University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
MEANS AND ENDS.

The first crush of pecuniary misfortunes is never felt
in its full extent. Those who have been accustomed to
command whatever they desired, cannot be taught,
except by experience, how keenly they will miss their
habitual indulgencies, nor how mortifying will be those
petty inconveniences to which the poor are exposed. It
is sensitiveness to these little deprivations that causes
much of the misery of those who have fallen from opulence
to poverty.

The factitious wants and appetites created or fostered
by riches, are no farther essential to human happiness
than, as by becoming habits, they are hard to be laid
aside;—this truth, those who have the care of children
and youth ought always to remember.

Happily for Sidney Romilly, he was, in childhood,
inured to temperance and industry; and although his
subsequent life of luxury had enervated, it had not wholly
incapacitated him for exertion when exertion became
necessary. He thought, therefore, but little, and grieved
less for the loss of fortune; while tears, bitter and unrestrained,
flowed fast down his cheeks as he again perused
the letter of his beloved uncle, and reflected on the pain
and sorrow that kind friend had suffered during the
summer, while he had been seeking amusement and
enjoying happiness in an expensive journey.

While he sat thus, indulging in tender and affectionate
recollections, his father, with his usual pleasant face,
opened the door, saying, “What news, Sidney?” but seeing
the tears on his cheek, he added, coming hastily forward,
“sad, I fear.”

“Sad enough,” replied Sidney, presenting the letters;
and then retiring to a window, he sat down and leaned
his head on the window frame, while his father perused
them.

Squire Romilly cast many a glance at his son, even
while reading; and when he had finished, he wiped the
dew from his glasses, sat a few moments, and then gave
a hem, which always indicated he was ready to enter on
the discussion of the subject he had been considering.
Sidney raised his head and fixed his eyes on his father.

“My son, for the death of your uncle you may well grieve;
such an affectionate, sincere, disinterested friend as he, is
seldom to be found, and his loss cannot, to you, be well
repaired. Yet, though we may mourn, we are forbidden
to repine. He is, I trust, removed to a better world;
certainly he has gone to the presence of a Being who will
judge in mercy, and the trials of earth, which he has of
late found so severe, are at an end. But you, it seems,
are fated to encounter some of them, in the disappointment
of those expectations of fortune which he had
taught you to form. Yet I do not consider your misfortune
as irreparable. It is true, there are advantages attached
to wealth, and I would not teach you to underrate
them; yet our own happiness does not depend so much
on external circumstances as we imagine. There is usually
more enjoyment in the pursuit of fortune than in
the possession; and that enjoyment, had you inherited
your uncle's estate, you would never have known. You
can now, with your talents and education, undoubtedly
enter on some business that will afford you a competency;
at present we shall rejoice to have your society; and
though the first disclosure will be a little mortifying, yet
I think you will not, among our people, experience any
diminution of respect.”

“Do you consider it best to disclose the matter?”

“Certainly; and the sooner the better. Deacon Jones
is now below stairs, waiting to discover how much cash
your packet contained; we will go down, and I will read
both letters to him, and let the whole truth circulate at
once.”

“But why is it necessary?” returned Sidney, whose
mind had wandered to the Deacon's niece, and to the
effect the disclosure might possibly have on her smiles.
“I shall injure no one by secresy, and why need my private
affairs be matters of public discussion?”

“Because it is impossible to maintain a secret of this
kind for any length of time, without a resort to mean
subterfuges and expedients unworthy a man of honor.
Neither could you keep the secret if you would, for our
Yankees examine thoroughly every suspicious or unexplained
circumstance, and they would soon unravel the
affair; and in the meantime rumors and guesses would
be circulating and giving a far worse coloring to the matter
than the real truth.”

“The truth is humiliating enough,” replied Sidney,
whose losses appeared to increase in proportion as he reflected
on the estimation in which they would be considered
by others. “To be thus, at once, reduced from
independence to poverty, is not certainly a slight evil.”

