Kitabı oku: «Home Lights and Shadows», sayfa 9

"Granting your position to be true, Mary, which I am not fully prepared to admit or deny—why should we blindly follow these fashions?"

"We need not blindly. For my part, I am sure that I do not blindly follow them."

"You do when you adopt a fashion without thinking it becoming."

"That I never do."

"But, surely, you do not pretend to say that all fashions are becoming?"

"All that prevail to any extent, appear so, during the time of their prevalence, unless they involve an improper exposure of the person, or are injurious to health."

"That is singular."

"But is it not true."

"Perhaps it is. But how do you account for it?"

"On the principle that there are both external and internal causes at work, modifying the mind's perceptions of the appropriate and beautiful."

"Mostly external, I should think, such as a desire to be in the fashion, etc."

"That feeling has its influence no doubt, and operates very strongly."

"But is it a right feeling?"

"It is right or wrong, according to the end in view. If fashion be followed from no higher view than a selfish love of being admired, then the feeling is wrong."

"Can we follow fashion with any other end?"

"Answer the question yourself. You follow the fashions."

"I think but little about them, Mary."

"And yet you dress very much like people who do."

"That may be so. The reason is, I do not wish to be singular."

"Why?"

"For this reason. A man who affects any singularity of dress or manners, loses his true influence in society. People begin to think that there must be within, a mind not truly balanced and therefore do not suffer his opinions, no matter how sound, to have their true weight."

"A very strong and just argument why we should adopt prevailing usages and fashions, if not immoral or injurious to health. They are the badges by which we are known—diplomas which give to our opinions their legitimate value. I could present this subject in many other points of view. But it would be of little avail, if you are determined not to be convinced."

"I am not so determined, Mary. What you have already said, greatly modifies my view of the subject. I shall, at least, not ridicule your adherence to fashion, if I do not give much thought to it myself."

"I will present one more view. A right attention to dress looks to the development of that which is appropriate and beautiful to the eye. This is a universal benefit. For no one can look upon a truly beautiful object in nature or art without having his mind correspondingly elevated and impressed with beautiful images, and these do not pass away like spectrums, but remain ever after more or less distinct, bearing with them an elevating influence upon the whole character. Changes in fashion, so far as they present new and beautiful forms, new arrangements, and new and appropriate combination of colors, are the dictates of a true taste, and so far do they tend to benefit society."

"But fashion is not always so directed by true taste."

"A just remark. And likewise a reason why all who have a right appreciation of the truly beautiful should give some attention to the prevailing fashion in dress, and endeavor to correct errors, and develop the true and the beautiful here as in other branches of art."

A DOLLAR ON THE CONSCIENCE

"FIFTY-FIVE cents a yard, I believe you said?" The customer was opening her purse.

Now fifty cents a yard was the price of the goods, and so Mr. Levering had informed the lady. She misunderstood him, however.

In the community, Mr. Levering had the reputation of being a conscientious, high-minded man. He knew that he was thus estimated, and self-complacently appropriated the good opinion as clearly his due.

It came instantly to the lip of Mr. Levering to say, "Yes, fifty-five." The love of gain was strong in his mind, and ever ready to accede to new plans for adding dollar to dollar. But, ere the words were uttered, a disturbing perception of something wrong restrained him.

"I wish twenty yards," said the customer taking it for granted that fifty-five cents was the price of the goods.

Mr. Levering was still silent; though he commenced promptly to measure off the goods.

"Not dear at that price," remarked the lady.

"I think not," said the storekeeper. "I bought the case of goods from which this piece was taken very low."

"Twenty yards at fifty-five cents! Just eleven dollars." The customer opened her purse as she thus spoke, and counted out the sum in glittering gold dollars. "That is right, I believe," and she pushed the money towards Mr. Levering, who, with a kind of automatic movement of his hand, drew forward the coin and swept it into his till.

