True womanhood a tale |
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| 8. | CHAPTER VIII. |
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 | CHAPTER VIII. True womanhood |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
Early the next morning, so early, indeed, that the parlor in
which a fire had been kept burning all night was uncomfortably
cool, the brother and sister were in consultation together, and
both muffled up to the eyes, with shawls and cloaks and furs, and
both stowed away into a deep sofa, which they had pulled up to
the fire. Had they been up all night? or were they going a
journey?
The weather was frightful, but the sick man was wonderfully
changed. Alert and composed, though very serious, he seemed
to have undergone a transfiguration. His step was firm and regular,
and his carriage that of a man who respects himself and
has nothing to fear; and yet, an occasional shadow drifted over
his fine countenance, and a slight trembling about the mouth
showed that he was still carrying on a war within, and was not
always master of himself.
“How much better you look to-day,” said Mrs. Maynard, taking
one of her brother's hands between both of hers, and looking
into his eyes with an expression of thankfulness and triumph, and
perhaps of allowable pride; for he was a brother to be proud of,
notwithstanding his late hallucination.
“Do I, sister?”
“And you must feel better, stronger, and more self-reliant, I
am sure.”
“Self-reliant, I hope, sister, though not in my own strength.
Do you know that I feel ashamed and terror-stricken, humbled
to the very dust, my dear Elizabeth, when I think of my deplorable
condition, both of body and mind, for the last two or
three months?”
“Don't think of it, brother, it will do you no good; but rouse
you broke down so terribly and so suddenly, just when you
most needed all your strength of body and soul; — but why do
you shake your head, brother?”
“I have been, I fear, but a wretched Christian, a presumptuous
Christian, Elizabeth. I had not been tried; and the moment I
was tried, my heart failed me, and I gave up.”
“So was it with Peter.”
“Even so, and then he cried `Help, Lord, or I perish!' I
now understand, now that I am so entirely dissatisfied with myself
and with my past life, how thankful he must have felt, when
his eyes were opened of a truth.”
“And your voice, too, it sounds no longer like that of one
who does not wish to be overheard; a sort of moaning in
your sleep, which we were afraid to question oftentimes, when
you were not understood, lest we should trouble you. And
that slow dragging step, as you crawled up the stairs holding
on by the balusters, and along the passage-way, leaning so heavily
upon Jerry or Arthur; how unlike your step and bearing
now!”
“Yes, and if you knew all, dear Elizabeth, you would be still
more astonished. Though I find my business affairs much worse
than I ever feared, and growing worse and worse every day, yet
I have no longer that sudden sinking of the heart, with a trembling
all over, which I had a month ago, nor the hot flashes about
my loins, and up my back, nor the drenching perspiration without
notice, and coming upon me by surprise, whatever I may be doing
or saying; nor that disposition to wander in my speech, as I
often did with you, and in the presence of the dear children, who
did not see that I was gloomy and silent from sheer unwillingness
to be questioned, and not from any change of feeling toward
them.”
“I see it all, brother, and my heart is overflowing with thankfulness
and joy.”
“And what is more, Elizabeth, I have no longer that continual
sense of an overshadowing, near, and fast approaching
calamity, — a sort of unbidden presence about to become visible,
when I should be least prepared for it. I know the worst, I believe,
never again withdraw my trust in Him.”
“There spoke my brother!”
The conversation held on, till preparations were made for
breakfast, and Arthur and Julia appeared, — as if each had been
waiting for the other, — so that poor Julia blushed when her aunt
looked up, and Uncle George smiled, as they entered the room
together.
On the little stand, the large Bible was lying open, as if the
brother and sister had been reading together; and there were
letters lying about on another table, and the morning papers, with
a work-basket, and a large number of cards and perfumed notes.
Julia took up the first that fell in her way, and after running
over the note, called Arthur's attention to the card. “The
Century Ball!” said she; “why, what is the meaning of that,
Arthur?”
“O, that's an old story! That card has been here a month
or two; and here is another I have just lighted on, for the
`Artists' Reception,' — both well worth seeing, I am told, — the
Century Ball especially. It is a great distinction to be invited,
if you wear a hat, they say.”
“If you wear a hat, Arthur? I do not understand you,” said
Julia, in a whisper across the table.
“I dare say not; and so, if you please, I will try to explain.
The members are limited to one hundred; so that, although
women are invited, men are not, unless they are strangers, and
on the whole rather distinguished; and Uncle George may consider
it a compliment worth acknowledging hereafter, when the
President, who was our late Minister at the Hague, you know,
comes in his way.”
“Certainly.”
“It is said to be, on the whole, the most magnificent affair of
the season, Julia; and I do really wish you had been able to
go.”
