 | CHAPTER XXVI.
MAKING UP HIS MIND. The English orphans, or, A home in the new
world |  |
26. CHAPTER XXVI.
MAKING UP HIS MIND.
For more than an hour there had been unbroken silence in
the dingy old law office of Mr. Worthington, where Henry
Lincoln and William Bender still remained, the one as a
practising lawyer and junior partner of the firm, and the
other as a student still, for he had not yet dared to offer
himself for examination. Study was something which Henry
particularly disliked; and as his mother had trained him
with the idea, that labor for him was wholly unnecessary, he
had never bestowed a thought on the future, or made an
exertion of any kind.
Now, however, a different phase of affairs was appearing.
His father's fortune was threatened with ruin;
and as, on a morning several weeks subsequent to Mrs.
Russell's party, he sat in the office with his heels upon the
window sill, and his arms folded over his head, he debated
the all-important question, whether it were better to marry
Ella Campbell, for the money which would save him from
poverty, or to rouse himself to action for the sake of Mary
Howard, whom he really fancied he loved!
Frequently since the party had he met her, each time
becoming more and more convinced of her superiority over
the other young ladies of his acquaintance. He was undoubtedly
greatly assisted in this decision by the manner
with which she was received by the fashionables of Boston,
he liked her, and was now making up his mind whether to
tell her so or not.
At last, breaking the silence, he exclaimed, “Hang me
if I don't believe she's bewitched me, or else I'm in love.
—Bender, how does a chap feel when he's in love?'
“Very foolish, judging from yourself,” returned William;
and Henry replied, “I hope you mean nothing personal,
for I'm bound to avenge my honor, and t'would be a
deuced scrape for you and me to fight about “your sister,”
as you call her, for 'tis she who has inspired me, or made a
fool of me, one or the other.”
“You've changed your mind, haven't you?” asked William,
a little sarcastically.
“Hanged if I have,” said Henry. “I was interested
in her years ago, when she was the ugliest little vixen a man
ever looked upon, and that's why I teazed her so,—I don't
believe she's handsome now, but she's something, and that
something has raised the mischief with me. Come, Bender,
you are better acquainted with her than I am, so tell me
honestly if you think I'd better marry her.”
The expression of William's face was a sufficient answer,
and with something of his old insolence, Henry continued,
“You needn't feel jealous, for I tell you Mary Howard looks
higher than you. Why, she'd wear the crown of England,
as a matter of course, any day.”
With a haughty frown, William replied, “You have my
permission, sir, to propose as soon as you please. I rather
wish you would,” then taking his hat, he left the office, while
Henry continued his soliloquy, as follows:—“I wonder
what the old folks would say to a penniless bride. Wouldn't
mother and Rose raise a row? I'd soon quiet the old
woman, though, by threatening to tell that she was once a
I'll have to work, for I haven't brains enough to earn my
living by my wit. I guess on the whole, I'll go and call on
Ella, she's handsome, and besides that, has the rhino too, but,
Lord, how shallow!” and the young man broke the blade
of his knife as he struck it into the hard wood table, by way
of emphasizing his last words.
Ella chanced to be out, and as Henry was returning, he
overtook Ida Selden and Mary Howard, who were taking
their accustomed walk. Since her conversation with William
a weight seemed lifted from Mary's spirits, and she now
was happier far than she ever remembered of having been
before. She was a general favorite in Boston, where all of
her acquaintances vied with each other in making her stay
among them as agreeable as possible. Her facilities for
improvement, too, were great, and what was better than all
the rest, George Moreland was to return much sooner than
he at first intended. While she was so happy herself, Mary
could not find it in her heart to be uncourteous to Henry,
and her manner towards him that morning was so kind and
affable that it completely upset him; and when he parted
with her at Mr. Selden's gate, his mind was quite made up
to offer her his heart and hand.
“I shall have to work,” thought he, as he entered his
room to decide upon the best means by which to make his
intentions known. “I shall have to work, I know, but for
her sake I'd do any thing.”
There was a bottle of Madeira standing upon the table,
and as he announced his determination of “doing any thing
for the sake of Mary Howard,” his eye fell upon his favorite
beverage. A deep blush mounted to his brow, and a fierce
struggle between his love for Mary and his love for the wine-cup
ensued. The former conquered, and seizing the bottle
be a man, a sober man, and never shall the light of Mary's
eyes grow dim with tears wept for a drunken husband!”
