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"Ah—how do you do, Mr. Wolford?" said he, affecting a pleased air. "Sit down."
Wolford looked grave. He had come on business, and to him business matters were of serious import. He returned the merchant's salutation with formality, seated himself deliberately, and, resting his hands upon the head of his cane, looked up with a sinister expression on his face.
"A fine day this, Mr. Wolford," said Tompkins.
"Yes, very fine. How is business?"
"Dull—terribly dull. I have never known such a business season. There is absolutely nothing doing."
Wolford made no reply.
"I suppose you have plenty of money to lend," remarked the merchant, hardly knowing why he said so.
"No—not a dollar. It's tight with me as well as it is with you. And this brings me to the subject-matter of my visit. You are no doubt aware that, according to the terms of the loan, you are to return my fifteen thousand dollars in a few days?"
"Yes, I am aware of it. Must you have it all?"
"Every dollar; and I want three times as much, if I can get it."
"I was in hope you would renew the loan, Mr. Wolford."
"That's impossible."
"I really don't see how I am to raise fifteen thousand dollars in a few days—these times."
"You have had long enough to make it up, I am sure. You knew very well that the loan would come due next week, and that it was only for one year."
"Yes, I knew all that, very well."
"And yet you are not prepared to pay it?"
"No, I certainly am not to-day. What I may be in a week is more than I can tell."
Wolford did not want the money he had loaned to Mr. Tompkins—that is, he had no use for it. But he could never rest contented for any length of time under the reflection that another person was enjoying his money. He took an insane delight, too, in making others feel his power. If Mr. Tompkins had obtained the amount, and tendered it to Wolford, two weeks before it was due, the miser would have, in all probability, solicited him to keep it on even better terms than at first obtained; but to appear anxious about the matter, was to foreclose all chances of a renewal.
CHAPTER III
AFTER Wolford had left the store of Mr. Tompkins, the merchant tried to rally his thoughts, and review the whole matter calmly. Thinking, however, did not make him feel much better. He could not see his way clear. If the loan were not paid off, his property would, he had not the least doubt, be sold forthwith, under the mortgage.
"I was a fool ever to build such a house, and involve myself as I have done," he murmured, fretfully. "I wish to my heart it was in the bottom of the sea. Between my wife's extravagance and this accursed usurer, I shall be ruined at last."
This was uttered almost involuntarily, but it had the effect to give his thoughts a new direction. After thinking intensely for some time, he took a long inspiration, compressed his lips tightly as he breathed out again, and then said, half aloud, and in a tone of decision—
"I will not suffer myself to be made a fool of any longer, by wife or usurer. Mrs. John Tompkins will have to lay aside a portion of her dignity, or get some other means of supporting it. I am called a man, and I will be a man."
On the evening of that day, while seated at the tea-table, Mrs. Tompkins said—
"Have you ever noticed, dear, the beautiful equipage of Mrs. Van D–?"
"The what?"
"The beautiful establishment of Mrs. Van D–?"
"What kind of an establishment?"
The manner of her husband disturbed the self-satisfaction of Mrs. Tompkins. Her reply was not in so bland a voice.
"Her carriage and pair, I mean, of course."
"No; I never notice such things."
"You don't, indeed!"
"No."
"Don't you ever expect to keep a carriage?"
"I do not."
"I am sure you will."
"You labour under a mistake, Ellen. I have no such intention."
"If I wish for one, I am sure you will gratify me." Mrs. Tompkins spoke softly and smiled.
"No—not even to gratify you, Ellen." Mr. Tompkins spoke seriously, and his brow contracted.
"You built this beautiful house to gratify me."
"True—and by doing so have set myself half crazy."
"Mr. Tompkins, I don't understand you. You are in a strange mood this evening."
"And so would you be in a strange mood, if you had suffered as much as I have during the day."
"Suffered! What have you suffered about?"
"Because I built this house."
"You speak in riddles. Why do you not explain yourself?" Mrs. Tompkins's voice trembled, and there were tears in her eyes.
"I will explain myself, Ellen," said her husband, his manner becoming serious and earnest: it had been fretful and captious before. "I was weak enough to yield to your urgent desire to have an elegant mansion, as you called it, and build this house, at a very heavy cost. I knew that I was doing wrong at the time, and that both you and I would live to regret the act of folly. But you held the reins, and I suffered myself to be driven. The consequence is, that I am involved in difficulties, and this house has to be sold within ten days."
