Finger Posts on the Way of Life

T >> T. S. Arthur >> Finger Posts on the Way of Life

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"Just think of the exposure," urged his wife.

"I don't care a fig for that. A protested note would be a worse
exposure. I must have the money. We can board for a couple or three
years, or keep house in a plain way, until I make up some of the
losses sustained by our folly."

Mrs. Tompkins was passive. A vendue was called, and three thousand
dollars in cash realized. This succour came just in time, for it
saved the merchant's credit, and met his pressing demands, until he
could turn the paper given in part payment for his house, into
money. From that time he began to feel his business resting less
heavily upon his shoulders. Money came in about as fast as he needed
it. In a few months he began to have quite a respectable balance in
bank--a thing he had not known for years.

It was a good while before Mrs. Tompkins could hold up her head in
society, where she had, for some time, held it remarkably high. She
never carried it as stately as before. As for Wolford, he but seldom
passed the store of the merchant: when he did so, it was not without
a pang--he had lost a good customer by grinding him too hard, and
could not forgive himself for the error.

THE TWO INVALIDS.

THE chamber in which the sick woman lay was furnished with every
thing that taste could desire or comfort demand. Yet, from none of
these elegant surroundings came there an opiate for the weary
spirit, or a balm to soothe the pain from which she suffered. With
heavy eyes, contracted brow, and face almost as white as the
lace-fringed pillow it pressed, canopied with rich curtains, she
reclined, sighing away the weary hours, or giving, voice to her
discontent in fruitless complainings.

She was alone. A little while before, her attendant had left the
room, taking with her a child, whose glad spirits--glad because
admitted to his mother's presence--had disturbed her.

"Take him out," she had said, fretfully.

"You must go back to the nursery, dear." The attendant spoke kindly,
as she stooped to lift the child in her arms.

"No--no--no. I want to stay here. Do let me stay here, won't you?"

"Mamma is sick, and you disturb her," was answered.

"Oh no. I won't disturb her. I'll be so good."

"Why don't you take him out at once?" exclaimed the mother, in a
harsh, excited voice. "It's too much that I can't have a little
quiet! He's made my head ache already. What does nurse mean by
letting him come over here?"

As the screaming child was borne from the room, the sick woman
clasped her hand to her temples, murmuring--

"My poor head! It was almost quiet; but now it throbs as if every
vein were ready to burst! Why don't they soothe that child?"

But the child screamed on, and his voice came ringing upon her ears.
Nurse was cross, and took no pains to hush his cries; so the
mother's special attendant remained, for some time, away from the
sick-chamber. By slow degrees she succeeded in diverting the child's
mind from his disappointment; but it was many minutes after his
crying ceased before he would consent to her leaving him.

In the mean time the sun's bright rays had found a small opening in
one of the curtains that draped the windows, and commenced pouring
in a few pencils of light, which fell, in a bright spot, on a
picture that hung against the wall; resting, in fact upon the fair
forehead of a beautiful maiden, and giving a hue of life to the
features. It was like a bit of fairy-work--a touch almost of
enchantment. The eyes of the invalid were resting on this picture as
the magic change began to take place.

How the lovely vision, if it might so be called, won her from
thoughts of pain! Ah, if we could say so? Raising herself, she
grasped the pendent tassel of the bell-rope, and rang with a violent
hand; then sank down with a groan, exhausted by the effort, shut her
eyes, and buried her face in the pillow. Leaving the only
half-comforted child, her attendant hastily obeyed the summons.

"The sun is blinding me!" said the unhappy invalid, as she entered
the chamber. "How could you be so careless in arranging the
curtains!"

A touch, and the sweet vision which had smiled all so vainly for the
poor sufferer, was lost in shadows. There was a subdued light, and
almost pulseless silence in the chamber.

"Do take those flowers away, their odour is dreadful to me!"

A beautiful bouquet of sweet flowers, sent by a sympathizing friend,
was removed from the chamber. Half an hour afterward--the attendant
thought her sleeping--she exclaimed--

"Oh, how that does worry me!"

"What worries you, ma'am?" was kindly asked.

"That doll on the mantel. It is entirely out of place here. I wish
you would remove it. Oh, dear, dear! And that
toilette-glass--straighten it, if you please. I can't bear any thing
crooked. And there's Mary's rigolette on the bureau; the careless
child! She never puts any thing away."

These little annoyances were removed, and the invalid was quiet
again--externally quiet, but within all was fretfulness and mental
pain.

