University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

A few days of skilful medical attendance from
Dr. Eustace, the care of a tolerable nurse, and the
kindest devotion of the whole Carroll family, worked
miracles on Mr. Flavel's exhausted frame.

He seemed no stranger to the little comforts
and modest luxuries he now enjoyed. No `Christopher
Sly' awaking from his dreams, but as if he
might have been both `Honor' and `Lord' all the
days of his life. But, though the refinements of
Mrs. Carroll's spare-room did not produce any
marked sensation, the kindness of the family did;
no look or word escaped his notice; never was man
more sensible—more alive to the charities of life.
Dr. Eustace said he appeared as much changed
since the first time he had seen him, as if an evil
spirit had been driven from his breast to give place
to the ministry of good angels.

“Do you mean to pay a compliment to my children,
Doctor?” asked Mr. Carroll, to whom the
Doctor had addressed his remark.

“No; not to them exclusively. I think your

influence, Carroll, on Mr. Flavel is more striking
than theirs—than Frank's even—though he doats on
Frank; but I have noticed that you excite an obvious
emotion whenever you come into his room; and
once or twice I have been feeling his pulse when you
were coming up stairs, and feeble as they were, the
sound of your approaching footsteps has quickened
them even to throbbing.”

“It's very odd,” said Mrs. Carroll, “if he really
feels so much, that he never speaks of it; not that I
care about it at all, you know; but I think it is but
civil, when one is receiving all sorts of favors, to
express some gratitude for them.”

“I am sure he feels it, and feels it deeply,” replied
Doctor Eustace. “He betrayed so much
emotion yesterday in speaking of your husband,
that I thought it prudent to leave the room; and to-day
he begged me, in case he should suddenly lose
his speech or faculties, to request Mr. Carroll to
keep him under his roof while he lived. He knew,
he said, that Carroll's means were too limited to
allow him to indulge his generous dispositions, and
he wished him to be informed, that he had sufficient
funds in the hands of the Barings to indemnify him
for any expenses he might incur. He has made
some memorandums, to that effect I presume, to be
given to you in case of his sudden death.”

“That is just what I should have expected,” exclaimed
Mrs. Carroll, “true John Bull, keeping up
a show of independence to the last gasp; as if a
few dollars were a compensation for all this trouble
in a gentleman's family. Now, my dear husband
don't look so solemn; is it not a little provoking,

considering all our trouble, to say nothing of expense?”

“Yes, dear; a little provoking.”

“Oh! nothing ever provokes you. I should not
think any thing of doing it for a friend, but for a
stranger it is quite a different affair.”

“Few would scruple doing for a friend, Sarah,
all you have done for Mr. Flavel, but I know few
beside you that would have done it for a stranger.”

Mrs. Carroll was mollified by her husband's
praise. She knew she in part deserved it, and she
was too honest to put in a disclaimer. “I know,
Charles,” she said, “that I am not half so generous
as you are;” that was true; “but I have really
done what I could for the old gentleman; gentleman
he certainly is; that is a satisfaction; poor
man, I do feel for him. Yesterday, doctor, after
you told me that a recurrence of the fits might
carry him off at any moment, I thought it my duty
to hint to him the importance of seeing a clergyman,
and I proposed to him to send for Mr. Stanhope.
He replied very coldly that he wished to avoid all
unnecessary excitement. Unnecessary! said I. My
dear madam, said he, do not give yourself any
uneasiness on my account. I must take my chance.
Quackery cannot help me.”

“He has, no doubt, had a singular experience,”
said Mr. Carroll, “and has probably peculiar religious
views, but I trust, better than these expressions
indicate. When I went into his room last
evening, Frank was reading the bible to him, and
Gertrude stood ready with her prayer book, to read
the prayers for the sick. He had, it seems, requested

this. His face was covered with his handkerchief,
and I left them to their celestial ministry.
Mr. Flavel has probably lived in a corrupt state of
society and has become distrustful of religious
teachers—has involved them all in a sweeping prejudice
against the priestly office. Such a man's devotional
feelings would have nothing to resist in the
ministry of children. He would yield himself to
their simplicity and truth, and feel their accordance
with the elements of Christian instruction. I feel
an inexpressible interest in him, and I cannot but
hope that the light of religion has, with healing on
its beams, penetrated his heart.”