“No, it is not,” said his father; “and yet, my son, the
evils of property arise oftener from false pride than real
wants. Dare to appear what you are. Say, I have, by
circumstances I could not control, lost my fortune, but
my merits are still, I hope, unimpaired. By seeming
ashamed of poverty, we tacitly acknowledge that riches
imparted all our consequence; and by soliciting the pity
of the world for our pecuniary embarrassments, we always
invite its contempt. Instead of complaining of
Fortune's frown, look the capricious goddess boldly and
cheerfully in the face, and she will either relax her severity,
or lay aside her ugliness. Come, go down stairs with
me, and we will make an experiment on the Deacon.
He will be sorely surprised, no doubt; but if you exhibit

that strength of mind which can only be displayed in
adversity, and which I think you do possess, you will
certainly rise in his esteem, as gold looks brighter the
more it is purified.”

He then rose and Sidney followed him, though rather
reluctantly, to the sitting-room. The kind father felt
keenly the mental sufferings of his son, but experience
had taught him what Sidney could not well know, that
the sense of such mortifications is most in apprehension,
and that the longer the communication was delayed, the
more painful, if not disgraceful, it would become.

Mrs. Romilly saw them enter with an exulting smile;
as for the old Deacon, he had just replenished his pipe,
intending to smoke away most vigorously and indifferently
while Sidney was recounting his golden news.

After a short preface, the Squire unfolded the tidings
of the decease of his brother-in-law; the trials he had been
called to endure in his last sickness, and then read, in a
loud, unhesitating tone, the whole of both letters Sidney
had received.

The Deacon's eyes, at the mention of Mr. Brainard's
death, rested on our hero with a squint very much like
envy, but before the conclusion, they were opened to
their utmost vision; and his pipe, which in his utter
amazement he had taken from his mouth, actually dropped
from his hold, and was broken, not in a thousand pieces,
but only the stem a little shortened.

He observed, as he hastily snatched it up, “that it
would answer very well yet; it was nothing at all when
compared with Mr. Sidney's misfortune. He hoped the
Lord would give his young friend wisdom to improve
such crosses to his spiritual good. He wondered Mr.
Brainard could take any man's note for such a large
sum—he ought to have required bondsmen, or taken a
mortgage of the property sold; and finally wished Mr.
Sidney well, and should be very happy to have him
spend a month or two in his family if he didn't find
any business to his mind, nor a more agreeable offer.”
And then declaring he had not thought when he first

came in, of stopping half so long, he hurried away to
recapitulate by his own fire-side the intelligence he had
just gathered.

Mrs. Romilly was sorely vexed; and while she wept
for the death of Mr. Brainard, she declared she had no
patience at all with such carelessness as he had been
guilty of in trusting Cox.

“And everybody will hear of it,” said she, “and
there's some will be glad, I know. Oh, what can Sidney
do!”

“Do!” repeated her husband, “why, there are a thousand
things he can do; and he has not the least reason
to feel discouraged. We will soon contrive some way
to put him in business, and in the meantime, if there
are any who rejoice at his misfortune, we will pity them.
Those persons who cherish envy, or discard humanity,
are more real objects of commiseration than the meanest
beggar; theirs is that poverty of the heart and mind
which the possession of the whole universe could not
enrich.”

Although Squire Romilly treated his son's loss of fortune
with more than philosophical indifference, with true
christian resignation, yet the circumstance gave him
much anxiety. He felt there would be difficulty in inuring
Sidney's mind to the idea of steady exertion and
necessary dependence; and he was not without fears
his son might do what thousands have done, plunge in
dissipation to forget his disappointments. But he determined
to watch over, advise, and assist him to the utmost,
and not imitate the example of those parents who
make one failure or disappointment, in what was expected
for a child, an excuse for withholding further aid.