"Send the bundle to No. 300 Argyle Street," said the lady, with a bland smile, as she turned from the counter, and the half-bewildered store-keeper.

"Stay, madam! there is a slight mistake!" The words were in Mr. Levering's thoughts, and on the point of gaining utterance, but he had not the courage to speak. He had gained a dollar in the transaction beyond his due, and already it was lying heavily on his conscience. Willingly would he have thrown it off; but when about to do so, the quick suggestion came, that, in acknowledging to the lady the fact of her having paid five cents a yard too much, he might falter in his explanation, and thus betray his attempt to do her wrong. And so he kept silence, and let her depart beyond recall.

Any thing gained at the price of virtuous self-respect is acquired at too large a cost. A single dollar on the conscience may press so heavily as to bear down a man's spirits, and rob him of all the delights of life. It was so in the present case. Vain was it that Mr. Levering sought self-justification. Argue the matter as he would, he found it impossible to escape the smarting conviction that he had unjustly exacted a dollar from one of his customers. Many times through the day he found himself in a musing, abstracted state, and on rousing himself therefrom, became conscious, in his external thought, that it was the dollar by which he was troubled.

"I'm very foolish," said he, mentally, as he walked homeward, after closing his store for the evening. "Very foolish to worry myself about a trifle like this. The goods were cheap enough at fifty-five, and she is quite as well contented with her bargain as if she had paid only fifty."

But it would not do. The dollar was on his conscience, and he sought in vain to remove it by efforts of this kind.

Mr. Levering had a wife and three pleasant children. They were the sunlight of his home. When the business of the day was over, he usually returned to his own fireside with buoyant feeling. It was not so on this occasion. There was a pressure on his bosom—a sense of discomfort—a want of self-satisfaction. The kiss of his wife, and the clinging arms of his children, as they were twined around his neck, did not bring the old delight.

"What is the matter with you this evening, dear? Are you not well?" inquired Mrs. Levering, breaking in upon the thoughtful mood of her husband, as he sat in unwonted silence.

"I'm perfectly well," he replied, rousing himself, and forcing a smile.

"You look sober."

"Do I?" Another forced smile.

"Something troubles you, I'm afraid."

"O no; it's all in your imagination."

"Are you sick, papa?" now asks a bright little fellow, clambering upon his knee.

"Why no, love, I'm not sick. Why do you think so?"

"Because you don't play horses with me."

"Oh dear! Is that the ground of your suspicion?" replied the father, laughing. "Come! we'll soon scatter them to the winds."

And Mr. Levering commenced a game of romps with the children. But he tired long before they grew weary, nor did he, from the beginning, enter into this sport with his usual zest.

"Does your head ache, pa?" inquired the child who had previously suggested sickness, as he saw his father leave the floor, and seat himself, with some gravity of manner, on a chair.

"Not this evening, dear," answered Mr. Levering.

"Why don't you play longer, then?"

"Oh pa!" exclaimed another child, speaking from a sudden thought, "you don't know what a time we had at school to-day."

"Ah! what was the cause?"

"Oh! you'll hardly believe it. But Eddy Jones stole a dollar from Maggy Enfield!"

"Stole a dollar!" ejaculated Mr. Levering. His voice was husky, and he felt a cold thrill passing along every nerve.

"Yes, pa! he stole a dollar! Oh, wasn't it dreadful?"

"Perhaps he was wrongly accused," suggested Mrs. Levering.

"Emma Wilson saw him do it, and they found the dollar in his pocket. Oh! he looked so pale, and it made me almost sick to hear him cry as if his heart would break."

"What did they do with him?" asked Mrs. Levering.

"They sent for his mother, and she took him home. Wasn't it dreadful?"

"It must have been dreadful for his poor mother," Mr. Levering ventured to remark.

"But more dreadful for him," said Mrs. Levering. "Will he ever forget his crime and disgrace? Will the pressure of that dollar on his conscience ever be removed? He may never do so wicked an act again; but the memory of this wrong deed cannot be wholly effaced from his mind."

