Kitabı oku: «Home Lights and Shadows», sayfa 6
CHAPTER II
"Well, Gray, the business is all settled," said Wilton, one day, coming into the office of the individual he addressed so familiarly.
"What business, Charles?"
"Why, I've won the rich and beautiful Miss Linton. Last night I told my story, and was referred to the old man, of course. I have just seen him, and he says I am welcome to the hand of his daughter. Now, is not that a long stride up the ladder! The most beautiful and attractive woman in the city for a wife, and an old daddy in law as rich as Croesus!"
"You are what some would call a lucky dog," said Wilton, with a smile.
"And yet there is no luck in it. 'Faint heart, they say, 'never won fair lady.' I knew half-a-dozen clever fellows who were looking to Miss Linton's hand; but while they hesitated, I stepped boldly up and carried off the prize. Let me alone, Walter. I'll work my way through the world."
"And I, too, have been doing something in that line."
"You? Why, Walter, you confound me! I never dreamed that you would have the courage to make love to a woman."
"Wiser ones than you are mistaken, sometimes."
"No doubt of it. But who is the fair lady?"
"Can you not guess?"
"Jane Emory?"
"Of course. She is the most sensible women it has yet been my fortune to meet."
"Has the best common sense, I suppose?"
"Exactly."
"You are a genius, Walter. When you die, I expect you will leave a clause in your will, to the effect that the undertaker shall be a man of good, plain, common sense. O dear! What a dull life you will lead! Darby and Joan!"
"You are still a trifler with serious matters, Charles. But time will sober you, I trust, and do it before such a change will come too late."
"How much is old Emory worth, Walter?" Wilton asked, without regarding the last remark of his friend.
"I am sure I do not know. Not a great deal, I suppose."
"You don't know?"
"No; how should I?"
"Well, you are a queer one! It is time that you did then, let me tell you."
"Why so?"
"In the name of sense, Walter, what are you going to marry his daughter for."
"Because I love her."
"Pah! I know how much of that sort of thing appertains to the business."
"Charles!"
"Don't look so utterly dumfounded, friend Walter."
"I am surprised, and I must say pained, to hear you speak thus. Surely you love the young lady you propose to marry?"
"Of course. But then I have a decent regard for her old father's wealth; and I am by no means insensible to her personal attractions. I group all that is desirable into one grand consideration—beauty, wealth, standing, mental endowments, etc.,—and take her for the whole. But for love—a mere impulse that will die of itself, if left alone,—to marry a young lady! O no,—I am not the simpleton for that!"
Walter Gray looked his friend in the face for a moment or two, but did not reply. He was pained, even shocked at his levity.
"You seem really to doubt my being in earnest?" said Wilton, after a pause.
"I would doubt, if I could, Charles. But I fear you are speaking out too truly, sentiments that I could not have believed you capable of entertaining."
"You are too simple and unsophisticated to live in this world, my old friend Walter Gray."
"And long may I remain so," was the calm response, "if to be honest and sincere is to be simple and unsophisticated."
"Well, good morning to you, and success to your love marriage."
And so saying, Charles Wilton left the office of his friend.
A few weeks more passed away, and the two young men had, in the meantime, consummated their matrimonial engagements. The wedding of Charles Wilton and Cara Linton was a splendid affair, succeeded by parties and entertainments for five or six weeks. That of Walter Gray and Jane Emory passed off more quietly and rationally.
Three months after their wedding-day, let us look in upon the two friends and their fair partners; and first, upon Charles Wilton and his bride. The time is evening, and they are sitting alone in one of their richly furnished parlors.
"O dear!" yawned out Wilton, rising and walking backwards and forwards, "this is dull work. Is there no place where we can go and spend a pleasant evening?"
"I don't know, dear. Suppose we step over and see Pa?"
"O no. We were there two or three evenings ago. And, any how, I am in no humor for playing at draughts."
"Well, I should like to go there this evening. I want to see Ma about something."
"You can easily go to-morrow, Cara, and stay as long as you choose."
"But I should like to go to night, dear."
"Don't think of it, Cara."
"Then suppose we call in and sit an hour with the Melton's?"
"Not to-night, Cara. The old man is deaf, and talks you out of all patience about sugars and teas cotton and tobacco."
"But the girls are lively and entertaining."
