He seemed like a man utterly confounded. "Did you ever hear of Jane Beaufort?" he asked at length, looking up at his wife. "Oh yes; everybody has heard of her." "Would you visit Jane Beaufort?" "Yes, if I believed her innocent of what the world charges against her." "You are aware, then, that Mrs. Lloyd and Jane Beaufort are the same person?" "No, sir, I am not aware of any such thing." "It is true." "I do not believe it. Mrs. Lloyd I have known intimately for over two years, and can verify her character." "I am sorry for you, then, for a viler character it would be difficult to find outside the haunts of infamy," said Hartley. Contempt and anger were suddenly blended in his manner. "I cannot hear one to whom I am warmly attached thus assailed. You must not speak in that style of my friends, Hartley!" "Your friends!" There was a look of intense scorn on his face. "Precious friends, if she represents them, truly! Major Willard is another of your friends, perhaps?" The face of Irene turned deadly pale at the mention of this name. "Ha!" Hartley bent eagerly toward his wife. "And is that true, also?" "What? Speak out, Hartley!" Irene caught her breath, and grasped the rein of self-control which had dropped, a moment, from her hands. "It is said that Major Willard bears you company, at times, in your rides home from evening calls upon your precious friends." "And do you believe the story?" "I didn’t believe it," said Hartley — but in a tone that showed doubt. "But have changed your mind?" "If you say it is not true — that Major Willard never entered your carriage — I will take your word in opposition to the whole world’s adverse testimony." But Irene could not answer. Major Willard, as the reader knows, had ridden with her at night, and alone. But once, and only once. A few times since then, she had encountered — but never deigned to recognize, him. In her pure heart, the man was held in utter detestation. Now was the time for a full explanation; but pride was aroused — strong, stubborn pride! She knew herself to stand triple mailed in innocency — to be free from weakness or taint; and the thought that a mean, base suspicion had entered the mind of her husband, aroused her indignation and put a seal upon her lips as to all explanatory utterances. "Then am I to believe the worst?" said Hartley, seeing that his wife did not answer. "The worst — and of you!" The tone in which this was said, as well as the words themselves, sent a strong throb to the heart of Irene. "The worst — and of you!" This from her husband! and involving far more in tone and manner than in uttered language. "Then I am to believe the worst!" She turned the sentences over in her mind. Pride, wounded self-love, a smothered sense of indignation, blind anger, began to gather their gloomy forces in her mind. "The worst, and of you!" How the echoes of these words came back in constant repetition! "The worst, and of you!" "How often has Major Willard ridden with you at night?" asked Hartley, in a cold, resolute way. No answer. "And did you always come directly home?" Hartley was looking steadily into the face of his wife, from which he saw the color fall away until it became of an ashen hue. "You do not care to answer. Well, silence is indicative," said the husband, closing his lips firmly. There was a blending of anger, perplexity, pain, sorrow and scorn in his face — all of which Irene read distinctly as she fixed her eyes steadily upon him. He tried to gaze back until her eyes should sink beneath his steady look — but the effort was lost; for not a single instant did they waver. He was about to turn away, when she arrested the movement by saying, "Go on, Hartley! Speak of all that is in your mind. You have now an opportunity that may never come again." There was a dead level in her voice that a little puzzled her husband. "It is for you to speak," he answered. "I have put my interrogatories." Unhappily, there was a shade of imperiousness in his voice. "I never answer insulting interrogatories; not even from the man who calls himself my husband," replied Irene, haughtily. "It may be best for you to answer," said Hartley. There was just the shadow of menace in his tones. "Best!" The lip of Irene curled slightly. "On whose account, pray?" "Best for each of us. Whatever affects one injuriously — must affect both." "Humph! So we are equals!" Irene tossed her head impatiently, and laughed a short, mocking laugh. "Nothing of that, if you please!" was the husband’s impatient retort. The sudden change in his wife’s manner threw him off his guard. "Nothing of what?" demanded Irene. "Of that weak, silly nonsense. We have graver matters in hand for consideration now." "Ah?" She threw up her eyebrows, then contracted them again with an angry severity. "Irene," said Hartley, his voice falling into a calm but severe tone, "all this is but weakness and folly. I have heard things concerning your good name — " "And believe them," broke in Irene, with angry impatience. "I have said nothing as to belief or disbelief. The rumor is grave enough." "And you have illustrated your faith in the slander — beautifully, befittingly, generously!" "Irene!" "Generously, as a man who knew his wife. Ah, well!" This last ejaculation was made almost lightly — but it involved great bitterness of spirit. "Do not speak any longer after this fashion," said Hartley, with considerable irritation of manner; "it doesn’t suit my present temper. I want something in a very different spirit. The matter is of too serious import. So please lay aside your trifling. I came to you as I had a right to come, and made inquiries concerning your associations when not in my company. Your answers are not satisfactory — but tend rather to con . . ." "Sir!" Irene interrupted him in a stern, deep voice, which came so suddenly that the word remained unspoken. Then, raising her finger in a warning manner, she said with threatening, "Beware!" For some moments they stood looking at each other, more like two animals at bay — than husband and wife. "Concerning my associations when not in your company?" said Irene at length, repeating his language slowly. "Yes," answered the husband. "Concerning, my associations? Well, Hartley — so far, I say well." She was collected in manner and her voice steady. "But what concerning your associations when not in my company?" The very novelty of this interrogation caused Hartley to startle and change color. "Ha!" The blood leaped to the forehead of Irene, and her eyes, dilating suddenly, almost glared upon the face of her husband. "Well, sir?" Irene drew her slender form to its utmost height. There was an impatient, demanding tone in her voice. "Speak!" she added, without change of manner. "What concerning your associations when not in my company? As a wife, I have some interest in this matter. Away from home often until the brief hours — have I no right to put the question — where and with whom? It would seem so — if we are equal. But if I am the slave and dependant — the creature of your will and pleasure — why, that alters the case!" Hartley was recovering from his surprise — but not gaining clear sight or prudent self-possession. "You have not answered," said Irene, looking coldly — but with glittering eyes, into his face. "Come! If there is to be a mutual relation of acts and associations outside of this our home — let us begin. Sit down, Hartley, and compose yourself. You are the man, and claim precedence. I yield the prerogative. So let me have your confession. After you have ended — then I will give as faithful a narrative as if on my death-bed. What more can you ask? There now, lead the way!" This coolness, which but thinly veiled a contemptuous air, irritated Hartley almost beyond the bounds of decent self-control. "Well acted!" he retorted with a sneer. "You do not accept the proposal," said Irene, growing a little sterner of aspect. "Very well. I scarcely hoped that you would meet me on this even ground. Why should I have hoped it? Were the antecedents encouraging? No! But I am sorry. Ah, well! Husbands are free to go and come at their own sweet will — to associate with anybody and everybody. But wives — oh dear!" She tossed her head in a wild, scornful way, as if on the verge of being swept from her feet by some whirlwind of passion. "And so," said her husband, after a long silence, "you do not choose to answer my questions as to Major Willard?" That was unwisely pressed. In her heart of hearts, Irene loathed this man. His name was an offence to her. Never, since the night he had forced himself into her carriage, had she even looked into his face. If he appeared in the room where she happened to be, she did not permit her eyes to rest upon his detested countenance. If he drew near to her, she did not seem to notice his presence. If he spoke to her, as he had ventured several times to do — she paid no regard to him whatever. So far as any response or manifestation of feeling on her part was concerned — it was as if his voice had not reached her ears. The very thought of this man, was a foul thing in her mind. No wonder that the repeated reference by her husband was felt as a stinging insult. "If you dare to mention that name again in connection with mine," she said, turning almost fiercely upon him, "I will . . ." She caught the words and held them back in the silence of her wildly reeling thoughts. "Say on!" Hartley was cool — but not rational. It was madness to press his excited young wife now. Had he lost sense and discrimination? Could he not see, in her strong, womanly indignation, the signs of innocence? Fool! fool! to thrust sharply at her now! "My father!" came in a sudden gush of strong feeling from the lips of Irene, as the thought of him whose name was thus ejaculated came into her mind. She struck her hands together, and stood like one in wild bewilderment. "My father!" she added, almost mournfully; "oh, that I had never left you!" "It would have been better for you — and better for me!" retorted Hartley. No, he was not rational, or else would no such words have fallen from his lips. Irene, with a slight startle and a slight change in the expression of her countenance, looked up at her husband: "You think so?" Hartley was a little surprised at the way in which Irene put this interrogation. He looked for a different reply. "I have said it," was his cold answer. "Well." She said no more — but looked down and sat thinking for the space of more than a minute. "I will go back to Ivy Cliff then!" She looked up, with something strange in the expression of her face. It was a blank, unfeeling, almost unmeaning expression. "Well!" It was Hartley’s only response. "Well — and that is all?" Her tones were so chilling that they came over the spirit of her husband like the low waves of an icy wind. "No, that is not all." What evil spirit was blinding his perceptions? What evil influence pressing him on to the brink of ruin? "Say on!" How strangely cold and calm she remained! "Say on!" she repeated. Was there none to warn him of danger? "If you go a third time to your father . . ." He paused. "Well?" There was not a quiver in her low, clear, icy tone. "You must do it with your eyes open, and in full view of the consequences." "What are the consequences?" Beware, rash man! Put a seal on your lips! Do not let the thought so sternly held, find even a shadow of utterance! "Speak, Hartley. What are the consequences?" "You cannot return!" It was said without a quiver of feeling. "Well." She looked at him with an unchanged countenance, steadily, coldly, piercingly. "I have said the words, Irene — and they are no idle utterances. Twice you have left me — but you cannot do it a third time and leave a way open between us. Go, then, if you will; but, if we part here, it must be forever!" The eyes of Irene dropped slowly. There was a slight change in the expression of her face. Her hands moved nervously, one within the other. Forever! The words are rarely uttered without leaving on the mind a shadow of thought. Forever! They brought more than a simple shadow to the mind of Irene. A sudden darkness fell upon her soul, and for a little while she groped about like one who had lost her way. But her husband’s threat of consequences, his cold, imperious manner, his assumed superiority, all acted as sharp spurs to her pride — and she stood up, strong again, in full mental stature, with every power of her being in full force for action and endurance. "I will go!" There was no sign of weakness in her voice. She had raised her eyes from the floor and turned them fully upon her husband. Her face was not so pale as it had been a little while before. Warmth had come back to the delicate skin, flushing it with beauty. She did not stand before him an impersonation of anger, dislike or rebellion. There was not a repulsive attitude or expression; no flashing of the eyes, seen a little while before. Slowly turning away, she left the room; but, to her husband, she seemed still standing there, a lovely vision. There had fallen, in that instant of time, a sunbeam which fixed the image upon his memory in imperishable colors. What though he parted company here with the vital form — that effigy would be, through all time, his inseparable companion! "Gone!" Hartley held his breath as the word came into mental utterance. There was a motion of regret in his heart; a wish that he had not spoken quite so sternly — that he had kept back a part of the hard saying. But it was too late now. He could not, after all that had just passed between them — after she had refused to answer his questions concerning Major Willard — make any concessions. Come what would, there was to be no retracing of steps now. "And it may as well be," said he, rallying himself, "that we part here. Our experiment has proved a sad failure. We grow colder and more repellant each day, instead of drawing closer together and becoming more lovingly assimilated. It is not good — this life — for either of us. We struggle in our chains — and hurt each other. Better apart! better apart! Moreover" — his face darkened — "she has fallen into dangerous companionship, and will not be advised or governed. I have heard her name fall lightly from lips that cannot utter a woman’s name without leaving it soiled. She is pure now — as pure as snow. I have not a shadow of suspicion, though I pressed her close. But this contact is bad; she is breathing an impure atmosphere; she is consorting with some who are sensual and evil-minded, though she will not believe the truth. Mrs. Lloyd! Gracious heavens! My wife the intimate companion of that woman! Seen with her in Broadway! A constant visitor at my house! This — and I knew it not!" Hartley grew deeply agitated as he rehearsed these things. It was after midnight when he retired. He did not go to his wife’s room — but passed to a room other that in which he usually slept. Day was abroad when Hartley awoke the next morning, and the sun shining from an angle that showed him to be nearly two hours above the horizon. It was late for Hartley. Rising hurriedly, and in some confusion of thought, he went down stairs. His mind, as the events of the last evening began to adjust themselves, felt an increasing sense of oppression. How was he to meet Irene? or was he to meet her again? Had she relented? Had a night of sober reflection wrought any change? Would she take the step which he had warned her as a fatal one? With such questions crowding upon him, Hartley went downstairs. In passing their chamber-door he saw that it stood wide open, and that Irene was not there. He descended to the parlors and to the sitting-room — but did not find her. The bell announced breakfast; he might find her at the table. No — she was not at her usual place when the morning meal was served. "Where is Irene?" he asked of the servant. "I have not seen her," was replied. Hartley turned away and went up to their chambers. His footsteps had a desolate, echoing sound to his ears, as he bent his way there. He looked through the front and then through the back chamber, and even called, faintly, the name of his wife. But all was as still as death. Now a small envelope caught his eye, resting on a casket in which Irene had kept her jewelry. He lifted it, and saw his name inscribed thereon. The handwriting was not strange. He broke the seal and read these few words: "I have gone. IRENE." The narrow piece of tinted paper on which this was written, dropped from his nerveless fingers, and he stood for some moments still as if death-stricken, and as rigid as stone. "Well," he said audibly, at length, stepping across the floor, "and so the end has come!" He moved to the full length of the chamber and then stood still — turned, in a little while, and walked slowly back across the floor — stood still again, his face bent down, his lips closely shut, his finger-ends gripped into the palms. "Gone!" He tried to shake himself free of the partial stupor which had fallen upon him. "Gone!" he repeated. "And so this calamity is upon us! She has dared the fatal leap! She has spoken the irrevocable decree! God help us both, for both have need of help; I and she — but she most. God help her to bear the burden she has lifted to her weak shoulders; she will find it a match for her strength. I shall go into the world, and bury myself in its cares and duties — I shall find, at least, in the long days, a compensation in work — earnest, absorbing, exciting work. But she? Poor Irene! The days and nights will be to her equally desolate. Poor Irene! Poor Irene!" ======================================================================== CHAPTER 78: 04.18. CHAPTER 18. YOUNG — BUT WISE ======================================================================== Chapter 18. Young — but Wise The night had passed wearily for Mr. Delancy, broken by fitful dreams, in which the image of his daughter was always present — dreams that he could trace to no thoughts or impressions of the day before; and he arose unrefreshed, and with a vague sense of trouble in his heart, lying there like a weight which no involuntary deep inspirations would lessen or remove. No June day ever opened in fresher beauty, than did this one, just four years since the actors in our drama came smiling before us, in the flush of youth and hope and confidence in the far-off future. The warmth of early summer had sent the nourishing sap to every delicate twig and softly expanding leaf until, full foliaged, the trees around Ivy Cliff stood in kingly attire, lifting themselves up grandly in the sunlight which flooded their gently-waving tops in waves of golden glory. The air was soft and of crystal clearness; and the lungs drank it in as if the draught were ethereal nectar. On such a morning in June, after a night of broken and unrefreshing sleep, Mr. Delancy walked forth, with that strange pressure on his heart which he had been vainly endeavoring to push aside since the singing birds awoke him, in the faint rosy dawn, with their joyous welcome to the coming day. He drew in long draughts of the delicious air; expanded his chest; moved briskly through the garden; threw his arms about, to hurry the sluggish flow of blood in his veins; looked with constrained admiration on the splendid landscape that stretched far and near in the sweep of his vision; but all to no purpose. The hand still lay heavy upon his heart; he could not get it removed. Returning to the house, feeling more uncomfortable for this fruitless effort to rise above what he tried to call an unhealthy depression of spirits consequent on some unhealthful state of the body, Mr. Delancy was entering the library, when a fresh young face greeted him with light and smiles. "Good-morning, Rose," said the old gentleman, as his face brightened in the glow of the young girl’s happy countenance. "I am glad to see you;" and he took her hand and held it tightly. "Good-morning, Mr. Delancy. When did you hear from Irene?" "Ten days ago." "She was well?" "Oh yes. Sit down, Rose; there." And Mr. Delancy drew a chair before the sofa for his young visitor, and took a seat facing her. "I haven’t had a letter from her in six months," said Rose, a sober hue falling on her countenance. "I don’t think she is quite thoughtful enough of her old friends." "And too thoughtful, it may be, of new ones," replied Mr. Delancy, his voice a little depressed from the cheerful tone in which he had welcomed his young visitor. "These new friends are not always the best friends, Mr. Delancy." "No, Rose. For my part, I wouldn’t give one old friend, whose heart I had proved — for a dozen untried new ones." "Nor I, Mr. Delancy. I love Irene. I have always loved her. You know we were children together." "Yes, dear, I know all that; and I’m not pleased with her for treating you with so much neglect, and all for a set of . . ." Mr. Delancy checked himself. "Irene," said Miss Rose Carman, whom the reader will remember as one of Irene’s bridesmaids, "has been a little unfortunate in her New York friends. I’m afraid of these strong-minded women, as they are called, among whom she has fallen." "I detest them!" replied Mr. Delancy, with suddenly aroused feelings. "They have done my child more harm, than they will ever do good in the world. She is not my daughter of old." "I found her greatly changed at our last meeting," said Rose. "Full of vague plans of reforms and social reorganizations, and impatient of opposition, or even mild argument, against her favorite ideas." "She has lost her way," sighed the old man, in a low, sad voice, "and I’m afraid it will take her a long, long time to get back again to the old true paths, and that the road will be through deep suffering. I dreamed about her all night, Rose, and the shadow of my dreams is upon me still. It is foolish, I know — but I cannot get my heart again into the sunlight." And Rose had been dreaming troubled dreams of her old friend, also; and it was because of the pressure that lay upon her feelings, that she had come over to Ivy Cliff this morning to ask if Mr. Delancy had heard from Irene. She did not, however, speak of this, for she saw that he was in an unhappy state on account of his daughter. "Dreams are but shadows," she said, forcing a smile to her lips and eyes. "Yes — yes." The old man responded with an abstracted air. "Yes; they are only shadows. But, my dear, was there ever a shadow without a substance?" "Not in the outside world of nature. Dreams are unreal things — the fantastic images of a brain where reason sleeps." "There have been dreams that came as warnings, Rose." "And a thousand, for every one of these, that signified nothing." "True. But I cannot rise out of these shadows. They lie too heavily on my spirit. You must bear with me, Rose. Thank you for coming over to see me; but I cannot make your visit a pleasant one, and you must leave me when you grow weary of the old man’s company." "Don’t talk so, Mr. Delancy. I’m glad I came over. I meant this only for a call; but as you are in such poor spirits, I must stay a while and cheer you up." "You are a good girl," said Mr. Delancy, taking the hand of Rose, "and I am vexed that Irene should neglect you for the false friends who are leading her mind astray. But never mind, dear; she will see her error one of these days, and learn to prize true hearts." "Is she going to spend much of her time at Ivy Cliff this summer?" asked Rose. "She is coming up in July to stay three or four weeks." "Ah! I’m pleased to hear you say so. I shall then revive old-time memories in her heart." "God grant that it may be so!" Rose half startled at the solemn tone in which Mr. Delancy spoke. What could be the meaning of his strangely troubled manner? Was anything seriously wrong with Irene? She remembered the confusion into which her impulsive conduct had thrown the wedding-party; and there was a vague rumor afloat that Irene had left her husband a few months afterward and returned to Ivy Cliff. But she had always discredited this rumor. Of her life in New York, she knew but little as to particulars. That it was not making of her a truer, better, happier woman, nor a truer, better, happier wife — observation had long ago told her. "There is a broad foundation of good principles in her character," said Miss Carman, "and this gives occasion for hope in the future. She will not go far astray, with her wily enticers, who have only stimulated and given direction, for a time, to her undisciplined impulses. You know how impatient she has always been under control — how restively her spirit has chafed itself when a restraining hand was laid upon her. But there are real things in life of too serious import, to be set aside for idle fancies, such as her new friends have taught her — real things, which take hold upon the solid earth like anchors, and hold the vessel firm amid wildly rushing currents." "Yes, Rose, I know all that," replied Mr. Delancy. "I have hope in the future for Irene; but I shudder in heart to think of the rough, thorny, desolate ways through which she may have to pass with bleeding feet — before she reaches that serene future! Ah! if I could save my child from the pain she seems resolute on plucking down and wearing in her heart!" "Your dreams have made you gloomy, Mr. Delancy," said Rose, forcing a smile to her sweet young face. "Come now, let us be more hopeful. Irene has a good husband. A little too much like her in some things — but growing manlier and broader in mental grasp, if I have read him aright. He understands Irene, and, what is more, loves her deeply. I have watched them closely." "So have I." The voice of Mr. Delancy was not so hopeful as that of his companion. "Still looking on the darker side?" She smiled again. "Ah, Rose, my wise young friend," said Mr. Delancy, "to whom I speak my thoughts with a freedom that surprises even myself, a father’s eyes read many signs that have no meaning for others." "And many read them, through fond suspicion, wrong," replied Rose. "Well — yes — that may be." He spoke in partial abstraction, yet doubtfully. "I must look through your garden," said the young lady, rising; "you know how I love flowers." "Not much yet to hold your admiration," replied Mr. Delancy, rising also. "June gives us wide green carpets and magnificent draperies of the same deep color — but her red and golden broideries are few; it is the hand of July that throws them in with rich profusion." "But June flowers are sweetest and dearest — tender nurslings of the summer, first-born of her love," said Rose, as they stepped out into the portico. "It may be that the eye gets sated with beauty, as nature grows lavish of her gifts; but the first white and red petals that unfold themselves, have a more delicate perfume — seem made of purer elements and more wonderful in perfection — than their later sisters. Is it not so?" "If it only appears so — it is all the same as if real," replied Mr. Delancy, smiling. "How?" "It is real to you. What more could you have? Not more enjoyment of summer’s gifts of beauty and sweetness." "No; perhaps not." Rose let her eyes fall to the ground, and remained silent. "Things are real to us — as we see them; not always as they are," said Mr. Delancy. "And is this true of life?" "Yes, child. It is in life, that we create real things for ourselves, out of what to some are airy nothings. Real things, against which we often bruise or maim ourselves, while to others, they are as intangible as shadows." "I never thought of that," said Rose. "It is true." "Yes, I see it. Imaginary evils — we thus make real things, and hurt ourselves by contact — as, maybe, you have done this morning, Mr. Delancy." "Yes — yes. And false ideas of things which are unrealities in the abstract — for only what is true, has actual substance — become real to the perverted understanding. Ah, child, there are strange contradictions and deep problems in life, for each of us to solve." "But, God helping us, we may always reach the true solution," said Rose Carman, lifting a bright, confident face to that of her companion. "That was spoken well, my child," returned Mr. Delancy, with a new life in his voice; "and without Him we can never be certain of our way." "Never — never." There was a tender, trusting solemnity in the voice of Rose. "Young — but wise," said Mr. Delancy. "No! Young — but not wise. I cannot see the way plain before me for a single week, Mr. Delancy. For a week? No, not for a day!" "Who does?" asked the old man. "Some." "None. There are many who walk onward with erect heads and confident bearing. They are sure of their way, and smile if one whispers a caution as to the ground upon which they step so fearlessly. But they soon get astray or into pitfalls. God keeping and guiding us, Rose, we may find our way safely through this world. But we will soon lose ourselves if we trust in our own wisdom." Thus they talked — that old man and gentle-hearted girl — as they moved about the garden-walks, every new flower, or leaf, or opening bud — they paused to admire or examine, suggesting themes for wiser words than usually pass between one so old and one so young. At Mr. Delancy’s earnest request, Rose stayed for lunch, the servant being sent to her father’s house, not far distant, to take word that she would not be at home until in the afternoon. