Kitabı oku: «Home Lights and Shadows», sayfa 7

"Yes, by offending her, and getting the ill-will of a low-minded unprincipled woman; a thing that no one wants."

"Better offend her than suffer, as we are likely to suffer, from a continuance of the acquaintance. Offend the mother, I say, and thus you get rid of the daughter."

But Mrs. Leland was not prepared for this step, yet. From having been fascinated by Mrs. Halloran, she now began to fear her.

"I should not like to have her talk of me as she talks of some people whom I think a great deal better than she is."

"Let her talk. What she says will be no scandal," returned Mr. Leland.

"Even admit that, I don't want to be on bad terms with a neighbor. If she were to remove from the neighborhood, the thing would assume a different aspect. As it is, I cannot do as I please."

"Can't you indeed? Then I think we had better move forthwith, in order that you may be free to act right. There is one thing that I intend doing, immediately, in any event, and that is, to forbid Jane from associating any longer with Mary Halloran."

"She cannot help herself. Mary calls for her every day."

"She can help going out with her and returning her calls; and this she must do."

"I wish it could be prevented. But I am afraid of harsh measures."

"I am more afraid of the consequences to our daughter. We know not into what company this indiscreet young lady may introduce, nor how deeply she may corrupt her. Our duty to our child requires us at once to break up all intercourse with the family."

The necessity Mrs. Leland saw clearly enough, but she hesitated. Her husband, however, was not a man to hold back when his duty was before him. Neither fear nor favor governed him in his actions toward others. When satisfied that a thing ought to be done, he entered fearlessly upon the work, leaving consequences to take care of themselves.

While they were yet conversing Jane came to the door, accompanied by a young gallant. Mr. Leland happened to be sitting near the window and saw him.

"Bless my heart!" he said, in an excited voice.

"Here she is now, in company with that good-for-nothing son of Mr. Clement. She might almost as well associate with Satan himself."

"With John Clement?" asked Mrs. Leland, in surprise.

"It is too true; and the fellow had the assurance to kiss his hand to her. This matter has gone quite far enough now, in all conscience, and must be stopped, if half the world become offended."

Mrs. Leland doubted and hesitated no longer. The young man who had come home with Jane bore a notoriously bad character. It was little less than disgrace, in the eyes of virtuous people, for a lady to be seen in the street with him. Mr. and Mrs. Leland were shocked and distressed at the appearance of things; and mutually resolved that all intercourse with Mrs. Halloran and her daughter should cease. This could not be effected without giving offence; but no matter, offence would have to be given.

On that very afternoon Mrs. Halloran called in. But Mrs. Leland sent her word that she was engaged.

"Engaged, indeed!" said the lady to the servant, tossing her head. "I'm never engaged to a neighbor."

The servant repeated the words.

"Be engaged again, if she calls," said Mr. Leland, when his wife mentioned the remark of her visitor. "It will raise an effectual barrier between you."

Some serious conversation was had with Jane that day by her mother, but Jane was by no means submissive.

"Your father positively forbids any farther intimacy between you and Mary Halloran. I shall have nothing more to do with her mother."

Jane met this declaration with a passionate gush of tears, and an intimation that she was not prepared to sacrifice the friendship of Mary, whom she believed to be quite as good as herself.

"It must be done, Jane. Your father has the best of reasons for desiring it, and I hope you will not think for a moment of opposing his wishes."

"He doesn't know Mary as I know her. His prejudices have no foundation in truth," said Jane.

"No matter how pure she may be," replied the mother, "she has already introduced you into bad company. A virtuous young lady should blush to be seen in the street with the man who came home with you to-day."

"Who, Mr. Clement?" inquired Jane.

"Yes, John Clement. His bad conduct is so notorious as to exclude him entirely from the families of many persons, who have the independence to mark with just reprehension his evil deeds. It grieves me to think that you were not instinctively repelled by him the moment he approached you."

Jane's manner changed at these words. But the change did not clearly indicate to her mother what was passing in her mind. From that moment she met with silence nearly every thing that her mother said.