"Not for me, Cara. Think again."
"Why not stay at home?"
"And pray what shall we do here?"
"I'll sing and play for you."
"I am in no humor for music to-night."
His young wife sighed, but Wilton did not notice it.
"Come, let us go over to the Grogans?" he at length said.
"I can't say that I care much about going there," his wife replied.
"Of course not. You never seem to care much about going where I wish to," said Wilton, pettishly.
His wife burst into tears, and sat sobbing for some minutes, during which time Wilton paced the room backwards and forwards, in moody silence. After a while his wife rose up and stole quietly from the room, and in a few minutes returned, dressed, to go out.
"I am ready," she said.
"Ready to go where?"
"To Mr. Grogan's, of course. You wish to go."
"I don't care about going now, as long as you are unwilling."
"Yes, but I am willing, Charles, if the visit will be pleasant to you."
"O, as to that, I don't wish to compel you to go anywhere."
"Indeed, Charles, I am willing to go," said his wife, while her voice trembled and sounded harshly. "Come, now that I am ready. I wish to go."
For a moment longer Wilton hesitated, and then took up his hat and went with her. Few were the words that passed between them as they walked along the street. Arrived at their friend's house they both suddenly changed, and were as gay, and seemed as happy, as the gayest and the happiest.
"Shall we call in upon some pleasant friends to-night or spend our evening alone?" asked Walter Gray, taking a seat upon the sofa beside his happy wife, on the same evening that the foregoing conversation and incidents occurred.
"Let it be as you wish, Walter," was the affectionate, truthful reply.
"As for me, Jane, I am always happy at home—too happy, I sometimes think."
"How, too happy?"
"Too happy to think of others, Jane. We must be careful not to become isolated and selfish in our pleasures. Our social character must not be sacrificed. If it is in our power to add to the happiness of others, it is right that we should mingle in the social circle."
"I feel the truth of what you say, Walter, and yet I find it hard to be thus unselfish. I am sure that I would a thousand times rather remain at home and read with you a pleasant book, or sing and play for you, than to spend an evening away from our pleasant home."
"I feel the same inclinations. But I am unwilling to encourage them. And yet, I am not an advocate for continual visitings. The delights of our own sweet fireside, small though the circle be, I would enjoy often. But these pleasures will be increased tenfold by our willingness to let others share them, and, also, by our joining in their home—delights and social recreations."
A pause of a few moments ensued, when Mrs. Gray said,
"Suppose, then, Walter, we call over and see how they are getting on at 'home?' Pa and Ma are lonesome, now that I am away."
"Just what I was thinking of, Jane. So get on your things, and we will join them and spend a pleasant evening."
These brief conversations will indicate to the reader how each of the young men and their wives were thus early beginning to reap the fruits of true and false principles of action. We cannot trace each on his career, step by step, during the passage of many years, though much that would interest and instruct could be gathered from their histories. The limits of a brief story like this will not permit us thus to linger. On, then, to the grand result of their lives we must pass. Let us look at the summing up of the whole matter, and see which of the young men started with the true secret of success in the world, and which of the young ladies evinced most wisdom in her choice of a husband.
CHAPTER III
"Poor Mrs. Wilton!" remarked Mrs. Gray, now a cheerful, intelligent woman of forty, with half-a-dozen grown and half-grown up daughters, "it makes me sad whenever I see her, or think of her."
"Her husband was not kind to her, I believe, while she lived with him," said Mrs. Gray's visitor, whom she had addressed.
"It is said so. But I am sure I do not know. I never liked him, nor thought him a man of principle. I said as much as I thought prudent to discourage her from receiving his attentions. But she was a gay girl herself, and was attracted by dashing pretension, rather than by unobtrusive merit."
"It was thought at one time that Mr. Wilton would lead in the profession here. I remember when his name used frequently to get into the newspapers, coupled with high compliments on his brilliant talents."