Mr. Tompkins paused. He wished to see the effect of what he had said. Had an earthquake shaken the house to its foundation, Mrs. Tompkins could not have been more astonished than she was by this speech. Her face became deadly pale; she trembled violently from head to foot, and panted like a frightened hare. To utter a word in reply was impossible. The husband was startled at the effect produced, but did not waver an instant in his purpose. The suddenness of the annunciation had one good effect: it opened the eyes of Mrs. Tompkins completely. The manner of her husband left no doubt upon her mind that all he had said was true—that the house would have to go, spite of all he could do to save it. He might be to blame for getting into difficulties—might have mismanaged his business—but that could not alter the present position of things. On recovering from the shock occasioned by so astounding a declaration, she did not resort to any of her old tricks to manage her husband. She felt that they would be useless. As soon as she could speak, she said, firmly—
"Is all this true?"
"As true as you live and breathe."
"And it is my fault?"
"I am sorry that I cannot say otherwise." There was a good deal of feeling in the husband's tone as he made this reply. "I need not relate how I strove to convince you that I could not afford to build such a house—that to sell my warehouse property, in order to do so, would be to rob myself of at least seven or eight thousand dollars—for that property would inevitably increase in value this amount in the next five years. Already it has been sold at an advance of three thousand dollars on what I received for it. I need not relate how unhappy you made both yourself and me, until I consented to do as you wished. It is all within your remembrance. A man cannot stand every thing. I had trouble enough, even then, with my business—but found no compensation at home. In a desperate mood, I resolved to make home pleasant, if possible. I made the sacrifice, and here is the result!"
Mrs. Tompkins wept bitterly when her husband ceased speaking. Every word went to her heart. She saw her folly, nay, her crime, in having acted as she had done. She was a weak, vain woman, but not all perverted. Notwithstanding rank weeds had long overgrown the garden of her mind, some plants of goodly promise yet remained.
On the next day, without hesitating a moment, Mr. Tompkins went to a real-estate broker, and employed him to sell his house as quickly as possible. He mentioned this to his wife, as a thing of course, and suggested the necessity of disposing of their splendid furniture, and retiring from their too prominent position in the social world.
"There is but one way of safety and peace," he said, "and that way we must take, whether the entrance to it be smooth or thorny."
"Why need we sell our handsome furniture?" asked Mrs. Tompkins, in a hoarse voice.
"For the same reason that we have for selling our house," firmly returned her husband—"because it is necessary."
Mr. Tompkins spoke so decidedly, that his wife felt that remonstrance would be unavailing. Having once admitted the truth of all he had alleged, she had no ground for opposition. Completely subdued, she became altogether passive, and left her husband to do just as he pleased. The pressing nature of his affairs made him prompt to carry out all the reforms he had proposed. In less than a week he found a purchaser for his house, and was able to sell it on tolerably fair terms. The real-estate agent who had made the sale for him, had left his store but a short time after communicating all the preliminaries of the transaction, when old Wolford entered with a slow gait and a look of resolution.
"Will you be ready with that money to-morrow?" said he, fixing his small, keen eyes upon the merchant, and bending his brows.
"No!" was the decisive answer.
"Then I shall foreclose the mortgage."
"You will not do that, certainly," returned Tompkins, in a quiet tone, something like a smile playing about his lips.
"Won't I? Don't trust to that, my friend. I always keep contracts to the letter, and exact them from others, when made to me, as rigidly. You borrowed my money for a year, on a mortgage of your property. That year is up to-morrow. If the money does not come, I will immediately have your property sold."
"I have been ahead of you," coolly replied Tompkins.
"What do you mean?"
"I have already sold the property."
The miser seemed stunned by the intelligence.
"Sold it?" he asked, after a moment—"why have you sold it?"
"In order to get out of your clutches, now and for ever. You have had a good deal of my money in your time, and fool enough have I been to let you get your fingers upon it! But you will never get another dollar from me! You were not content with eighteen hundred dollars a year as the interest on fifteen thousand—wasn't I a fool to pay it?—but you must try to put your foot still more heavily on my neck! But you have overreached yourself. Your mortgage on my property is not worth that!—(snapping his fingers.) Didn't you know this before?"
"What do you mean?" Wolford showed considerable alarm.
"You took twelve per cent. per annum?"
"I know I did."
"And that is usury?"
"It is a fair interest. Money is always worth the market price."
"The law says that all over six per cent. is usury; and the taking of such excess vitiates the transaction."
"Do you mean to put in that plea?"
"Yes, if you take the first step toward foreclosing your mortgage, or show yourself in my store until I send for you, which I will do when it is perfectly convenient for me to pay your fifteen thousand dollars, and not before."
