University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.
THE CRISIS.

Mr. Lincoln had failed. At the corners of the streets,
groups of men stood together, talking over the matter, and
ascribing it, some to his carelessness, some to his extreme
good nature in indorsing for any one who asked, and others,
the knowing ones, winking slily as they said “they guessed
he knew what he was about,—they'd known before of such
things as failing rich;” but the mouths of these last were
stopped when they heard that the household furniture, every
thing, was given up for the benefit of his creditors, and was
to be sold at auction during the coming week.

In their parlors at home wives and daughters also discussed
the matter, always ending by accusing Mrs. Lincoln
of unwarrantable extravagance, and wondering how the
proud Rose would bear it, and suggesting that “she could
work in the factory just as her mother did!” It was strange
how suddenly Mrs. Lincoln's most intimate friends discovered
that she had once been a poor factory girl, remembering
too that they had often noticed an air of vulgarity about
her! Even Mrs. Campbell was astonished that she should
have been so deceived, though she pitied the daughters, “who
were really refined and lady-like, considering—” and then
she thought of Henry, hoping that Ella would be now willing
to give him up.

But with a devotion worthy of a better object, Ella replied,
that he was dearer to her than ever. “I have not
loved him for his wealth,” said she, “and I shall not forsake
him now.” And then she wondered why he staid so
long away, as day after day went by, and still he came not.
It was in vain that Mary, who visited the house frequently,
told her of many things which might detain him. Ella
saw but one. He fancied she, too, would desert him, like
the cold unfeeling world. And then she begged so imploringly
of her sister to go to him, and ask him to come, that
Mary, loth as she was to do so, finally complied. She found
him in his office, and fortunately alone. He was looking
very pale and haggard, the result of last night's debauch,
but Mary did not know of this. She only saw grief for
his misfortune, and her voice and manner were far more
cordial than usual as she bade him good afternoon.

“It is kind in you, Miss Howard, to come here,” said
he, nervously pressing the hand she offered. “I knew you
would not forsake me, and I'd rather have your sympathy
than that of the whole world.”

Wishing to end such conversation, Mary replied, “I
came here, Mr. Lincoln, at Ella's request. Ever since your
father's failure she has waited anxiously for you—”

She was prevented from saying more by Henry, who,
with a feigned bitterness of manner, exclaimed, “Ella need
not feel troubled, for I am too honorable to insist upon her
keeping an engagement, which I would to Heaven had never
been made. Tell her she is free to do as she pleases.”

“You are mistaken, sir,” answered Mary; “Ella does
not wish to be free. But come with me; I promised to
bring you.”

With an air of desperation, Henry took his hat, and
started with Mary for Mrs. Campbell's. Oh, how eagerly

Ella sprang forward to meet him, and burying her face in
his bosom, she sobbed like a child.

“Hush, Ella, this is foolish,” said he; and then seating
her in a chair, he asked, “why he was sent for.”

“I was afraid,—afraid you might think I did not love
you now,” answered Ella.

“I could not blame you if you did not,” said Henry.
“Matters have changed since we last met, and I am not
mean enough to expect you to keep your engagement.”

“But if I expect it,—If I wish it?” asked Ella, raising
her tear-wet eyes to his face.

“You are excited now,” said he, “but in a few days
you'll thank me for my decision. An alliance with poverty
could be productive of nothing but unhappiness to you;
and while I thank you for your unselfish love, I cannot accept
it, for I am determined that, so long as I am poor, I
shall never marry; and the sooner you forget me, the better,
for, Ella, I am not deserving of your love.”

Then, with a cold adieu, he left her; and when, half an
hour afterwards, Mary entered the parlor, she found her sister
lying upon the sofa, perfectly motionless, except when a
tremor of anguish shook her slight frame. A few words
explained all, and taking her head in her lap, Mary tried to
soothe her. But Ella refused to be comforted; and as she
seemed to prefer being alone, Mary ere long left her, and
bent her steps towards Mr. Lincoln's dwelling, which presented
a scene of strange confusion. The next day was the
auction, and many people of both sexes had assembled to
examine, and find fault with, the numerous articles of furniture,
which were being removed to the auction rooms.

