Kitabı oku: «Home Lights and Shadows», sayfa 5

On the next day all the parties came home—Sanford compulsorily, in the hands of an officer; Hatfield voluntarily, and in terrible alarm. The two brides were of course included. Sanford soon after left the city, and has not since been heard of. His crime was "breach of trust!" As for Hatfield, he was received on the principle that, in such matters, the least said the soonest mended. In the course of a few months he was able to restore the two hundred dollars he had abstracted. After this was done he felt easier in mind. He did not, however, make the foolish creature he had married happy. Externally, or to the world, they seem united, but internally they are not conjoined. Too plainly is this apparent to the father and mother, who have many a heart-ache for their dearly loved child.

THE MOTHER'S PROMISE

A LADY, handsomely dressed, was about leaving her house to make a few calls, when a little boy ran out from the nursery, and clasping one of her gloved hands in both of his, looked up into her face with a glance of winning entreaty, saying, as he did so:

"Mamma! dear mamma! Won't you buy me a picture-book, just like cousin Edie's?"

"Yes, love," was the unhesitating reply; and the lady stooped to kiss the sweet lips of her child.

"Eddy must be a good boy, and mind nurse while mamma is away," she added.

"I'll be so good," replied Eddy, with all the earnestness of a childish purpose. "You may ask nurse when you come home, if I have not been the goodest little boy that ever was."

Mrs. Herbert kissed her darling boy again, and then went forth to make her morning round of calls. Eddy returned to the nursery, strong in his purpose, to be a good boy, as he had promised.

"Such a dear little picture-book as mamma is going to bring me home," he said to nurse, as he leaned his arms against her, and looked up into her face. "Oh! won't I be so glad. It's to be just like cousin Edie's. Mamma said so; and cousin Edie's book is so beautiful. I 've wanted one ever since I was there. Is'nt mamma good?"

"Yes, Eddy," replied the nurse, "your mamma is very good; and you should love her so much, and do everything she tells you to do."

"I do love her," said the child. "Oh, I love her more than all the world; and I'm going to mind every thing she says."

Then the child went to his play, and was happy with his toys. But his thoughts were on the picture-book, and pleasantly his young imagination lingered amid its attractive pages.

"Is'nt it 'most time for mother to be home?" he asked, at the end of half an hour, coming to the side of his nurse, and gazing up into her face.

"Why no, child," replied the nurse, "not for a long while yet."

Eddy looked disappointed. But that instant the door bell rung.

"There's mamma!" exclaimed the child, clapping his hands; and before nurse could restrain him, he had bounded from the room, and his little feet were heard pattering down the stairs. Slowly he came back, after a little while, and with a look of disappointment on his sweet young face, entered the nursery, saying, as he did so:

"It was only a man with brooms to sell."

"Your mamma won't be home for a long time yet, Eddy," said his nurse, "so it is of no use for you to expect her. Go and build block houses again."

"I'm tired of block houses," replied the little boy, "and now that mamma has promised me a picture-book like cousin Edie's I can't think of anything else."

"Oh, well," said nurse, a little impatiently, "she'll be home in good time. Try and not think of the book. It won't do any good—it won't bring her home a minute sooner."

"I can't help thinking of it," persisted the child, in whom the imaginative faculty was unusually, strong for one of his age.

In a little while, however, something occurred to interest him, and a full hour elapsed before he again recurred to his mother and the expected picture book. As best she could, his nurse diverted his mind, and kept him, in a measure, occupied with what was around him. At length it was full time for Mrs. Herbert to return. Eddy had ceased to find interest in anything appertaining to the nursery. He went down into the parlor, and seating himself at the window, watched, with childish eagerness, for the form of his mother.

Strange as it may seem to the reader, Mrs. Herbert had scarcely passed into the street, ere her promise was forgotten. Not that she was indifferent to the happiness of her child—not that she was a heartless mother. Far very far from this. Purely and truly did she love this sweet boy. But, so much were her thoughts interested in other things, that she did not, at the time, comprehend the earnestness of his childish wishes; nor think of her promise as a sacred thing. The request for a picture book seemed to her but the expression of a sudden thought, that passed from his mind as soon as uttered. And yet, she had not promised without intending to meet the wishes of her child, for she was an indulgent mother, and rarely said "No," to any request that might reasonably be gratified. She had noticed Cousin Edie's pretty book, and thought that she would, some time or other, get one like it for Eddy. The child's request but seconded this thought. There was will, therefore, in her promise. She meant to do as she had said.

