University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
FORTUNE STILL PROPITIOUS.

But the happy termination of his visit
to the Mortons, was not the only high favor
Edgar was that morning destined to
receive from the hands of capricious fortune.
Scarcely had he proceeded half a
dozen squares, when, as chance would
have it, he met with Dudley.

“The very person I desired to see,” said
the latter, with a cordial shake of the
hand. “I was even now on my way to
your dwelling.”

“Happily met, then,” replied Edgar,
“for I am homeward bound;” and joining
arms, the two proceeded on their way.

After some casual remarks, on unimportant
topics, Dudley said:

“Pardon me, Mr. Courtly—but may I
inquire how you succeeded in the matter
you had in view when last I saw you, as
regards pecuniary recompense?”

“It proved an entire failure,” answered
Edgar.

“Then, my friend, if you will allow me
so to call you, I am both grieved and rejoiced
at the same time—grieved, that you
should have been disappointed—rejoiced,
that I have it in my power to assist you.
Since I saw you, I have thought of you
much, and of your sister also, and have
puzzled my brain no little as to how I
could be of service to you and not wound
your sensitive feelings. Now the case is
this: one of my warmest friends is a
young man named Clarence Malcolm, who
is rich in this world's goods, and, what is
perhaps somewhat rare, as benevolent as
he is wealthy. All that I know is known
to him, and vice versa, for our minds are
as one mind, and consequently your history
has been stated to him exactly as to
myself. The result is, that he desires
me to beg you will accept this as a loan,
until such time as you may feel yourself
able to return it without the least inconvenience.”

As he spoke, Dudley extended to Edgar
a small purse of gold, which the latter
gently waved back, saying:

“Be so kind as to return Clarence Malcolm,
whom I have never seen, my warmest
thanks, and tell him I do not feel myself
in a condition at present to borrow,
even on his own generous terms. I have
already refused a kind offer this morning,
simply because my pride revolted at the
idea of taking money to which I had no
claim. I have never borrowed but once,
and then most stern necessity forced me
against my will. Let me have a chance
to return an equivalent in the shape of la
bor, either mentally or physically, and I
will accept the money with pleasure—but
on no other conditions.”

Dudley seemed both pleased and displeased
at this answer.

“I admire both your spirit and principle,”
he said, after musing a short time;
“but still would be better satisfied to have
you accept my offer without farther parley.
To speak candidly, I think you a little too
scrupulous—though if placed in your situation,
I should, in all probability, do precisely
the same; and this, by the way,
happily illustrates the principle, that we
often preach what we never practice.
You spoke of mental labor—am I to understand
you compose?”

“I have done a trifle in that way,” answered
Edgar, modestly, “though nothing
worthy of notice.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the other, brightening
with a new thought; “I am pleased
to learn you write at all. Poetry or
prose?”

“The former has been my choice, and
consequently most of my execution, though
the latter has come in for a trifling
share.”

“Have you ever published?”

“Never.”

“And why?”

“Because my productions are unworthy.”

“And for the very reason you think so,
I will wager they are worthy some of our
best poets. True merit, friend Edgar, is
always modest, for it requires no ordinary
talent to perceive our own defects. By
the way, would you like to see your productions
in print?”

“Why,” hesitated Edgar, “if of sufficient
merit.”

“I will venture that, and yet have never
seen a line from your pen. Come, I will
bargain with you. Will you sell what
poems you have on hand?”

“But they are worthless, I tell you.”

“That is not answering my question.
Will you sell! Come, do not hesitate! I
have a speculation in view, of which I
will tell you nothing now, save that to
complete it I must purchase your poems.
Come, what say you? I will give a

hundred dollars for what you have on
hand.”

“You flatter me, Mr. Dudley,” returned
Edgar, somewhat staggered at the offer;
“but really, I cannot take such advantage
of your generosity.”