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 79: 04.19. CHAPTER 19. THE SHIPWRECKED LIFE ======================================================================== Chapter 19. The Shipwrecked Life Often, during that morning, did the name of Irene come to their lips, for the thought of her was all the while present to both. "You must win her heart back again, Rose," said Mr. Delancy. "I will lure her to Ivy Cliff often this summer, and keep her here as long as possible each time. You will then be much together." They had risen from the dinner-table, and were entering the library. "Things rarely come out as we plan them," answered Rose. "But I love Irene truly, and will make my own place in her heart again, if she will give me the key of entrance." "You must find the key, Rose." Miss Carman smiled. "I said if she would give it to me." "She does not carry the key which opens the door for you," replied Mr. Delancy. "If you do not know where it lies, search for it in the secret places of your own mind, and it will be found, God helping you, Rose." Mr. Delancy looked at her significantly. "God helping me," she answered, with a reverent sinking of her voice, "I will find the key." "Who is that?" said Mr. Delancy, in a tone of surprise, turning his face to the window. Rose followed his eyes — but no one was visible. "I saw, or thought I saw — a lady cross the portico this moment." Both stood still, listening and expectant. "It might have been my imagination," said Mr. Delancy, drawing a deep breath. Rose stepped to one of the library windows, and throwing it up, looked out upon the portico. "There is no one," she remarked, coming back into the room. "Could I have been so mistaken?" Mr. Delancy looked bewildered. Seeing that the impression was so strong on his mind, Miss Carman went out into the hall, and glanced from there into the parlor and dining-room. "No one came in, Mr. Delancy," she said, on returning to the library. "A mere impression," remarked the old man, soberly. "Well, these impressions are often very singular. My face was partly turned to the window, so that I saw out — but not so distinctly as if both eyes had been in the range of vision. The form of a woman came to my sight as distinctly as if the presence had been real — the form of a woman going swiftly past the window." "Did you recognize the form?" It was some time before Mr. Delancy replied. "Yes." He looked anxious. "You thought of Irene?" "I did." "We have talked and thought of Irene so much today," said Rose, "that your thought of her has made you present to her mind, with more than usual distinctness. You saw her by an inward, not by an outward, vision. These things often happen. They startle us by their strangeness — but are as much dependent on laws of the mind — as bodily nearness is dependent on the laws of matter." "Do you think so?" Mr. Delancy looked at his young companion curiously. "Yes, I think so." The old man shook his head. "Ingenious — but not satisfactory." At this moment the library door was pushed gently open, and the form of a woman stood in the presence of Mr. Delancy and Rose. She was dressed in a dark silk — but had on neither bonnet nor shawl. Both startled; Mr. Delancy raised his hands and bent forward, gazing at her eagerly, his lips apart. The face of the woman was pale and haggard, yet as familiar as the face of an old friend; but in it was something so strange and unnatural, that for a moment or two it was not recognized. "Father!" It was Irene. She advanced quietly and held out her hand. "My daughter!" He caught the extended hand and kissed her — but she showed no emotion. "Rose, dear, I am glad to see you." There was truth in the dead level tone with which "I am glad to see you" was spoken, and Rose, who perceived this, took her hand and kissed her. Both hands and lips were cold. "What’s the matter, Irene? Have you been sick?" asked Mr. Delancy, in a choking voice. "No, father, I’m very well." "No, child, you are not well. What ails you? Why are you here in so strange a way and looking so strangely?" "Do I look strangely?" There was a feeble effort to awaken a smile, which only gave her face a ghastly expression. "Is Hartley with you?" "No." Her voice was fuller and more emphatic as she uttered this word. She tried to look steadily at her father — but her eyes moved aside from the range of his vision. For a moment, there was a troubled silence with all. Rose had placed an arm around the waist of Irene and drawn her to the sofa, on which they were now sitting; Mr. Delancy stood before them. Gradually the cold, almost blank, expression of Irene’s face changed, and the old look came back. "My daughter," said Mr. Delancy. "Father" — Irene interrupted him — "I know what you are going to say. My sudden, unannounced appearance, at this time, needs explanation. I am glad dear Rose is here — my old, true friend" — and she leaned against Miss Carman — "I can trust her." The arm of Rose tightened around the waist of Irene. "Father" — the voice of Irene fell to a deep, solemn tone; there was no emphasis on one word more than on another; all was a dead level; yet the meaning was as full and the involved purpose as fixed as if her voice had run through the whole range of passionate intonation — "Father, I have come back to Ivy Cliff and to you, after having suffered shipwreck on the voyage of life. I went out rich, as I supposed, in heart-treasures; I come back poor. My gold was dross, and the sea has swallowed up even that miserable substitute for wealth. Hartley and I never truly loved each other, and the experiment of living together as husband and wife has proved a failure. We have not been happy; no, not from the beginning. We have not even been tolerant or forbearing toward each other. A steady alienation has been in progress day by day, week by week, and month by month, until no remedy is left but separation. That has been, at length, applied, and here I am! It is the third time that I have left him, and to both of us, the act is final. He will not seek me, and I shall not return." There had come a slight flush to the countenance of Irene before she commenced speaking — but this retired again, and she looked deathly pale. No one answered her — only the arm of Rose tightened like a cord around the waist of her unhappy friend. "Father," and now her voice fluttered a little, "for your sake I am most afflicted. I am strong enough to bear my fate — but you!" There was a little sob — a strong suppression of feeling — and silence. "Oh, Irene! my child! my child!" The old man covered his face with his hands, sobbed, and shook like a fluttering leaf. "I cannot bear this! It is too much for me!" and he staggered backward. Irene sprung forward and caught him in her arms. He would have fallen — but for this, to the floor. She stood clasping and kissing him wildly, until Rose came forward and led them both to the sofa. Mr. Delancy did not rally from this shock. He leaned heavily against his daughter, and she felt a low tremor in his frame. "Father!" She spoke tenderly, with her lips to his ear. "Dear father!" But he did not reply. "It is my life-discipline, father," she said; "I will be happier and better, no doubt, in the end for this severe trial. Dear father, do not let what is inevitable so break down your heart. You are my strong, brave, good father, and I shall need now more than ever — your sustaining arm. There was no help for this. It had to come, sooner or later. It is over now. The first bitterness is past. Let us be thankful for that, and gather up our strength for the future. Dear father! Speak to me!" Mr. Delancy tried to rally himself — but he was too much broken down by the shock. He said a few words, in which there was scarcely any connection of ideas, and then, getting up from the sofa, walked about the room, turning one of his hands within the other in a distressed way. "Oh dear, dear, dear!" he murmured to himself, in a feeble manner. "I have dreaded this, and prayed that it might not be. Such wretchedness and disgrace! Such wretchedness and disgrace! Had they no patience with each other — no forbearance — no love, that it must come to this? Dear! dear! dear! Poor child!" Irene, with her white, wretched face, sat looking at him for some time, as he moved about, a picture of helpless misery; then, going to him again, she drew an arm around his neck and tried to comfort him. But there was no comfort in her words. What could she say to reach with a healing power, the wound from which his very life-blood was pouring. "Don’t talk! don’t talk!" he said, pushing Irene away, with slight impatience of manner. "I am heart-broken. Words are nothing!" "Mr. Delancy," said Rose, now coming to his side, and laying a hand upon his arm, "you must not speak so to Irene. This is not like you." There was a calmness of utterance and a firmness of manner which had their right effect. "How have I spoken, Rose, dear? What have I said?" Mr. Delancy stopped and looked at Miss Carman in a rebuked, confused way, laying his hand upon his forehead at the same time. "Not from yourself," answered Rose. "Not from myself!" He repeated her words, as if his thoughts were still in a maze. "Ah, child, this is dreadful!" he added. "I am not myself! Poor Irene! Poor daughter! Poor father!" And the old man lost himself again. A look of fear now shadowed darkly the face of Irene, and she glanced anxiously from her father’s countenance, to that of Rose. She did not read in the face of her young friend, much that gave assurance or comfort. "Mr. Delancy," said Rose, with great earnestness of manner, "Irene is in great trouble. She has come to a great crisis in her life. You are older and wiser than she is, and must counsel and sustain her. Be calm, dear sir — calm, clear-seeing, wise and considerate, as you have always been." "Calm — clear-seeing — wise." Mr. Delancy repeated the words, as if endeavoring to grasp the rein of thought and get possession of himself again. "Wise to counsel and strong to sustain," said Rose. "You must not fail us now." "Thank you, my sweet young monitor," replied Mr. Delancy, partially recovering himself; "it was the weakness of a moment. Irene," and he looked toward his daughter, "leave me with my own thoughts for a little while. Take her, Rose, to her own room, and God give you power to speak words of consolation; I have none." Rose drew her arm within that of Irene, and said, "Come." But Irene lingered, looking tenderly and anxiously at her father. "Go, my love." Mr. Delancy waved his hand. "Father! dear father!" She moved a step toward him, while Rose held her back. "I cannot help myself, father. The die is cast. Oh bear up with me! I will be to you a better daughter than I have ever been. My life shall be devoted to your happiness. In that I will find a compensation. All is not lost — all is not ruined. My heart is as pure as when I left you three years ago. I come back bleeding from my life-battle it is true — but not in mortal peril — wounded — but not unto death — cast down — but not destroyed." All the muscles of Mr. Delancy’s face quivered with suppressed feeling as he stood looking at his daughter, who, as she uttered the words, "cast down — but not destroyed," flung herself in wild abandonment on his bosom! ======================================================================== CHAPTER 80: 04.20. CHAPTER 20. THE PALSIED HEART ======================================================================== Chapter 20. The Palsied Heart The shock to Mr. Delancy was a fearful one, coming as it did on a troubled, foreboding state of mind; and reason lost for a little while her firm grasp on the rein of government. If the old man could have seen a ray of hope in the case, it would have been different. But from the manner and language of his daughter, it was plain that the dreaded evil had found them; and the certainty of this falling suddenly, struck him as with a heavy blow. For several days, he was like one who had been stunned. All that afternoon on which his daughter returned to Ivy Cliff, he moved about in a bewildered way; and by his questions and remarks showed an incoherence of thought which filled the heart of Irene with alarm. On the next morning, when she met him at the breakfast-table, he smiled on her in his old affectionate way. As she kissed him, she said, "I hope you slept well last night, father?" A slight change was visible in his face. "I slept soundly enough," he replied, "but my dreams were not agreeable." Then he looked at her with a slight closing of the brows and a questioning look in his eyes. They sat down, Irene taking her old place at the table. As she poured out her father’s coffee, he said, smiling, "It is pleasant to have you sitting there, daughter." "Is it?" Irene was troubled by this old manner of her father. Could he have forgotten why she was there? "Yes, it is pleasant," he replied, and then his eye dropped in a thoughtful way. "I think, sometimes, that your attractive New York friends have made you neglectful of your lonely old father. You don’t come to see him as often as you did a year ago." Mr. Delancy said this with simple earnestness. "They shall not keep me from you any more, dear father," replied Irene, meeting his humor, yet heart-appalled at the same time with this evidence that his mind was wandering from the truth. "I don’t think them safe friends," added Mr. Delancy, with seriousness. "Perhaps not," replied Irene. "Ah! I’m glad to hear you say so. Now, you have one true, safe friend. I wish you loved her better than you do." "What is her name?" "Rose Carman," said Mr. Delancy, with a slight hesitation of manner, as if he feared repulsion on the part of his daughter. "I love Rose, dearly; she is the best of girls; and I know her to be a true friend," replied Irene. "Spoken like my own daughter!" said the old man with a brightening countenance. "You must not neglect her any more. Why, she told me you hadn’t written to her in six months. Now, that isn’t right. Never forget old, true friends — for the sake of new, and maybe false ones. No — no. Rose is hurt; you must write to her often — every week." Irene could not answer. Her heart was beating wildly. What could this mean? Had reason fled? But she struggled hard to preserve a calm exterior. "Will Hartley be up today?" Irene tried to say "No," but could not find utterance. Mr. Delancy looked at her curiously, and now in a slightly troubled way. Then he let his eyes fall, and sat holding his cup like one who was turning perplexed thoughts in his mind. "You are not well this morning, father," said Irene, speaking only because silence was too oppressive for endurance. "I don’t know; perhaps I’m not very well;" and Mr. Delancy looked across the table at his daughter very earnestly. "I had bad dreams all last night, and they seem to have got mixed up in my thoughts with real things. How is it? When did you come up from New York? Don’t smile at me — but really, I can’t think." "I came yesterday," said Irene, as calmly as she could speak. "Yesterday!" He looked at her with a quickly changing face. "Yes, father, I came up yesterday." "And Rose was here?" "Yes." Mr. Delancy’s eyes fell again, and he sat very still. "Will Hartley be here today?" Mr. Delancy did not look up as he asked this question. "No, father." "Nor tomorrow?" "I think not." A sigh quivered on the old man’s lips. "Nor the day after that?" "He did not say when he was coming," replied Irene, evasively. "Did not say when? Did not say when?" Mr. Delancy repeated the sentence two or three times, evidently trying all the while to recall something which had faded from his memory. "Don’t worry yourself about Hartley," said Irene, forcing herself to pronounce a name that seemed like fire on her lips. "Isn’t it enough that I am here?" "No, it is not enough." And her father put his hand to his forehead and looked upward in an earnest, searching manner. What could Irene say? What could she do? The mind of her father was groping about in the dark, and she was every moment in dread, lest he should discover the truth and get farther deranged from the shock. No food was taken by either Mr. Delancy or his daughter. The former grew more entangled in his thoughts, and finally arose from the table, saying, in a half-apologetic way, "I don’t know what ails me this morning." "Where are you going?" asked Irene, rising at the same time. "Nowhere in particular. The air is close here — I’ll sit a while in the portico," he answered, and throwing open one of the windows he stepped outside. Irene followed him. "How beautiful!" said Mr. Delancy, as he sat down and turned his eyes upon the attractive landscape. Irene did not trust her voice in reply. "Now go in and finish your breakfast, child. I feel better; I don’t know what came over me." He added the last sentence in an undertone. Irene returned into the house — but not to resume her place at the table. Her mind was in an agony of dread. She had reached the dining-room, and was about to ring for a servant, when she heard her name called by her father. Running back quickly to the portico, she found him standing in the attitude of one who had been suddenly startled; his face all alive with question and suspense. "Oh, yes! yes! I thought you were here this moment! And so it’s all true?" he said, in a quick, troubled way. "True? What is true, father?" asked Irene, as she paused before him. "True, what you told me yesterday." She did not answer. "You have left your husband?" He looked soberly into her face. "I have, father." She thought it best to use no evasion. He groaned, sat down in the chair from which he had arisen, and let his head fall upon his bosom. "Father!" Irene kneeled before him and clasped his hands. "Father! dear father!" He laid a hand on her head, and smoothed her hair in a caressing manner. "Poor child! poor daughter!" he said, in a fond, pitying voice, "don’t take it so to heart. Your old father loves you still." She could not halt the wild rush of feeling that was overmastering her. Passionate sobs heaved her breast, and tears came raining from her eyes. "Now, don’t, Irene! Don’t carry on so, daughter! I love you still, and we will be happy here, as in other days." "Yes, father," said Irene, holding down her head and calming her voice, "we will be happy here, as in the dear old time. Oh we will be very happy together. I won’t leave you any more." "I wish you had never left me," he answered, mournfully; "I was always afraid of this — always afraid. But don’t let it break your heart; I’m all the same; nothing will ever turn me against you. I hope he hasn’t been very unkind to you?" His voice grew a little severe. "We won’t say anything against him," replied Irene, trying to understand exactly her father’s state of mind and accommodate herself thereto. "Forgive and forget is the wisest rule always." "Yes, dear, that’s it. Forgive and forget — forgive and forget. There’s nothing like it in this world. I’m glad to hear you talk so." The shock received when the news first came upon him with stunning force, had taken away his keen perception of the calamity. He was sad, troubled and restless, and talked a great deal about the unhappy position of his daughter — sometimes in a way that indicated much incoherence of thought. To this state, followed one of almost total silence, and he would sit for hours in apparent dreamy listlessness — if not aroused from reverie and inaction by his daughter. His conversation, when he did talk on any subject, showed, however, that his mind had regained its old clearness. On the third day after Irene’s arrival at Ivy Cliff, her trunks came up from New York. She had packed them on the night before leaving her husband’s house, and marked them with her name and that of her father’s residence. No letter or message accompanied them. She did not expect nor desire any communication, and was not therefore disappointed — but rather relieved from what would have only proved another cause of disturbance. All angry feelings toward her husband had subsided; but no tender impulses moved in her heart, nor did the feeblest thought of reconciliation breathe over the surface of her mind. She had been in chains — now the fetters were cast off, and she loved freedom too well to bend her neck again to the yoke. No tender impulses moved, we have said, in her heart, for it lay like a palsied thing, dead in her bosom — dead, we mean, so far as the wife was concerned. It was not so palsied on that fatal evening when the last strife with her husband closed. But in the agony that followed, there came, in mercy, a cold paralysis; and now toward Hartley — her feelings were as calm as the surface of a frozen lake. And how was it with the deserted husband? Stern and unyielding also. The past year had been marked by so little of mutual tenderness, there had been so few passages of love between them — so few green spots in the desert of their lives — that memory brought hardly a loving relic from the past, over which the heart could brood. For the sake of worldly appearances, Hartley most regretted the unhappy event. Next, his trouble was for Irene and her father — but most for Irene. "Willful, wayward one!" he said many, many times. "You, of all, will suffer most. No woman can take a step like this — without drinking of pain to the bitterest dregs. If you can hide the anguish, well. But I fear the trial will be too hard for you — the burden too heavy. Poor, mistaken one!" For a month the household arrangements of Hartley continued as when Irene left him. He did not intermit for a day or an hour, his business duties, and came home regularly at his usual times — always, it must be said, with a feeble expectation of meeting his wife in her old place; we do not say desire — but simply expectation. If she had returned, well. He would not have repulsed, nor would he have received her with strong indications of pleasure. But a month went by, and she did not return nor send him any word. Beyond the brief "I have gone," there had come no sign from her. Two months elapsed, and then Hartley dismissed the servants and shut up the house — but he neither removed nor sold the furniture; that remained as it was for nearly a year, when he ordered a sale by auction, and closed the house. Hartley, under the influence of business and domestic trouble, matured rapidly, and became grave, silent and reflective beyond men of his years. He was social by nature, and during the last year that Irene was with him, failing to receive social sympathy at home — he had joined a club of young men, whose association was based on an ambition for literary excellence. From this club, he withdrew himself; it did not meet the needs of his higher nature — but offered much that stimulated the grosser appetites and passions. Now he gave himself up to earnest self-improvement, and found in the higher and wider range of thought, which came as the result a partial compensation for what he had lost. But he was not happy; far, very far from it. And there were seasons when the past came back upon him in such a flood, that all the barriers of indifference which he had raised for self-protection, were swept away, and he had to build them up again in sadness of spirit. So the time wore on with him, and troubled life-experiences were doing their work upon his character. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 81: 04.21. CHAPTER 21. THE IRREVOCABLE DECREE ======================================================================== Chapter 21. The Irrevocable Decree It is two years since the day of separation between Irene and her husband. Just two years. And she is sitting in the portico at Ivy Cliff with her father, looking down upon the river that lies gleaming in sunshine — not thinking of the river, however, nor of anything in nature. They are silent and still — very still, as if sleep had locked their senses. He is thin and wasted as from long sickness, and she looks older by ten years. There is no fine bloom on her cheeks, from which the fullness of youth has departed. It is a warm June day, the softest, balmiest, brightest day the year has given. The air comes laden with delicate fragrances and thrilling with bird melodies, and, turn the eye as it will, there is a feast of beauty. Yet, the fragrances are not perceived, nor the music heard, nor the beauty seen by that musing old man and his silent daughter. Their thoughts are not in the present — but far back in the unhappy past, the memories of which, awakened by the scene and season, have come flowing in a strong tide upon them. Two years! They have left the prints of their heavy feet upon the life of Irene — and the deep marks will never be wholly obliterated. She were less than human if this were not so. Two years! Yet, not once in that long, heart-aching time — had she for a single moment looked backward in weakness. Sternly holding to her prior actions as right, she strengthened herself in suffering, and bore her pain, as if it were a decree of fate. There was no anger in her heart, nor anything of hardness toward her husband. But there was no love, nor tender yearning for reunion — at least, nothing recognized as such, in her own consciousness. Not since the days Irene left the house of her husband, had she heard from him directly; and only two or three times indirectly. She had never visited the city since her flight therefrom, and all her pleasant and strongly influencing associations there, were, in consequence, at an end. Once her very dear friend Mrs. Talbot came up to sympathize with and strengthen her in the fiery trial through which she was passing. She found Irene’s truer friend, Rosa Carman, with her; and Rose did not leave them alone for a moment at a time. All sentiments that she regarded as hurtful to Irene in her present state of mind — she met with her calm, conclusive mode of reasoning, that took away the specious force of the sophist’s dogmas. But her influence was chiefly used in the repression of unprofitable themes, and the introduction of such as tended to tranquilize the feelings, and turn the thoughts of her friend away from the trouble that was lying upon her soul like a suffocating nightmare. Mrs. Talbot was not pleased with her visit, and did not come again. But she wrote several times. The tone of her letters was not, however, pleasant to Irene, who was disturbed by it, and more bewildered than enlightened by the sentiments that were announced with oracular vagueness. These letters were read to Miss Carman, on whom Irene was beginning to lean with increasing confidence. Rose did not fail to expose their weakness or fallacy in such clear light that Irene — though she tried to shut her eyes against the truth presented by Rose, could not help seeing it. Her replies to Mrs. Talbot were not, under these circumstances, very satisfactory, for she was unable to speak in a free, assenting, confiding spirit. The consequence was natural. Mrs. Talbot ceased to write, and Irene did not regret the broken correspondence. Once Mrs. Lloyd wrote. When Irene broke the seal and let her eyes rest upon the signature, a shudder of repulsion ran through her frame, and the letter dropped from her hands to the floor. As if possessed by a spirit whose influence over her she could not control, she caught up the unread sheet and threw it into the fire! As the flames seized upon and consumed it, she drew a long breath and murmured, "So perish the memory of our acquaintance!" Those two years had brought great suffering. There are no happy events to record, and but little progress to state. Yes, there had been a dead level of suffering — a palsied condition of heart and mind; a period of almost sluggish endurance, in which pride and an indomitable will gave strength to bear. Mr. Delancy and his daughter were sitting, as we have seen, on that sweet June day, in silent abstraction of thought, when the serving-man, who had been to the village, stepped into the portico and handed Irene a letter. The sight of it caused her heart to leap and the blood to crimson suddenly her face. It was not an ordinary letter — one in such a shape had never come to her hand before. "What is that?" asked her father, coming back as it were to life. "I don’t know," she answered, with an effort to appear indifferent. Mr. Delancy looked at his daughter with a perplexed manner, and then let his eyes fall upon the legal envelope in her hand, on which a large red seal was impressed. Rising in a quiet way, Irene left the portico with slow steps; but no sooner was she beyond her father’s observation than she moved toward her chamber with winged feet. "Bless me, Miss Irene!" exclaimed Margaret, who met her on the stairs, "what has happened?" But Irene swept by her without a response, and, entering her room, shut the door and locked it. Margaret stood a moment irresolute, and then, going back to her young lady’s chamber, knocked for admission. There was no answer to her summons, and she knocked again. "Who is it?" She hardly knew the voice. "It is Margaret. Can’t I come in?" "Not now," was answered. "What’s the matter, Miss Irene?" "Nothing, Margaret. I wish to be alone now." "Something has happened, though, or you’d never look just like that," said Margaret to herself, as she went slowly downstairs. "Oh dear, dear! Poor child! there’s nothing but trouble for her in this world!" It was some minutes before Irene found courage to break the imposing seal and look at the communication within. She guessed at the contents, and was not wrong. They informed her, in legal phrase, that her husband had filed an application for a divorce on the ground of desertion, and gave notice that any resistance to this application must be on file on or before a certain date. The only visible sign of feeling that responded to this announcement, was a deadly paleness and a slight, nervous crushing of the paper in her hands. Motionless as a thing inanimate, she sat with fixed, dreamy eyes for a long, long time. A divorce! She had thought on this daily, for more than a year, and often wondered at her husband’s tardiness. Had she desired it? Ah, that is the probing question. Had she desired an act of law to push them fully asunder — to make the separation complete in all respects? No! She did not really wish for the irrevocable sundering decree. Since her return to her father’s house, the whole life of Irene had been marked by great circumspection. The trial through which she had passed was enough to sober her mind, and turn her thoughts in some new directions; and this result had followed. Pride, self-will, and impatience of control — no longer found any spur to react to — and so her interest in woman’s rights, social reforms and all their concomitants died away. At first there had been warm arguments with Miss Carman on these subjects — but these grew gradually less earnest, and were finally avoided by both, as not only unprofitable — but distasteful. Gradually this wise and true friend had quickened in the mind of Irene, an interest in things outside of herself. There are in every neighborhood objects to awaken our sympathies, if we will only look at and think of them. "The poor you have always with you." Not the physically poor only, but, in larger numbers, the mentally and spiritually poor. The hands of no one need lie idle a moment for lack of work, for it is no vague form of speech, to say that the harvest is great and the laborers few. There were ripe harvest-fields around Ivy Cliff, though Irene had not observed the golden grain bending its head for the sickle — until Rose led her feet in the right direction. Not many of the physically poor were around them, yet some required even bodily ministrations — children, the sick and the aged. The destitution that most prevailed was of the mind — and this is the saddest form of poverty. Mental hunger! how it exhausts the soul and debases its heaven-born faculties, sinking it into a gross material sphere, that is only a little removed from the animal! To feed the hungry and clothe the naked, mean a great deal more than the bestowal of food and clothing; yes, a great deal more; and we have done but a small part of Christian duty — have obeyed only in the letter — when we supply merely the bread which perishes. Rose Carman had been wisely instructed, and she was an apt scholar. Now, from a learner — she became a teacher, and in the suffering Irene, found one ready to accept the higher truths that governed her life, and to act with her in giving them a real momentum. So, in the two years which had woven their web of new experiences for the heart of Irene — she had been drawn almost imperceptibly by Rose into fields of labor where the work that left her hands was, she saw, good work, and must endure forever. What peace it often brought to her striving spirit, when — but for the sustaining and protecting power of good deeds, she would have been swept out upon the waves of turbulent passion — tossed and beaten there until her exhausted heart sunk down amid the waters, and lay dead for a while at the bottom of her great sea of trouble! It was better — oh, how much better! — when she laid her head at night on her lonely pillow, to have in memory, the face of a poor sick woman, which had changed from suffering to peace as she talked to her of higher things than the body’s needs, and bore her mind up into a region of tranquil thought — than to be left with no image to dwell upon but an image of her own shattered hopes. Yes, this was far better; and by the power of such memories, the unhappy one had many peaceful seasons and nights of sweet repose. All around Ivy Cliff, Irene and Rose were known as ministering spirits to the poor and destitute. The father of Rose was a man of wealth, and she had his entire sympathy and encouragement. Irene had no regular duties at home, Margaret being housekeeper and directress in all departments. So there was nothing to hinder her free course, as to the employment of time. With all her pride of independence, the ease with which Mrs. Talbot drew Irene in one direction, and now Miss Carman in another — showed how easily she might be influenced when off her guard. This is true in most cases of your very self-willed people, and the reason why so many of them get astray. Only conceal the hand that leads them — and you may often take them where you desire. Ah, if Hartley had been wise enough, prudent enough and loving enough to have influenced aright the fine young spirit he was seeking to make one with his own — how different would the result have been! In the region round about, our two young friends came in time to be known as the "Sisters of Charity." It was not said of them mockingly, nor in mirthful depreciation, nor in meaness — but in expression of a common sentiment, that recognized their high, self-imposed mission. Thus it had been with Irene, since her return to the old home at Ivy Cliff. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 82: 04.22. CHAPTER 22. STRUCK DOWN ======================================================================== Chapter 22. Struck Down Yes, Irene had expected this — expected it daily for now more than a year. Still it came upon her with a shock which sent a strange, wild shudder through all her being. A divorce! She was less prepared for it than she had ever been. What was beyond? Ah! that touched a chord which gave a chill of pain. What was beyond? A new alliance, of course. Legal disabilities removed, Hartley would take upon himself new marriage vows. Could she say, "Yes, and amen" to this? No, alas! no! There was a feeling of intense, irrepressible anguish way down in her heart-regions, which lay far beyond consciousness. What did it mean? She asked herself the question with a fainting spirit. Had she not known herself? Were old states of tenderness, which she had believed crushed out and dead along ago — hidden away in secret places of her heart, and kept there safe from harm? No wonder she sat pale and still, crumpling nervously that fatal document which had startled her with a new revelation of herself. There was love in her heart still — and she knew it not! For a long time she sat like one in a dream. "God help me!" she said at length, looking around her in a wild, bewildered manner. "What does all this mean?" There came at this moment a gentle tap at her door. She knew whose soft hand had given the sound. "Irene," exclaimed Rose Carman, as she took the hand of her friend and looked into her changed countenance, "what ails you?" Irene turned her face partly away to get control of its expression. "Sit down, Rose," she said, as soon as she could trust herself to speak. They sat down together — Rose, troubled and wondering. Irene then handed her friend the notice which she had received. Miss Carman read it — but made no remark for some time. "It has disturbed you," she said at length, seeing that Irene continued silent. "Yes, more than I could have believed," answered Irene. Her voice had lost its familiar tones. "You have expected this?" "Yes." "I thought you were prepared for it." "And I am," replied Irene, speaking with more firmness of manner. "Expectation grows so nervous, sometimes, that when the event comes, it falls upon us with a painful shock. This is my case now. I would have felt it less severely if it had occurred six months ago." "What will you do?" asked Rose. "Do?" "Yes." "What can I do?" "Resist the divorce, if you will." "But I will not," answered Irene, firmly. "He signifies his wishes in the case, and those wishes must determine everything. I will remain passive." "And let the divorce issue by default of answer?" "Yes." There was a faintness of tone which Rose could not help remarking. "Yes," Irene added, "he desires this complete separation, and I can have nothing to say in opposition. I left him, and have remained ever since a stranger to his home and heart. We are nothing to each other, and yet are bound together by the strongest of chains. Why should he not wish to be released from these chains? And if he desires it, I have nothing to say. We are divorced in fact — why then retain the form?" "There may be a question of the fact," said Rose. "Yes; I understand you. We have discussed that point fully. Your view may be right — but I do not see it clearly. I will at least retain passive. The responsibility shall rest with him." No life or color came back to the face of Irene. She looked as cold as marble; not cold without feeling — but with intense feeling recorded as in a piece of sculpture. There were deeds of kindness and mercy set down in the purposes of our young friend — and it was to go forth and perform them that Rose had called for Irene this morning. But only one Sister of Charity went to the field that day, and only one for many days afterward. Irene could not recover from the shock of this legal notice. It found her less prepared than she had been at anytime during the last two years of separation. Her life at Ivy Cliff had not been favorable to a self-approving judgment of herself, when the past came up, as it often came, strive as she would to cover it as with a veil. She had grown in this night of suffering, less self-willed and blindly impulsive. Some scales had dropped from her eyes, and she saw clearer. Yet no repentance for that one act of her life, which involved a series of consequences beyond the reach of conjecture — had found a place in her heart. There was no looking back from this — no sober questioning as to the right or necessity which had been involved. There had been one great mistake — so she decided the case — and that was her marriage. From this fatal error — all subsequent evil was born. Months of waiting and expectation followed, and then came a decree of the official divorce. "It is well," was the simple response of Irene when notice of the fact reached her. Not even to Rose Carman, did she reveal a thought that took shape in her mind, nor betray a single emotion that trembled in her heart. If there had been less appearance of indifference — less avoidance of the subject — her friends would have felt more comfortable as to her state of mind. The unnatural repose of her exterior — was to them significant of a strife within which she wished to conceal from all eyes. About this time her true, loving friend, Miss Carman, married. Irene did not stand as one of the bridesmaids at the ceremony. Rose gently hinted her wishes in the case — but Irene shrunk from the position, and her feeling was respected. The husband of Rose was a merchant, residing in New York, named Mr. Everet. After a short bridal tour, she went to her new home in the city. Mr. Everet was five or six years her senior, and a man worthy to be her life-companion. No sudden attachment had grown up between them. For years, they had been in the habit of meeting, and in this time the character of each had been clearly read by the other. When Mr. Everet asked the maiden’s hand — it was yielded without a sign of hesitation. The removal of Rose from the neighborhood of Ivy Cliff greatly disturbed the even-going tenor of Irene’s life. It withdrew also a prop on which she had leaned often in times of weakness — which would recur very heavily. "How can I live without you?" she said in tears, as she sat alone with the new-made bride on the eve of her departure; "you have been everything to me, Rose — strength in weakness; light, when all around was cold and dark; a guide when I had lost my way. God bless and make you happy, darling! And he will. Hearts like yours create happiness wherever they go." "My new home will only be a few hours’ distant," replied Rose; "I shall see you there often." Irene sighed. She had been to the city only a few times since that sad day of separation from her husband. Could she return again and enter one of its bright social circles? Her heart said no. But love drew her too strongly. In less than a month after Rose became the mistress of a stately mansion, Irene was her guest. This was just six years from the time when she set up her home there — a loving and happy young wife. Alas! that hearth was desolate, "its bright fire quenched and gone." It was best for Irene thus to get back again into a wider social sphere — to make some new friends, and those of a class that such a woman as Rose would naturally draw around her. Three years of suffering, and the effort to lead a life of self-denial and active interest in others, had wrought in Irene a great change. The old, flashing ardor of manner was gone. If she grew animated in conversation, as she often did from temperament — her face would light up beautifully — but it did not show the radiance of old times. Thought, more than feeling, gave its living play to her countenance. All who met her were attracted; as her history was known, observation naturally took the form of close scrutiny. People wished to find the angular and repellant sides of her character, in order to see how far she might be to blame. But they were not able to discover them. On the subjects of woman’s rights, domestic tyranny, sexual equality and all kindred themes — she was guarded in speech. She never introduced them herself, and said but little when they formed the staple of conversation. Even if, in three years of intimate, almost daily, association with Rose, she had not learned to think in some new directions on these bewildering questions, certain womanly instincts must have set a seal upon her lips. Not for all the world would she, to a stranger — no, nor to any new friend — utter a sentiment that could in the least degree give color to the thought that she wished to throw even the faintest shadow of blame on Hartley. Not that she was ready to take blame to herself, or give the impression that fault rested by her door. No. The subject was sacred to herself, and she asked no sympathy — and granted no confidences. There were those who sought to draw her out, who watched her face and words with keen intentness when certain themes were discussed. But they were unable to reach the recesses of her heart. There was a secret chamber there, into which no one could enter but herself. Since the separation of Irene from her husband — Mr. Delancy had shown signs of rapid failure. His heart was bound up in his daughter, who, with all her captious self-will and impulsiveness, loved him with a tenderness and fervor that never knew change or eclipse. To see her make shipwreck of life’s dearest hopes — to know that her name was spoken by hundreds in reprobation — to look daily on her quiet, aging, suffering face — was more than his fond heart could bear. It broke him down. This fact, more perhaps, than her own sad experiences, tended to sober the mind of Irene, and leave it almost passive under the right influences of her wise young friend, Rose. After the removal of Rose from the neighborhood of Ivy Cliff, the health of Mr. Delancy failed still more rapidly, and in a few months the brief visits of Irene to her friend in New York had to be intermitted. She could no longer venture to leave her father, even under the care of their faithful Margaret. A sad winter for Irene succeeded. Mr. Delancy drooped about until after Christmas, in a weary, listless way, taking little interest in anything, and bearing life, as a burden it would be pleasant to lay down. Early in January he had to retire and go to bed; and now the truth of his condition startled the mind of Irene and filled her with alarm. By slow, insidious encroachments, that dangerous enemy, typhoid fever, had gained a lodgment in the very citadel of life, and boldly revealed itself, defying the physician’s arts. For weeks the dim light of mortal existence burned with a low, wavering flame, that any sudden breath of air might extinguish; then it grew steady again, increased, and sent a few brighter rays into the darkness which had gathered around Ivy Cliff. Spring found Mr. Delancy strong enough to sit, propped up with pillows, by the window of his chamber, and look out upon the newly-mantled trees, the green fields, and the bright river flashing in the sunshine. The heart of Irene took courage again. The cloud which had lain upon it all winter like a funereal pall dissolved — and went floating away in dim expanses. Alas, that all this sweet promise was but a mockery of hope! A sudden cold, how it was caught, is almost impossible to tell — for Irene guarded her father as tenderly as if he were a new-born infant — disturbed life’s delicate equipoise, and the scale turned fatally the wrong way. Poor Irene! She had only staggered under former blows — this one struck her down. Had life anything to offer now? "Nothing! nothing!" she said in her heart, and prayed that she might die and be at rest with her father. Months of stupor followed this great sorrow; then her heart began to beat again with some interest in life. There was one friend, almost her only friend — for she now repelled nearly everyone who approached her — who never failed in hopeful, comforting, stimulating words and offices, who visited her frequently in her recluse life at Ivy Cliff, and sought with untiring assiduity to win her once more away from its dead seclusion. And she was at last successful. In the winter after Mr. Delancy’s death, Irene, after much earnest persuasion, consented to pass a few weeks in the city with Rose. This gained, Rose was certain of all the rest. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 83: 04.23. CHAPTER 23. THE HAUNTED VISION ======================================================================== Chapter 23. The Haunted Vision Gradually the mind of Irene attained clearness of perception as to duty, and a firmness of will that led her to act in obedience to what reason and religion taught her was right. The leading idea which Rose endeavored to keep before her was this: that no happiness is possible, except in some work that removes self-consciousness and fills our minds with an interest in the well-being of others. While Rose was at Ivy Cliff, Irene acted with her, and was sustained by her love and companionship. After her marriage and removal to New York, Irene was left to stand alone, and this tried her strength. It was feeble. The sickness and death of her father drew her back again into herself, and for a time extinguished all interest in what was in the outside world. To awaken a new and higher life was the aim of her friend, and she never wearied in her generous efforts. During this winter, plans were matured for active usefulness in the old spheres, and Rose promised to pass as much time in the next summer with her father as possible, so as to act with Irene in the development of these schemes. The first warm days of summer found Irene back again in her home at Ivy Cliff. Her visit in New York had been prolonged far beyond the limit assigned to it in the beginning — but Rose would not consent to an earlier return. This winter of daily life with Rose, in the unreserved fellowship of home, was of great use to Irene. Affliction had mellowed all the harder portions of her disposition — which the experiences of the past few years could not reach with their softening influences. There was good soil in her mind, well prepared, and the sower did not fail in the work of scattering good seed upon it with a liberal hand — seed that felt soon a quickening life and swelled in the delight of coming germination. It is not our purpose to record the history of Irene during the years of her discipline at Ivy Cliff, where she lived, nun-like, for the larger part of her time. She had useful work there, and in its faithful performance, peace came to her troubled soul. Three or four times every year she paid a visit to Rose, and spent on each occasion from one to three or four weeks. It could not but happen that in these visits, congenial friendship would be made, and tender remembrances go back with her into the seclusion of her country home, to remain as sweet companions in her hours of loneliness. It was something remarkable that, during the six or seven years which followed Irene’s separation from her husband, she had never seen him. He was still a resident of New York, and well known as a rapidly advancing member of the bar. Occasionally his name met her eyes in the newspapers, as connected with some important suit; but, beyond this, his life was to her a dead letter. He might be married again, for all she knew to the contrary. But she never dwelt on that thought; its intrusion always disturbed her, and that profoundly. And how was it with Hartley? Had he again tried the marriage experiment which once so signally failed? No; he had not ventured upon the sea whose depths held the richest vessel he had freighted in life. Visions of loveliness had floated before him, and he had been lured by them, a few times, out of his beaten path. But he carried in his memory a picture that, when his eyes turned inward, held their gaze so fixedly that all other images grew dim or unlovely. And so, with a sigh, he would turn again to the old way and move on as before. But the past was irrevocable. "And shall I," he began to say to himself, "for this one great error of my youth — this blind mistake — live a desolate and fruitless life?" Oftener and oftener the question was repeated in his thoughts, until it found answer in an emphatic No! Then he looked around with a new interest, and went more into society. Soon one fair face came more frequently before the eyes of his mind, than any other face. He saw it as he sat in his law-office, saw it on the page of his book as he read in the evening, lying over the printed words and hiding from his thoughts their meaning; saw it in dreams. The face haunted him. How long was this since that fatal night of discord and separation? Ten years! So long? Yes, so long. Ten weary years had made their record upon his book of life and upon hers. Ten weary years! The discipline of this time had not worked on either any moral deterioration. Both were yet sound to the core, and both were building up solid characters based on the broad foundations of virtue. Steadily that face grew into a more living distinctness, haunting his daily thoughts and nightly visions. Then new life-pulses began to throb in his heart; new emotions to tremble over its long calm surface; new warmth to flow, spring-like, into the indurated soil. This face, which had begun thus to dwell with him, was the face of a maiden, beautiful to look upon. He had met her often during a year, and from the beginning of their acquaintance, she had interested him. If he erred not, the interest was mutual. From all points of view, he now commenced studying her character. Having made one mistake, he was fearful and guarded. Better go on a lonely man to the end of life — than again have his love-freighted bark buried in mid-ocean! At last, Hartley was satisfied. He had found the sweet being whose life could blend in eternal oneness with his own; and it only remained for him to say to her in words, what she had read as plainly as written language in his eyes. So far as she was concerned, no impediment existed. We will not say that she was ripe enough in soul to wed with this man, who had passed through experiences of a kind that always develop the character broadly and deeply. No, for such was not the case. She was too young and inexperienced to understand him; too narrow in her range of thought; too much a child. But something in her beautiful, innocent, sweet young face had won his heart; and in the weakness of passion, not in the manly strength of a deep love — he had bowed down to a shrine at which he could never worship and be satisfied. But even strong men are weak in woman’s toils — and Hartley was a captive. There was to be a pleasure-party on one of the steamers that cut the bright waters of the fair Hudson, and Hartley and the maiden, whose face was now his daily companion, were to be of the number. He felt that the time had come for him to speak, if he meant to speak at all — to say what was in his thought, or turn aside and let another woo and win the lovely being imagination had already pictured as the sweet companion of his future home. The night that preceded this excursion, was a sleepless one for Hartley. Questions and doubts, scarcely defined in his thoughts before, pressed themselves upon him and demanded a solution. The past came up with a vividness not experienced for years. In states of semi-consciousness — half-sleeping, half-waking — there returned to him such life-like realizations of events long ago recorded in his memory, and covered over with the dust of time, that he startled from them to full wakefulness, with a heart throbbing in wild tumult. Once there was presented so vivid a picture of Irene, that for some moments he was unable to satisfy himself that all these ten years of loneliness were not a dream. He saw her as she stood before him on that ever-to-be-remembered night and said, "I go!" Let us turn back and read the record of her appearance as he saw her then and now: "She had raised her eyes from the floor, and turned them fully upon her husband. Her face was not so pale. Warmth had come back to the delicate skin, flushing it with beauty. She did not stand before him as an impersonation of anger, dislike or rebellion. There was not a repulsively attitude or expression. No flashing of the eyes, nor even the cold glitter seen a little while before. Slowly turning away, she left the room. But to her husband — she seemed still standing there, a lovely vision. There had fallen, in that instant of time, a sunbeam, which fixed the image upon his memory in imperishable colors." Hartley groaned as he fell back upon his pillow and shut his eyes. What would he not then have given, for one full draught of forgetfulness. Morning came at last, its bright beams dispersing the shadows of night; and with it came back the warmth of his new passion and his purpose on that day, if the opportunity came, to end all doubt, by offering the maiden his hand — we do not say heart, for of that he was not the full possessor. The day opened charmingly, and the pleasure-party was on the wing early. Hartley felt a sense of exhilaration as the steamer passed out from her moorings and glided with easy grace along the city front. He stood upon her deck with a maiden’s hand resting on his arm, the touch of which, though light as the pressure of a flower, was felt with strange distinctness. The shadows of the night, which had brooded so darkly over his spirit, were gone, and only a dim remembrance of the gloom remained. Onward the steamer glided, sweeping by the crowded line of buildings and moving grandly along, through palisades of rock on one side, and picturesque landscapes on the other, until bolder scenery stretched away, and mountains of clouds raised themselves against the blue horizon. There was a large number of passengers on board, scattered over the decks or lingering in the cabins, as inclination prompted. The observer of faces and character had field enough for study; but Hartley was not inclined to read in the book of character on this occasion. One subject occupied his thoughts, to the exclusion of all others. There had come a period that was full of interest and fraught with momentous consequences, which must extend through all of his after years. He saw little but the maiden at his side — thought of little but his purpose to ask her to walk with him, a soul-companion, in the journey of life. During the first hour there was a constant moving to and fro and the taking up of new positions by the passengers — a hum and buzz of conversation — laughing — exclamations — mirthful talk and enthusiasm. Then a quieter tone prevailed. Solitary individuals took places of observation; groups seated themselves in pleasant circles to chat, and couples drew away into cabins or retired places, or continued the promenade. Among the latter were Hartley and his companion. Purposely he had drawn the fair girl away from their party, in order to get the opportunity he desired. He did not mean to startle her with an abrupt proposal here, in the very eye of observation — but to advance toward the object by slow approaches, marking well the effect of his words, and receding the moment he saw that, in beginning to comprehend him, her mind showed repulsion or marked disturbance. Thus it was with them, when the boat swept onward with wind-like speed. They were in one of the gorgeously furnished cabins, sitting together on a sofa. There had been earnest talk — but on some subject of taste. Gradually Hartley changed the theme and began approaching the one nearest to his heart. Slight embarrassment followed; his voice took on a different tone; it was lower, tenderer, more deliberate and impressive. He leaned closer, and the maiden did not withdraw; she understood him, and was waiting the pleasure of his speech with heart-throbbings that seemed as if they must be audible in his ears, as well as her own. The time had come. Everything was favorable. The words that would have sealed his fate and hers, were on his lips, when, looking up, he knew not why — but under an impulse of the moment, he met two calm eyes resting upon him with an expression that sent the blood leaping back to his heart. Two calm eyes and a pale, calm face were before him for a moment; then they vanished in the crowd. But he knew them, though ten years lay between the last vision and this. The words that were on his lips died unspoken. He could not have uttered them if life or death hung on the outcome. No — no — no! A dead silence followed. "Are you ill?" asked his companion, looking at him anxiously. "No, oh no," he replied, trying to rally himself. "But you are ill, Hartley. How pale your face is!" "It will pass off in a moment." He spoke with an effort to appear self-possessed. "Let us go back on deck," he added, rising. "There are a great many people in the cabin, and the atmosphere is oppressive." A dead weight fell upon the maiden’s heart as she arose and went on deck by the side of Hartley. She had noticed his sudden pause and glance across the cabin, at the instant she was holding her breath for his next words — but did not observe the object, a sight of which had wrought on him so remarkable a change. They walked nearly the entire length of the boat, after getting on deck, before Hartley spoke. He then remarked on the beauty of the scenery and pointed out interesting localities — but in so absent and preoccupied a way, that his companion listened without replying. In a little while, he managed to get into the vicinity of three or four of their party, with whom he left her, and, moving away, took a position on the upper deck just over the gangway from which the landings were made. Here he remained until the boat came to at a pier on which his feet had stepped lightly many, many times. Ivy Cliff was only a little way distant, hidden from view by a belt of forest trees. The ponderous boat stood still, the plunging wheels stopped their muffled roar, and in the brooding silence that followed, three or four people stepped on the plank which had been thrown out and passed to the shore. A single form alone fixed the eyes of Hartley. He would have known it on the instant among a thousand. It was that of Irene! Her step was slow, like one abstracted in mind or like one in feeble health. After gaining the landing, she stood still and turned toward the boat, when their eyes met again — met, and held each other, by a spell which neither had power to break. The anchors were thrown off, the engineer rung his bell; there was a clatter of machinery, a rush of waters — and the boat glanced onward. Then Irene startled like one suddenly aroused from sleep and walked rapidly away. And thus they met for the first time after a separation of ten years! ======================================================================== CHAPTER 84: 04.24. CHAPTER 24. THE MINISTERING ANGEL ======================================================================== Chapter 24. The Ministering Angel A clatter of machinery, a rush of waters, and the boat glanced onward — but still Hartley stood motionless and statue-like, his eyes fixed upon the shore, until the swiftly-gliding vessel bore him away, and the object which had held his vision by a kind of fascination was concealed from view. "An angel, if there ever was one on this side of Heaven!" said a voice close to his ear. Hartley gave a startle and turned quickly. A man plainly dressed stood beside him. He was of middle age, and had a mild, grave, thoughtful countenance. "Of whom do you speak?" asked Hartley, not able entirely to veil his surprise. "Of the lady we saw go ashore at the landing just now. She turned and looked at us. You could not help noticing her." "Who is she?" asked Hartley, and then held his breath awaiting the answer. The question was almost involuntary, yet prompted by a suddenly awakened desire to bear the world’s testimony regard to Irene. "You don’t know her, then?" remarked the stranger. "I asked who she was." Hartley intended to say this firmly — but his voice was unsteady. "Let us sit down," he added, looking around, and then leading the way to where some unoccupied chairs were standing. By the time they were seated, Hartley had gained the mastery over himself. "You don’t know her, then?" said the man, repeating his words. "She is well known about these parts, I can assure you. Why, that was old Mr. Delancy’s daughter. Did you ever hear of her?" "What about her?" was asked. "Well, in the first place, she was married some ten or twelve years ago to a lawyer down in New York; and, in the second place, they didn’t live very happily together — why, I never heard. I don’t believe it was her fault, for she’s the sweetest, kindest, gentlest lady it has ever been my good fortune to meet. Some people around Ivy Cliff call her ’the Angel’ — and the word has meaning in it as applied to her. She left her husband, and he got a divorce — but didn’t charge anything wrong against her. That, I suppose, was more than he dared to do, for a snow-flake is not purer." "You have lived in the neighborhood?" said Hartley, keeping his face a little averted. "Oh yes, sir. I have lived about here pretty much all my life." "Then you knew Miss Delancy before she was married?" "No, sir; I can’t say that I knew much about her before that time. I used to see her now and then as she rode about the neighborhood. She was a mirthful, wild girl, sir. But that unhappy marriage made a great change in her. I cannot forget the first time I saw her after she came back to her father’s. She seemed to me older by many years than when I last saw her, and looked like one just recovered from a long and serious illness. The brightness had passed from her face, the fire from her eyes, the spring from her footsteps. I believe she left her husband of her own accord — but I never knew that she made any complaint against him. Of course, people were very curious to know why she had abandoned him. But her lips must have been sealed, for only a little vague talk went floating around. I never heard a breath of wrong charged against him as coming from her." Hartley’s face was turned still more away from his companion, his eyes bent down and his brows firmly knit. He did not ask farther — but the man was on a theme that interested him, and so continued. "For most of the time since her return to Ivy Cliff, the life of Miss Delancy has been given to Christian charities. The death of her father was a heavy stroke. It took the life out of her for a while. Since her recovery from that shock, she has been constantly active among us in good deeds. Poor sick women know the touch of her gentle hand and the music of her voice. She has brought sunlight into many wintry homes, and kindled again on hearths long desolate — the fires of loving kindness. There must have been some lack of true appreciation on the part of her husband, sir. Bitter fountains do not send forth sweet waters like these. Don’t you think so?" "How would I know?" replied Hartley, a little coldly. The question was sprung upon him so suddenly that his answer was given in confusion of thought. "We all have our opinions, sir," said the man, "and this seems a plain case. I’ve heard it said that her husband was a hot-headed, self-willed, ill-regulated young fellow — no more fit to get married than to be President. That he didn’t understand the woman — or, maybe, I should say child — whom he took for his wife is very certain, or he never would have treated her in the way he did!" "How did he treat her?" asked Hartley. "As to that," replied his talkative companion, "we don’t know anything certain. But we shall not go far wrong in guessing that it was neither wise nor considerate. In fact, he must have outraged her terribly." "This, I presume, is the common impression about Ivy Cliff?" "No," said the man; "I’ve heard him well spoken of. The fact is, people are puzzled about the matter. We can’t just understand it. But, I’m all on her side." "I wonder that she has not married again?" said Hartley. "There are plenty of men who would be glad to wed so perfect a being as you represent her to be." "She marry!" There was indignation and surprise in the man’s voice. "Yes — why not?" "Sir, she is a Christian woman!" "I can believe that, after hearing your testimony in regard to her," said Hartley. But he still kept his face so much turned aside, that its expression could not be seen. "And reads her Bible." "As we all should." "And, what is more — she believes in it," said the man emphatically. "Don’t all Christian people believe in the Bible?" asked Hartley. "I suppose so, after a fashion; and a very queer fashion it is, sometimes." "How does this lady of whom you speak, believe in it differently from some others?" "In this, that it means what it says on the subject of divorce." "Oh, I understand. You think that if she were to marry again — it would be in the face of conscientious scruples?" "I do." Hartley was about asking another question, when one of the party to which he belonged joined him, and so the strange interview closed. He bowed to the man with whom he had been conversing, and then passed to another part of the boat. With slow steps, that were unsteady from sudden weakness, Irene moved along the road that led to her home. After reaching the grounds of Ivy Cliff, she turned aside into a small summer-house, and sat down at one of the windows which looked out upon the river as it stretched upward in its gleaming way. The boat she had just left was already far distant — but it fixed her eyes, and they saw no other object until it passed from view around a wooded point of land. And still she sat motionless, looking at the spot where it had vanished from her sight. "Miss Irene!" exclaimed Margaret, the faithful old servant, who still bore rule at the homestead, breaking in upon her reverie, "what in the world are you doing here? I expected you up today, and when the boat stopped at the landing and you didn’t come — I was uneasy and couldn’t rest. Why child, what is the matter? You’re sick!" "Oh no, Margaret, I’m well enough," said Irene, trying to smile indifferently. And she arose and left the summer-house. Kind, observant old Margaret was far from being satisfied, however. She saw that Irene was not as when she departed for the city a week before. If she were not sick in body — then she was troubled in her mind, for her countenance was so changed that she could not look upon it without feeling a pang in her heart. "I’m sure you’re sick, Miss Irene," she said as they entered the house. "Now, what is the matter? What can I do or get for you? Let me send over for Dr. Edmondson?" "No, no, my good Margaret, don’t think of such a thing," replied Irene. "I’m not sick." "Something’s the matter with you, child," persisted Margaret. "Nothing that won’t cure itself," said Irene, trying to speak cheerfully. "I’ll go up to my room for a little while." And she turned away from her kind-hearted servant. On entering her chamber, Irene locked the door in order to be safe from intrusion, for she knew that Margaret would not let half an hour pass without coming up to ask how she was. Sitting down by the window, she looked out upon the river, along whose smooth surface had passed the vessel in which, a little while before, she met the man once called by the name of husband — met him and looked into his face for the first time in ten long years! The meeting had disturbed her profoundly. In the cabin of that vessel, she had seen him by the side of a fair young girl in earnest conversation; and she had watched with a strange, fluttering interest the play of his features. What was he saying to that fair young girl — that she listened with such a breathless, waiting air? Suddenly he turned toward her, their eyes met and were spell-bound for moments. What did she read in his eyes in those brief moments? What did he read in hers? Both questions pressed themselves upon her thoughts as she retreated among the crowd of passengers, and then hid herself from the chance of another meeting until the boat reached the landing at Ivy Cliff. Why did she pause on the shore, and turn to look upon the crowded decks? She knew not. The act was involuntary. Again their eyes met — met and held each other until the receding vessel placed dim distance between them. In less than half an hour, Margaret’s hand was on the door — but she could not enter. Irene had not moved from her place at the window in all that time. "Is that you, Margaret?" she called, startling from her abstraction. "Do you need anything, Miss Irene?" "No, thank you, Margaret." She answered in as cheerful a tone as she could assume, and the kind old waiting-woman retired. From that time, everyone noted a change in Irene. But none knew, or even guessed, its cause or meaning. Not even to her friend, Rose, did she speak of her meeting with Hartley. Her face did not light up as before, and her eyes seemed always as if looking inward or gazing dreamily upon something afar off. Yet in good deeds, she failed not. If her own heart was heavier, she made other hearts lighter by her presence. And still the years went on in their steady revolutions — one, two, three, four, five more years — and in all that time the parted ones did not meet again. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 85: 04.25. CHAPTER 25. BORN FOR EACH OTHER ======================================================================== Chapter 25. Born for Each Other "I saw Hartley yesterday," said Rose. She was sitting with Irene in her own house in New York. "Did you?" Irene spoke evenly and quietly — but did not turn her face toward Rose. "Yes. I saw him at my husband’s store. My husband has engaged him to conduct an important suit, in which many thousands of dollars are at stake." "How does he look?" inquired Irene, without showing any feelings but still keeping her face turned from Mrs Everet. "Well, I would say, though rather too much frosted for a man of his years." "Gray, do you mean?" Irene manifested some surprise. "Yes; his hair and beard are quite sprinkled with time’s white snow-flakes." "He is only forty," remarked Irene. "I would say fifty, judging from his appearance." "Only forty." And a faint sigh breathed on the lips of Irene. She did not look around at her friend but sat very still, with her face turned partly away. Rose looked at her closely, to read, if possible, what was passing in her mind. But the countenance of Irene was too much hidden. Her attitude, however, indicated intentness of thought, though not disturbing thought. "Rose," she said at length, "I grow less at peace with myself as the years move onward." "You speak from some passing state of mind," suggested Rose. "No; from a gradually forming permanent state. Ten years ago, I looked back upon the past in a stern, self-sustaining, martyr-spirit. Five years ago all things wore a different aspect. I began to have misgivings; I could not so clearly make out my case. New thoughts on the subject — and not very welcome ones — began to intrude. I was self-convicted of wrong; yes, Rose, of a great and an irreparable wrong! I shut my eyes; I tried to look in other directions; but the truth, once seen, could not pass from the range of mental vision. I have never told you that I saw Hartley five years ago. The effect of that meeting was such that I could not speak of it, even to you. We met on one of the river steamboats — met and looked into each other’s eyes for just a moment. It may only be an imagination of mine — but I have thought sometimes that — but for this seemingly accidental meeting — he would have married again." "Why do you think so?" asked Rose. Irene did not answer for some moments. She hardly dared venture to put what she had seen in words. It was something that she felt more like hiding even from her own consciousness, if that were possible. But, having ventured so far, she could not well hold back. So she replied, keeping her voice into as dead a level as it was possible to assume: "He was sitting in earnest conversation with a young lady, and from the expression of her face, which I could see, the subject on which he was speaking was evidently one in which more than her thought was interested. I felt at the time that he was on the verge of a new life-experiment — was about venturing upon a sea on which he had once made shipwreck. Suddenly he turned half around and looked at me, before I had time to withdraw my eyes — looked at me with a strange, surprised, startled look. In another moment a form came between us; when it passed, I was lost from his gaze in the crowd of passengers. I have puzzled myself a great many times over that fact of his turning his eyes, as if from some hidden impulse, just to the spot where I was sitting. There are no accidents — as I have often heard you say — in the common acceptance of the term; therefore this was no accident." "It was a divine providence," said Rose. "And to what end?" asked Irene. Rose shook her head. "I will not even presume to conjecture." Irene sighed, and then sat lost in thought. Recovering herself, she said: "Since that time I have been growing less and less satisfied with that brief, troubled portion of my life which closed so disastrously. I forgot how much the happiness of another was involved. A blind, willful girl, struggling in imaginary chains — I thought only of myself, and madly tore apart the ties which death only should have sundered. For five years, Rose, I have carried in my heart the expression which looked out upon me from the eyes of Hartley at that brief meeting. Its meaning was not then, nor is it now, clear. I have never set myself to the work of interpretation, and believe the task would be fruitless. But whenever it is recalled, I am affected with a tender sadness. And so his head is already frosted, Rose?" "Yes." "Though in years he has reached only manhood’s ripened state. How I have marred his life! Better, far better, would it have been for him — if I had been the bride of Death on my wedding-day!" A shadow of pain darkened her face. "No," replied Rose; "it is better for both you and him that you were not the bride of Death. There are deeper things hidden in the events of life than our reason can fathom. We die when it is best for ourselves and best for others that we should die — never before. And the fact that we live is in itself conclusive that we are yet needed in the world by all who can be affected by our mortal existence." "Gray hair at forty!" This seemed to haunt the mind of Irene. "It may be constitutional," suggested Rose; "some heads begin to whiten at thirty." "Possibly." But the tone expressed no conviction. "How was his face?" asked Irene. "Grave and thoughtful. At least so it appeared to me." "At forty!" It was all Irene said. Rose might have suggested that a man of his legal position would naturally be grave and thoughtful — but she did not. "It struck me," said Rose, "as a true, pure, manly face. It was intellectual and refined; delicate, yet firm about the mouth and expansive in the upper portions. The hair curled softly away from his white temples and forehead." "Worthy of a better fate!" sighed Irene. "And it is I who have marred his whole life! How blind is selfish pride! Ah, my friend, the years do not bring peace to my soul. There have been times when to know that he had sought refuge from a lonely life in marriage, would have been a relief to me. Were this the case, the thought of his isolation, of his imperfect life, would not be forever rebuking me. But now, while no less severely rebuked by this thought, I feel glad that he has not ventured upon an act no clear sanction for which is found in the Divine Word. He could not, I feel, have remained so true and pure a man as I trust he is this day. God help him to hold on, faithful to his highest intuitions, even unto the end." Rose looked at Irene wonderingly as she spoke. She had never before thus unveiled her thoughts. "He struck me," was her reply, "as a man who had passed through years of discipline and gained the mastery of himself." "I trust that it may be so," Irene answered, rather as if speaking to herself than to another. "As I grow older," she added, after a long pause, now looking with calm eyes upon her friend, "and life-experiences correct my judgment and chasten my feelings — I see all things in a new aspect. I understand my own heart better — its needs, capacities and yearnings; and self-knowledge is the key by which we unlock the mystery of other souls. So a deeper self-acquaintance enables me to look deeper into the hearts of all around me. I erred in marrying Hartley. We were both too hasty, self-willed and tenacious of rights and opinions to come together in a union so sacred and so intimate. But, after I had become his wife, after I had taken upon myself such holy vows, it was my duty to stand fast. I could not abandon my place and be innocent before God and man. And I am not innocent, Rose." The face of Irene was strongly agitated for some moments; but she recovered herself and went on: "I am speaking of things that have hitherto been secrets of my own heart. I could not bring them out even for you to look at, my dearest, truest, best of friends. Now it seems as if I could not bear the weight of my heavy thoughts alone; as if, in admitting you beyond the veil, I might find strength to suffer, if not ease from pain. There is no such thing as living our lives over again and correcting their great errors. The past is an irrevocable fact. Ah, if conscience would sleep, if struggles for a better life would make atonement for wrong — then, as our years progress, we might lapse into tranquil states. But gradually clearing vision, increases the magnitude of a fault like mine — for its fatal consequences are seen in broader light. I think it is well for my peace of mind that I have not been in the way of hearing about him or of seeing him. Since we parted, it has been as if a dark curtain had fallen between us; and, so far as I am concerned, that curtain has been lifted up but once or twice, and then only for a moment of time. So all my thoughts of him are joined to the past. Away back in that sweet time when the heart of girlhood first thrills with the passion of love are some memories that haunt my soul like dreams from paradise. He was, in my eyes, the impersonation of all that was lovely and excellent; his presence made my sense of happiness complete; his voice touched my ears as the blending of all rich harmonies. But there fell upon him a shadow; there came hard discords in the music which had entranced my soul; the fine gold was dimmed. Then came that period of mad strife, of blind antagonism, in which we hurt each other by rough contact. Finally, we were driven far asunder, and, instead of revolving together around a common center — each has moved in a separate orbit. For years that dark period of pain, has held the former period of brightness in eclipse; but of late gleams from that better time have made their way down to the present. Gradually the shadows are giving away. The first state is coming to be felt more and more as the true state — as that in best agreement with what we are in relation to each other. It was the evil in us, which met in such fatal antagonism — not the good; it was something that we must put off if we would rise from natural and selfish life — into spiritual and heavenly life. It was our selfishness and pride which drove us asunder. Thus it is, dear Rose, that my thoughts have been wandering about in the maze of life which entangles me. In my isolation, I have time enough for mental self-examination — for self-exploration, if you will. And so I have lifted the veil for you; uncovered my inner life; taken you into the sanctuary over whose threshold no foot but my own had ever passed." There was too much in all this for Rose to venture upon any reply that involved suggestion or advice. It was from a desire to look deeper into the heart of her friend, that she had spoken of her meeting with Hartley. The glance she obtained revealed far more than her imagination had ever reached. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 86: 04.26. CHAPTER 26. LOVE NEVER DIES ======================================================================== Chapter 26. Love Never Dies The brief meeting with Rose had stirred the memory of old times in the heart of Hartley. With a vividness unknown for years, Ivy Cliff and the sweetness of many life-passages there came back to him, and set heart-pulses that he had thought stilled forever, beating in tumultuous waves. When the business of the day was over, he sat down in the silence of his chamber and turned his eyes inward. He pushed aside intervening year after year, until the long-ago past was, to his consciousness, almost as real as the living present. What he saw, moved him deeply. He grew restless, then showed disturbance of manner. There was an effort to turn away from the haunting fascination of this long-buried — but now exhumed period; but the dust and dross were removed, and it lifted, like another Pompeii, its desolate walls and silent chambers in the clear noon-rays of the present. After a long but fruitless effort to bury the past again, to let the years close over it as the waves close over a treasure-laden ship — Hartley gave himself up to its thronging memories and let them bear him where they would. In this state of mind, he unlocked one of the drawers in a secretary and took therefrom a small box or casket. Placing this on a table, he sat down and looked at it for some minutes, as if in doubt whether it were best for him to go further in this direction. Whether satisfied or not, he presently laid his fingers upon the lid of the casket and slowly opened it. It contained only a morocco case. He touched this as if it were something precious and sacred. For some moments after it was removed, he sat holding it in his hand and looking at the dark, blank surface, as a long-expected letter is sometimes held before the seal is broken and the contents devoured with impatient eagerness. At last his finger pressed the spring on which it had been resting, and he looked upon a young, sweet face, whose eyes gazed back into his with a living tenderness. In a little while his hand so trembled, and his eyes grew so dim, that the face was veiled from his sight. Closing the miniature — but still retaining it in his hand, he leaned back in his chair and remained motionless, with shut eyes, for a long time; then he looked at the fair young face again, pondering over every feature and expression, until sad memories came in and veiled it again with tears. "Folly! weakness!" he said at last, pushing the picture from him and making a feeble effort to get back his manly self-possession. "The past is gone forever. The page on which its sad history is written, was closed long ago, and the book is sealed. Why unclasp the volume and search for that dark record again?" Yet, even as he said this, his hand reached out for the miniature, and his eyes were on it before the closing words had parted from his lips. "Poor Irene!" he murmured, as he gazed on her pictured face. "You had a pure, tender, loving heart . . ." then, suddenly shutting the miniature, with a sharp click of the spring, he tossed it from him upon the table and said, "This is folly! folly! folly!" and, leaning back in his chair, he shut his eyes and sat for a long time with his brows sternly knitted together and his lips tightly compressed. Rising, at length, he restored the picture to its casket, and the casket to its place in the drawer. A servant came to the door at this moment, bringing the compliments of a lady friend, who asked him, if not engaged, to favor her with his company on that evening, as she had a visitor, just arrived, to whom she wished to introduce him. He liked the lady, who was the wife of a legal friend, very well; but he was not always so well pleased with her lady friends, of whom she had a large circle. The fact was, she considered him too fine a man to go through life companionless, and did not hesitate to use every artifice in her power to draw him into an entangling alliance. He saw this, and was often more amused than annoyed by her finesse. It was on his lips to send word that he was engaged — but a regard for truth would not let him make this excuse; so, after a little hesitation and debate, he answered that he would present himself during the evening. The lady’s visitor was a widow of about thirty years of age — rich, educated, accomplished and personally attractive. She was from Boston, and connected with one of the most distinguished families in Massachusetts, whose line of ancestry ran back among the nobles of England. In conversation this lady showed herself to be rarely gifted, and there was a charm about her manners that was irresistible. Hartley, who had been steadily during the past five years growing less and less attracted by the fine women he met in society, found himself unusually interested in Mrs. Wager. "I knew you would like her," said his lady friend, as Hartley was about retiring at eleven o’clock. "You take your conclusion for granted," he answered, smiling. "Did I say that I liked her?" "We ladies have eyes," was the laughing rejoinder. "Of course you like her. She’s going to spend three or four days with me. You’ll drop in tomorrow evening. Now don’t pretend that you have an engagement. Come; I want you to know her better. I think her charming." Hartley did not promise positively — but said that he might look in during the evening. For a new acquaintance, Mrs. Wager had attracted him strongly; and his thoughtful friend was not disappointed in her expectation of seeing him at her house on the following night. Mrs. Wager, to whom the lady she was visiting had spoken of Hartley in terms of almost extravagant eulogy, was exceedingly well pleased with him, and much gratified at meeting him again. A second interview gave both an opportunity for closer observation, and when they parted it was with pleasant thoughts of each other lingering in their minds. During the time that Mrs. Wager remained in New York, which was prolonged for a week beyond the period originally fixed, Hartley saw her almost every day, and became her voluntary escort in visiting points of local interest. The more he saw of her — the more he was charmed with her character. She seemed in his eyes, to be the most attractive woman he had ever met. Still, there was something about her that did not wholly satisfy him, though what it was did not come into perception. Five years had passed since any serious thought of marriage had troubled the mind of Hartley. After his meeting with Irene, he had felt that another union in this world was not for him — that he had no right to exchange vows of eternal fidelity with any other woman. She had remained unwedded, and would so remain, he felt, to the end of her life. The legal contract between them was dissolved; but, since his brief talk with the stranger on the boat, he had not felt so clear as to the higher divine law obligations which were upon them. And so he had settled it in his mind, to bear life’s burdens alone. But Mrs. Wager had crossed his way, and filled, in many respects, his ideal of a woman. There was a charm about her that won him against all resistance. "Don’t let this opportunity pass," said his interested lady friend, as the day of Mrs. Wager’s departure drew near. "She is a woman in a thousand, and will make one of the best of wives. Think, too, of her social position, her wealth and her large cultivation. An opportunity like this is never presented more than once in a lifetime." "You speak," replied Hartley, "as if I had only to say the word and this fair prize would drop into my arms." "She will have to be wooed if she is won. Were this not the case, she would not be worth having," said the lady. "But my word for it, if you turn wooer — the winning will not be hard. If I have not erred in my observation, you are about mutually interested. There now, my cautious sir, if you do not get handsomely provided for, it will be no fault of mine." In two days from this time, Mrs. Wager was to return to Boston. "You must take her to see those new paintings at the rooms of the Society Library tomorrow. I heard her express a desire to examine them before returning to Boston. Connoisseurs are in ecstasies over three or four of the pictures, and, as Mrs. Wager is something of an enthusiast in matters of art, your favor in this will give her no light pleasure." "I shall be most happy to attend her," replied Hartley. "Give her my compliments, and say that, if agreeable to herself, I will call for her at twelve tomorrow." "No verbal compliments and messages," replied the lady; "that isn’t just the way." "How then? Must I call upon her and deliver my message? That might not be convenient to me, nor agreeable to her." "Oh!" ejaculated the lady, with affected impatience, "you men are so stupid at times! You know how to write!" "Ah! yes, I comprehend you now." "Very well. Send your compliments and your message in a note; and let it be daintily worded; not in heavy phrases, like a legal document." "A very princess in feminine diplomacy!" said Hartley to himself, as he turned from the lady and took his way homeward. "So I must pen a note." Now this proved a more difficult matter than he had at first thought. He sat down to the task immediately on returning to his room. On a small sheet of tinted note-paper he wrote a few words — but they did not please him, and the page was thrown into the fire. He tried again — but with no better success — again and again; but still, as he looked at the brief sentences, they seemed to express too much — or too little. Unable to pen the note to his satisfaction, he pushed, at last, his writing materials aside, saying, "My head will be clearer and cooler in the morning." It was drawing on to midnight, and Hartley had not yet retired. His thoughts were too busy for sleep. Many things were crowding into his mind — questions, doubts, misgivings — scenes from the past and imaginations of the future. And amid them all came in now and then, just for a moment, as he had seen it five years before — the pale, still face of Irene. Wearied in the conflict, tired nature at last gave way, and Hartley fell asleep in his chair. Two hours of deep slumber tranquilized his spirit. He awoke from this, put off his clothing and laid his head on his pillow. It was late in the morning when he arose. He had no difficulty now in penning a note to Mrs. Wager. It was the work of a moment, and satisfactory to him in the first effort. At twelve he called with a carriage for the lady, whom he found all ready to accompany him, and in the best possible state of mind. Her smile, as he presented himself, was absolutely fascinating; and her voice seemed like a freshly-tuned instrument, every tone was so rich in musical vibration, and all the tones came chorded to his ear. There were not many visitors at the exhibition rooms — a score, perhaps — but they were art-lovers, gazing in enrapt attention or talking in hushed whispers. They moved about noiselessly here and there, seeming scarcely conscious that others were present. Gradually the number increased, until within an hour after they entered, it was more than doubled. Still, the presence of art subdued all into silence or subdued utterances. Hartley was charmed with his companion’s appreciative admiration of many pictures. She was familiar with art-terms and special points of interest, and pointed out beauties and harmonies that to him were dead letters without an interpreter. They came, at last, to a small but wonderfully effective picture, which contained a single figure, that of a man sitting by a table in a room which presented the appearance of a library. He held a letter in his hand — a old letter; the artist had made this plain — but was not reading. He had been reading; but the words, proving conjurors, had summoned the dead past before him, and he was now looking far away, with sad, dreamy eyes, into the long ago. A casket stood open. The letter had evidently been taken from this repository. There was a picture; a bracelet of auburn hair; a ring and a chain of gold lying on the table. Hartley turned to the catalogue and read, "With the buried past." And below this title the brief sentiment — "Love never dies!" A deep, involuntary sigh came through his lips and stirred the pulseless air around him. Then, like an echo, there came to his ears an answering sigh — and, turning, he looked into the face of Irene! She had entered the rooms a little while before, and in passing from picture to picture had reached this one a few moments after Hartley. She had not observed him, and was just beginning to feel its meaning, when the sigh that attested its power over him — reached her ears and awakened an answering sigh. For several moments their eyes were fixed in a gaze which neither had power to withdraw. The face of Irene had grown thinner, paler and more shadowy than it was when he looked upon it five years before. But her eyes were darker in contrast with her colorless face, and had a deeper tone of feeling. They did not speak nor pass a sign of recognition. But the instant their eyes withdrew from each other — Irene turned from the picture and left the room. When Hartley looked back into the face of his companion, its charm was gone. Beside that of the fading countenance, so still and nun-like, upon which he had gazed a moment before — it looked coarse and worldly. When she spoke, her tones no longer came in chords of music to his ears — but jarred upon his feelings. He grew silent, cold, abstracted. The lady noted the change, and tried to rally him; but her efforts were vain. He moved by her side like an automaton, and listened to her comments on the pictures they paused to examine, in such evident absent-mindedness, that she became annoyed, and proposed returning home. Hartley made no objection, and they left the quiet picture-gallery for the turbulence of Broadway. The ride home was a silent one, and they separated in mutual embarrassment, Hartley going back to his rooms instead of to his office, and sitting down in loneliness there, with a shuddering sense of thankfulness at his heart for the danger he had just escaped. "What a blind spell was on me!" he said, as he gazed away down into his soul — far, far deeper than any tone or look from Mrs. Wager had penetrated — and saw needs, states and yearnings there, which must be filled — or there could be no completeness of life. And now the still, pale face of Irene stood out distinctly; and her deep, yearning eyes looked into his with a fixed intentness that stirred his heart to its profoundest depths. Hartley was absent from his office all that day. But on the next morning he was at his post, and it would have taken a close observer to have detected any change in his usually quiet face. But there was a change in the man — a great change. He had gone down deeper into his heart than he had ever gone before, and understood himself better. There was little danger of his ever being tempted again in this direction. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 87: 04.27. CHAPTER 27. EFFECTS OF THE STORM ======================================================================== Chapter 27. Effects of the Storm It was more than a week before Hartley called again upon the lady friend who had shown so strong a desire to procure him a wife. He expected her to introduce the name of Mrs. Wager, and came prepared to talk in a way that would forever close the subject of marriage between them. The lady expressed surprise at not having seen him for so long a time, and then introduced the subject nearest her thought. "What was the matter with you and Mrs. Wager?" she asked, her face growing serious. Hartley shook his head, and said, "Nothing," with not a shadow of concern in his voice. "Nothing? Think again. I could hardly have been deceived." "Why do you ask? Did the lady charge anything ungallant against me?" Hartley was unmoved. "Oh no, no! She scarcely mentioned your name after her return from viewing the pictures. But she was not in so bright a humor as when she went out, and was dull up to the hour of her departure for Boston. I’m afraid you offended her in some way — unconsciously on your part, of course." "No, I think not," said Hartley. "She would be sensitive in the extreme, if offended by any word or act of mine." "Well, letting that all pass, Hartley, what do you think of Mrs. Wager?" "That she is an attractive and highly accomplished woman." "And the one who reaches your ideal of a wife?" "No, ma’am," was the unhesitating answer, and made in so emphatic a tone that there was no mistaking his sincerity. There was a change in his countenance and manner. He looked unusually serious. The lady tried to rally him — but he had come in too sober a state of mind for pleasant trifling on this subject, of all others. "My kind, good friend," he said, "I owe you many thanks for the interest you have taken in me, and for your efforts to get me a companion. But I do not intend to marry." "So you have said . . ." "Pardon me for interrupting you." Hartley checked the light speech that was on her tongue. "I am going to say to you some things that have never passed my lips before. You will understand me; this I know, or I would not let a sentence come into utterance. And I know more, that you will not make light of what to me is sacred." The lady was sobered in a moment. "To make light of what to you is sacred, would be impossible," she replied. "I believe it, and therefore I am going to speak of things that are to me the saddest of my life, and yet are coming to involve the holiest sentiments. I have more than one reason for desiring now to let another look below the quiet surface; and I will lift the veil for your eyes alone. You know that I was married nearly twenty years ago, and that my wife separated herself from me in less than three years after our union; and you also know that the separation was made permanent by a divorce. This is all that you or any other one knows, so far as I have made communication on the subject; and I have reason to believe that she who was my wife, has been as reserved in the matter as myself. "The simple facts in the case are these: We were both young and undisciplined, both quick-tempered, self-willed, and very much inclined to have things our own way. She was an only child, and so was I. Each had been spoiled by long self-indulgence. So, when we came together in marriage, the action of our lives, instead of taking a common pulsation — was inharmonious. For a few years we strove together blindly in our chains, and then foolishly broke asunder. I think we were about equally in fault; but if there was a preponderance of blame, it rested on my side — for, as a man, I should have kept a cooler head and shown greater forbearance. But the time for blame has long since passed. It is with the stern, irrevocable facts that we are dealing now. "So bitter had been our experience, and so painful the shock of separation, that I think a great many years must have passed before repentance came into either heart — before a feeling of regret that we had not held fast to our marriage vows was born. How it was with me you may infer from the fact that, after the lapse of two years, I deliberately asked for and obtained a divorce on the ground of desertion. But doubt as to the propriety of this step stirred uneasily in my mind for the first time when I held the decree in my hand; and I have never felt wholly satisfied with myself since. There should be something deeper than incompatibility of temper to warrant a divorce. The parties should correct what is wrong in themselves — and thus come into harmony. There is no excuse for pride, passion and self-will. The law of God does not make these justifiable causes of divorce, and neither should the law of man. A purer woman than my wife, never lived; and she had elements of character that promised a rare development. I was proud of her. Ah, if I had been wiser and more patient! If I had endeavored to lead, instead of assuming the manly prerogative! But I was young, and blind, and willful! "Fifteen years have passed since the day we parted, and each has remained single. If we had not separated, we might now be living in a true heart-union; for I believe, strange as it may sound to you, that we were made for each other — that, when the false and evil of our lives are put off, the elements of harmony will appear. We have made for ourselves, a dreary wilderness — when, if we had overcome the evil of our hearts, our paths would have been through green and fragrant places. I am a better man, I think, for the discipline through which I have passed, and she is a better woman." Hartley paused. "She? Have you seen her?" the lady asked. "Twice since we parted, and then only for a moment. Suddenly each time we met, and looked into each other’s eyes for a single instant; then, as if a curtain had dropped suddenly between us — we were separated. But the impression of her face remained as vivid and permanent as a picture. She lives, for most of her time, secluded at Ivy Cliff, her home on the Hudson; and her life is passed there, I hear, in doing Christian charity. And, if good deeds, from right ends, write their history on the human face, then her countenance bears the record of tenderest charities. It was pale when I last saw it — pale — but spiritual — I can use no other word; and I felt a sudden panic at the thought that she was growing into a life so pure and heavenly — that I must stand afar off as unworthy. It had sometimes come into my thought that we were approaching each other — as both put off, more and more, the evil which had driven us apart and held us so long asunder. But this illusion our last brief meeting dispelled. She has passed me on the road of self-discipline and self-denial, and is journeying far ahead. And now I can but follow through life at a distance. "So much, and no more, my friend. I drop the veil over my heart. You will understand me better hereafter. I shall not marry. That legal divorce is invalid. I could not perjure my soul by vows of fidelity toward another. Patiently and earnestly, will I do my allotted work here. My better hopes lie all in the heavenly future. "And now, my friend, we will understand each other better. You have looked deeper into my thoughts and experiences than any other human being. Let the revelation be sacred to yourself. The knowledge you possess may enable you to do me justice sometimes, and sometimes to save me from an intrusion of themes that cannot but touch me unpleasantly. There was a charm about Mrs. Wager that, striking me suddenly, for a little while bewildered my imagination. She is a woman of rare endowments, and I do not regret the introduction and passing influence she exercised over me. It was a dream from which the awakening was certain. Suddenly the illusion vanished, as I saw her beside my lost Irene. The one woman was of the earth, earthy — the other of Heaven, heavenly; and as I looked back into her brilliant face, radiant with thought and feeling, I felt a low, creeping shudder, as if just freed from the spell of an enchantress. I cannot be enthralled again, even for a moment." Back again into his world’s work, Hartley returned after this brief, exciting episode, and found in its performance from high and honorable motives that calmly sustaining power which comes only as the reward of duties faithfully done. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 88: 04.28. CHAPTER 28. AFTER THE STORM ======================================================================== Chapter 28. After the Storm After the storm! How long the treasure remained buried in deep waters! How long the earth showed unsightly furrows and barren places! For nearly twenty years there had been warm sunshine, and no failure of the dews nor the early and latter rain. But grass had not grown nor flowers blossomed in the path of that desolating tempest. Nearly twenty years! If the history of these two lives during that long period could be faithfully written — it would flood the soul with tears. Four years later than the time when we last presented Irene to the reader, we introduce her again. That meeting in the picture-gallery had disturbed profoundly the quiet pulses of her life. She did not observe Hartley’s companion. The picture alone had attracted her attention; and she had just began to feel its meaning, when an audible sigh reached her ears. The answering sigh was involuntary. Then they looked into each other’s faces again — only for an instant — but with what a volume of mutual revelations! It was four years after this time that Irene, after a brief visit in New York to her friend, Rose, returned to her rural home. Rose was to follow on the next day, and spend a few weeks with her father. It was yet in the early summer, and there were not many passengers on the boat. As was usual, Irene provided herself with a good book, and soon after going on board took a retired place in one of the cabins and buried herself in its pages. For over three hours she remained completely absorbed in what she was reading. Then her mind began to wander and dwell on themes that made the even pulses of her heart beat to a quicker measure; yet still her eyes remained fixed on the book she held in her hand. At length she became aware that someone was near her, by the falling of a shadow on the page she was trying to read. Lifting her head, she met the eyes of Hartley! He was standing close to her, his hand resting on the back of a chair, which he now drew nearly in front of her. "Irene," he said, in a low, quiet voice, "I am glad to meet you again in this world." And he reached out his hand as he spoke. For a moment Irene sat very still — but she did not take her eyes from Hartley’s face; then she extended her hand and let it lie in his. He did not fail to notice that it had a little tremor. Thus received, he sat down. "Nearly twenty years have passed, Irene, since a word has passed between us." Her lips moved — but there was no utterance. "Why should we not, at least, be friends?" Her lips moved again — but no words trembled on the air. "Friends, that may meet now and then, and feel kindly one toward the other." His voice was even in tone — very even — but very distinct and impressive. At first Irene’s face had grown pale — but now a warm flush was pervading it. "If you desire it, Hartley," she answered, in a voice that trembled in the beginning — but grew firm before the sentence closed, "it is not for me to say, ’No.’ As for kind feelings, they are yours always — always. The bitterness passed from my heart long ago." "And from mine," said Hartley. They were silent for a few moments, and each showed embarrassment. "Nearly twenty years! That is a long, long time, Irene." His voice showed signs of weakness. "Yes, it is a long time." It was a mere echo of his words, yet full of meaning. "Twenty years!" he repeated. "There has been full time for reflection, and, it may be, for repentance. Time for growing wiser and better." Irene’s eyelids drooped until the long lashes lay in a dark fringed line on her pale cheeks. When she lifted them they were wet. "Yes, Hartley," she answered with much feeling, "there has been, indeed, time for reflection and repentance. It is no light thing to shadow the whole life of a human being." "As I have shadowed yours." "No, no," she answered quickly, "I did not mean that; as I have shadowed yours." She could not veil the tender interest that was in her eyes; would not, perhaps, if it had been in her power. At this moment a bell rang out clear and loud. Irene started and glanced from the window; then, rising quickly, she said — "We are at the landing." There was a hurried passage from cabin to deck, a troubled confusion of thought, a brief period of waiting, and then Irene stood on the shore and Hartley on the receding vessel. In a few hours, miles of space lay between them. "Irene, darling," said Rose, as they met at Ivy Cliff on the next day, "how charming you look! This pure, sweet, bracing air has beautified you like a cosmetic. Your cheeks are warm and your eyes are full of light. It gives me gladness of heart to see in your face, something of the old look that faded from it years ago." Irene drew her arm around her friend and kissed her lovingly. "Come and sit down here in the library. I have something to tell you," she answered, "that will make your heart beat quicker, as it has mine." "I have met him," she said, as they sat down and looked again into each other’s faces. "Him! Who?" "Hartley!" "Your husband?" "He who was my husband. Met him face to face; touched his hand; listened to his voice; almost felt his heart beat against mine. Oh, Rose darling, it has sent the blood bounding in new life through my veins. He was on the boat yesterday, and came to me as I sat reading. We talked together for a few minutes, when our landing was reached, and we parted. But in those few minutes my poor heart had more happiness than it has known for twenty years. We are at peace. He asked why we might not be as friends who could meet now and then, and feel kindly toward each other? God bless him for the words! After a long, long night of tears — the sweet morning has broken!" And Irene laid her head down against Rose, hiding her face and weeping from excess of joy. "What a pure, true, manly face he has!" she continued, looking up with swimming eyes. "How full it is of thought and feeling! You called him my husband just now, Rose. My husband!" The light went back from her face. "Not for time, but — " and she glanced upward, with eyes full of hope — "for the everlasting ages! Oh is it not a great gain to have met here in forgiveness of the past — to have looked kindly into each other’s faces — to have spoken words that cannot die?" What could Rose say to all this? Irene had carried her out of her depth. The even tenor of her life-experiences, gave no deep sea-line that could sound these waters. And so she sat silent, bewildered and half afraid. Margaret came to the library, and, opening the door, looked in. There was a surprised expression on her face. "What is it?" Irene asked. "A gentleman has called, Miss Irene." "A gentleman!" "Yes, miss; and wants to see you." "Did he send his name?" "No, miss." "Do you know him, Margaret?" "I can’t say, miss, for certain, but . . ." she stopped. "But what, Margaret?" "It may be just my thought, miss; but he looks for all the world as if he might be . . ." She paused again. "Well?" "I can’t say it, Miss Irene, no how, and I won’t. But the gentleman asked for you. What shall I tell him?" "That I will see him in a moment!" answered Irene. Margaret retired. The face of Irene, which flushed at first, now became pale as ashes. A wild hope trembled in her heart. "Excuse me for a few minutes," she said to Rose, and, rising, left the room. It was as Irene had supposed. On entering the parlor, a gentleman advanced to meet her, and she stood face to face with Hartley! "Irene," he said, extending his hand. "Hartley!" fell in an irrepressible throb from her lips, as she put her hand in his. "I could not return to New York without seeing you again," said Hartley, as he stood holding the hand of Irene. "We met so briefly, and were thrown apart again so suddenly, that some things I meant to say were left unspoken." He led her to a seat and sat down beside her, still looking intently in her face. Irene was far from being as calm as when they sat together the day before. A world of new hopes had sprung up in her heart since then. She had lain half asleep and half awake nearly all night, in a kind of delicious dream, from which the morning awoke her with a cold chill of reality. She had dreamed again since the sun had risen; and now the dream was changing into reality. "Have I done wrong in coming to see you, Irene?" he asked. And she answered, "No, it is a pleasure to see you, Hartley." She had passed through years of self-discipline, and the power acquired during this time came to her aid. And so she was able to answer with womanly dignity. It was a pleasure to meet him there — and she said so. "There are some things in the past, Irene," said Hartley, "of which I must speak, now that I can do so. There are confessions that I wish to make. Will you hear me?" "Better," answered Irene, "let the dead past bury its dead." "I do not seek to justify myself — but you, Irene." "You cannot alter the estimate I have made of my own conduct," she replied. "A bitter stream does not flow from a sweet fountain. That dead, dark, hopeless past! Let it sleep if it will!" "And what, then, of the future?" asked Hartley. "Of the future!" The question startled her. She looked at him with a glance of eager inquiry. "Yes, of the future, Irene. Shall it be as the past? or have we both come up purified from the fire? Has it consumed the dross — and left only the fine gold? I can believe it in your case — and hope that it is so in mine. But this I do know, Irene: after suffering and trial have done their work of abrasion, and I get down to the pure metal of my heart — I find that your image is fixed there in the imperishable substance. I did not expect to meet you again in this world as now — to look into your face, to hold your hand, to listen to your voice as I have done this day — but I have felt that God was fitting us through earthly trial, for a permanent union. We shall be one, dear Irene — one and forever!" The strong man broke down. His voice fell into low sobs — tears blinded his vision. He groped about for the hand of Irene, found it, and held it passionately to his lips. Was it for a loving woman to hold back coldly now? No, no, no! That were impossible. "My husband!" she said, tenderly and reverently, as she placed her saintly lips on his forehead. There was a touching ceremony at Ivy Cliff on the next day — one never to be forgotten by the few who were witnesses. A white-haired minister — the same who, more than twenty years before, had said to Hartley and Irene Delancy, "May your lives flow together like two pure streams which meet in the same valley" — again joined their hands and called them "husband and wife." The long, dreary, tempestuous night had passed away — and the morning arisen in brightness and beauty. The End. P.S. If you liked the above story, then you will also like Timothy Shay Arthur’s insightful seven page story for wives, "I Will!" ======================================================================== CHAPTER 89: 04A. AN AMERICAN STORY OF REAL LIFE ======================================================================== An American Story of Real Life By Timothy Shay Arthur, 1855 ======================================================================== CHAPTER 90: 04A.01 CHAPTER 1 ======================================================================== CHAPTER 1 "Are you going to Mr. Martin’s grand party tomorrow evening, Harry?" asked one young man of another, as they lounged in the bar-room of the Mansion House. "Of course I am. Will you be there?" "O, yes. I never miss being present on such occasions. But say, Harry, are you serious in that matter about pretty Bell?" "Am I? What a question for you to ask! Certainly I am." "Do you think you can get around the old man, her father?" "I can try. My family is as good as his. So you see we are even there. But I don’t think much about him, now. I must first get the right side of Bell." "How do you expect to manage that?" "By talking sentiment, paying her the most flattering attentions possible, and being her most humble servant on all occasions." "She will have a splendid fortune." "There is no mistake about that!" "How large do you think?" "I have ascertained, pretty certainly, that old Martin is worth about nine hundred thousand dollars. He has two children. They will divide at his death over three hundred thousand dollars a piece, after the widow’s one-third has been taken out. And she, of course, is not going to live forever." "Of course not. And you would come in, if you had the daughter, for half of that sum also." "Exactly. Now isn’t there a glorious prospect before me?" "There is, really. A golden opportunity, like this, must not pass, unimproved." "Nor will it." "How do you stand with Bell?" "Pretty fair, I think. Last week I was at a party with her, and broke the ice. She is young, you know, and as frank and innocent as a child. I really felt my heart warm toward her." "Indeed! That was a phenomenon!" said the friend laughing. "Wasn’t it! But don’t be alarmed. I’m not going to fall in love with her until I find the coast clear." "Don’t, if you please, or I shall be compelled to cut your acquaintance." "Never fear. A young man of my habits can’t afford to fall in love, unless he is sure of success." "And certain of gaining a fortune!" "Of course. That was pre-supposed." "Are you going to buy that splendid pair of horses, belonging to Porter, which you drove out yesterday?" "I wish to do so." "He asks twelve hundred dollars for them, I believe." "Yes. But I think would not refuse a thousand if laid down before him." "Why don’t you take them, Harry? They are worth all of that." "We sounded my old man about it. But he doesn’t look hopeful." "What a bore! I wonder if either of us will ever get our fingers upon some of our dads’ cash, to spend it as we please?" "I hope so, one of these days. Won’t I put it in circulation, then!" snapping his fingers, and winking with a knowing look. "What an annoyance it is," said the companion of the one called Harry, "to have rich old fathers like ours, to tantalize us with the idea of wealth in prospective--while they give us but the mere trifle of two or three thousand a year to spend." "It is indeed! But what do you think? My old man told me, yesterday, that he thought it high time that I was beginning to do something." "Do something!" "Yes." "What did he mean by that?" "Open an office for the practice of law, I suppose. You know that, to please him, I studied law for a year or two--squeezed through an examination, and entered as a member of the Philadelphia bar." "Yes, I remember now; ha! ha! And he wanted you to put up your shingle, and come into association with the filth and off-scouring of this righteous city--pickpockets, thieves, blackguards, etc." "Yes, that was it." "But you had no notion of such a thing?" "Not I! Why do I want to practice law, or do anything else! Hasn’t the old man plenty of money? Aren’t I born a gentleman? Let the common herd work, say I!" "Ditto. Only about every tenth man that is born, as someone has said, can afford to do nothing. Thank fortune! I am one of the ten!" "So is this child. It’s no use for the old man to talk to me. I’m not going to open an office and stick up my name, to be reduced in public estimation to a mere quibbling lawyer." "But wouldn’t it be policy for you to do so?" "How?" "To make fair weather with old Martin." "How would my opening an office make fair weather with him?" "He is a merchant?" "Yes." "And by industry and enterprise has quadrupled the fortune left him by his father." "So I have heard it said." "From persevering in industrious habits himself, he has, doubtless, come to have a high estimation of industry in others." "There may be something in that?" "Naturally, then, he would be inclined to think favorably of a young man, pursuing, with apparent industry, some business or profession, while he would look unfavorably upon one whom he would call a mere idler." "I see the force of what you say; and wonder that the idea never presented itself to my mind. But don’t you think the fact of my being known as only a young lawyer, would lessen my estimation in the eyes of Bell?" "I don’t know. Perhaps it might." "I fear so. She’s a young romantic thing, and the idea of a common worker--for all these lawyers and merchants, and the like, are as much workers as mere mechanics--might give her a prejudice against me." "There is force in that view." "And suppose some foreign earl, or count were to come along and take a notion to her--what chance would a mere lawyer have? None at all. O, no! I must still keep up the gentleman, until I’ve got her hooked--and then for scheming it over the old codger, her father!" "I believe you are right, Harry. But come, let’s have a drink, and then for a ride out to Howell’s." The two young sprigs of American aristocracy, then turned to the bar, and each a took a strong glass of brandy punch, preparatory to their ride into the country. Fifteen minutes afterward, they were dashing up Chestnut Street behind a pair of beautiful horses, owned by the friend of Harry, or Henry Ware--with feelings of contempt for the spiritless pedestrians who plodded along the sidewalks. The reader needs no further description of their characters, than what they have themselves given, to be able to understand them fully. Both were sons of wealthy merchants, wrongly educated. The systematic labor by which their parents had risen into wealth and station in society--they despised as something degrading. Idle pleasure seemed to them the only worthy object of pursuit. Everything else was beneath the station and dignity of true gentlemen. Spendthrifts--the liberal supplies of money furnished them with a false liberality by their fathers, were altogether insufficient to meet their growing and extravagant wants. Hence, the means of obtaining more inexhaustible and independent supplies, soon formed part of their thoughts. They had become men, and, as men, were annoyed by what they esteemed the niggardly parental offerings. To such, marriage presents the only way to obtain the large amount of money called for by extravagant habits and unsatisfied desires. And to thoughts of marriage, their minds, especially that of Henry Ware, turned; and he was about entering, as has been seen, with no small degree of tact and earnestness, upon the business he had laid out as necessary to be done--it is said, necessary to be done, for only in a business light did young Ware view the matter. If he had been in possession of as much money as he wanted--he would have thought of a wife about the last thing. With such an encumbrance, he would have been very far from burdening himself. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 91: 04A.02 CHAPTER 2. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 2. "How does that look, Fanny?" asked Bell Martin, turning her happy face toward her sister, and directing attention to a beautiful head-dress that a modest-looking, plainly attired girl, about her own age, had been arranging for her. "Very pretty indeed, sister; Mary is always tasty in her devices and arrangements." "Isn’t she? We must try and find you a nice husband, Mary." Mary smiled quietly, but made no reply. Her station did not permit her to return jests--and knowing this, she never attempted to do so. But still, she had her own thoughts, as well as they." "I think that white rose is a little too much concealed, Mary, don’t you?" remarked Bell, after having surveyed herself for some time in the mirror. "Perhaps it is," replied Mary, lifting her hand to re-adjust the flower. "But stop, Mary," interposed the light-hearted girl, taking hold of her hand before she had touched the rose. "That ’perhaps’ was rather coldly said. You don’t really think the flower too much hidden--do you?" "No, I do not, or else I would have brought it out more." "Then I won’t have it touched, for I never opposed my taste to yours yet, that you were not in the right," Bell replied, laughing. "You are very particular this evening, sister," remarked Fanny. "Am I? Well I have my reason for it." "Ah! What is it?" "I’m going to captivate young Harry Ware." "Indeed!" "Yes. I intend carrying the citadel of his heart by storm." "Take care that you do not lose your own in the contest!" "Oh, never fear but that I’ll keep fast hold of mine, at least till I see something to gain by a surrender." "Harry is certainly a very captivating young man. Don’t you think so, Mary?" Directly appealed to, although in a laughing mood, Mary replied with the frankness of a sincere heart, "I have not had an opportunity of observing him very closely; but the little I have seen of him, has not biased me a great deal in his favor." "Hasn’t it, indeed! Miss Demure?" "It has not, Bell; but no doubt I can judge a flower for a young lady of your position in society, much better than I can a lover." "Perhaps so. But why don’t you like Harry Ware, Mary?" "Did I say that I did not like him?" "No. But you said you were not biased in his favor." "That is true." "Then why are you not biased in his favor? "I am sure I don’t know. But I feel as if I wouldn’t like to see you as the wife of Mr. Ware." The voice of the maiden trembled slightly as she said this, and her tones had in them something of tenderness; for she loved Bell Martin and her sister--although standing to them only in the relation of one that served--almost as purely as if they were of her own kindred. "His wife, Mary! How strangely you talk! No one said anything about becoming his wife. O, dear! That’s another matter, altogether." "It’s the next thing that follows the winning and losing of hearts, though, I believe," replied Mary, the color on her cheek deepening. "Is it, Mary?" Oh! How the girl talks! And see how she is blushing, Fanny! As I have now I come to think of it, I do believe she has lost her heart already. I thought Mr. Lane, Pa’s head clerk, came here pretty often of late." This speech had the effect to make poor Mary’s face as red as scarlet. "There! See that! See that, Fanny! Just look at her face! Now, who would have suspected our modest, quiet Mary?" "The next thing that follows the losing and winning of hearts, is marriage, I believe, aren’t it, Mary?" said Fanny, with mock seriousness. "O, of course it is. How soon is the wedding to take place? It shall be in this very house, for you are a good girl, Mary, and we all love you," Bell added, half laughing, half serious. The momentary confusion that this unexpected sally wrought in the mind of Mary, soon subsided, and she said, in her quiet way-- "You have anticipated what I would have told you tomorrow." "So it’s all true, Mary!" ejaculated Bell, almost springing upon the floor with delight. Then turning quickly, and grasping the hand of the young girl, she said, in a serious voice-- "None will rejoice more than Fanny and myself at your good fortune, Mary. Mr. Lane, I have always heard spoken of by Pa in the highest terms, and I am sure he will make you a good husband. But we shall be very sorry to lose you. Indeed, I do not know what we will do when you are gone!" "You can still feel kindly toward me. I ask but that return for the deep interest my heart does, and always must take in you," Mary said, looking up into the face of the sisters, her eyes ready to gush with tears. "We have been together as little children, sharing each other’s pleasures. The same tender care that was over you--has been over me. And notwithstanding, as we sprang up toward womanhood, our relations to each other became necessarily changed, I have not loved you less. Forgive me for saying, that I have loved you as sisters--I could not help it." The tears that had trembled beneath her dark lashes, now rolled over the maiden’s cheek. "We will love you as a sister!" was the instant response of the affectionate Bell, drawing her arm around the waist of Mary. Our stations in life are different. We cannot mingle in society together. But that need not--that cannot disturb the sisterly regard we must feel for you. You are worthy of it all, Mary." A deep silence followed--a silence in which tender emotions were welling up from each gentle and affectionate bosom. As they had never felt it before, did Bell and Fanny feel the delight of being loved fervently by a pure and honest heart--even though it beat in the bosom of one all unknown to, and all unappreciated by, the world. "But come, Bell," said Fanny, breaking in upon that deep pause, "time presses." "So it does. But I will soon be ready. Here, Mary, arrange this scarf for me, if you please. There, that will do. And now don’t you think thank I look charming?" "Very, only a little--pardon me--overdressed." "That’s according to your taste, Mary." "Of course. My taste inclines to the simple." "It’s a very pure taste, I know, but hardly gives attractions enough for one in my station. Young ladies who move in our circle, you know, dress with a rich display, sometimes." "I know they do. But they hide, it seems to me, instead of bringing out, their loveliness." "Perhaps they do. Still, to quote a homely adage--’Fine feathers make fine birds.’ " Mary shook her head, and smiled a reproof, as she said-- "It’s no use for me to argue with you, Bell, for while you give up your point, virtually, in argument--you stick to it in practice." "No, Mary, I don’t think it is. I can admire the beauty of simplicity in others--you for instance--but I like a little finery for myself. But hark! there’s the bell. Our company are beginning to come, and we must be down to receive them." Among the first who came, were Henry Ware and his two sisters, with whom Bell and Fanny were on terms of intimacy. The young man, as has been seen, had resolved on making a conquest; he, therefore, had dressed himself with studied care, so as to bring out into good effect, his really attractive person. There was something in the tone of his voice and the expression of his face, when he saluted Bell, already biased in his favor, that made her heart quicken its pulsations, and send the blood in warmer currents to her cheek. Henry Ware did not fail to observe the slight glow that mantled her young and innocent face, nor the pleasure that sparkled in her eye. They strengthened his hope of success. "She is mine, in spite of the devil!" was the elegant and manly expression of his thoughts, whispered to himself, as he turned from her to address her sister. Whenever, without attraction particular observation, he could get by her side during the evening, he was sure to be there; and all his conversation was skillfully managed, so as to excite in her mind, tender emotions. Attached to Mr. Martin’s elegant residence, was a large garden, richly adorned with plants of the rarest kinds. It was laid off in beautifully arranged walks, with arbors and alcoves, statuary and every tasteful device that could please the eye. Always, during an evening entertainment in pleasant weather, it was brilliantly illuminated with variegated lamps, ingeniously arranged into elegant and striking figures. Into this, a portion of the company might always be found, strolling about, thus dividing the allurements of the social circle, with the calmer and more elevating delights of nature. "Come, Bell, suppose we take a little walk in the garden--the air of these rooms is becoming oppressive," said Ware to the gentle girl who leaned upon his arm. "We have danced and sang, and mingled pleasantly in the mirthful circle here for some two hours. A change to the quiet scene outside, will be very pleasant." "It certainly will," replied Bell, making an involuntary movement toward the door. The two then retired from the brilliantly lighted saloon and mirthful company, and entered the garden. The air was mild, and balmy from the perfume rising from a thousand odoriferous flowers. The moon and stars looked down from a sky of unusual brilliancy, and shed their soft light, like a veil of silver over all things. "Beautiful! beautiful!" ejaculated Bell, as she perceived and felt the loveliness of the scene. "It is, indeed, very beautiful!" replied her companion, uttering a sentiment he scarcely felt. His mind was too selfishly interested in securing the affections of the maiden, to care anything about a lovely moonlight scene, except so far as it might tend to aid in the accomplishment of his purpose. He could, therefore, perceive the beauty of external nature, but not feel it. Slowly, they took their way down one of the most retired alleys of the garden. Bell, whose feelings the scene around had almost instantly softened into tenderness, leaned with an air of affectionate confidence upon the arm of Ware, and listened to his artful and insinuating words, that, while they spoke not of his own thoughts and feelings, were fraught with just the sentiments calculate to awaken the heart of one so young, and by nature so affectionate, as the innocent maiden by his side. "Let us rest here for awhile, and enjoy the calm delight of this lovely season," the young man said, after having strayed through the garden for some ten to fifteen minutes, pausing as he did so, before an arbor thickly shaded by a vine, upon which the yet unripe clusters hung in luxuriant profusion. "How much I enjoy a scene like this," he remarked, after they were seated, thus alone. "It has in it something so purifying and elevating to the spirit. Something that lifts us above the base ideas and groveling affections of this sordid world. It is under the influence of an hour like this, that we feel ourselves to be immortal." "Do you remember the lines of ’On a Star’?" asked Bell, after a brief silence. "I do not." "That brilliant star, yonder, has recalled the touching effusion to my mind." "Can you repeat the lines to which you allude? "O yes. For I have thought of them hundreds offtimes!" "Then recite them, Bell." The maiden complied, and recited, in a low voice, full of pathos, the following lines: "Beautiful star, that are wandering through The midnight ocean’s waves of blue! I have watched since your first pale ray Rose on the farewell of summer’s day. From your first sweet shine in the twilight hour. To your present blaze of beauty and power! Would I could read my destiny, Lovely and glorious star, in thee! Yet why should I wish?