"Yes. He flashed before the eyes of the crowd for awhile, but it was soon discovered that he had more brilliancy than substance. The loss of two or three important cases, that required solid argument and a well-digested array of facts and authorities, instead of flights of fancy and appeals to the feelings, ruined his standing at the bar. The death of his father-in-law, with an insolvent estate, immediately after, took wonderfully from the estimation in which he was held. Thrown, thus, suddenly back, and upon his own resources, he sunk at once from the point of observation, and lingered around the court-house, picking up petty cases, as a matter of necessity. Long before this, I had noticed that Mrs. Wilton had greatly changed. But now a sadder change took place—a separation from her husband. The cause of this separation I know not. I never asked her, nor to me has she ever alluded to it. But it is said that his manner towards her became insufferable, and that she sought protection and an asylum among her friends. Be the cause what it may, it is enough to make her a poor, heart-stricken creature."
"How well I remember, when their parties were the most splendid and best attended of the season."
"Yes, I well remember it too. Still, even then, gay and brilliant as Mrs. Wilton was, I never thought her happy. Indeed, seeing her often alone as I did, I could not but mark the painful contrast in her spirits. At home, when not entertaining company, she was listless or unhappy. How often have I come in upon her, and noticed her moistened eyes."
"Ah me! it must be a wrong beginning that makes so sad an ending."
The truth of the remark, as applicable in this case, struck Mrs. Gray forcibly, and she mused in thoughtful silence for a few moments.
"Have you heard the news, Judge Gray?" said a lawyer, addressing the individual he had named, about the same hour that the conversation, just noted, occurred.
"No. What is it?"
"Why, Wilton has committed a forgery."
"O no, it cannot be!" said the Judge, in tones of painful surprise.
"It is too true, I fear, Judge."
"Is the amount considerable?"
"Ten thousand dollars is the sum mentioned."
"Has he been arrested?"
"No. But the officers are hard after him. The newspapers will announce the fact to-morrow morning."
Judge Gray leaned his head upon his hand, and, with his eyes cast upon the floor, sat for some moments in painful thought.
"Poor man!" he at length said, looking up. "The end has come at last. I have long feared for him. He started wrong in the beginning."
"I hope they will catch him," remarked the individual he was addressing.
Judge Gray did not reply, but cast his eyes again upon the floor.
"He has lived by gambling these six years," continued the lawyer, "and I suppose he has committed this forgery to pay some 'debt of honor.' Well, I can't say that I am sorry to be rid of him from this bar, for he was not a pleasant man to be forced into contact with."
"And yet he was a man of some talents," remarked the Judge, musingly.
"And when that is said all is said. Without industry, legal knowledge, or sound principles of action, what was he good for? He would do for a political stump declaimer—but, as a lawyer, in any case of moment, he was not worth a copper."
And thus saying, the lawyer turned away, and left Judge Gray to his own thoughts.
"I have unpleasant news to tell you, Jane," said Judge Gray, coming into the room where sat his wife, an hour afterwards.
"What is that, husband?" asked Mrs. Gray, looking up with a concerned countenance.
"Why, our old friend Charles Wilton has committed a forgery!"
"Poor Cara! It will break her heart," Mrs. Gray said in a sad tone.
"I do not suppose she has much affection for him, Jane."
"No, but she has a good deal of pride left—all, in fact, that sustains her. This last blow, I fear, will be too much for one who has no true strength of character."
"Would it not be well for you to call in and see her to-morrow? The papers will all announce the fact in the morning, and she may need the consolation which a true friend might be able to afford her."
"I will go, most certainly, much as my natural feelings shrink from the task. Where she is, I am sure she has no one to lean upon: for there is not one of her so-called friends, upon whom she feels herself a burden, that can or will sympathize with her truly."
"Go, then. And may mercy's errand find mercy's reward."
On the next morning all the city papers teemed with accounts of the late forgery, and blazoned Charles Wilton's name, with many opprobrious epithets before the public. Some went even so far as to allude to his wife, whom they said he had forsaken years before, and who was now, it was alleged, living in poverty, and, some hinted in disgrace and infamy.
Early in the day, Mrs. Gray repaired to the cheerless home of her early friend. She was shown to her chamber, where she found her lying insensible on the bed, with one of the newspapers in her hand, that alluded to herself in disgraceful terms.
Long and patient efforts to restore her, at length produced the desired result. But it was many days before she seemed distinctly conscious of what was passing or would converse with any degree of coherency.
"Come and spend a few weeks with me, Cara."
Mrs. Gray said to her, one day, on calling in to see her; "I am sure it will do you good."
There was a sad, but grateful expression in the pale face of Mrs. Wilton, as she looked into the eye of her old friend, but ventured no reply.