But things of more interest to Mrs. Herbert, than the simple wish of a child, so fully occupied her mind from the time she left her own door, that she never again thought of the book, until she saw Eddy's dear face at the window. It was serious, and slightly impatient, as if he were wearied with watching and waiting; but the moment his eyes rested upon her form, his whole countenance brightened, as though lit up by a sunbeam. Almost as soon as Mrs. Herbert's hand touched the bell, the street door was thrown open, and the glad child stood, like a rebuking spirit, before her.

"Where's my book, mamma? Give me my book, mamma! Oh, I'm so glad you've come!"

Now, the first conviction of wrong, often has an irritating effect upon the mind, obscuring its perceptions, and leading, sometimes, to the impulsive commission of greater wrongs. It was so in the present case. The happy countenance of her child did not bring joy to the mother's heart; for she knew that with a word, she must dash to the ground all his buoyant anticipations. And she remembered, too, at the moment, how poorly he could bear disappointment.

"Eddy, dear," said Mrs. Herbert, taking her little boy by the hand, and advancing toward the parlor door with him, "Eddy, dear, let me tell you something."

Her grave tone and look caused a shiver to pass inward toward the heart of the child. He understood, but too well, that the mother, whose word he had trusted so implicitly, had been faithless to her promise.

Poor child! even this advancing shadow of a coming disappointment, darkened his young face and filled his eyes with tears.

Mrs. Herbert sat down on the nearest chair, as she entered the parlor, and drew Eddy to her side. She saw, from his sad face, that words were not required to make him aware that the promised book was not in her possession; and she knew, from former experience, that trouble was before her. Unhappily, she did not feel softened, but rather irritated, toward the child.

"Eddy," she said firmly, yet with as much tenderness as she could assume, "Eddy, you know you promised me to be such a good boy."

"And I have been good," eagerly answered the little fellow, lifting his swimming eyes to her face, "you may ask nurse if I havn't been good all the time."

"I'm sure you have," said Mrs. Herbert, touched by the manner of her child; "and yet, Eddy, I have not brought your book."

The tears, which had been ready to start, now gushed over his face, and a low cry pained the mother's ears.

"Eddy," said she, seriously, "let me tell you about it. You must listen to reason."

Reason! poor, disappointed little one! He had no ear for the comprehension of reasons.

"Now, Eddy! I can't have this!" Mrs. Herbert spoke firmly, for already the child was weeping bitterly. "Crying will do no good. I promised you the book, and you shall have it. I had no opportunity to get it this morning. Come now! you must stop at once, or I–"

Mrs. Herbert did not utter the threat which came to her lips; for her mind shrunk from the thought of punishing her child, especially as his fault was a consequence of her own actions. But, as he continued to cry on, and in a louder voice, she not only began to feel excessively annoyed, but deemed it her duty to compel a cessation of what could do no possible good, but rather harm.

"Eddy, you must stop this crying!" Firmness had changed to sternness.

The words might as well not have been spoken.

"Then you are not going to stop!" The tones were angry now; and, as Mrs. Herbert uttered them, she caught the arm of her child with a tight grip.

At this moment, the sound of the latch-key was heard in the street door. It was dinner time, and Mr. Herbert entered.

"Bless us! what's the trouble here?" the father of Eddy exclaimed, good-naturedly, as he presented himself in the parlor.

"The trouble is," said Mrs. Herbert, in a fretful voice, "that I promised to buy him a book, and forgot all about it."

"Oho! Is that all?" Mr. Herbert spoke cheerfully. "This trouble can soon be healed. Come, dear, and let us see what I can do for you."