“I dare say,” said his mother, who had been watching and
listening, “and you would not have been very sorry perhaps,
if brother had been able to go with her, instead of keeping his
bed?”
“Not very sorry, dear mother, I assure you.”
“And the Artists' Reception, — what did you say that was?”
“Another pleasant affair, I am told, where the painters of New
York, — Darley, Ehninger, and some fifty other fine fellows of
their cloth, being unmarried most of them, — score off the invitations
of the past year, by giving a sort of private exhibition at
their rooms to the fashionable women of the season, whether
married or unmarried.”
“A sort of bachelor's ball, then; I have heard of it in other
days,” added Mrs. Maynard.
“No, mother; if I do not mistake, the Bachelor's Ball comes
up at another season; but however that may be, I am quite sure
that any one of the score, to which we have been so frequently
invited, would be well worth seeing; the women so beautiful, the
arrangements so out of the common way, and so sumptuous, and
the music and the refreshments, and everything, `so regardless
of expense.'”
“And all this,” added the Major, with a look of sorrow, “all
this, when we are in the midst of a national bankruptcy, and
there are thousands of poor wandering about our streets, and
literally starving and freezing. Not a paper can I take up, without
finding some terrible case of outrage or suffering; and yet
the opera is in full blast, all the theatres, the Academy of Music,
the picture-galleries, the exhibitions, and all these magnificent
balls.”
“And the prayer-meetings, Uncle George; don't forget the
prayer-meetings.”
“No, Arthur; nor the charity balls, nor the schools, nor the
Five Points, nor the House of Industry there.”
“The Five Points, Uncle George?”
“The Mission School at the Five Points, I mean; that wondrous
charity, where communities are trained to usefulness and
virtue, through the help of beggars and outcasts, and little children
are made missionaries of, by that Mr. Pease, without knowing
it.”
“Ah, what have we here?” exclaimed Arthur, as his eye fell
upon a paragraph in the paper he had just taken up in a fit of
absence, while preparing a reply for his uncle.
“What is it, Arthur?”
“`The mystery cleared up!'” said Arthur, reading from the
paper: — “`Our readers will remember that not long ago there
was a report from over sea of a most alarming nature, as to a
new and very ingenious process of counterfeiting. It was generally
believed for a time, though the story died away at last, and
was forgotten, or smothered, perhaps, and hushed up, that a very
large amount of Bank of England notes —'”
Julia happened to glance at her uncle, and a cry of terror
would have escaped her, but for something in his manner, that
alarmed her, even more than what Arthur was reading.
“`A very large amount of Bank of England notes, millions it
was then whispered, had been so perfectly imitated, as to deceive
the most careful and experienced bankers. The Continent was
flooded with them, and the bank had sent agents all over Europe,
and even to this country —'”
Julia was afraid to look up, as he continued, —
“`But no clue was obtained, though the combination was believed
to extend all over the business-world, until this morning,
just before we went to press, when a beggar-boy who had picked
up in Broadway, near the Metropolitan, the burnt fragments of
no less than three different ten-pound notes of the Bank of England,
and a twenty, sticking together, as if they were part of a
large number, all twisted like a wisp of straw, and burned at the
same time, handed them to a detective. Upon a hurried and
brief comparison with a microscope, it was found that they differed
from the genuine, by marks corresponding with those mentioned
in the report above referred to. On the whole, therefore,
it would seem that our detectives are in the way of a new and
startling triumph; and that some of the best may be wanted
over sea. It is certainly to be desired, that, if there is any truth
in the story, it should all come out; for, if Bank of England
notes are discredited, or if they can be so counterfeited as to
deceive the knowing ones, there is an end to the paper currency
of the British Empire. Nothing but specie or government bills,
or bills of exchange, will be allowed to pass.'”
“How very strange!” exclaimed Arthur. “How wonderful!
but no, no, it cannot be true; Uncle George, can it?”
“Substantially true, perhaps, though of course greatly exaggerated,
as all newspaper stories are,” said his uncle, without
a change of look or voice.
Julia breathed more freely; but on stealing a glance at her
uncle, her heart died away within her; and she wanted to leave
the room before another word was spoken, and go somewhere, —
she cared not where, — so that no eye should be able to see the
changes of her own countenance.
But neither Mrs. Maynard nor Arthur seemed to be at all
disturbed.
“Where were they found, Arthur?”
“It does not say, — O yes — in Broadway, near the Metropolitan.
How very strange, to be sure; with a foot of snow on
the ground — sleet and rain falling — and thousands of people
hurrying through this great, over-crowded thoroughfare, night
and day almost, and long before day, I am sure, even in such
weather. What could possess the parties to burn them in the
street, and throw them down, all twisted together, and leave them
blazing, perhaps, and only half consumed? If they were led to
the work by misgivings, or by the `compunctious visitings' of
conscience, it seems utterly inconceivable how they should have
done it up so carelessly, — don't you think so, Uncle George?”