"You will come, will you not, Cara?" urged Mrs. Gray.
"My presence in your happy family would be like the shadow of an evil wing," said she bitterly.
"Our happy family, say-rather, would chase away the gloomy shadows that darken your heart. Come then, and we will give you a cheerful welcome."
"I feel much inclined, and yet I hesitate, for I ought not to throw a gloom over your household," and the tears filled her eyes, and glistened through the lids which were closed suddenly over them.
"Come, and welcome!" Mrs. Gray urged, taking her hand and gently pressing it.
That evening Mrs. Wilton spent in the pleasant family of her old friend.
Three weeks afterwards, Mrs. Gray asked of her husband, if anything had been heard of Mr. Wilton.
"Nothing," he replied. "He has escaped all pursuit thus far, and the officers, completely at fault, have returned."
"I cannot say that I am sorry, at least for the sake of his wife. She seems more cheerful since she came here. I feel sometimes as if I should like to offer her a home, for she has none, that might truly be so called."
"Act up to your kind desire, Jane, if you think it right to do so," said her husband. "Perhaps in no other home open to her could so much be done for her comfort."
The home was accordingly offered, and tearfully accepted.
"Jane," said the sad hearted woman, "I cannot tell you how much I have suffered in the last twenty years. How much from heart-sickening disappointments, and lacerated affections. High hopes and brilliant expectations that made my weak brain giddy to think of, have all ended thus. How weak and foolish—how mad we were! But my husband was not all to blame. I was as insane in my views of life as he. We lived only for ourselves—thought and cared only for ourselves—and here is the result. How wisely and well did you choose, Jane. Where my eye saw nothing to admire, yours more skilled, perceived the virgin ore of truth. I was dazzled by show, while you looked below the surface, and saw true character, and its effect in action. How signally has each of us been rewarded!" and the heart-stricken creature bowed her head and wept.
And now, kind reader, if there be one who has followed us thus far, are you disappointed in not meeting some startling denoument, or some effective point in this narrative. I hope not. Natural results have followed, in just order, the adoption of true and false principles of action—and thus will they ever follow. Learn, then, a lesson from the history of the two young men and the maidens of their choice. Let every young man remember, that all permanent success in life depends upon the adoption of such principles of action as are founded in honesty and truth; and let every young woman take it to heart, that all her married life will be affected by the principles which her husband sets down as rules of action. Let her give no consideration to his brilliant prospect, or his brilliant mind, if sound moral principles do not govern him.
"But what became of Charles Wilton and his wife?" I hear a bright-eyed maiden asking, as she turns half impatient from my homily.
Wilton has escaped justice thus far, and his wife, growing more and more cheerful every day, is still the inmate of Judge Gray's family, and I trust will remain so until the end of her journeying here. And what is more, she is learning the secret, that there is more happiness in caring for others, than in being all absorbed in selfish consideration. Still, she is a sad wreck upon the stream of life—a warning beacon for your eyes, young lady.
VISITING AS NEIGHBORS
"I see that the house next door has been taken," remarked Mr. Leland to his wife, as they sat alone one pleasant summer evening.
"Yes. The family moved in to-day," returned Mrs. Leland.
"Do you know their name?"
"It is Halloran."
"Halloran, Halloran," said Mr. Leland, musingly. "I wonder if it's the same family that lived in Parker Street."
"Yes, the same; and I wish they had stayed there."
"Their moving in next door need not trouble us, Jane. They are not on our list of acquaintances."
"But I shall have to call upon Mrs. Haloran; and Emma upon her grown-up daughter Mary."
"I do not see how that is to follow as a consequence of their removal into our neighborhood."
"Politeness requires us to visit them as neighbors."
"Are they really our neighbors?" asked Mr. Leland, significantly.
"Certainly they are. How strange that you should ask the question!"
"What constitutes them such? Not mere proximity, certainly. Because a person happens to live in a house near by, can that make him or her really a neighbor, and entitled to the attention and consideration due a neighbor?"
This remark caused Mrs. Leland to look thoughtful. "It ought not," she said, after sitting silent a little while, "but still, it does."