How rebukingly fell all these words on the ears of Mr. Levering. Ah! what would he not then have given to have the weight of that dollar removed? Its pressure was so great as almost to suffocate him. It was all in vain that he tried to be cheerful, or to take an interest in what was passing immediately around him. The innocent prattle of his children had lost its wonted charm, and there seemed an accusing expression in the eye of his wife, as, in the concern his changed aspect had occasioned, she looked soberly upon him. Unable to bear all this, Mr. Levering went out, something unusual for him, and walked the streets for an hour. On his return, the children were in bed, and he had regained sufficient self-control to meet his wife with a less disturbed appearance.

On the next morning, Mr. Levering felt something better. Sleep had left his mind more tranquil. Still there was a pressure on his feelings, which thought could trace to that unlucky dollar. About an hour after going to his store, Mr. Levering saw his customer of the day previous enter, and move along towards the place where he stood behind his counter. His heart gave a sudden bound, and the color rose to his face. An accusing conscience was quick to conclude as to the object of her visit. But he soon saw that no suspicion of wrong dealing was in the lady's mind. With a pleasant half recognition, she asked to look at certain articles, from which she made purchases, and in paying for them, placed a ten dollar bill in the hand of the storekeeper.

"That weight shall be off my conscience," said Mr. Levering to himself, as he began counting out the change due his customer; and, purposely, he gave her one dollar more than was justly hers in that transaction. The lady glanced her eyes over the money, and seemed slightly bewildered. Then, much to the storekeeper's relief, opened her purse and dropped it therein.

"All right again!" was the mental ejaculation of Mr. Levering, as he saw the purse disappear in the lady's pocket, while his breast expanded with a sense of relief.

The customer turned from the counter, and had nearly gained the door, when she paused, drew out her purse, and emptying the contents of one end into her hand, carefully noted the amount. Then walking back, she said, with a thoughtful air—

"I think you 've made a mistake in the change, Mr. Levering."

"I presume not, ma'am. I gave you four and thirty-five," was the quick reply.

"Four, thirty-five," said the lady, musingly.

"Yes, here is just four, thirty-five."

"That's right; yes, that's right," Mr. Levering spoke, somewhat nervously.

"The article came to six dollars and sixty-five cents, I believe?"

"Yes, yes; that was it!"

"Then three dollars and thirty-five cents will be my right change," said the lady, placing a small gold coin on the counter. "You gave me too much."

The customer turned away and retired from the store, leaving that dollar still on the conscience of Mr. Levering.

"I'll throw it into the street," said he to himself, impatiently. "Or give it to the first beggar that comes along."

But conscience whispered that the dollar wasn't his, either to give away or to throw away. Such prodigality, or impulsive benevolence, would be at the expense of another, and this could not mend the matter.

"This is all squeamishness," said Mr. Levering trying to argue against his convictions. But it was of no avail. His convictions remained as clear and rebuking as ever.

The next day was the Sabbath, and Mr. Levering went to church, as usual, with his family. Scarcely had he taken a seat in his pew, when, on raising his eyes, they rested on the countenance of the lady from whom he had abstracted the dollar. How quickly his cheek flushed! How troubled became, instantly, the beatings of his heart! Unhappy Mr. Levering! He could not make the usual responses that day, in the services; and when the congregation joined in the swelling hymn of praise, his voice was heard not in the general thanksgiving. Scarcely a word of the eloquent sermon reached his ears, except something about "dishonest dealing;" he was too deeply engaged in discussing the question, whether or no he should get rid of the troublesome dollar by dropping it into the contribution box, at the close of the morning service, to listen to the words of the preacher. This question was not settled when the box came round, but, as a kind of desperate alternative, he cast the money into the treasury.