Meanwhile, Sidney's meditations were of a still more
sombre character. The longer he reflected on his situation,
the worse it appeared. He had been educated to
inherit affluence, not to acquire it, and feared he could
not succeed in business which required method, and a circumspection
and calculation he had never been taught to
practice. Neither could he endure to be a burthen on

his kind parents, when they had so large a family unprovided
for. We are created social beings, and perhaps
it is generally the case, that in sudden calamities,
the human heart, especially in youth, rarely depends on
itself; it seeks the refuge of friendship.

Sidney had a host of friends in Charleston; but after
a recollection of their several characters and pursuits, he
felt compelled to acknowledge but little dependence
could be placed on their assistance. They were his
friends forever, when dining at his uncle's, or drinking
at the club the wines for which he had paid, and his
humble servants while he was heir apparent to a rich
man. “But who will humbly serve the poor?” Sidney
felt he could not and would not apply to them.

He then thought of Stuart. Stuart, for whom he had
sacrificed his dearest wishes and conquered his love.
And Stuart had been profuse in his professions, and yet
had not, for a number of months, written him a single
line. And Stuart, too, had correspondents in Charleston,
and must have heard of his uncle's failure; and he
ought to have written and offered his assistance. So
Sidney argued, and he determined he would never become
a beggar of one he had so much obliged.

Then came the Englishman, frank, noble and generous.
He too had acknowledged deep obligations to Sidney;
but he could not know of his misfortune. He
ought to know it, and have, at least, the opportunity of
being grateful.

“I will write him immediately,” thought Sidney,
“and shape my conduct by his answer. If he remember
me, and offer his assistance, and urge me to visit
England, I will go, and accept his aid; if not, I must
seek some other resource. In the interim, I will remain
here—here with my good parents; and parents, after
all, are the surest friends.”

On the following morning Sidney acquainted his father
with the plan he had formed; it was approved, and
a letter was accordingly written and despatched across
the Atlantic; not asking assistance, however, but only

detailing those circumstances which Mr. Frankford, as a
friend, had a claim to be entrusted with.

Squire Romilly did not expect much from the Englishman,
but he felt unwilling to damp his son's hopes.
Hope seemed now all that was left him, and its fancies
might soothe till his mind was strengthened to bear more
composedly the buffets which those who struggle with
fortune must endure. In the meantime he would be
making arrangements to assist him to enter on business
of some kind, should the answer of Frankford be unfavorable.

But several months were to be passed in suspense—
long winter months—and Squire Romilly knew it would
require more apathy than Sidney possessed, indeed more
than he wished him to have, to pass that time pleasantly
without employment, and engaged only in the amusements
a secluded country village could afford.

“You will never be contented with us, Sidney,” said
his father, “if we do not contrive something for you to
do. Nothing keeps the hypo so completely at a distance
as employment. Now what if you should instruct a
school a few months? Many very respectable men have
engaged in that business.”

“And have been successful too, much more than I
should be,” returned Sidney, who remembered that
Stuart was thus employed when he won the heart of
Zemira.

“But you could try,” said the Squire; “and a failure
would not involve you in any serious difficulties. Yet I
think you would succeed.”

“Yes, I know he would,” said Mrs. Romilly, “and if
he could only keep in this district, he might board at
home. And he might have this school, only George
Cranfield is engaged; but I heard Dr. Perkins say that
George might have another.”

Mrs. Romilly seldom saw any insurmountable difficulty
to a favorite plan, and she argued George might
easily be induced to relinquish the school, and finally
she persuaded her husband—she could usually persuade

him to whatever she wished—to go immediately to Perkins
and get him to negotiate the exchange. No time
was to be lost, as the school commenced on the following
Monday.

Dr. Perkins had heard of Sidney's disappointment, and
had been anxiously deliberating in what way he could
serve him. He had not called to condole, for condolence
was not his forte; but when he could devise some plan
to assist him, how lightly he would go to be a messenger
of good. He undertook the business with alacrity, and
as he knew of a school Cranfield might have, doubted
not but he should be successful.