Uncle George nodded; and Julia's heart stopped beating, as
he added, —
“There's a providence in all these things, Arthur. Our sins
will find us out, sooner or later. Our excessive caution will
sometimes betray us, while a happy boldness and instantaneous
action may carry us through safely.”
“`The wicked flee when no man pursueth,'” said Mrs. Maynard,
moving up to the table, which was now spread for breakfast,
“and a falling leaf may scare a murderer to confession; but I
agree with you, my son, about the strangeness of the discovery, —
whether millions be involved in it, or otherwise, — and I do hope
that we shall have the matter explained; for in these times, if
Bank of England notes are to be picked up in the streets, half
consumed, and then found to be forgeries, it would imply great
abundance of the article, if nothing more.”
“My notion is,” continued her brother, with the same quiet
never set fire to in the street, and thrown away half consumed, —
unless, to be sure, some desperate fellow, who knew their worthlessness
and had grown tired of carrying them, had stopped to
light a cigar, without well knowing what he did, — or perhaps
being a gambler, or something worse, he might be afraid of a
search, if he should be entrapped by the police, — or,” looking
poor Julia straight in the face, who sat watching him, with lips
apart, and eyes full of amazement, wondering what he would say
next, “or it may be, — and this to me seems the more likely, I
confess, — it may be that these were thrown into the fire, and
carried up chimney, by the strong wind that prevailed last night.
I have known such things to happen.”
Julia gasped for breath.
“At the time of the great fire in 1837, a wealthy merchant
on Long Island was first informed of the destruction of his
warehouses in the city, by the fragment of a leaf which he
picked up, and remembered having referred to, in a book which
he himself had put away, on leaving his desk, the very afternoon
before.”
“Coffee, or chocolate, brother? or would you not prefer a
cup of honest, old-fashioned black tea?”
“Thank you, sister — I think I should — for a good cup of tea
— not the English breakfast tea, if you please; I cannot bear
that anyhow; but what you call the honest, old-fashioned black
tea, has a very pleasant effect on my nerves, whether I take it
with my breakfast, or cold, with a biscuit, for lunch. You smile
to hear a man of my size talk about sipping his cold tea, and acknowledging
the pleasant influence upon his nerves; but I assure
you, sister, that I always find it soothing and tranquillizing;
and there is nothing so refreshes me, when I am on a voyage, or
travelling anywhere, as a cup of old-fashioned, honest black tea —
such as we get in Russia, for example, brought overland from
China, and full of the aroma, and strong with the unchanged,
wholesome flavor of the plant, which is always more or less injured
by a sea-voyage.”
“You are enthusiastic, brother; but as we are not in Russia,
and I do not well know where to find a tea that has not been
your turn, till we can do better.”
“Perhaps I may, sister; and perhaps my nephew here may
be willing to try a wee drop with me?”
“No, no, — excuse me,” said Arthur, laughing. “I abominate
all such contrivances.”
“And call them slops, I believe,” said Julia.
“And slops they are; and slops they must ever be, to people
who have such a repugnance for them as I have.”
“Not so fast, young man,” said Uncle George, with a slight seriousness
which set Julia thinking. “It does not by any means
follow that a repugnance, however strong, may not be overcome.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, Arthur, indeed! How is it with tobacco — how with
strong drink? How with many articles of food, which at first
are received with abhorrence and loathing, and yet, after a while,
become so necessary to us, that we are uncomfortable, if not unhappy,
or, like the opium-eater, find life itself a burden, where
the abused appetite hankers for a new supply?”
“Very true, Sir, but ——”
“One moment, if you please. Our natural appetites forsake
us; we grow tired of sweetmeats and confectionery, as we grow
older; and the worst habits we have, and the hardest to be overcome,
are those which we have acquired; as for tobacco and alcohol,
and narcotics in every shape, and curry, and cayenne pepper,
and live cheese, or the rancid oil they gloat over in South
America.”
“And may it not be so, brother, with the habits of the mind?
What we once loathed, if we overcome our loathing, may become
a settled, perhaps unchangeable desire.”
“We first pity, then approve — sometimes — not always, but
sometimes, I mean,” faltered Julia. “I am sure it has been so
with me.”
“Yes; we tolerate, and then endure,” said Uncle George,
“till the monster becomes a bantling.”
“And what then, brother?”
“Why then, with self-upbraiding” — impressively — “and
large endeavor, with humble trust and patient waiting, if we
and we go on our way leaping for joy, like Sinbad the Sailor,
after he had got rid of the old man of the mountain.”
“Or the cripples that were healed by our Saviour,” added
Arthur.
