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Arthur + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: All's for the Best + +Author: T. S. Arthur + +Posting Date: August 8, 2009 [EBook #4589] +Release Date: October, 2003 +First Posted: February 12, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALL'S FOR THE BEST *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +ALL'S FOR THE BEST. +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BY +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +T. S. ARTHUR. +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +PHILADELPHIA: +<BR> +1869. +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS. +</H2> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">I. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap01">FAITH AND PATIENCE.</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">II. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap02">IS HE A CHRISTIAN?</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">III. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap03">"RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE."</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap04">NOT AS A CHILD.</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">V. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap05">ANGELS IN THE HEART.</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap06">CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED.</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap07">GOOD GROUND.</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap08">GIVING THAT DOTH NOT IMPOVERISH.</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap09">WAS IT MURDER, OR SUICIDE?</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">X. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap10">THE NURSERY MAID.</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap11">MY FATHER.</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap12">THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN.</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +ALL'S FOR THE BEST. +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +I. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +FAITH AND PATIENCE. +</H3> + +<P> +"<I>I HAVE</I> no faith in anything," said a poor doubter, who had trusted +in human prudence, and been disappointed; who had endeavored to walk by +the lumine of self-derived intelligence, instead of by the light of +divine truth, and so lost his way in the world. He was fifty years old! +What a sad confession for a man thus far on the journey of life. "No +faith in anything." +</P> + +<P> +"You have faith in God, Mr. Fanshaw," replied the gentleman to whom the +remark was made. +</P> + +<P> +"In God? I don't know him." And Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, in a +bewildered sort of way. There was no levity in his manner. "People talk +a great deal about God, and their knowledge of him," he added, but not +irreverently. "I think there is often more of pious cant in all this +than of living experience. You speak about faith in God. What is the +ground of your faith?" +</P> + +<P> +"We have internal sight, as well as external sight." +</P> + +<P> +There was no response to this in Mr. Fanshaw's face. +</P> + +<P> +"We can see with the mind, as well as with the eyes." +</P> + +<P> +"How?" +</P> + +<P> +"An architect sees the building, in all its fine proportions, with the +eyes of his mind, before it exists in space visible to his bodily eyes." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! that is your meaning, friend Wilkins," said Mr. Fanshaw, his +countenance brightening a little. +</P> + +<P> +"In part," was replied. "That he can see the building in his mind, +establishes the fact of internal sight." +</P> + +<P> +"Admitted; and what then?" +</P> + +<P> +"Admitted, and we pass into a new world—the world of spirit." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, and closed his lips tightly. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't believe in spirits," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +"You believe in your own spirit." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know that I have any spirit." +</P> + +<P> +"You think and feel in a region distinct from the body," said Mr. +Wilkins. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't say as to that." +</P> + +<P> +"You can think of justice, of equity, of liberty?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"As abstract rights; as things essential, and out of the region of +simple matter. The body doesn't think; it is the soul." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well. For argument's sake, let all this be granted. I don't wish +to cavil. I am in no mood for that. And now, as to the ground of your +faith in God." +</P> + +<P> +"Convictions," answered Mr. Wilkins, "are real things to a man. +Impressions are one thing; convictions another. The first are like +images on a glass; the others like figures in a textile fabric. The +first are made in an instant of time, and often pass as quickly; the +latter are slowly wrought in the loom of life, through daily experience +and careful thought. Herein lies the ground of my faith in God;—it is +an inwrought conviction. First I had the child's sweet faith transfused +into my soul with a mother's love, and unshadowed by a single doubt. +Then, on growing older, as I read the Bible, which I believe to be +God's word, I saw that its precepts were divine, and so the child's +faith was succeeded by rational sight. Afterwards, as I floated off +into the world, and met with storms that wrecked my fondest hopes; with +baffling winds and adverse currents; with perils and disappointments, +faith wavered sometimes; and sometimes, when the skies were dark and +threatening, my mind gave way to doubts. But, always after the storm +passed, and the sun came out again, have I found my vessel unharmed, +with a freight ready for shipment of value far beyond what I had lost. +I have thrown over, in stress of weather, to save myself from being +engulfed, things that I had held to be very precious—thrown them over, +weeping. But, after awhile, things more precious took their +place—goodly pearls, found in a farther voyage, which, but for my +loss, would not have been ventured. +</P> + +<P> +"Always am I seeing the hand of Providence—always proving the divine +announcement, 'The very hairs of your head are numbered.' Is there not +ground for faith here? If the word of God stand in agreement with +reason and experience, shall I not have faith? If my convictions are +clear, to disbelieve is impossible." +</P> + +<P> +"We started differently," replied Mr. Fanshaw, almost mournfully. "That +sweet faith of childhood, to which you have referred, was never mine." +</P> + +<P> +"The faith of manhood is stronger, because it rests on reason and +experience," said Mr. Wilkins. +</P> + +<P> +"With me, reason and experience give no faith in God, and no hope in +the future. All before me is dark." +</P> + +<P> +"Simply, because you do not use your reason aright, nor read your +experiences correctly. If you were to do this, light would fall upon +your way. You said, a little while ago, that you had no faith in +anything. You spoke without due reflection." +</P> + +<P> +"No; I meant just what I said. Is there stability in anything? In what +can I trust to-morrow? simply in nothing. My house may be in +ruins—burnt to the ground, at daylight. The friend to whom I loaned my +money to-day, to help him in his need, may fail me to-morrow, in my +need. The bank in which I hold stock may break—the ship in which I +have an adventure, go down at sea. But why enumerate? I am sure of +nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"Not even of the love of your child?" +</P> + +<P> +A warm flush came into the face of Mr. Fanshaw. He had one daughter +twelve years old. +</P> + +<P> +"Dear Alice!" he murmured, in a softer voice. "Yes, I am sure of that. +There is no room for doubt. She loves me." +</P> + +<P> +"One thing in which to have faith," said Mr. Wilkins. "Not in a house +which cannot be made wholly safe from fire; nor in a bank, which may +fail; nor in a friend's promise; nor in a ship at sea—but in love! Are +you afraid to have that love tried? If you were sick or in misfortune, +would it grow dim, or perish? Nay, would it not be intensified? +</P> + +<P> +"I think, Mr. Fanshaw," continued his friend, "that you have not tested +your faith by higher and better things—by things real and substantial." +</P> + +<P> +"What is more real than a house, or a ship, or a bill of exchange?" +asked Mr. Fanshaw. +</P> + +<P> +"Imperishable love—incorruptible integrity—unflinching honor," was +replied. +</P> + +<P> +"Do these exist?" Mr. Fanshaw looked incredulous. +</P> + +<P> +"We know that they exist. You know that they exist. History, +observation, experience, reason, all come to the proof. We doubt but in +the face of conviction. Are these not higher and nobler things than +wealth, or worldly honors; than place or power? And is he not serenest +and happiest whose life rests on these as a house upon its foundations? +You cannot shake such a man. You cannot throw him down. Wealth may go, +and friends drop away like withering autumn leaves, but he stands fast, +with the light of heaven upon his brow. He has faith in virtue—he has +trust in God—he knows that all will come out right in the end, and +that he will be a wiser and better man for the trial that tested his +principles—for the storms that toughened, but did not break the fibres +of his soul." +</P> + +<P> +"You lift me into a new region of thought," said Mr. Fanshaw, "A dim +light is breaking into my mind. I see things in a relation not +perceived before." +</P> + +<P> +"Will you call with me on an old friend?" asked Mr. Wilkins. +</P> + +<P> +"Who?" +</P> + +<P> +"A poor man. Once rich." +</P> + +<P> +"He might feel my visit as an intrusion." +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"What reduced him to poverty?" +</P> + +<P> +"A friend, in whom he put unlimited faith, deceived and ruined him." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah!" +</P> + +<P> +"And he has never been able to recover himself." +</P> + +<P> +"What is his state of mind?" +</P> + +<P> +"You shall judge for yourself." +</P> + +<P> +In poor lodgings they found a man far past the prime of life. He was in +feeble health, and for over two months had not been able to go out and +attend to business. His wife was dead, and his children absent. Of all +this Mr. Fanshaw had been told on the way. His surprise was real, when +he saw, instead of a sad-looking, disappointed and suffering person, a +cheerful old man, whose face warmed up on their entrance, as if +sunshine were melting over it. Conversation turned in the direction Mr. +Wilkins desired it to take, and the question soon came, naturally, from +Mr. Fanshaw— +</P> + +<P> +"And pray, sir, how were you sustained amid these losses, and trials, +and sorrows?" +</P> + +<P> +"Through faith and patience," was the smiling answer. "Faith in God and +the right, and patience to wait." +</P> + +<P> +"But all has gone wrong with you, and kept wrong. The friend who robbed +you of an estate holds and enjoys it still; while you are in poverty. +He is eating your children's bread." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you envy his enjoyment?" asked the old man. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, and answered with an emphasis—"No!" +</P> + +<P> +"I am happier than he is," said the old man. "And as for his eating my +children's bread, that is a mistake. His bread is bitter, but theirs is +sweet." He reached for a letter that lay on a table near him, and +opening it, said—"This is from my son in the West. He writes:—'Dear +Father—All is going well with me. I enclose you fifty dollars. In a +month I am to be married, and it is all arranged that dear Alice and I +shall go East just to see you, and take you back home with us. How nice +and comfortable we will make you! And you shall never leave us!'" +</P> + +<P> +The old man's voice broke down on the last sentence, and his eyes +filled with tears. But he soon recovered himself, saying— +</P> + +<P> +"Before I lost my property, this son was an idler, and in such danger +that through fear of his being led astray, I was often in great +distress of mind. Necessity forced him into useful employment; and you +see the result. I lost some money, but saved my son. Am I not richer in +such love as he bears me to-day, than if, without his love, I possessed +a million of dollars? Am I not happier? I knew it would all come out +right. I had faith, and I tried to be patient. It is coming out right." +</P> + +<P> +"But the wrong that has been done," said Mr. Fanshaw. "The injustice +that exists. Here is a scoundrel, a robber, in the peaceful enjoyment +of your goods, while you are in want." +</P> + +<P> +"We do not envy such peace as his. The robber has no peace. He never +dwells in security; but is always armed, and on the watch. As for me, +it has so turned out that I have never lacked for food and raiment." +</P> + +<P> +"Still, there is the abstract wrong, the evil triumphing over the +good," said Mr. Fanshaw. +</P> + +<P> +"How do you reconcile that with your faith in Providence?" +</P> + +<P> +"What I see clearly, as to myself," was replied, "fully justifies the +ways of God to man. Am I the gainer or the loser by misfortune? Clearly +the gainer. That point admits of no argument. So, what came to me in +the guise of evil, I find to be good. God has not mocked my faith in +him. I waited patiently until he revealed himself in tender mercy; +until the hand to which I clung in the dark valley led me up to the +sunny hills. No amount of worldly riches could give me the deep +satisfaction I now possess. As for the false friend who robbed me, I +leave him in the hands of the all-wise Disposer of events. He will not +find, in ill-gotten gain, a blessing. It will not make his bed soft; +nor his food sweet to the taste. A just and righteous God will trouble +his peace, and make another's possessions the burden of his life." +</P> + +<P> +"But that will not benefit you," said Mr. Fanshaw. "His suffering will +not make good your loss." +</P> + +<P> +"My loss is made good already. I have no complaint against Providence. +My compensation is a hundredfold. For dross I have gold. I and mine +needed the discipline of misfortune, and it came through the perfidy of +a friend. That false friend, selfish and grasping—seeing in money the +greatest good—was permitted to consummate his evil design. That his +evil will punish him, I am sure; and in the pain of his punishment, he +may be led to reformation. If he continue to hide the stolen fox, it +will tear his vitals. If he lets it go, he will scarcely venture upon a +second theft. In either event, the wrong he was permitted to do will be +turned into discipline; and my hardest wish in regard to him is, that +the discipline may lead to repentance and a better life." +</P> + +<P> +"Your faith and patience," said Mr. Fanshaw, as he held the old man's +hand in parting, "rebuke my restless disbelief. I thank you for having +opened to my mind a new region of thought—for having made some things +clear that have always been dark. I am sure that our meeting to-day is +not a simple accident. I have been led here, and for a good purpose." +</P> + +<P> +As Mr. Fanshaw and Mr. Wilkins left the poor man's lodgings, the former +said— +</P> + +<P> +"I know the false wretch who ruined your friend." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. And he is a miserable man. The fox is indeed tearing his vitals. +I understand his case now. He must make restitution. I know how to +approach him. This good, patient, trusting old man shall not suffer +wrong to the end." +</P> + +<P> +"Does not all this open a new world of thought to your mind?" asked Mr +Wilkins. "Does it not show you that, amid all human wrong and disaster, +the hand of Providence moves in wise adjustment, and ever out of evil +educes good, ever through loss in some lower degree of life brings gain +to a higher degree? Consider how, in an unpremeditated way, you are +brought into contact with a stranger, and how his life and experience +touching yours, give out a spark that lights a candle in your soul to +illumine chambers where scarcely a ray had shone before; and this not +alone for your benefit. It seems as if you were to be made an +instrument of good not only to the wronged, but to the wronger. If you +can effect restitution in any degree, the benefit will be mutual." +</P> + +<P> +"I can and I will effect it," replied Mr. Fanshaw. And he did! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +II. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IS HE A CHRISTIAN? +</H3> + +<P> +"<I>IS</I> he a Christian?" +</P> + +<P> +The question reached my ear as I sat conversing with a friend, and I +paused in the sentence I was uttering, to note the answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes; he is a Christian," was replied. +</P> + +<P> +"I am rejoiced to hear you say so. I was not aware of it before," said +the other. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; he has passed from death unto life. Last week, in the joy of his +new birth, he united himself to the church, and is now in fellowship +with the saints." +</P> + +<P> +"What a blessed change!" +</P> + +<P> +"Blessed, indeed. Another soul saved; another added to the great +company of those who have washed their robes, and made them white in +the blood of the Lamb. There is joy in heaven on his account." +</P> + +<P> +"Of whom are they speaking?" I asked, turning to my friend. +</P> + +<P> +"Of Fletcher Gray, I believe," was replied. +</P> + +<P> +"Few men stood more in need of Christian graces," said I. "If he is, +indeed, numbered with the saints, there is cause for rejoicing." +</P> + +<P> +"By their fruits ye shall know them," responded my friend. "I will +believe his claim to the title of Christian, when I see the fruit in +good living. If he have truly passed from death unto life, as they say, +he will work the works of righteousness. A sweet fountain will not send +forth bitter waters." +</P> + +<P> +My friend but expressed my own sentiments in this, and all like cases. +I have learned to put small trust in "profession;" to look past the +Sunday and prayer-meeting piety of people, and to estimate religious +quality by the standard of the Apostle James. There must be genuine +love of the neighbor, before there can be a love of God; for neighborly +love is the ground in which that higher and purer love takes root. It +is all in vain to talk of love as a mere ideal thing. Love is an active +principle, and, according to its quality, works. If the love be +heavenly, it will show itself in good deeds to the neighbor; but, if +infernal, in acts of selfishness that disregard the neighbor. +</P> + +<P> +"I will observe this Mr. Gray," said I, as I walked homeward from the +company, "and see whether the report touching him be true. If he is, +indeed, a 'Christian,' as they affirm, the Christian graces of meekness +and charity will blossom in his life, and make all the air around him +fragrant." +</P> + +<P> +Opportunity soon came. Fletcher Gray was a store-keeper, and his life +in the world was, consequently, open to the observation of all men. He +was likewise a husband and a father. His relations were, therefore, of +a character to give, daily, a test of his true quality. +</P> + +<P> +It was only the day after, that I happened to meet Mr. Gray under +circumstances favorable to observation. He came into the store of a +merchant with whom I was transacting some business, and asked the price +of certain goods in the market. I moved aside, and watched him +narrowly. There was a marked change in the expression of his +countenance and in the tones of his voice. The former had a sober, +almost solemn expression; the latter was subdued, even to +plaintiveness. But, in a little while, these peculiarities gradually +disappeared, and the aforetime Mr. Gray stood there +unchanged—unchanged, not only in appearance, but in character. There +was nothing of the "yea, yea," and "nay, nay," spirit in his +bargain-making, but an eager, wordy effort to gain an advantage in +trade. I noticed that, in the face of an asservation that only five per +cent. over cost was asked for a certain article, he still endeavored to +procure it at a lower figure than was named by the seller, and finally +crowded him down to the exact cost, knowing as he did, that the +merchant had a large stock on hand, and could not well afford to hold +it over. +</P> + +<P> +"He's a sharper!" said the merchant, turning towards me as Gray left +the store. +</P> + +<P> +"He's a Christian, they say," was my quiet remark. +</P> + +<P> +"A Christian!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; don't you know that he has become religious, and joined the +church?" +</P> + +<P> +"You're joking!" +</P> + +<P> +"Not a word of it. Didn't you observe his subdued, meek aspect, when he +came in?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, yes; now that you refer to it, I do remember a certain +peculiarity about him. Become pious! Joined the church! Well, I'm +sorry!" +</P> + +<P> +"For what?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sorry for the injury he will do to a good cause. The religion that +makes a man a better husband, father, man of business, lawyer, doctor, +or preacher, I reverence, for it is genuine, as the lives of those who +accept it do testify. But your hypocritical pretenders I scorn and +execrate." +</P> + +<P> +"It is, perhaps, almost too strong language, this, as applied to Mr. +Gray," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"What is a hypocrite?" asked the merchant. +</P> + +<P> +"A man who puts on the semblance of Christian virtues which he does not +possess." +</P> + +<P> +"And that is what Mr. Gray does when he assumes to be religious. A true +Christian is just. Was he just to me when he crowded me down in the +price of my goods, and robbed me of a living profit, in order that he +might secure a double gain? I think not. There is not even the live and +let live principle in that. No—no, sir. If he has joined the church, +my word for it, there is a black sheep in the fold; or, I might say, +without abuse of language, a wolf therein disguised in sheep's +clothing." +</P> + +<P> +"Give the man time," said I. "Old habits of life are strong, you know. +In a little while, I trust that he will see clearer, and regulate his +life from perceptions of higher truths." +</P> + +<P> +"I thought his heart was changed," answered the merchant, with some +irony in his tones. "That he had been made a new creature." +</P> + +<P> +I did not care to discuss that point with him, and so merely answered, +</P> + +<P> +"The beginnings of spiritual life are as the beginnings of natural +life. The babe is born in feebleness, and we must wait through the +periods of infancy, childhood and youth, before we can have the strong +man ready for the burden and heat of the day, or full-armed for the +battle. If Mr. Gray is in the first effort to lead a Christian life, +that is something. He will grow wiser and better in time, I hope." +</P> + +<P> +"There is vast room for improvement," said the merchant. "In my eyes he +is, at this time, only a hypocritical pretender. I hope, for the sake +of the world and the church both, that his new associates will make +something better out of him." +</P> + +<P> +I went away, pretty much of the merchant's opinion. My next meeting +with Mr. Gray was in the shop of a mechanic to whom he had sold a bill +of goods some months previously. He had called to collect a portion of +the amount which remained unpaid. The mechanic was not ready for him. +</P> + +<P> +"I am sorry, Mr. Gray," he began, with some hesitation of manner. +</P> + +<P> +"Sorry for what?" sharply interrupted Mr. Gray. +</P> + +<P> +"Sorry that I have not the money to settle your bill. I have been +disappointed——" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't want that old story. You promised to be ready for me to-day, +didn't you?" And Mr. Gray knit his brows, and looked angry and +imperative. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I promised. But——" +</P> + +<P> +"Then keep your promise. No man has a right to break his word. Promises +are sacred things, and should be kept religiously." +</P> + +<P> +"If my customers had kept their promises to me there would have been no +failure in mine to you," answered the poor mechanic. +</P> + +<P> +"It is of no use to plead other men's failings in justification of your +own. You said the bill should be settled to-day, and I calculated upon +it. Now, of all things in the world, I hate trifling. I shall not call +again, sir!" +</P> + +<P> +"If you were to call forty times, and I hadn't the money to settle your +account, you would call in vain," said the mechanic, showing +considerable disturbance of mind. +</P> + +<P> +"You needn't add insult to wrong." Mr. Gray's countenance reddened, and +he looked angry. +</P> + +<P> +"If there is insult in the case it is on your part, not mine," retorted +the mechanic, with more feeling. "I am not a digger of gold out of the +earth, nor a coiner of money. I must be paid for my work before I can +pay the bills I owe. It was not enough that I told you of the failure +of my customers to meet their engagements——" +</P> + +<P> +"You've no business to have such customers," broke in Mr. Gray. "No +right to take my goods and sell them to men who are not honest enough +to pay their bills." +</P> + +<P> +"One of them is your own son," replied the mechanic, goaded beyond +endurance. "His bill is equal to half of yours. I have sent for the +amount a great many times, but still he puts me off with excuses. I +will send it to you next time." +</P> + +<P> +This was thrusting home with a sharp sword, and the vanquished Mr. Gray +retreated from the battle-field, bearing a painful wound. +</P> + +<P> +"That wasn't right in me, I know," said the mechanic, as Gray left his +shop. "I'm sorry, now, that I said it. But he pressed me too closely. I +am but human." +</P> + +<P> +"He is a hard, exacting, money-loving man," was my remark. +</P> + +<P> +"They tell me he has become a Christian," said the mechanic. "Has got +religion—been converted. Is that so?