--I know too well What your tablet of light would tell! What, O, what, could I read there But the depths of love’s despair-- Blighted feelings, like leaves that fall The first from April’s coronal-- Hopes, like meteors, that shine and depart An early grave and a broken heart!" "A beautiful beginning, but a sad ending, Bell. Why should such poetry be a favorite with you? But that brilliant star, overhead, if the star of your destiny, would reveal a brighter page." "I hope so. Still, I have always loved those lines, and have repeated them over, almost involuntarily, a hundred times, until my feelings have become imbued with their sadness. Heaven grant that they be not prophetic of wrecked hopes and a broken heart for me." Bell spoke with emotion--for, suddenly, there came over her heart a chilling fear, that seemed like a prophetic warning. "How strange that you should speak thus!" said her companion, in surprise. "You, than whom no one has a brighter prospect--you, every footstep of whose way has, thus far, been upon flowers." "It is strange that I should feel thus. But it is only when I repeat those verses, that a shadow falls upon my heart." "Then I would never repeat them again; for they mock you with idle fears." "I believe they do," replied Bell, rallying herself with an effort. "How exquisitely falls that music upon the ear, softened by distance," remarked Ware, after another pause. "It comes like the swelling and subsiding tones of the wind-touched harp." "Music never came to me with such sweetness before," said the maiden, in innocence and simplicity. "It seems as if I could listen to it forever." "I feel the same subdued and tender impressions," replied the young man, in a low, soft tone. "But come," he added, after a brief silence, "we will be missed." "True--true! I had forgotten, under the sweet influence of the hour, that others are to be thought of and regarded." The two then returned, slowly, arm in arm entered the house, and rejoined the mirthful groups within. It was past two o’clock, when the last visitor departed. Mary, who had superintended the arrangements of the party, after all were gone and a few directions had been given to the servants, went up to the room of Bell and Fanny to assist in undressing them. She found the former seated by a window in a musing attitude, looking out upon the brilliant sky. "Come, Mary, you must attend to me first, for Bell is way up among the stars, and won’t be down again for half an hour." Mary smiled at this pleasant sally, but Bell did not seem to hear it. "There, Mary, you can go to star-gazing with Bell if you choose--I’m going to court a few pleasant dreams!" she added, springing lightly into bed. In a few minutes she was fast asleep. Mary turned, and stood looking for some moments at Bell, who was still lost in deep abstraction. Then going up to her, she laid her hand gently on her arm, and said-- "Shall I assist you to undress?" "If you please, Mary," replied Bell, looking up with a deep sigh, and then submitting to Mary’s hands in silence. Her rich attire was soon changed for garments of snowy whiteness, and in these she again took her place by the window, and lifted her young face once more to the sky that was sparkling in beauty and brightness. As Mary turned to leave the chamber, she felt a strong reluctance to do so. For a few moments she hesitated, and then going back, she said in a respectful tone-- "You do not seem like yourself tonight, Bell." The maiden roused herself again at this, and after looking into Mary’s face for an instant or two, said-- "Come, and sit down here, Mary." Mary complied in silence. "I am not myself tonight. In that you say truly. But what ails me, I cannot tell; I have never felt the influence of a scene like this as I do now. It seems as if I could sit and gaze forever upon the sky and its myriads of beautiful stars. Let me repeat to you some verses of that exquisite poetess. They describe this hour and this scene most beautifully. "Look up, Toward the beautiful heaven! the fair moon Is shining timidly, like a young queen, Who fears to claim her full authority; The stars shine in her presence; o’er the sky A few light clouds are wandering, like the fear That even happy love must know the air Is full of perfume and most musical. Although no other sounds are on the gale Than the soft falling of the mountain rill Or the waving of the leaves." "Is that not appropriate and beautiful?" "Very. But it is too late now to be gazing at the moon and stars, and repeating poetry, Bell. Come, get into bed and go to sleep. A good night’s repose will calm down your over excited feelings. Come! or I shall really think that in the effort to captivate the heart of Henry Ware--you have lost your own!" Thus rallied, Bell came more to herself, and after having been urged again by Mary, retired to her bed. It was long, however, before she sank into slumber, and that was full of the dreams of a maiden’s first, pure, ardent love for one she fondly invests with a thousand perfections. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 92: 04A.03 CHAPTER 3. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 3. "Ah! Good morning, Harry! Good morning!" "Good morning, Tom. I’m glad to see you! How are you, my boy? How are you?" grasping the hand that was extended, and shaking it long and heartily. "Really, Harry, you seem to be on the mountaintop this morning." "And so I am. Confound it, old fellow! I’m sure of success!" "So I would suspect, after seeing the peculiar manner in which Bell leaned on your arm, last night." "You observed it, then, did you?" "O, of course." "And I felt it, Tom--which was a thousand times better! She’s mine as sure as fate! knew that I would prove irresistible, if I only laid myself out for it. I’m not the commonest looking fellow that walks Chestnut Street--am I" "No, not by a dozen. But, say, Harry, did you talk love to her?" "O, no! only poetry and sentiment. Last night I spent most of the time in reading her character, which I found I could do as readily as I can read a book." "Well, how were you pleased with it?" "Admirably, of course!" "She’ll make just the wife you want!" "The what?" "The wife." "Ha! I’m not looking out for a wife." "For what, then?" "You’re simple, Tom! For a fortune, of course. Have you so soon forgotten our conversation of yesterday? As to the wife part, no doubt that will be well enough. Still, I’m a little afraid." "Of what?" "Afraid that she will love me too well." "Love you too well?" "Yes! There rests my only fear. But that’s her problem--not mine." "I don’t see any particular objection to her loving you as hard as she pleases." "You’re dull this morning, Tom. I would like a wife, if I must have one--an inevitable necessity, I believe, since my old man is so close with his purse-strings--who would mind her own business, and let me mind mine. She might have her own life if she chose, and dash it in any kind of style that pleased her. Of course, I would want the same privilege. Now, from what I can see of Bell, she’s not exactly that kind of a person. She would want her husband tied to her apron strings all the while. Would want to be kissed twenty times a day, and all that silly nonsense. Or else there would be a constant succession of April showers. Do you understand now?" "Clearly! But that’s a risk you will have to run. A consequence that must be endured, if it can’t be helped. Money will cover a multitude of sins and imperfections." "You’re right, Tom! and if she chooses to indulge in all that sentimental kind of nonsense, she must take the consequence. For certain it is, I can’t stomach it--and will not. I’ll leave her in freedom to come in when she pleases, go out when she pleases, and do what she pleases; and, as I want nothing but what is fair, shall take the same privilege myself." "Precisely! You seem to be pretty sure of her, however?" "So I am. I, made an impression last night, that is not going to be effaced." "But suppose the old man win not consent?" "Did you never hear of a runaway match, Tom?" "O, yes," laughingly. "Then you’ll hear of another, in that case. Do you understand?" "Perfectly! You are a rare fellow, Harry." "Aren’t I! Still, I must avoid that last necessity, if possible. It might stand in the way of my fingering the old fellow’s cash as soon as I wish." "You’d better be looking out for an office then, hadn’t you?" "Yes, I suppose I had. Confound the necessity! What fools some of these old codgers are! A man is nothing in their eyes, unless he is a worker. Pah!" "What a figure you will cut, sitting with solemn importance in your office, surrounded with books, and a tin sign on your window--Henry Ware, Attorney at Law Ha! ha! ha?" "Do hush, Tom! or I shall get sick!" "It’ll have to be done, though. I wonder who will be your first client?" "Some loafer, up for assault and battery, I suppose." "As likely as not. But come, I have an engagement at twelve, and it is almost that time now." "Let us drink first," replied Harry, and turning to the bar-keeper--for they had met, as usual, in a tavern--ordered some brandy. The two worthies then drank success to Harry’s enterprise, and parted. It was, probably, an hour after, that young Ware entered his father’s counting-room, and after glancing over the newspapers, sought an opportunity to converse with the old gentleman. "I’ve been thinking a good deal about what you suggested a few days ago, father," he said, with a serious air. "Well, to what conclusion have you come?" was the reply, in a grave tone. "That you are right. A young man of my age ought not to be spending his time so idly as I am now doing." "You have concluded to open an office, then?" "I have. And if you will furnish me with the necessary books, I will put myself down to business at once." "That is right, Henry," said Mr. Ware, in a cheerful tone, his face suddenly brightening. "Your repugnance to any kind of business, has been to me a source of great anxiety. Idle pleasure-taking, let me assure you, Henry, is the poorest possible way in which to seek for real happiness. In that path it never has, and never will be found." "I believe you are right," replied the son, with hypocritical gravity. "I am sure, that mere pleasure-taking, as you term it, has never given true satisfaction to the mind." "And never will, rest assured, if you pursue that course. Most truly do I rejoice to find a better perception of things dawning upon your mind. If you will only enter upon your profession with application, energy, and industry--you must rise into eminence, for you have, naturally, a mind that is active, and comprehensive in its grasp. Or, if you would prefer entering into business with me, the way is open and a quicker road to independence, before you. Here is capital and every facility that may be needed." "I think I should prefer law," replied the son, after musing for an instant or two. "It offers a better field for the exercise of my talents." "So it does. Let it be law, then. I am satisfied. As soon as you meet with an office to suit you, let me know, and I will have it fitted up handsomely. In the mean time, furnish me with a list of such books as you want, and they shall be ready." "I will hand you a list tomorrow," replied Henry. After half an hour’s further conference, which ended in the transference of a check to the young man for two hundred dollars, he left the counting room. A few hours after, he met his crony, Tom, or Thomas Handy. "Well, Tom, I’ve talked to the old man about that law office," was his salutation. "You are quick on the trigger? How was he pleased?" "Tickled to death, of course! He thinks that I will be second to none at the bar, if I only devote myself to the profession with untiring zeal and industry."’ "Indeed! That’s flattering!" "Untiring zeal and industry! Oh, dear! That would be a catastrophe, as old What-do-you-call-him says." "He thought you were in solemn earnest, then?" "Of course. And gave me some capital and good advice; though, for the soul of me, I can’t recollect a word of it now." "No consequence." "But I will tell you what I do recollect" "Well!" "How I came over him too nicely for a couple of hundred." "Indeed!" "It’s a fact. I talked, and talked, until I got him in a capital good humor, and then came down upon him for a check. He was completely cornered, and could not say no. So here’s the hundred I borrowed from you last week, and much obliged to you. The other hundred will pay off a small debt or two, and leave me a little spending money. My stock was getting rather low." While Henry Ware was thus, in cold, unprincipled heartlessness, laying his plans for securing the hand of a pure-minded, intelligent, affectionate girl--Bell’s heart was trembling with love’s first and tenderest emotions. The expression of his face, as he looked into hers, the tones of his voice, if not the words he had uttered--all told her that he had awakened an interest in his feelings; and even in many a remembered word, could she trace a meaning that plainly spoke of love. She was, of course, in a dreamy, abstracted mood. Mr. Martin, whose ardent affection for his children, made him observant of them, had noticed on the preceding evening, that young Ware was over attentive to Bell. He was not pleased to see this, for he understood the young man’s character pretty thoroughly. He did not suppose these attentions had anything serious in them. Still, a fear that such might be the case, was naturally awakened. Once during the evening he had missed them for some time, and was just on the eve of strolling out into the garden to see if they were lingering there, when they came in, and separating from each other, mingled generally with the company. He could not but notice, however, that Bell’s eye wandered too frequently toward the young man, with a look of interest. This troubled him for the moment--but he soon dismissed it as an idle fear. Several times during the next day, as opportunity for observation presented itself, he could not but observe that Bell had a look of quiet abstraction which was unusual to her. This recalled to his mind the preceding evening, and the feeling of uneasiness that was then experienced returned. "Have you noticed Bell particularly today?" he inquired of her mother, as they sat alone that evening. "I have not. Why do you ask?" "It seems to me that she is not altogether in as good spirits as usual." "Now that you mention it, I do remember that she has appeared rather dull. Perhaps it is from fatigue. You know she danced a good deal last night, and that it was late before any of us got to bed." "Very true. But still, I have thought that there might possibly be another reason." "What other reason could there be?" "Didn’t you observe that young Ware was over attentive to her last night?" "Young Henry Ware?" "Yes." "No, I did not." "Well, he was a good deal more so, than pleased me." "Henry Ware! Why, he’s not out of his teens yet, is he?" "Yes he is, and thinks himself to be of no little degree of importance. I never was much prepossessed in his favor, however, though I esteem his father very highly, as a man of sterling principles. Pity that his son did not more resemble him." "I would not like Henry Ware to become attached to Bell. He is not the man that pleases my fancy." "Nor mine either. Indeed, I would esteem it a calamity to our family, for one of my daughters to have her affections called out by a young man who possesses no more claims to good character than he." "And yet what are we to do?" said the mother, in a serious tone, "We cannot deny him our house, nor can we refuse to let Bell attend parties where we know he will be present." "All too true," replied Mr. Martin. "Our families are on terms of intimacy, and his father is one of my oldest and firmest friends. Still, regard for old Mr. Ware ought not to be a sufficient reason why I should sacrifice my daughter to his worthless son." "That is very true. And yet no real danger may exist. The young man may never have had a serious thought of marriage--or a single regard, beyond that of mere friendship for Bell." "That may be--but I fear it is otherwise. They were together a great deal last evening, and today Bell is evidently changed, and more pensive and thoughtful than usual." "You really alarm me!" replied Mrs. Martin, in a voice of concern. "There is cause of serious alarm; and that is why I have spoken on the subject," rejoined her husband. "Now is the point of time in our daughters’ histories, when a false step may wreck their hopes forever. How many, alas! how many sweet girls have we seen in the last twenty years, with hearts as pure and innocent, and hopes as brilliant as those of our own dear children, thrown down from the pinnacle of happiness, to hopeless misery, by marriage. You remember Anne Milford--one of the gentlest and loveliest of her gender; how her affections were won by a man who has not only dragged her down, down, down, into abject poverty--but who never could and never did return a tenth of the deep love she lavished upon him. I met her in the street today. Her pale, sad face, with its dreamy expression, made my heart ache." "But even if young Ware should have made an impression on Bell’s mind--and even if it were to end in marriage, which Heaven forbid! she can never be reduced to poverty, as poor Anne has been." "There is no guaranty for that, in such a man as the son of Mr. Ware." "Why not?" "He will never earn a dollar, unless driven to it by necessity; and even then, the little that he would make, would be of no account." "But both his father and you are rich." "Riches, says the good Book, take to themselves wings and fly away, Fanny." "True, but--" "Your observation and my own," said Mr. Martin, interrupting his wife, "prove that the wealth, which is accumulated by a man in this country, rarely reaches his grand-children. In four cases out of five, it is all gone in a few years after his death--squandered by improvident children, who, never having earned a dollar--have no idea of the value of money. Henry Ware is just the man to squander, with a rapidity four-fold greater than his father ever accumulated. I will pass away in a brief period, and so will that excellent old man, his father; and then, if Bell should be his wife, it will take only a few years to bring them down to poverty and obscurity. It makes my heart sick, Fanny, to think of it. I would a hundred times rather see her the wife of Mr. Lane, than of that young spendthrift. He, though poor now, is a man of principle, and has habits of attention to business. He must rise in the world--while Ware will as certainly sink. In this country, all men, sooner or later, find their level. True merit, united with persevering industry, must rise into positions of influence and wealth--while idleness and extravagance must as inevitably sink into obscurity and dependence. "Of course. Bell could not fancy him." "No, nor he, Bell, I suppose. They do not now stand upon the same level; and where there is not true equality--there cannot be a true reciprocal affection. But do you know that Mr. Lane has taken a fancy to our Mary?" "Yes, I learned it for the first time this morning." "And it delighted you, of course?" "It did. Mary is one of the best of girls, and I have always felt strongly attached to her. To know that she is going to do so well, gives me a sincere pleasure--though I shall be sorry indeed to lose her." "Mr. Lane mentioned it to me today, and I said, ’take her with all my heart! I believe you are worthy of each other.’ How glad I shall feel if I can only say the same, when the hands of my daughters are asked. But young ladies, occupying their position in society, are surrounded with dangers on every hand, and it is little less than a miracle if they escape. Idle fortune-hunters are ever on the alert with insidious arts, to ensnare their naive affections, and are, alas! too often successful." "May such a one never be successful in winning the love of either of my children!" "Amen!" was the heartfelt response of Mr. Martin. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 93: 04A.04 CHAPTER 4. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 4. It was about a week after the conversations recorded in the last chapter occurred, that a party was given by Mr. and Mrs. Ware. The Martins were present. The father of Bell had his eye upon her with a careful interest. His fears were soon awakened anew, for Henry got by her side early in the evening, and held his place there with a steadiness that Mr. Martin felt augured no good. As for Bell, she was in the finest spirits imaginable. "How is Henry doing now?" asked Mr. Martin of Mr. Ware, as the two sat conversing familiarly. "I am glad to say that there has been, what I esteem, a great change in him of late," replied the father, with a pleased manner. "Ah, indeed! I am really gratified to hear it." "You are aware, that he has, all along, evinced no inclination to settle himself down to any business?" "Yes, I have observed as much." "I believe he has seen his folly, for he has taken an office with a determination to do something." "He studied law, I believe?" "Yes--and passed an excellent examination, more than a year ago." "Truly, what you say is gratifying. Like too many of the sons of our wealthy men, Henry, I suppose, has not been able to see the necessity of applying himself to any business." "That has been his error." "And a very fatal one it is, Mr. Ware. Until our young men feel that there is just the same necessity for them to enter into and attend to business with persevering industry, as there was for their fathers--there will be no guaranty for their retaining the positions to which they have been elevated. Young men of humble origin and no financial resources, will gradually rise up and take the places which they have proved unworthy to fill." "So I have told Henry many and many a time. But, until now, he has never felt the force of what I said." "You must feel greatly encouraged for him?" "No one can tell how much. He is my only son--to see him running a round of idleness, and, I might say, dissipation--has pained me more than I can tell. But he has suddenly paused, and reflected. I know not why--I do not ask why. The fact is all that concerns me." "You have confidence in the permanency of his good resolutions?" "I do not permit myself to doubt, Mr. Martin. I look only to the happy results that must follow the change, and look with feelings of pride as well as pleasure. He is a young man of fine mind, and must soon begin to take a place in his profession that will flatter his pride, and spur him onward to higher attainments. This is my calculation--and I believe I am right." "Most earnestly do I hope that this may be the result." How far the anticipations of the father were in the way of being realized, the reader will be able to judge by the following conversation, which took place at Harry’s new office, with his particular friend and associate, Tom Handy. One of the appendages to this office was an upper room, neatly furnished. In this the two young men were seated, their feet upon a table, on which were glasses and wine in coolers, filling the room with clouds of smoke from two cigars. "This opening an office is not such a bad idea, after all, is it, Tom?" said young Ware, with a knowing leer, as he slowly drew his cigar from his mouth, and then watched the wreaths of smoke, that he leisurely puffed out, curling up toward the ceiling and gradually dissolving in air. "No, indeed--it’s a capital one," replied his crony, lazily taking his cigar from his teeth, and allowing the smoke, in turn, to float in thick clouds about his head. "No doubt your old man thinks you now deeply immersed in the mysteries of legal reports, or some such interesting employment. Or, perhaps he is at this very time imagining that you are engaged with a client, who, conscious of your superior legal knowledge, has chosen you to represent him in some cause of vast importance--" "And delighting himself, in imagination, with the sensation my maiden speech will produce!" "Suppose a case were really offered you?" "I would decline it, of course. I’m not going to make a fool of myself in that courtroom, I know. What do I know of law?" "Not much, I would imagine." "About as much as a dog does of Latin!" "And that is as much as you ever intend to know?" "Precisely. I have but one case on hand, and that’s the only one I ever intend to have. As far as that is concerned, I believe I am fully ready to maintain my position against any opponent who may present himself." "What case is that, pray?" "My case in the court of love." "True. I had forgotten." "It required an office, you know, to give me importance, and thus ensure success. When that suit is gained, good-bye to law office and library! They may float in the Schuylkill River for anything I care." "Everything went off to a charm last night, I believe?" "O yes, so far as Bell was concerned. But I can’t say that I liked the way old Martin and his wife eyed me, every now and then. They’re a little suspicious, I believe, of my design." "You’ll have to fight shy for awhile." "Yes, I will; at least until I can get into the old folks good graces." "How will you manage that!" "I’ve been scheming over a plan all the morning." "Well, have you hit upon anything?" "Yes--and I think it will do." "What is it?" "You know my way to this office, from home, is right by old Martin’s counting-room?" "Yes." "I’m going to get a green briefcase made, of pretty liberal capacity, and carry it backward and forward in my hand, once or twice a day, with an air of great business importance." "You must manage, occasionally, to let the end of a document, plentifully supplied with red tape and big seals, protrude from it, as if you had thrust in your papers hurriedly." "That’s a capital suggestion, Tom, and I shall be sure to adopt it. Don’t you think it will have a good effect?" "It can do no harm, at least." "So I think--and may do good. As for Bell, she’s safe. I could see that she was dull, except when with me, last night--and then she was as lively as a cricket." "I noticed that, too--and I noticed more." "What was that?" "That she was a sweet, interesting girl--and decidedly the prettiest one in the room." "Do you think so?" "I really do. It would be no sin for you to love her in downright earnest, Harry." "So I thought last night. But I can’t do that. I would soon get sick of it, and it would only spoil her, into the bargain." "Fanny looked a very picture of loveliness, also." "I didn’t take much notice of her." "I did then." "Suppose you spruce up to her, Tom? She will have wealth, of course, equal to Bell." "So I thought. But I can’t marry yet, unless compelled to do so, which I’m afraid will be the case--as my old man seems inclined to cut off, instead of increasing, supplies." "Indeed! That’s too bad. How has it happened?" "He says that he does not feel willing to support me in what he calls, idleness, any longer--and that If I will not go into his store and go to work, he will turn me loose upon the world, to shift for myself." "The old rascal! But pardon me, Tom! I could not but feel indignant at such downright unnatural conduct." "No offence, Harry. Though I must say, you indulged in great plainness of speech." "What are you going to do?" "Heaven alone knows, for I don’t." "You do not intend going into the store, of course?" "Hardly." "You’d better speak quick for Fanny, before somebody else steps in. I would like to have you for a brother-in-law, above all things." "Thank you, Harry! But I must take a little time to consider the matter. The truth is, I don’t want a wife--if I can keep free. But, if I must take one, I see no particular objection to Fan." Henry Ware was in earnest in reference to the green briefcase, which he procured and regularly carried to and fro, between his office and home, at least once every day. Two or three books were of course thrown into it--and, acting upon his friend Tom’s suggestion, he now and then managed to let the end of a thick roll of paper, tied with red tape, peep carelessly out. The effect of this upon the mind of Mr. Martin, he had truly calculated. The old gentleman, who now had good reason for observing him, did not fail to notice the regularity with which Henry went by on his way to his office, and particularly was his eye caught by the green, well-filled briefcase. All this caused him to regard the young man less unfavorably. "Who came in just now?" he asked of his wife one evening about two weeks after Harry had begun to carry his green briefcase. "Someone rang the bell." "It’s Henry Ware and his sisters, I believe." "Henry Ware!" "Yes." "He was here with his sisters one evening last week, was he not?" "Yes." "Next week, I suppose, he will come alone." "Do you really think he is seriously inclined toward Bell?" the mother asked. "I’m afraid so, Fanny; and what is more, I’m afraid that Bell is becoming seriously inclined toward him. Several times I have mentioned his name on purpose, to see its effect upon her, and the color has instantly risen to her cheek." "I have noticed the same thing myself," replied the mother with much concern, in her voice. "What is to be done if she should really love him, and he should make an offer for her hand?" "We shall, in that case, have to let them marry, I suppose, and take their chance," remarked the father in rather a gloomy tone. "Surely not! It would be cruel in us to let such a sacrifice take place." "But we could not help it, Fanny. When a young thing like Bell once gets fairly in love, no reason can reach her. All opposition by us must be finally overcome. My observation convinces me, that the best way is to let matters take their course, and then try and make the best of everything." "I cannot, indeed I cannot think of consenting to such a marriage, which must inevitably end in heart breaking misery to our child!" said the mother, the tears starting to her eyes. "It will not be so bad as that. I begin to hope," replied Mr. Martin, encouragingly. "You know what Mr. Ware told me about the change that had taken place in his son?" "But I have no confidence in it." "Nor had I, at first. But I really now think that the young man may be in earnest. He passes my store regularly every day to his office, and is no doubt already getting into business, for, of late, he has his briefcase of books and papers with him every morning and afternoon, and begins to have quite a thoughtful air. He has mind enough, and if he only turn himself industriously to the profession he has chosen, he must rise, inevitably, to distinction. Perhaps the chord of ambition may have already been touched. If so, he is safe." The mother did not fall so readily into this idea. Still, it relieved her mind a good deal; and both, from that time, began to look upon the young man with more favorable eyes. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 94: 04A.05 CHAPTER 5. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 5. One day, about three months subsequent to the time in which occurred the incidents just related, Henry Ware called upon Mr. Martin at his counting-room. After passing a few common-place remarks, the young man said, with a serious air-- "I would like to have a little private conversation with you, Mr. Martin." "Certainly, Henry," replied Mr. Martin, though not in a very encouraging tone. "We shall be uninterrupted here, as all my clerks are engaged at present in the store, and will be so for some time." "You know, sir," began the young man after a few moments’ hesitation, "that I have visited your daughter Bell, pretty often of late." "I have observed as much," was the cold response. "In doing so," resumed Ware, "I have been influenced, by an admiration and a regard for her that have fast ripened into affection. In a word, sir, my errand here today is to ask of you her hand in marriage." "You ask of me, Henry, that which I cannot lightly give," readied Mr. Martin, with a still graver look and tone. "A father who loves his children as I love mine, must be fully satisfied that they will be happy, before he can consent to their marriage." "I would have much mistaken the character of Mr. Martin, if he were to act otherwise," the young man said, with a perfectly unembarrassed manner. "No father ought to give his consent to the marriage of his child, without being fully satisfied as to the character of the man who proposes for her hand. I do not, therefore, expect you to accept of my proposal at once. But your manner leads me to infer, that in your mind, there are objections to me. Am I right?" Ware was perfectly cool and self-possessed. "You are right in your inference," was Mr. Martin’s answer. "You know, Henry, that, like your father, I am a man of business views and habits. One who has been, mainly, the architect of his own fortune; and one who values in others the same qualities and habits that have made him successful in life. These, he has not perceived in you--or, at least only, in very feeble activity. The man who, with my consent, marries either Fanny or Bell, must be a man of energy, industry, and sound views and principles. These will bear him up under all circumstances. These will preserve him amid temptations. These will be a guaranty for my daughters’ happiness." "I fully appreciate what you say, Mr. Martin," returned Ware. "Your own success in life, and that of my father, are strong illustrations of the truth of those practical principles which you have adopted. Principles which, of late, have been presented to my mind as altogether worthy of adoption. I know that I have been a thoughtless young man, fond of company and pleasure. I know that there was a time when I laughed at sober industry, and those manly exertions which elevate individuals into positions of honor and usefulness--as something for the vulgar. But I have seen the folly and weakness of such views, and have entered, seriously, upon the business of life, with a steady, and I hope, vigorous determination to succeed. You are aware, sir, I presume, that I opened an office for the practice of law some months ago. Since that time, I have devoted myself with diligence to the profession I have chosen." "It gives me great pleasure, Henry, to hear you express views that are so sound, and far more pleasure to hear you declare that you have adopted them as rules of life," replied Mr. Martin in a more encouraging tone. "Still, the change in your course of life is of such recent occurrence, that you cannot blame me for fearing that difficulties, unforseen by yourself in the new path you have so properly chosen, may prevent you persevering in it." "Is there any other objection to me?" Henry Ware asked, in a serious tone. "None other, Henry," was Mr. Martin’s prompt reply. "You are the son of one of my oldest and most esteemed friends. Your father and myself grew up together as boys, and entered upon business at the same time. Thus far, we have been fast friends, and, I trust, will remain so through life. No objection can, therefore, possibly exist in reference to this matter, but what pertains to yourself, personally. If I can be satisfied that you will make Bell happy--that you will cherish her and care for her as I have cherished and cared for her, I will say, take her with my whole heart." "How am I to satisfy you of this, Mr. Martin?" "I can only be satisfied by such an assurance of the permanency of your present course of life, as will leave my mind free from all doubt upon the subject. In the mean time, I will not restrict you in your visits to Bell. A few weeks’ observation and deliberation I shall take, before I make up my mind. When that is done, my decision will be final. And I can only say, that it will be to me a source of real pleasure, if I can make it in your favor." "I will cheerfully await your decision, Mr, Martin," young Ware said. "And I thank you for the frankness with which you have dealt with me. If you do not find me worthy to claim the hand of your daughter, reject my suit. But do not judge of me by the past. Let me be estimated by what I am, not by what I was." "My mind will no doubt incline in your favor," replied Mr. Martin. "And I more than suspect that, at home, I shall find many reasons for encouraging your suit. Be that as it may, however, I shall endeavor to decide the matter soon, and in doing so, be governed by a regard for the happiness of my child." The young man, after a few further words, arose, and went away. For nearly an hour after, old Mr. Martin remained seated, in deep thought. In a few minutes from the time Ware left the store of Mr. Martin, he entered his own office, and ascended to the upper room, before mentioned. There he found, as he had expected, his very particular friend, Thomas Handy, who was lounging in an easy chair, and filling the room with tobacco smoke. "Halloo! Back already!" was that individual’s salutation as Ware entered, rising up with a quick movement, and a look of interest as he spoke. "Yes, I’m a prompt man, you know." "Did you get around the old fellow?" "O, yes." "Indeed! Has he consented?" "No--of course not. I didn’t expect that. But I’ve got him safely enough, or I’m very much mistaken." "How did he take your proposition?" "Coldly enough at first. But I saw his weak side, and so dropped in a little ingenious flattery. Then I made him believe that I was going to be one of the most industrious, exemplary young men in the whole city--a very pattern of plodding, dollar and cent dullness. That green briefcase, with the documents peeping out of it occasionally, has touched the old codger’s heart, I can see plainly enough." "Did you ask for Bell, outright?" "O, yes. I thought it best to come to the point at once." "What did he say?" "He put me off for a month or so, to give him time to consider." "A month or so?" "Yes, confound it! I shall have to walk a straight line until my knees grow stiff. If in that time anything should go wrong, or I should, unfortunately, be betrayed into any little indiscretion while under the influence of a bottle of wine, the whole jig will be up." "You will have to be prudent, Harry," replied his friend, gravely. "Indeed, I will. I’ve taken almost as much trouble now as the jade is worth, and could hardly be tempted to act such a farce over again, were the present enterprise to prove a failure. To be compelled to stick up my name as a miserable lawyer, and go, regularly, day after day, to my office; and what is worse, lug a green briefcase about the street, with a mock business air, is going it a little too strong for a gentleman." "It is rather hard, I confess, but two months will soon slip by." "Yes. And during the time, I must endeavor to enjoy myself as much as possible, and thus rob it of a portion of irksomeness." "We haven’t been to Pandora’s together for some time," remarked Handy, after a pause in the conversation. "No. It’s too expensive sometimes--especially as the money doesn’t come quite as easy as formerly," was the reply of Ware. "It seems to me, Harry, that you and I ought to have wit and skill enough to prevent that." "I’ve often thought as much myself. But they’re keen hands at turning a card there." "So are all these professional men. The only thing is for us to be just as keen as they are, and I believe we can be. The fact is, I find that I am gaining skill and nerve every day. Last night I came away from Twitter’s worth a hundred dollars more than I was when I went to the rooms." "You did?. "Yes, I did. But I had to work for it, and no mistake." "Your hand is improving." "Very much. And so is yours." "Yes, I believe it is." Then, after a pause-- "You propose going to Pandora’s tonight?" "Yes." "How much can you raise, Tom?" "About two hundred dollars." "That’s more than I can, by one hundred and ninety." "So low as that?" in a tone of surprise. "It’s a fact. My old man, you know, isn’t too liberal in his supplies." "Nor mine either. But I thought this office, the green briefcase, and all that, had mollified him considerably." "So it has. Still, he makes me ask him, every time I want a dollar--and that is not so very pleasant, you know." "Of course not, but no matter--my purse is yours. We can take a hundred dollars apiece, and go to Pandora’s to night." "And come away without a hundred pennies in our pockets, I suppose." "That doesn’t follow, by any means, Harry. Rather say we will come away with a cool thousand a-piece." "Very pleasant to contemplate, but difficult to realize," was Ware’s reply. "Though difficult, it is yet possible to realize all that, and more. For my part, my mind is fully made up to do something for my self in this way. If I don’t, I shall, like you, be driven to marry some silly girl, or else be forced into some kind of business, than stoop to which, I would almost as well drown myself." "And you seriously think that something may be done in this line?" "Certainly I do. Didn’t I win a hundred dollars last night?" "So you have said. But might not that have been the result of accident?" "It might have been--but it was not. I had as keen a fellow to deal with, as is to be found in a hundred. He did his best, but I was wide awake all the time. Practice makes perfect, you know, and I have been practicing for the last three or four months, pretty steadily." "I don’t know, but that it would be well for me to improve myself in this way, too. There’s no telling what may turn up, after I secure Bell." "That is true enough, Harry." "Of course, I don’t intend keeping this shop open a day. For three or four months I shall manage to have forty good excuses for not attending to business. At first, you know, we will have to travel for a few weeks; then I shall want to spend some time in New York, and so on to the end of the chapter. But the mark will have to be toed at last. I shall have to take a deliberate stand, and make a plain avowal of my determination not to have a stone laid upon my back, and be crushed down and kept down, to the level of a mere worker. When that comes--and come it must, Tom--there is no telling what two hardheaded old fellows, like Bell’s father and mine, may attempt. But they’ll find their match, or I’m mistaken. They’ll discover that I’m a boy that is hard to beat. The first movement will, no doubt, be to cut off supplies. Of course, I must prepare for such an event. I must, if possible hit upon some expedient for keeping up supplies." "Of course you must. And that which propose, is the only honorable expedient. And, besides, you can manage it with the utmost secrecy. You can go night after night to Twitter’s, or Pandora’s--and old Martin will be none the wiser. No secrets leak out of those places." "We will go tonight, as you propose Tom," was Ware’s prompt reply. That night, at about nine o’ clock, the young men met according to arrangement, and proceeded together to a house in the upper part of Chestnut Street, which, in external appearance, bore all the indications of a private dwelling. They rang the bell, and were regularly admitted by a servant. First, they entered, with an air of freedom and self-possession, the parlors below, which were brilliantly lighted, exhibiting a rich display of furniture, costly mirrors and pictures, with frames of the richest manufacture. Here were to be found all the newspapers, and the choicest periodicals of the day. A few individuals were to be seen, reading, or lounging upon the sofas. The two young men lingered here but a few moments, and then ascended to a room ranging along the back buildings of the house, which was fitted up as a bar, with great elegance. Here was exhibited in tempting array everything that could please the taste of the epicure, or delight the thirsty seekers for wines or mixed liquors; while smiling attendants stood ready to answer with promptness, any demand. All this was free--provided by the generous munificence of the rich proprietors of the establishment. "We must take a strong drink to make our nerves steady," remarked Handy to Ware, as the two entered the bar-room door. "Of course." was the brief answer. A stiff glass of the liquor named by Handy was taken in silence by the young men, and then they turned away, and ascending two or three steps, entered the large room that fronted the street, which was brilliantly illuminated. From without, the windows, although presenting the appearance of being lightly draperied, gave no sign of the busy life within. The passer-by, if he lifted his gaze to the building, concluded, if he thought of the matter at all, that few, if any, were its inhabitants--for all was as dark and silent as desolation. In this room were arranged many small tables, at several of which people were engaged at play. Two or three were walking backward and forward, evidently absorbed in thought; and one was seated alone, his head drooping upon his breast, and but a portion of his features visible. For a moment or two, Ware let his eye rest upon the last mentioned individual, and observed that his lips were separated, and that his teeth were closely shut, and in a slight oblique position, as if he were just about grinding them together. His hand, too, was clenched, and had a perceptible nervous twitching. "That poor devil has been fleeced, I suppose," whispered Handy, with a contemptuous smile, and toss of the head. "Yes, I suppose so--and now sits here making a fool of himself," was Ware’s heartless reply. "But come," he added, "let’s go to the upper room in the rear building. This is too near the street. I can’t bear the noise of the carriages--nor to hear the sound of voices on the pavement It doesn’t seem private enough." "My own feelings," rejoined Handy. The two young men accordingly withdrew, and ascended to the room which Ware had indicated. It was much longer than the one they had just left, running the whole length of an extensive back building. The floor was covered with rich Brussels carpeting, the windows were hung with costly curtains, and the walls glittered with mirrors which reflected light from three splendid chandeliers. Here, as below, were ranges of tables, some occupied by individuals with cards, and others vacant. As Ware and Handy came in, they were approached by a man of the blandest manners, and the most polished address. He supposed the young gentlemen desired to amuse themselves--there were tables with cards, and other means of passing an agreeable hour. The young gentlemen thanked him with a manner as polite and courteous as his own; and acting upon his hint, took possession of a table. "Rather dull work for two," this very considerate and gentlemanly personage remarked, with his pleasant smile, passing near them a few minutes afterwards. "Rather," was Handy’s response. "Won’t you sit down with us?" "No objection, if agreeable," was the prompt reply, as he drew up a chair. "Still rather dull work," he said, after a short time, leaning back and throwing an eye around the room. "I wonder if we can’t find somebody else that would like to take a hand? We are not now evenly balanced. There comes a man who looks as if he wanted to be either winning or losing something. Look here, friend!" addressing the individual to whom he had alluded, "don’t you want to take a hand?" "No objection," was the reply, "Come along, then. I need a partner; and one with a clear, cool head, too; for one of my young friends here, at least, I know to be a sharp hand, and I more than guess that the other is not much behind him." The stranger sat down with the rest, and the four were soon deeply burled in the game at once commenced. Ten dollars a round was the stake, and for a time the games all ran in favor of Handy and Ware. A proposition to double the stakes had just been made by Handy, when the individual whom they had noticed below, as sitting apart, absorbed in some intensely painful struggle of mind, entered the room, and came and stood beside the table at which they were seated. As he did so, Ware looked up, and observed that his face wore a fierce, malignant, determined expression. He had hardly time to notice this, when the intruder said--addressing the individual who had spoken to them so blandly, on their entering the room--in low, emphatic tones while his eye flashed, and his face grew dark with suppressed anger-- "You are a cheating scoundrel! Here, to your teeth, in the presence of these young gentlemen, I brand you as a miserable, cheating scoundrel!" The change that instantly passed upon the face of the individual. addressed, was fearful to look upon. The bland, open countenance became in a moment rigid, and almost fierce--while his eyes, before so mild in expression, were now dilated, and seemed to throw out corruscations of fiendish hate. For an instant only he paused, and then springing to his feet, he dashed both fists into the face of the person who had insulted him, before the latter had time to defend himself. Quick as thought, however, the other regained his feet, a large knife already gleaming in his hand, and made a headlong plunge toward the assailant. That individual dexterously avoided the blow aimed at his heart, which was made with such a desperate energy, that its failure caused the stranger to fall forward upon one of the tables. Before he could recover himself, the other was upon him, bearing him down, while his hand made two or three quick plunges, striking his sides as he did so with some sharp instrument, that glistened each time it was raised in the light. Desperate were the struggles now made by the stranger to throw off his antagonist, but the gambler held him down by bearing his whole weight upon him, every now and then stabbing him in the side! With a fierce energy, accompanying each blow with some hellish imprecation. All this passed before anyone had time to interfere. But a crowd gathered round, one catching the hand that held the deadly weapon, and another dragging him off of the wounded man, from whose side the blood already gushed in copious streams. Instantly upon being thus released, the latter turned and dashed his knife into the abdomen of the gambler. As he did so, his arm fell nerveless by his side and he sank upon the floor, a ghastly corpse! ======================================================================== CHAPTER 95: 04A.06 CHAPTER 6. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 6. "That was a horrible affair, last night," Handy said to Ware, on their meeting next morning. "Horrible, indeed! I was never so shocked in my life." "So it was Mr. Pandora, then, with whom we were playing. He head man of that splendid establishment." "How do you know?" "Havn’t you seen the newspapers this morning?" "I have seen one or two, but none of them contained any allusion to that affair." "Here is one, then, which has the full particulars. And rather too full to please me." "How so?" "Just listen to this," drawing a newspaper from his pocket, and reading: "Desperate Rencounter at Pandora’s Splendid Establishment in Chestnut Street, and Death of one of the parties.--Last night at about ten o’clock, as Pandora, the principal proprietor of the gambling rooms in Chestnut Street to which we have alluded in the caption of this article, was engaged at play with a couple of young bloods of this city, whose names are in our possession, an individual came up and insulted him, when a fight ensued, which terminated in the death of the latter, who received several severe stabs in the side, one or two of these penetrating his heart. In return, he dealt Pandora a fearful wound in the abdomen, which, it is thought, will terminate fatally. We have not yet learned the name of the deceased. We understand that many young men of respectable standing in society were found in this establishment by those who rushed in from the street as soon as the fatal affray became known. One, in particular, was noticed there, the son of a wealthy merchant, who is engaged to one of the sweetest maidens us the city--a rich heiress. Poor girl! Though now the envy of thousands, if she should become his wife, we fear that the time will come when she, in turn, will envy the lot of even the most lowly and obscure, in whose habitation rests the sunshine of peace." "Too bad! too bad!" ejaculated Henry Ware, pacing the room backward and forward with hurried steps. "Confound these meddlesome newspaper editors! What has our being there, to do with the murder that was committed? Just nothing at all! But, to make an interesting paragraph--we must be lugged in, and others into the bargain! And he says, moreover, that he has our names--and I suppose, will publish them tomorrow." "If he does, I will cut off his ears!" "Better cut his head off before he does it. Why, I wouldn’t have it known, publicly, that I was there for the world." "You might at once bid good-bye to Bell Martin, and her father’s money, if that were to happen." "And that it will happen, I fear there is little doubt." "Why so?" "Does not this meddlesome scoundrel say that he has our names?" "Well?" "Of course, now that he has published that fact, he will be called upon by the Attorney General to give the names, that we may be summoned as witnesses for the prosecution, in the trial that will ensue, should Pandora survive his wound, which Heaven forbid!" "True! true!" Handy said, with a troubled look. "If it comes to that, it will be a death-blow to my prospects. The fact of my having been in a gambling-house, and engaged in playing with Pandora, which will appear from my own testimony on oath, will at once foil all my hopes." Handy did not reply to this for some time, but sat deeply absorbed in thought. At length he said-- "Everything looks dark enough in your case, Harry, I must confess. But I think there is one hope." "What is that?" "That you may be able to secure Bell’s hand before the that comes on. In the mean time, you must make fair weather, if possible, with the Attorney General, and get him to keep your name from transpiring as one of the witnesses, until the last moment." "Thank you, Tom, for that hope. I see there is still light ahead. But this vagabond editor--what shall we do with him? Suppose he were to publish our names?" "He must not do that. I will see him today, and endeavor to secure his silence." "Do so, if possible. But what if old Martin’s eye has caught this unfortunate paragraph? His suspicions will be almost certainly aroused." "You must allay them." "How?" "Do not ask me. Surely you are possessed of enough cool impudence for that. Visit there as formerly--and with as frank and easy an air. If the affray last evening is introduced before you have time to allude to it, converse about it freely. Do you take the idea?" "Perfectly--and shall act it out fully. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 96: 04A.06 CHAPTER 6. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 6. "Bell, did you see this?" asked Mary, coming into Bell’s chamber, and handing her the morning paper, with her finger on the paragraph which had disturbed young Ware’s peace of mind so seriously. "No--what is it?" replied the maiden, taking the paper and glancing over the article pointed out to her. "That is a dreadful affair, truly, Mary," said Bell, as she finished reading the paragraph, in a voice of more than scarcely ordinary concern. "I wonder who the young man is, alluded to as about to marry some beautiful heiress? I hope, at least for her sake, that this notice may meet her eye, and that she may have resolution to cast him off forever." "Most earnestly do I hope so," was Mary’s answer, made in a fervent tone. "You seem unusually serious about the matter, Mary," Bell now said, looking up with an expression of surprise. "Have you any idea to whom allusion is made?" Mary hesitated a few minutes and then replied-- "I have my suspicions." "Then where do they rest?" "Pardon me, Bell. Perhaps it is the earnest love I feel for you which makes me suspicious. But I cannot help thinking that you are the maiden alluded to!" "Me, Mary!" ejaculated Bell, in instant and profound astonishment. "In the name of wonder! what has put that into your head?" "I know not where the suggestion came from, Bell," said Mary, calmly and seriously. "But the instant I read that notice, the thought flashed upon my mind with startling vividness." "It is not a true thought, Mary." "I sincerely hope not. Time, however, I trust, will tell whether it is true or false." "You are not prepossessed in Henry Ware’s favor, Mary. That accounts for this suspicion." "I certainly am not prepossessed in his favor," replied Mary, "and never have been. You know that I have said this from the first." "But upon what ground rests your prejudice against him?" "I am afraid that he can never love you, Bell, as you should be loved," replied Mary, in a voice that was low, and trembled with feeling. "Certain am I, Mary that he loves me deeply, and tenderly. Why do you doubt it?" "To me he does not seem capable of loving anything half so well as himself. Pardon my freedom of speech on a subject of such a delicate nature. As I have said before, it is nothing but my love for you, that causes me to speak so plainly." "You do not see him as I see him, Mary, nor hear the peculiar tones of his voice as I hear them." "I know that. But my observation of him causes me to doubt his sincerity. I do not see him often, but when I do, I observe him with the closest scrutiny; and that tells me that he is insincere--that he is acting a part." "Something has blinded your mind in regard to him, Mary, so that you cannot judge him fairly." "I think not, Bell. Until within a couple of months ago, his life has been one constant round of selfish pleasure-taking. He has kept mirthful, wild company, and been the gayest and wildest of all." "How do you know that, Mary?" "I have heard your father say so." "But has he not changed? Did not my father say that likewise?" "He did." "Does not that, then, satisfy you?" "Far from it. Men change not thus, so suddenly, without a sufficient motive." "And what, do you think, is his motive?" "To gain the hand of Bell Martin!" "And if to gain her hand," said the maiden, while her cheek deepened its color, and her eyes sparkled, "he would forego all these, don’t you think that to keep that hand, and the heart that goes with it--he would not still forego them?" To this triumphant appeal on the part of Bell, Mary made no reply; though it did not satisfy her mind, far more acute in its perceptions of character, than the maiden’s with whom she was conversing. The reader’s knowledge of the facts in the case, will, of course, approve her judgment. Men do not thus suddenly change a course of life in which they have taken delight, without some strong influencing motive. And it would be well for the happiness of many a fond, confiding girl, if she would lay this axiom up in her heart. Let every young woman beware of the suitor, especially if she has in possession or prospect, a fortune, who suddenly reforms or changes his course of life, upon making advances toward her. Previous habits, when the stronger motive of securing her hand is withdrawn, will, in nine cases out of ten, return and become as strong and as active as ever. Then will come the bitterness which nothing can allay. Then will come neglect, perhaps unkindness, and, it may be, cruelty. Who would not pause and reflect? Who would not hesitate, and ponder well the chances, before running such a risk? A neglected wife! Oh! who would be that heart-broken thing? And, worse than all, how often do early habits of dissipation become confirmed? Then comes severer anguish than even springs from neglect alone. Poverty--wretchedness--and the untold pangs of a drunkard’s wife are the attendants of these! Again we say, let the maiden know well the character of the man she marries--and the more elevated her station in life, the more guarded let her be. The greater the villain--the higher his aim. "Did you see the account of that affray last night, Henry?" asked Mr. Martin, suddenly, on the evening following the event alluded to, eyeing the young man closely as he did so. Henry Ware was sitting upon the sofa beside Bell, at the time the question was asked. "I did," was his prompt reply, turning around toward Mr. Martin, and looking him steadily in the face. "It seems to have been rather a desperate affair." "It certainly does. I wonder who the young man can be, to whom allusion is made in the paper of this morning?" "I really do not know; although I have my suspicions," was the cool reply of Ware, still looking at Mr. Martin, with an expression of unconcern upon his face. "Upon whom do they rest, Henry?" "I don’t know that it is exactly fair to mention such suspicions; but of course they will be sacred here. It has occurred to me that the individual there alluded to is James Lawson. You know that he is engaged to Miss Eberly." "Can it be possible!" said Mr. Martin, in surprise. "Both possible and probable," resumed Ware. "I know that he has been in the habit of visiting that establishment for some time past. It is only a week since I remonstrated with him about it, and tried to show him that it was a certain road to ruin." "You surprise and pain me very much, Henry. I had a very different opinion of James Lawson. "Few suspect him of being wedded to the vice of gambling. But it is, alas! too true. Of the handsome fortune left him by his father, I doubt if there is anything over a meager remnant, left." "It is really dreadful to think about," said Mrs. Martin, "What a sad prospect for Caroline Eberly!" "This affair," remarked Ware, coolly, "may lead to such an exposure of him, as will open her eyes; and for her sake, I earnestly hope that it may be so." Thus did this young but accomplished villain, to draw suspicion from himself, assail the character of an innocent young man! Mr. Martin, on whose mind the most painful doubts had rested ever since the morning, was now fully satisfied that his suddenly awakened fears had done injustice to Henry Ware. His manner and the expression of his face were to him full of innocence. He even regretted having made an effort to obtain the names of the individuals mentioned in the notice of the affray, by going to the newspaper office, where the editor declined answering his question. He was not, of course, aware that Thomas Handy had been there half an hour before him, and informed said editor that if he divulged the names of the people to whom he had alluded, he would have his ears cut off, and, perhaps, his life taken! ======================================================================== CHAPTER 97: 04A.08 CHAPTER 8. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 8. "Good morning, Mr. Blackstone," said Henry Ware, entering the office of the Attorney General, about three weeks after the fatal affray. "So you’ve got me down for that unpleasant affair?" "To what do you allude, Mr. Ware?" the Attorney General asked, gravely. "To the affair which happened at Chestnut Street, some two or three weeks ago." "Do you refer to the murder of Cooper by Pandora?" "Yes. To that murder, or manslaughter, or homicide, which ever you feel disposed to call it. But, as I was saying, you have got me down for one of the witnesses?" "Oh yes. Now I remember; and a very important witness you are. You were present at the beginning, through the progress, and at the termination, of the affray; and, of course, your testimony will decide the matter. You were playing with Pandora at the time Cooper came up to the table at which he was sitting, I understand. Was that so?" "I’ am sorry to say that I was," Ware replied, his tone changing a good deal, in spite of a determined effort not to let the deep concern he felt become too visible. "That is important," returned Mr. Blackstone, with a thoughtful air. "I hope," he added, in a few moments after, "that you will keep the whole scene fresh in your memory, so as to describe it accurately." "But can you not, possibly, dispense with my testimony?" Ware asked. "There were many others present, who can fully attest all the facts in the case." "We have failed to learn any of their names, except that of Thomas Handy, who has been summoned to appear as well as yourself." "Why will not his evidence be conclusive in the matter?" "Because, as you well know, corroborating testimony is always desirable." "How soon will the case come up?" "At the next term, which commences in about two months." The young man’s countenance fell, and he seemed troubled at this information. A brief silence followed, and then he said, while his voice slightly trembled-- "I have reasons, Mr, Blackstone, of a very important nature, for not wishing to appear in this case." "I am sorry for it Mr. Ware; and regret the absolute necessity for calling you." "Do not say absolute necessity, Mr. Blackstone," Ware rejoined, while his manner became agitated. "I cannot, I must not appear!" "What detriment can it be to you simply to relate what you saw? You were no actor in the case." "But I could not have seen what passed in that establishment, if I had not, unfortunately, been there. It is the fact of my presence there that I do not wish known." "I am sorry for the existing necessity," replied the Attorney General; "but cannot accede to your desire. The evidence which you can give, is of too much importance to the State to be waived." The manner of Ware became still more agitated at this. "You know not, Mr. Blackstone," he said, in an earnest and almost supplicating tone, "how much depends upon the concealment of the fact that I was present at that unfortunate affray. If it should become known, it will mar all my expectations in life." "I regret exceedingly to hear you say so," the Attorney General simply remarked at this; and then the young man went on-- "The fact is, Mr. Blackstone, to make you fully sensible of my situation, in the hope that an appreciation of it may induce you to consider me more than you are now inclined to do, I will mention, that I have recently made proposals to old Mr. Martin, for the hand of his youngest daughter, and that I am now awaiting a decision. I have no doubt of its being in my favor. But should this fact get out before the consummation of the marriage, the engagement will inevitably be broken off. I was a fool to go to that miserable place anyhow; and would not have done so, had it not been for the persuasion of a friend, for I have no taste tor such amusements." "I certainly feel for your situation very much," said Mr. Blackstone. And he only spoke what he felt; for he really believed the concluding portion of the young man’s statement--not having had much knowledge of his previous character and habits of life. "It is a very peculiar and very critical one, indeed," was Ware’s reply. And I do hope you will, as it is in your power, duly consider the delicate position in which I am placed." "But it is not in my power to do so, Mr. Ware." "How, can that be? Is it not upon your summons that all witnesses appear? "Very true. But in this act I cannot be governed by any considerations, except those which regard justice." "Still, justice may be attained as fully by my non-appearance, as by my appearance." "I do not think so." "But surely the testimony of Mr. Handy will be conclusive." "It may not be in the minds of all the jurors. But if in your testimony and Handy’s, there is a corroborating agreement on some important point, then doubt will be set aside. You see, therefore, that it is impossible for me, as much as I feel for you in so unpleasant a position, to accede to your wishes. Were it in my power, I would do so cheerfully; but, as I have before said, it is not in my power. I cannot let any personal consideration interfere to endanger the cause of justice." "Do not say that in this resolution, you are fixed, Mr. Blackstone," returned Ware, appealingly. "I certainly do say so, and emphatically," was the firm reply. "My office is a responsible one; and in the discharge of its duties, I allow no personal considerations." There was now a long silence, deeply troubled on the part of the young man. "And you think the trial will come up at the next term?" he at length asked in an anxious tone. "Oh yes. It is already entered for the next Court." Perceiving by the manner of the Attorney General, that it was useless to urge him farther, Henry Ware retired, with a feeling of deeper and more painful anxiety than he had yet experienced. He had fondly believed that, under the peculiar circumstances of the case, where there was another witness who could testify as fully and as clearly as himself to all the facts which had occurred, there would be no great difficulty in his getting relieved from the duty of a witness; but this hope, the Attorney General had dashed to the ground. And he now saw himself standing, as it were, on the brink of utter ruin, as he esteemed it. For if he failed under these circumstances, to secure the hand of Bell Martin, the fact would become so notorious, that all hope of securing any other prize of equal value, would be cut off. It would, likewise, involve such an exposure, as to utterly destroy his father’s newly awakened confidence, and cause him further to curtail supplies of money. This would necessarily separate them so far as to make it very doubtful whether the old gentleman, at his death, would trust much of his property in the hands of one in whose habits and principles, there was so little to approve. "What is to be done now?" he asked, thoughtfully, as he seated himself in his office. "If this comes out before Bell is mine, the whole jig is up. And what then? Why, the old man will be so incensed, that, in all probability, he will tell me to go and shift for myself. And a pretty figure I would make at that kind of work. What could I do? Gamble, I suppose, and nothing else--and not much headway would I make at that, it strikes me. But if I could only get fairly spliced to Bell, I would have two strings to my bow. My old dad, and hers too, would then think twice before cutting loose from me. And, besides, I would have two deep pockets to thrust my hand in, and both together, it strikes me, ought to keep me in spending money. Let me see--this trial will come up in two months. Can’t I push the wedding through in that time? I must try, for everything depends upon it. Certainly, old Martin has had full time to consider, and decide upon my offer! And I think he has decided favorably, for his manner grows more and more encouraging and familiar every time I meet him. I’ll see him this very day and press for an answer; and if that should be favorable, will next urge an immediate marriage. It is my only course." Acting upon this decision. Ware sought and obtained a private interview with Mr. Martin on that afternoon. "You must excuse me, Mr. Martin," he said, after alluding to the object of his visit, "for my so early asking a decision. Young folks, you know, are restless under uncertainties--and, especially, under an uncertainty of this nature, you cannot wonder that I should feel anxious. I trust, therefore, that you have taken pains to satisfy yourself as to my ability to render your daughter happy, and are now prepared to give me a final answer." The old man sat thoughtful for some moments, after Ware had ceased speaking. All that he had seen or heard, since his proposal for the hand of Bell, had caused him to think more and more favorably of the young man’s suit. And yet he did not feel satisfied. Whenever he thought of resigning his daughter to Ware, it was with feelings of unconquerable reluctance. The man he would choose for his child, if the full choice were his, would be one in whom correct principles had been early implanted, and had grown with his growth, and strengthened with his strength. Such was not the case with Ware. With him, correct principles were of but a hot-bed growth; and, therefore, he could feel no well-grounded confidence in them. Still, he would condemn this kind of judgment, on the argument that the young man had evidently seen his error, and was now thoroughly reforming himself. That, with maturer years, a youthful love of exciting pleasures and loose company had subsided, never again to exercise any controlling influence over him. "In one week I will give you a decisive answer, Henry," Mr. Martin at length replied. "Even a week seems a great while to prolong this kind of suspense, Mr. Martin. I have already waited with as much as I could exercise, for many weeks." "But there need be no hurry about the matter, Henry. You are both young, and won’t expect to be married for a year to come." This remark made the young man’s spirits sink at once. If not married within a year, very certain was he, that he would never be married at all to Bell Martin. But he would not trust himself to reply. The first thing was to gain the father’s consent to marry her at all. "I must wait a week, you say?" he remarked after a brief silence. "In a week, I will be prepared to decide upon your proposition." "It will be a month to me," said Ware, as he arose to depart. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 98: 04A.09 CHAPTER 9. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 9. "Is it all settled, Harry?" "The old man couldn’t but give his consent, though it came reluctantly. And then he gave me some advice." "Good advice, no doubt. What was it like?" "That’s more than I can tell." "Went into one ear and out of the other, eh?" "Not even that. It didn’t find its way into either ear. I wanted his daughter, and not his advice." "So far so good. But the next question is, how soon will he consent to let you marry her?" "Next year!" in a tone of bitter irony. "Never, you had better say." "It will be never, if not within a year, that is certain." "That confounded trial will be here in less than two months." "And in less than two months all my hopes will be scattered before the wind, if I cannot manage to secure Bell’s hand within that period." "Is there any possible hope of doing so?" "I’m afraid not. But I must try. While there’s life, there is hope, Tom, as the doctors say. So far I have managed to throw dust in the old people’s eyes, and get their consent to marry Bell. I must now do my best to accomplish another end, fully as important as the first." "How will you go about it?" "I have been racking my brains over that for the past week, in anticipation of the acceptance of my suit, and can thus far, think of but one way." "What is that?" "To get my old man in favor of an immediate marriage, and then set him to work on Martin." "Do you think you can bring him over to your side? "I can only try." "But are you expectant?" "I am. He knows I’ve been a pretty wild boy in my time, and is now tickled to death at the idea of my reformation. If I can only manage to get the notion into his head, that there is still some danger of my getting back into the gall of bitterness and the bonds of iniquity, until the protecting arms of a wife are thrown around me--he is safe on my side of the question." "But how will you manage that? It would hardly do for you to say such a thing." "Of course not. But I have a like-minded friend who has often served me before, and I am going to make a requisition on him for this especial business." "Indeed! And who might that friend be?" "He might be one Thomas Handy, alias, Tom Handy--a chap of notable parts--and, moreover is the said Tom Handy!" "Exactly." "And of course Tom Handy is still as ready to serve his friend as ever?" "My hand for that. But how am I to manage this for you?" "You must fall in with the old man." "He doesn’t like me very tenderly, you must remember." "I am fully aware of that fact. But I have been wearing down his prejudice for the past week with might and main." "You have?" "O, yes. Whenever I could manage to get something to say about Thomas Handy, I lugged your honorable self in, head and shoulders." "He didn’t like my company, I presume?" "It did disturb him at first. But I surprised him with the pleasing information that there had occurred in you a most beneficial change of late." "O, dear! ha! ha! ha! Hush, Harry, or you’ll kill me!" "Mainly brought about, I informed him, by my influence and example. That you had been a wild boy in your time, there was no denying. But having sowed your wild oats, you were now setting seriously and earnestly about the business of life." "He didn’t believe you?" "He did--every word! It would have done your heart good to see how pleased he was. ’You see, Harry,’ he said, ’how much depends on every individual. We do not stand alone. Every act whether good or evil, carries its beneficial qr injurious effect into society, and there reproduces itself, often in innumerable forms. Let this truth, my dear son, sink deep into your heart. And for the sake of others, if not for your own, let every act bear with it a healthful influence.’ Now what do you think of that?" "He’d make a first-rate preacher, wouldn’t he?" "So I thought." "And he is prepossessed in my favor!" "O, decidedly. Now I want you to fall in with him as soon as possible, for no time is to be lost, and do the right thing by me. I heed not tell you in what way. That, of course, you understand." "Perfectly." "When do you think you can see him?" "I don’t know. I must fall in with him by accident, of course. Let me consider. At what time does he go to the store after dinner?" "About four o’clock." "Takes wine pretty freely at the table?" "Yes." "And is always in a good humor afterwards?" "Generally so." "I’ll meet him, then, by accident on some corner between your house and the store, and walk down the street with him. As we go along, I will do my prettiest to interest him; so that when we pause at the store door, he’ll say, ’Come! won’t you walk in, Thomas?’ Of course I will go in. How do you like that style of doing the thing?" "Admirably!" "But is he alone much in his counting-room?" "Yes, especially in the afternoon. There is a cosy little office just back of the main counting room, in which is a large arm-chair, that has generally some attractions for him after a hearty dinner. He will, in all probability, invite you in there. If he does, you will have a fair chance at him." And I’ll do my prettiest." I will trust you for that, Tom. You are true blue, when you undertake to perform a friendly act." About four o’clock on the next day, Thomas Handy met old Mr. Ware, "by accident," a short distance from his store. Earlier in the day, Henry had artfully introduced his friend in conversation, and by the relation of some imagined circumstances, and the repetition of some imagined fine sentiments attributed to him, very much interested his father in the young man. He was, in consequence, prepared to give him a pleasant word and a bland smile, which Handy appropriated very coolly and very naturally. Then, as he was going the same way, a pleasant conversation sprung up, which was just at a point of interest when they arrived at Mr. Ware’s store, that made him feel inclined to invite the young man to walk in. Of course, Thomas Handy made no excuse. In a few moments after, he was snugly seated in the cosy little office of which Henry had told him, with Mr. Ware as snugly fixed in his great armchair. "Well, Thomas," remarked the old gentleman, after he had got fairly settled, looking at Handy with quite a complacent, benevolent expression on his countenance, "it must be as great a pleasure to your father, as it is to me, to know that you young men are beginning to see with different eyes, and to act from different views." "Indeed, sir, it is," was the prompt, cool, heartless reply. "My father seems like another man. But you can, no doubt, enter into his feelings more fully than I can." "Very truly said. None but a father can possibly realize, fully, a father’s feelings under such circumstances. For my part, I can say, that the change which has become apparent in Harry, has taken a mountain from my heart." "No doubt of it, sir! No doubt of it!" was Handy’s fervent response. "For the change in Harry has been great indeed." "Indeed it has." "And I most earnestly trust that he will abide by it." "Abide by it? He must abide by it, Thomas! I cannot think of his going back again. It would almost kill me. O, if he only knew the world of misery I have suffered in consequence of his past life--he would die rather than think of returning to his previous habits!" There was a tremulousness and a pathos in the old man’s voice, that even reached, in some degree, the ice-bound feelings of the young man with whom he was conversing. But the effect was neither deep nor permanent. The selfish end he had in view, quickly dispersed even these small touches of nature. "The influence of bad habits, confirmed by long indulgence, are not thrown off in a day, Mr. Ware," he replied, in a serious tone. "Both Henry and myself will have to struggle manfully before we have fully conquered. And struggle we will. In this effort we need all the kind consideration and aid that we can receive from those upon whom we have any claims." "And surely you have both, Thomas." "We have, so far as our condition can be appreciated. But you, who have never felt the force of such bad habits as we have contracted, can no more fully sympathize with us, than we can fully sympathize with you. Do you understand me?" "I do. But why do you speak thus?" "I have been led, almost involuntarily, to say what I have, Mr. Ware, from--from--" "From what, Thomas? Speak out plainly." The young man hesitated for a few moments, as if deliberating some question in his mind, and then said, in a serious tone-- "I had no thought of saying what I am now almost compelled to say, seeing that I have excited, unintentionally, a concern in your mind. You must not, of course, intimate to Harry, even remotely, that I have said what I am now about saying." "O, no, of course not, Thomas." "You know, then, I presume, that he has been addressing Bell Martin?" "Yes." "I learned from him yesterday that her father had consented to the marriage." "So I heard last evening." "But he thinks it time enough for them to get married in a year from now." "Well?" "Do you know that the first effort Henry made to reform his course of life, was after his affections had become fixed upon Bell?" "I do not know it, for a certainty." "It is true. We are intimate friends, and I know it to be true. He loves her fondly and passionately--and is, of course, very much disappointed at the stand which her father has taken. A year is a long time to wait." "It is a good while--but it will soon pass." To him it will not. The hours, and days, and weeks, will drag wearily and heavily. To speak frankly and seriously, Mr. Ware, I fear for its effect upon him. You know his ardent temperament, and how little used he has been to self-denial." "You speak seriously, Thomas." "It is because I feel serious in this matter. I am much attached to Harry, and whatever deeply concerns him, concerns me." "In what way do you fear that it will affect him injuriously?" "Indeed, sir, I can hardly tell myself. But I have a vague fear that I cannot shake off--a dim, troubled idea that has haunted me ever since I saw his strong manifestation of disappointment. For relief of mind, he may fall back in some weak moment, upon old and exciting pleasures, and then his danger would be great, very great. I tremble to think of it." "You certainly alarm me, Thomas." "I do not wish, Mr. Ware, to disturb your mind, and would not do so, did I not feel so deep an interest in your son. An ounce of prevention, you know, is worth a pound of cure. It is in the hope that through your influence, all danger may be put far away, that I now speak to you as I do." "Thank you kindly, Thomas. I feel the force of your generous interest. But if that is all, we need not disturb our minds. They might just as well be married now, as well as a year hence." "So I think. There can be no reason for waiting." "None at all. I will see Mr. Martin, and have that matter settled at once." "You have indeed, sir, taken a load from my mind," said Handy, earnestly and sincerely. Then, after a brief pause for reflection, he added: "Urge Mr. Martin to permit the marriage to take place at a very early period, I shall never feel that Henry is perfectly safe, until this new relation is formed. Then, all danger will be passed." "It shall take place soon, I pledge myself for that," replied Mr. Ware. "I understand Bell’s father as well as he understands himself, and I know how to manage him. Trust me, sir; they shall be married as early as they wish." Thus much gained. Handy soon after arose, and bade Mr. Ware good day. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 99: 04A.10 CHAPTER 10. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 10. One morning, a week after the interview mentioned in the concluding portion of the last chapter, our two young men met, as usual, at the office of Henry Ware, which was still retained, and all the appearances of studious attention to business kept up. "You look grave, Harry," remarked his friend, as he came in. "I look no graver than I feel." "What has turned up now? Are we never to be done with these cross purposes?" "I’m afraid not. It seems as if the old Harry himself had turned against us. If it had not been for that cursed affair in Chestnut Street, all would have gone on finely. But that, I see very plainly, is going to mar the whole plot." "Old Martin has given his consent to an early marriage." "So he has. But--" "But what?" "Bell, confound her! She can’t get ready for two months to come!" "The devil she can’t!" "Isn’t it too bad!" And Ware paced the floor of his office with hurried steps, his countenance expressive of anger and disappointment. "Can’t get ready for two months! Confound it! Why, I could get ready in two days, and so could she, if it were not for some romantic notion she has probably got into her head. They’re all a set of silly fools anyhow!" "You’ll soon take the romance out of her, if you ever get a chance!" "Won’t I? She’ll not have much left, six months after we’re married, if that event ever takes place." "Not for two months, you say?" "No." "Too bad! Too bad! But can’t you change her resolution!" "No. I tried last evening, as far as I could. But it was no use. She says that she cannot possibly be ready before the middle of May." "That trial will come up on the first." "So Blackstone says." "What then is to be done?" "That is a question easy to ask, but difficult to answer. I see no chance of escape from the dilemma." "I can tell you of one way which occurs to me at this moment." "Name it, then, for Heaven’s sake!" "Absent yourself from the city on the day the case is called. It will then have to go on without you, or be postponed, so that you will have time to get married before it again comes up." "The very thing!" ejaculated Ware, striking his fist with his open hand, his whole countenance brightening up. "It’s the very thing, Tom! And I’ll do it." "There will then only remain one danger." "What is that?" "Your name will be called as a witness. Should anyone there, who knows Bell’s father, inform him of the fact, the jig will be up for you as effectually as if you had made your appearance." "True, true," and the countenance of Ware again fell. "And the danger would be greatly increased, were the names of the witnesses published, which will in all probability be the case." "Still it is the only course that promises anything." "It is; and therefore the only course you can take." "Do you intend remaining, Tom?" "I haven’t made up my mind yet." "You had better be absent also." "Why do you think so?" "As we are the two principal witnesses on the part of the prosecution, our absence will make it absolutely necessary to postpone the trial to another term. If that can be done, I am safe." "That is true again. I will leave town." "Now I begin to see a little daylight ahead," remarked Ware in a more cheerful tone. "We’ll outwit Mr. Attorney General, in spite of his teeth." "Mr. Ware, I believe." said an individual, entering at the moment. "My name," was the half haughty reply, for the individual who addressed him, had not, to his eye, the appearance of a gentleman. "You are required to appear and give bail to the amount of four thousand dollars as a witness in the case of the State vs. Pandora," was the monotonous response of the visitor, who added in a moment afterwards, "The bail is required by twelve o’clock noon," and then withdrew. Neither of the young men spoke for nearly five minutes after the officer retired. At length Ware said, in a low but firm tone: "It’s all over, Tom! The fates are against me. I might as well give up at once. But it is hard, devilish hard! after all the trouble I have taken, thus to have the cup dashed to the earth, at the moment it is about to touch my lips!" "It is hard, Harry. But you must bear it like a man. Something yet may turn up in your favor." "I have ceased to look for it. The effort to get bail will, no doubt, lead to a full exposure of the whole matter." "Things look cloudy enough. I do not see any way of escape." "There is none, I presume," Ware gloomily replied. "Anyhow, I shall prepare myself for the worst." ======================================================================== CHAPTER 100: 04A.11 CHAPTER 11. ======================================================================== CHAPTER 11. It was just eleven o’clock when Henry Ware received the notice requiring him to give bail, as mentioned in the last chapter, and at twelve that day, bail had to be produced. The unexpected aspect which this difficulty, already well near insurmountable, had assumed, made the young man feel like giving up all further efforts at attempting a concealment of his visit to Pandora’s establishment. After a long silence, in which his own mind, and that of his friend, were searching, but in vain, for some new expedient, Handy asked, in rather a desponding tone, "Can you think of nothing, Harry?" "Nothing," was the brief, gloomy response. "Who will pay your bail?" "Can’t you?" "Of course I would not be received, in consequence of being a witness myself. Nor am I at all sure that a similar notice to yours will not be served on me before the next hour." "I see the difficulty." "But you must have bail." "I know that too well. And yet, I can think of no one except my old man. But it will never do to make application in that quarter." "Can’t you humbug him into it in some way?" "How?" "I don’t know exactly how. But still, may it not be done? Can’t you invent a plausible story that will mislead him in regard to the real facts in the case, and so get him to stand by you?" "That might be done, though I do not exactly see how." "Has he given any attention to the case?" "Not much, I believe. When the affair occurred, it was a kind of three days’ wonder with him, as with others. Since then, I presume, he has scarcely thought of it." "Suppose, then, you trump up some story about your knowledge of an old quarrel between Pandora, and that you have been summoned to testify in regard to that? Don’t you think that you might fool him in some such style as that?" "That’s it again!" ejaculated Ware, starting to his feet, and beginning to walk about his office with a quick step, while the dark shadow that had rested upon his face, was quickly dispersed by an exulting smile. "You are certainly great at inventions. But for you, I never could have got along even half so far as I now am, in this most perplexing affair." "You think it can be done without difficulty?" "O yes. He’ll believe any well-told tale just now. Still, I dread to approach him on the subject, for fear that something in my countenance or tone of voice may betray me. There is so much at stake, and I feel so deeply on the subject, that I am beginning to lose the calm assurance that has thus far stood me such good service." "How would it do for me to go to him?" "I am sure I do not know. He would very naturally wish to know why I did not see him myself." "Of course he would. But I can manage him well enough in regard to that. The last interview I had with the old codger gave me a clue to his character. I read him like a book, then, and know him now from A. to Z." "If you are perfectly willing to go, Tom, I shall be glad enough to have you do so, and am satisfied to trust the matter to your sound judgment. But time presses. I must be at the Court House in less than an hour--or there will be the devil to pay." Ten minutes after, young Handy entered the store of Mr. Ware, with a manner perfectly calm and assured, while there sat upon his countenance, an expression of concern, not deep, but clearly defined, and not to be mistaken. "Ah, good morning, Thomas. I am pleased to see you," said Mr. Ware, encouragingly. "Walk back into the counting-room." Handy followed the old gentleman into his Counting-room, the door of which Mr. Ware closed after him, purposely, in order that their conversation might be private. The coming in of Handy made him think of his son, and he felt desirous of conversing more in regard to him, with one who was on such intimate terms with, and seemed to take so deep an interest in him. "Well, Thomas," he said, in a cheerful tone, after they were seated, "what news is stirring in your way?" "Nothing of consequence, except--" and then he hesitated and looked a little grave. "Except what, Thomas?" asked Mr. Ware, exhibiting some little concern of manner. "To be plain, honest and frank with you at once, Mr. Ware, a course that I always like to pursue--I have come in this morning to see you about an annoying circumstance that has occurred to Henry." "To Henry?" said the old man, with anxiety. "What of him, Thomas?" "Oh! it’s nothing at which to be alarmed. In fact, it is nothing but a little matter of annoyance to him." "Speak out plainly and to the point, my young friend," Mr. Ware now said, in a firm, decided tone. "It is, in fact," resumed Handy, "only one of the results of former imprudent associations. Our sins often visit us with penalties, after our earnest repentance, and repudiation of them." "Speak plainly, Mr. Handy." "I will, sir. It is now nearly a year since Henry and myself were induced, among other indiscretions, to visit Pandora’s gambling rooms, and engage in play. Three months’ experience, however, completely cured us of our folly. During that time both Henry and myself became acquainted with Pandora, and also with several regular visitors at his establishment. Among these, was an evil, quarrelsome individual. One night a dispute arose between him and Pandora, when a brief rencontre ensued, in which he was severely beaten. Henry and myself were both present, and saw the whole affair. Ever since that time, it appears, that this individual held a grudge against Pandora, and has, I am told, frequently insulted him with the intention of drawing him into another fight. A few weeks ago, as you will remember, he quarreled with Pandora, and was killed. Now, someone has informed Blackstone, the Attorney General, that we we’re present at the former affray, and he has summoned us both to appear as witnesses in the case. But what he wants us to prove, is more than I can figure out." "Is that all?" said Mr. Ware, breathing more freely. "That is the whole merit of the case, but it is not all that troubles Henry’s mind." "What does trouble his mind?" "The fact that he has been required to give bail for his attendance as a witness." "Why has that course been pursued?" asked Mr. Ware, gravely. "I must explain a little to make that matter clear to you. When Henry first learned that the Court required his attendance, he went to the State’s Attorney, in the hope that he could induce him to leave his name off, stating to him, frankly, that his presence in such a place was at a time when he had allowed himself to be led away into irregular habits, by injudicious associations, and that he had very particular reasons for wishing this fact not to see the light, as he feared that it would now lead to a false judgment in regard to him in quarters where it was of the utmost consequence that he should be thought of favorably. But Mr. Blackstone could not be induced to waive his evidence. At a subsequent interview, when he had fixed in his own mind about the first of May as the day of his marriage, he mentioned to Mr. Blackstone that he expected to be unavoidably absent from the city, at the time the case would be called. To prevent this, he has been required to furnish bail." "Why did he not himself mention this to me, Thomas?" asked Mr. Ware. "I urged him very much to do so," was the cool reply. "But he said that he was so much troubled and mortified in regard to it, that he felt sure, that, in making it known to you, he would be liable to misapprehension, and be judged more severely than he deserved. I do really feel sorry for him--he takes the whole thing so hard. And it does seem hard when a young man is trying his best to do right, that the consequences of old indiscretions should visit him, and threaten disgrace and injury." "What amount of bail is required?" asked the old gentleman, in a thoughtful tone, after Handy had ceased speaking. "Four thousand dollars." "Four thousand dollars!" "Yes a most exorbitant bail. And it is the fact of such a large security having been required, that troubles Henry so much, though I tell him that it does not reflect upon him, but upon the party who stands the prosecution." "Certainly it does not reflect upon him. It only shows that his evidence is considered of great importance, and that a strong barrier is to be put in the way of his absenting himself at the time of the trial. Of course I must pay his bail, and it might as well be done at once. Will you go with me to the Court-room?" "O, certainly, sir! Certainly!" was Handy’s ready and pleased response, as he rose from his chair. In a few moments after, he left the store, and, in company with old Mr. Ware, took his way to the State House. ======================================================================== Source: https://sermonindex.net/books/writings-of-timothy-s-arthur-volume-1/ ========================================================================