Early on the next day Mary Halloran called for Jane, as she was regularly in the habit of doing. Mrs. Leland purposely met her at the door, and when she inquired for Jane, asked her, with an air of cold politeness, to excuse her daughter, as she was engaged.

"Not engaged to me," said Mary, evincing surprise.

"You must excuse her, Miss Halloran; she is engaged this morning," returned the mother, with as much distance and formality as at first.

Mary Halloran turned away, evidently offended.

"Ah me!" sighed Mrs. Leland, as she closed the door upon the giddy young girl; "how much trouble has my indiscreetness cost me. My husband was right, and I felt that he was right; but, in the face of his better judgment, I sought the acquaintance of this woman, and now, where the consequences are to end, heaven only knows."

"Was that Mary Halloran?" inquired Jane, who came down stairs as her mother returned along the passage.

"It was," replied the mother.

"Why did she go away?"

"I told her you were engaged."

"Why, mother!" Jane seemed greatly disturbed.

"It is your father's wish as well as mine," said Mrs. Leland calmly, "that all intercourse between you and this young lady cease, and for reasons that I have tried to explain to you. She is one whose company you cannot keep without injury."

Jane answered with tears, and retired to her chamber, where she wrote a long and tender letter to Mary, explaining her position. This letter she got the chambermaid to deliver, and bribed her to secrecy. Mary replied, in an epistle full of sympathy for her unhappy condition, and full of indignation at the harsh judgment of her parents in regard to herself. The letter contained various suggestions in regard to the manner in which Jane ought to conduct herself, none of them at all favorable to submission and concluded with warm attestations of friendship.

From that time an active correspondence took place between the young ladies, and occasional meetings at times when the parents of Jane supposed her to be at the houses of some of their friends.

As for Mrs. Halloran, she was seriously offended at the sudden repulse both she and her daughter had met, and spared no pains, and let no opportunity go unimproved, for saying hard things of Mrs. Leland and her family. Even while Mary was carrying on a tender and confidential correspondence with Jane, she was hinting disreputable things against the thoughtless girl, and doing her a serious injury.

The first intimation that the parents had of any thing being wrong, was the fact that two very estimable ladies, for whom they had a high respect, and with whose daughters Jane was on terms of intimacy, twice gave Jane the same answer that Mrs. Leland had given Mary Halloran; thus virtually saying to her that they did not wish her to visit their daughters. Both Mr. and Mrs. Leland, when Jane mentioned these occurrences, left troubled. Not long after, a large party was given by one of the ladies, but no invitations were sent to either Mr. or Mrs. Leland, or their daughter. This was felt to be an intended omission.

After long and serious reflection on the subject, Mrs. Leland felt it to be her duty, as a parent, to see this lady, and frankly ask the reason of her conduct towards Jane, as well as toward her and her husband. She felt called upon to do this, in order to ascertain if there were not some things injurious to her daughter in common report. The lady seemed embarrassed on meeting Mrs. Leland, but the latter, without any excitement, or the appearance of being in the least offended, spoke of what had occurred, and then said—

"Now, there must be a reason for this. Will you honestly tell me what it is?"

The lady seemed confused and hesitated.

"Do not fear to speak plainly, my dear madam. Tell me the whole truth. There is something wrong, and I ought to know it. Put yourself in my place, and you will not long hesitate what to do."

"It is a delicate and painful subject for me to speak of to you, Mrs. Leland."

"No matter. Speak out without disguise."

After some reflection, the lady said—

"I have daughters, and am tremblingly alive to their good. I feel it to be my duty to protect them from all associations likely to do them an injury. Am I not right in this?"

"Undoubtedly."

"There is one young man in this city whose very name should shock the ear of innocence and purity. I mean Clement."

"You cannot think worse of him than I do."

"And yet, I am told, Mrs. Leland, that your daughter may be seen on the street with him almost every day; and not only on the street, but at balls, concerts, and the theatre."

"Who says so?"

"I have heard it from several," replied the lady, speaking slower and more thoughtfully. "Mrs. Halloran mentioned it to the person who first told me; and, since then, I have frequently heard it spoken of."