“Where's them silver candlesticks, and that cake-basket
that cost up'ards of a hundred dollars?” asked one fussy,
vulgar-looking old woman, peering into closets and cupboards,

and even lifting trunk lids in her search. “I want
some such things, and if they go for half price or less, mebby
Israel will bid; but I don't see 'em. I'll warrant they've
hid 'em.”

Mary was just in time to hear this remark, and she modestly
replied, that Mr. Lincoln's creditors had generously
presented him with all the silver, which was now at Mr. Selden's.

The woman stared impudently at her a moment, and then
said, “Now, that's what I call downright cheatin'? What
business has poor folks with so much silver. Better pay
their debts fust. That's my creed.”

Mary turned away in disgust, but not until she heard
the woman's daughter whisper, “Don't, mother,—that's
Miss Howard,—Mrs. Campbell's niece,” to which the mother
replied, “Wall, who cares for that? Glad I gin her a
good one. Upper crust ain't no better than I be.”

Passing through the hall, where several other women
were examining and depreciating Mrs. Lincoln's costly carpets,
pronouncing them “half cotton,” &c., Mary made her
way up stairs, where in a chamber as yet untouched, she
found Jenny, and with her William Bender. Mrs. Lincoln's
cold, scrutinizing eyes were away, and Mr. Lincoln had cordially
welcomed William to his house, telling him of his
own accord where his daughter could be found. Many a
time in his life for Mary's sake had William wished that he
was rich, but never had he felt so intense a longing for
money, as he did when Jenny sat weeping at his side, and
starting at every new sound which came up from the rabble
below.

“Oh, Mary, Mary!” she said, as the latter entered the
room, “to-morrow every thing will be sold, and I shall have
no home. It's dreadful to be poor.”

Mary knew that from bitter experience, and sitting down
by her young friend, her tears flowed as freely as Jenny's
had often flowed for her, in the gray old woods near Chicopee
poor-house. Just then there was an unusual movement
in the yard below, and looking from the window, Jenny saw
that they were carrying the piano away.

“This is worse than all,” said she. “If they only knew
how dear that is to me, or how dear it will be when—”

She could not finish, but Mary knew what she would say.
The piano belonged to Rose, whose name was engraved upon
its front, and when she was dead, it would from that fact be
doubly dear to the sister. A stylish-looking carriage now
drew up before the house, from which Mrs. Campbell alighted,
and holding up her long skirts, ascended the stairs, and
knocked at Jenny's door.

“Permeely,” called out the old lady who had been disappointed
in her search for the silver candlesticks, “wasn't
that Miss Campbell? Wall, she's gone right into one of
them rooms where t'other gal went. I shouldn't wonder if
Mr. Lincoln's best things was hid there, for they keep the
door locked.”

Accidentally Mr. Lincoln overheard this remark, and in
his heart he felt that his choicest treasure was indeed there.
His wife, from whom he naturally expected sympathy, had
met him with desponding looks and bitter words, reproaching
him with carelessness, and saying, as in similar circumstances
ladies too often do, that “she had foreseen it from
the first, and that had he followed her advice, 'twould not
have happened.”

Henry, too, seemed callous and indifferent, and the father
alone found comfort in Jenny's words of love and encouragement.
From the first she had stood bravely by him,
refusing to leave the house until all was over; and many a

weary night, when the great city was hushed and still, a light
had gleamed from the apartment where, with her father, she
sat looking over his papers, and trying to ascertain as far as
possible, to what extent he was involved. It was she who
first suggested the giving up of every thing; and when
Henry, less upright than his noble sister, proposed the withholding
of a part, she firmly answered, “No, father don't
do it. You have lost your property, but do not lose your
self-respect.”

Always cheerful, and sometimes even gay in his presence,
she had succeeded in imbuing him with a portion of
her own hopeful spirit, and he passed through the storm far
better than he could otherwise have done. Mrs. Campbell's
visit to the house was prompted partly from curiosity, and
partly from a desire to take away Jenny, who was quite a
favorite with her.

“Come, my dear,” said she, pushing back the short,
thick curls which clustered around Jenny's forehead, “you
must go home with me. This is no place for you. Mary
will go too,” she continued; and then on an “aside” to
Mary, she added, “I want you to cheer up Ella; she sits
alone in her room, without speaking or noticing me in any
way.”

