University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII
A CHANGE OF SCENE.

The events we have related occurred in the month
of September. They had given considerable notoriety
to the Davises, and brought them into the eye
of the little public of Salisbury. Mrs. Davis was too
well known, and too much respected there, to be condemned
for having permitted an intercourse between
her children and Clapham Dunn. The common remarks
were, that “her goodness was imposed on;” that
“she never would believe evil of any body;” that “it
was well for her that her son Harry was such an uncommon
boy;” that “he was one of the few in the world
who could touch pitch and not be defiled.” Poor Clapham!
No thought of pity or charity wandered towards
him, except (an honorable exception for him) from the

bosoms of that little family who best knew him. Many a
prayer arose from Mrs. Davis's secret chamber that “the
lost might be found;” and Harry and Annie had many
a talk together of a hundred instances of Clapham's honesty,
and a thousand of his good-heartedness, and they
generally concluded with expressing a hope that there
was some unfathomable secret that would some day explain
away the proofs, they could not openly controvert,
of Clapham's guilt, and a conviction that he was not, at
any rate, so guilty as he seemed. If only Mr. Lyman
had been in town, he might have done something; he
was always a good friend to Clapham; he would at least
have given him an opportunity to speak to a friend.
That this was due to him, Harry so vehemently insisted,
that he persuaded his father, who was going through
L—, on his way to Washington, to take a letter
from him to Clapham. In this letter he expressed,
most affectionately, his grief for what had happened;
his mother's, and Annie's. He said they were not
willing to believe any thing against him, and that what
other people called proofs, they only called mysterious,
unexplained circumstances. “I have believed in you,
Clapham,” he said. “I yet hope. Write the truth to
me. You cannot write yourself. If there is no one
in the jail who will write for you, send for the minister
of L—. I dare say he is a good man, — ministers
almost always are, — and he will write for you.”

Had poor Clapham received this letter, what a
healing balm it would have been to his wounded spirit!
What a motive it would have given for effort and perseverance!
But he was destined never to see it.
Davis, whose improvidence and carelessness were the
bane of all dependence on him, put Harry's letter where
he usually carried his business papers, — in the crown of
his hat, — and lost it. Day after day, Harry hoped and
sighed for an answer, but no answer came; and, when
Davis returned from Washington, not liking to confess
he had lost the letter, he asked Harry, carelessly, if
he had received an answer from Clapham; and, on
Harry replying, “No,” he merely said, “I thought not!”
His morality was as slipshod as his other qualities.

The country “season” was now closing, and Mrs.
Dawson and the New York party who had delayed
their return to the city to enjoy October in the country,

were packing for their departure. Mrs. Dawson had
taken a great liking to Harry Davis. She had been
struck with his intelligence, his good manners, and his
manliness. She found he had profited by a very good
common school education; that he had taken advantage
of the opportunities of reading, afforded by
the diffusion of cheap publications; that he had wisely
taken advice of his cultivated friend, Mr. Lyman,
and, rejecting trash, read only books that are books.

One of the greatest men of letters England has
produced — Gibbon — declares that his love of reading
was more to him than all the rest of his education.
Harry Davis did not expect to be a man of letters.
He was not an ambitious boy; but he was early
taught that, in whatever condition he might find himself,
a well-stored mind would be imperishable riches,
contributing to his respectability and happiness.

Mrs. Dawson kindly called on Mrs. Davis soon
after little Lucy's burial; and, introducing what she
rightly thought a most consolatory topic, she said,
“Your son Harry is a remarkable boy, Mrs. Davis.”

“He is a good child, ma'am.”

“That he is. I have been much struck with seeing
him so cheerfully fetch and carry our clothes to your
wash. Some boys would have let their mothers do it;
but your son seems to know that the true honor lies
in performing the service for his mother.”

“He has always taken pleasure in serving me,” said
Mrs. Davis, with a smile of sweet satisfaction.

“Well, he will be rewarded, Mrs. Davis. He may
be president of the United States, yet.”

“I hope not.”

“Hope not?”

“I mean, Mrs. Dawson, that I don't wish my son
to be ambitious; that I think it is the fault and folly
of our people to be all striving for something beyond
them. There is so much said now-a-days about people
`going ahead,' that they are all pushing forward — looking
beyond — grasping at something they cannot quite
reach, instead of being contented with what they have
— building castles in the air, instead of raising a comfortable
dwelling on solid ground. No, Mrs. Dawson,
I am sincere when I say that my highest ambition is
to see my son an intelligent farmer or mechanic, a

good member of society, but not a doctor or lawyer,
and, above all things, not by trade a politician.”

“I admire your moderation, Mrs. Davis, but I confess
I look for something a little better for Harry.”

Mrs. Dawson had conceived certain plans for
Harry. She was a woman of unbounded sympathy,
and the most diffusive kindness; but, we must confess,
with rather more zeal than judgment.

“Your ideas are excellent, Mrs. Davis,” she resumed;
“but Harry is such an uncommon boy that
we may expect something a little out of the common
way for him. Why, Mr. Lyman says he draws very
nearly as well as he does. Who knows but he might
make a great painter?”

“O Mrs. Dawson, that's not to be thought of. He
draws well because he has taken a deal of pains.
Even Mr. Lyman, though he is so fond of him, says
he has no genius.”

“How would you like to have him a merchant?”

“A merchant! He would have small capital to
begin on.”

“That is nothing. Most of our rich men have

begun with no other capital than enterprise, industry,
and good character. Have you any plan for Harry?”

Mrs. Davis had. She was at that moment awaiting
an answer from a respectable carpenter, a friend of
hers settled in L—. The answer came, and was unfavorable.
The carpenter had no vacant place. Mrs.
Dawson renewed the proposition for a mercantile
career. She proposed that Harry should enter a retail
shop in New York. At first, Mrs. Davis shrank from
the temptations of city life, and uncertainties of trade.
But Mrs. Dawson urged so earnestly, entered into all
Harry's future with such friendly and flattering zeal,
that both mother and son were persuaded to think of
the project. Two or three other failures to obtain
places for which Mrs. Davis had applied, occurred at
this time; and finally it was agreed, when Mrs. Dawson
left Salisbury, that she should make application
and report her success.

Soon after her departure, a summons came. Harry
had as neat an outfit as could be procured by twenty
dollars, eked out by his mother's judgment and skill in
buying this and “making that do” — twenty dollars

left her of her earnings, after they had been recovered
at Dunn's. Davis took credit to himself for leaving
her so much. “The rest,” he said, “would barely
take him to Washington and back; but he should get
his patent, and then he should show his wife that a
man could earn a hundred dollars where a woman
could ten. But,” he concluded, “that is not their
fault, poor creatures! There's a difference by nature
in men and women, that's a fact!”