In answer to this, Mrs. Leland related the whole history of her intercourse with Mrs. Halloran, and the cause of its interruption. She then said—

"Once, only, are we aware of our daughter's having met this young man. Since then, she has gone out but rarely, and has not been from home a single evening, unless in our company; so that the broad charge of association with Clement is unfounded, and has had its origin in a malignant spirit."

"I understand it all, now, clearly," replied the lady. "Mrs. Halloran is a woman of no principle. You have deeply offended her, and she takes this method of being revenged."

"That is the simple truth. I was urged by my husband not to call upon her when she moved in our square, but I felt it to be only right to visit her as a neighbor."

"A woman like Mrs. Halloran is not to be regarded as a neighbor," replied the lady.

"So my husband argued, but I was blind enough to think differently, and to act as I thought. Dearly enough am I paying for my folly. Where the consequences will end is more than I can tell."

"We may be able to counteract them to a certain extent," said the lady. "Understanding as I now do, clearly, your position toward Mrs. Halloran, I will be able to neutralize a great deal that she says. But I am afraid your daughter is misleading you in some things, and giving color to what is said of her."

"How so?" asked Mrs. Leland in surprise.

"Was she out yesterday?"

"Yes. She went to see her cousins in the morning."

"One of my daughters says she met her in the street, in company with the very individual of whom we are speaking."

"Impossible!"

"My daughter says she is not mistaken," returned the lady.

Mrs. Leland's distress of mind, as to this intelligence, may be imagined. On returning home, she found that Jane had gone out during her absence. She went up into her daughter's room, and found a note addressed to Jane lying upon her table. After some reflection, she felt it to be her duty to open the note, which she did. It was from Mary Halloran, and in these words:—

"MY SWEET FRIEND,—I saw Mr. Clement last night at the opera. He had a great deal to say about you, and uttered many flattering compliments on your beauty. He says that he would like to meet you to-morrow evening, and will be at the corner of Eighth and Pine streets at half past seven o'clock. Can you get away at that time, without exciting suspicion? If you can, don't fail to meet him, as he is very desirous that you should do so. I was delighted with the opera, and wished a hundred times that you were with me to enjoy it.

"Yours, forever,

"MARY."

Mrs. Leland clasped her hands together, and leaned forward upon the bureau near which she had been standing, scarcely able to sustain her own weight. It was many minutes before she could think clearly. After much reflection, she thought it best not to say anything to Jane about the note. This course was approved by Mr. Leland, who believed with his wife, that it was better that Jane should be kept in ignorance of its contents, at least until the time mentioned for her joining Clement had passed. Both the parents were deeply troubled; and bitterly did Mrs. Leland repent her folly in making the acquaintance of their new neighbor, simply because she was a neighbor according to proximity.

It was after seven o'clock when the tea bell rang that evening. Mr. and Mrs. Leland descended to the dining-room, and took their places at the table.

"Where is Jane?" asked Mrs. Leland, after they had been seated a few moments.

"She went out five or ten minutes ago," replied the waiter.

Both the mother and father started, with exclamations of surprise and alarm, from the table. Mr. Leland seized his hat and cane, and rushing from the house, ran at full speed toward the place which Clement had appointed for a meeting with his daughter. He arrived in time to see a lady hastily enter a carriage, followed by a man. The carriage drove off rapidly. A cab was passing near him at the time, to the driver of which he called in an excited voice.

"Do you see that carriage?" Mr. Leland said eagerly, as the man reined up his horse. "Keep within sight of it until it stops, and I will give you ten dollars."

"Jump in," returned the driver. "I'll keep in sight."

For nearly a quarter of an hour the wheels of the cab rattled in the ears of Mr. Leland. It then stopped, and the anxious father sprang out upon the pavement. The carriage had drawn up a little in advance, and a lady was descending from it, assisted by a man. Mr. Leland knew the form of his daughter. Ere the young lady and her attendant could cross the pavement, he had confronted them. Angry beyond the power of control, he seized the arm of Jane with one hand, and, as he drew away from her companion, knocked him down with a tremendous blow from the cane which he held in the other. Then dragging, or rather carrying, his frightened daughter to the cab, thrust her in, and, as he followed after, gave the driver the direction of his house, and ordered him to go there at the quickest speed. Jane either was, or affected to be, unconscious, when she arrived at home.