Henry was growing eloquent, and lest the inspiration
should leave him, he sat down and wrote to Mary, on paper,
what he could not tell her face to face. Had there been a
lingering doubt of her acceptance, he would undoubtedly have
wasted at least a dozen sheets of the tiny gilt-edged paper, but
as it was, one would suffice, for she would not scrutinize his
handwriting,—she would not count the blots, or mark the
omission of punctuating pauses. She would almost say yes
before she read it. So the letter, which contained a sincere
apology for his uncivil treatment of her in former years,
and an ardent declaration of love for her now, was written,
sealed, and directed, and then there was a gentle rap upon
the door. Jenny wished to come in for a book which was
lying upon the table.
Henry had resolved to keep his family ignorant of his
intentions, but at the sight of Jenny he changed his mind,—
Jenny loved Mary, too. Jenny would be delighted at the
prospect of having her for a sister, and would help him
brave the storm of his mother's displeasure.
“Jenny,” said he, grasping at her dress, as she passed
him on her way from the room, “Jenny, sit down here. I
want to tell you something.” Jenny glanced at the fragments
of the wine bottle, then at her brother's flushed face,
and instantly conjecturing that he had been drinking, said
reproachfully, as she laid her soft, white hand on his brow,
“Oh, brother, brother!”
He understood her meaning, and drawing her so closely
to him that his warm breath floated over her cheek, replied,
“I'm not drunk, for see, there is no scent of alcohol in my
ardent spirits shall ever again pass my lips.”
The sudden exclamation of joy, the arms thrown so affectionately
around his neck, the hot tears upon his cheek, and
the kisses that warm-hearted sister imprinted upon his lips,
should have helped him to ratify that vow. But not for her
sake had it been made, and shaking her off, he said, “Don't
make a fool of yourself, Jenny, I wasn't in any danger of
disgracing you, for I was only a moderate drinker. But
really, I do want to talk with you on a very important subject.
I want to ask who of all your acquaintances you
would prefer to have for a sister, for I am going to be married.”
“To Ella?” asked Jenny, and Henry replied scornfully,
“No, ma'am! my wife must have a soul, a heart, and
a mind, to make up for my deficiency on those points. To
be plain, how would you like to have me marry Mary Howard?”
“Not at all—Not at all,” was Jenny's quick reply, while
her brother said angrily, “And why not? Are you, too,
proud as Lucifer, like the rest of us? I could tell you something,
Miss, that would bring your pride down a peg or two.
But answer me, why are you unwilling for me to marry
Mary?”
Jenny's spirit was roused too, and looking her brother
fully in his face, she unhesitatingly replied, “You are not
worthy of her; neither would she have you.”
“And this from my own sister?” said Henry, hardly
able to control his wrath. “Leave the room, instantly,—
But stay,” he added, “and let me hear the reasons for
what you have asserted.”
“You know as well as I,” answered Jenny, “that one
as pure and gentle as Mary Howard, should never be
better nature and feelings, for the sake of gratifying your
own wishes. Whenever it suits your purpose, you flatter
and caress Ella Campbell, to whom your slightest wish is a
law, and then when your mood changes, you treat her with
neglect; and think you, that knowing all this, Mary Howard
would look favorably upon you, even if there were no stronger
reason why she should refuse you?”
“If you mean the brandy bottle,” said Henry, growing
more and more excited, “have I not sworn to quit it, and
is it for you to goad me on to madness, until I break that
vow?”
“Forgive me if I have been too harsh,” said Jenny, taking
Henry's hand. “You are my brother, and Mary my dearest
friend, and when I say I would not see her wedded to you,
'tis not because I love you less, but her the more. You are
wholly unlike, and would not be happy together. But oh,
if her love would win you back to virtue, I would almost
beg her, on my bended knees, not to turn away from you.”
“And I tell you her love can win me back, when nothing
else in the kingdom will,” said Henry, snatching up the
note and hurrying away.
For a time after he left the room, Jenny sat in a kind of
stupefied maze. That Mary would refuse her brother, she
was certain, and she trembled for the effect that refusal
would produce upon him. Other thoughts, too, crowded upon
the young girl's mind, and made her tears flow fast. Henry
had hinted of something which he could tell her if he would,
and her heart too well foreboded what that something was.
The heavy sound of her father's footsteps, which sometimes
kept her awake the livelong night, his pale haggard face in
the morning, and her mother's nervous, anxious manner, told
her that ruin was hanging over them.