"There come the children from school," she said, as the ringing of
the door-bell and gay voices were heard below. "You must keep them
from my room. I feel unusually nervous to-day, and my head aches
badly."

Yet, even while she spoke, two little girls came bounding into the
room, crying--

"Oh, mother! Dear mother! We've got something good to tell you. Miss
Martin says we've been two of the best"----

The attendant's imperative "H-u-s-h!" and the mother's hand waving
toward the door, the motion enforced by a frowning brow, were
successful in silencing the pleased and excited children, who,
without being permitted to tell the good news they had brought from
school, and which they had fondly believed would prove so pleasant
to their mother's ears, were almost pushed from the chamber.

No matter of surprise is it that a quick revulsion took place in
their feelings. If the voice of wrangling reached, soon after, the
mother's ears, and pained her to the very soul, it lessened not the
pressure on her feelings to think that a little self-denial on her
part, a little forgetfulness of her own feelings, and a
thoughtfulness for them, would have prevented unhappy discord.

And so the day passed; and when evening brought her husband to her
bedside, his kind inquiries were answered only by
complainings--complainings that made, from mental reactions, bodily
suffering the greater. For so long a time had this state of things
existed that her husband was fast losing his wonted cheerfulness of
temper. He was in no way indifferent to his wife's condition; few
men, in fact, could have sympathized more deeply, or sought with
more untiring assiduity to lighten the burden which ill-health had
laid upon her. But, in her case, thought was all turned to self. It
was like the blood flowing back in congestion upon the heart,
instead of diffusing itself healthfully over the system.

Thus it went on--the invalid growing worse instead of better. Not a
want was expressed that money did not supply; not a caprice or fancy
or appetite, which met not a proffered gratification. But all
availed not. Her worst disease was mental, having its origin in
inordinate selfishness. It never came into her. mind to deny herself
for the sake of others; to stifle her complaints lest they should
pain the ears of her husband, children, or friends; to bear the
weight of suffering laid upon her with at least an effort at
cheerfulness. And so she became a burden to those who loved her. In
her presence the sweet voices of children were hushed, and smiles
faded away. Nothing that was gay, or glad, or cheerful came near her
that it did not instantly change into sobriety or sadness.

Not very far away from the beautiful home of this unhappy invalid,
is another sufferer from ill-health. We will look in upon her. The
chamber is poorly furnished, containing scarcely an article the
absence of which would not have abridged the comfort of its
occupant. We enter.

What a light has come into those sunken eyes, and over that pale
face! We take the thin, white hand; a touch of sadness is in our
voice that will not be repressed, as we make inquiries about her
health; but she answers cheerfully and hopefully.

"Do you suffer pain?"

"Yes; but mostly at night. All day long I find so much to interest
me, and so many thoughts about my children fill my mind, that I
hardly find time to think of my own feelings. Care is a blessing."

With what a patient, heavenly smile this is said! How much of life's
true philosophy is contained in that closing sentence! Yes, care is
a blessing. What countless thousands would, but for daily care, be
unutterably miserable. And yet we are ever trying to throw off care;
to rise into positions where we will be free from action or duty.

The voice of a child is now heard. It is crying.

"Dear little Aggy! What can ail her?" says the mother, tenderly. And
she inclines an ear, listening earnestly. The crying continues.

"Poor child! Something is wrong with her. Won't you open the door a
moment?"

The door is opened, and the sick mother calls the name of "Aggy" two
or three times. But her voice too feeble to reach the distant
apartment.

We second the mother's wishes, and go for the grieving little one.

"Mother wants Aggy."

What magic words! The crying has ceased instantly, and rainbow
smiles are seen through falling tears.

"Dear little dove! What has troubled it?" How tender and soothing
and full of love is the voice that utters these words! We lift Aggy
upon the bed. A moment, and her fresh warm cheek is close to the
pale face of her mother; while her hand is nestling in her bosom.

The smile that plays so beautifully over the invalid's face has
already answered the question we were about to ask--"Will not the
child disturb you?" But our face has betrayed our thoughts, and she
says--

"I can't bear to have Aggy away from me. She rarely annoys me. A
dear, good child--yet only a child, for whom only a mother can think
wisely. She rarely leaves my room that she doesn't get into some
trouble; but my presence quickly restores the sunshine."

The bell rings. There is a murmur of voices below; and now light
feet come tripping up the stairs. The door opens and two little
girls enter, just from school. Does the sick mother put up her hand
to enjoin silence? Does she repel them,--by look or word? Oh no.

