 | CHAPTER V.
PLANS FOR THE FUTURE. Oliver Goldfinch, or, The hypocrite |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
PLANS FOR THE FUTURE.
The day following the funeral of Mrs.
Courtly, saw Edgar and his sister located
in small but comfortable lodgings, some
three or four squares from their previously
wretched abode. This was effected at the
instance of Ellen, who insisted they should
at once remove to better quarters, and
for this purpose generously provided then
with farther means to do so. She had
many delicate scruples to overcome in effecting
this change; for though excessively
in need, Edgar was naturally very proud,
and could not bear the idea of being under
farther pecuniary obligations to one on
whom he had no claim; nor would he, in
fact, have consented to the arrangement
at all, but for his sweet sister, whom it
sorely wrung his heart to behold suffering
the pangs of poverty. For himself he
knew he could provide in some way—but
what meantime would become of Virginia?—and
this the generous Ellen pleaded
as an inducement to his accepting her
proposition. It was galling, too, to one
bred in the affluence he had been, to be indebted
to the wages of sin—to money earned
by guilt—for the bettering of his condition;
but poverty and circumstances are
many times powerful combatants of sensitive
scruples, and so they proved in the
present instance.
“I will accept her aid as a loan,” he at
last said, “until kind Providence furnishes
me with the means of repaying the debt
with interest—for beggars must certainly
not be choosers—and without this assistance,
now that my check is irrecoverably
lost, starvation stares us in the face. And
why,” he farther reasoned, “should I decline
the means which doubtless Heaven
has placed in my way for a wise purpose?
Who knows but in accepting, I shall
eventually be the instrument, in the hands
of Providence, of reclaiming an erring one
from the perdition to which she is fast
hastening?”
Having thus settled the matter in his
own mind, he went zealously to work, and
a couple of hours search put him in possession
of two very pleasant rooms, located
in the second story of a small private
dwelling on Elizabeth street, to which access
could be had by a flight of stairs from
without—so that he was as much secluded
from a forced contact with others, as if occupying
the entire premises. Hither he
at once removed his sister, and what little
furniture was still remaining; and then by
a judicious purchase of a few second-hand
articles in Chatham Square, among which
a very small outlay, in giving the apartments
an air of comfort and tidiness, to
which both himself and sister had of late
been strangers—and which, contrasting
with their previously wretched abode,
made the present one seem a paradise.—
Edgar next purchased a few groceries and
some fuel, and Virginia prepared the evening
meal—for by this time the day was
drawing to a close—and as they sorrowfully
partook of their first morsel since breaking
fast in the morning, and thought of
their poor, dead mother, no longer with
them to share their griefs or joys, both
wept freely, in silence—but wept as those
who, not altogether despairing, feel there
is something still to live for—as those who
have some hope in the future, and believe
that day is again dawning upon a night of
rayless gloom.
Poor, bitterly wronged orphans! Who
can sum up and realize their misery, without
experience of the same kind! Alone
upon the wide world, without home or
friends, and indebted to the charity of a
frail female stranger for bread to keep
them from starvation! And these, too, they
who once rolled in all the luxury wealth
can give, whose hands were never soiled
by labor, and whose exalted position in society
ever held them aloot from the mercenary,
coarse and vulgar minds with
which they must now be brought in contact.
Do no let the reader here misunderstand
us, by supposing we intend to
convey the idea that they were better for
never having labored. No, Heaven forbid!
for labor is ever honorable, while indolence
is reprehensible. We only designed
to impress more strongly the suffering
they must perforce endure, from the
great contrast of their present with the
past.
For a long time both thought and wept
in silence, neither intruding an observation
upon the grief of the other. Edgar was
the first to speak. Rising from the table,
after having ate sparingly, he approached
his sister, and throwing an arm around her
neck and drawing her gently to him, said,
tenderly:
“Let us try to weep no more, my sweet
sister! Let us dry our tears, and prepare,
like philosophers, to enact our parts, and
pass through the ordeals of fate without
a murmur. Life at the longest is not long,
and death will come at last to relieve us
of our sorrows.”
“But, Edgar,” sobbed Virginia, “I am
thinking of our dear, dear mother.”