Two days after, this paragraph appeared in one of the daily papers.

"SAVED FROM THE BRINK OF RUIN.—A young man of notoriously bad character, yet connected with one of our first families, recently attempted to draw aside from virtue an innocent but thoughtless and unsuspecting girl, the daughter of a respectable citizen. He appointed a meeting with her in the street at night, and she was mad enough to join him at the hour mentioned. Fortunately it happened that the father, by some means, received intelligence of what was going on, and hurried to the place. He arrived in time to see them enter a carriage and drive off. He followed in another carriage, and when they stopped before a house, well known to be one of evil repute, he confronted them on the pavement, knocked the young villain down, and carried his daughter off home. We forbear to mention names, as it would do harm, rather than good, the young lady being innocent of any evil intent, and unsuspicious of wrong in her companion. We hope it will prove a lesson that she will never forget. She made a most fortunate escape."

When Jane Leland was shown this paragraph, she shuddered and turned pale; and the shudder went deeper, and her cheek became still paler, a few weeks later when the sad intelligence came that Mary Halloran had fallen into the same snare that had been laid for her feet; a willing victim too many believed, for she was not ignorant of Clement's real character.

By sad experience Mrs. Leland was taught the folly of any weak departure from what is clearly seen to be a right course of action; and she understood, better than she had ever done before, the oft-repeated remark of her husband that "only those whose principles and conduct we approve are to be considered, in any true sense, neighbors."

NOT AT HOME

JONAS BEBEE has one merit, if he possesses no other, and that is, the merit of being able to make himself completely at home with all his friends, male or female, high or low, rich or poor, under any and all circumstances. His good opinion of himself leaves no room for his imagination to conceive the idea, that possibly there may be, in his character, certain peculiarities not agreeable to all. It never occurs to him, that he may chance to make a mal apropos visit, nor that the prolongation of a call may be a serious annoyance; for he is so entirely satisfied with himself that he is sure every one else must feel his presence as a kind of sunshine.

Of course, such being the character of Mr. Jonas Bebee, it may readily be inferred that he is very likely to commit an occasional mistake, and blunder, though unconsciously, into the commission of acts most terribly annoying to others. His evening calls upon ladies generally produce a marked effect upon those specially selected for the favor. The character of the effect will appear in the following little scene, which we briefly sketch—

"Gentleman in the parlor," says a servant coming into a room where two or three young ladies sit sewing or reading.

"Who is he?" is the natural inquiry.

"Mr. Bebee."

"Goodness!"

"Say we are not at home, Kitty."

"No—no, Kitty, you mustn't say that," interposes one. "Tell him the ladies will be down in a little while."

Kitty accordingly retires.

"I'm not going down," says one, more self willed and independent than the rest.

"You've as much right to be annoyed with him as we have," is replied to this.

"I don't care."

"I wish he'd stay away from here. Nobody wants him."

"He's after you, Aggy."

"After me!" replied Agnes. "Goodness knows I don't want him. I hate the very sight of him!"

"It's no use fretting ourselves over the annoyance, we've got to endure it," says one of the young ladies. "So, come, let's put on the best face possible."

"You can go, Cara, if you choose, but I'm in no hurry; nor will he be in any haste to go. Say to him that I'll be along in the course of half an hour."

"No, you must all make your own apologies."

In the meantime Mr. Bebee patiently awaits the arrival of the ladies, who make their appearance, one after the other, some time during the next half hour. He compliments them, asks them to sing and play, and leads the conversation until towards eleven o'clock, when he retires in the best possible humor with himself and the interesting young ladies favored with his presence. He has not even a distant suspicion of the real truth, that his visit was considered an almost unendurable infliction.