“That is hoping against hope, Charles; if he has
any such feelings as you imagine, why, for pity's
sake, does not he express them?”

“There are various modes of expression; his
present tranquillity may be one. There are persons
so reserved, so fastidious, that they never speak of
their religious feelings.”

“Well—that's what I call being more nice than
wise,” replied Mrs. Carroll, “especially when one,
like Mr. Flavel, has done with the world.”

Mr. Carroll made no reply. His wife's mind
was of a different texture from his, and the sensation
her remarks sometimes produced was similar to
that endured by a person of an exquisite musical
ear from a discordant note. He said something of
not having seen Mr. Flavel since dinner, and went
to his apartment. He was sitting up in his bed and
looking better than usual. Frank sat on one side
of him, abstracting the skins from a bunch of fine
grapes, and giving them to the invalid. His little

sister, Gertrude, on the other, reading aloud.
“Where did you get your grapes, Frank?” asked
his father.

“Cousin Anne Raymond gave them to me, but
I would not have taken them if I had not thought
to myself, they would be good for Mr. Flavel.”

“Why not, my son?”

“Because cousin Anne is such a queer woman.
I wish I had not any rich cousins; or, at least, I
wish mother would not make me go and see them.
I am glad we are not rich, father.”

“Riches do not, of course, Frank, make people
like your cousin Anne; but how has she offended
you?”

“In the first place, I met her in the entry, and
without even saying, `how do you do,' she asked
me if I had scraped my shoes.”

“There was surely no harm in that.”

“I know that, sir; but then she might have
looked first, as you would have done. Mother told
me before I left home, about cousin Anne's famous
carpets, and charged me to scrape my feet, and I
had. Blame her new carpets! I wish I had soiled
them.”

“My son!”

“Well father, I was too provoked with her;
there was ever so much fine company in the parlor,
and I went to get myself a chair, and they were all
looking at me, and I stumbled, I don't know how,
but at any rate I broke the leg of the chair, and
cousin Anne laughed out loud, and said to one of
the gentlemen, `I expected it,' and then she whispered
to me, `always wait for a servant to hand

you a chair, my dear;' and then she ordered the
man to give me some cake—I was determined I
would not take any if I died for it, and one of the
ladies said, the young man is quite right, it is too
rich for him.”

Mr. Carroll laughed at the boy's simplicity.
“Frank,” he said, “she meant too rich to be
wholesome.”

“I don't know what she meant, sir, but I hate
the very word rich. Soon after, when most of her
visiters were gone, she said, `so Frank, your mother
has a famous new hat—where did she get it?' I
told her it was a present from aunt Selden; `I
thought so,' said she, `I thought she would hardly
buy such an expensive hat.' I hope mother will
never wear it again—I wish she would not wear
any fine presents.”

“I wish so too, Frank; but was this all that our
cousin said?”

“No, not all; but I will tell you the rest some
other time, sir.” The rest, which Frank's delicacy
suppressed, was in relation to his father's singular
guest. Mrs. Raymond made many inquiries about
him; said it was absurd to take in a man of that
sort. It was making an alms-house of your house
at once; and beside, it was an enormous expense;
but, as to that, it seemed to her, that poor people
never thought of expense; to be sure, benevolence,
and sentiment, and all that, were very fine things,
but for her part, she did not see how people that
had but fifteen hundred dollars a year could afford
to indulge them.' This scornful railing was not,
of course, addressed to Frank, but spoken, as if he

had neither ears nor understanding, to another rich
supercilious cousin. This, conspiring with the
mortifying incidents of the morning visit, filled the
generous boy's bosom with a contempt of riches
that all the stoicism of all the schools could not
have inspired. When he, afterwards, related this
supplement to his cousin's conversation, Mr. Carroll's
only reply was, “It is true, my dear boy,
that our income admits few luxuries—but the luxury
of giving shall be the last that we deny ourselves.”

But we must return to the little circle around the
invalid's bed, which was soon enlarged, by the addition
of Mrs. Carroll, and the following conversation
ensued, and seemed naturally to arise from what
had preceded.

“Suppose for a moment, Frank,” said Mr. Flavel,
“that one of the good genii of your fairy tales
were to offer to make your father rich, would you
accept the offer?”

“No, no; not if he must be like other rich people.”

“What say you, my little Gertrude?”

“Not if he were to be at all different from what
he is.”