At first Jenny hesitated, but when William whispered
that she had better go; and Mrs. Campbell, as the surest
way of bringing her to a decision, said, “Mr. Bender will
oblige me by coming to tea,” she consented, and closely
veiled, passed through the crowd below, who instinctively
drew back, and ceased speaking, for wherever she was known,
Jenny was beloved. Arrived at Mrs. Campbell's, they
found Ella, as her mother had said, sitting alone in her
room, not weeping, but gazing fixedly down the street, as if
expecting some one who did not come!

In reply to Jenny's anxious inquiries as to what was the
matter, Mary frankly told all, and then Jenny, folding her
arms around the young girl, longed to tell her how unworthy
was the object of such love. But Henry was her
brother, and she could not. Softly caressing Ella's cheek,
she whispered to her of brighter days which perhaps would
come. The fact that it was his sister—Henry's sister—
opened anew the fountain of Ella's tears, and she wept for
a long time; but it did her good, and for the remainder of
the afternoon she seemed more cheerful, and inclined to converse.

The next day was the auction, and it required the persuasion
of both Mrs. Campbell and Mary to keep Jenny
from going, she knew not whither herself, but any where, to
be near and take one more look at the dear old furniture as
it passed into the hands of strangers. At last Mrs. Campbell
promised that black Ezra, who had accompanied her
from Chicopee, should go and report faithfully all the proceedings,
and then Jenny consented to remain at home;
though all the day she seemed restless and impatient, wondering
how long before Uncle Ezra would return, and then
weeping as in fancy she saw article after article disposed of
to those who would know little how to prize it.

About five o'clock Uncle Ezra came home, bringing a
note from Ida, saying that the carriage would soon be round
for Mary and Jenny, both of whom must surely come, as
there was a pleasant surprise awaiting them. While Mary
was reading this, Jenny was eagerly questioning Uncle Ezra
with regard to the sale, which, he said, “went off uncommon
well,” owing chiefly, he reckoned, “to a tall, and mighty
good-lookin' chap, who kept bidding up and up, till he got
'em about where they should be. Then he'd stop for some
one else to bid.”

“Who was he?” asked Mary, coming forward, and joining
Jenny.

“Dun know, Miss; never seen him afore,” said Uncle
Ezra, “but he's got heaps of money, for when he paid for
the pianner, he took out a roll of bills near about big as my
two fists!”

“Then the piano is gone,” said Jenny sadly, while Mary
asked how much it brought.

“Three hundred dollars was the last bid I heard from
that young feller, and somebody who was biddin' agin him
said, 'twas more'n 'twas wuth.”

“It wasn't either,” spoke up Jenny, rather spiritedly.
“It cost five hundred, and it's never been hurt a bit.”

“Mr. Bender bought that little fiddle of your'n,” continued
Uncle Ezra, with a peculiar wink, which brought the
color to Jenny's cheeks; while Mary exclaimed, “Oh, I'm so
glad you can have your guitar again.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of
the carriage, which came for the young ladies, who were
soon on their way to Mr. Selden's, Mary wondering what the
surprise was, and Jenny hoping William would call in the
evening. At the door they met Ida, who was unusually
merry,—almost too much so for the occasion, it seemed to
Mary, as she glanced at Jenny's pale, dispirited face. Aunt
Martha, too, who chanced to cross the hall, shook Mary's
hand as warmly as if she had not seen her for a year, and
then with her broad, white cap-strings flying back, she repaired
to the kitchen to give orders concerning the supper.

Mary did not notice it then, but she afterwards remembered,
that Ida seemed quite anxious about her appearance,
for following her to her room, she said, “You look tired,
Mary. Sit down and rest you awhile. Here, take my vinaigrette,—that
will revive you.” Then as Mary was arranging

her hair, she said, “Just puff out this side a little,
more;—there, that's right. Now turn round, I want to
see how you look.”

“Well, how do I?” asked Mary, facing about as Ida
directed.

“I guess you'll do,” returned Ida. “I believe Henry
Lincoln was right, when he said that this blue merino, and
linen collar, was the most becoming dress you could wear:
but you look well in every thing, you have so fine a form.”