“I know it, sweet sister, and so am I.
But the thought has struck me, it is useless
and cruel to mourn for one who has
exchanged our wretchedness for the happiness
of Heaven.”
“Ah!” sighed the other, “I see I am selfish;
for it is not so much for her I mourn,
as for myself; not for her loss, but my
own. Oh! how we both will miss her sage
advice and prayerful counsel!”
“But she is in Heaven,” pursued Edgar.
“Let that thought be uppermost, and
dry your eyes. I would not recall her if I
could—for she, at least, drank sorrow to
the dregs, and should forever more be
spared the bitter cup.”
After a pause of a few minutes, during
which Virginia gradually became more
calm, Edgar resumed:
“And now, my sister, let us speak on
another subject, but one I fear scarcely
less painful. By the kindness of one I
can never forget, we have been enabled to
exchange utter wretchedness and starvation
for something like comfort; but still
the very thought of how this has been effected,
gives me pain. To think we have
taken money, earned by guilt, to better
our condition, is revolting to my nature;
and I can never rest until it be returned,
and she who so generously assisted us be
reclaimed. To effect the former, I must
seek and find employment, with wages
more than sufficient to support us, while
the latter I leave to you; and let us both
set about our tasks with right good will,
and energies that will not allow us to
fail. To-morrow, early, if God spares my
life, I shall make a bold move. Surely, in
this great city, supporting its three hundred
thousand inhabitants, there is something
I can find whereby to gain an honorable
living. True, I have tried before
and failed; but that is no reasen I must
again; and something whispers me I shall
for it is an old saying, the darkest hour
but barely precedes the dawn. To-morrow,
probably, while I am away, Ellen will
be here to see you; and you must use your
best abilities to induce her to quit the terrible
life she is at present leading. Begin
with her gently and feelingly, as you best
know how, and gradually progress until
your righteous purpose be accomplished—
which done, I shall feel that we have not
wholly lived in vain.”
“Ah! dear brother,” cried Virginia, with
a burst of affection, throwing her arms
around his neck and pressing her lips to
his, “how much you are like our dear, dear
mother, in your counsels! I will do all
you ask of me, and ten times more if it be
in my power. Poor Ellen! If I can be
the humble means of reclaiming her, filling
her heart with happiness again, I feel
I can then smile at my own misery, and
thank God it has been for some useful end.
But more than this, dear brother, I must
assist you. I, too, perhaps, can find employment—”
“Nay,” interrupted Edgar, “I could not
see you labor. I could not see your delicate
constitution broken down by toil, and
thus prepared for an early grave. No, Virginia,
you were never bred to work, and it
would kill you.”
“And you, Edgar—you who have been
brought up in the same manner as myself
—how then will you bear it?”
“I am a man, Virginia, with an iron
constitution, and am by nature fitted for
the rough scenes of life—at least far more
so than you. No, no, Virginia—leave all
to me; I can provide for both; but to see
you toil would render me miserable.”
In like conversation the evening passed
away—Virginia insisting it was her duty,
in their altered circumstances, to assist
her brother, and he contending to the contrary
most strennously. At an early hour
both retired to rest, and with the gray of
morning both were again astir. Making
a hasty breakfast, Edgar kissed and bade
his sister be of good cheer in his absence—
as in all probability he would return
with welcome tidings—and then sailied
forth to seek employment in the great
metropolis, prepared to put his hand to
any honest pursuit that would return a
fitting recompense.
As yet the sun had scarcely risen; but
still the great city was swarming with
citizens, mostly of the laboring class, all
pushing forward to their daily task—some
with pale, sickly, sorrowful visages, and
some with countenances cheerful and gay
—each an index of the heart within. Venders
of all kinds were abroad, each loudly
crying his particular article of traffic,
which, from long habit, had become rather
a peculiar, discordant scream, than any
sound or word a stranger might find inteligible.
Omnibusses, hacks, drays, coal-carts,
bread-carts, market-wagons, and
numerous other kinds of vehicles rumbled
over the stony pavements, blocked up the
crossings, occasionally startled the foot-passers,
and thundered out the fact that
the business of the day had truly begun.