"I do not think so. A neighbor—that is, one to whom kind offices is due—ought to come with higher claims than the mere fact of living in a certain house located near by the dwelling in which we reside. If mere location is to make any one a neighbor, we have no protection against the annoyance and intrusions of persons we do not like; nay, against evil-minded persons, who would delight more in doing us injury than good. These Hallorans for instance. They move in good society; but they are not persons to our mind. I should not like to see you on terms of intimacy with Mrs. Halloran, or Jane with her daughter. In fact, the latter I should feel, did it exist, to be a calamity."
"Still they are our neighbors," Mrs. Leland said. "I do not see how we can avoid calling upon them."
"Perhaps," remarked the husband, "you have not thought seriously enough on the subject.
"Who is my neighbor? is a question of importance, and ought to be answered in every mind. Something more than living in the same street, or block of houses, is evidently implied in the word neighbor. It clearly involves a reciprocity of good feelings. Mere proximity in space cannot effect this. It requires another kind of nearness—the nearness of similar affections; and these must, necessarily, be unselfish; for in selfishness there is no reciprocity. Under this view, could you consider yourself the neighbor of such a person as Mrs. Halloran?"
"No matter what the character, we should be kind to all. Every one should be our neighbor, so far as this is concerned. Do you not think so?"
"I do not, Jane."
"Should we not be kind to every one?"
"Yes, kind; but not in the acceptation of the word as you have used it. There is a false, as well as a true kindness. And it often happens that true kindness appears to be any thing but what it really is. In order to be kind to another, we are not always required to exhibit flattering attentions. These often injure where distance and reserve would do good. Besides, they too frequently give power to such as are evil-disposed—a power that is exercised injuriously to others."
"But the simple fact of my calling upon Mrs. Halloran cannot, possibly, give her the power of injuring me or any one else."
"I think differently. The fact that you have called upon her will be a reason for some others to do the same; for, you know, there are persons who never act from a distinct sense of right, but merely follow in the wake of others. Thus the influence of a selfish, censorious, evil-minded woman will be extended. So far as you are concerned, the danger may be greater than you imagine. Is Mary Halloran, in your estimation, a fit companion for our daughter? Could she become intimate with her, and not suffer a moral deterioration?"
"I think not."
"Are you sure that a call upon Mrs. Halloran will not lead to this result?"
"No, I am not sure. Still, I do not apprehend any danger."
"I should be very much afraid of the experiment."
"But, do you not think, husband, that, apart from all these fears, I am bound to extend to Mrs. Halloran the courtesies due a neighbor?"
"I cannot, in the true sense of the word, consider her a neighbor; and, therefore, do not see that you owe her the courtesies to which you allude. It is the good in any one that really makes the neighbor. This good should ever be regarded. But, to show attentions, and give eminence and consideration to an evil-minded person, is to make evil, instead of good, the neighbor.—It is to give that power to evil which is ever exercised in injury to others."
Mrs. Leland's mind perceived only in a small degree the force of what her husband said.—She was not a woman who troubled herself about the characters of those who stood upon a certain level in society. Mrs. Halloran claimed her place from wealth and family connexions, and this place was rather above than below that occupied by Mrs. Leland. The temptation to call upon her was, therefore, pretty strong. It was not so much a regard for her new neighbor, as a desire to make her acquaintance, that influenced her.—Acting in opposition to her husband's judgment, in a few days she called upon Mrs. Halloran.
She found her, to use her own words, a "charming woman." The next move was for the daughter to call upon Mary Halloran. Before the week passed, these calls had been returned. In a month the two families—that is, the female members of them—had become quite intimate. This intimacy troubled Mr. Leland. He was a man of pure principles, and could tolerate no deviation from them. Deeply did he regret any association that might tend to weaken the respect for such principles with which he had sought to inspire the mind of his daughter. In them he knew lay the power that was to protect her in the world. But he could not interfere, arbitrarily, with his wife; that he would have considered more dangerous than to let her act in freedom. But he felt concerned for the consequence, and frequently urged her not to be too intimate with her new neighbor.
"Some evil, I am sure, will grow out of it," he would say, whenever allusion was in any way made to the subject of his wife's intimacy with Mrs. Halloran. "No one can touch pitch and not be defiled."
"I really must blame you," Mrs. Leland replied to a remark like this, "for your blind opposition to Mrs. Halloran. The more I see of her, the better I like her. She is a perfect lady. So kind, so affable, so—so"—
Mr. Leland shook his head.