George, however, listened to the proposal with evident
uneasiness; and Perkins saw the praises of Sidney,
although he assented to their justness, were far from
giving him unmingled pleasure. Nor was he long in
understanding the reason of this. Miss Redington had
smiled on the stranger, and George was too ardent and
sincere a lover to brook patiently a rival in her affections.
He told Perkins he would answer him in a few hours,
and they parted.

The doctor had now many fears that the young divine
would not abandon his situation so near the abode of his
charmer, in favor of Sidney; but had he known the
resolution the former had taken, he would not have
doubted the issue. George had determined to declare
his love to Annie, and by her reception be guided in his
answer to Perkins. If she favored him, he would not,
by yielding the school, place Sidney in a situation to approach
her; if she rejected him, he should wish to be
gone as far as possible.

His fears rather outweighed his hopes; but he thought
suspense worse than a rejection.

Annie was alone when he entered her uncle's, and
musing on Sidney, whose story she had heard with deep
concern; and yet she liked to think about it. It was
something like her own disappointments, and the similarity
seemed to excuse her for dwelling on his.

The emotions George Cranfield could not suppress at

hearing her name his rival, and lament his misfortunes,
drew from her an inquiry of what disturbed him; and
to her regret, she was compelled to listen to the protestations
of his love and the proffers of his hand. It was
not entirely unexpected, though certainly undesired.
She knew his worth—she believed him sincere—she
felt her own dependent situation; but her heart refused
to acknowledge him for its lord, and in the kindest
language a refusal could be conveyed, she gave him a
denial.

His face was pale as marble, and the beatings of his
heart might have been seen through the thick folds of
his coat. There was a moment's irresolution, as if he
almost determined to solicit, to conjure her pity; but
the proud spirit of the man prevailed. He arose, and
suddenly clasping her hand that was resting on the
table, pressed it to his lips, and kissing it, repeatedly exclaimed:

“Annie, dearest Annie, farewell! I have loved you
better than my life, but you are not for me. I acknowledge
it all right. I should, I fear, were you mine, rest
in the gift and forget the Giver. I shall go from this
town till I can think calmly on your preference for Sidney
Romilly. He may deserve you more than I, but he
cannot, Annie, he cannot love you better. O! if he
should, by a residence here, gain your heart, he will be
richly recompensed for his loss of fortune. Farewell,
farewell!”—and he rushed from the apartment.

Annie had scarcely recovered from the confusion
which her lover's strange allusion to Sidney had occasioned,
when the latter appeared. He had just encountered
Dr. Perkins, who informed him George Cranfield
had called and relinquished the school, and he might be
installed in the magisterial office the following week.

How soon the mind accommodates itself to its situation.
But a few days had passed since Sidney would
have considered the proposition to instruct a school as
an insult; but now he received the intelligence of Perkins
with more real pleasure than had ever been conferred

by the costly gifts of his uncle; and he could recollect
none who would rejoice more at this arrangement than
the family of Deacon Jones, so he dropped in to communicate
his good fortune.

In spite of Annie's exertions to appear natural, she
could not welcome him with her accustomed frank and
easy gaiety. The words of young Cranfield made her
fear she had testified more satisfaction in Sidney's society
than she ought, and she was now silent and reserved.

Sidney noticed it, and immediately imputed it to his
fallen fortunes. So sensitive are the unfortuante! He
went home very wretched, reflecting on the selfishness
of the world, and almost despairing of ever finding that
generosity and disinterestedness which his course of
reading and romantic feelings had made necessary to his
happiness, but which he knew most prudent people considered
chimerical.

