Finger Posts on the Way of Life

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

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Too much excited and confused for coherent explanation, and too
clearly conscious of his mean dishonesty toward a stranger, Allen
attempted no vindication nor excuse, lest matters should assume even
a worse aspect. A moment or two he stood irresolute, and then
retired from the house. As he did so, Mr. Lovering entered the room
where this little scene had just transpired, and was quite startled
at the aspect of affairs.

"What's this? What has happened? Fanny, child, what in the name of
wonder is the matter? Where's Edward?"

Mr. Lovering spoke hurriedly. As soon as practicable, the whole
affair was related.

"And is that all?" exclaimed Mr. Lovering, in surprise. "Pooh! pooh!
I'm really astonished! I thought that some dreadful thing had
happened."

"Don't you regard this as a very serious matter?" inquired Mrs.
Waring.

"Serious? No! It's a thing of every day occurrence. If you are not a
judge of the goods you attempt to purchase, you must expect to pay
for your ignorance. Shopkeepers have to make up their ratio of
profits in the aggregate sales of the day. Sometimes they have to
sell a sharp customer at cost, rather than lose the sale; and this
must be made up on some one like you."

"Not a serious matter," replied Fanny's aunt, "to discover that the
betrothed of your daughter is a dishonest man?"

"Nonsense! nonsense! you don't know what you are talking about,"
said Mr. Lovering, fretfully. "He's shrewd and sharp, as every
business-man who expects to succeed must be. As to his trade
operations, Fanny has nothing to do with them. He'll make her a kind
husband, and provide for her handsomely. What more can she ask?"

"A great deal more," replied Mrs. Waring, firmly.

"What more, pray?"

"A husband, in whose high moral virtues, and unselfish regard for
the right, she can unerringly confide. One who will never, in his
eager desire to secure for himself some personal end or
gratification, forget what is due to the tender, confiding wife who
has placed all that is dear to her in his guardianship. Brother,
depend upon it, the man who deliberately wrongs another to gain an
advantage to himself, will never, in marriage, make a truly virtuous
woman happy. This I speak thoughtfully and solemnly; and I pray you
take it to heart, ere conviction of what I assert comes upon you too
late. But, I may have said too much. Forgive my plain speaking. From
the fulness of the heart is this utterance."

And so saying, Mrs. Waring passed from the room, and left the
parents of Fanny alone with their weeping child. Few words were
spoken by either Mr. or Mrs. Lovering. Something in the last remarks
of Mrs. Waring had startled their minds into new convictions. As for
the daughter, she soon retired to her own apartment, and did not
join the family again until the next morning. Then, her sad eyes and
colorless face too plainly evidenced a night of sleeplessness and
suffering.

By a kind of tacit consent on the part of each member of the family,
no allusion, whatever, was made to the occurrences of the day
previous. Evening came, but not as usual came Edward Allen. The next
day, and the next went by, without his accustomed appearance. For a
whole week his visits were omitted.

Grievous was the change which, in that time, had become visible in
Fanny Lovering. The very light of her life seemed to go out
suddenly; and, for a while, she had groped about in thick darkness.
A few feeble rays were again becoming visible; but from a quarter of
the heavens where she had not expected light. Wisely, gently, and
unobtrusively had Mrs. Waring, during this period of gloom and
distress, cast high truths into the mind of her suffering niece--and
from these, as stars in the firmament of thought, came the rays by
which she was able to see a path opening before her. When, at the
end of the tenth day of uncertainty, came a note from Allen, in
these brief words: "If it is Miss Lovering's wish to be free from
her engagement, a word will annul the contract"--she replied, within
ten minutes, "Let the contract be annulled; you are free."

Two weeks later, and Mr. Lovering brought home the intelligence that
Allen was to be married in a few days to a certain Miss Jerrold,
daughter of a man reputed wealthy.

"To Miss Jerrold! It cannot be!" said Mrs. Lovering in surprise.

"I will not believe it, father." Fanny spoke with quivering lips and
a choking voice.

"Who is Miss Jerrold?" asked Mrs. Waring.

"A coarse, vulgar-minded girl, of whom many light things have been
said," replied Mrs. Lovering, indignantly. "But her father is rich,
and she is an only child."