“Never look for generosity in a bargain,
Mr. Courtly; for both buyer and seller,
considering their shrewdness at stake,
will give nothing then, lest the one
boast of his cunning in overreaching the
other. In a gift there is generosity—but
none in a trade; so set your mind at rest
on that score, and consider whether you
are willing to take the paltry sum of a
hundred dollars for your productions. Of
one thing rest assured—that I have an
object in buying, and that I, for one, shall
be perfectly satisfied, provided you think
I have not underpaid you. Say, is it a
bargain?—or shall I give more?”

“Why, since you press me,” replied Edgar,
“and since I so sorely need the money,
they are yours, on condition you find
them not so good as you expected, you will
consider yourself under no obligation to
take them.”

“I accept your offer,” returned Dudley,
with a gleam of delight. “Now, at least,”
he added, mentally, “I have the means
of forcing money upon him without wounding
his sensitive feelings.” Then he continued
aloud: “By-the-by, how would you
like to take charge of a magazine or newspaper?”

“Were I deemed competent, and the
proposition had been made me a few hours
ago, nothing would have pleased me better,”
answered Edgar; “but now I hold myself
partially engaged to Calvin Morton.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Dudley, in a tone
of surprise. “If to read law, you are most
fortunate; for he stands the very first in
his profession; and is, besides, a gentleman
of the right school.”

“You know him, then?”

“Better than I know you.”

“You seem in fact to know every one.”

You must bear in mind, I am a native of
the city—have lived here all my days—
have mingled no little in society, and consequently
have been brought in contact
with nearly all the old citizens. But tru
ly, I am delighted at your prospects; for
very few have the honor and good fortune
to read law under the tuition of Calvin
Morton. I am curious to know by what
means you effected the arrangement.”

Edgar at once proceeded to narrate the
circumstance which had led to this result.
As he concluded, Dudley grasped his hand
and shook it heartily.

“Let me congratulate you,” he said,
“on a fortune in prospective; for you have
put one under obligations who will never
rest content till he has seen you on the
high road to wealth and renown. Calvin
Morton is a very singular man. He seldom
forgives an injury or insult—he never
forgets a favor, no matter how trivial.—
With him there is no half way. He loves
or he hates. Unlike what you represent
your uncle, there is no dissembling. As
a general thing, what he thinks he says,
and what he says he means. And as to
his daughter, the fair Edith, a sweeter
creature does not live. What! blushing,
eh! So, so—then you readily believe all
I can say of her, I see. Well, I must repeat,
I think you very, very fortunate.—
Speaking of your uncle, reminds me that
Clarence, who visits there occasionally,
has promised to sift the matter, regarding
what you told me, to the very bottom; and
if he can prove he has acted basely, he
will expose his hypocrasy, and hold him
up to the scorn of all honest men.”

Conversing thus, Edgar and Dudley at
last reached the abode of the former.—
Virginia, as Edgar entered in advance of
his friend, at once flew to embrace him;
but on perceiving who followed, she paused,
blushed, and in an embarrassed manner,
while she timidly proffered her hand,
said:

“You have taken me by surprise, Mr.
Dudley: I thought Edgar was alone.”

“Let me hope the surprise does not
prove a disagreable one!” returned Dudley,
carnestly, with a flushed countenance.

“O, no, no!” rejoined Virginia, with sudden
energy, looking full in the face of her
guest; and then immediately added, letting
her gaze sink modestly to the ground:
“The friends of my brother are always
welcome.”

“I trust,” rejoined Dudley, in a low,
bland tone, “I may be considered the
friend of both!”

Virginia, embarrassed, did not reply,
though evidently desirous to do so, which
Edgar perceiving, quickly came to her aid,
by saying:

“We are both proud, I assure you, Mr.
Dudley, of your disinterested friendship—
for disinterested it is, since we have all
and you nothing to gain by it.”