"Oh, take your time, Mr. Tompkins—take your time—I am in no particular hurry for the money," said Wolford, with an altered tone and manner—"Just when it is convenient will suit me."
"Are you sure of that?" said the merchant, speaking with a slight sneer upon his lip.
"Oh, yes! I thought I would need the money now, but I believe I will not. The mortgage can remain as long as you want it."
"I don't want it long," muttered Tompkins, turning toward his desk, and taking no further notice of the alarmed and discomfited usurer.
In about two weeks he had the pleasure of handing him the whole amount of the loan, and getting a release of the property. Wolford tried to be very affable and apologetic; but he was treated according to the merchant's estimation of his real character, and not otherwise.
"Free from your clutches, and for ever!" said Mr. Tompkins, speaking to himself, as he stepped into the street from Wolford's dwelling, feeling lighter in heart than he had felt for a long time. "What madness, with the means I have had in my hands, ever to have fed your avaricious maw!"
Although Mr. Tompkins could see the sky by looking upward, he was still in the forest, and had a hard journey before him, ere he gained the pleasant champaign he was seeking so eagerly. The cash he received on selling his house was barely sufficient to clear it of all encumbrance. He was, therefore, still hard pressed for money in his business. The sale of his handsome furniture would help him a good deal, and he determined, resolutely, to have this done forthwith. His wife ventured a demurrer, which he immediately overruled. She had lost the ability to contend with him. A sale at auction was proposed.
"Just think of the exposure," urged his wife.
"I don't care a fig for that. A protested note would be a worse exposure. I must have the money. We can board for a couple or three years, or keep house in a plain way, until I make up some of the losses sustained by our folly."
Mrs. Tompkins was passive. A vendue was called, and three thousand dollars in cash realized. This succour came just in time, for it saved the merchant's credit, and met his pressing demands, until he could turn the paper given in part payment for his house, into money. From that time he began to feel his business resting less heavily upon his shoulders. Money came in about as fast as he needed it. In a few months he began to have quite a respectable balance in bank—a thing he had not known for years.
It was a good while before Mrs. Tompkins could hold up her head in society, where she had, for some time, held it remarkably high. She never carried it as stately as before. As for Wolford, he but seldom passed the store of the merchant: when he did so, it was not without a pang—he had lost a good customer by grinding him too hard, and could not forgive himself for the error.
THE TWO INVALIDS
THE chamber in which the sick woman lay was furnished with every thing that taste could desire or comfort demand. Yet, from none of these elegant surroundings came there an opiate for the weary spirit, or a balm to soothe the pain from which she suffered. With heavy eyes, contracted brow, and face almost as white as the lace-fringed pillow it pressed, canopied with rich curtains, she reclined, sighing away the weary hours, or giving, voice to her discontent in fruitless complainings.
She was alone. A little while before, her attendant had left the room, taking with her a child, whose glad spirits—glad because admitted to his mother's presence—had disturbed her.
"Take him out," she had said, fretfully.
"You must go back to the nursery, dear." The attendant spoke kindly, as she stooped to lift the child in her arms.
"No—no—no. I want to stay here. Do let me stay here, won't you?"
"Mamma is sick, and you disturb her," was answered.
"Oh no. I won't disturb her. I'll be so good."
"Why don't you take him out at once?" exclaimed the mother, in a harsh, excited voice. "It's too much that I can't have a little quiet! He's made my head ache already. What does nurse mean by letting him come over here?"
As the screaming child was borne from the room, the sick woman clasped her hand to her temples, murmuring—
"My poor head! It was almost quiet; but now it throbs as if every vein were ready to burst! Why don't they soothe that child?"
But the child screamed on, and his voice came ringing upon her ears. Nurse was cross, and took no pains to hush his cries; so the mother's special attendant remained, for some time, away from the sick-chamber. By slow degrees she succeeded in diverting the child's mind from his disappointment; but it was many minutes after his crying ceased before he would consent to her leaving him.
In the mean time the sun's bright rays had found a small opening in one of the curtains that draped the windows, and commenced pouring in a few pencils of light, which fell, in a bright spot, on a picture that hung against the wall; resting, in fact upon the fair forehead of a beautiful maiden, and giving a hue of life to the features. It was like a bit of fairy-work—a touch almost of enchantment. The eyes of the invalid were resting on this picture as the magic change began to take place.