And Mr. Herbert drew forth a small, square packet, and began untying the string, with which it was bound. Eddy ceased crying in an instant, while a rainbow light shone through his tears. Soon a book came to view. It was the book. Singularly enough, Mr. Herbert had, that morning, observed it in a store, and thinking it would please his child, had bought it for him.

"Will that do?" he said, handing the book to Eddy.

What a gush of gladness came to the child's face. A moment or two he stood, like one bewildered, and then throwing his arms around his father's neck and hugging him tightly, he said, in the fullness of his heart,

"Oh! you are a dear good papa! I do love you so much!"

Ere the arms of Eddy were unclasped from his father's neck, Mrs. Herbert had left the room. When, on the ringing of the dinner bell, she joined her husband and child at the table, her countenance wore a sober aspect, and there were signs of tears about her eyes. What her thoughts had been, every true mother can better imagine than we describe. That they were salutary, may be inferred from the fact that no promise, not even the lightest, was ever afterwards made to her child, which was not righteously kept to the very letter.

THE TWO HUSBANDS

"Jane, how can you tolerate that dull, spiritless creature? I never sat by his side for five minutes, without getting sleepy."

"He does not seem so very dull to me, Cara," replied her companion.

"It is a true saying, that there never was a Jack without a Jill; but I could not have believed that my friend Jane Emory would have been willing to be the Jill to such a Jack."

A slight change was perceptible in the countenance of Jane Emory, and for a moment the color deepened on her cheek. But when she spoke in reply to her friend's remark, no indication that she felt its cutting import, was perceptible.

"I am convinced, from close observation of Walter Gray," said Jane, "that he has in his character that which should ever protect him from jest or ridicule."

"And what is that, my lady Jane?"

"Right thoughts and sound principles."

"Fiddle stick!"

"These should not only be respected, but honored wherever found," said Jane, gravely.

"In a bear or a boor!" Cara responded, in a tone of irony.

"My friend Cara is ungenerous in her allusions. Surely, she will not assert that Walter Gray is a bear or a boor?"

"He is boorish enough, at any rate."

"There I differ with you, Cara. His manner is not so showy, nor his attentions to the many little forms and observances of social life, so prompt as to please the fastidious in these matters. These defects, however, are not defects of character, but of education. He has not mingled enough in society to give him confidence."

"They are defects, and are serious enough to make him quite offensive to me. Last evening, at Mrs. Clinton's party, I sat beside him for half an hour, and was really disgusted with his marked disregard of the little courtesies of social life."

"Indeed!" replied Jane, her manner becoming more serious, "and in what did these omissions consist?"

"Why, in the first place, while we were conversing,–"

"He could converse, then?" said Jane, interrupting her friend.

"O, no, I beg pardon! While we were trying to converse—for among his other defects is an inability to talk to a lady on any subject of interest—I dropped my handkerchief, on purpose, of course, but he never offered to lift it for me; indeed, I doubt whether he saw it at all."

"Then, Cara, how could you expect him to pick it up for you, if he did not see it?"

"But he ought to have seen it. He should have had his eyes about him; and so should every gentleman who sits by or is near a lady. I know one that never fails."

"And pray, who is the perfect gentleman?" asked Jane smiling. "Is he one of my acquaintances?"

"Certainly he is. I mean Charles Wilton."

"He is, I must confess, different from Walter Gray," Jane remarked, drily.

"I hope he is!" said Cara, tossing her head, for she felt that something by no means complimentary was implied in the equivocal remark of her friend.

"But, seriously, Cara, I must, in turn, express regret that you allow yourself to feel interested in one like Charles Wilton. Trust me, my friend, he is unworthy of your regard."

"And pray, Miss," said Cara, warming suddenly, "what do you know of Charles Wilton, that will warrant your throwing out such insinuations against him?"

"Little beyond what I have learned by my own observation."

"And what has that taught you? I should like very much to know."

"It has taught me, Cara," replied Jane, seriously, "to estimate him very lightly indeed. From what I have seen, I am convinced that he possesses neither fixed principles nor any decision of character. In the world, without these a man is like a ship upon the ocean, having neither helm nor compass."

"You make broad and bold charges, Jane. But I am sure you are mistaken."