“And so you do seriously think,” said Julia, beginning to
breathe more freely, “that there is great virtue in tea, Uncle
George?”
“So great, my dear Julia, that if I were allowed to ask but
one question as to the character of a young man about to offer
himself to you —”
What made Julia blush so?
“Or to a child of my own, I would ask if he were fond of tea.”
“Why! brother George!”
“Very true, Elizabeth; but I mean just what I say. Of
course I should like to know all I could about his health, temper,
character, and habits, and should be sorry to find myself
confined to a single question; yet, supposing it were so, instead
of asking if he was good-tempered, honest, or high-principled, I
should ask, is he fond of tea?”
“And why, if you please, brother?”
“Well, in the first place, if he were fond of tea, he could not be
very fond of anything stronger.”
“Very good! I like that,” said Arthur.
“And in the next place, if he were fond of tea, I should know
that he was fond of home, of household comforts, of social enjoyment,
and the society of virtuous women.”
“Capital!” said Arthur; but the laugh that accompanied the
remark was anything but natural. “And what say you to the
proposition, Julia?”
“I should say, Cousin Arthur,” answered Julia, with the least
possible embarrassment, and a slight flush over neck and temples,
— “I should say that, so far as I can judge, there seems to
be a great deal of truth in Uncle George's theory; though, if a
sister of mine were proposed for, and I were allowed to ask but
one single question, I have an idea that — excuse me, Uncle
George — that it would be something a little different from
yours.”
“And what would it be, Julia? I long to know,” said Mrs.
Maynard.
“So do I,” said her uncle.
“And so do I,” added Arthur, growing somewhat uneasy,
though he tried to carry it off with a laugh; “come, come, Julia,
out with it!”
“Well, then, if you insist.”
“We do, — we do!”
“I would ask,” said Julia, dropping her lashes, and hesitating
a moment, as if to make sure of herself before she opened her
mouth, — “I would ask if he was a truly religious man.”
Arthur looked abashed; his mother, delighted; but Uncle
George thought proper to shake his head rather doubtfully.
“I do not know, dear Julia, but you would be safer with that
question,” said he, at last; “if the man were truly religious,
though even then he might be morose, or shy, and far from being
fond of the society one always finds at the tea-table, and therefore
he might be no comfortable companion for life; while, even
if he were not a religious man at first, if he loved home and the
society of such women as love tea, I should expect him to yield
more and more to such domestic influences, until he became religious;
or if not religious in the higher meaning of the word,
at least an amiable, conscientious, and trustworthy companion.
But suppose the answer should be in the negative, Julia; what
then?”
“Just what I wanted to know,” said Arthur, with a slight
trembling of the voice, and a look, not of mere curiosity, but of
downright uneasiness and pique.
“I hardly know,” said Julia, glancing at her aunt; “I am
almost afraid to answer.”
“Afraid of committing yourself, perhaps?”
Julia smiled; but her face flushed to the temples.
“No, not exactly, Cousin Arthur; but I am afraid that if a
man, otherwise unexceptionable, — and a tea-drinker, Uncle
George, — were to be refused upon the ground that he was not
a truly religious man, it might, — it might, — a — a —”
“Go far to discourage him, hey?” said Arthur, somewhat
maliciously.
“Yes, Arthur; and I think few young women could answer
for themselves in advance. They might see their duty clearly;
but, hoping for the best, and perhaps finding much to love,
and more to hope for, in the character of the young man, — I am
afraid that most women, — young women, I mean, — would be
likely to shut their eyes to the danger, and hazard everything
upon the hope.”
Arthur wanted to say, “And would you do this, dear Julia, —
would you?” but his heart failed him; and obeying a signal
from his mother, he pushed the open Bible toward her, and
turned away his face, and sat listening to what followed, without
appearing to understand a word of it, until the chapter was nearly
finished.
“Brother, will you read?”
“Not this morning, sister, if you please; in fact, I would rather
you should take that upon yourself, as you used to do, when Harper
was alive; and I will continue to ask the blessing, as usual,
and offer a word of prayer after you get through.”
Mrs. Maynard began reading from Luke xxii., as it lay open
before her. Was it by design?
Arthur grew more and more attentive.
“Mother,” said he, after she had finished, “please read that
portion of the chapter again, where the Saviour speaks of praying
for Peter, `that his faith fail not,' and of his conversion; it troubles
me, I cannot understand it.”
His mother read as follows from verse 32: “But I have prayed
for thee, that thy faith fail not; and when thou art converted,
strengthen thy brethren.”
“How very strange!” said Arthur, in a low voice, and with a
reverent air, looking first at Julia and his mother, and then at
his uncle, who sat leaning on his elbow with one hand over his
eyes. “If up to that hour, notwithstanding all that Peter had
gone through with, and all he had suffered and witnessed, and all
that had been promised him by the Saviour, he was not a converted
man, I do not wonder that others are troubled about the
meaning of conversion.”