For a short time, Mr. Levering felt considerable relief of mind. But this disposition of the money proved only a temporary palliative. There was a pressure on his feelings; still a weight on his conscience that gradually became heavier. Poor man! What was he to do? How was he to get this dollar removed from his conscience? He could not send it back to the lady and tell her the whole truth. Such an exposure of himself would not only be humiliating, but hurtful to his character. It would be seeking to do right, in the infliction of a wrong to himself.

At last, Mr. Levering, who had ascertained the lady's name and residence, inclosed her a dollar, anonymously, stating that it was her due; that the writer had obtained it from her, unjustly, in a transaction which he did not care to name, and could not rest until he had made restitution.

Ah! the humiliation of spirit suffered by Mr. Levering in thus seeking to get ease for his conscience! It was one of his bitterest life experiences. The longer the dollar remained in his possession, the heavier became its pressure, until he could endure it no longer. He felt not only disgraced in his own eyes, but humbled in the presence of his wife and children. Not for worlds would he have suffered them to look into his heart.

If a simple act of restitution could have covered all the past, happy would it have been for Mr. Levering. But this was not possible. The deed was entered in the book of his life, and nothing could efface the record. Though obscured by the accumulating dust of time, now and then a hand sweeps unexpectedly over the page, and the writing is revealed. Though that dollar has been removed from his conscience, and he is now guiltless of wrong, yet there are times when the old pressure is felt with painful distinctness.

Earnest seeker after this world's goods, take warning by Mr. Levering, and beware how, in a moment of weak yielding, you get a dollar on your conscience. One of two evils must follow. It will give you pain and trouble, or make callous the spot where it rests. And the latter of these evils is that which is most to be deplored.

AUNT MARY'S SUGGESTION

"JOHN THOMAS!" Mr. Belknap spoke in a firm, rather authoritative voice. It was evident that he anticipated some reluctance on the boy's part, and therefore, assumed, in the outset, a very decided manner.

John Thomas, a lad between twelve and thirteen years of age, was seated on the doorstep, reading. A slight movement of the body indicated that he heard; but he did not lift his eyes from the book, nor make any verbal response.

"John Thomas!" This time the voice of Mr. Belknap was loud, sharp, and imperative.

"Sir," responded the boy, dropping the volume in his lap, and looking up with a slightly flushed, but sullen face.

"Did n't you hear me when I first spoke?" said Mr. Belknap, angrily.

"Yes, sir."

"Then, why did n't you answer me? Always respond when you are spoken to. I'm tired of this ill-mannered, disrespectful way of yours."

The boy stood up, looking, now, dogged, as well as sullen.

"Go get your hat and jacket." This was said in a tone of command, accompanied by a side toss of the head, by the way of enforcing the order.

"What for?" asked John Thomas, not moving a pace from where he stood.

"Go and do what I tell you. Get your hat and jacket."

The boy moved slowly and with a very reluctant air from the room.

"Now, don't be all day," Mr. Belknap called after him, "I'm in a hurry. Move briskly."

How powerless the father's words died upon the air. The motions of John Thomas were not quickened in the slightest degree. Like a soulless automaton passed he out into the passage and up the stairs; while the impatient Mr. Belknap could with difficulty restrain an impulse to follow after, and hasten the sulky boy's movements with blows. He controlled himself, however, and resumed the perusal of his newspaper. Five, ten minutes passed, and John Thomas had not yet appeared to do the errand upon which his father designed to send him. Suddenly Mr. Belknap dropped his paper, and going hastily to the bottom of the stairs, called out:

"You John! John Thomas!"

"Sir!" came a provokingly indifferent voice from one of the chambers.

"Did n't I tell you to hurry—say?"

"I can't find my jacket."

"You don't want to find it. Where did you lay it when you took it off last night?"

"I don't know. I forget."

"If you're not down here, with your jacket on, in one minute, I'll warm your shoulders well for you."

Mr. Belknap was quite in earnest in this threat, a fact plainly enough apparent to John Thomas in the tone of his father's voice. Not just wishing to have matters proceed to this extremity, the boy opened a closet, and, singularly enough, there hung his jacket in full view. At the expiration of the minute, he was standing before his disturbed father, with his jacket on, and buttoned up to the chin.