In the midst of her reverie, Henry returned. He had
delivered the letter, and now, restless and unquiet, he sat
down to await its answer. It came at last,—his rejection,
yet couched in language so kind and conciliatory, that he
could not feel angry. Twice,—three times he read it over,
hoping to find some intimation that possibly she might relent;
but no, it was firm and decided, and while she thanked
him for the honor he conferred upon her, she respectfully
declined accepting it, assuring him that his secret should be
kept inviolate.
“There's some comfort in that,” thought he, “for I
wouldn't like to have it known that I had been refused by a
poor unknown girl,” and then, as the conviction came over him
that she would never be his, he laid his head upon the table,
and wept such tears as a spoiled child might weep when
refused a toy, too costly and delicate to be trusted in its
rude grasp.
Erelong, there was another knock at the door, and,
hastily wiping away all traces of his emotion, Henry admitted
his father, who had come to talk of their future prospects,
which were even worse than he had feared. But he
did not reproach his wayward son, nor hint that his reckless
extravagance had hastened the calamity which otherwise
might possibly have been avoided. Calmly he stated the
extent to which they were involved, adding that though an
entire failure might be prevented a short time, it would
come at last; and that an honorable payment of his debts
would leave them beggars.
“For myself I do not care,” said the wretched man,
pressing hard his aching temples, where the gray hairs had
thickened within a few short weeks. “For myself I do
not care, but for my wife and children,—for Rose, and that
of all.”
All this time, Henry had not spoken, but thought was
busily at work. He could not bestir himself; he had no energy
for that now; but he could marry Ella Campbell, whose
wealth would keep him in the position he now occupied, besides
supplying many of Rose's wants.
Cursing the fate which had reduced him to such an extremity,
towards the dusk of evening, Henry started again
for Mrs. Campbell's. Lights were burning in the parlor
and as the curtains were drawn back, he could see through
the partially opened shutter, that Ella was alone. Reclining
in a large sofa chair, she sat, leaning upon her elbow,
the soft curls of her brown hair falling over her white arm,
which the full blue cashmere sleeve exposed to view. She
seemed deeply engaged in thought, and never before had she
looked so lovely to Henry, who, as he gazed upon her, felt a
glow of pride, in thinking that fair young girl could be his
for the asking.
“I wish she was not so confounded flat,” thought he,
hastily ringing the door-bell.
Instantly divining who it was, Ella sprang up, and when
Henry entered the parlor, he found her standing in the centre
of the room, where the full blaze of the chandelier fell
upon her childish features, lighting them up with radiant
beauty.
“And so my little pet is alone,” said he, coming forward,
and raising to his lips the dainty fingers which Ella
extended towards him. “I hope the old aunty is out,” he
continued, “for I want to see you on special business.”
Ella noticed how excited he appeared, and always on the
alert for something when he was with her, she began to
“what he wanted of her?”
“Zounds!” thought Henry, “she meets me more than
half-way;” and then, lest his resolution should fail, he reseated
her in the chair she had left, and drawing an ottoman
to her side, hastily told her of his love, ending his declaration,
by saying that from the first time he ever saw her, he had
determined that she should be his wife! And Ella, wholly
deceived, allowed her head to droop upon his shoulder, while
she whispered to him her answer. Thus they were betrothed,—Henry
Lincoln and Ella Campbell.
“Glad am I to be out of that atmosphere,” thought the
newly engaged young man, as he reached the open air, and
began to breathe more freely. “Goodness me, won't I lead
a glorious life, with that jar of tomato sweetmeats! Now,
if she'd only hung back a little,—but no, she said yes before
I fairly got the words out; but money covereth a multitude
of sins,—I beg your pardon, ma'am,” said he quickly, as he
became conscious of having rudely jostled a young lady, who
was turning the corner.
Looking up, he met Mary Howard's large, dark eyes,
fixed rather inquiringly upon him. She was accompanied by
one of Mr. Selden's servants, and he felt sure she was going
to visit her sister. Of course, Ella would tell her all, and
what must Mary think of one who could so soon repeat his
vows of love to another? In all the world there was not an
individual for whose good opinion Henry Lincoln cared one
half so much as for Mary Howard's; and the thought that
he should now surely lose it maddened him. The resolution
of the morning was forgotten, and that night a fond father
watched and wept over his inebriate son, for never before
had Henry Lincoln been so beastly intoxicated.
| CHAPTER XXVI.
MAKING UP HIS MIND. The English orphans, or, A home in the new
world | |