A dead silence followed, and then a very serious and protracted
discussion; Arthur desiring to understand from his mother
according to their views; and if so, when?
“Perhaps, dear aunt,” said Julia at last, fixing her eyes on
Arthur, with a trembling earnestness that changed the whole
character of her large dreaming eyes, mild, passionless, and beautiful,
and far-seeing, as if into the spirit-land, — “perhaps Cousin
Arthur may be able to find a satisfactory answer to a part of his
questions at least, by reading the account of that last interview,
where the inquiry `Lovest thou me, Simon Peter?' is three
times repeated; and the apostle answers, `Yea, Lord, thou knowest
that I love thee.'”
“Certainly, it was then, if ever,” exclaimed Arthur, with flashing
eyes, and a look of eager and almost passionate admiration.
“Although, in one sense, the beginning of conversion may be
instantaneous, dear Arthur, as in all the cases to be found here,”
said his mother, laying her hand upon the Gospel, “it is never
completed, perhaps, till we have finished our course on earth; —
but I am a little afraid of these discussions.”
“You misunderstand me, dear mother, if you think I am disputing
for the pleasure of disputing; I desire to see for myself;
and I think I do see somewhat more clearly.”
“God strengthen you, my child.”
Another long and thoughtful stillness followed, which Arthur
ended, by pulling out his watch, and comparing it with the clock.
“If you are going out, nephew, don't forget our engagement,
I beg of you. We must have you here.”
“At twelve, Sir?” growing a little uneasy and looking sideways
at his mother, who shook her head in reply.
“And we had an engagement, also,” said she, “and hoped you
might be able to go with us to-day, brother.”
“At what hour?”
“Either at twelve or three; and perhaps Julia might manage
to go with us.”
“My arrangements are all made, sister, for winding up that
troublesome business with Miss Wentworth. She will be here
at twelve with her lawyer, and I must have Arthur for a witness.
My solicitor will be here; and that job over, I shall begin to
breathe more freely.”
“With all my heart, Uncle George. Business before pleasure,”
said Arthur.
“But where do you propose to go, sister?”
Mrs. Maynard looked at Julia, and then at Arthur, and then
said, “I want very much to look into one of these prayer-meetings.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, brother. I have heard so much of them; of their solemnity
and heartiness, and of the wonderful answers to prayer
they have had, as acknowledged by the secular papers; conversions
afar off, as well as in our midst. And then, too, the prayers
are so short, — only three minutes, at most.”
“If you could hear some of these very short prayers, from
rough-looking sailors, and middle-aged business men,” said Arthur,
“I do believe you would look for a speedy answer, and be
disappointed sometimes, if it did not soon follow.”
“There is something very strange, something awful, in this
outbreak over land and sea,” said Uncle George. “In the
North of Europe, in the Sandwich Isles, in the East, and all
over our country, it burst forth in hundreds of places at once,
like prairie-fires, or spontaneous combustion; and just where the
churches had been doing the least, or nothing at all, perhaps, —
and sometimes where they had given up in despair. And then,
too, although there are denominational or sectarian prayer-meetings,
they are always thin and lifeless, while the union meetings
are crowded to suffocation, morning, noon, and night, and always
glowing.”
“Yes, Uncle George; and I have seen with my own eyes,
Presbyterians, Quakers, Baptists, Jews, and Methodists, and
scores of desperate men, who, but a little time before, had been
the terror of Philadelphia, all praying together, and all in
earnest, brief, and to the purpose; with a huge placard staring
them in the face, on which was printed in letters a foot long,
`Three minutes only!.... No person allowed to pray and
exhort, or to speak twice!'”
“It would seem,” added his mother, “from what is acknowledged
by the papers which do not claim to be religious, but
merely business-papers, as if just when the churches were about
people, and to the captains of the host, saying, `Stand still!
and see the salvation of the Lord!”
“There is something, too, in these very short prayers, and
brief exhortations, which seems to astonish everybody. They
are sometimes asked for in person, with a `Pray for me!' and
sometimes for another. I never felt so in all my life, as I have,
more than once, at the Fulton Street meeting, when I had
dropped in for a moment, merely out of curiosity, — nothing
more, mother; I wouldn't have you misunderstand me.”
“It is the difference, after all,” added the Major, with impressive
solemnity, “between thousands praying for one, or with one,
and one praying for thousands, or perhaps for the whole human
race, which is one of the leading characteristics of lengthy prayers,
whether in the pulpit, or out.”