He had not recovered his tranquility when Dr. Perkins,
on the following day, called to see him. Mrs.
Romilly, who was sorely afflicted at beholding the melancholy
of her first born, entreated the doctor to use his
endeavors to cheer him; and the good natured man
readily promised his best services should be at her bidding.
He visited Sidney in his chamber, where he had
passed the forenoon, and, after the kindest and most
friendly greeting and inquiries, succeeded in discovering
the cause of his present dejection. Now he had, through
the medium of his wife, who was intimate with Silas
Romilly's wife, gathered most of the particulars of Annie's
last interview with George Cranfield; and from what he
had himself observed, he doubted not that the partiality
of the fair lady was given to our hero; yet he would
not for the world have hinted such a secret to him, had
he not thought, under present circumstances, it was indispensable
to his happiness—almost to his life.

The medical practitioner had not made pills and potions
so entirely his study as to be ignorant of the human
heart. He knew there was nothing, not even the
possession of power, fame, or wealth, that imparted such

a feeling of self-complacency and self-respect to the mind
of a young man, as the knowledge that he was deeply,
and truly, and exclusively, beloved by a lovely, innocent,
and amiable woman.

He therefore, after a little raillery, unfolded what he
had learned respecting the rejection of George Cranfield,
and suggested that the reserve of Annie, instead of being
the effect of indifference to Mr. Romilly, was but that
sweet, retiring modesty, which is fearful of betraying its
own sensibility, and even blushes lest its virtuous inclinations
should be suspected.

The idea was rapture to Sidney, and he welcomed it
with ardor; yet reflection presented so many obstacles
to be overcome before he could, with propriety, be a
suitor for her favor, that he almost regretted such an
event should be considered possible, and his tone was
still melancholy, while to the doctor's suggestions he
replied,—

“And of what consequence would Annie's partiality
be to me at this time? I must never think of a lady's
smiles, till I can secure those of Fortune; and I am now
completely out of her favor.”

“You have basked in her broad sunshine till you are
unable to bear the shadow of a cloud,” replied Perkins;
“but remember storms and calms are successive, and
why should you always expect a lot more favored than
your fellows? Yet, even now, I presume George Cranfield
thinks you in a most enviable situation.”

“Why should he?” returned Sidney, “when he knows
that even if my affection for Miss Redington were similar
to his, I should still be compelled to subdue it. You
surely would not, in my present situation, have me
make advances which might ultimately render us both
miserable?”

“O! no, no,” answered Perkins, eagerly; “I think
there ought not to be a declaration at present; certainly
not, if you succeed in procuring a situation abroad.
Annie's feelings must not be trifled with, nor her confidence
betrayed. But something may possibly occur

which will induce you to alter your plan. You may
even settle here among us, and be a clever, contended
Yankee. Suppose you study my profession? I will
assist you all in my power, gratis; and there are worse
situations in life than being a physician. And then,
what a sweet wife Annie would make! Yet I only wish
you to think of her instead of praying to your saints, as
I believe you have not one in your calendar more worthy
of adoration. You see I suspect you of being inclined
to catholicism; but never—never bow at her shrine till
you come with a sincere heart!”

He spoke the last sentence with an air of solemnity
Sidney had never before seen him assume, and after he
had departed, our hero reflected long and painfully on
his embarrassments, yet a gleam of light had fallen
athwart his path that seemed the precursor of future
felicity.

Was he, then, without fortune, beloved? and could his
merits alone secure the heart of that beautiful and excellent
girl? I have often, thought he, complained that I
should never be happy in love, because my riches would
prevent me from feeling secure of the disinterested
attachment of a woman; and now shall I lament the
loss of fortune when it removes that barrier to my happiness?
I will exert myself to gain property, and if I
succeed I shall doubly enjoy prosperity. If I fail I will
solace myself that affection has been mine which gold
could not purchase. Stuart was poor, and yet I envied
him more than any man I ever saw. But Annie certainly
exceeds Zemira in beauty, accomplishments, and
intelligence: if I gain her love, I shall be more enviable
than Stuart. I will despair no more.