Mr. Bebee's morning calls are often more unwelcome. He walks in, as a matter of course, takes his seat in the parlor, and sends up his name by the servant. If told that the lady is not at home, a suspicion that it may not be so does not cross his mind; for he cannot imagine it possible that any one would make such an excuse in order to avoid seeing him. Should the lady not be willing to utter an untruth, nor feel independent enough to send word that she is engaged, an hour's waste of time, at least, must be her penalty; for Mr. Bebee's morning calls are never of shorter duration. He knows, as well as any one, that visits of politeness should be brief; but he is on such familiar terms with all his friends, that he can waive all ceremony—and he generally does so, making himself "at home," as he says, wherever he goes.

One day Mr. Jonas Bebee recollected that he had not called upon a certain Mrs. Fairview, for some weeks; and as the lady was, like most of his acquaintances, a particular friend, he felt that he was neglecting her. So he started forth to make her a call.

It was Saturday, and Mrs. Fairview, after having been, for the greater part of the morning, in the kitchen making cake, came up to the parlor to dust and re-arrange some of the articles there a little more to her liking. Her hair was in papers, and her morning wrapper not in a very elegant condition, having suffered a little during the cake-making process. It was twelve o'clock, and Mrs. Fairview was about leaving the parlor, when some one rung the bell. Gliding noiselessly to the window, she obtained a view of Mr. Bebee.

"O, dear!" she sighed, "am I to have this infliction to-day? But it's no use; I won't see him!"

By this time the servant was moving along the passage towards the door.

"Hannah!" called the lady, in a whisper, beckoning at the same time with her hand.

Hannah came into the parlor.

"Say I'm not at home, Hannah."

"Yes, ma'am," replied the girl, who proceeded on towards the street door, while Mrs. Fairview remained in the parlor.

"Is Mrs. Fairview in?" the latter heard the visitor ask.

"No, sir," replied Hannah.

"Not in?"

"No, sir. She's gone out."

By this time Mr. Bebee stood within the vestibule.

"O, well; I reckon I'll just drop in and wait awhile. No doubt she'll be home, soon."

"I don't think she will return before two o'clock," said Hannah, knowing that her mistress, looking more like a scarecrow than a genteel lady, was still in the parlor, and seeing that the visiter was disposed to pass her by and make himself a temporary occupant of the same room.

"No matter," returned the gentleman, "I'll just step in for a little while and enjoy myself by the parlor fire. It's a bitter cold day—perhaps she will be home sooner."

"O, no, sir. She told me that she would not come back until dinner-time," said the anxious Hannah, who fully appreciated the dilemma in which her mistress would find herself, should Mr. Bebee make his way into the parlor.

"It's no consequence. You can just say to her, if she does not return while I am here, that I called and made myself at home for half an hour or so." And with this, Mr. Bebee passed by the girl, and made his way towards the parlor.

In despair, Hannah ran back to her place in the kitchen, wondering what her mistress would say or do when Mr. Bebee found that she was at home—and, moreover, in such a plight!

In the meantime, Mrs. Fairview, who had been eagerly listening to what passed between Hannah and the visiter, finding that he was about invading her parlor, and seeing no way of escape, retreated into a little room, or office, built off from and communicating only with the parlor. As she entered this room and shut the door, the cold air penetrated her garments and sent a chill through her frame. There was no carpet on the floor of this little box of a place, and it contained neither sofa, chair, nor anything else to sit upon. Moreover, it had but a single door, and that one led into the parlor. Escape, therefore, was cut off, entirely; and to remain long where she was could not be done except at the risk of taking a severe cold.

Through the openings in a Venitian blind that was hung against the glass door, Mrs. Fairview saw the self-satisfied Mr. Bebee draw up the large cushioned chair before the grate, and with a book in his hand, seat himself comfortably and begin to make himself entirely "at home." The prospect was, that he would thus remain "at home," for at least the next half hour, if not longer. What was she to do? The thermometer was almost down to zero, and she was dressed for a temperature of seventy.

"I shall catch my death a cold," she sighed, as the chilly air penetrated her garments, and sent a shudder through her frame.

Comfortably, and as much at home as if he were in his own parlor, sat Mr. Bebee in front of the roaring grate, rocking himself in the great arm-chair, and enjoying a new book which he had found upon the table.