“So that, if there be any efficacy in prayer,” interrupted
Arthur, somewhat eagerly, as the idea struck him, “it is a matter
of the clearest mathematical demonstration, you see, that the
prayers of a thousand for one must be a million times more
efficient — other circumstances being equal — than the prayers
of one for a thousand.”
His mother turned toward him with a startled expression;
and so did Julia, and so did Uncle George; but they saw in his
look only the signs of good faith, and a very uncommon seriousness.
“Yes, Arthur, I go for short prayers. Ours are always short,
you know; short, comprehensive, and to the purpose, like that
given to us for a model by our Saviour, when he said, `After
this manner, pray ye.'”
“But the Saviour made very long prayers, too, — long, when
compared with that, as we find in John, though short in comparison
with ours; and it may be that he sometimes passed the
whole night in prayer.”
“Once, Arthur, if no more. But I must acknowledge that
some of these very short prayers which I have heard from the
rough-looking, earnest men about me, where the men of business
make a business of prayer, have made me feel as I never felt
before, and set me thinking, as for my life.”
“To me, Uncle George, they are like minute-guns at sea,
heard through the roaring darkness; or the tolling of a midnight
bell. We know, when we hear such a sound, that somebody is
in danger, and knows it, — foundering perhaps, or drifting upon
the rocks — or on his way to the grave. They are signals of
distress, which are never misunderstood, nor undervalued, nor
slighted.”
“So that minute-guns at sea are of themselves a sort of
prayer, — prayers for sympathy and help?” said Julia.
“Yes, Julia; and what is more, it is not so much the loud
alarum of many bells, or the uninterrupted roar of a cannonade, —
one telling of a great battle perhaps, and another of a great
fire, — as it is the heavy tolling of one bell, or the noise of one
great solitary gun, at dead of night, which troubles the heart of
man, with a desire to cast himself down headlong from the dizziest
places of earth, and cry aloud for help.”
At this moment, Arthur observed his uncle's eye wandering
over the paper from which he had been reading the paragraph
aloud, just before breakfast. “You will find it there, Sir,” said
he, pointing.
Uncle George took up the paper, with such a look of careless
unconcern, that Julia determined to profit by his example, if a
proper occasion should arise.
And well it was that she did so determine, and that she was
in a measure prepared; for the next moment, Arthur, turning
towards her, said, —
“By the way, Julia, you had better hand those Bank of England
notes I saw you with, not long ago, to Uncle George, and
let him satisfy himself about them, before they get you into a
scrape. It is barely possible, you know, if the story we see here
has any truth in it, that you may have been caught.”
Poor girl! she hardly knew which way to look; but she was
instantly relieved by Uncle George, who asked if she had any
of them left.
“No,” she answered, “not one.”
“And you received them all from me, I believe; did you
not?”
“Certainly.”
“O,” said Arthur, “that settles the question. Uncle George
is not a man to be caught with forged paper on the Bank of
England, I promise you. He has lived too long where it would
be a matter of life and death;” and saying this, he jumped up
and walked to the window, whistling a new opera air as he went.
On looking out, he saw a carriage draw up, and after waiting a
few moments, he added, —
“Here they are! And, as I live, that charming Aunt Marie,
and the coquettish Sallie, and Miss Hattie.”
“Punctual to the moment,” said Uncle George, pulling out his
watch; “though I hardly expected to see the whole family.”
A slight rap — the door opened — and after a few words of
inquiry, ending with “Show them up, if you please,” three
superbly dressed women appeared, followed by a man of business,
and a gray-haired lawyer, with a large gold-headed cane
swinging from his wrist, and a pair of gold spectacles just ready
to drop from the end of his nose.
“Be seated, ladies; and you, my dear Sir,” said the Major,
“if you will be so obliging as to draw up to the table,” spreading
some papers before the gold spectacles for bait, “you may find it
more convenient for the transaction of our little business. I am
only waiting for my solicitor, Mr. Winchester, — ah! there he is
now! Good morning, Mr. Winchester; take a seat by me, if
you please. Arthur, we shall want you for a few minutes.”
Introductions followed all round, to the rustling of silks, and
the shuffling of feet, and the noise and flutter of pocket-handkerchiefs;
and just when poor Miss Wentworth, (Aunt Marie,) was
beginning to grow dreadfully nervous, Uncle George turned toward
her with an air of gentle seriousness, and said very slowly,
and with great dignity and self-possession, —
“My dear Madam, I have no desire to hurt your feelings;
nor do I mean to reproach you for what you have thought proper
to say of me —”
The poor woman tried to speak, but her heart was too full;
and she turned toward the fire, then to Julia, and then to her
man of business, with such a look of distress!
“I have invited you here, with your friends and legal advisers,
for a better purpose, I trust; and while I hope to vindicate myself,
Are the papers all ready, Mr. Winchester?”
“All, Sir.”