“I am not in much danger,” said the delighted
father, “of sighing after fortune while I possess you,
my children.”

“Then,” said Mr. Flavel, whose countenance
seemed to have caught the illumination of Carroll's,
“you do not desire fortune?”

“No, I do not; at least I have no desire for it
that in the least impairs my contentment. Every
day's observation strengthens my conviction that

mediocrity of fortune is most favorable to virtue,
and of course to happiness.”

“And you would not accept of fortune if it were
offered to you?”

“Ah, that I do not say; money is the representative
of power—of the most enviable of all power,
that of doing good. I have my castles in the air as
well as other men—my dreams of the possible happiness
to be derived from using and dispensing
wealth.”

“And you flatter yourself that with the acquisition
of wealth you should retain the dispositions that
spring naturally from the bosom of virtuous mediocrity?”

“Surely, Mr. Flavel, some men have resisted the
corrupting influence of money, and have used it for
high and beneficent purposes. At any rate, if I flatter
myself, the delusion is quite innocent, and in no
danger of being dispelled. It is scarcely among the
possible casualties of life, that I should possess
wealth; my decent clerkship only affords moderate
compensation to constant labor. I have not a known
relative in the world, and I never gamble in lotteries”—

“Life is a lottery, my dear friend,” replied Mr.
Flavel; “your virtue may yet be proved.”

“Heaven grant it!” sighed Mrs. Carroll.

“Then you do not share your husband's philosophic
indifference to wealth, Mrs. Carroll?”

“Wealth, that is out of the question; I do not
care for wealth, but I confess that I should like a
competency—I should like a little more than we

have; my husband works from morning till night
for a mere pittance.”

“Why should not I? Labor is no evil.”

“Pshaw! Mr. Carroll, I know that; but then
one does like to get some compensation for it. You
seem to forget the children are growing up, and
want the advantages of education—”

“Pardon me, that I never forget; but the essentials
of a good education are within our reach, and
as to accomplishments, they are luxuries that may
be dispensed with, and for which I, certainly, would
not sacrifice the moral influences of our modest
competence.”

“I do not see, Charles, that moral influences
need to be sacrificed. If you were as rich as Crœ
sus, you would be careful to instil good principles
into your children.”

“Perhaps so; but I have more confidence in the
influence of circumstances favorable to the formation
of character, than in direct instruction. The
most energetic, self-denying, and disinterested persons
I have ever known, have been made so by the
force of necessity. Mr. Flavel, you must have seen
a good deal of the world—are you not of my opinion?”

“My opinions,” replied Mr. Flavel, with a sigh,
“have been moulded by peculiar circumstances, and
scarcely admit of any general application. Mrs.
Carroll has given honorable reasons for coveting
more ample means; she may have others equally
strong”—he looked inquiringly at Mrs. Carroll, as
if anxious she should speak her whole mind on the
subject, and she frankly replied, “Certainly, I have

other reasons; I should like to be able to live in a
better house—to have more servants and furniture—
in short, to live genteelly.” Mr. Flavel's countenance
for a moment resumed its sarcastic expression, and
Mr. Carroll rose and walked to the window; but
Mrs. Carroll, without observing either, continued,
“By living genteelly, I mean merely, being able to
move in good society, on equal terms.”

“Is cousin Anne good society?” asked little
Frank.

“Yes, my son,” replied his father; “all your mother's
connections are good society.”

If there was satire in the tone of Mr. Carroll's
voice, it passed unnoticed by his wife, who said,
with the most perfect self-complacency, “Yes, that's
true; my family has always been in the very first
society, and it is natural that I should wish my children
to associate with my relatives.”

“Perfectly natural, my dear wife, but perfectly
impossible, since wealth is the only passport to this
good society, at least, the only means of procuring a
family ticket of admission.”

“Well, that's just what I say, just what I desire
riches for; but then,” she continued, with a little
petulance in her manner, “if you had not been so
particular, Mr. Carroll, we might have kept on visiting
terms with some of our connections. We have
been repeatedly invited to uncle Henry's and cousin
William's.”

“Yes, we might have been guests on sufferance,
and have gone to weddings and funerals at sundry
other uncles and cousins, but I was too proud, Sarah,
to permit you to receive your rights as favors.”

“There is such a thing, Mr. Carroll, as being too
proud for one's own interest; and for our dear
children's interest, I think we should sacrifice a little
of our pride.”