"Where's your hat?" now asked Mr. Belknap.

"I don't know, sir."

"Well, find it, then."

"I've looked everywhere."

"Look again. There! What is that on the hat rack, just under my coat?"

The boy answered not, but walked moodily to the rack, and took his hat therefrom.

"Ready at last. I declare I'm out of all patience with your slow movements and sulky manner. What do you stand there for, knitting your brows and pouting your lips? Straighten out your face, sir! I won't have a boy of mine put on such a countenance."

The lad, thus angrily and insultingly rated, made a feeble effort to throw a few rays of sunshine into his face. But, the effort died fruitless. All was too dark, sullen, and rebellious within his bosom.

"See here." Mr. Belknap still spoke in that peculiar tone of command which always stifles self-respect in the one to whom it is addressed.

"Do you go down to Leslie's and tell him to send me a good claw hammer and three pounds of eightpenny nails. And go quickly."

The boy turned off without a word of reply, and was slowly moving away, when his father said, sharply:

"Look here, sir!"

John Thomas paused and looked back.

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did I tell you to do?"

"Go get a claw hammer and three pounds of eightpenny nails."

"Very well. Why did n't you indicate, in some way, that you heard me? Have n't I already this morning read you a lecture about this very thing? Now, go quickly. I'm in a hurry."

For all this impatience and authority on the part of Mr. Belknap, John Thomas moved away at a snail's pace; and as the former in a state of considerable irritability, gazed after the boy, he felt strongly tempted to call him back, and give him a good flogging in order that he might clearly comprehend the fact of his being in earnest. But as this flogging was an unpleasant kind of business, and had, on all previous occasions, been succeeded by a repentant and self-accusing state, Mr. Belknap restrained his indignant impulses.

"If that stubborn, incorrigible boy returns in half an hour, it will be a wonder," muttered Mr. Belknap, as he came back into the sitting-room. "I wish I knew what to do with him. There is no respect or obedience in him. I never saw such a boy. He knows that I'm in a hurry; and yet he goes creeping along like a tortoise, and ten chances to one, if he does n't forget his errand altogether before he is halfway to Leslie's. What is to be done with him, Aunt Mary?"

Mr. Belknap turned, as he spoke to an elderly lady, with a mild, open face, and clear blue eyes, from which goodness looked forth as an angel. She was a valued relative, who was paying him a brief visit.

Aunt Mary let her knitting rest in her lap, and turned her mild, thoughtful eyes upon the speaker.

"What is to be done with that boy, Aunt Mary?" Mr. Belknap repeated his words. "I've tried everything with him; but he remains incorrigible."

"Have you tried—"

Aunt Mary paused, and seemed half in doubt whether it were best to give utterance to what was in her mind.

"Tried what?" asked Mr. Belknap.

"May I speak plainly?" said Aunt Mary.

"To me? Why yes! The plainer the better."

"Have you tried a kind, affectionate, unimpassioned manner with the boy? Since I have been here, I notice that you speak to him in a cold, indifferent, or authoritative tone. Under such treatment, some natures, that soften quickly in the sunshine of affection, grow hard and stubborn."

The blood mounted to the cheeks and brow of Mr. Belknap.

"Forgive me, if I have spoken too plainly," said Aunt Mary.

Mr. Belknap did not make any response for some time, but sat, with his eyes upon the floor, in hurried self-examination.

"No, Aunt Mary, not too plainly," said he, as he looked at her with a sobered face. "I needed that suggestion, and thank you for having made it."

"Mrs. Howitt has a line which beautifully expresses what I mean," said Aunt Mary, in her gentle, earnest way. "It is

'For love hath readier will than fear.'