“Have you shown them to Mr. Pilsbury?”
Mr. Pilsbury and the gold spectacles bowed.
“And are you perfectly satisfied with the transaction, as it
now stands?”
“Why, as to that, Sir,” said Mr. Pilsbury, with a snuffle,
“and looking upon it in a legal view, — I beg you will not interrupt
me, Madam,” — this he said to Aunt Marie, who had been
fidgeting and making signs to him for several minutes, and had
now managed to get her toe upon the foot nearest her, — “in a
legal view, it must be acknowledged, that you have done all that
we could properly require of you; and I must say, notwithstanding
the ruinous result for my unhappy client,” — here Aunt Marie
took out her pocket-handkerchief with a flourish, and poor Sallie
sobbed outright, and Miss Hattie stared, — “for my unhappy
client, Sir, who is unmarried, as you undoubtedly know, and
without children,” — a slight giggle from behind the handkerchief
Miss Sallie held to her eyes, — “that is to say — excuse me —
what may be called a lone woman, or single woman, or what by
the English law is called a spinster —”
“A spinster!” muttered Aunt Marie, with an impatient fling,
though without withdrawing the handkerchief.
“A spinster!” repeated Miss Sallie, flinging the perfume far
and wide, with a flourish not to be mistaken, and smiling through
her tears, first at Julia, where she met with no encouragement,
and then at Arthur, who wanted very much to steal away, where
he could have a good hearty laugh, all by himself.
“And, Sir,” continued Mr. Pilsbury, after the fashion of your
elderly gentlemen who wear powder and gold spectacles, and are
what are called learned in the law, with a high character in the
Court of Appeals, — men who are almost always too deep to be
understood by the lay gens, — “I feel it my duty to say, notwithstanding
the very serious charges made by my client, Miss
Wentworth, who wishes me to say for her, and she is here to
confirm what I say, that she exceedingly regrets having made
those charges in the way she did —”
“That I do, indeed, Sir!” said Aunt Marie. “I am heartily
ashamed of myself! I ought to have known better, — I did
know better, Mr. Pendleton; but oh, if you knew what sleepless
nights I have passed, and what dreadful days, and what dismal
forebodings I have had, and what a —”
“If you please, Madam,” said Mr. Pilsbury, without the
slightest change of look or manner, “what I wanted to say, in
short, Sir, was, that from the beginning to the end of these negotiations,
your behavior has been strictly legal, Sir.”
“Legal, Sir?”
“Honorable, I mean, Sir.”
“O, that's another affair; I am perfectly satisfied, then,” said
Uncle George, rising from the chair, and taking up a sealed instrument,
and some other papers of a portentous magnitude.
“So that,” he continued, “the conveyance of the house being
completed, the stocks transferred, and the deeds passed, the property
is mine, absolutely mine; and not only legally, Sir, if I understand
you, but honorably; so that Miss Wentworth has nothing
to complain of?”
“Precisely.”
“Very well, Sir. And you have the certificates of stock all
here, as I requested; in other words, what you call the consideration
I paid for the house?”
Mr. Pilsbury bowed.
“Then, Sir, — allow me to say, there is a deed to you, Madam,
duly executed,” — going up to Aunt Marie, and putting a paper
into her hand, with a low bow; and then turning to Mr. Pilsbury,
who telegraphed the man of business in such a way, as to set
him fumbling over the papers, like a terrier after a rat, “allow
me to say that if Miss Wentworth will be so obliging as to transfer
the stock to Mr. Winchester, in trust for me, and you will
undertake to indemnify me for the outlays upon the house, after
we get the bills in —”
“Certainly, Sir! most certainly!” said Miss Wentworth, foreseeing
the result, perhaps, and gasping for breath, while tears
of transport ran down her cheeks, and she seemed almost ready
to throw herself at his feet.
“In that case,” continued Uncle George, after a short pause,
“I give up the bargain forever; and will bear the subsequent
depreciation of the stock myself.”
There was a dead silence for several minutes; and then the
sound of sobbing — “God forgive me!” and “God bless you!” —
so that even gold spectacles thought proper to wipe his eyes, and
then to use a large red pocket-handkerchief, with considerable
emphasis; adding with a snuffle, “that he would take it upon
himself to say, that no advantage should be taken of the delivery
of the deed before the consideration was paid; though for his
part, he must be allowed to suggest, that all business ought to be
done according to law; law being the perfection of reason.”
“My noble brother!” said Mrs. Maynard, at last.
“My dear, dear uncle!” said Julia, jumping about his neck,
and not quite understanding what had been done; but sure, from
the signs about her, that something beautiful and grand in the
judgment of others who did know, must have happened, she was
ready to cry out for joy, “O, my dear uncle!”