“It can never be for the interest of our children,”
replied Mr. Carroll, with decision, “that they should
sacrifice their independence of character for the sake
of associating with those to whom the mere accidents
of life have assigned a superior—no, I am wrong—a
different station. I have no ambition that my children
should move in fashionable society; I do not
believe that in any country it includes the most elevated
and virtuous class; certainly not in our city,
where the aristocracy of wealth is the only efficient
aristocracy. No, I thank God that there is a barrier
between us and the fashionable world; that we
cannot approach it near enough to be dazzled by its
glare: for like the reptile that fascinates its victims
by the emission of a brilliant mist, so the polite
world is encircled by a halo fatally dazzling to common
senses.” Mr. Carroll spoke with less qualification,
and more earnestness than was warranted by
his more deliberate opinion; but he was particularly
annoyed at this moment by the display of his
wife's ruling passion.

“It does not signify talking, Mr. Carroll,” she
replied; “you and I can never agree on this subject.”

“Not exactly, perhaps, but we do not materially
disagree. Indeed, if the old rule hold good, and
actions speak louder than words, you have already
given the strongest opinion on my side, by allying

yourself to a poor dog, who you well knew could
not sustain you in the fashionable world.”

Mrs. Carroll felt awkwardly, and was glad to be
relieved by a summons to the parlor, where she
found the `cousin Anne,' from whose gossiping
scrutiny the insignificance of her humble condition
did not exempt her. While Mrs. Carroll was parrying
her ingenious cross-examination relative to
her guest, her husband continued the conversation
with him: “Fortunately in our country,” he said,
“there are no real, no permanent distinctions, but
those that are created by talent, education, and virtue.
These fashionable people, who most pride
themselves on their prerogative of exclusiveness,
feel the extreme precariousness of the tenure by
which they hold their privileges. A sudden reverse
of fortune, one of the most common accidents of a
commercial city, plunges them into irretrievable obscurity
and insignificance; for to them all that portion
of the world that is not shone upon by the sun
of fashion, is a region of shadows and darkness.
Perhaps I overrate the disadvantages and temptations
that follow in the train of wealth; but if my
estimate of them increases my own fund of contentment,
my mistake is at least useful to myself. The
fox was the true philosopher; it is better to believe that
the grapes which we cannot reach are sour, than to
disrelish our own food by dwelling on their sweetness.
But, Mr. Flavel, I beg ten thousand pardons for my
prosing. I have wearied you with all this common-place
on the commonest of all moral topics.”

“No, not in the least; it is a common topic, because
one of universal interest. No, my dear

friend, your sentiments delight me. I find myself
in a new region. I feel like one awakened from a
confused, distressful dream. Life has been a dream
to me; strange, eventful, suffering.”

His voice faltered, and Conolly, his nurse, entering
at the moment, and observing his agitation,
whispered to Mr. Carroll that he had best remove
the children, for he believed the old gentleman was
going in his fits. The children were accordingly
dismissed, and a cordial administered, though Mr.
Flavel protested it was unnecessary, for he felt
stronger than he had done for some time, and
lowering his voice, he requested Mr. Carroll to
send Conolly away, and direct him to remain below
till called for. “I must be alone with you,” he
said, “I must not, I cannot delay this longer.”

Conolly was dismissed and not recalled till after
the lapse of an hour, when the bell was rung repeatedly
and so violently that the whole family, in
excessive alarm, ran up to the sick chamber. Mr.
Flavel was in violent convulsions in Mr. Carroll's
arms, who was himself bereft of all presence of mind.
He gave hurried and contradictory orders. He sent
for Dr. Eustace, and on his appearing, appealed to
him, as if happiness and life itself were at stake, to
use all his art to restore Mr. Flavel to consciousness.
For twenty-four hours he never left his bed-side—scarcely
turned his eyes from him; but at
the first intimation that he was recovering his senses,
he quitted him, retired to his own room for a few
moments, then came out and took some refreshment,
and returned with a calm exterior to his bed-side.
Still the unsubdued and intense emotions of his

mind were evident in his knit brow, flushed cheek,
and trembling nerves. He could not be persuaded
to leave Mr. Flavel for a moment, day nor night.
He would not suffer any one else to render him the
slightest service, and he watched him with a mother's
devotion—a devotion that triumphs over all the
wants and weakness of nature.