As Edgar slowly pursued his way down
the Bowery into Chatham Square, down
Chatham Street toward Park Row, and
noted that every one he met seemed to
have some employment, either present or
prospective, he thought to himself how
happy was their condition compared with
his, who had nothing but trouble to occupy
his mind. Ah! little did he know that
many who passed him with rapid steps,
were hurrying to a daily task, that, while
it was literally crushing them under its
iron burthen, barely returned a pittance
sufficient to keep soul and body together.
Little did he know that those who seemed
better off than he, were dying by inches
under excessive toil, that the poor beings
they loved, and who were solely dependent
on them, might eke out a miserable
existence. Little did he know this, or he
might have been more contented with his
own situation, trying as it was, and felt he
had less cause to complain than they.
We are too prone to think our own troubles
and afflictions the most severe; and this
because we know and feel our own, while
those of others are wholly shut from us.
For a long time Edgar could not summon
resolution to ask for employment at the
different places where there seemed a
possibility of his obtaining it, lest he
sensitive feelings. And then, what occupation
should he ask for? and what experience
or recommendation could he bring to aid
him, even should the services of one like
himself be desired? He had done nothing
through life, and consequently knew no
more of one business than another; but
the fancy struck him, that could he obtain
a place as salesman in some kind of a
store, he could easily make himself useful
and give satisfaction to his employer.
With the design of seeking something of
this kind, he passed the various shops of
traffic, with many a wistful look, but still
without venturing within to make the
necessary inquiries. At last, after traversing
the entire extent of Chatham street and
Square for the third time, and knowing
that nothing would ever be accomplished
in this way, he made bold to address a middle-aged
gentleman, who was standing in
the door of a furniture ware-room
“Sir,” he said, “can you inform me
where a young man like myself can find
employment?”
“What to do?” asked the other.
“Any thing that is honorable.”
“For the matter of that,” returned the
other, “almost any thing is honorable,
that a body can make a living at these
times. Did you ever act as salesman?”
“I never have, but think I could soon
give my employer satisfaction.”
“Umph! perhaps. You look like a
young man of good address. I suppose
you can write?”
“Certainly,” answered Edgar, promptly;
“I have been blessed with a good education.”
“Can bring good references, I suppose?”
“Why, unfortunately,” replied Edgar,
coloring, “I am a stranger in the city, and
have no friend here to refer to.”
“Umph! that's bad!” rejoined the other.
“So much cheating going on now-a-days.
so many dishonest persons about, that one
don't like to take a stranger into one's
service without knowing something about
him. Now if you only had experience,
and good references, and could come here
at six in the morning and work till nine
and ten at night, and do every thing that
would be asked of you, without grumbling,
I have no doubt you would suit me, for just
such a person I want, and would be willing
to pay such an one good wages. But
as you are deficient in at least two of
these requisites, why, I suppose I shall
have to look farther.”
“And supposing I were all you desire,
what would be my salary!” asked Edgar.
“Why, in that case, I could afford to be
rather liberal; and say you boarded yourself,
allow you from two and a half to three
dollars per week—at least through the busy
season.”
“And this you call liberality?” returned
Edgar: “God help the poor!” and he
walked away with a desponding heart.
For an hour or more, Edgar traversed
the streets in a very unpleasant state of
mind, ere venturing on a second application.
And when at last he did make another
trial, it was only to meet with a result
similar to the first. Grown somewhat
desperate and less sensitive through failing,
Edgar now determined, that in case
he did not succeed, it should not be his fault,
and consequently went boldly to work,
pushing his suit wherever there seemed
a possibility of success. For hours he
pursued this course; but meeting every
where with disappointment, and being
nearly overcome with fatigue and anxiety,
he finally gave up in despair, and
strolling into Tammany Hall, threw himself
down upon a seat, with the air of one
who feels his last hope has departed.
“It is no use to longer strive,” he muttered,
despondingly. “I can accomplish
nothing. I am doomed to fail where others
succeed. Oh! why was I born! Mother,
thou saint in Heaven, I would I were
with thee! Come, Death! dread monster
as thou art called—thou terrifying Invisible—come
here and strike! strike to the
heart at once! and thou shalt behold a
rare sight—a human face that will not
blanch—a human form that will not tremble
at thy summons.”