How the lovely vision, if it might so be called, won her from thoughts of pain! Ah, if we could say so? Raising herself, she grasped the pendent tassel of the bell-rope, and rang with a violent hand; then sank down with a groan, exhausted by the effort, shut her eyes, and buried her face in the pillow. Leaving the only half-comforted child, her attendant hastily obeyed the summons.
"The sun is blinding me!" said the unhappy invalid, as she entered the chamber. "How could you be so careless in arranging the curtains!"
A touch, and the sweet vision which had smiled all so vainly for the poor sufferer, was lost in shadows. There was a subdued light, and almost pulseless silence in the chamber.
"Do take those flowers away, their odour is dreadful to me!"
A beautiful bouquet of sweet flowers, sent by a sympathizing friend, was removed from the chamber. Half an hour afterward—the attendant thought her sleeping—she exclaimed—
"Oh, how that does worry me!"
"What worries you, ma'am?" was kindly asked.
"That doll on the mantel. It is entirely out of place here. I wish you would remove it. Oh, dear, dear! And that toilette-glass—straighten it, if you please. I can't bear any thing crooked. And there's Mary's rigolette on the bureau; the careless child! She never puts any thing away."
These little annoyances were removed, and the invalid was quiet again—externally quiet, but within all was fretfulness and mental pain.
"There come the children from school," she said, as the ringing of the door-bell and gay voices were heard below. "You must keep them from my room. I feel unusually nervous to-day, and my head aches badly."
Yet, even while she spoke, two little girls came bounding into the room, crying—
"Oh, mother! Dear mother! We've got something good to tell you. Miss Martin says we've been two of the best"–
The attendant's imperative "H-u-s-h!" and the mother's hand waving toward the door, the motion enforced by a frowning brow, were successful in silencing the pleased and excited children, who, without being permitted to tell the good news they had brought from school, and which they had fondly believed would prove so pleasant to their mother's ears, were almost pushed from the chamber.
No matter of surprise is it that a quick revulsion took place in their feelings. If the voice of wrangling reached, soon after, the mother's ears, and pained her to the very soul, it lessened not the pressure on her feelings to think that a little self-denial on her part, a little forgetfulness of her own feelings, and a thoughtfulness for them, would have prevented unhappy discord.
And so the day passed; and when evening brought her husband to her bedside, his kind inquiries were answered only by complainings—complainings that made, from mental reactions, bodily suffering the greater. For so long a time had this state of things existed that her husband was fast losing his wonted cheerfulness of temper. He was in no way indifferent to his wife's condition; few men, in fact, could have sympathized more deeply, or sought with more untiring assiduity to lighten the burden which ill-health had laid upon her. But, in her case, thought was all turned to self. It was like the blood flowing back in congestion upon the heart, instead of diffusing itself healthfully over the system.
Thus it went on—the invalid growing worse instead of better. Not a want was expressed that money did not supply; not a caprice or fancy or appetite, which met not a proffered gratification. But all availed not. Her worst disease was mental, having its origin in inordinate selfishness. It never came into her mind to deny herself for the sake of others; to stifle her complaints lest they should pain the ears of her husband, children, or friends; to bear the weight of suffering laid upon her with at least an effort at cheerfulness. And so she became a burden to those who loved her. In her presence the sweet voices of children were hushed, and smiles faded away. Nothing that was gay, or glad, or cheerful came near her that it did not instantly change into sobriety or sadness.
Not very far away from the beautiful home of this unhappy invalid, is another sufferer from ill-health. We will look in upon her. The chamber is poorly furnished, containing scarcely an article the absence of which would not have abridged the comfort of its occupant. We enter.
What a light has come into those sunken eyes, and over that pale face! We take the thin, white hand; a touch of sadness is in our voice that will not be repressed, as we make inquiries about her health; but she answers cheerfully and hopefully.
"Do you suffer pain?"
"Yes; but mostly at night. All day long I find so much to interest me, and so many thoughts about my children fill my mind, that I hardly find time to think of my own feelings. Care is a blessing."
With what a patient, heavenly smile this is said! How much of life's true philosophy is contained in that closing sentence! Yes, care is a blessing. What countless thousands would, but for daily care, be unutterably miserable. And yet we are ever trying to throw off care; to rise into positions where we will be free from action or duty.
The voice of a child is now heard. It is crying.
"Dear little Aggy! What can ail her?" says the mother, tenderly. And she inclines an ear, listening earnestly. The crying continues.
"Poor child! Something is wrong with her. Won't you open the door a moment?"
The door is opened, and the sick mother calls the name of "Aggy" two or three times. But her voice too feeble to reach the distant apartment.