“Ah, my dear friend, you mistake entirely,”
responded Dudley, with a smile,
“in supposing there can be such a thing
as disinterested friendship. Whatever
gratifies, interests us; and where either
our pride, vanity, sympathies, or more
common place feelings are enlisted, we
cannot be wholly disinterested. It is a
prevalent idea, that when one performs a
noble act and conceals it from the world,
he does it through disinterested motives.
But it is not so. His self-approving conscience
is his reward; and that kind of
reward being what he seeks, and of more
gratification to him than the world's applause,
becomes the motive incentive to
action. In friendship, especially, there is
self to gratify on both sides; for where
self is not enlisted, there can be no interest;
where interest is wanting, there
must be indifference; and where is indifference,
there can be no friendship. We
may call friendship disinterested, to distinguish
it from the seeming friendship
of base self-interest—which latter, in my
opinion, is unworthy the ennobling name
of the former—though even in the purest
of the former, if we look into it
closely, we shall find self the basis on
which the fabric is reared. But I am running
into a dissertation, where I only intended
a simple explanation, and so will
conclude ere I tax your patience too far.”

But on such and similar topics Edgar
never wearied of conversing; and the two
friends continued in a pleasant discussion
for more than an hour, gradually passing
from one subject to another, as each was
suggested by a continuous train of ideas.

Virginia, though for the most part silent,
occasionally joined in and expressed her
views, in a manner that both surprised
and pleased her guest, who acknowledged
to himself he had not before given her
credit for-one half the mind she really
possessed. Her remarks were ever terse,
concise, and to the point; and what was
still farther evidence of good judgement,
were always well-timed; and Dudley, discovering
all this with delight, could not
but admire her and admit to himself she
was one of the most lovely, intelligent
and fascinating of her sex—certainly a
great deal to be admitted by one who had
seen so much of intellectual society, in
favor of one he now beheld for the second
time.

And how was it with Virginia? She
gazed upon the handsome countenance of
Dudley, she listened to the full, rich melody
of his voice, and marked the lofty and
not unfrequently poetical and original sentiment
which flowed from his lips, with
feelings both new and strange to her—
the while she took no note of Time, who,
casting aside his glass and renewing his
youth for the nonce, now flew by on the
wings of lightning.

Passing from one thing to another, the
conversation at last turned upon poetry, a
theme with which all were familiar, and
in which all were alike interested.

“O, above all things, do I love poetry!”
said Virginia, with enthusiasm: and then
she added, a moment after, in a faltering
tone, vainly struggling to suppress her
emotion: “And so did our poor, dear
mother.”

For a short time there was a dead silence;
and the tears sprang from the
eyes of both Edgar and his sister, as they
thought upon her who had so loved, but who
was forever gone from among them. Even
Dudley was much affected at witnessing
their silent grief; but knowing it both useless
and detrimental, since it could not
restore the dead and must impair the energies
of the living, he began, in a mild,
soothing tone, to console, and gradually
lead their thoughts back to their previous
channel.

“We should not mourn too much,” he
said, “for those who have preceded us
only for a brief space at the longest; but
rather console ourselves with the thought,

that earth is not our abiding place, and
that we are destined to meet again in that
bright realm where the poetry of music
makes an eternal melody to delight us forever.
And speaking of poetry again—
who among the great masters of song is
your favorite, Edgar?”

“It is difficult for me to say,” replied
the latter, drying his eyes, “for each is
my favorite in his particular sphere. When
I read Milton, I think none can approach
him, for he is great in sublimity; and in his
masterly conceptions of what we never
saw, stands preminent—a something ennobled,
exalted and inspired far above frail
humanity, and almost beyond human comprehension.
I read Shakespeare, and feel
he is equally great in his line—that of
creating what we have seen, and depicting
all the varying passions of the human
heart. I read Byron, and love him for his
wild grandeur of thought, when he grapples
with the dark spirits of the storm, expands
his soul over the mighty relics of
the past, throws out the sarcasm of a noble
heart on the villainies of a hollow-hearted
world, or portrays, with an immortal
pen, the grandest scenes in nature and
art. I delight in the melodies of Moore;
for when I drink his flowery thoughts, I
ever fancy myself reposing on a bed of
roses, beside some murmuring stream,
whose continual ripple sings me to a quiet
sleep. The argument and classic beauty
of Pope excites my admiration, and the
poetical romance of Scott is a source of
unalloyed pleasure. Take them all in all,
it is impossible for me to select my
particular favorite; for like the dishes on a
table at a feast, we must needs partake a
little of each, to satisfy our changing desires
and make our repast complete.”