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is commonly reported; but I think common report must be in error. +St. Paul gives patience, forbearance, long-suffering, meekness, +brotherly kindness, and charity as some of the Christian graces. I do +not see them in this man. Therefore, common report must be in error." +</P> + +<P> +"I have paid him a good many hundreds of dollars since I opened my shop +here," said the mechanic, with the manner of one who felt hurt. "If I +am a poor, hard-working man, I try to be honest. Sometimes I get a +little behind hand, as I am new, because people I work for don't pay up +as they should. It happened twice before when I wasn't just square with +Mr. Gray, and he pressed down very hard upon me, and talked just as you +heard him to-day. He got his money, every dollar of it; and he will get +his money now. I did think, knowing that he had joined the church and +made a profession of religion, that he would bear a little patiently +with me this time. That, as he had obtained forgiveness, as alleged, of +his sins towards heaven, he would be merciful to his fellow-man. Ah, +well! These things make us very sceptical about the honesty of men who +call themselves religious. My experience with 'professors' has not been +very encouraging. As a general thing I find them quite as greedy for +gain as other men. We outside people of the world get to be very +sharp-sighted. When a man sets himself up to be of better quality than +we, and calls himself by a name significant of heavenly virtue, we +judge him, naturally, by his own standard, and watch him very closely. +If he remain as hard, as selfish, as exacting, and as eager after money +as before, we do not put much faith in his profession, and are very apt +to class him with hypocrites. His praying, and fine talk about faith, +and heavenly love, and being washed from all sin, excite in us contempt +rather than respect. We ask for good works, and are never satisfied +with anything else. By their fruits ye shall know them." +</P> + +<P> +On the next Sunday I saw Mr. Gray in church. My eyes were on him when +he entered. I noticed that all the lines of his face were drawn down, +and that the whole aspect and bearing of the man were solemn and +devotional. He moved to his place with a slow step, his eyes cast to +the floor. On taking his seat, he leaned his head on the pew in front +of him, and continued for nearly a minute in prayer. During the +services I heard his voice in the singing; and through the sermon, he +maintained the most fixed attention. It was communion Sabbath; and he +remained, after the congregation was dismissed, to join in the holiest +act of worship. +</P> + +<P> +"Can this man be indeed self-deceived?" I asked myself, as I walked +homeward. "Can he really believe that heaven is to be gained by pious +acts alone? That every Sabbath evening he can pitch his tent a day's +march nearer heaven, though all the week he have failed in the +commonest offices of neighborly love?" +</P> + +<P> +It so happened, that I had many opportunities for observing Mr. Gray, +who, after joining the church, became an active worker in some of the +public and prominent charities of the day. He contributed liberally in +many cases, and gave a good deal of time to the prosecution of +benevolent enterprises, in which men of some position were concerned. +But, when I saw him dispute with a poor gardener who had laid the sods +in his yard, about fifty cents, take sixpence off of a weary strawberry +woman, or chaffer with his boot-black over an extra shilling, I could +not think that it was genuine love for his fellow-men that prompted his +ostentatious charities. +</P> + +<P> +In no instance did I find any better estimation of him in business +circles; for his religion did not chasten the ardor of his selfish love +of advantage in trade; nor make him more generous, nor more inclined to +help or befriend the weak and the needy. Twice I saw his action in the +case of unhappy debtors, who had not been successful in business. In +each case, his claim was among the smallest; but he said more unkind +things, and was the hardest to satisfy, of any man among the creditors. +He assumed dishonest intention at the outset, and made that a plea for +the most rigid exaction; covering his own hard selfishness with +offensive cant about mercantile honor, Christian integrity, and +religious observance of business contracts. He was the only man among +all the creditors, who made his church membership a prominent +thing—few of them were even church-goers—and the only man who did not +readily make concessions to the poor, down-trodden debtors. +</P> + +<P> +"Is he a Christian?" I asked, as I walked home in some depression of +spirits, from the last of these meetings. And I could but answer +No—for to be a Christian is to be Christ-like. +</P> + +<P> +"As ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them." This is +the divine standard. "Ye must be born again," leaves to us no latitude +of interpretation. There must be a death of the old, natural, selfish +loves, and a new birth of spiritual affections. As a man feels, so will +he act. If the affections that rule his heart be divine affections, he +will be a lover of others, and a seeker of their good. He will not be a +hard, harsh, exacting man in natural things, but kind, forbearing, +thoughtful of others, and yielding. In all his dealings with men, his +actions will be governed by the heavenly laws of justice and judgment. +He will regard the good of his neighbor equally with his own. It is in +the world where Christian graces reveal themselves, if they exist at +all. Religion is not a mere Sunday affair, but the regulator of a man's +conduct among his fellow-men. Unless it does this, it is a false +religion, and he who depends upon it for the enjoyment of heavenly +felicities in the next life, will find himself in miserable error. +Heaven cannot be earned by mere acts of piety, for heaven is the +complement of all divine affections in the human soul; and a man must +come into these—must be born into them—while on earth, or he can +never find an eternal home among the angels of God. Heaven is not +gained by doing, but by living. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +III. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE." +</H3> + +<P> +"<I>HAVE</I> you noticed Miss Harvey's diamonds?" said a friend, directing +my attention, as she spoke, to a young lady who stood at the lower end +of the room. I looked towards Miss Harvey, and as I did so, my eyes +received the sparkle of her gems. +</P> + +<P> +"Brilliant as dew-drops in the morning sunbeams," I remarked. +</P> + +<P> +"Only less brilliant," was my friend's response to this. "Only less +brilliant. Nothing holds the sunlight in its bosom so perfectly as a +drop of dew.—Next, the diamond. I am told that the pin, now flashing +back the light, as it rises and falls with the swell and subsidence of +her bosom, cost just one thousand dollars. The public, you know, are +very apt to find out the money-value of fine jewelry." +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Harvey is beautiful," said I, "and could afford to depend less on +the foreign aid of ornament." +</P> + +<P> +"If she had dazzled us with that splendid pin alone," returned my +friend, "we might never have been tempted to look beneath the jewel, +far down into the wearer's heart. But, diamond earrings, and a diamond +bracelet, added—we know their value to be just twelve hundred dollars; +the public is specially inquisitive—suggest some weakness or +perversion of feeling, and we become eagle-eyed. But for the blaze of +light with which Miss Harvey has surrounded herself, I, for one, should +not have been led to observe her closely. There is no object in nature +which has not its own peculiar signification; which does not correspond +to some quality, affection, or attribute of the mind. This is true of +gems; and it is but natural, that we should look for those qualities in +the wearer of them to which the gems correspond." +</P> + +<P> +I admitted the proposition, and my friend went on. +</P> + +<P> +"Gold is the most precious of all metals, and it must, therefore, +correspond to the most precious attribute, or quality of the mind. What +is that attribute?—and what is that quality?" +</P> + +<P> +"Love," said I, after a pause, "Love is the most precious attribute of +the mind—goodness the highest quality." +</P> + +<P> +"Then, it is no mere fancy to say that gold corresponds to love, or +goodness. It is pure, and ductile, and warm in color, like love; while +silver is harder, and white and shining, like truth. Gold and silver in +nature are, then, as goodness and truth in the human soul. In one we +find the riches of this world, in the other divine riches. And if gold +and silver correspond to precious things of the mind, so must brilliant +jewels. The diamond! How wonderful is its affection for light—taking +in the rays eagerly, dissolving them, and sending them forth again to +gladden the eyes in rich prismatic beauty! And to what mental quality +must the diamond correspond? As it loves the sun's rays, in which are +heat and light—must it not correspond to the affection of things good +and true?—heat being of love, and light of truth or wisdom? The wearer +of diamonds, then, should have in her heart the heavenly affection to +which they correspond. She should be loving and wise." +</P> + +<P> +"It will not do to make an estimate in this way," said I. "The measure +is too exacting." +</P> + +<P> +"I will admit that. But we cannot help thinking of the quality when we +look upon its sign. With a beautiful face, when first seen, do we not +always associate a beautiful soul? And when a lady adorns herself with +the most beautiful and costly things in nature, how can we help +looking, to see whether they correspond to things in her mind! For one, +I cannot; and so, almost involuntarily, I keep turning my eyes upon +Miss Harvey, and looking for signs of her quality." +</P> + +<P> +"And how do you read the lady?" I inquired. +</P> + +<P> +My friend shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"The observation is not favorable." +</P> + +<P> +"Not favorable," he replied. "No, not favorable. She thinks of her +jewels—she is vain of them." +</P> + +<P> +"The temptation is great," I said. +</P> + +<P> +"The fact of so loading herself with costly jewels, is in itself +indicative of vanity—" +</P> + +<P> +A third party joining us at this moment, we dropped the subject of Miss +Harvey. But, enough had been said to make me observe her closely during +the evening. +</P> + +<P> +The opening line of Moore's charming lyric, +</P> + +<P> + "Rich and rare were the gems she wore,"<BR> +</P> + +<P> +kept chiming in my thoughts, whenever I glanced towards her, and saw +the glitter of her diamonds. Yet, past the gems my vision now went, and +I searched the fair girl's countenance for the sparkle of other and +richer jewels. Did I find them? We shall see. +</P> + +<P> +"Helen," I heard a lady say to Miss Harvey, "is not that Mary Gardiner?" +</P> + +<P> +"I believe so," was her indifferent answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you spoken to her this evening?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, aunt." +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mary Gardiner and I were never very congenial. We have not been thrown +together for some time; and now, I do not care to renew the +acquaintance." +</P> + +<P> +I obtained a single glance of the young lady's face. It was proud and +haughty in expression, and her eyes had in them a cold glitter that +awoke in me a feeling of repulsion. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish you were congenial," the lady said, speaking partly to herself. +</P> + +<P> +"We are not, aunt," was Miss Harvey's reply; and she assumed the air of +one who felt herself far superior to another with whom she had been +brought into comparison. +</P> + +<P> +"The gems do not correspond, I fear," said I to myself, as I moved to +another part of the room. "But who is Miss Gardiner?" +</P> + +<P> +In the next moment, I was introduced to the young lady whose name was +in my thought. The face into which I looked was of that fine oval which +always pleases the eye, even where the countenance itself does not +light up well with the changes of thought. But, in this case, a pair of +calm, deep, living eyes, and lips of shape most exquisitely delicate +and feminine—giving warrant of a beautiful soul—caused the face of +Miss Gardiner to hold the vision as by a spell. Low and very musical +was her voice, and there was a discrimination in her words, that lifted +whatever she said above the common-place, even though the subjects were +of the hour. +</P> + +<P> +I do not remember how long it was after my introduction to Miss +Gardiner, before I discovered that her only ornament was a small, +exquisitely cut cameo breast-pin, set in a circlet of pearls. There was +no obtrusive glitter about this. It lay more like an emblem than a +jewel against her bosom. It never drew your attention from her face, +nor dimmed, by contrast, the radiance of her soul-lit eyes. I was +charmed, from the beginning, with this young lady. Her thoughts were +real gems, rich and rare, and when she spoke there was the flash of +diamonds in her sentences; not the flash of mere brilliant sayings, +like the gleaming of a polished sword, but of living truths, that lit +up with their own pure radiance every mind that received them. +</P> + +<P> +Two or three times during the evening, Miss Harvey, radiant in her +diamonds—they cost twenty-two hundred dollars—the price would intrude +itself—and Miss Gardiner, almost guiltless of foreign ornament, were +thrown into immediate contact. But Miss Gardiner was not recognized by +the haughty wearer of gems. It was the old farce of pretence, seeking, +by borrowed attractions, to outshine the imperishable radiance of +truth. I looked on, and read the lesson her conduct gave, and wondered +that any were deceived into even a transient admiration. "Rich and rare +were the gems she wore," but they had in them no significance as +applied to the wearer. It was Miss Gardiner who had the real gems, +beautiful as charity, and pure as eternal truth; and she wore them with +a simple grace, that charmed every beholder who had eyes clear enough +from earthy dust and smoke to see them. +</P> + +<P> +I never meet Miss Harvey, that I do not think of the pure and heavenly +things of the mind to which diamonds correspond, nor without seeing +some new evidence that she wears no priceless jewels in her soul. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap04"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IV. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +NOT AS A CHILD. +</H3> + +<P> +"<I>I DO</I> not know how that may be," said the mother, lifting her head, +and looking through almost blinding tears, into the face of her friend. +"The poet may be right, and, "Not as a child shall I again behold him, +but the thought brings no comfort. I have lost my child, and my heart +looks eagerly forward to a reunion with him in heaven; to the blessed +hour when I shall again hold him in my arms." +</P> + +<P> +"As a babe?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes. As a darling babe, pure, and beautiful as a cherub." +</P> + +<P> +"But would you have him linger in babyhood forever?" asked the friend. +</P> + +<P> +The mother did not reply. +</P> + +<P> +"Did you expect him always to remain a child here? Would perpetual +infancy have satisfied your maternal heart? Had you not already begun +to look forward to the period when intellectual manhood would come with +its crowning honors?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is true," sighed the mother. +</P> + +<P> +"As it would have been here, so will it be there. Here, the growth of +his body would have been parallel, if I may so speak, with the growth +of his mind. The natural and the visible would have developed in +harmony with the spiritual and the invisible. Your child would have +grown to manhood intellectually, as well as bodily. And you would not +have had it otherwise. Growth—development—the going on to perfection, +are the laws of life; and more emphatically so as appertaining to the +life of the human soul. That life, in all its high activities, burns +still in the soul of your lost darling, and he will grow, in the world +of angelic spirits to which our Father has removed him, up to the full +stature of an angel, a glorified form of intelligence and wisdom. He +cannot linger in feeble babyhood; in the innocence of simple ignorance; +but must advance with the heavenly cycles of changing and renewing +states." +</P> + +<P> +"And this is all the comfort you bring to my yearning heart?" said the +mother. "My darling, if all you say be true, is lost to me forever." +</P> + +<P> +"He was not yours, but God's." The friend spoke softly, yet with a firm +utterance. +</P> + +<P> +"He was mine to love," replied the bereaved one. +</P> + +<P> +"And your love would confer upon its precious object the richest +blessings. Dear friend! Lift your thoughts a little way above the +clouds that sorrow has gathered around your heart, and let perception +come into an atmosphere radiant with light from the Sun of Truth. Think +of your child as destined to become, in the better world to which God +has removed him, a wise and loving angel. Picture to your imagination +the higher happiness, springing from higher capacities and higher uses, +which must crown the angelic life. Doing this, and loving your lost +darling, I know that you cannot ask for him a perpetual babyhood in +heaven." +</P> + +<P> +"I will ask nothing for him but what 'Our Father' pleaseth to give," +said the mother, in calmer tones. "My love is selfish, I know. I called +that babe mine—mine in the broadest sense—yet he was God's, as every +other creature is his—one of the stones in his living temple—one of +the members of his kingdom. It does not comfort me in my great sorrow +to think that, as a child, I shall not again behold him, but rays of +new light are streaming into my mind, and I see things in new aspects +and new relations. Out of this deep affliction good will arise." +</P> + +<P> +"Just as certainly," added the friend, "as that the Sun shines and the +dew falls. It will be better for you, and better for the child. To both +will come a resurrection into higher and purer life." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +V. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +ANGELS IN THE HEART. +</H3> + +<P> +<I>THE</I> heart is full of guest-chambers that are never empty; and as the +heart is the seat of life, these guests are continually acting upon the +life, either for good or evil, according to their quality. As the +guests are, so our states of life—tranquil and happy, if good; +disturbed and miserable, if evil. +</P> + +<P> +We may choose our own guests, if we are wise. None can open the door +and come in, unless we give consent; always provided that we keep watch +and ward. If we leave wide open the doors of our houses, or neglect to +fasten them in the night season, thieves and robbers will enter and +despoil us at will. So if we leave the heart, unguarded, enemies will +come in. But if we open the door only to good affections—which are +guests—then we shall dwell in peace and safety. We have all opened the +door for enemies; or let them enter through unguarded portals. They are +in all the heart's guest-chambers. They possess the very citadel of +life; and the measure of their possession is the measure of our +unhappiness. +</P> + +<P> +Markland was an unhappy man; and yet of this world's goods, after which +he had striven, he had an abundance. Wealth, honor among men, luxury; +these were presented to his mind as things most to be desired, and he +reached after them with an ardor that broke down all impediments. +Success answered to effort, with almost unerring certainty. So he was +full of wealth and honors. But, for all this, Markland was unhappy. +There were enemies in the house of his life; troublesome guests in the +guest-chambers of his heart, who were forever disturbing, if not +wounding him, with their strifes and discords. Some of these he had +admitted, himself holding open the door; others had come in by stealth +while the entrance was all unguarded. +</P> + +<P> +Envy was one of these guests, and she gave him no peace. He could not +bear that another should stand above him in anything. A certain pew in +the church he attended was regarded as most desirable. He must have +that pew at any cost. So when the annual choice of pews was sold at +auction, he overbid all contestants, and secured its occupancy. For all +the preceding year, he had failed to enjoy the Sabbath services, +because another family had a pew regarded as better situated than his; +and now he enjoyed these services as little, through annoyance at +having given so large a price for the right of choice, that people +smiled when they heard the sum named. He had paid too dear for the +privilege, and this fact took away enjoyment. +</P> + +<P> +Envy tormented him in a hundred different ways. He could not enjoy his +friend's exquisite statuary, or paintings, because of a secret +intimation in his heart that his friend was honored above him in their +possession. Twice he had sold almost palatial residences, because their +architectural attractions were thrown into the shade by dwellings of +later construction. Thousands of dollars each year this troublesome +guest cost him; and yet she would never let him be at ease. At every +feast of life she dashed his cup with bitterness, and robbed the +choicest viands of their zest. He did not enjoy the fame of an author, +an orator, an artist, a man of science, a general, or of any who held +the world's admiring gaze—for while they stood in the sunlight, he +felt cast in the shade. So the guest Envy, warmed and nourished in his +heart, proved a tormentor. She gave him neither rest nor peace. +</P> + +<P> +Detraction, twin-sister of Envy, was all the while pointing out defects +in friends and neighbors. He saw their faults and hard peculiarities; +but rarely their good qualities. Then Doubt and Distrust crept in +through the unguarded door, and soon after their entrance Markland +began to think uneasily of the future; to fear lest the foundations of +worldly prosperity were not sure. These troublesome guests were busiest +in the night season, haunting his mind with strange pictures of +disasters, and with suggestions touching the arbitrary power of God, +whom he feared when the thought of him was present, but did not love. +"Whom He will He setteth up, and whom He will He casteth down." Doubt +and Distrust revived this warning in his memory, and seeing that it +gave his heart a throb of pain, they set it close to his eyes, so that, +for a time, he could see nothing else. Thus, night after night, these +guests troubled his peace, often driving slumber from his eyelids until +the late morning watches. If there had been in his heart that true +faith in God which believes in him as doing all things well, Doubt and +Distrust might never have gained an entrance. But he had trusted in +himself; had believed himself equal to the task of creating his own +prosperity—had been, in common phrase, the architect of his own +fortunes. And now just as he was pluming himself on success, in crept +Doubt and Distrust with their alarming suggestions, and he was unable +to cast them out. +</P> + +<P> +Affections, whether evil or good, are social in their character, and +obey social laws. They do not like to dwell alone, and therefore seek +congenial friendships. They draw to themselves companions of like +quality, and are not satisfied until they rule a man as to all the +powers of his mind. +</P> + +<P> +In the case of Markland, Envy made room for her twin-sister, +Detraction; Ill-will, Jealousy, Unkindness, and a teeming brood of +their malevolent kindred crowded into his heart, possessing its +chambers, ere a warning reached him of their approach. Is there rest or +peace for a man with such guests in his bosom? +</P> + +<P> +Doubt and Distrust only heralded the coming of Fear, Anxiety, +Solicitude, Suspicion, Despondency, Foreboding. Markland had only to +open his eyes and look around him, to see, on every hand, the unsightly +wrecks of palaces once as fair to the eye as that which he had raised +with such labor and forethought, and as he contemplated these, Doubt, +Distrust, and their companions, filled his mind with alarming thoughts, +and so oppressed him with a sense of insecurity that, at times, he saw +the advancing shadows of misfortune on his path. +</P> + +<P> +Thus it was with Markland at fifty. He had all good as to the externals +of life, yet was he a miserable man, and, worse than all, he felt +himself growing more and more unhappy as the years increased. Was there +no remedy for this? None, while his heart was so filled with evil +affections, which are always tormentors. He did not see this. Though +his guests disturbed and afflicted him, he called them friends, and +gave them entertainments of the best his house afforded. +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes Pity came to the door of his heart and asked for admission, +but he sent Unkindness to double bar it against her. Generosity +knocked, but Avarice stood sentinel. Envy was forever refusing to let +Good-will, Appreciation, Approval, Delight, come in. Detraction would +give no countenance to Virtue and Excellence. Doubt made deadly assault +upon Faith, and Trust, and Hope, whenever they drew near, while +Ill-will stood ever on the alert to drive off Charity, Loving-kindness +and Neighborly regard. Unhappy man! Fiends possessed him, and he knew +it not. +</P> + +<P> +It so happened on a time, that Markland, while standing in one of his +well-filled ware-houses, saw a child enter and come towards him in a +timid, hesitating manner. +</P> + +<P> +"A beggar! Drive her away," said Unkindness and Suspicion, both +arousing themselves. +</P> + +<P> +Markland was already lifting his hand to wave her back, when +Compassion, who had just then found an old way into his heart, hidden +for a long time by rank weeds and brambles, said, in soft and pitying +tones: +</P> + +<P> +"She is such a little child!" +</P> + +<P> +"A thieving beggar!" cried Unkindness and Suspicion, angrily. +</P> + +<P> +"A weak little child," pleaded Compassion. "Don't be hard with her. +Speak kindly." +</P> + +<P> +Compassion prevailed. Her voice had awakened into life some old and +long sleeping memories. Markland was himself, for a moment, a child, +full of pity, tenderness and loving-kindness. Compassion had already +uncovered the far away past, and the sweetness of its young blossoms +was reviving old delights. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, little one, what is wanted?" +</P> + +<P> +Markland hardly knew his own voice, it was so gentle and inviting. +</P> + +<P> +How the pale, pure face of the child warmed and brightened! Gratefully +with trust and hope in her eyes, she looked up to the merchant. There +was no answer on her lips, for this unexpected kindness had choked the +coming utterance. Rebuff, threat, anger, had met her so often, that +soft words almost surprised her into tears. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, what can I do for you?" +</P> + +<P> +Compassion held open the door through which she gained an entrance, and +already Good-will, Kindness and Satisfaction had come in. +</P> + +<P> +"Mother is sick," said the child. +</P> + +<P> +"A lying vagrant!" exclaimed Suspicion, jarring the merchant's inward +ear. +</P> + +<P> +"There is truth in her face," said Compassion, pleading, and, at the +same time, she unveiled an image, sharply cut in the past of Markland's +life—an image of his own beloved, but long sainted mother, pale and +wasted, on her dying bed. +</P> + +<P> +"Give this to your mother," he said, hastily, taking a coin from his +pocket. There was more of human kindness in his voice than it had +expressed for many years. +</P> + +<P> +"God bless you, sir," the child dropped her grateful eyes from his +face, as she took the coin, bending with an involuntary reverent +motion. Then, as she slowly passed to the warehouse door, she turned +two or three times, to look on the man who, alone, of the many to whom +she had made solicitation that day, had answered her in kindness. +</P> + +<P> +"So much for the encouragement of vagrancy," said Suspicion. +</P> + +<P> +"Played on by the art of a cunning child," said Pride. +</P> + +<P> +Markland began to feel ashamed of his momentary weakness. But, he was +not now, wholly, at the mercy of the guests who had so long tormented +him. Compassion, Good-will and Kindness were now his guests also; and +they had other and pleasanter suggestions for his mind. The child's +"God bless you, sir," they repeated over and over again, softening the +young voice, and giving it increasing power to awaken tender and loving +states which had formed themselves in earlier and purer years. +Tranquility, so long absent from his soul, came in, now, through the +entrance made by Compassion. +</P> + +<P> +Markland went back into his counting-room, almost wondering at the +peace he felt. Taking up a newspaper, he read of a rare specimen of +statuary just received from Italy, the property of a well-known +merchant. Envy did not move quickly enough. The old love of beauty and +nature, which envy, detraction, greed of gain, and their blear-eyed +companions, had kept in thrall, was already in a freer state; and found +in good-will, kindness and tranquility, congenial friends. +</P> + +<P> +So, love of art and beauty ruled his mind in spite of envy, and +Markland found real pleasure in the ideal given him by the description +he read. It was, almost, a new sensation. +</P> + +<P> +A friend came in, and spoke in praise of one who had performed a +generous deed. There was an instant motion among the guests in +Markland's heart, the evil inciting to envy and detraction, the good to +approval and emulation. Tranquility moved to the door through which she +had come in, as if to depart; but Good-will, Kindness and Approbation, +drew her back, and held, with her, possession of the mind they sought +to rule. Envy and Detraction were shorn, for the time, of their power. +</P> + +<P> +Wondering, as he lay on his bed that night, over the strange peace that +pervaded his mind—a peace such as he had not known for many +years—Markland fell asleep; and in his sleep there came to him a dream +of the human heart and its guest-chamber; and what we have faintly +suggested, was made visible to him in living personation. +</P> + +<P> +He saw how evil affections, when permitted to dwell therein, became its +enemies and tormentors; and how, just in the degree that kind and good +affections gained entrance, there was peace, tranquility and +satisfaction. +</P> + +<P> +"I have looked into my own heart," he said, on awaking. +</P> + +<P> +The incident of the child, and the dream that followed, were, in +Providence, sent for Markland's instruction. And they were not sent in +vain. Ever after he set watch and ward at the doors of his heart. Evil +guests, already in possession, were difficult to cast out; but, he +invited the good to come in, opening the way by kind and noble acts, +done in the face of opposing selfishness. Thus he went on, peopling the +guest-chamber with sweet beatitudes, until angels instead of demons +filled his house of life. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap06"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VI. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED. +</H3> + +<P> +"<I>TRIPPED</I> again!" +</P> + +<P> +"Who?" +</P> + +<P> +"Brantley." +</P> + +<P> +"Poor fellow! He has a hard time of it. Is he all the way down?" +</P> + +<P> +"I presume so. When he begins to fall, he usually gets to the bottom of +the ladder." +</P> + +<P> +It was true; Brantley had tripped again; and was down. He had been +climbing bravely for three or four years, and was well up the ladder of +prosperity, when in his eagerness to make two rundles of the ladder at +a step instead of one, he missed his footing and fell to the bottom. My +first knowledge of the fact came through the conversation just +recorded. From all I could hear, Brantley's failure was a serious one. +I knew him to be honorable and conscientious, and to have a great deal +of sensitive pride. +</P> + +<P> +A few days afterwards, while passing the pleasant home where Brantley +had been residing, I saw a bill up, giving notice that the house was +for sale. A few days later I met him on the street. He did not see me. +His eyes were on the pavement; he looked pale and careworn; he walked +slowly, and was in deep thought. +</P> + +<P> +"He is of tougher material than most men, if the heart is not all taken +out of him," I said in speaking of him to a mutual friend. +</P> + +<P> +"And he <I>is</I> of tougher material," was answered, "that is, of finer +material. Brantley is not one of your common men." +</P> + +<P> +"Still, there must be something wrong about him. Some defect of +judgment. He is a good climber; but not sure-footed. Or, it may be that +beyond a certain height his head grows dizzy." +</P> + +<P> +"If one gets too eager in any pursuit, he is almost sure to make false +steps. I think Brantley became too eager. The steadily widening +prospect as he went up, up, up, caused his pulses to move at a quicker +rate." +</P> + +<P> +"Too eager, and less scrupulous," I suggested. +</P> + +<P> +"His honor is unstained," said the friend, with some warmth. +</P> + +<P> +"In the degree that a man grows eager in pursuit, he is apt to grow +blind to things collateral, and less concerned about the principles +involved." +</P> + +<P> +"In some cases that may be true, but is hardly probable in the case of +Brantley. I do not believe that he has swerved from integrity in +anything." +</P> + +<P> +"It is my belief," I answered, "that if he had not swerved, he would +not have fallen. I may be wrong, but cannot help the impression." +</P> + +<P> +"Brantley is an honest man. I will maintain that in the face of every +one," was replied. +</P> + +<P> +"Honest as the world regards honesty. But there are higher than legal +standards. What A and B may consider fair, C may regard as +questionable. He has his own standard; and if he falls below that in +his dealings with men, he departs from his integrity." +</P> + +<P> +"I have nothing to say for Brantley under that view of the subject," +said the friend. "If he has special standards of morality, and does not +live up to them, the matter is between himself and his own conscience. +We, on the outside, are not his judges." +</P> + +<P> +It so happened that I met Brantley a short time afterwards. The +circumstances were favorable, and our interview unreserved. He had sold +his house, and a large part of the handsome furniture it contained, and +was living in a humbler dwelling. I referred to his changed condition, +and spoke of it with regret. +</P> + +<P> +"There is no gratuitous evil," he remarked. "I have long been satisfied +on that head. If we lose on one hand, we gain on another. And my +experience in life leads me to this conclusion, that the loss is +generally in lower things, and the gain in higher." +</P> + +<P> +I looked into his face, yet bearing the marks of recent trial and +suffering, and saw in it the morning dawn. +</P> + +<P> +"Has it been so with you?" I asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; and it has always been so," he answered, without hesitation. "It +is painful to be under the surgeon's knife," he added. "We shrink back, +shivering, at the sight of his instruments. The flesh is agonized. But +when all is over, and the greedy tumor, or wasting cancer, that was +threatening life, is gone, we rejoice and are glad." +</P> + +<P> +He sighed, and looked sober for a little while, as thought went back, +and memory gave too vivid a realization of what had been, and then +resumed: +</P> + +<P> +"I can see now, that what seemed to me, and is still regarded by others +as a great misfortune, was the best thing that could have taken place. +I have lost, but I have gained; and the gain is greater than the loss. +It has always been so. Out of every trouble or disaster that has +befallen me in life, I have come with a deep conviction that my feet +stumbled because they were turning into paths that would lead my soul +astray. However much I may love myself and the world, however much I +may seek my own, below all and above all is the conviction that time is +fleeting, and life here but as a span, that if I compass the whole +world, and lose my own soul, I have made a fearful exchange. There are +a great many things regarded by business men as allowable. They are so +common in trade, that scarcely one man in a score questions their +morality; so common, that I have often found myself drifting into their +practice, and abandoning for a time the higher principles in whose +guidance there alone is safety. Misfortune seems to have dogged my +steps; but in this pause of my life—in this state of calmness—I can +see that misfortune is my good; for, not until my feet were turning +into ways that lead to death, did I stumble and fall." +</P> + +<P> +"Are you not too hard in self-judgment?" I said. +</P> + +<P> +"No," he answered. "The case stands just here. You know, I presume, the +immediate cause of my recent failure in business." +</P> + +<P> +"A sudden decline in stocks." +</P> + +<P> +The color deepened on his cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; that is the cause. Now, years ago, I settled it clearly with my +own conscience that stock speculation was wrong; that it was only +another name for gambling, in which, instead of rendering service to +the community, your gains were, in nearly all cases, measured by +another's loss. Departing from this just principle of action, I was +tempted to invest a large sum of money in a rising stock, that I was +sure would continue to advance until it reached a point where, in +selling I could realize a net gain of ten thousand dollars. I was doing +well. I was putting by from two to three thousand dollars every year, +and was in a fair way to get rich. But, as money began to accumulate, I +grew more and more eager in its acquirement, and less concerned about +the principles underlying every action, until I passed into a temporary +state of moral blindness. I was less scrupulous about securing large +advantages in trade, and would take the lion's share, if opportunity +offered, without a moment's hesitation. So, not content with doing well +in a safe path, I must step aside, and try my strength at climbing more +rapidly, even though danger threatened on the left and on the right; +even though I dragged others down in my hot and perilous scramble +upwards. I lost my footing—I stumbled—I fell, crashing down to the +very bottom of the hill, half way up which I had gone so safely ere the +greedy fiend took possession of me." +</P> + +<P> +"And have not been really hurt by the fall," I remarked. +</P> + +<P> +"I have suffered pain—terrible pain; for I am of a sensitive nature," +he replied. "But in the convulsions of agony, nothing but the outside +shell of a false life has been torn away. The real man is unharmed. And +now that the bitter disappointment and sadness that attend humiliation +are over, I can say that my gain is greater than my loss. I would +rather grope in the vale of poverty all my life, and keep my conscience +clean, than stand high up among the mountains of prosperity with a +taint thereon. +</P> + +<P> +"God knows best," he added, after a pause, speaking in a more subdued +tone. "And I recognize the hand of His good providence in this wreck of +my worldly hopes. To gain riches at the sacrifice of just principles is +to gather up dirt and throw away goodly pearls." +</P> + +<P> +"How is it with your family?" I asked. "They must feel the change +severely." +</P> + +<P> +"They did feel it. But the pain is over with them also. Poor weak human +nature! My girls were active and industrious at home, and diligent at +school, while my circumstances were limited. But, as money grew more +plentiful, and I gave them a larger house to live in, and richer +clothes to wear, they wearied of their useful employments, and +neglected their studies. Pride grew apace, and vanity walked hand in +hand with pride. They were less considerate of one another, and less +loving to their parents. If I attempted to restrain their fondness for +dress, or check their extravagance, they grew sullen, or used unfilial +language. Like their father, they could not bear prosperity. But all is +changed now. Misfortune has restored them to a better state of mind. +They emulate each other in service at home; their minds dwell on useful +things; they are tender of their mother and considerate of their +father. Home is a sweeter place to us all than it has been for a long +time." +</P> + +<P> +"And so what the world calls misfortune has proved a blessing." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. In permitting my feet to stumble; in letting me fall from the +height I had obtained, God dealt with me and mine in infinite love. We +give false names to things. We call that good which only represents +good, which is of the heart and life, and not in external possessions. +He has taken from me the effigy that He may give me the good itself." +</P> + +<P> +"If all men could find like you," I said, "a sweet kernel at the centre +of misfortune's bitter nut." +</P> + +<P> +"All men may find it if they will," he answered, "for the sweet kernel +is there." +</P> + +<P> +How few find it! Nay, reader, if you say this, your observation is at +fault. God's providences with men are not like blind chances, but full +of wisdom and love. In the darkness of sorrow and adversity a light +shines on the path that was not illumined before. When the sun of +worldly prosperity goes down, a thousand stars are set in the +firmament. In the stillness that follows, God speaks to the soul and is +heard. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap07"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VII. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +INTO GOOD GROUND. +</H3> + +<P> +"<I>WHAT</I> did you think of the sermon, Mr. Braxton?" said one church +member to another, as the two men passed from the vestibule of St. +Mark's out into the lofty portico. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Braxton gave a slight shrug, perceived by his companion as a sign +of disapproval. They moved along, side by side, down the broad steps to +the pavement, closely pressed by the retiring audience. +</P> + +<P> +"Strong meat," said the first speaker, as they got free of the crowd +and commenced moving down the street. +</P> + +<P> +"Too strong for my stomach," replied Mr. Braxton. "Something must have +gone wrong with our minister when he sat down to write that discourse." +</P> + +<P> +"Indigestion, perhaps." +</P> + +<P> +"Or neuralgia," said Mr. Braxton. +</P> + +<P> +"He was in no amiable mood—that much is certain. Why, he set +nine-tenths of us over on the left hand side, among the goats, as +remorselessly as if he were an avenging Nemesis. He actually made me +shudder." +</P> + +<P> +"That kind of literal application of texts to the living men and women +in a congregation is not only in bad taste, but presumptuous and +blasphemous. What right has a clergyman to sit in judgment on me, for +instance? To give forced constructions to parables and vague +generalities in Scripture, about the actual meaning of which divines in +all ages have differed; and, pointing his finger to me or to you, +say—'The case is yours, sir!' I cannot sit patiently under many more +such sermons." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Braxton evidently spoke from a disturbed state of mind. Something +in the discourse had struck at the foundations of self-love and +self-complacency. +</P> + +<P> +"Into one ear, and out at the other. So it is with me, in cases like +this," answered Mr. Braxton's companion, in a changed and lighter tone. +"If a preacher chooses to be savage; to write from dyspeptic or +neuralgic states; to send his congregation, unshrived, to the nether +regions—why, I shrug my shoulders and let it pass. Most likely, on the +next Sunday, he will be full of consideration for tender consciences, +and grandly shut the gate he threw open so widely on the last occasion. +It would never answer, you know, to take these things to heart—never +in the world. We'd always be getting into hot water. Clergymen have +their moods, like other people. It doesn't answer to forget this. Good +morning, Mr. Braxton. Our ways part here." +</P> + +<P> +"Good morning," was replied, and the men separated. +</P> + +<P> +But, try as Mr. Braxton would to set his minister's closely applied +doctrine from Scripture to the account of dyspepsia or neuralgia, he +was unable to push from his mind certain convictions wrought therein by +the peculiar manner in which some positions had been argued and +sustained. The subject taken by the minister, was that striking picture +of the judgment given in the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, from the +thirty-first verse to the close of the chapter, beginning: "When the +Son of Man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, +then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory: and before him shall be +gathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a +shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats." The passage concludes: +"And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous +into life eternal." +</P> + +<P> +Now, although Mr. Braxton had complained of the literal application of +this text, that term was hardly admissible, for the preacher waived the +idea of a last general judgment, as involved in the letter of +Scripture, and declared his belief in a spiritual signification as +lying beneath the letter, and applicable to the inner life of every +single individual at the period of departure from this world; adding, +in this connection, briefly: "But do not understand me as in any degree +waiving the strictness of judgment to which every soul will have to +submit. It will not be limited by his acts, but go down to his ends of +life—to his motives and his quality—and the sentence will really be a +judgment upon what he <I>is</I>, not upon what he has <I>done</I>; although, +taking the barest literal sense, only actions are regarded." +</P> + +<P> +In opening and illustrating his text, he said, farther: "As the word of +God, according to its own declarations, is spirit and life—treats, in +fact, by virtue of divine and Scriptural origin, of divine and +spiritual things, must we not go beneath the merely obvious and natural +meaning, if we would get to its true significance? Is there not a +hunger of the soul as well as of the body? May we not be spiritually +athirst, and strangers?—naked, sick, and in prison? This being so, can +we confidently look for the invitation, 'Come, ye blessed of my Father, +if our regard for the neighbor have not reached beyond his bodily life? +If we have never considered his spiritual wants and sufferings, and +ministered thereto according to our ability? Just in the degree that +the soul is more precious than the body, is the degree of our +responsibility under this more interior signification of Scripture. The +mere natural acts of feeding the hungry and giving water to the +thirsty, of visiting the sick, and those who lie in prison, of clothing +the naked and entertaining strangers, will not save us in our last day, +if we have neglected the higher duties involved in the divine +admonition. Nor will even the supply of spiritual nourishment to hungry +and thirsty souls be accounted to us for righteousness. We must find a +higher meaning still in the text. Are we not, each one of us, starving +for heavenly food?—spiritually exhausted with thirst?—naked, sick, in +prison? Are we eating, daily, of the bread of life?—drinking at the +wells of God's truth?—putting on the garments of +righteousness?—finding balm for our sick souls in Gilead?—breaking +the bonds of evil?—turning from strange lands, and coming back to our +father's house. If not, I warn you, men and brethren, that you are not +in the right way;—that, taking the significance of God's word, which +is truth itself, there is no reasonable ground of hope for your +salvation." +</P> + +<P> +It was not with Mr. Braxton as with his friend. He could not let +considerations like these enter one ear and go out at the other. From +earliest childhood he had received careful instruction. Parents, +teachers and preachers, had all shared in the work of storing his mind +with the precepts of religion, and now, in manhood, his conscience +rested on these and upon the states wrought therefrom in the +impressible substance of his mind. Try as he would, he found the effort +to push aside early convictions and early impressions a simple +impossibility; and, notwithstanding these had been laid on the +foundation of a far more literal interpretation of Scripture than the +one to which he had just been listening, his maturer reason accepted +the preacher's clear application of the law; and conscience, like an +angel, went down into his heart, and troubled the waters which had been +at peace. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Braxton was a man of thrift. He had started in life with a purpose, +and that purpose he was steadily attaining. To the god of this world he +offered daily sacrifice; and in his heart really desired no higher good +than seemed attainable through outward things. Wealth, position, honor, +among men—these bounded his real aspirations. But prior things in his +mind were continually reaching down and affecting his present states. +He could not forget that life was short, and earthly possessions and +honors but the things of a day. That as he brought nothing into this +world, so he could take nothing out. That, without a religious life, he +must not hope for heaven. In order to get free from the disturbing +influence of these prior things, and to lay the foundations of a future +hope, Mr. Braxton became a church member, and, so far as all Sabbath +observances were concerned, a devout worshiper. Thus he made a truce +with conscience, and conscience having gained so much, accepted for a +period the truce, and left Mr. Braxton in good odor with himself. +</P> + +<P> +A man who goes regularly to church, and reads his Bible, cannot fail to +have questions and controversies about truths, duties, and the +requirements of religion. The barest literal interpretation of +Scripture will, in most cases, oppose the action of self-love; and he +will not fail to see in the law of spiritual life a requirement wholly +in opposition to the law of natural life. In the very breadth of this +literal requirement, however, he finds a way of escape from literal +observance. To give to all who ask; to lend to all who would borrow; to +yield the cloak when the coat is taken forcibly; to turn the left cheek +when the right is smitten—all this is to him so evidently but a figure +of speech, that he does not find it very hard to satisfy conscience. +Setting these passages aside, as not to be taken in the sense of the +letter, he does not find it very difficult to dispose of others that +come nearer to the obvious duties of man to man—such, for instance, as +that in the illustration of which, by the preacher, Mr. Braxton's +self-complacency had been so much disturbed. He had never done much in +the way of feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, clothing +the naked, or visiting the sick and in prison—never done anything of +set purpose, in fact. If people were hungry, it was mostly their own +fault, and to feed them would be to encourage idleness and vice. All +the other items in the catalogue were as easily disposed of; and so the +literal duties involved might have been set forth in the most +impassioned eloquence, Sabbath after Sabbath, without much disturbing +the fine equipose of Mr. Braxton. Alas for his peace of mind!—the +preacher of truth had gone past the dead letter, and revealed its +spirit and its life. Suddenly he felt himself removed, as it were, to +an almost impossible distance from the heaven into which, as he had +complacently flattered himself, he should enter by the door of mere +ritual observances, when the sad hour came for giving up the delightful +things of this pleasant world. No wonder that Mr. Braxton was +disturbed—no wonder that, in his first convictions touching those more +interior truths, which made visible the sandy foundations whereon he +was building his eternal hopes, he should regard the application of +doctrine as personal and even literal. +</P> + +<P> +It was not so easy a thing to set aside the duty of ministering to the +hungry, sick, and naked human souls around him, thousands of whom, for +lack of spiritual nourishment, medicine and clothing, were in danger of +perishing eternally. And the preacher in dwelling upon this great duty +of all Christian men and women, had used emphatic language. +</P> + +<P> +"I give you," he said, "God's judgment of the case—not my own. +'Inasmuch as ye did it not unto one of the least of these, ye did it +not unto me. And these shall go away;' where? 