"The mere gloss of polite society," he returned. "There is no soundness in her heart. We know that, for the tree is judged by its fruit."
"We have seen no evil fruit," said the wife.
"Others have, and we know that others have.—Her conduct in the case of the Percys is notorious."
"Common report is always exaggerated."
"Though it usually has some foundation in truth. But granting all the exaggeration and false judgment that usually appertain to common report, is it not wiser to act as if common report were true, until we know it to be false?"
But it was useless for Mr. Leland to talk.—His wife was charmed with the fascinating neighbor, and would hear nothing against her. Jane, too, had become intimate with Mary Halloran, a bold-faced girl, who spent half of her time in the street, and talked of little else but beaux and dress. Jane was eighteen, and before her acquaintance with Mary, had been but little into company. Her intimacy with Mary soon put new notions into her head. She began to think more of dress, and scarcely a day passed that she did not go out with her very intimate and pleasant friend. Mrs. Leland did not like this. Much as she was pleased Mrs. Halloran, she never fancied the daughter a great deal, and would have been much better satisfied if the two young ladies had not become quite so intimate.
"Where are you going?" she said to Jane, who came down stairs dressed to go out, one morning.
"Mary and I are going to make some calls," she replied.
"You were out making calls, yesterday, with Mary, and the day before also. This is too great a waste of time, Jane. I would rather see you at home more."
"I don't know why you should wish to confine me down to the house. Mary Halloran goes and comes when she pleases."
"Mary Halloran is in the street a great deal too much. I am far from wishing to see you imitate her example."
"But what harm is there in it, mother?"
"A great deal, Jane. It gives idle habits, and makes the mind dissatisfied with the more sober duties of life."
"I am too young for the sober duties of life," said Jane, rather pertly.
"That is, doubtless, one of your friend Mary's sentiments; and it is worthy of her."
This was true, and Jane did not deny it.
"Go now," said Mrs. Leland, with much sobriety of manner. "But remember that I disapprove of this gadding about, and object to its continuance. I should be very sorry to have your father know to what extent you are carrying it."
Jane went out and called for Mary, and the two young ladies made a few calls, and then walked the streets until dinner time; not, however, alone, but accompanied by a dashing young fellow, who had been introduced to Mary a few evenings before, and now made bold to follow up the acquaintance, encouraged by a glance from the young lady's bright, inviting eyes.
Mrs. Leland, in the mean time, felt unhappy. Her daughter was changing, and the change troubled her. The intimacy formed with Mary Halloran, it was clear, was doing her no good, but harm. By this time, too, she had noticed some things in the mother that were by no means to her taste. There was a coarseness, vulgarity and want of delicacy about her, that showed itself more and more every day, traits of character particularly offensive to Mrs. Leland, who was a woman of refined sentiments. Besides, Mrs. Halloran's conversation involved topics neither interesting nor instructing to her neighbors; and often of a decidedly objectionable kind. In fact, she liked her less and less every day, and felt her too frequently repeated visits as an annoyance; and though "Why don't you come in to see me oftener?" was repeated almost daily, she did not return more than one out of every half dozen calls she received.
"I've seen Jane in the street with that Mary Halloran no less than three times this week," said Mr. Leland, one day, "and on two of these occasions there was a beau accompanying each of the young ladies."
"She goes out too often, I know," returned Mrs. Leland seriously. "I have objected to it several times, but the girl's head seems turned with that Mary Halloran. I do wish she had never known her."
"So do I, from my heart. We knew what she was, and never should have permitted Jane to make her acquaintance, if it had been in our power to prevent it."
"It is too late now, and can't be helped."
"Too late to prevent the acquaintance, but not too late to prevent some of the evil consequences likely to grow out of such an improper intimacy, which must cease from the present time."
"It will be a difficult matter to break it off now."
"No matter how difficult it may be, it must be done. The first step toward it you will have to make, in being less intimate with the mother, whom I like less and less the oftener I meet her."
"That step, so far as I am concerned, has already been taken. I have ceased visiting Mrs. Halloran almost entirely; but she is here just as often, and sadly annoys me. I dislike her more and more every day."
"If I saw as much in any one to object to as you see in Mrs. Halloran, I would soon make visiting a thing by no means agreeable. You can easily get rid of her intrusive familiarity if you think proper."