"I may be. But so certain am I that I am right, that I would rather die this hour than be compelled to link my lot in life with his. Certain I am that I should make shipwreck of hope and affection."

"You deal in riddles, Jane. Speak out more plainly."

"Surely, Cara, long before this you have or ought to have discovered, that Charles Wilton exhibits far too much love of appearance for a sensible man. He dresses in the very best style and may be able to afford it; but that is not all;—he evidently esteems these external embellishments of superior importance to mental or moral endowments. He rarely fails to remark upon men not so well dressed as himself, and to refer to the defect as one sufficient to make the individual contemptible, no matter what may be the circumstances or merit of the person referred to. I have more than once noticed that Charles Wilton passes over every thing in his disgust for defect in dress."

"I do not see a matter of serious importance in that," said Cara. "His love of dress is a mere foible, that may be excused. It certainly has nothing to do with his real character."

"It is an indication of the man's true character," her friend replied. "I am sure that I want no plainer exhibition. If he was simply fond of dress, and indulged in that fondness even to the extent he now does it might indicate a mere weakness of character, in the form of an undue love of admiration. But when, to this, we see a disposition to value others, and to judge of them by their garments, then we may be sure that there is a serious defect of character. The man, Cara, believe me, who has no higher standard of estimation for other men, than the form, manner, and texture of their garments, has not the capacity rightly to value a woman or to know wherein her true merit lies. This is one of the reasons why I said that I would rather die than link my lot in life with that young man."

"Well, as for me, Jane, I am sure that I would rather have a man with some spirit in him, than to be tied to such a drone as Walter Gray. Why, I should die in a week. I can't for my life, see how you can enjoy his society for a moment!"

"I should think any woman ought to be able to enjoy the company of a man of sense," Jane remarked, quietly.

"Surely, Jane, you don't pretend by that to set up Walter Gray as the superior of Charles Wilton in regard to intelligence?"

"Certainly I do, Cara."

"Why, Jane! There is no comparison, in this respect, between them. Every one knows that while Walter is dull, even to stupidity, Charles has a brilliant, well-informed mind. It is only necessary to hear each converse for an hour, to decide upon their respective merits."

"In that last sentence you have uttered the truth, Cara, but the result would depend much upon the character of the listeners. For a time, no doubt, if Charles made an effort to show off, he would eclipse the less brilliant and unobtrusive Walter. But a close and discriminating observer would soon learn to judge between sound and sense, between borrowed thoughts and truthful sentiments originating in a philosophical and ever active mind. The shallow stream runs sparkling and flashing in the sunlight, while the deeper waters lie dark and unattractive."

Cara shook her head as her friend ceased speaking, and replied, laughingly—

"You can beat me at talking, Jane—but all your philosophy and poetry can't make me think Charles Wilton less brilliant and sensible, or Walter Gray less dull and spiritless."

The two young men whose merits Jane Emory and Cara Linton had thus been discussing, had been law students for some years in the same office, and were now just admitted to practice at the bar in one of our Atlantic cities. They were friends, though altogether unlike each other. Walter Gray was modest and retiring, while Charles Wilton was a dashing, off-hand kind of a fellow, with more pretensions than merit. The mind of Walter was rather sluggish, while that of his friend was quick, and what some were disposed to esteem brilliant. The one was fond of dress and show, and effect; while the other paid less regard to these things than was really necessary to make him, with many, an agreeable companion. But the quick perceptions of the one were not equal to the patient, untiring application of the other. When admitted to practice, Wilton could make an effective, brilliant speech, and in ordinary cases, where an appeal to the feelings could influence a jury, was uniformly successful. But, where profound investigation, concise reasoning, and a laborious array of authorities were requisite, he was no competitor for his friend Gray. He was vain of his personal appearance, as has before been indicated, and was also fond of pleasure and company. In short, he was one of those dashing young men to be met with in all professions, who look upon business as an necessary evil, to be escaped whenever a opportunity offers—whose expectations of future prosperity are always large, and who look for success, not in the roads of patient, laborious application, but by a quicker and more brilliant way. They hope to produce a sensation by their tact or talents, and thus take fortune by storm. Few, indeed we might say none, of this class succeed. Those who startle a community by rapid advances, are, in all cases, such as have, to quick perceptions and brilliant powers, added much labor. Talent is nothing without prolonged and patient application; and they who suppose the road to success lies in any other way, may discover their error too late.