'To everlasting +punishment!' Who shall go thus, in the last day, from this +congregation?" +</P> + +<P> +As Mr. Braxton sat alone on the evening of that Sabbath, troubled by +the new thoughts which came flowing into his mind, the full impression +of this scene in church came back upon him. There was an almost +breathless pause. Men leaned forward in their pews; the low, almost +whispered, tones of the minister were heard with thrilling distinctness +in even the remotest parts of the house. +</P> + +<P> +"Who?" he repeated, and the stillness grew more profound. Then, slowly, +impressively, almost sadly, he said: +</P> + +<P> +"I cannot hide the truth. As God's ambassador, I must give the message; +and it is this: If you, my brother, are not ministering to the wants of +the hungry and thirsty, the stranger, the sick and in prison, you are +of those who will have to go away." +</P> + +<P> +And the minister shut the Book, and sat down. If, as we have intimated, +the preacher had limited Christian duty to bodily needs, Mr. Braxton +would not have been much exercised in mind. +</P> + +<P> +He had found an easy way to dispose of these merely literal +interpretations of Scripture. Now, his life was brought to the judgment +of a more interior law, as expounded that day. It was in vain that he +endeavored to reject the law; for the more he tried to do this, the +clearer it was seen in the light of perceptive truth. +</P> + +<P> +"God help me, if this be so!" he exclaimed, in a moment of more perfect +realization of what was meant in the Divine Word. "Who shall stand in +the judgment?" +</P> + +<P> +For awhile he endeavored to turn himself away from convictions that +were grounding themselves deeper and deeper every moment,—to shut his +eyes in wilful blindness, and refuse to see in the purer light which +had fallen around him. But this effort only brought his mind into +severer conflict, and consciously removed him to an almost fatal +distance from the paths leading upward to the mountains of peace. +</P> + +<P> +"This is the way, walk ye in it." A clear voice rose above the noise of +strife in his soul, and his soul grew calm and listened. He no longer +wrought at the fruitless task of rejecting the higher truths which were +illustrating his mind, but let them flow in, and by virtue thereof +examined the state of his inner life. Now it was that his eyes were in +a degree opened, so that he could apprehend the profounder meanings of +Scripture. The parables were flooded with new light. He understood, as +he had never understood before, why the guest, unclothed with a wedding +garment, was cast out from the feast; and why the door was shut upon +the virgins who had no oil in their lamps. He had always regarded these +parables as involving a hidden meaning—as intended to convey spiritual +instruction under literal forms—but, now, they spoke in a language +that applied itself to his inward state, and warned him that without a +marriage garment, woven in the loom of interior life, where motives +rule, he could never be the King's guest; warned him that without the +light of divine truth in his understanding, and the oil of love to God +and the neighbor in his heart, the door of the kingdom would be shut +against him. Ritual observances were, to these, but outward forms, dry +husks, except when truly representative of that worship in the soul +which subordinates natural affections to what is spiritual and divine. +</P> + +<P> +At last the seed fell into good ground. Mr. Braxton had been a +"way-side" hearer; but, ere the good seed had time to germinate, fowls +came and devoured it. He had been a "stony-ground" hearer, receiving +the truth with gladness, but having no root in himself. He had been as +the ground choked with thorns, suffering the cares of this world and +the deceitfulness of riches to choke and hinder the growth of heavenly +life. Now, into good ground the seed had at last fallen; and though the +evil one tried to snatch it away, its hidden life, moving to the +earth's quick invitation, was already giving prophetic signs of thirty, +sixty, or a hundredfold, in the harvest time. +</P> + +<P> +Why was there good ground in the mind of Mr. Braxton? Good ground, even +though he was wedded to external life; a self-seeker; a lover of the +world? In the answer to this question lies a most important truth for +all to whom God has committed the care of children. Unless good ground +is formed, as it was in his case, by early instruction; by storing up +in the memory truths from the Bible, and states of good affection; by +weaving into the web and woof of the forming mind precepts of +religion—there is small hope for the future. If these are not made a +part of the forming life, things opposite will be received, and +determine spiritual capabilities. Influx of life into the soul must be +through prior things; as the twig is bent, the tree is inclined; as the +child's memory and consciousness is stored, so will the man develop and +progress. Take heart, then, doubting parent; if you have in all +faithfulness, woven precious truths, and tender, pious, unselfish +states into the texture of your child's mind—though the fruit is not +yet seen, depend on it, that the treasured remains of good and true +things are there, and will not be lost. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap08"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VIII. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +GIVING THAT DOTH NOT IMPOVERISH. +</H3> + +<P> +<I>OF</I> all the fallacies accepted by men as truths, there is none more +widely prevalent, nor more fatal to happiness, than that which assumes +the measure of possession to be the measure of enjoyment. All over the +world, the strife for accumulation goes on; every one seeking to +increase his flocks and herds—his lands and houses—or his gold and +merchandise—and ever in the weary, restless, unsatisfied present, +tightening with one hand the grasp on worldly goods, and reaching out +for new accessions with the other. +</P> + +<P> +In dispensation, not in possession, lies the secret of enjoyment; a +fact which nature illustrates in a thousand ways, and to which every +man's experience gives affirmation. "Very good doctrine for the idle +and thriftless," said Mr. Henry Steel, a gentleman of large wealth, in +answer to a friend, who had advanced the truth we have expressed above. +</P> + +<P> +"As good doctrine for them as for you," was replied. "Possession must +come before dispensation. It is not the receiver but the dispenser who +gets the higher blessing." +</P> + +<P> +The rich man shrugged his shoulders, and looked slightly annoyed, as +one upon whom a distasteful theme was intruded. +</P> + +<P> +"I hear that kind of talk every Sunday," he said, almost impatiently. +"But I know what it is worth. Preaching is as much a business as +anything else; and this cant about its being more blessed to give than +to receive is a part of the capital in trade of your men of black coats +and white neck-ties. I understand it all, Mr. Erwin." +</P> + +<P> +"You talk lighter than is your wont on so grave a theme," answered the +friend. "What you speak of as 'cant,' and the preacher's 'capital in +trade'—'it is more blessed to give than to receive, are the recorded +words of him who never spake as man spake. If his words, must they not +be true?" +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps I did speak lightly," was returned. "But indeed, Mr. Erwin, I +cannot help feeling that in all these efforts to make rich men believe +that their only way to happiness is through a distribution of their +estates, a large element of covetousness exists." +</P> + +<P> +"That may be. But, to-day you are worth over a quarter of million of +dollars. I remember when fifty thousand, all told, limited the extent +of your possessions, and I think you were happier than I find you +to-day. How was it, my friend?" +</P> + +<P> +"As to that," was unhesitatingly replied, "I had more true enjoyment in +life when I was simply a clerk with a salary of four hundred dollars a +year, than I have known at any time since." +</P> + +<P> +"A remarkable confession," said the friend. +</P> + +<P> +"Yet true, nevertheless." +</P> + +<P> +"In all these years of strife with fortune—in all these years of +unremitted gain—has there been any great and worthy end in your mind? +Any purpose beyond the acquirement of wealth?" +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Steel's brows contracted. He looked at his friend for a moment like +one half surprised, and then glanced thoughtfully down at the floor. +</P> + +<P> +"Gain, and only gain," said Mr. Erwin. "Not your history alone, nor +mine alone. It is the history of millions. Gathering, gathering, but +never of free choice, dispensing. Still, under Providence, the +dispensation goes on; and what we hoard, in due time another +distributes. Men accumulate gold like water in great reservoirs; +accumulate it for themselves, and refuse to lay conduits. Often they +pour in their gold until the banks fail under excessive pressure, and +the rich treasure escapes to flow back among the people. Often secret +conduits are laid, and refreshing and fertilizing currents, unknown to +the selfish owner, flow steadily out, while he toils with renewed and +anxious labors to keep the repository full. Oftener, the great magazine +of accumulated gold and silver, which he never found time to enjoy, is +rifled by others at his death. He was the toiler and the +accumulator—the slave who only produced. Miners, pearl-divers, +gold-washers are we, my friend; but what we gather we fail to possess +in that true sense of possession which involves delight and +satisfaction. For us the toil, for others the benefit." +</P> + +<P> +"A flattering picture certainly!" was responded by Mr. Steel, with the +manner of one on whose mind an unpleasant conviction was forcing itself. +</P> + +<P> +"Is it not true to the life? Death holds out to us his unwelcome hand, +and we must leave all. The key of our treasure-house is given, to +another." +</P> + +<P> +"Yet, is he not bound by our will?" said Mr. Steel. "As we have +ordered, must not he dispense?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why not dispense with our own hands, and with our own eyes see the +fruit thereof? Why not, in some small measure, at least prove if it be +indeed, more blessed to give than to receive? Let us talk plainly to +each other—we are friends. I know that in your will is a bequest of +five thousand dollars to a certain charitable institution, that, even +in its limited way, is doing much good. I speak now of only this single +item. In my will, following your example and suggestion, is a similar +bequest of one thousand dollars. You are forty-five and I am +forty-seven. How long do we expect to live?" +</P> + +<P> +"Life is uncertain." +</P> + +<P> +"Yet often prolonged to sixty, seventy, or even eighty years. Take +sixty-five as the mean. Not for twenty years, then, will this +institution receive the benefit of your good intention. It costs, I +think, about fifty dollars a year to support each orphan child. Only a +small number can be taken, for want of liberal means. Applicants are +refused admission almost every day. Three hundred dollars, the interest +on five thousand, at six per cent., would pay for six children. Take +five years as the average time each would remain in the institution, +and we have thirty poor, neglected little ones, taken from the street, +and educated for usefulness. Thirty human souls rescued, it may be, +from hell, and saved, finally, in heaven. And all this good might be +accomplished before your eyes. You might, if you chose, see it in +progress, and comprehending its great significance, experience a degree +of pleasure, such as fills the hearts of angels. I have made up my mind +what to do." +</P> + +<P> +"What?" +</P> + +<P> +"Erase the item of one thousand dollars from my will." +</P> + +<P> +"What then?" +</P> + +<P> +"Call it two thousand, and invest it at once for the use of this +charity. No, twenty years shall stand between my purpose and its +execution. I will have the satisfaction of knowing that good is done in +my lifetime. In this case, at least, I will be my own dispenser." +</P> + +<P> +Love of money was a strong element in the heart of Mr. Steel. The +richer he grew, the more absorbing became his desire for riches. It was +comparatively an easy thing to write out charitable bequests in a +will—to give money for good uses when no longer able to hold +possession thereof; but to lessen his valued treasure by taking +anything therefrom for others in the present time, was a thing the very +suggestion of which startled into life a host of opposing reasons. He +did not respond immediately, although his heart moved him to utterance. +The force of his friend's argument was, however, conclusive. He saw the +whole subject in a new light. After a brief but hard struggle with +himself, he answered: +</P> + +<P> +"And I shall follow in your footsteps, my friend. I never thought of +the lost time you mention, of the thirty children unblessed by the good +act I purposed doing. Can I leave them to vice, to suffering, to crime, +and yet be innocent? Will not their souls be required at my hands, now +that God shows me their condition? I feel the pressure of a +responsibility scarcely thought of an hour ago. You have turned the +current of my thoughts in a new direction." +</P> + +<P> +"And what is better still," answered Mr. Erwin, "your purposes also." +</P> + +<P> +"My purposes also," was the reply. +</P> + +<P> +A week afterwards the friends met again. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah," said Mr. Erwin, as he took the hand of Mr. Steel, "I see a new +light in your face. Something has taken off from your heart that dead, +dull weight of which you complained when I was last here. I don't know +when I have seen so cheerful an expression on your countenance." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps your eyes were dull before." Mr. Steel's smile was so +all-pervading that it lit up every old wrinkle and care-line in his +face. +</P> + +<P> +"I was at the school yesterday," said Mr. Erwin, in a meaning way. +</P> + +<P> +"Were you?" The light lay stronger on the speaker's countenance. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. A little while after you were there." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Steel took a deep breath, as if his heart had commenced beating +more rapidly. +</P> + +<P> +"I have not seen a happier man than the superintendent for a score of +weeks. If you had invested the ten thousand dollars for his individual +benefit, he could not have been half so well pleased." +</P> + +<P> +"He seems like an excellent man, and one whose heart is in his work," +said Mr. Steel. +</P> + +<P> +"He had, already, taken in ten poor little boys and girls on the +strength of your liberal donation. Ten children lifted out of want and +suffering, and placed under Christian guardianship! Just think of it. +My heart gave a leap for joy when he told me. It was well done, my +friend—well done!" +</P> + +<P> +"And what of your good purpose, Mr. Erwin?" asked the other. +</P> + +<P> +"Two little girls—babes almost," replied Mr. Erwin, in a lower voice, +that almost trembled with feeling, "were brought to me. As I looked at +them, the superintendent said: 'I heard of them two days ago. Their +wretched mother had just died, and, in dying, had given them to a +vicious companion. Hunger, cold, debasement, suffering, crime, were in +the way before them; and but for your timely aid, I should have had no +power to intervene. But, you gave the means of rescue, and here they +are, innocent as yet, and out of danger from the wolf.' In all my life, +my friend, there has not been given a moment of sincerer pleasure." +</P> + +<P> +For some time Mr. Steel sat musing. +</P> + +<P> +"This is a new experience," he said, at length. "Something outside of +the common order of things. I have made hundreds of investments in my +time, but none that paid me down so large an interest. A poor +speculation it seemed. You almost dragged me into it; but, I see that +it will yield unfailing dividends of pleasure." +</P> + +<P> +"We have turned a leaf in the book of life," his friend made answer, +"and on the new page which now lies before us, we find it written, that +in wise dispensation, not in mere getting and hoarding, lies the secret +of happiness. The lake must have an outlet, and give forth its crystal +waters in full measure, if it would keep them pure and wholesome, or, +as the Dead Sea, it will be full of bitterness, and hold no life in its +bosom." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap09"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IX. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +WAS IT MURDER, OR SUICIDE? +</H3> + +<P> +"<I>WHO</I> is that young lady?" +</P> + +<P> +A slender girl, just above the medium height, stood a moment at the +parlor door, and then withdrew. Her complexion was fair, but colorless; +her eyes so dark, that you were in doubt, on the first glance, whether +they were brown or blue. Away from her forehead and temples, the +chestnut hair was put far back, giving to her finely-cut and regular +features an intellectual cast. Her motions were easy, yet with an air +of reserve and dignity. +</P> + +<P> +The question was asked by a visitor who had called a little while +before. +</P> + +<P> +"My seamstress," answered Mrs. Wykoff. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" The manner of her visitor changed. How the whole character of the +woman was expressed in the tone with which she made that simple +ejaculation! Only a seamstress! "Oh! I thought it some relative or +friend of the family." +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"She is a peculiar-looking girl," said Mrs. Lowe, the visitor. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think so? In what respect?" +</P> + +<P> +"If she were in a different sphere of life, I would say that she had +the style of a lady." +</P> + +<P> +"She's a true, good girl," answered Mrs. Wykoff, "and I feel much +interested in her. A few years ago her father was in excellent +circumstances." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah!" With a slight manifestation of interest. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, and she's been well educated." +</P> + +<P> +"And has ridden in her own carriage, no doubt. It's the story of +two-thirds of your sewing girls." Mrs. Lowe laughed in an +unsympathetic, contemptuous way. +</P> + +<P> +"I happen to know that it is true in Mary Carson's case," said Mrs. +Wykoff. +</P> + +<P> +"Mary Carson. Is that her name?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Passing from her antecedents, as the phrase now is, which are neither +here nor there," said Mrs. Lowe, with a coldness, or rather coarseness +of manner, that shocked the higher tone of Mrs. Wykoff's feelings, +"what is she as a seamstress? Can she fit children?—little girls like +my Angela and Grace?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have never been so well suited in my life," replied Mrs. Wykoff. +"Let me show you a delaine for Anna which she finished yesterday." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Wykoff left the room, and returned in a few minutes with a child's +dress in her hand. The ladies examined the work on this dress with +practised eyes, and agreed that it was of unusual excellence. +</P> + +<P> +"And she fits as well as she sews?" said Mrs. Lowe. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Nothing could fit more beautifully than the dresses she has made +for my children." +</P> + +<P> +"How soon will you be done with her?" +</P> + +<P> +"She will be through with my work in a day or two." +</P> + +<P> +"Is she engaged anywhere else?" +</P> + +<P> +"I will ask her, if you desire it." +</P> + +<P> +"Do so, if you please." +</P> + +<P> +"Would you like to see her?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's of no consequence. Say that I will engage her for a couple of +weeks. What are her terms?" +</P> + +<P> +"Seventy-five cents a day." +</P> + +<P> +"So much? I've never paid over sixty-two-and-a-half." +</P> + +<P> +"She's worth the difference. I'd rather pay her a dollar a day than +give some women I've had, fifty cents. She works faithfully in all +things." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll take your word for that, Mrs. Wykoff. Please ask her if she can +come to me next week; and if so, on what day?" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Wykoff left the room. +</P> + +<P> +"Will Monday suit you?" she asked, on returning. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; that will do." +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Carson says that she will be at your service on Monday." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well. Tell her to report herself bright and early on that day. I +shall be all ready for her." +</P> + +<P> +"Hadn't you better see her, while you are here?" asked Mrs. Wykoff. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no. Not at all necessary. It will be time enough on Monday. Your +endorsement of her is all-sufficient." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Lowe, who had only been making a formal call, now arose, and with +a courteous good morning, retired. From the parlor, Mrs. Wykoff +returned to the room occupied by Miss Carson. +</P> + +<P> +"You look pale this morning, Mary," said the lady as she came in, "I'm +afraid you are not as well as usual." +</P> + +<P> +The seamstress lifted herself in a tired way, and took a long breath, +at the same time holding one hand tightly against her left side. Her +eyes looked very bright, as they rested, with a sober expression, on +Mrs. Wykoff. But she did not reply. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you severe pain there, Mary?" The voice was very kind; almost +motherly. +</P> + +<P> +"Not very severe. But it aches in a dull way." +</P> + +<P> +"Hadn't you better lie down for a little while?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no—thank you, Mrs. Wykoff." And a smile flitted over the girl's +sweet, sad face; a smile that was meant to say—"How absurd to think of +such a thing!" She was there to work, not to be treated as an invalid. +Stooping over the garment, she went on with her sewing. Mrs. Wykoff +looked at her very earnestly, and saw that her lips were growing +colorless; that she moved them in a nervous way, and swallowed every +now and then. +</P> + +<P> +"Come, child," she said, in a firm tone, as she took Miss Carson by the +arm. "Put aside your work, and lie down on that sofa. You are sick." +</P> + +<P> +She did not resist; but only said—- +</P> + +<P> +"Not sick, ma'am—only a little faint." +</P> + +<P> +As her head went heavily down upon the pillow, Mrs. Wykoff saw a +sparkle of tears along the line of her closely shut eyelids. +</P> + +<P> +"Now don't stir from there until I come back," said the kind lady, and +left the room. In a little while she returned, with a small waiter in +her hand, containing a goblet of wine sangaree and a biscuit. +</P> + +<P> +"Take this, Mary. It will do you good." +</P> + +<P> +The eyes which had not been unclosed since Mrs. Wykoff went out, were +all wet as Mary Carson opened them. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, you are so kind!" There was gratitude in her voice. Rising, she +took the wine, and drank of it like one athirst. Then taking it from +her lips, she sat, as if noting her sensations. +</P> + +<P> +"It seems to put life into me," she said, with a pulse of cheerfulness +in her tones. +</P> + +<P> +"Now eat this biscuit," and Mrs. Wykoff held the waiter near. +</P> + +<P> +The wine drank and the biscuit eaten, a complete change in Miss Carson +was visible. The whiteness around her mouth gave place to a ruddier +tint; her face no longer wore an exhausted air; the glassy lustre of +her eyes was gone. +</P> + +<P> +"I feel like myself again," she said, as she left the sofa, and resumed +her sewing chair. +</P> + +<P> +"How is your side now?" asked Mrs. Wykoff. +</P> + +<P> +"Easier. I scarcely perceive the pain." +</P> + +<P> +"Hadn't you better lie still a while longer?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, ma'am. I am all right now. A weak spell came over me. I didn't +sleep much last night, and that left me exhausted this morning, and +without any appetite." +</P> + +<P> +"What kept you awake?" +</P> + +<P> +"This dull pain in my side for a part of the time. Then I coughed a +good deal; and then I became wakeful and nervous." +</P> + +<P> +"Does this often occur, Mary?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well—yes, ma'am—pretty often of late." +</P> + +<P> +"How often?" +</P> + +<P> +"Two or three times a week." +</P> + +<P> +"Can you trace it to any cause?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not certainly." +</P> + +<P> +"To cold?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, ma'am." +</P> + +<P> +"Fatigue?" +</P> + +<P> +"More that than anything else, I think." +</P> + +<P> +"And you didn't eat any breakfast this morning?" +</P> + +<P> +"I drank a cup of coffee." +</P> + +<P> +"But took no solid food?" +</P> + +<P> +"I couldn't have swallowed it, ma'am." +</P> + +<P> +"And it's now twelve o'clock," said Mrs. Wykoff; drawing out her watch. +"Mary! Mary! This will not do. I don't wonder you were faint just now." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Carson bent to her work and made no answer. Mrs. Wykoff sat +regarding her for some time with a look of human interest, and then +went out. +</P> + +<P> +A little before two o'clock there was a tap at the door, and the waiter +came in, bearing a tray. There was a nicely-cooked chop, toast, and +some tea, with fruit and a custard. +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs. Wykoff said, when she went out, that dinner would be late to-day, +and that you were not well, and mustn't be kept waiting," remarked the +servant, as he drew a small table towards the centre of the room, and +covered it with a white napkin. +</P> + +<P> +He came just in time. The stimulating effect of the wine had subsided, +and Miss Carson was beginning to grow faint again, for lack of food. +</P> + +<P> +It was after three o'clock when Mrs. Wykoff came home, and half past +three before the regular dinner for the family was served. She looked +in, a moment, upon the seamstress, saying as she did so— +</P> + +<P> +"You've had your dinner, Mary?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh yes, ma'am, and I'm much obliged," answered Miss Carson, a bright +smile playing over her face. The timely meal had put new life into her. +</P> + +<P> +"I knew you couldn't wait until we were ready," said the kind-hearted, +thoughtful woman, "and so told Ellen to cook you a chop, and make you a +cup of tea. Did you have enough?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh yes, ma'am. More than enough." +</P> + +<P> +"You feel better than you did this morning?" +</P> + +<P> +"A great deal better, I'm like another person." +</P> + +<P> +"You must never go without food so long again, Mary. It is little +better than suicide for one in your state of health." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Wykoff retired, and the seamstress went on with her work. +</P> + +<P> +At the usual hour, Mary Carson appeared on the next morning. Living at +some distance from Mrs. Wykoff's, she did not come until after +breakfast. The excellent lady had thought over the incident of the day +before, and was satisfied that, from lack of nutritious food at the +right time, Mary's vital forces were steadily wasting, and that she +would, in a very little while, destroy herself. +</P> + +<P> +"I will talk with her seriously about this matter," she said. "A word +of admonition may save her." +</P> + +<P> +"You look a great deal better this morning," she remarked, as she +entered the room where Mary was sewing. +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't felt better for a long time," was the cheerful answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Did you sleep well last night?" +</P> + +<P> +"Very well." +</P> + +<P> +"Any cough?