"Well, Mary--well, Anna?" she says, kindly. They bend over and kiss
her gently and lovingly; then speak modestly to the visitor.

"How do you feel, mother?" asks the oldest of the two girls. "Does
your head ache?"

"Not now, dear. It ached a little while ago; but it is better now."

"What made it ache, mother?"

"Something troubled Aggy, and her crying sent a pain through my
temples. But it went away with the clouds that passed from her
darling little face."

"Why, she's asleep, mother!" exclaimed Anna.

"So she is. Dear little lamb! Asleep with a tear on her cheek. Turn
her crib around, love, so that I can lay her in it."

"No, you mustn't lift her," says Mary. "It will make your head
ache." And the elder of the children lifts her baby-sister in her
arms, and carefully lays her in the crib.

"Did you say all your lessons correctly this morning?" now asks the
mother.

"I didn't miss a word," answers Mary.

"Nor I," says Anna.

"I'm glad of it. It always does me good to know that you have said
your lessons well. Now go and take a run in the yard for exercise."

The little girls leave the chamber, and soon their happy voices came
ringing up from the yard. The sound is loud, the children in their
merry mood unconscious of the noise they make.

"This is too loud. It will make your head ache," we say, making a
motion to rise, as if going to check the exuberance of their
spirits.

"Oh no," is answered with a smile. "The happy voices of my children
never disturb me. Were it the sound of wrangling, my weak head would
throb instantly with pain. But this comes to me like music. They
have been confined for hours in school, and health needs a reaction.
Every buoyant laugh or glad exclamation expands their lungs,
quickens the blood in their veins, and gives a measure of health to
mind as well as body. The knowledge of this brings to me a sense of
pleasure; and it is better for me, therefore, that they should be
gay and noisy for a time, after coming out of school, than it would
be if they sat down quietly in the house, or moved about stealthily,
speaking to each other in low tones lest I should be disturbed."

We could not say nay to this. It was true, because unselfish,
philosophy.

"Doesn't that hammering annoy you?" we ask.

"What hammering?"

"In the new building over the way."

She listens a moment, and then answers--

"Oh no. I did not remark it until you spoke. Such things never
disturb me, for the reason that my mind is usually too much occupied
to think of them. Though an invalid, and so weak that my hands are
almost useless, I never let my thoughts lie idle. A mother, with
three children, has enough to occupy her mind usefully--and useful
thoughts, you know, are antidotes to brooding melancholy, and not
unfrequently to bodily pain. If I were to give way to
weaknesses--and I am not without temptations--I would soon be an
unhappy, nervous, helpless creature, a burden to myself and all
around me."

"You need sympathy and strength from others," we remark.

"And I receive it in full measure," is instantly replied. "Not
because I demand it. It comes, the heart-offering of true affection.
Poorly would I repay my husband, children, and friends, for the
thousand kindnesses I receive at their hands, by making home the
gloomiest place on all the earth. Would it be any the brighter for
me that I threw clouds over their spirits? Would they more truly
sympathize with me, because I was for ever pouring complaints into
their ears? Oh no. I try to make them forget that I suffer, and, in
their forgetfulness, I often find a sweet oblivion. I love them all
too well to wish them a moment's sadness."

What a beautiful glow was on her pale countenance as she thus spoke!

We turn from the home of this cheerful invalid with a lesson in our
hearts not soon to be forgotten. Ill-health need not always bring
gloom to our dwellings. Suffering need not always bend the thoughts
painfully to self. The body may waste, the hands fall nerveless to
the side, yet the heart retain its greenness, and the mind its power
to bless.

MARRYING WELL.

"AND so, dear," said Mrs. Waring to her beautiful niece, Fanny
Lovering, "you are about becoming a bride." The aunt spoke tenderly,
and with a manner that instantly broke down all barriers of reserve.

"And a happy bride, I trust," returned the blushing girl, as she
laid her hand in that of her aunt, and leaned upon her confidingly.

"Pray heaven it may be so, Fanny." Mrs. Waring's manner was slightly
serious. "Marriage is a very important step; and in taking it the
smallest error may become the fruitful source of unhappiness."

"I shall make no error, Aunt Mary," cried the lovely girl. "Edward
Allen is one of the best of young men; and he loves me as purely and
tenderly as any maiden could wish to be loved. Oh, I want you to see
him so much!"

"I will have that pleasure soon, no doubt."

"Yes, very soon. He is here almost every evening."

"Your father, I understand, thinks very highly of him."