Ah, if we could all comprehend the wonderful power of love! It is the fire that melts; while fear only smites, the strokes hardening, or breaking its unsightly fragments. John Thomas has many good qualities, that ought to be made as active as possible. These, like goodly flowers growing in a carefully tilled garden, will absorb the latent vitality in his mind, and thus leave nothing from which inherent evil tendencies can draw nutrition."

Aunt Mary said no more, and Mr. Belknap's thoughts were soon too busy with a new train of ideas, to leave him in any mood for conversation.

Time moved steadily on. Nearly half an hour had elapsed, in which period John Thomas might have gone twice to Leslie's store, and returned; yet he was still absent. Mr. Belknap was particularly in want of the hammer and nails, and the delay chafed him very considerably; the more particularly, as it evidenced the indifference of his son in respect to his wishes and commands. Sometimes he would yield to a momentary blinding flush of anger, and resolve to punish the boy severely the moment he could get his hands on him. But quickly would come in Aunt Mary's suggestion, and he would again resolve to try the power of kind words. He was also a good deal strengthened in his purposes, by the fact that Aunt Mary's eyes would be upon him at the return of John Thomas. After her suggestion, and his acknowledgment of its value, it would hardly do for him to let passion so rule him as to act in open violation of what was right. To wrong his son by unwise treatment, when he professed to desire only his good.

The fact is, Mr. Belknap had already made the discovery, that if he would govern his boy, he must first govern himself. This was not an easy task. Yet he felt that it must be done.

"There comes that boy now," said he, as he glanced forth, and saw John Thomas coming homeward at a very deliberate pace. There was more of impatience in his tone of voice than he wished to betray to Aunt Mary, who let her beautiful, angel-like eyes rest for a moment or two, penetratingly, upon him. The balancing power of that look was needed; and it performed its work.

Soon after, the loitering boy came in. He had a package of nails in his hand, which he reached, half indifferently, to his father.

"The hammer!" John started with a half frightened air.

"Indeed, father, I forgot all about it!" said he, looking up with a flushed countenance, in which genuine regret was plainly visible.

"I'm sorry," said Mr. Belknap, in a disappointed, but not angry or rebuking voice. "I've been waiting a long time for you to come back, and now I must go to the store without nailing up that trellice for your mother's honeysuckle and wisteria, as I promised."

The boy looked at his father a moment or two with an air of bewilderment and surprise; then he said, earnestly:

"Just wait a little longer. I'll run down to the store and get it for you in a minute. I'm very sorry that I forgot it."

"Run along, then," said Mr. Belknap, kindly.

How fleetly the lad bounded away! His father gazed after him with an emotion of surprise, not unmixed with pleasure.

"Yes—yes," he murmured, half aloud, "Mrs. Howitt never uttered a wiser saying. 'For love hath readier will than fear.'"

Quicker than even Aunt Mary, whose faith in kind words was very strong, had expected, John came in with the hammer, a bright glow on his cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes that strongly contrasted with the utter want of interest displayed in his manner a little while before.

"Thank you, my son," said Mr. Belknap, as he took the hammer; "I could not have asked a prompter service."

He spoke very kindly, and in a voice of approval. "And now, John," he added, with the manner of one who requests, rather than commands, "if you will go over to Frank Wilson's, and tell him to come over and work for two or three days in our garden, you will oblige me very much. I was going to call there as I went to the store this morning; but it is too late now."

"O, I'll go, father—I'll go," replied the boy, quickly and cheerfully. "I'll run right over at once."

"Do, if you please," said Mr. Belknap, now speaking from an impulse of real kindness, for a thorough change had come over his feelings. A grateful look was cast, by John Thomas, into his father's face, and then he was off to do his errand. Mr. Belknap saw, and understood the meaning of that look.

"Yes—yes—yes,—" thus he talked with himself as he took his way to the store,—"Aunt Mary and Mrs. Howitt are right. Love hath a readier will. I ought to have learned this lesson earlier. Ah! how much that is deformed in this self-willed boy, might now be growing in beauty."