“Don't believe all her flattery,” said Jenny, laughingly.
“She's only comparing your tall, slender figure with little
dumpy me; but I'm growing thin,—see,” and she lapped her
dress two or three inches in front.

“Come, now let's go down,” said Ida, “and I'll introduce
you, to Jenny's surprise, first.”

With Ida leading the way, they entered the music
room, where in one corner stood Rose's piano, open, and apparently
inviting Jenny to its side. With a joyful cry, she
sprang foward, exclaiming, “Oh, how kind in your father; I
'most know we can redeem it some time. I'll teach school,
—any thing to get it again.”

“Don't thank father too much,” answered Ida, “for he
has nothing to do with it, except giving it house room, and
one quarter's teaching will pay that bill!”

“Who did buy it, then?” asked Jenny; and Ida replied,
“Can't tell you just yet. I must have some music first.
Come, Mary, you like to play. Give me my favorite, `Rosa
Lee,' with variations.”

Mary was passionately fond of music, and, for the time
she had taken lessons, played uncommonly well. Seating
herself at the piano, she became oblivious to all else around
her, and when a tall figure for a moment darkened the doorway,
while Jenny uttered a suppressed exclamation of surprise,

she paid no heed, nor did she become conscious of a
third person's presence until the group advanced towards
her, Ida and Jenny leaning upon the piano, and the other,
standing at her right, a little in the rear. Thinking, if she
thought at all, that it was William Bender, Mary played on
until the piece was finished, and then, observing that her
companions had left the room, she turned and met the dark,
handsome eyes,—not of William Bender, but of one who,
with a peculiar smile, offered her his hand, saying, “I believe
I need no introduction to Miss Howard, except a slight
change in the name, which instead of being Stuart is Moreland!”

Mary never knew what she said or did. She only remembered
a dizzy sensation in her head, a strong arm passed
round her, and a voice which fully aroused her as it called
her “Mary,” and asked if she were faint. Just then Ida
entered the room, announcing tea, and asking her if she
found “Mr. Stuart” much changed? At the tea-table Mary
sat opposite George, and every time she raised her eyes, she
met his fixed upon her, with an expression so like that of
the picture in the golden locket which she still wore, that
she wondered she had not before recognized George Moreland
in the Mr. Stuart who had so puzzled and mystified
her. After supper she had an opportunity of seeing why
George was so much beloved at home. Possessing rare
powers of conversation, he seemed to know exactly what to
say, and when to say it, and with a kind word and pleasant
smile for all, he generally managed to make himself a favorite,
notwithstanding his propensity to tease, which would
occasionally show itself in some way or other. During the
evening William Bender called, and soon after Henry Lincoln
also came in, frowning gloomily when he saw how near
to each other were William and his sister, while he jealously

watched them, still keeping an eye upon George and
Mary, the latter of whom remembered her young sister, and
treated him with unusual coldness. At last, complaining of
feeling blue, he asked Ida to play, at the same time sauntering
towards the music room, where stood his sister's
piano. “Upon my word,” said he, “this looks natural. Who
bought it?” and he drummed a few notes of a song.

“Mr. Moreland bought it. Wasn't he kind?” said Jenny,
who all the evening had been trying for a chance to thank
George, but now when she attempted to do so he prevented her
by saying, “Oh don't—don't—I can imagine all you wish to say,
and I hate to be thanked. Rose and I are particular friends,
and it afforded me a great deal of pleasure to purchase it
for her—but,” he added, glancing at his watch, “I must be
excused now, as I promised to call upon my ward.”

“Who's that?” asked Jenny, and George replied that it
was a Miss Herndon, who had accompanied him from New
Orleans to visit her aunt, Mrs. Russell.

“He says she's an heiress, and very beautiful,” rejoined
Ida, seating herself at the piano.

Instantly catching at the words “heiress” and “beautiful,”
Henry started up, asking “if it would be against all
the rules of propriety for him to call upon her thus early.”

“I think it would,” was George's brief answer, while
Mary's eyes flashed scornfully upon the young man, who,
rather crestfallen, announced himself ready to listen to Ida,
whom he secretly styled “an old maid,” because since his
first remembrance she had treated him with perfect indifference.