"Oh yes. He is quite a pet of father's," replied Fanny.

"He's in business, then, I suppose?"

"Yes. He keeps a fancy dry-goods' store, and is doing exceedingly
well--so he says."

Mrs. Waring sat silent for some time, lost in a train of reflection
suddenly started in her mind.

"You look serious, aunt. What are you thinking about?" said Fanny, a
slight shadow flitting over her countenance.

Mrs. Waring smiled, as she answered--

"People at my age are easily led into serious thoughts. Indeed, I
can never contemplate the marriage of a young girl like yourself,
without the intrusion of such thoughts into my mind. I have seen
many bright skies bending smilingly over young hearts on the morning
of their married life, that long ere noon were draped in clouds."

"Don't talk so, dear aunt!" said the fair young girl. "I know that
life, to all, comes in shadow as well as sunshine. But, while the
sky is bright, why dim its brightness by thoughts of the time when
it will be overcast. Is that true philosophy, Aunt Mary?"

"If such forethought will prevent the cloud, or provide a shelter
ere the storm breaks, it may be called true philosophy. But, forgive
me, dear, for thus throwing a shadow where no shadow ought to rest.
I will believe your choice a wise one, and that a happy future
awaits you."

"You cannot help believing this when you see Edward. He will be here
to-night; then you will be able to estimate him truly."

As Fanny had said, the young man called in after tea, when Mrs.
Waring was introduced. Allen responded to the introduction somewhat
coldly. In fact he was too much interested in Fanny herself to think
much, or care much for the stranger, even though named as a
relative. But, though he noticed but casually, and passed only a few
words with Mrs. Waring, that lady was observing him closely, and
noting every phase of character that was presented for observation;
and, ere he left her presence, had read him far deeper than he
imagined.

"And now, Aunt Mary, tell me what you think of Edward," said Fanny
Lovering, as soon as the young man had departed, and she was alone
with Mrs. Waring.

"I must see him two or three times more ere I can make up my mind in
regard to him," said Mrs. Waring with something evasive in her
manner. "First impressions are not always to be relied on," she
added, smiling.

"Ah! I understand you,"--Fanny spoke with a sudden gayety of
manner--"you only wish to tease me a little. Now, confess at once,
dear Aunt Mary, that you are charmed with Edward."

"I am not much given to quick prepossesions," answered Mrs. Waring.
"It may be a defect in my character; but so it is. Mr. Allen, no
doubt, is a most excellent young man. You are sure that you love
him, Fanny?"

"Oh, Aunt Mary! How can you ask such a question? Are we not soon to
be married?"

"True. And this being so, you certainly should love him. Now, can
you tell me why you love him?"

"Why, aunt!"

"My question seems, no doubt, a strange one, Fanny. Yet, strange as
it may appear to you, it is far from being lightly made. Calm your
mind into reflection, and ask yourself, firmly and seriously, why
you love Edward Allen. True love ever has an appreciating regard for
moral excellence--and knowledge must precede appreciation. What do
you know of the moral wisdom of this young man, into whose hands you
are about placing the destinies of your being for time--it may be
for eternity? Again let me put the question--Why do you love Edward
Allen?"

Fanny looked bewildered. No searching interrogations like these had
been addressed to her, even by her parents; and their effect was to
throw her whole mind into painful confusion.

"I love him for his excellent qualities, and because he loves me,"
she at length said, yet with a kind of uncertain manner, as if the
reply did not spring from a clear mental perception.

"What do you mean by excellent qualities?" further inquired Mrs.
Waring.

Tears came into Fanny's sweet blue eyes, as she answered--

"A young girl like me, dear Aunt Mary, cannot penetrate very deeply
into a man's character. We have neither the opportunity nor the
experience upon which, coldly, to base an accurate judgment. The
heart is our guide. In my own case its instincts, I am sure, have
not betrayed me into a false estimate of my lover. I know him to be
good and noble; and I am sure his tender regard for the maiden he
has asked to become his bride, will ever lead him to seek her
happiness, as she will seek his. Do not doubt him, aunt."

Yet, Mrs. Waring could not help doubting him. The young man had not
impressed her favourably. No word had fallen from his lips during
the evening unmarked by her--nor had a single act escaped
observation. In vain had she looked, in his declarations of
sentiments, for high moral purposes--for something elevated and
manly in tone. In their place she found only exceeding worldliness,
or the flippant commonplace.