And here the business of the day being over — the house
given up — and a large amount of troublesome and wicked misrepresentation
silenced forever, and so answered, as to leave
nothing more to be done for the vindication of Mr. Pendleton's
character, as one of the most truly generous and honorable men
living, the two parties separated, better friends than ever.
“Now, dear Arthur, we may release you,” said his mother.
“Until four, if you please then; we are too late for the first
meeting; but before I go, one word with you, uncle. I do not
well understand these matters of business; but if I am right, you
bought the house of a law-agent, and paid for it in the stock of
the Illinois Central Railroad Company. Am I right?”
“Yes, Arthur.”
“And after the title had passed, and the stock had been transferred
at the price agreed upon, it fell suddenly, and most unaccountably,
to a price never before heard of.”
“Even so.”
“And then the poor thing took it into her head that you knew
the stock was about becoming worthless, and thought proper to
call the transaction a swindle? You start, Sir; but I had a bit
for that reason, did not much like to inquire into the business.”
“And yet, Arthur, if you had done so,” said Mr. Pendleton,
rather sadly, “it would have been worthier of you, and worthier
of me.”
“How so, Uncle George?”
“It would have shown — far better than your silence, and far
better than a quarrel — that you had no belief in the story, and
were not afraid to question me.”
Arthur felt abashed. “I had no belief in the story, dear
uncle; I knew there was not a word of truth in it; I am sure
you will believe me; but still I must acknowledge it would have
been wiser and better, had I gone directly to you for the circumstances.”
“Undoubtedly,” said his mother.
“But the truth was, my good uncle, I had been in so many
scrapes to be ashamed of, that I was unwilling to be questioned
about this.”
“Arthur Maynard — beware of appearances! You have had
a quarrel upon your hands, of a very serious nature, — I knew
it all within forty-eight hours after it happened; but I durst not
explain myself to anybody at that time, so much against me were
appearances.”
“Appearances! Who cares for appearances?”
“Arthur Maynard! So far as the judgment of this world
goes, appearances are everything. What is character itself but
appearance? Only He who can read the heart of man — who
sees the end from the beginning — can venture to overlook appearances.”
Arthur grew very serious.
“And in this particular case, my dear nephew, although you
are so thoroughly satisfied that there was not a word of truth in
the story, and were ready to peril your life on my character, yet,
that you may be wiser and more cautious hereafter, allow me to
say to you now, and here, in the presence of your mother and
cousin, for I would have what I say make a deep and lasting
impression upon you, that there really was some truth in it.”
“Some truth in the story, Uncle George?”
“Or rather, some foundation for the report. I was lately from
England, you will please to remember, and it was conjectured
that, as I was rather a large holder, I must know the real condition
of that great railroad company, with its forty millions of
capital; that I foresaw the assignment, which took place immediately
after I sold so largely; and that I knew, moreover, all
about the disputed titles at Chicago, which involved a million or
two of property we had paid for, — and worse yet, perhaps, that
I foresaw the question likely to arise between the Cairo City
proprietors and the railroad company, about the defences of Cairo,
which might cost millions of outlay. And therefore, as you
must acknowledge, there was at least something to make the
story out of.”
“And so, to satisfy all parties, and vindicate yourself, Uncle
George, you have thrown up the house you had actually paid
for in the Illinois Central stock, at the fair market-value, and
taken the stock back again, after a prodigious depreciation.
Well! I must say — you'll excuse me, dear mother — but I
would see them all hanged first.”
“Arthur!”
“And now you are to suffer in every way. All your plans
defeated; all your purposes for mother and Julia disappointed;
and the stock worthless, and growing worse and worse every
day.”
“Not so fast, Arthur. Although an assignment has been
made by the company, for the benefit of their creditors, and they
cannot even pay the interest on the bonds, yet the stock will
come up, and the bonds may be among the best in the market,
before a twelvemonth is over.”
“And you believe this, Uncle George!”
“Yes, Arthur; I not only hope this, but I believe it.”
“Hurrah!”
“Are you mad, Arthur?”
“Almost, dear mother. Hurrah!”
“Quite, I should say,” whispered Julia.
“And how about the Cairo stock, — in for a penny, in for a
pound, you know. And having some interest there, I should like
to know what you think of that?”
“So well, dear Arthur, that I mean to keep all I have, and
buy up all I can — after this flurry is over — unless it should go
up to something near its value.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really. That stock is all paid for. The shareholders
cannot be assessed, nor made liable in any way. There are
millions of property belonging to the association, and constantly
increasing in value; and every share represents, according to
actual sales, considerably more than four hundred dollars.”
“Hurrah! I am satisfied; good morning, all!” and away he
sprang through the half-open door, as if a new world had been
opened to him.
| CHAPTER VIII. True womanhood | |