“You have expressed my own views and
feelings, as regards the great poets, better
than I could have done myself,” rejoined
Dudley, delightedly. “And now that I
have had your opinion, I must see your
own composition.”

“Nay,” said Edgar, blushing, “since we
have been speaking of the great masters,
I am really ashamed to display my humble
efforts.”

noshouremmber, my friend, that
all were beginners once, and that no one
could have predicted from a first attempt,
that a Milton, a Shakespeare or a Byron
would follow. Nature has never produced
what she cannot again; and so we may
even look to see poets of the present become
as great as the greatest of the past.”

“Well, as you have bargained for my
effusions, unseen, you of course have a
right to examine your purchase,” rejoined
Edgar; “and this shall be my apology for
bringing them forward;” and retiring into
the adjoining apartment, he shortly returned
with a package of some dozen articles,
neatly written and folded with
care.

Dudley seized them with avidity, and,
in spite of Edgar's protestations, opened
and began to peruse them.

“Beautiful!” he exclaimed, as his eye
ran rapidly over the first; “beautiful! Ah,
better still!” he pursued, as he concluded
the second. And then hastily scanning
the others, he added, grasping Edgar's
hand: “My friend, I do not wish to flatter
you, but, for a first attempt, I have
never seen any thing to compare with
these. I have reason to rejoice at my bargain.
Here is your money;” and he counted
Edgar down a hundred dollars in gold.

It would be impossible to describe the
feelings of the latter, as he modestly accepted
the reward of his toil. It was gold
honestly earned, and it was his: gold paid
to his genius: gold that told him he had
talents above the herd—that at least he
was fit for something; and as he thought
over the events of the day, his eyes brightened,
his soul seemed to expand, and with
a sort of giddiness, common to first success,
he already fancied he stood on the
dizzy heights of fame and beheld an admiring
world at his feet. As for Virginia,
she was all bewilderment; for the whole
proceeding was a mystery to her; but she
saw her brother had at least the means of
living, and her heart bounded with delight
at the thought.

“When next we meet,” said Dudley, as
he rose to take leave, “I trust I shall see
you both in a station befitting your early
years and education;” and pressing the
hands of both warmly, but with a heightened

color as his own touched Virginia's,
he departed.

As soon as he was gone, Edgar sat
down, drew his sister upon his knee, kissed
her sweet lips, and, in a voice tremulous
with joy, told her all that had happened,
and the bright prospects now in store for
them; and both mingled their tears of
gladness, that the night of their sorrow
was passing away and a day of brightness
was already dawning.

“We must not appear before our new
friends in these faded garments,” said Edgar;
“and now that I have money, honestly
my own, let us forth and make some purchases.
Oh, that our poor mother were
living!—how this would make her heart rejoice!”

Carrying out his own suggestion, Edgar
purchased a ready-made suit for himself,
and a handsome black dress and bennet
for his sister; and when they had donned
their new habiliments, each congratulated
the other on appearing again as in the
days of their prosperity.

“And now,” said Virginia, as she carefully
folded the cast off garments, “let us
preserve these, should fortune prove propitious
once more, to remind us of our
days of adversity; so that when we behold
our fellows suffering, we may remember
what we have endured and not forget to
be charitable.”

“As you will,” replied Edgar; “but with
you and I, my sweet sister, it will hardly
need these as remembrancers of what we
have been. Ha! what is this?” he added,
as, in overhauling his garments, a paper
secured in the torn lining caught his eye.
“Good heavens! is it possible!” he continued,
drawing it forth. “It is the lost check,
as I live.”

Great were the rejoicings of Edgar and
his sister at this discovery, for to them it
seemed inexhaustible wealth. As it was
not yet past banking hours, Edgar hastened
to Wall street, and in a short time
returned to Virginia with more than a
thousand dollars in his possession. And
then what joy was in their hearts, as, with
arms thrown fondly around each other,
they sat and talked over their plans for the
morrow.

Alas! poor oppressed orphans!—they little
dreamed what the morrow, or even the
night, had in store for them. The fowler
had sprung his net, and they were already
becoming entangled in its meshes.