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not of any consequence, ma'am." +</P> + +<P> +"How was the pain in your side?" +</P> + +<P> +"It troubled me a little when I first went to bed, but soon passed off." +</P> + +<P> +"Did you feel the old exhaustion on waking?" +</P> + +<P> +"I always feel weak in the morning; but it was nothing, this morning, +to what it has been." +</P> + +<P> +"How was your appetite?" +</P> + +<P> +"Better. I eat an egg and a piece of toast, and they tasted good. +Usually my stomach loathes food in the morning." +</P> + +<P> +"Has this been the case long?" +</P> + +<P> +"For a long time, ma'am." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Wykoff mused for a little while, and then asked— +</P> + +<P> +"How do you account for the difference this morning?" +</P> + +<P> +Miss Carson's pale face became slightly flushed, and her eyes fell away +from the questioning gaze of Mrs. Wykoff. +</P> + +<P> +"There is a cause for it, and it is of importance that you should know +the cause. Has it been suggested to your mind?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, ma'am. To me the cause is quite apparent." +</P> + +<P> +They looked at each other for a few moments in silence. +</P> + +<P> +"My interest in you prompts these questions, Mary," said Mrs. Wykoff. +"Speak to me freely, if you will, as to a friend. What made the +difference?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think the difference is mainly due to your kindness yesterday.—To +the glass of wine and biscuit when I was faint, and to the early and +good dinner, when exhausted nature was crying for food. I believe, Mrs. +Wykoff"—and Mary's eyes glistened—"that if you had not thought of me +when you did, I should not be here to-day." +</P> + +<P> +"Are you serious, Mary?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am, indeed, ma'am. I should have got over my faint spell in the +morning, even without the wine and biscuit, and worked on until +dinner-time; but I wouldn't have been able to eat anything. It almost +always happens, when I go so long without food, that my appetite fails +altogether, and by the time night comes, I sink down in an exhausted +state, from which nature finds it hard to rally. It has been so a +number of times. The week before I came here, I was sewing for a lady, +and worked from eight o'clock in the morning until four in the +afternoon, without food passing my lips. As I had been unable to eat +anything at breakfast-time, I grew very faint, and when called to +dinner, was unable to swallow a mouthful. When I got home in the +evening I was feverish and exhausted, and coughed nearly all night. It +was three or four days before I was well enough to go out again." +</P> + +<P> +"Has this happened, in any instance, while you were sewing for me?" +asked Mrs. Wykoff. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Carson dropped her face, and turned it partly aside; her manner +was slightly disturbed. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't hesitate about answering my question, Mary. If it has happened, +say so. I am not always as thoughtful as I should be." +</P> + +<P> +"It happened once." +</P> + +<P> +"When?" +</P> + +<P> +"Last week." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! I remember that you were not able to come for two days. Now, tell +me, Mary, without reservation, exactly how it was." +</P> + +<P> +"I never blamed you for a moment, Mrs. Wykoff. You didn't think; and +I'd rather not say anything about it. If I'd been as well as usual on +that day, it wouldn't have happened." +</P> + +<P> +"You'd passed a sleepless night?" said Mrs. Wykoff. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, ma'am." +</P> + +<P> +"The consequence of fatigue and exhaustion?" +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps that was the reason." +</P> + +<P> +"And couldn't eat any breakfast?" +</P> + +<P> +"I drank a cup of coffee." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well. After that you came here to work. Now, tell me exactly what +occurred, and how you felt all day. Don't keep back anything on account +of my feelings. I want the exact truth. It will be of use to me, and to +others also, I think." +</P> + +<P> +Thus urged, Miss Carson replied— +</P> + +<P> +"I'll tell you just as it was. I came later than usual. The walk is +long, and I felt so weak that I couldn't hurry. I thought you looked a +little serious when I came in, and concluded that it was in consequence +of my being late. The air and walk gave me an appetite, and if I had +taken some food then, it would have done me good. I thought, as I stood +at the door, waiting to be let in, that I would ask for a cracker or a +piece of bread and butter; but, when I met you, and saw how sober you +looked, my heart failed me." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Mary!" said Mrs. Wykoff. "How wrong it was in you!" +</P> + +<P> +"May be it was, ma'am; but I couldn't help it. I'm foolish sometimes; +and it's hard for us to be anything else than what we are, as my Aunt +Hannah used to say. Well, I sat down to my work with the dull pain in +my side, and the sick feeling that always comes at such times, and +worked on hour after hour. You looked in once or twice during the +morning to see how I was getting on, and to ask about the trimming for +a dress I was making. Then you went out shopping, and did not get home +until half past two o'clock. For two hours there had been a gnawing at +my stomach, and I was faint for something to eat. Twice I got up to +ring the bell, and ask for a lunch; but, I felt backward about taking +the liberty. When, at three o'clock, I was called to dinner, no +appetite remained. I put food into my mouth, but it had no sweetness, +and the little I forced myself to swallow, lay undigested. You were +very much occupied, and did not notice me particularly. I dragged on, +as best I could, through the afternoon, feeling, sometimes, as if I +would drop from my chair. You had tea later than usual. It was nearly +seven o'clock when I put up my work and went down. You said something +in a kind, but absent tone, about my looking pale, and asked if I would +have a second cup of tea. I believe I forced myself to eat a slice of +bread half as large as my hand. I thought I should never reach home +that night, for the weakness that came upon me. I got to bed as soon as +possible, but was too tired to sleep until after twelve o'clock, when a +coughing spell seized me, which brought on the pain in my side. It was +near daylight when I dropped off; and then I slept so heavily for two +hours that I was all wet with perspiration when I awoke. On trying to +rise, my head swam so that I had to lie down again, and it was late in +the day before I could even sit up in bed. Towards evening, I was able +to drink a cup of tea and eat a small piece of toast and then I felt +wonderfully better. I slept well that night, and was still better in +the morning, but did not think it safe to venture out upon a day's +work; so I rested and got all the strength I could. On the third day, I +was as well as ever again." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Wykoff drew a long sigh as Miss Carson stopped speaking and bent +down over her sewing. For some time, she remained without speaking. +</P> + +<P> +"Life is too precious a thing to be wasted in this way," said the lady, +at length, speaking partly to herself, and partly to the seamstress. +"We are too thoughtless, I must own; but you are not blameless. It is +scarcely possible for us to understand just how the case stands with +one in your position, and duty to yourself demands that you should make +it known. There is not one lady in ten, I am sure, who would not be +pleased rather than annoyed, to have you do so." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Carson did not answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you doubt?" asked Mrs. Wykoff. +</P> + +<P> +"For one of my disposition," was replied, "the life of a seamstress +does not take off the keen edge of a natural reserve—or, to speak more +correctly sensitiveness. I dislike to break in upon another's household +arrangements, or in any way to obtrude myself. My rule is, to adapt +myself, as best I can, to the family order, and so not disturb anything +by my presence." +</P> + +<P> +"Even though your life be in jeopardy?" said Mrs. Wykoff. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! it's not so bad as that." +</P> + +<P> +"But it is, Mary! Let me ask a few more questions. I am growing +interested in the subject, as reaching beyond you personally. How many +families do you work for?" +</P> + +<P> +After thinking for a little while, and naming quite a number of ladies, +she replied— +</P> + +<P> +"Not less than twenty." +</P> + +<P> +"And to many of these, you go for only a day or two at a time?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Passing from family to family, and adapting yourself to their various +home arrangements?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, ma'am." +</P> + +<P> +"Getting your dinner at one o'clock to-day, and at three or four +to-morrow?" +</P> + +<P> +Miss Carson nodded assent. +</P> + +<P> +"Taking it now, warm and well served, with the family, and on the next +occasion, cold and tasteless by yourself, after the family has dined." +</P> + +<P> +Another assenting inclination of the head. +</P> + +<P> +"One day set to work in an orderly, well ventilated room, and on the +next cooped up with children in a small apartment, the air of which is +little less than poison to your weak lungs." +</P> + +<P> +"These differences must always occur, Mrs. Wykoff," replied Miss +Carson, in a quiet uncomplaining voice. "How could it be otherwise? No +house-keeper is going to alter her family arrangements for the +accommodation of a sewing-girl. The seamstress must adapt herself to +them, and do it as gracefully as possible." +</P> + +<P> +"Even at the risk of her life?" +</P> + +<P> +"She will find it easier to decline working in families where the order +of things bears too heavily upon her, than to attempt any change. I +have been obliged to do this in one or two instances." +</P> + +<P> +"There is something wrong here, Mary," said Mrs. Wykoff, with +increasing sobriety of manner. "Something very wrong, and as I look it +steadily in the face, I feel both surprise and trouble; for, after what +you have just said, I do not see clearly how it is to be remedied. One +thing is certain, if you, as a class, accept, without remonstrance, the +hurt you suffer, there will be no change. People are indifferent and +thoughtless; or worse, too selfish to have any regard for +others—especially if they stand, socially, on a plane below them." +</P> + +<P> +"We cannot apply the remedy," answered Miss Carson. +</P> + +<P> +"I am not so sure of that." +</P> + +<P> +"Just look at it for a moment, Mrs. Wykoff. It is admitted, that, for +the preservation of health, orderly habits are necessary; and that food +should be taken at regular intervals. Suppose that, at home, my habit +is to eat breakfast at seven, dinner at one, and supper at six. To-day, +such is the order of my meals; but to-morrow, I leave home at half past +six, and sit down, on an empty stomach to sew until eight, before I am +called to breakfast. After that, I work until two o'clock, when I get +my dinner; and at seven drink tea. On the day after that, may be, on my +arrival at another house where a day's cutting and fitting is wanted, I +find the breakfast awaiting me at seven; this suits very well—but not +another mouthful of food passes my lips until after three o'clock, and +may be, then, I have such an inward trembling and exhaustion, that I +cannot eat. On the day following, the order is again changed. So it +goes on. The difference in food, too, is often as great. At some +houses, everything is of good quality, well cooked, and in consequence, +of easy digestion; while at others, sour or heavy bread, greasy +cooking, and like kitchen abominations, if I must so call them, +disorder instead of giving sustenance to a frail body like mine. The +seamstress who should attempt a change of these things for her own +special benefit, would soon find herself in hot water. Think a moment. +Suppose, in going into a family for one or two days, or a week, I +should begin by a request to have my meals served at certain +hours—seven, one and six, for instance—how would it be received in +eight out of ten families?" +</P> + +<P> +"Something would depend," said Mrs. Wykoff, "on the way in which it was +done. If there was a formal stipulation, or a cold demand, I do not +think the response would be a favorable one. But, I am satisfied that, +in your case, with the signs of poor health on your countenance, the +mild request to be considered as far as practicable, would, in almost +every instance, receive a kind return." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps so. But, it would make trouble—if no where else, with +servants, who never like to do anything out of the common order. I have +been living around long enough to understand how such things operate; +and generally think it wisest to take what comes and make the best of +it." +</P> + +<P> +"Say, rather, the worst of it, Mary. To my thinking, you are making the +worst of it." +</P> + +<P> +But, Mrs. Wykoff did not inspire her seamstress with any purpose to act +in the line of her suggestions. Her organization was of too sensitive a +character to accept the shocks and repulses that she knew would attend, +in some quarters, any such intrusion of her individual wants. Even with +all the risks upon her, she preferred to suffer whatever might come, +rather than ask for consideration. During the two or three days that +she remained with Mrs. Wykoff, that excellent lady watched her, and +ministered to her actual wants, with all the tender solicitude of a +mother; and when she left, tried to impress upon her mind the duty of +asking, wherever she might be, for such consideration as her health +required. +</P> + +<P> +The Monday morning on which Mary Carson was to appear "bright and +early" at the dwelling of Mrs. Lowe, came round, but it was far from +being a bright morning. An easterly storm had set in during the night; +the rain was falling fast, and the wind driving gustily. A chilliness +crept through the frame of Miss Carson as she arose from her bed, soon +after the dull light began to creep in drearily through the half closed +shutters of her room. The air, even within her chamber, felt cold, +damp, and penetrating. From her window a steeple clock was visible. She +glanced at the face, and saw that it was nearly seven. +</P> + +<P> +"So late as that!" she exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, and commenced +dressing herself in a hurried, nervous way. By the time she was ready +to leave her room, she was exhausted by her own excited haste. +</P> + +<P> +"Mary," said a kind voice, calling to her as she was moving down +stairs, "you are not going out this morning." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes, ma'am," she answered, in a cheerful voice. "I have an +engagement for to-day." +</P> + +<P> +"But the storm is too severe. It's raining and blowing dreadfully. Wait +an hour or two until it holds up a little." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh dear, no, Mrs. Grant! I can't stop for a trifle of rain." +</P> + +<P> +"It's no trifle of rain this morning, let me tell you, Mary. You'll get +drenched to the skin. Now don't go out, child!" +</P> + +<P> +"I must indeed, Mrs. Grant. The lady expects me, and I cannot +disappoint her." And Miss Carson kept on down stairs. +</P> + +<P> +"But you are not going without something on your stomach, Mary. Wait +just for a few minutes until I can get you a cup of tea. The water is +boiling." +</P> + +<P> +Mary did not wait. It was already past the time when she was expected +at Mrs. Lowe's; and besides feeling a little uncomfortable on that +account, she had a slight sense of nausea, with its attendant aversion +to food. So, breaking away from Mrs. Grant's concerned importunities, +she went forth into the cold driving storm. It so happened, that she +had to go for nearly the entire distance of six or seven blocks, almost +in the teeth of the wind, which blew a gale, drenching her clothes in +spite of all efforts to protect herself by means of an umbrella. Her +feet and ankles were wet by the time she reached Mrs. Lowe's, and the +lower parts of her dress and under-clothing saturated to a depth of ten +or twelve inches. +</P> + +<P> +"I expected you half an hour ago," said the lady, in a coldly polite +way, as Miss Carson entered her presence. +</P> + +<P> +"The morning was dark and I overslept myself," was the only reply. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Lowe did not remark upon the condition of Mary's clothing and +feet. That was a matter of no concern to her. It was a seamstress, not +a human being, that was before her—a machine, not thing of sensation. +So she conducted her to a room in the third story, fronting east, +against the cloudy and misty windows of which the wind and rain were +driving. There was a damp, chilly feeling in the air of this room. Mrs. +Lowe had a knit shawl drawn around her shoulders; but Mary, after +removing her bonnet and cloak, had no external protection for her chest +beyond the closely fitting body of her merino dress. Her feet and hands +felt very cold, and she had that low shuddering, experienced when one +is inwardly chilled. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Lowe was ready for her seamstress. There were the materials to +make half a dozen dresses for Angela and Grace, and one of the little +Misses was called immediately, and the work of selecting and cutting a +body pattern commenced, Mrs. Lowe herself superintending the operation, +and embarrassing Mary at the start with her many suggestions. Nearly an +hour had been spent in this way, when the breakfast bell rang. It was +after eight o'clock. Without saying anything to Mary, Mrs. Lowe and the +child they had been fitting, went down stairs. This hour had been one +of nervous excitement to Mary Carson. Her cheeks were hot—burning as +if a fire shone upon them—but her cold hands, and wet, colder feet, +sent the blood in every returning circle, robbed of warmth to the +disturbed heart. +</P> + +<P> +It was past nine o'clock when a servant called Mary to breakfast. As +she arose from her chair, she felt a sharp stitch in her left side; so +sharp, that she caught her breath in half inspirations, two or three +times, before venturing on a full inflation of the lungs. She was, at +the same time, conscious of an uncomfortable tightness across the +chest. The nausea, and loathing of food, which had given place soon +after her arrival at Mrs. Lowe's to a natural craving of the stomach +for food, had returned again, and she felt, as she went down stairs, +that unless something to tempt the appetite were set before her, she +could not take a mouthful. There was nothing to tempt the appetite. The +table at which the family had eaten remained just as they had left +it—soiled plates and scraps of broken bread and meat; partly emptied +cups and saucers; dirty knives and forks, spread about in +confusion.—Amid all this, a clean plate had been set for the +seamstress; and Mrs. Lowe awaited her, cold and dignified, at the head +of the table. +</P> + +<P> +"Coffee or tea, Miss Carson?" +</P> + +<P> +"Coffee." +</P> + +<P> +It was a lukewarm decoction of spent coffee grounds, flavored with tin, +and sweetened to nauseousness. Mary took a mouthful and swallowed +it—put the cup again to her lips; but they resolutely refused to +unclose and admit another drop. So she sat the cup down. +</P> + +<P> +"Help yourself to some of the meat." And Mrs. Lowe pushed the dish, +which, nearly three-quarters of an hour before had come upon the table +bearing a smoking sirloin, across to the seamstress. Now, lying beside +the bone, and cemented to the dish by a stratum of chilled gravy, was +the fat, stringy end of the steak. The sight of it was enough for Miss +Carson; and she declined the offered delicacy. +</P> + +<P> +"There's bread." She took a slice from a fresh baker's loaf; and spread +it with some oily-looking butter that remained on one of the butter +plates. It was slightly sour. By forcing herself, she swallowed two or +three mouthfuls. But the remonstrating palate would accept no more. +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't the coffee good?" asked Mrs. Lowe, with a sharp quality in her +voice, seeing that Miss Carson did not venture upon a second mouthful. +</P> + +<P> +"I have very little appetite this morning," was answered, with an +effort to smile and look cheerful. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps you'd rather have tea. Shall I give you a cup?" And Mrs. Lowe +laid her hand on the teapot. +</P> + +<P> +"You may, if you please." Mary felt an inward weakness that she knew +was occasioned by lack of food, and so accepted the offer of tea, in +the hope that it might prove more palatable than the coffee. It had the +merit of being hot, and not of decidedly offensive flavor; but it was +little more in strength than sweetened water, whitened with milk. She +drank off the cup, and then left the table, going, with her still wet +feet and skirts to the sewing-room. +</P> + +<P> +"Rather a dainty young lady," she heard Mrs. Lowe remark to the waiter, +as she left the room. +</P> + +<P> +The stitch in Mary's side caught her again, as she went up stairs, and +almost took her breath away; and it was some time after she resumed her +work, before she could bear her body up straight on the left side. +</P> + +<P> +In her damp feet and skirts, on a chilly and rainy October day, Mary +Carson sat working until nearly three o'clock, without rest or +refreshment of any kind; and when at last called to dinner, the +disordered condition of the table, and the cold, unpalatable food set +before her, extinguished, instead of stimulating her sickly appetite. +She made a feint of eating, to avoid attracting attention, and then +returned to the sewing-room, the air of which, as she re-entered, +seemed colder than that of the hall and dining-room. +</P> + +<P> +The stitch in her side was not so bad during the afternoon; but the +dull pain was heavier, and accompanied by a sickening sensation. Still, +she worked on, cutting, fitting and sewing with a patience and +industry, that, considering her actual condition, was surprising. Mrs. +Lowe was in and out of the room frequently, overlooking the work, and +marking its progress. Beyond the producing power of her seamstress, she +had no thought of that individual. It did not come within the range of +her questionings whether she were well or ill—weak or +strong—exhausted by prolonged labor, or in the full possession of +bodily vigor. To her, she was simply an agent through which a certain +service was obtained; and beyond that service, she was nothing. The +extent of her consideration was limited by the progressive creation of +dresses for her children. As that went on, her thought dwelt with Miss +Carson; but penetrated no deeper. She might be human; might have an +individual life full of wants, yearnings, and tender sensibilities; +might be conscious of bodily or mental suffering—but, if so, it was in +a region so remote from that in which Mrs. Lowe dwelt, that no +intelligence thereof reached her. +</P> + +<P> +At six o'clock, Mary put up her work, and, taking her bonnet and shawl, +went down stairs, intending to return home. +</P> + +<P> +"You're not going?" said Mrs. Lowe, meeting her on the way. She spoke +in some surprise. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, ma'am. I'm not very well, and wish to get home." +</P> + +<P> +"What time is it?" Mrs. Lowe drew out her watch. "Only six o'clock. I +think you're going rather early. It was late when you came this +morning, you know." +</P> + +<P> +"Excuse me, if you please," said Miss Carson, as she moved on. "I am +not very well to-night. To-morrow I will make it up." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Lowe muttered something that was not heard by the seamstress, who +kept on down stairs, and left the house. +</P> + +<P> +The rain was still falling and the wind blowing. Mary's feet were quite +wet again by the time she reached home. +</P> + +<P> +"How are you, child?" asked Mrs. Grant, in kind concern, as Mary came +in. +</P> + +<P> +"Not very well," was answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! I'm sorry! Have you taken cold?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm afraid that I have." +</P> + +<P> +"I said it was wrong in you to go out this morning. Did you get very +wet?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Grant looked down at Mary's feet. "Are they damp?" +</P> + +<P> +"A little." +</P> + +<P> +"Come right into the sitting-room. I've had a fire made up on purpose +for you." And the considerate Mrs. Grant hurried Mary into the small +back room, and taking off her cloak and bonnet, placed her in a chair +before the fire. Then, as she drew off one of her shoes, and clasped +the foot in her hand, she exclaimed— +</P> + +<P> +"Soaking wet, as I live!" Then added, after removing, with kind +officiousness, the other shoe—"Hold both feet to the fire, while I run +up and get you a pair of dry stockings. Don't take off the wet ones +until I come back." +</P> + +<P> +In a few minutes Mrs. Grant returned with the dry stockings and a +towel. She bared one of the damp feet, and dried and heated it +thoroughly—then warmed one of the stockings and drew it on. +</P> + +<P> +"It feels so good," said Mary, faintly, yet with a tone of satisfaction. +</P> + +<P> +Then the other foot was dried, warmed, and covered. On completing this +welcome service, Mrs. Grant looked more steadily into Mary's face, and +saw that her cheeks were flushed unnaturally, and that her eyes shone +with an unusual lustre. She also noticed, that in breathing there was +an effort. +</P> + +<P> +"You got very wet this morning," said Mrs. Grant. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. The wind blew right in my face all the way. An umbrella was +hardly of any use." +</P> + +<P> +"You dried yourself on getting to Mrs. Lowe's?" +</P> + +<P> +Mary shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +"What?" +</P> + +<P> +"There was no fire in the room." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Mary!" +</P> + +<P> +"I had no change of clothing, and there was no fire in the room. What +could I do?" +</P> + +<P> +"You could have gone down into the kitchen, if nowhere else, and dried +your feet." +</P> + +<P> +"It would have been better if I had done so; but you know how hard it +is for me to intrude myself or give trouble." +</P> + +<P> +"Give trouble! How strangely you do act, sometimes! Isn't life worth a +little trouble to save? Mrs. Lowe should have seen to this. Didn't she +notice your condition?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think not." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, it's hard to say who deserves most censure, you or she. Such +trifling with health and life is a crime. What's the matter?" She +observed Mary start as if from sudden pain. +</P> + +<P> +"I have suffered all day, with an occasional sharp stitch in my +side—it caught me just then." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Grant observed her more closely; while doing so, Mary coughed two +or three times. The cough was tight and had a wheezing sound. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you coughed much?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Not a great deal. But I'm very tight here," laying her hand over her +breast. "I think," she added, a few moments afterwards, "that I'll go +up to my room and get to bed. I feel tired and sick." +</P> + +<P> +"Wait until I can get you some tea," replied Mrs. Grant. "I'll bring +down a pillow, and you can lie here on the sofa." +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you, Mrs. Grant. You are so kind and thoughtful." Miss Carson's +voice shook a little. The contrast between the day's selfish +indifference of Mrs. Lowe, and the evening's motherly consideration of +Mrs. Grant, touched her. "I will lie down here for a short time. +Perhaps I shall feel better after getting some warm tea. I've been +chilly all day." +</P> + +<P> +The pillow and a shawl were brought, and Mrs. Grant covered Mary as she +lay upon the sofa; then she went to the kitchen to hurry up tea. +</P> + +<P> +"Come, dear," she said, half an hour afterwards, laying her hand upon +the now sleeping girl. A drowsy feeling had come over Mary, and she had +fallen into a heavy slumber soon after lying down. The easy touch of +Mrs. Grant did not awaken her. So she called louder, and shook the +sleeper more vigorously. At this, Mary started up, and looked around in +a half-conscious, bewildered manner. Her cheeks were like scarlet. +</P> + +<P> +"Come, dear—tea is ready," said Mrs. Grant. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! Yes." And Mary, not yet clearly awake, started to leave the room +instead of approaching the table. +</P> + +<P> +"Where are you going, child?" Mrs. Grant caught her arm. +</P> + +<P> +Mary stood still, looking at Mrs. Grant, in a confused way. +</P> + +<P> +"Tea is ready." Mrs. Grant spoke slowly and with emphasis. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! Ah! Yes. I was asleep." Mary drew her hand across her eyes two or +three times, and then suffered Mrs. Grant to lead her to the table, +where she sat down, leaning forward heavily upon one arm. +</P> + +<P> +"Take some of the toast," said Mrs. Grant, after pouring a cup of tea. +Mary helped herself, in a dull way, to a slice of toast, but did not +attempt to eat. Mrs. Grant looked at her narrowly from across the +table, and noticed that her eyes, which had appeared large and +glittering when she came home, were now lustreless, with the lids +drooping heavily. +</P> + +<P> +"Can't you eat anything?" asked Mrs. Grant, in a voice that expressed +concern. +</P> + +<P> +Mary pushed her cup and plate away, and leaning back, wearily, in her +chair, answered— +</P> + +<P> +"Not just now. I'm completely worn out, and feel hot and oppressed." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Grant got up and came around to where Miss Carson was sitting. As +she laid her hand upon her forehead, she said, a little anxiously, "You +have considerable fever, Mary." +</P> + +<P> +"I shouldn't wonder." And a sudden cough seized her as she spoke. She +cried out as the rapid concussions jarred her, and pressed one hand +against her side. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh dear! It seemed as if a knife were cutting through me," she said, +as the paroxysm subsided, and she leaned her head against Mrs. Grant. +</P> + +<P> +"Come, child," and the kind woman drew upon one of her arms. "In bed is +the place for you now." +</P> + +<P> +They went up stairs, and Mary was soon undressed and in bed. As she +touched the cool sheets, she shivered for a moment, and then shrank +down under the clothes, shutting her eyes, and lying very still. +</P> + +<P> +"How do you feel now?" asked Mrs. Grant, who stood bending over her. +</P> + +<P> +Mary did not reply. +</P> + +<P> +"Does the pain in your side continue?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, ma'am." Her voice was dull. +</P> + +<P> +"And the tightness over your breast?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, ma'am." +</P> + +<P> +"What can I do for you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing. I want rest and sleep." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Grant stood for some time looking down upon Mary's red cheeks; red +in clearly defined spots, that made the pale forehead whiter by +contrast. +</P> + +<P> +"Something more than sleep is wanted, I fear," she said to herself, as +she passed from the chamber and went down stairs. In less than half an +hour she returned. A moan reached her ears as she approached the room +where the sick girl lay. On entering, she found her sitting high up in +bed; or, rather, reclining against the pillows, which she had adjusted +against the head-board. Her face, which had lost much of its redness, +was pinched and had a distressed look. Her eyes turned anxiously to +Mrs. Grant. +</P> + +<P> +"How are you now, Mary?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I'm sick! Very sick, Mrs. Grant." +</P> + +<P> +"Where? How, Mary?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, dear!' I'm so distressed here!" laying her hand on her breast. +"And every time I draw a breath, such a sharp pain runs through my side +into my shoulder. Oh, dear! I feel very sick, Mrs. Grant." +</P> + +<P> +"Shall I send for a doctor?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know, ma'am." And Miss Carson threw her head from side to +side, uneasily—almost impatiently; then cried out with pain, as she +took a deeper inspiration than usual. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Grant left the room, and going down stairs, despatched her servant +for a physician, who lived not far distant. +</P> + +<P> +"It is pleurisy," said the doctor, on examining the case.—"And a very +severe attack," he added, aside, to Mrs. Grant. +</P> + +<P> +Of the particulars of his treatment, we will not speak. He was of the +exhaustive school, and took blood freely; striking at the inflammation +through a reduction of the vital system. When he left his patient that +night, she was free from pain, breathing feebly, and without +constriction of the chest. In the morning, he found her with +considerable fever, and suffering from a return of the pleuritic pain. +Her pulse was low and quick, and had a wiry thrill under the fingers. +The doctor had taken blood very freely on the night before, and +hesitated a little on the question of opening another vein, or having +recourse to cups. As the lancet was at hand, and most easy of use, the +vein was opened, and permitted to flow until there was a marked +reduction of pain. After this, an anodyne diaphoretic was prescribed, +and the doctor retired from the chamber with Mrs. Grant. He was much +more particular, now, in his inquiries about his patient and the +immediate cause of her illness. On learning that she had been permitted +to remain all day in a cold room, with wet feet and damp clothing, he +shook his head soberly, and remarked, partly speaking to himself, that +doctors were not of much use in suicide or murder cases. Then he asked, +abruptly, and with considerable excitement of manner— +</P> + +<P> +"In heaven's name! who permitted this thing to be done? In what family +did it occur?" +</P> + +<P> +"The lady for whom she worked yesterday is named Mrs. Lowe." +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs. Lowe!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"And she permitted that delicate girl to sit in wet clothing, in a room +without fire, on a day like yesterday?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is so, doctor." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I call Mrs. Lowe a murderer!" The doctor spoke with excess of +feeling. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think Mary so very ill, doctor?" asked Mrs. Grant. +</P> + +<P> +"I do, ma'am." +</P> + +<P> +"She is free from pain now." +</P> + +<P> +"So she was when I left her last night; and I expected to find her +showing marked improvement this morning. But, to my concern, I find her +really worse instead of better." +</P> + +<P> +"Worse, doctor? Not worse!" +</P> + +<P> +"I say worse to you, Mrs. Grant, in order that you may know how much +depends on careful attendance. Send for the medicine I have prescribed +at once, and give it immediately. It will quiet her system and produce +sleep. If perspiration follows, we shall be on the right side. I will +call in again through the day. If the pain in her side returns, send +for me." +</P> + +<P> +The pain did return, and the doctor was summoned. He feared to strike +his lancet again; but cupped freely over the right side, thus gaining +for the suffering girl a measure of relief. She lay, after this, in a +kind of stupor for some hours. On coming out of this, she no longer had +the lancinating pain in her side with every expansion of the lungs; +but, instead, a dull pain, attended by a cough and tightness of the +chest. The cough was, at first, dry, unsatisfactory, and attended with +anxiety. Then came a tough mucus, a little streaked with blood. The +expectoration soon became freer, and assumed a brownish hue. A low +fever accompanied these bad symptoms. +</P> + +<P> +The case had become complicated with pneumonia, and assumed a very +dangerous type. On the third day a consulting physician was called in. +He noted all the symptoms carefully, and with a seriousness of manner +that did not escape the watchful eyes of Mrs. Grant. He passed but few +words with the attendant physician, and their exact meaning was veiled +by medical terms; but Mrs. Grant understood enough to satisfy her that +little hope of a favorable issue was entertained. +</P> + +<P> +About the time this consultation over the case of Mary Carson was in +progress, it happened that Mrs. Wykoff received another visit from Mrs. +Lowe. +</P> + +<P> +"I've called," said the latter, speaking in the tone of one who felt +annoyed, "to ask where that sewing girl you recommended to me lives?" +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Carson." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I believe that is her name." +</P> + +<P> +"Didn't she come on Monday, according to appointment?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes, she came. But I've seen nothing of her since." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah! Is that so? She may be sick." The voice of Mrs. Wykoff dropped to +a shade of seriousness. "Let me see—Monday—didn't it rain?—Yes, now +I remember; it was a dreadful day. Perhaps she took cold. She's very +delicate. Did she get wet in coming to your house?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sure I don't know." There was a slight indication of annoyance on +the part of Mrs. Lowe. +</P> + +<P> +"It was impossible, raining and blowing as it did, for her to escape +wet feet, if not drenched clothing. Was there fire in the room where +she worked?" +</P> + +<P> +"Fire! No. We don't have grates or stoves in any of our rooms." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh; then there was a fire in the heater?" +</P> + +<P> +"We never make fire in the heater before November," answered Mrs. Lowe, +with the manner of one who felt annoyed. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Wykoff mused for some moments. +</P> + +<P> +"Excuse me," she said, "for asking such minute questions; but I know +Miss Carson's extreme delicacy, and I am fearful that she is sick, as +the result of a cold. Did you notice her when she came in on Monday +morning?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I was standing in the hall when the servant admitted her. She +came rather late." +</P> + +<P> +"Did she go immediately to the room where she was to work?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"You are sure she didn't go into the kitchen and dry her feet?" +</P> + +<P> +"She went up stairs as soon as she came in." +</P> + +<P> +"Did you go up with her?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Excuse me, Mrs. Lowe," said Mrs. Wykoff, who saw that these questions +were chafing her visitor, "for pressing my inquiries so closely. I am +much concerned at the fact of her absence from your house since Monday. +Did she change any of her clothing,—take off her stockings, for +stance, and put on dry ones?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing of the kind." +</P> + +<P> +"But sat in her wet shoes and stockings all day!" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know that they were wet, Mrs. Wykoff," said the lady, with +contracting brows. +</P> + +<P> +"Could you have walked six or seven squares in the face of Monday's +driving storm, Mrs. Lowe, and escaped wet feet? Of course not. Your +stockings would have been wet half way to the knees, and your skirts +also." +</P> + +<P> +There was a growing excitement about Mrs. Wykoff, united with an air of +so much seriousness, that Mrs. Lowe began to feel a pressure of alarm. +Selfish, cold-hearted and indifferent to all in a social grade beneath +her, this lady was not quite ready to stand up in the world's face as +one without common humanity. The way in which Mrs. Wykoff was +presenting the case of Miss Carson on that stormy morning, did not +reflect very creditably upon her; and the thought—"How would this +sound, if told of me?"—did not leave her in the most comfortable frame +of mind. +</P> + +<P> +"I hope she's not sick. I'm sure the thought of her being wet never +crossed my mind. Why didn't she speak of it herself? She knew her own +condition, and that there was fire in the kitchen. I declare! some +people act in a manner perfectly incomprehensible." Mrs. Lowe spoke now +in a disturbed manner. +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Carson should have looked to this herself, and she was wrong in +not doing so—very wrong," said Mrs. Wykoff. "But she is shrinking and +sensitive to a fault—afraid of giving trouble or intruding herself. +<I>It is our place, I think, when strangers come into our houses, no +matter under what circumstances, to assume that they have a natural +delicacy about asking for needed consideration, and to see that all +things due to them are tendered</I>. I cannot see that any exceptions to +this rule are admissible. To my thinking, it applies to a servant, a +seamstress, or a guest, each in a just degree, with equal force. Not +that I am blameless in this thing. Far from it. But I acknowledge my +fault whenever it is seen, and repenting, resolve to act more humanely +in the future." +</P> + +<P> +"Where does Miss Carson live?" asked Mrs. Lowe. "I came to make the +inquiry." +</P> + +<P> +"As I feel rather troubled about her," answered Mrs. Wykoff, "I will go +to see her this afternoon." +</P> + +<P> +"I wish you would. What you have said makes me feel a little +uncomfortable. I hope there is nothing wrong; or, at least, that she is +only slightly indisposed. It was thoughtless in me. But I was so much +interested in the work she was doing that I never once thought of her +personally." +</P> + +<P> +"Did she come before breakfast?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Excuse me; but at what time did she get her breakfast?" +</P> + +<P> +There was just a little shrinking in the manner of Mrs. Wykoff; as she +answered— +</P> + +<P> +"Towards nine o'clock." +</P> + +<P> +"Did she eat anything?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, no, not much in particular. I thought her a little dainty. She +took coffee; but it didn't just appear to suit her appetite. Then I +offered her tea, and she drank a cup." +</P> + +<P> +"But didn't take any solid food?" +</P> + +<P> +"Very little. She struck me as a dainty Miss." +</P> + +<P> +"She is weak and delicate, Mrs. Lowe, as any one who looks into her +face may see. Did you give her a lunch towards noon?" +</P> + +<P> +"A lunch! Why no!" Mrs. Lowe elevated her brows. +</P> + +<P> +"How late was it when she took dinner?" +</P> + +<P> +"Three o'clock." +</P> + +<P> +"Did she eat heartily?" +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't notice her particularly. She was at the table for only a few +minutes." +</P> + +<P> +"I fear for the worst," said Mrs. Wykoff. "If Mary Carson sat all day +on Monday in damp clothes, wet feet, and without taking a sufficient +quantity of nourishing food, I wouldn't give much for her life." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Lowe gathered her shawl around her, and arose to depart. There was +a cloud on her face. +</P> + +<P> +"You will see Miss Carson to-day?" she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes." +</P> + +<P> +"At what time do you think of going?" +</P> + +<P> +"I shall not be able to leave home before late in the afternoon." +</P> + +<P> +"Say four o'clock." +</P> + +<P> +"Not earlier than half past four." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Lowe stood for some moments with the air of one who hesitated +about doing something. +</P> + +<P> +"Will you call for me?" Her voice was slightly depressed. +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly." +</P> + +<P> +"What you have said troubles me. I'm sure I didn't mean to be unkind. +It was thoughtlessness altogether. I hope she's not ill." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll leave home at half past four," said Mrs. Wykoff. "It isn't over +ten minutes' walk to your house." +</P> + +<P> +"You'll find me all ready. Oh, dear!" and Mrs. Lowe drew a long, +sighing breath. "I hope she didn't take cold at my house. I hope +nothing serious will grow out of it. I wouldn't have anything of this +kind happen for the world. People are so uncharitable. If it should get +out, I would be talked about dreadfully; and I'm sure the girl is a +great deal more to blame than I am. Why didn't she see to it that her +feet and clothes were dried before she sat down to her work?" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Wykoff did not answer. Mrs. Lowe stood for a few moments, waiting +for some exculpatory suggestion; but Mrs. Wykoff had none to offer. +</P> + +<P> +"Good morning. You'll find me all ready when you call." +</P> + +<P> +"Good morning." +</P> + +<P> +And the ladies parted. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, Mrs. Lowe! How are you this morning?" +</P> + +<P> +A street meeting, ten minutes later. +</P> + +<P> +"Right well. How are you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well as usual. I just called at your house." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, indeed! Come, go back again." +</P> + +<P> +"No, thank you; I've several calls to make this morning. But, d' you +know, there's a strange story afloat about a certain lady of your +acquaintance?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of my acquaintance?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; a lady with whom you are very, very intimate." +</P> + +<P> +"What is it?" There was a little anxiety mixed with the curious air of +Mrs. Lowe. +</P> + +<P> +"Something about murdering a sewing-girl." +</P> + +<P> +"What?" Mrs. Lowe started as if she had received a blow; a frightened +look came into her face. +</P> + +<P> +"But there isn't anything in it, of course," said the friend, in +considerable astonishment at the effect produced on Mrs. Lowe. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me just what you have heard," said the latter. "You mean me by +the lady of your intimate acquaintance." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; the talk is about you. It came from doctor somebody; I don't know +whom. He's attending the girl." +</P> + +<P> +"What is said? I wish to know. Don't keep back anything on account of +my feelings. I shall know as to its truth or falsehood; and, true or +false, it is better that I should stand fully advised. A seamstress +came to work for me on Monday—it was a stormy day, you know—took cold +from wet feet, and is now very ill. That much I know. It might have +happened at your house, or your neighbors, without legitimate blame +lying against either of you. Now, out of this simple fact, what +dreadful report is circulated to my injury? As I have just said, don't +keep anything back." +</P> + +<P> +"The story," replied the friend, "is that she walked for half a mile +before breakfast, in the face of that terrible north-east storm, and +came to you with feet soaking and skirts wet to the knees, and that you +put her to work, in this condition, in a cold room, and suffered her to +sit in her wet garments all day. That, in consequence, she went home +sick, was attacked with pleurisy in the evening, which soon ran into +acute pneumonia, and that she is now dying. The doctor, who told my +friend, called it murder, and said, without hesitation, that you were a +murderer." +</P> + +<P> +"Dying! Did he say that she was dying?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, ma'am. The doctor said that you might as well have put a pistol +ball through her head." +</P> + +<P> +"Me!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, you. Those were his words, as repeated by my friend." +</P> + +<P> +"Who is the friend to whom you refer?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs. T——." +</P> + +<P> +"And, without a word of inquiry as to the degree of blame referable to +me, she repeats this wholesale charge, to my injury? Verily, that is +Christian charity!" +</P> + +<P> +"I suggested caution on her part, and started to see you at once. Then +she did sit in her wet clothing all day at your house?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know whether she did or not," replied Mrs. Lowe, fretfully. +"She was of woman's age, and competent to take care of herself. If she +came in wet, she knew it; and there was fire in the house, at which she +could have dried herself. Even a half-witted person, starting from home +on a morning like that, and expecting to be absent all day, would have +provided herself with dry stockings and slippers for a change. If the +girl dies from cold taken on that occasion, it must be set down to +suicide, not murder. I may have been thoughtless, but I am not +responsible. I'm sorry for her; but I cannot take blame to myself. The +same thing might have happened in your house." +</P> + +<P> +"It might have happened in other houses than yours, Mrs. Lowe, I will +admit," was replied. "But I do not think it would have happened in +mine. I was once a seamstress myself and for nearly two years went out +to work in families. What I experienced during those two years has made +me considerate towards all who come into my house in that capacity. +Many who are compelled to earn a living with the needle, were once in +better condition than now, and the change touches some of them rather +sharply. In some families they are treated with a thoughtful kindness, +in strong contrast with what they receive in other families. If +sensitive and retiring, they learn to be very chary about asking for +anything beyond what is conceded, and bear, rather than suggest or +complain." +</P> + +<P> +"I've no patience with that kind of sensitiveness," replied Mrs. Lowe; +"it's simply ridiculous; and not only ridiculous, but wrong. Is every +sewing-girl who comes into your house to be treated like an honored +guest?" +</P> + +<P> +"We are in no danger of erring, Mrs. Lowe," was answered, "on the side +of considerate kindness, even to sewing-women. They are human, and have +wants, and weaknesses, and bodily conditions that as imperatively +demand a timely and just regard as those of the most honored guest who +may sojourn with us. And what is more, as I hold, we cannot omit our +duty either to the one or to the other, and be blameless. But I must +hurry on. Good morning, Mrs. Lowe." +</P> + +<P> +"Good morning," was coldly responded. And the two ladies parted. +</P> + +<P> +We advance the time a few hours. It is nearly sundown, and the slant +beams are coming in through the partly-raised blinds, and falling on +the bed, where, white, and panting for the shortcoming breath, lies +Mary Carson, a little raised by pillows against which her head rests +motionless. Her eyes are shut, the brown lashes lying in two deep +fringes on her cheeks. Away from her temples and forehead the hair has +been smoothly brushed by loving hands, and there is a spiritual beauty +in her face that is suggestive of heaven. Mrs. Grant is on one side of +the bed, and the physician on the other. Both are gazing intently on +the sick girl's face. The door opens, and two ladies come in, +noiselessly—Mrs. Lowe and Mrs. Wykoff. They are strangers there to all +but Mary Carson, and she has passed too far on the journey homeward for +mortal recognitions. Mrs. Grant moves a little back from the bed, and +the two ladies stand in her place, leaning forward, with half-suspended +breathing. The almost classic beauty of Miss Carson's face; the +exquisite cutting of every feature; the purity of its tone—are all at +once so apparent to Mrs. Lowe that she gazes down, wonder and +admiration mingling with awe and self-accusation. +</P> + +<P> +There is a slight convulsive cough, with a fleeting spasm. The white +lips are stained. Mrs. Lowe shudders. The stain is wiped off, and all +is still as before. Now the slanting sun rays touch the pillows, close +beside the white face, lighting it with a glory that seems not of the +earth. They fade, and life fades with them, going out as they recede. +With the last pencil of sunbeams passes the soul of Mary Carson. +</P> + +<P> +"It is over!" The physician breathes deeply, and moves backwards from +the bed. +</P> + +<P> +"Over with her," he adds, like one impelled by crowding thoughts to +untimely utterance. "The bills of mortality will say pneumonia—<I>it +were better written murder</I>." +</P> + +<P> +Call it murder, or suicide, as you will; only, fair reader, see to it +that responsibility in such a case lies never at your door. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap10"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +X. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE NURSERY MAID. +</H3> + +<P> +<I>I DID</I> not feel in a very good humor either with myself or with Polly, +my nursery maid. The fact is, Polly had displeased me; and I, while +under the influence of rather excited feelings, had rebuked her with a +degree of intemperance not exactly becoming in a Christian gentlewoman, +or just to a well meaning, though not perfect domestic. +</P> + +<P> +Polly had taken my sharp words without replying. They seemed to stun +her. She stood for a few moments, after the vials of my wrath were +emptied, her face paler than usual, and her lips almost colorless. Then +she turned and walked from my room with a slow but firm step. There was +an air of purpose about her, and a manner that puzzled me a little. +</P> + +<P> +The thermometer of my feelings was gradually falling, though not yet +reduced very far below fever-heat, when Polly stood again before me. A +red spot now burned on each cheek, and her eyes were steady as she let +them rest in mine. +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs. Wilkins," said she, firmly, yet respectfully, "I am going to +leave when my month is up." +</P> + +<P> +Now, I have my own share of willfulness and impulsive independence. So +I answered, without hesitation or reflection, +</P> + +<P> +"Very well, Polly. If you wish to leave, I will look for another to +fill your place." And I drew myself up with an air of dignity. +</P> + +<P> +Polly retired as quickly as she came, and I was left alone with my not +very agreeable thoughts for companions. Polly had been in my family for +nearly four years, in the capacity of nurse and chamber maid. She was +capable, faithful, kind in her disposition, and industrious. The +children were all attached to her, and her influence over them was +good. I had often said to myself in view of Polly's excellent +qualities, "She is a treasure!" And, always, the thought of losing her +services had been an unpleasant one. Of late, in some things, Polly had +failed to give the satisfaction of former times. She was neither so +cheerful, nor so thoughtful, nor had she her usual patience with the +children. "Her disposition is altering," I said to myself, now and +then, in view of this change; "something has spoiled her." +</P> + +<P> +"You have indulged her too much, I suppose," was the reason given by my +husband, whenever I ventured to introduce to his notice the +shortcomings of Polly. "You are an expert at the business of spoiling +domestics." +</P> + +<P> +My good opinion of myself was generally flattered by this estimate of +the case; and, as this good opinion strengthened, a feeling of +indignation against Polly for her ingratitude, as I was pleased to call +it, found a lodging in my heart. +</P> + +<P> +And so the matter had gone on, from small beginnings, until a state of +dissatisfaction on the one part, and coldness on the other, had grown +up between mistress and maid. I asked no questions of Polly, as to the +change in her manner, but made my own inferences, and took, for +granted, my own conclusions. I had spoiled her by indulgence—that was +clear. As a thing of course, this view was not very favorable to a just +and patient estimate of her conduct, whenever it failed to meet my +approval. +</P> + +<P> +On the present occasion, she had neglected the performance of certain +services, in consequence of which I suffered some small inconvenience, +and a great deal of annoyance. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know what's come over you, Polly," said I to her sharply. +"Something has spoiled you outright; and I tell you now, once for all, +that you'll have to mend your ways considerably, if you expect to +remain much longer in this family." +</P> + +<P> +The language was hard enough, but the manner harder and more offensive. +I had never spoken to her before with anything like the severity now +used. The result of this intemperance of speech on my part, the reader +has seen. Polly gave notice that she would leave, and I accepted the +notice. For a short time after the girl retired from my room, I +maintained a state of half indignant independence; but, as to being +satisfied with myself, that was out of the question. I had lost my +temper, and, as is usual in such cases, had been harsh, and it might +be, unjust. I was about to lose the services of a domestic, whose good +qualities so far overbalanced all defects and shortcomings, that I +could hardly hope to supply her place. How could the children give her +up? This question came home with a most unpleasant suggestion of +consequences. But, as the disturbance of my feelings went on subsiding, +and thought grew clearer and clearer, that which most troubled me was a +sense of injustice towards Polly. The suggestion came stealing into my +mind, that the something wrong about her might involve a great deal +more than I had, in a narrow reference of things to my own affairs, +imagined. Polly was certainly changed; but, might not the change have +its origin in mental conflict or suffering, which entitled her to pity +and consideration, instead of blame? +</P> + +<P> +This was a new thought, which in no way tended to increase a feeling of +self-approval. +</P> + +<P> +"She is human, like the rest of us," said I, as I sat talking over the +matter with myself, "and every human heart has its portion of +bitterness. The weak must bear in weakness, as well as the strong in +strength; and the light burden rests as painfully on the back that +bends in feebleness, as does the heavy one on Atlas-shoulders. We are +too apt to regard those who serve us as mere working machines. Rarely +do we consider them as possessing like wants and weaknesses, like +sympathies and yearnings with ourselves. Anything will do for them. +Under any external circumstances, is their duty to be satisfied." +</P> + +<P> +I was wrong in this matter. Nothing was now clearer to me than this. +But, how was I to get right? That was the puzzling question. I thought, +and thought—looking at the difficulty first on this side, and then on +that. No way of escape presented itself, except through some open or +implied acknowledgment of wrong; that is, I must have some plain, kind +talk with Polly, to begin with, and thus show her, by an entire change +of manner, that I was conscious of having spoken to her in a way that +was not met by my own self-approval. Pride was not slow in vindicating +her own position among the mental powers. She was not willing to see me +humble myself to a servant. Polly had given notice that she was going +to leave, and if I made concession, she would, at once conclude that I +did so meanly, from self-interest, because I wished to retain her +services. My naturally independent spirit revolted under this view of +the case, but I marshalled some of the better forces of my mind, and +took the field bravely on the side of right and duty. For some time the +conflict went on; then the better elements of my nature gained the +victory. +</P> + +<P> +When the decision was made, I sent a message for Polly. I saw, as she +entered my room, that her cheeks no longer burned, and that the fire +had died out in her eyes. Her face was pale, and its expression sad, +but enduring. +</P> + +<P> +"Polly," said I, kindly, "sit down. I would like to have some talk with +you." +</P> + +<P> +The girl seemed taken by surprise. Her face warmed a little, and her +eyes, which had been turned aside from mine, looked at me with a glance +of inquiry. +</P> + +<P> +"There, Polly"—and I pointed to a chair—"sit down." +</P> + +<P> +She obeyed, but with a weary, patient air, like one whose feelings were +painfully oppressed. +</P> + +<P> +"Polly," said I, with kindness and interest in my voice, "has anything +troubled you of late?" +</P> + +<P> +Her face flushed and her eyes reddened. +</P> + +<P> +"If there has, Polly, and I can help you in any way, speak to me as a +friend. You can trust me." +</P> + +<P> +I was not prepared for the sudden and strong emotion that instantly +manifested itself. Her face fell into her hands, and she sobbed out, +with a violence that startled me. I waited until she grew calm, and +then said, laying a hand kindly upon her as I spoke— +</P> + +<P> +"Polly, you can talk to me as freely as if I were your mother. Speak +plainly, and if I can advise you or aid you in any way, be sure that I +will do it." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think you can help me any, ma'am, unless it is to bear my +trouble more patiently," she answered, in a subdued way. +</P> + +<P> +"Trouble, child! What trouble? Has anything gone wrong with you?" +</P> + +<P> +The manner in which this inquiry was made, aroused her, and she said +quickly and with feeling: +</P> + +<P> +"Wrong with <I>me</I>? O no, ma'am!" +</P> + +<P> +"But you are in trouble, Polly." +</P> + +<P> +"Not for myself, ma'am—not for myself," was her earnest reply. +</P> + +<P> +"For whom, then, Polly?" +</P> + +<P> +The girl did not answer for some moments. Then with a long, deep sigh, +she said: +</P> + +<P> +"You never saw my brother Tom, ma'am. Oh, he was such a nice boy, and I +was so fond of him! He had a hard place where he worked, and they paid +him so little that, poor fellow! if I hadn't spent half my wages on +him, he'd never have looked fit to be seen among folks. When he was +eighteen he seemed to me perfect. He was so good and kind. But—" and +the girl's voice almost broke down—"somehow, he began to change after +that. I think he fell into bad company. Oh, ma'am! It seemed as if it +would have killed me the first time I found that he had been drinking, +and was not himself. I cried all night for two or three nights. When we +met again I tried to talk with Tom about it, but he wouldn't hear a +word, and, for the first time in his life, got angry with his sister. +</P> + +<P> +"It has been going on from bad, to worse ever since, and I've almost +given up hope." +</P> + +<P> +"He's several years younger than you are, Polly." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, ma'am. He was only ten years old when our mother died. I am glad +she is dead now, what I've never said before. There were only two of +us—Tom and I; and I being nearly six years the oldest, felt like a +mother as well as a sister to him. I've never spent much on myself as +you know, and never had as good clothes as other girls with my wages. +It took nearly everything for Tom. Oh, dear! What is to come of it all? +It will kill me, I'm afraid." +</P> + +<P> +A few questions on my part brought out particulars in regard to Polly's +brother that satisfy me of his great lapse from virtue and sobriety. He +was now past twenty, and from all I could learn, was moving +swift-footed along the road to destruction. +</P> + +<P> +There followed a dead silence for some time after all the story was +told. What could I say? The case was one in which it seemed that I +could offer neither advice nor consolation. But it was in my power to +show interest in the girl, and to let her feel that she had my +sympathy. She was sitting with her eyes cast down, and a look of sorrow +on her pale, thin face—I had not before re-marked the signs of +emaciation—that touched me deeply. +</P> + +<P> +"Polly," said I, with as much kindness of tone as I could express, "it +is the lot of all to have trouble, and each heart knows its own +bitterness. But on some the trouble falls with a weight that seems +impossible to be borne. And this is your case. Yet it only seems to be +so, for as our day is, so shall our strength be. If you cannot draw +your brother away from the dangerous paths in which he is walking, you +can pray for him, and the prayer of earnest love will bring your spirit +so near to his spirit, that God may be able to influence him for good +through this presence of your spirit with his." +</P> + +<P> +Polly looked at me with a light flashing in her face, as if a new hope +had dawned upon her heart. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, ma'am," she said, "I have prayed, and do pray for him daily. But +then I think God loves him better than I can love him, and needs none +of my prayer in the case. And so a chill falls over me, and everything +grows dark and hopeless—for, of myself, I can do nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"Our prayers cannot change the purposes of God towards any one; but God +works by means, and our prayers may be the means through which he can +help another." +</P> + +<P> +"How? How? Oh, tell me how, Mrs. Wilkins?" +</P> + +<P> +The girl spoke with great eagerness. +</P> + +<P> +I had an important truth to communicate, but how was I to make it clear +to her simple mind? I thought for a moment, and then said— +</P> + +<P> +"When we think of others, we see them." +</P> + +<P> +"In our minds?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Polly. We see them with the eyes of our minds, and are also +present with them as to our minds, or spirits. Have you hot noticed +that on some occasions you suddenly thought of a person, and that in a +little while afterwards that person came in?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes, I've often noticed, and wondered why it should be so." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, the person in coming to see you, or in approaching the place +where you were, thought of you so distinctly that she was present to +your mind, or spirit, and you saw her with the eyes of your mind. If +this be the right explanation, as I believe it is, then, if we think +intently of others, and especially if we think with a strong affection, +we are present with them so fully that they think of us, and see our +forms with the eyes of their spirits. And now, Polly, keeping this in +mind, we may see how praying, in tender love for another, may enable +God to do him good; for you know that men and angels are co-workers +with God in all good. On the wings of our thought and love, angelic +spirits, who are present with us in prayer, may pass with us to the +object of our tender interest and thus gaining audience, as it were, +stir the heart with good impulses. And who can tell how effectual this +may be, if of daily act and long continuance?" +</P> + +<P> +I paused to see if I was comprehended. Polly was listening intently, +with her eyes upon the floor. She looked up, after a moment, her +countenance calmer than before, but bearing so hopeful an aspect that I +was touched with wonder. +</P> + +<P> +"I will pray for him morning, noon, and night," she said, "and if, +bodily, I cannot be near him, my spirit shall be present with his many +times each day. Oh, if I could but draw him back from the evil into +which he has fallen!" +</P> + +<P> +"A sister's loving prayer, and the memory of his mother in heaven, will +prove, I trust, Polly, too potent for all his enemies. Take courage!" +</P> + +<P> +In the silence that followed this last remark, Polly arose and stood as +if there was something yet unsaid in her mind. I understood her, and +made the way plain for both of us. +</P> + +<P> +"If I had known of this before, it would have explained to me some +things that gave my mind an unfavorable impression. You have not been +like yourself for some time past." +</P> + +<P> +"How could I, ma'am?" Polly's voice trembled and her eyes again filled +with tears. "I never meant to displease you; but——" +</P> + +<P> +"All is explained," said I, interrupting her. "I see just how it is; +and if I have said a word that hurt you, I am sorry for it. No one +could have given better satisfaction in a family than you have given." +</P> + +<P> +"I have always tried to do right," murmured the poor girl, sadly. +</P> + +<P> +"I know it, Polly." My tones were encouraging. "And if you will forget +the unkind way in which I spoke to you this morning, and let things +remain as they were, it may be better for both of us. You are not fit, +taking your state of mind as it now is, to go among strangers." +</P> + +<P> +Polly looked at me with gratitude and forgiveness in her wet eyes. +There was a motion of reply about her lips, but she did not trust +herself to speak. +</P> + +<P> +"Shall it be as it was, Polly?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes, ma'am! I don't wish to leave you; and particularly, not now. +I am not fit, as you say, to go among strangers. But you must bear with +me a little; for I can't always keep my thoughts about me." +</P> + +<P> +When Polly retired from my room, I set myself to thinking over what had +happened. The lesson went deeply into my heart. Poor girl! what a heavy +burden rested upon her weak shoulders. No wonder that she bent under +it! No wonder that she was changed! She was no subject for angry +reproof; but for pity and forbearance. If she had come short in +service, or failed to enter upon her daily tasks with the old +cheerfulness, no blame could attach to her, for the defect was of force +and not of will. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah," said I, as I pondered the matter, "how little inclined are we to +consider those who stand below us in the social scale, or to think of +them as having like passions, like weaknesses, like hopes and fears +with ourselves. We deal with them too often as if they were mere +working machines, and grow impatient if they show signs of pain, +weariness, or irritation. We are quick to blame and slow to +praise—chary of kind words, but voluble in reproof—holding ourselves +superior in station, but not always showing ourselves superior in +thoughtfulness, self-control, and kind forbearance. Ah me! Life is a +lesson-book, and we turn a new page every day." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap11"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XI. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +MY FATHER. +</H3> + +<P> +<I>I HAVE</I> a very early recollection of my father as a cheerful man, and +of our home as a place full of the heart's warmest sunshine. But the +father of my childhood and the father of my more advanced years wore a +very different exterior. He had grown silent, thoughtful, abstracted, +but not morose. As his children sprang up around him, full of life and +hope, he seemed to lose the buoyant spirits of his earlier manhood. I +did not observe this at the time, for I had not learned to observe and +reflect. Life was a simple state of enjoyment. Trial had not quickened +my perceptions, nor suffering taught me an unselfish regard for others. +</P> + +<P> +The home provided by my father was elegant—some would have called it +luxurious. On our education and accomplishments no expense was spared. +I had the best teachers—and, of course, the most expensive; with none +others would I have been satisfied, for I had come naturally to regard +myself as on a social equality with the fashionable young friends who +were my companions, and who indulged the fashionable vice of +depreciating everything that did not come up to a certain acknowledged +standard. Yearly I went to Saratoga or Newport with my sisters, and at +a cost which I now think of with amazement. Sometimes my mother went +with us, but my father never. He was not able to leave his business. +Business! How I came to dislike the word! It was always "business" when +we asked him to go anywhere with us; "business" hurried him away from +his hastily-eaten meals; "business" absorbed all his thoughts, and +robbed us of our father. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish father would give up business," I said to my mother one day, +"and take some comfort of his life. Mr. Woodward has retired, and is +now living on his income." +</P> + +<P> +My mother looked at me strangely and sighed, but answered nothing. +</P> + +<P> +About this time my father showed some inclination to repress our +growing disposition to spend money extravagantly in dress. Nothing but +hundred-dollar shawl would suit my ideas. Ada White had been presented +by her father with a hundred-dollar cashmere, and I did not mean to be +put off with anything less. +</P> + +<P> +"Father, I want a hundred dollars," said I to him one morning as he was +leaving the house, after eating his light breakfast. He had grown +dyspeptic, and had to be careful and sparing in his diet. +</P> + +<P> +"A hundred dollars!" He looked surprised; in fact, I noticed that my +request made him start. "What do you want with so much money?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have nothing seasonable to wear," said I, very firmly; "and as I +must have a shawl, I might as well get a good one while I am about it. +I saw one at Stewart's yesterday that is just the thing. Ada White's +father gave her a shawl exactly like it, and you must let me have the +money to buy this one. It will last my lifetime." +</P> + +<P> +"A hundred dollars is a large price for a shawl," said my father, in +his sober way. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, dear, no!" was my emphatic answer; "a hundred dollars is a low +price for a shawl. Jane Wharton's cost five hundred." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll think about it," said my father, turning from me rather abruptly. +</P> + +<P> +When he came home at dinner-time, I was alone in the parlor, practicing +a. new piece of music which my fashionable teacher had left me. He was +paid three dollars for every lesson. My father smiled as he laid a +hundred-dollar bill on the keys of the piano. I started up, and kissing +him, said, with the ardor of a pleased girl— +</P> + +<P> +"What a dear good father you are!" +</P> + +<P> +The return was ample. He always seemed most pleased when he could +gratify some wish or supply some want of his children. Ah! if we had +been less selfish—less exacting! +</P> + +<P> +It was hardly to be expected that my sisters would see me the possessor +of a hundred-dollar shawl, and not desire a like addition to their +wardrobes. +</P> + +<P> +"I want a hundred dollars," said my sister Jane, on the next morning, +as my father was about leaving for his store. +</P> + +<P> +"Can't spare it to-day, my child," I heard him answer, kindly, but +firmly. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, but I must have it," urged my sister. +</P> + +<P> +"I gave you twenty-five dollars only day before yesterday," my father +replied to this. "What have you done with that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Spent it for gloves and laces," said Jane, in a light way, as if the +sum were of the smallest possible consequence. +</P> + +<P> +"I am not made of money, child." The tone of my father's voice struck +me as unusually sober—almost sad. But Jane replied instantly, and with +something of reproach and complaint in her tones—"I shouldn't think +you were, if you find it so hard to part with a hundred dollars." +</P> + +<P> +"I have a large payment to make to-day"—my father spoke with unusual +decision of manner—"and shall need every dollar that I can raise." +</P> + +<P> +"You gave sister a hundred dollars yesterday," said Jane, almost +petulantly. +</P> + +<P> +Not a word of reply did my father make. I was looking at him, and saw +an expression on his countenance that was new to me—an expression of +pain, mingled with fear. He turned away slowly, and in silence left the +house. +</P> + +<P> +"Jane," said my mother, addressing her from the stairway, on which she +had been standing, "how could you speak so to your father?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have just as good right to a hundred dollar shawl as Anna," replied +my sister, in a very undutiful tone. "And what is more, Im going to +have one." +</P> + +<P> +"What reason did your father give for refusing your request to-day?" +asked my mother. +</P> + +<P> +"Couldn't spare the money! Had a large payment to make! Only an excuse!" +</P> + +<P> +"Stop, my child!" was the quick, firm remark, made with unusual +feeling. "Is that the way to speak of so good a father? Of one who has +ever been so kindly indulgent? Jane! Jane! You know not what you are +saying!" +</P> + +<P> +My sister looked something abashed at this unexpected rebuke, when my +mother took occasion to add, with an earnestness of manner that I could +not help remarking as singular, +</P> + +<P> +"Your father is troubled about something. Business may not be going on +to his satisfaction. Last night I awoke, and found him walking the +floor. To my questions he merely answered that he was wakeful. His +health is not so good as formerly, and his spirits are low. Don't, let +me pray you, do anything to worry him. Say no more about this money, +Jane; you will get it whenever it can be spared." +</P> + +<P> +I did not see my father again until tea-time. Occasionally, business +engagements pressed upon him so closely that he did not come home at +the usual hour for dining. He looked pale—weary—almost haggard. +</P> + +<P> +"Dear father, are you sick?" said I, laying a hand upon him, and gazing +earnestly into his countenance. +</P> + +<P> +"I do not feel very well," he replied, partly averting his face, as if +he did not wish me to read its expression too closely. "I have had a +weary day." +</P> + +<P> +"You must take more recreation," said I. "This excessive devotion to +business is destroying your health. Why will you do it, father?" +</P> + +<P> +He merely sighed as he passed onwards, and ascended to his own room. At +tea-time I observed that his face was unusually sober. His silence was +nothing uncommon, and so that passed without remark from any one. +</P> + +<P> +On the next day Jane received the hundred dollars, which was spent for +a shawl like mine. This brought the sunshine back to her face. Her +moody looks, I saw, disturbed my father. +</P> + +<P> +From this time, the hand which had ever been ready to supply all our +wants real or imaginary, opened less promptly at our demands. My father +talked occasionally of retrenchment and economy when some of our +extravagant bills came in; but we paid little heed to his remarks on +this head. Where could we retrench? In what could we economize? The +very idea was absurd. We had nothing that others moving in our circle +did not have. Our house and furniture would hardly compare favorably +with the houses and furniture of many of our fashionable friends. We +dressed no better—indeed, not so well as dozens of our acquaintances. +Retrenchment and economy! I remember laughing with my sisters at the +words, and wondering with them what could be coming over our father. In +a half-amused way, we enumerated the various items of imaginary reform, +beginning at the annual summer recreations, and ending with our +milliner's bills. In mock seriousness, we proposed to take the places +of cook, chambermaid, and waiter, and thus save these items of expense +in the family. We had quite a merry time over our fancied reforms. +</P> + +<P> +But our father was serious. Steadily he persisted in what seemed to us +a growing penuriousness. Every demand for money seemed to give him a +partial shock, and every dollar that came to us was parted with +reluctantly. All this was something new; but we thought less than we +felt about it. Our father seemed to be getting into a very singular +state of mind. +</P> + +<P> +Summer came round—I shall never forget that summer—and we commenced +making our annual preparations for Saratoga. Money was, of course, an +indispensable prerequisite. I asked for fifty dollars. +</P> + +<P> +"For what purpose?" inquired my father. +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't a single dress fit to appear in away from home," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"Where are you going?