We second the mother's wishes, and go for the grieving little one.
"Mother wants Aggy."
What magic words! The crying has ceased instantly, and rainbow smiles are seen through falling tears.
"Dear little dove! What has troubled it?" How tender and soothing and full of love is the voice that utters these words! We lift Aggy upon the bed. A moment, and her fresh warm cheek is close to the pale face of her mother; while her hand is nestling in her bosom.
The smile that plays so beautifully over the invalid's face has already answered the question we were about to ask—"Will not the child disturb you?" But our face has betrayed our thoughts, and she says—
"I can't bear to have Aggy away from me. She rarely annoys me. A dear, good child—yet only a child, for whom only a mother can think wisely. She rarely leaves my room that she doesn't get into some trouble; but my presence quickly restores the sunshine."
The bell rings. There is a murmur of voices below; and now light feet come tripping up the stairs. The door opens and two little girls enter, just from school. Does the sick mother put up her hand to enjoin silence? Does she repel them,—by look or word? Oh no.
"Well, Mary—well, Anna?" she says, kindly. They bend over and kiss her gently and lovingly; then speak modestly to the visitor.
"How do you feel, mother?" asks the oldest of the two girls. "Does your head ache?"
"Not now, dear. It ached a little while ago; but it is better now."
"What made it ache, mother?"
"Something troubled Aggy, and her crying sent a pain through my temples. But it went away with the clouds that passed from her darling little face."
"Why, she's asleep, mother!" exclaimed Anna.
"So she is. Dear little lamb! Asleep with a tear on her cheek. Turn her crib around, love, so that I can lay her in it."
"No, you mustn't lift her," says Mary. "It will make your head ache." And the elder of the children lifts her baby-sister in her arms, and carefully lays her in the crib.
"Did you say all your lessons correctly this morning?" now asks the mother.
"I didn't miss a word," answers Mary.
"Nor I," says Anna.
"I'm glad of it. It always does me good to know that you have said your lessons well. Now go and take a run in the yard for exercise."
The little girls leave the chamber, and soon their happy voices came ringing up from the yard. The sound is loud, the children in their merry mood unconscious of the noise they make.
"This is too loud. It will make your head ache," we say, making a motion to rise, as if going to check the exuberance of their spirits.
"Oh no," is answered with a smile. "The happy voices of my children never disturb me. Were it the sound of wrangling, my weak head would throb instantly with pain. But this comes to me like music. They have been confined for hours in school, and health needs a reaction. Every buoyant laugh or glad exclamation expands their lungs, quickens the blood in their veins, and gives a measure of health to mind as well as body. The knowledge of this brings to me a sense of pleasure; and it is better for me, therefore, that they should be gay and noisy for a time, after coming out of school, than it would be if they sat down quietly in the house, or moved about stealthily, speaking to each other in low tones lest I should be disturbed."
We could not say nay to this. It was true, because unselfish, philosophy.
"Doesn't that hammering annoy you?" we ask.
"What hammering?"
"In the new building over the way."
She listens a moment, and then answers—
"Oh no. I did not remark it until you spoke. Such things never disturb me, for the reason that my mind is usually too much occupied to think of them. Though an invalid, and so weak that my hands are almost useless, I never let my thoughts lie idle. A mother, with three children, has enough to occupy her mind usefully—and useful thoughts, you know, are antidotes to brooding melancholy, and not unfrequently to bodily pain. If I were to give way to weaknesses—and I am not without temptations—I would soon be an unhappy, nervous, helpless creature, a burden to myself and all around me."
"You need sympathy and strength from others," we remark.
"And I receive it in full measure," is instantly replied. "Not because I demand it. It comes, the heart-offering of true affection. Poorly would I repay my husband, children, and friends, for the thousand kindnesses I receive at their hands, by making home the gloomiest place on all the earth. Would it be any the brighter for me that I threw clouds over their spirits? Would they more truly sympathize with me, because I was for ever pouring complaints into their ears? Oh no. I try to make them forget that I suffer, and, in their forgetfulness, I often find a sweet oblivion. I love them all too well to wish them a moment's sadness."
What a beautiful glow was on her pale countenance as she thus spoke!
We turn from the home of this cheerful invalid with a lesson in our hearts not soon to be forgotten. Ill-health need not always bring gloom to our dwellings. Suffering need not always bend the thoughts painfully to self. The body may waste, the hands fall nerveless to the side, yet the heart retain its greenness, and the mind its power to bless.