As he said this half aloud, his eye chanced
upon a newspaper lying on a seat beside
him; and mechanically raising it, he
glanced over the columns in a listless manner,
as one who reads while the mind is
minutes he sat gazing upon the paper,
sometimes distinguishing a word, and
sometimes beholding the letters all blurred
and indistinct. At length something
appeared to arrest his attention—for he
straightened himself in his seat, drew the
paper nearer to him, while his eyes brightened
and no longer exhibited a vacant
stare. The cause of this change in his
appearance, was an advertisement which
read as follows:
“Poets, Attention! A gentleman requires
a poetical address, for a certain purpose,
for which, if suitable, he will pay
handsomely. The length, subject and remuneration
will be made known to applicants.
Address C. B. E. — office.”
Edgar was by nature a poet, and in his
leisure hours had written some beautiful
stanzas, which his modesty had thus far
concealed from the public. His talents
in this line he had never thought of turning
to account until now.
“Perhaps!” he exclaimed, starting up
with an energy that drew many eyes upon
him: “Perhaps!” and immediately procuring
pen, ink and paper, he wrote a few
lines and left in haste for — office,
where he deposited the note, superscribed
in accordance with the advertisement.—
Having done this he departed, with the intention
of returning home; but he had
scarcely gone fifty yards, when a hand on
his shoulder arrested him, and turning, he
beheld an elegantly dressed gentleman,
with the billet he had just deposited, open
in his hand.
“I beg pardon!” said the stranger,
blandly; “but have I the pleasure of addressing
the writer of this, Edgar Courtly?”
“That is my name, at your service,” returned
Edgar, with a graceful and dignified
inclination of the head.
“I chanced to be in the office and saw
you leave it, addressed to my initials,” pursued
the other, explanatory, “and hastened
to overtake you, that the matter in
question might be the more speedily arranged.”
“I am most happy, sir,” rejoined Edgar,
“to make your acquaintance so much sooner
than I anticipated.”
“I perceive by this,” continued the gentleman,
whom we shall call Elmer, pointing
to the epistle, “that you have had experience
in poetical composition.”
“I have written some little,” replied
Edgar, blushing; “but perhaps I am incompetent
to perform what you require.”
“That,” rejoined Mr. Elmer, “must be
decided hereafter. I am, as you must
know, an actor, at present fulfilling an
engagement at the Park. One week from
to night my engagement closes—the last
prior to my departure for Europe. Now
what I desire is this: I wish to take leave
with a poetical address, of from seventy-five
to one hundred lines, expressive of my
feelings.” Here he explained, explicitly,
what he wanted, and wound up by saying:
“And now for the best address of this
kind, sent me within five days, I am willing
to pay the sum of fifty dollars—certainly,
to my thinking, a liberal remuneration.”
“It is indeed!” returned Edgar, much
excited at the prospect of obtaining the
reward. “Sir, I will do my best to please
you.”
“But I must warn you of competition,”
pursued the other. “I have had several
interviews with poets already, each of
whom has promised a trial, and I shall
perhaps have many more, so that he who
gains the prize must do so by merit
alone.”
On hearing this, the countenance of
Edgar somewhat fell—for he thought to
himself, “What chance have I among so
many? But then,” he reasoned, “I can but
fail at the worst, and may succeed—in
which event—” Here his feelings becoming
powerfully excited, he hastily inquired
the residence of Elmer, shook his hand
and turned away, with the observation that
he would soon hear from him again.
With a fluttering heart, palpitating between
hope and fear, Edgar hurried
through the crowded streets, heedless of
all he met or passed, his mind occupied
with one joyful thought, that of
cheering the drooping spirits of his sweet
sister with his new hopes and expectations.
lightly up the stairs and into his own
apartments, expecting to take his sister
by surprise.
The next moment he felt a chilling sensation
creep over him—a sensation as awful
as the coming of death. Wherefore
the cause?
The rooms were tenantless—his sister
was gone—and echo alone answered to his
call.
| CHAPTER V.
PLANS FOR THE FUTURE. Oliver Goldfinch, or, The hypocrite | |