As Mrs. Fairview looked at him, and saw the complete repose and satisfaction of his manner, she began to feel in utter despair. Already her teeth were beginning to chatter, and she was shivering as if attacked by a fit of ague. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes elapsed—but there sat the visiter, deeply absorbed in his book; and there stood the unfortunate lady who was "not at home," so benumbed with cold as almost to have lost the sense of bodily feeling. A certain feeling in the throat warned her that she was taking cold, and would, in all probability, suffer from inflammation of the windpipe and chest. Five, ten, fifteen minutes more went by; but Mr. Beebe did not move from his place. He was far too comfortable to think of that.

At last after remaining in prison for nearly an hour, Mrs. Fairview, who by this time was beginning to suffer, besides excessive fatigue, from a sharp pain through her breast to her left shoulder blade, and who was painfully aware that she had taken a cold that would, in all probability, put her in bed for a week, determined to make her escape at all hazards. Mr. Beebe showed no disposition to go, and might remain for an hour longer. Throwing an apron over her head and face, she softly opened the door, and gliding past her visiter, escaped into the hall, and ran panting up stairs. Mr. Beebe raised his head at this unexpected invasion of the parlor, but on reflection concluded that the person who so suddenly appeared and disappeared was merely a servant in the family.

About an hour afterwards, finding that Mrs. Fairview did not return, Mr. Beebe left his card on the table, and departed in his usual comfortable state of mind.

Poor Mrs. Fairview paid dearly for her part in this transaction. A severe attack of inflammation of the lungs followed, which came near resulting in death. It was nearly three weeks before she was able to leave her room, and then her physician said she must not venture out before the mild weather of the opening spring.

A few days after the lady was able to go about the house again, Mr. Bebee called to congratulate her on her recovery. Two of her children were in the parlor; one eleven years old, and the other a child in her fourth year.

"O, you naughty man, you!" exclaimed the latter, the moment she saw Mr. Bebee. The oldest of the two children, who understood in a moment what her little sister meant, whispered: "H-u-s-h!—h-u-s-h! Mary!"

"What am I naughty about, my little sis?" said Mr. Bebee.

"O, because you are a naughty man! You made my mother sick, so you did! And mother says she never wants to look in your face again. You are a naughty man!"

"Mary! Mary! Hush! hush!" exclaimed the elder sister, trying to stop the child.

"Made your mother sick?" said Mr. Bebee. "How did I do that?"

"Why, you shut her up in that little room there, all in the cold, when you were here and staid so long, one day. And it made her sick—so it did."

"Shut her up in that room! what does the child mean?" said Mr. Bebee, speaking to the elder sister.

"Mary! Mary! I'm ashamed of you. Come away!" was the only response made to this.

Mr. Bebee was puzzled. He asked himself as to the meaning of this strange language. All at once, he remembered that after he had been sitting in the parlor for an hour, on the occasion referred to, some one had come out of the little room referred to by the child, and swept past him almost as quick as a flash. But it had never once occurred to him that this was the lady he had called to visit, who, according to the servant, was not at home.

"I didn't shut your mother up in that room, Mary," said he, to the child.

"O, but you did. And she got cold, and almost died."

At this the elder sister, finding that she could do nothing with little Mary, escaped from the parlor, and running up stairs, made a report to her mother of what was going on below.

"Mercy!" exclaimed the lady, in painful surprise.

"She told him that you said you never wanted to look upon his face again," said the little girl.

"She did!"

"Yes. And she is telling him a great deal more. I tried my best to make her stop, but couldn't."

"Rachel! Go down and bring that child out of the parlor!" said Mrs. Fairview, to a servant. "It is too bad! I had no idea that the little witch knew anything about it. So much for talking before children!"

"And so much for not being at home when you are," remarked a sister of Mrs. Fairview, who happened to be present.

"So much for having an acquaintance who makes himself at home in your house, whether you want him or not."

"No doubt you are both sufficiently well punished."

"I have been, I know."

The heavy jar of the street door was heard at this moment.

"He's gone, I do believe!"

And so it proved. What else little Mary said to him was never known, as the violent scolding she received when her mother got hold of her, sealed her lips on the subject, or drove all impressions relating thereto from her memory.

Mr. Bebee never called again.