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +I thought the question a strange one, and replied, a little curtly, +</P> + +<P> +"To Saratoga, of course." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" It seemed new to him. Then he repeated my words, in a questioning +kind of a way, as if his mind were not altogether satisfied on the +subject. +</P> + +<P> +"To Saratoga?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir. To Saratoga. We always go there. We shall close the season +at Newport this year." +</P> + +<P> +"Who else is going?" My father's manner was strange. I had never seen +him just in the mood he then appeared to be. +</P> + +<P> +"Jane is going, of course; and so is Emily. And we are trying to +persuade mother, also. She didn't go last year. Won't you spend a week +or two with us? Now do say yes." +</P> + +<P> +My father shook his head at this last proposal, and said, "No, child!" +very decidedly. +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" I asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Because I have something of more importance to think about than +Saratoga and its fashionable follies." +</P> + +<P> +"Business! business!" said I, impatiently. "It is the Moloch, father, +to which you sacrifice every social pleasure, every home delight, every +good! Already you have laid health and happiness upon the bloody altars +of this false god!" +</P> + +<P> +A few quick flushes went over his pale face, and then its expression +became very sad. +</P> + +<P> +"Anna," he said, after a brief silence, during which even my +unpracticed eyes could see that an intense struggle was going on in his +mind, "Anna, you will have to give up your visit to Saratoga this year." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, father!" It seemed as if my blood were instantly on fire. My face +was, of course, all in a glow. I was confounded, and, let me confess +it, indignant; it seemed so like a tyrannical outrage. +</P> + +<P> +"It is simply as I say, my daughter." He spoke without visible +excitement. "I cannot afford the expense this season, and you will, +therefore, all have to remain in the city." +</P> + +<P> +"That's impossible!" said I. "I couldn't live here through the summer." +</P> + +<P> +"<I>I</I> manage to live!" There was a tone in my father's voice, as he +uttered these simple words, partly to himself, that rebuked me. Yes, he +did manage to live, but <I>how</I>? Witness his pale face, wasted form, +subdued aspect, brooding silence, and habitual abstraction of mind! +</P> + +<P> +"<I>I</I> manage to live!" I hear the rebuking words even now—the tones in +which they were uttered are in my ears. Dear father! Kind, tender, +indulgent, long-suffering, self-denying! Ah, how little were you +understood by your thoughtless, selfish children! +</P> + +<P> +"Let my sisters and mother go," said I, a new regard for my father +springing up in my heart; "I will remain at home with you." +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you, dear child!" he answered, his voice suddenly veiled with +feeling. "But I cannot afford to let any one go this season." +</P> + +<P> +"The girls will be terribly disappointed. They have set their hearts on +going," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sorry," he said. "But necessity knows no law. They will have to +make themselves as contented at home as possible." +</P> + +<P> +And he left me, and went away to his all-exacting "business." +</P> + +<P> +When I stated what he had said, my sisters were in a transport of +mingled anger and disappointment, and gave utterance to many unkind +remarks against our good, indulgent father. As for my oldest sister, +she declared that she would go in spite of him, and proposed our +visiting the store of a well-known merchant, where we often made +purchases, and buying all we wanted, leaving directions to have the +bill sent in. But I was now on my father's side, and resolutely opposed +all suggestions of disobedience. His manner and words had touched me, +causing some scales to drop from my vision, so that I could see in a +new light, and perceive things in a new aspect. +</P> + +<P> +We waited past the usual time for my father's coming on that day, and +then dined without him. A good deal to our surprise he came home about +four o'clock, entering with an unusual quiet manner, and going up to +his own room without speaking to any one of the family. +</P> + +<P> +"Was that your father?" We were sitting together, still discussing the +question of Saratoga and Newport. It was my mother who asked the +question. We had heard the street door open and close, and had also +heard footsteps along the passage and up the stairs. +</P> + +<P> +"It is too early for him to come home," I answered. +</P> + +<P> +My mother looked at her watch, and remarked, as a shade of concern +flitted over her face, +</P> + +<P> +"It certainly was your father. I cannot be mistaken in his step. What +can have brought him home so early? I hope he is not sick." And she +arose and went hastily from the room. I followed, for a sudden fear +came into my heart. +</P> + +<P> +"Edward! what ails you? Are you sick?" I heard my mother ask, in an +alarmed voice, as I came into her room. My father had laid himself +across the bed, and his face was concealed by a pillow, into which it +was buried deeply. +</P> + +<P> +"Edward! Edward! Husband! What is the matter? Are you ill?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, father! dear father!" I cried, adding my voice to my mother's, and +bursting into tears. I grasped his hand; it was very cold. I leaned +over, and, pressing down the pillow, touched his face. It was cold +also, and clammy with perspiration. +</P> + +<P> +"Send James for the doctor, instantly," said my mother. +</P> + +<P> +"No, no—don't." My father partially aroused himself at this, speaking +in a thick, unnatural voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Go!" My mother repeated the injunction, and I flew down stairs with +the order for James, our waiter, to go in all haste for the family +physician. When I returned, my mother, her face wet with tears, was +endeavoring to remove some of my father's outer garments. Together we +took off his coat, waistcoat and boots, he making no resistance, and +appearing to be in partial stupor, as if under the influence of some +drug. We chafed his hands and feet, and bathed his face, that wore a +deathly aspect, and used all the means in our power to rekindle the +failing spark of life. But he seemed to grow less and less conscious of +external things every moment. +</P> + +<P> +When the physician came, he had many questions to ask as to the cause +of the state in which he found my father. But we could answer none of +them. I watched his face intently, noting every varying expression, but +saw nothing to inspire confidence. He seemed both troubled and +perplexed. Almost his first act was to bleed copiously. +</P> + +<P> +Twice, before the physician came, had my father been inquired for at +the door, a thing altogether unusual at that hour of the day. Indeed, +his presence in the house at that hour was something which had not +occurred within a year. +</P> + +<P> +"A gentleman is in the parlor, and says that he must see Mr. W——," +said the waiter, speaking to me in a whisper, soon after the +physician's arrival. +</P> + +<P> +"Did you tell him that father was very ill," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; but he says that he must see him, sick or well." +</P> + +<P> +"Go down and tell him that father is not in a state to be seen by any +one." +</P> + +<P> +The waiter returned in a few moments, and beckoned me to the chamber +door. +</P> + +<P> +"The man says that he is not going to leave the house until he sees +your father. I wish you would go down to him. He acts so strangely." +</P> + +<P> +Without stopping to reflect, I left the apartment, and hurried down to +the parlor. I found a man walking the floor in a very excited manner. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish to see Mr. W.——," said he, abruptly, and in an imperative way. +</P> + +<P> +"He is very ill, sir," I replied, "and cannot be seen." +</P> + +<P> +"I must see him, sick or well." His manner was excited. +</P> + +<P> +"Impossible, sir." +</P> + +<P> +The door bell rang again at this moment, and with some violence. I +paused, and stood listening until the servant answered the summons, +while the man strode twice the full length of the parlor. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish to see Mr. W——." It was the voice of a man. +</P> + +<P> +"He is sick," the servant replied. +</P> + +<P> +"Give him my name—Mr. Walton—and say that I must see him for just a +moment." And this new visitor came in past the waiter, and entered the +parlor. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Arnold!" he ejaculated, in evident surprise. +</P> + +<P> +"Humph! This a nice business!" remarked the first visitor, in a rude +way, entirely indifferent to my presence or feelings. "A nice business, +I must confess!" +</P> + +<P> +"Have you seen Mr. W.——?" was inquired. +</P> + +<P> +"No. They say he's sick." +</P> + +<P> +There was an unconcealed doubt in the voice that uttered this. +</P> + +<P> +"Gentlemen," said I, stung into indignant courage, "this is an outrage! +What do you mean by it?" +</P> + +<P> +"We wish to see your father," said the last comer, his manner changing, +and his voice respectful. +</P> + +<P> +"You have both been told," was my firm reply, "that my father is too +ill to be seen." +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't an hour, as I am told, since he left his store," said the +first visitor, "and I hardly think his illness has progressed so +rapidly up to this time as to make an interview dangerous. We do not +wish to be rude or uncourteous, Miss W——, but our business with your +father is imperative, and we must see him. I, for one, do not intend +leaving the house until I meet him face to face!" +</P> + +<P> +"Will you walk up stairs?" I had the presence of mind and decision to +say, and I moved from the parlor into the passage. The men followed, +and I led them up to the chamber where our distressed family were +gathered around my father. As we entered the hushed apartment the men +pressed forward somewhat eagerly, but their steps were suddenly +arrested. The sight was one to make its own impression. My father's +face, deathly in its hue, was turned towards the door, and from his +bared arm a stream of dark blood was flowing sluggishly. The physician +had just opened a vein. +</P> + +<P> +"Come! This is no place for us," I heard one of the men whisper to the +other, and they withdrew as unceremoniously as they had entered. +Scarcely had they gone ere the loud ringing of the door bell sounded +through the house again. +</P> + +<P> +"What does all this mean!" whispered my distressed mother. +</P> + +<P> +"I cannot tell. Something is wrong," was all that I could answer; and a +vague, terrible fear took possession of my heart. +</P> + +<P> +In the midst of our confusion, uncertainty and distress, my uncle, the +only relative of my mother, arrived, and from him we learned the +crushing fact that my father's paper had been that day dishonored at +bank. In other words, that he had failed in business. +</P> + +<P> +The blow, long suspended over his head; and as I afterwards learned, +long dreaded, and long averted by the most desperate expedients to save +himself from ruin, when it did fall, was too heavy for him. It crushed +the life out of his enfeebled system. That fearful night he died! +</P> + +<P> +It is not my purpose to draw towards the survivors any sympathy, by +picturing the changes in their fortunes and modes of life that followed +this sad event. They have all endured much and suffered much. But how +light has it been to what my father must have endured and suffered in +his long struggle to sustain the thoughtless extravagance of his +family—to supply them with comforts and luxuries, none of which he +could himself enjoy! Ever before me is the image of his gradually +wasting form, and pale, sober, anxious face. His voice, always mild, +now comes to my ears, in memory, burdened with a most touching sadness. +What could we have been thinking about? Oh, youth! how blindly selfish +thou art! How unjust in thy thoughtlessness! What would I not give to +have my father back again! This daily toil for bread, those hours of +labor, prolonged often far into the night season—how cheerful would I +be if they ministered to my father's comfort. Ah! if we had been loving +and just to him, we might have had him still. But we were neither +loving nor just. While he gathered with hard toil, we scattered. Daily +we saw him go forth hurried to his business, and nightly we saw him +come home exhausted; and we never put forth a hand to lighten his +burdens; but, to gratify our idle and vain pleasures, laid new ones +upon his stooping shoulders, until, at last, the cruel weight crushed +him to the earth! +</P> + +<P> +My father! Oh, my father! If grief and tearful repentance could have +restored you to our broken circle, long since you would have returned +to us. But tears and repentance are vain. The rest and peace of +eternity is yours! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap12"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XII. +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN. +</H3> + +<P> +<I>IT</I> has been said that no man can be a gentleman who is not a +Christian. We take the converse of this proposition, and say that no +man can be a Christian who is not a gentleman. +</P> + +<P> +There is something of a stir among the dry bones at this. A few eyes +look at it in a rebuking way. +</P> + +<P> +"Show me that in the Bible," says one in confident negation of our +proposition. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, well, friend, we will take your case in illustration of our theme. +You call yourself a Christian?" +</P> + +<P> +"By God's mercy I do." +</P> + +<P> +Answered with an assured manner, as if in no doubt as to your being a +worthy bearer of that name. +</P> + +<P> +"You seem to question my state of acceptance. Who made you a judge?" +</P> + +<P> +Softly, friend. We do not like that gleam in your eyes. Perhaps we had +better stop here. If you cannot bear the probe, let us put on the +bandage again. +</P> + +<P> +"I am not afraid of the probe, sir. Go on." +</P> + +<P> +The name Christian includes all human perfection, does it not? +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, and all God-like perfection in the human soul." +</P> + +<P> +So we understand it. Now the fundamental doctrine of Christian life is +this:—"As ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them." +</P> + +<P> +"Faith in Christ is fundamental," you answer. +</P> + +<P> +Unless we believe in God, we cannot obey his precepts. The +understanding must first assent, before the divine life can be brought +into a conformity with divine laws. But we are not assuming theologic +ground. It is the life to which we are looking. We said "The +fundamental doctrine of Christian <I>life</I>." +</P> + +<P> +"All doctrine has relation to life, and I contend for faith as +fundamental." +</P> + +<P> +We won't argue that point, for the reason that it would lead us away +from the theme we are considering. We simply change the form of our +proposition, and call it a leading doctrine of Christian life. +</P> + +<P> +"So far I agree with you." +</P> + +<P> +Then the way before us is unobstructed again. You asked us to show you +authority in the Bible for saying that a man cannot be a Christian who +is not a gentlemen. We point you to the Golden Rule. In that all laws +of etiquette, so called, are included. It is the code of good breeding +condensed to an axiom. Now it has so happened that our observation of +you, friend objector, has been closer than may have been imagined. We +have noted your outgoings and incomings on divers occasions; and we are +sorry to say that you cannot be classed with the true gentleman. +</P> + +<P> +"Sir!" +</P> + +<P> +Gently! Gently! If a man may be a Christian, and not a gentleman at the +same time, your case is not so bad. But to the testimony of fact. Let +these witness for or against you. Let your own deeds approve or +condemn. You are not afraid of judgment by the standard of your own +conduct? +</P> + +<P> +"Of course not." +</P> + +<P> +And if we educe only well-remembered incidents, no offence will be +taken. +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly not." +</P> + +<P> +We go back, then, and repeat the law of true gentlemanly conduct. "As +ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them." You were +at Stockbridge last summer? +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +And took supper at the hotel there, with a small company of strangers? +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +There was a dish of fine strawberries on the table, among the first of +the season. You are fond of strawberries. They are your favorite fruit; +and, as their rich fragrance came to your nostrils, you felt eager to +taste them. So you counted the guests at the table, and measured the +dish of strawberries with your eyes. Then you looked from face to face, +and saw that all were strangers. Appetite might be indulged, and no one +would know that it was <I>you</I>. The strawberries would certainly not go +round, So you hurried down a cup of tea, and swallowed some toast +quickly. Then you said to the waiter, "Bring me the strawberries." They +were brought and set before you. And now, were you simply just in +securing your share, if the number fell below a dozen berries? You were +taking care of yourself; but in doing so, were not others' rights +invaded. We shall see. There were eight persons at the table, two of +them children. The dish held but little over a quart; of these nearly +one-third were taken by you! Would a true gentleman have done that? You +haven't thought of it since! We are sorry for you then. One of the +children, who only got six berries, cried through half the evening from +disappointment. And an invalid, whose blood would have gained life from +the rich juice of the fruit, got none. +</P> + +<P> +"It was a little selfish, I admit. But I am so fond of strawberries; +and at hotels, you know, every one must take care of himself." +</P> + +<P> +A true gentleman maintains his character under all circumstances, and a +Christian, as a matter of course. A true gentleman defers to others. He +takes so much pleasure in the enjoyment of others, that he denies +himself in order to secure their gratification. Can a Christian do less +and honor the name he bears? +</P> + +<P> +"It wasn't right, I see." +</P> + +<P> +Was it gentlemanly? +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +Christian? +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps not, strictly speaking." +</P> + +<P> +In the gall of bitterness and the bonds of iniquity still, we fear, for +all your profession. Christianity, as a system, must go deeper down +into the heart than that. But we have begun with you, friend, and we +will keep on. Perhaps you will see yourself a little differently by the +time we are through. A poor mechanic, who had done some trifling work +at your house, called, recently, with his little bill of three dollars +and forty cents. You were talking with a customer, when this man came +into your store and handed you his small account. You opened it with a +slight frown on your brow. He had happened to come at a time when you +felt yourself too much engaged to heed this trifling matter. How almost +rudely you thrust the coarse, soiled piece of paper on which he had +written his account back upon him, saying, "I can't attend to you now!" +The poor man went out hurt and disappointed. Was that gentlemanly +conduct? No, sir! Was it Christian? Look at the formula of Christian +life. "As ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them." +</P> + +<P> +"He should have waited until I was at leisure," you answer. "When a man +is engaged with a customer who buys at the rate of hundreds and +thousands, he don't want paltry bills thrust into his face. He'll know +better next time." +</P> + +<P> +Have you settled the bill yet? +</P> + +<P> +"No. He called day before yesterday, but couldn't give change for ten +dollars." +</P> + +<P> +Why haven't you sent him the trifling sum? He worked over half a day at +your house, and your family have been more comfortable for what he did +there ever since. He needs the money, for he is a poor man. +</P> + +<P> +You half smile in our face at the suggestion, and say, "Merchants are +not in the habit of troubling themselves to send all over the city to +pay the little paltry bills of mechanics. If money is worth having, it +is worth sending or calling for." +</P> + +<P> +In thought, reverse your positions, and apply the rule for a Christian +gentleman; remembering, at the same time, that God is no respecter of +persons. In his eyes, the man's position is nothing—the quality of his +life, everything. +</P> + +<P> +A gentleman in <I>form</I>, according to the rules of good breeding, is one +who treats everybody with kindness; who thinks of others' needs, +pleasures and conveniences; and subordinates his own needs, pleasures +and conveniences to theirs. He is mild, gentle, kind and courteous to +all. A gentleman in <I>feeling</I> does all this from a principle of +good-will; the Christian from a <I>law of spiritual life</I>. Now, a man may +be a gentleman, in the common acceptation of the term, and yet not be a +Christian; but we are very sure, that he cannot wave the gentleman and +be a Christian. +</P> + +<P> +You look at us more soberly. The truth of our words is taking hold of +conviction. Shall we go on? +</P> + +<P> +Do you not, in all public places, study your own comfort and +convenience? You do not clearly understand the question! We'll make the +matter plainer then: +</P> + +<P> +Last evening you were at Concert Hall, with your wife and daughter. You +went early, and secured good seats. Not three seats, simply, according +to the needs of your party; but nearly five seats, for extra comfort. +You managed it on the expansive principle. Well, the house was crowded. +Compression and condensation went on all around you; but your party +held its expanded position. A white-haired old man stood at the head of +your seat, and looked down at the spaces between yourself, your wife +and daughter; and though you knew it, you kept your eyes another way +until he passed on. You were not going to be incommoded for any one. +Then an old lady lingered there for a moment, and looked wistfully +along the seat. Your daughter whispered, "Father, we can make room for +her." And you answered: "Let her find another seat; I don't wish to be +crowded." Thus repressing good impulses in your child, and teaching her +to be selfish and unlady-like. The evening's entertainment began, and +you sat quite at ease, for an hour and a half, while many were standing +in the aisles. Sir, there was not even the gentleman in form here; much +less the gentleman from naturally kind feelings. As to Christian +principle, we will not take that into account. Do you remember what you +said as you moved through the aisles to the door? +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +A friend remarked that he had been obliged to stand all the evening, +and you replied: +</P> + +<P> +"We had it comfortable enough. I always manage that, in public places." +</P> + +<P> +He didn't understand all you meant; but, there is One who did. +</P> + +<P> +How was it in the same place only a few nights previously? You went +there alone, and happened to be late. The house was well filled in the +upper portion, but thinly occupied below the centre. Now you are bound +to have the best place, under all circumstances, if it can be obtained. +But all the best seats were well filled; and to crowd more into them, +would be to diminish the comfort of all. No matter. You saw a little +space in one of the desirable seats, and into it you passed, against +the remonstrance of looks, and even half uttered objections. A lady by +your side, not in good health, was so crowded in consequence, and made +so uncomfortable, that she could not listen with any satisfaction to +the eloquent lecture she had come to hear. +</P> + +<P> +We need say no more about your gentlemanly conduct in public places. +Enough has been suggested to give you our full meaning. +</P> + +<P> +Shall we go on? Do you call for other incidents in proof of our +assumption? Shall we follow you into other walks of life? +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +Very well. And, now, to press the matter home: Do you, in the sight of +that precept we have quoted, justify such conduct in a man who takes +the name of Christian? It was not gentlemanly, in any right sense of +the word; and not being so, can it be Christian? +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps not." +</P> + +<P> +Assuredly not. And you may depend upon it, sir, that your profession, +and faith, and church-going, and ordinance-observing, will not stand +you in that day when the book of your life is opened in the presence of +God. If there has been no genuine love of the neighbor—no +self-abnegation—no self-denial for the good of others, all the rest +will go for nothing, and you will pass over to abide forever with +spirits of a like quality with your own. +</P> + +<P> +Who made us your judge? We judge no man! But only point to the law of +Christian life as given by God himself. If you wish to dwell with him, +you must obey his laws; and obedience to these will make you nothing +less than a Christian gentleman—that is, a gentleman in heart as well +as in appearance. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of All's for the Best, by T. S. Arthur + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALL'S FOR THE BEST *** + +***** This file should be named 4589-h.htm or 4589-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/8/4589/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines. + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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