The estimation in which the characters of these two young men was held, at least by two individuals, the preceding conversation has apprised the reader. Each made his impression upon a certain order of mind, and each was regarded, or lightly esteemed accordingly. Although in talents and in a right estimation of life and its true ends, the two young men were altogether dissimilar; yet were they friends, and in many respects intimate. Why they were so, we shall not stop to enquire, but proceed to introduce them more particularly to the reader.

"I suppose you are going to Mrs. Melton's this evening?" said Wilton to his friend, a few weeks after the period indicated in the opening of this story.

"I feel as if I would like to go. A social evening, now and then, I find pleasant, and I have no doubt it is useful to me."

"That is right, Walter. I am glad to see you coming out of your recluse habits. You want the polish and ease that social life will give you."

"I feel that, Wilton. But I fear I am too old now to have all the rough corners knocked off, and worn smooth."

"O, don't despair. You'll make a ladies' man after awhile, if you persevere, and become more particular in your dress. But, to change the subject, a little, tell me what you think of Cara Linton? Her father is worth a plum, and she is just the showy, brilliant woman, of which a man like me ought to be proud of."

"As you ask me, Charles, I must reply candidly. I would think her a dear bargain with all her father's money thrown in with her; and as to your other reasons for thinking of her as a wife, I consider them, to speak plainly, as I always do to you, despicable!"

"And why so, Mr. Philosopher?"

"A wife should be chosen from much higher considerations than these. What do you want with a brilliant, showy wife? You marry, or ought to marry, a companion for yourself—not a woman for the world to admire."

"You are too matter-of-fact, by half, Walter. Your common sense ideas, as you call them, will keep you grubbing in a mole hill all your life.

"I should like to see the woman you would choose for a wife!"

"I wish you had a few of these common sense ideas you despise so much. I am afraid, Charles, that the time is not very distant when you will stand sadly in need of them."

"Don't trouble yourself, Walter. I'll take care of number one. Let me alone for that. But, I should like to know your serious objections to Cara? You sweep her aside with one wave of your hand, as if she were too insignificant to be thought of for a moment."

"I said that I should consider her a dear bargain, and so I would—for she would not suit me at all."

"Ah, there I believe you. But come, let me hear why she would not suit you."

"Because she has no correct and common sense estimation of life and its relations. She is full of poetry and romance, and fashion, and show, and 'all that kind of thing;' none of which, without a great deal of the salt of common sense, would suit me."

"Common sense! Common sense! Common sense! That is your hobby. Verily, Walter, you are a monomaniac on the subject of common sense; but, as for me, I will leave common sense to common people. I go in for uncommon sense."

"The poorest and most unprofitable sense of all, let me tell you. And one of these days you will discover it to be so."

"It is no use for us to compare our philosophical notes, I see plainly enough," Wilton responded. "We shall never view things in the same light. You are not the man of the world you should be, Walter. Men of half your merit will eclipse you, winning opulence and distinction—while you, with your common sense notions, will be plodding on at a snail's pace. You are behind the age, and a stranger to its powerful, onward impulses."

"And ever do I desire to remain behind the age, Wilton, if mere pretension and show be its ruling and impulsive spirit."

"The old fashioned way of attaining eminence," Charles Wilton replied, assuming an attitude and speaking out truly the thoughts that were in his mind; "by plodding on with the emmet's patience, and storing up knowledge, grain by grain, brings not the hoped for reward, now. You must startle and surprise. The brilliant meteor attracts a thousand times more attention, than the brightest star that shines in the firmament."

"You are trifling, Charles."

"Never was more in earnest in my life. I have made up my mind to succeed; to be known and envied. And to gain the position of eminence I desire, I mean to take the surest way. The world will be deceived, and, therefore, they who would succeed must throw dust in people's eyes."