"No basis there, I fear, on which to build," said Mrs. Waring,
thoughtfully, after parting with her niece for the night. "Dear,
loving, confiding child! The heart of a maiden is not always her
best guide. Like the conscience, it needs to be instructed; must be
furnished with tests of quality."

On the day following, Mrs. Waring went out alone. Without, seeming
to have any purpose in her mind, she had asked the number of Mr.
Allen's store, whither she went with the design of making a few
purchases. As she had hoped it would be, the young man did not
recognise her as the aunt of his betrothed. Among the articles, she
wished to obtain was a silk dress. Several pieces of goods were
shown to her, one of which suited exactly, both in colour and
quality.

"What is the price of this?" she asked.

The answer was not prompt. First, the ticket-mark was consulted;
then came a thoughtful pause; and then the young storekeeper said--

"I cannot afford to sell you this piece of goods for less than a
dollar thirteen."

"A dollar thirty, did you say?" asked Mrs. Waring, examining the
silk more closely.

"Ye--yes, ma'am," quickly replied Allen. "A dollar thirty. And it's
a bargain at that, I do assure you."

Mrs. Waring raised her eyes and looked steadily for a moment or two
into the young man's face.

"A dollar and thirty cents," she repeated.

"Yes, ma'am. A dollar thirty," was the now assured answer. "How many
yards shall I measure off for you?"

"I want about twelve yards."

"There isn't a cheaper piece of goods in market," said the young
man, as he put his scissors into the silk--"not a cheaper piece, I
do assure you. I had a large stock of these silks at the opening of
the season, and sold two-thirds of them at a dollar and a half. But,
as they are nearly closed out, I am selling the remainder at a
trifle above cost. Can I show you any thing else, ma'am?"

"Not to-day, I believe," replied Mrs. Waring, as she took out her
purse. "How much does it come to?"

"Twelve yards at one dollar and thirty cents--just fifteen dollars
and sixty cents," said Allen.

Mrs. Waring counted out the money, and, as she handed it to the
young man, fixed her eyes again searchingly upon him.

"Shall I send it home for you?" he asked.

"No--I will take it myself," said Mrs. Waring, coldly.

"What have you been buying, aunt?" inquired Fanny, when Mrs. Waring
had returned home with her purchase.

"A silk dress. And I want to know what you think of my bargain?"

The silk was opened, and Fanny and her mother examined and admired
it.

"What did you pay for it, sister?" asked Mrs, Lovering, the mother
of Fanny.

"A dollar and thirty cents," was answered.

"Not a dollar thirty?" Marked surprise was indicated.

"Yes. Don't you think it cheap?"

"Cheap!" said Fanny. "It isn't worth over a dollar at the outside.
Mr. Allen has been selling the same goods at ninety and
ninety-five."

"You must certainly be in error," replied Mrs. Waring.

"Not at all," was the positive assertion. "Where did you get the
silk?"

A somewhat indefinite answer was given; to which Fanny returned--

"I only wish we had known your intention. Mother would have gone
with you to Edward's store. It is too bad that you should have been
so cheated. The person who sold you the silk is no better than
downright swindler."

"If it is as you say," replied Mrs. Waring, calmly, "he is not an
honest man. He saw that I was a stranger, ignorant of current
prices, and he took advantage of the fact to do me a wrong. I am
more grieved for his sake than my own. To me, he loss is only a few
dollars; to him--alas! by what rule can we make the estimate?"

Much more was said, not needful here to repeat. In the evening,
Edward Allen called to see Fanny, who spoke of the purchase made by
Mrs. Waring. Her aunt was present. The silk was produced in evidence
of the fact that she had been most shamefully wronged by some
storekeeper.

"For what can you sell goods of a similar quality?" was the direct
question of Fanny.

The moment Allen saw the piece of silk, he recognised it as the same
he had sold in the morning. Turning quickly, and with a flushing
countenance, to that part of the room where Mrs. Waring sat, partly
in the shadow, he became at once conscious of the fact that she was
the purchaser. The eyes of Fanny followed those of the lover, and
then came back to his face. She saw the o'ermantling blush; the
sudden loss of self-possession, the quailing of his glance beneath
the fixed look of Mrs. Waring. At once the whole truth flashed upon
her mind, and starting up, she said, in a blended voice of grief and
indignation--

"Surely, surely, Edward, you are not the man!"

Before Allen could reply, Mrs. Waring said firmly: "Yes, it is too
true. He is the man!"

At this, Fanny grew deadly pale, staggered toward her mother, and
sunk, sobbing wildly, upon her bosom.

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