That night before retiring the three girls sat down by
the cheerful fire in Mary's room to talk over the events of
the day, when Mary suddenly asked Ida to tell her truly, if
it were not George who had paid her bills at Mount Holyoke.

“What bills?” said Jenny, to whom the idea was new,
while Ida replied, “And suppose it was?”

“I am sorry,” answered Mary, laying her head upon the
table.

“What a silly girl,” said Ida. “He was perfectly able,
and more than willing, so why do you care?”

“I do not like being so much indebted to any one,” was
Mary's reply, and yet in her secret heart there was a strange
feeling of pleasure in the idea that George had thus cared
for her, for would he have done so, if— She dared not
finish that question even to herself,—dared not ask if she
hoped that George Moreland loved her one half as well as
she began to think she had always loved him. Why should
he, with his handsome person and princely fortune, love one so
unworthy, and so much beneath him? And then, for the first
time, she thought of her changed position since last they
met. Then she was a poor, obscure schoolmistress,—now,
flattered, caressed, and an heiress. Years before, when a little
pauper at Chicopee, she had felt unwilling that George
should know how destitute she was, and now in the time of
her prosperity she was equally desirous that he should, for
a time at least, remain ignorant of her present condition.

“Ida,” said she, lifting her head from the table, “does
George know that I am Mrs. Campbell's niece?”

“No,” answered Ida, “I wanted to tell him, but Aunt
Martha said I'd better not.”

“Don't then,” returned Mary, and resuming her former
position she fell into a deep reverie, from which she was at
last aroused, by Jenny's asking “if she intended to sit up
all night?”

The news that George Moreland had returned, and
bought Rose Lincoln's piano, besides several other articles,
spread rapidly, and the day following his arrival Mary and

Ida were stopped in the street by a group of their companions,
who were eager to know how George bore the news
that his betrothed was so ill, and if it was not that which had
brought him home so soon, and then the conversation turned
upon Miss Herndon, the New Orleans lady who had that
morning appeared in the street; “And don't you think,” said
one of the girls, “that Henry Lincoln was dancing attendance
upon her? If I were you,” turning to Mary, “I'd
caution my sister to be a little wary of him. But let me
see, their marriage is to take place soon?”

Mary replied that the marriage was postponed indefinitely,
whereupon the girls exchanged meaning glances and
passed on. In less than twenty-four hours, half of Ella's
acquaintances were talking of her discarding Henry on account
of his father's failure, and saying “that they expected
it, 'twas like her.”

Erelong the report, in the shape of a condolence, reached
Henry, who caring but little what reason was assigned
for the broken engagement, so that he got well out of it, assumed
a much injured air, but said “he reckoned he should
manage to survive;” then pulling his sharp-pointed collar
up another story, and brushing his pet mustache, wherein
lay most of his mind, he walked up street, and ringing at
Mrs. Russell's door, asked for Miss Herndon, who, vain as
beautiful, suffered his attentions, not because she liked him
in the least, but because she was fond of flattery, and there
was something exceedingly gatifying in the fact that at the
North, where she fancied the gentlemen to be icicles, she
had so soon made a conquest. It mattered not that Mrs.
Russell told her his vows were plighted to another. She
cared nothing for that. Her life had been one long series
of conquests, until now at twenty-five there was not in the

whole world a more finished or heartless coquette than Evren
Herndon.

Days passed on, and at last rumors reached Ella, that
Henry was constant in his attendance upon the proud southern
beauty, whose fortune was valued by hundreds of thousands.
At first she refused to believe it, but when Mary
and Jenny both assured her it was true, and when she herself
had ocular demonstration of the fact, “she gave way to
one long fit of weeping; and then, drying her eyes, declared
that Henry Lincoln should see “that she would not die for
him.”

Still a minute observer could easily have seen that her
gayety was feigned, for she had loved Henry Lincoln as
sincerely as she was capable of loving, and not even George
Moreland, who treated her with his old boyish familiarity,
could make her for a moment forget one who now passed
her coldly by, or listened passively while the sarcastic Evren
Herndon likened her to a waxen image, fit only for a
glass case!