"Or, in other words, deceive them by pretension. Charles, let me warn you against any such unmanly, and, I must say, dishonest course. Be true to yourself and true to principle."

"I shall certainly be true to myself, Walter. For what pray do we toil over dry and musty law books in a confined office, months and years, if not to gain the power of rising in the world? I have served my dreary apprenticeship—I have learnt the art and mystery, and now for the best and most certain mode of applying it."

"But, remember your responsibility to society. Your–"

"Nonsense! What do I, or what does any one else care about society? My motto is, Every one for himself, and the deuce take the hindmost. And that's the motto of the whole world."

"Not of the whole world, Charles."

"Yes, of the whole world, with, perhaps, the single, strange exception of Walter Gray. And he will be flung to the wall, and soon forgotten, I fear."

"You jest on a serious subject, Charles."

"I tell you, Walter, I am in earnest," Wilton replied with emphasis. "He that would be ahead, must get ahead in the best way possible. But I cannot linger here. It is now nearly night; and it will take me full two hours to prepare myself to meet Miss Cara Linton. I must make a captive of the dashing maiden this very evening." And so saying, he turned, and left the office.

That evening, amid a gay and fashionable assemblage at Mrs. Merton's, was to be seen the showy Charles Wilton, with his easy, and even elegant manners, attracting almost as much attention as his vain heart could desire. And the quiet, sensible Walter Gray was there also, looking upon all things with a calm, philosophic mien.

"Your friend Mr. Wilton is quite the centre of attraction for the young ladies, this evening," remarked Jane Emory, who was leaning upon the arm of Walter Gray, and listening with an interest she scarcely dared confess to herself, to his occasional remarks, that indicated a mind active with true and healthful thought.

"And he seems to enjoy it," replied Walter, with a pleasant tone and smile.

"Almost too much so, it seems to me, for a man," his companion said, though with nothing censorious in her manner. She merely expressed a sentiment without showing that it excited unkind feelings.

"Or for a woman, either," was the quick response.

"True. But if pleased with attentions, and even admiration may we not be excused?"

"O, certainly. We may all be excused for our weaknesses; still they are weaknesses, after all."

"And therefore should not be encouraged."

"Certainly not. We should be governed by some higher end than the mere love of admiration—even admiration for good qualities."

"I admit the truth of what you say, and yet, the state is one to which I have not yet attained."

Walter Gray turned a look full of tender interest upon the maiden by his side, as she ceased speaking, and said in a tone that had in it much of tenderness,

"You express, Miss Emory, but the feeling which every one has who truly desires the attainment of true excellence of character. We have not this excellence, naturally, but it is within the compass of effort. Like you, I have had to regret the weaknesses and deficiencies of my own character. But, in self-government, as in everything else, my motto is, Persevere to the end. The same motto, or the same rule of action, clothed in other words, perhaps, I trust—nay, I am sure, rules in your mind."

For a few moments Jane did not reply. She feared to utter any form of words that would mislead. At length she said, modestly,

"I try to subdue in me what is evil, or that which seems to me to act in opposition to good principles."

Before Walter Gray, pleased with the answer, could frame in his mind a fitting reply, Charles Wilton, with Cara Linton on his arm, was thrown in front of them.

"Has Walter been edifying you with one of the Psalms of David, Miss Emory?" said Wilton, gaily. "One would think so from his solemn face, and the demure, thoughtful expression of yours."

Neither Walter nor his fair companion were what is called quick-witted; and both were so checked in their thoughts and feelings that neither could, on the moment, fitly reply.

"O, I see how it is," the gay young man continued. "He has been reading you some of his moral homilies, and you are tired to death. Well, you must bear with him, Miss Emory, he will learn better after awhile." And the young man and his thoughtless companion turned laughing away.

For a few moments the disturbed thoughts of Walter and his fair friend, trembled upon the surface of their feelings, and then all was again as tranquil as the bosom of a quiet lake.

Enough has now been said, to give a fair idea of the ends which the two young men, we have introduced, set before them upon entering life. Let us now proceed to trace the effects of these ends; effects, which, as a necessary consequence, involved others as much as themselves.