"He never loved you, dear," said Mrs. Waring to Fanny about a week
later, as the yet suffering girl laid her tearful face on her bosom.
The news had just come that Miss Jerrold was the bride of Allen. The
frame of the girl thrilled for a moment or two; then all was calm,
and she replied--

"Not as I wished to be loved. O aunt! what an escape I have made! I
look down the fearful gulf on the very brink of which my feet were
arrested, and shudder to the heart's core. If he could take her, he
never could have appreciated me. Something more than maiden purity
and virtue attracted him. Ah! how could my instincts have been so at
fault!"

"Dear child," said Mrs. Waring, earnestly, "there can be no true
love, as I have before said to you, without an appreciation of
quality. A fine person, agreeable manners, social position--in a
word, all external advantages and attractions are nothing, unless
virtue be in the heart. It is a man's virtues that a woman must
love, if she loves truly. If she assumes the possession of moral
wisdom, without undoubting evidence, she is false to herself. To
marry under such circumstances is to take a fearful risk. Alas! how
many have repented through a long life of wretchedness. Can a true
woman love a man who lacks principle--who will sacrifice honour for
a few paltry dollars--who will debase himself for gain--whose gross
sensuality suffocates all high, spiritual love? No! no! It is
impossible! And she who unites herself with such a man, must either
shrink, grovelling, down to his mean level, or be inconceivably
wretched."

Two years later, and results amply justified the timely
interposition of Mrs. Waring, and demonstrated the truth of her
positions. Her beautiful, true-hearted niece has become the bride of
a man possessing all the external advantages sought to be obtained
by Mr. and Mrs. Lovering in the proposed marriage with Mr. Allen;
and what is more and better, of one whose love of truth and goodness
is genuine, and whose appreciation of his wife rests on a perception
of her womanly virtues. As years pass, and their knowledge of each
other becomes more intimate, their union will become closer and
closer, until affection and thought become so blended, that they
will act in all their mutual life-relations as one.

Alas! how different it is already with Edward Allen and the woman he
led to the altar, where each made false vows the one to the other.
There were no qualities to be loved; and to each, person and
principles soon grew repellant. Through sharp practices in business,
Allen is rapidly adding to the fortune already acquired by trade and
marriage; but, apart from the love of accumulation, which keeps his
mind active and excited during business hours, he has no pleasure in
life. He does not love the woman who presides in his elegant home,
and she affects nothing in regard to him. They only tolerate each
other for appearance sake. Sometimes, Fanny Lovering, now Mrs.----,
meets them in public; but never without an almost audibly breathed
"Thank God, that I am not in her place!" as her eyes rest upon the
countenance of Allen, in which evil and selfish purposes have
already stamped their unmistakable meanings.

BLESSING OF A GOOD DEED.

"I SHOULD like to do that, every day, for a year to come," said Mr.
William Everett, rubbing his hands together quickly, in
irrepressible pleasure.

Mr. Everett was a stock and money broker, and had just made an
"operation," by which a clear gain of two thousand dollars was
secured. He was alone in his office: or, so much alone as not to
feel restrained by the presence of another. And yet, a pair of dark,
sad eyes were fixed intently upon his self-satisfied countenance,
with an expression, had he observed it, that would, at least, have
excited a moment's wonder. The owner of this pair of eyes was a
slender, rather poorly dressed lad, in his thirteenth year, whom Mr.
Everett had engaged, a short time previously, to attend in his
office and run upon errands. He was the son of a widowed mother, now
in greatly reduced circumstances. His father had been an early
friend of Mr. Everett. It was this fact which led to the boy's
introduction into the broker's office.

"Two thousand dollars!" The broker had uttered aloud his
satisfaction; but now he communed with himself silently. "Two
thousand dollars! A nice little sum that for a single day's work. I
wonder what Mr. Jenkins will say tomorrow morning, when he hears of
such an advance in these securities?"

From some cause, this mental reference to Mr. Jenkins did not
increase our friend's state of exhilaration. Most probably, there
was something in the transaction by which he had gained so handsome
a sum of money, that, in calmer moments, would not bear too close a
scrutiny--something that Mr. Everett would hardly like to have
blazoned forth to the world. Be this as it may, a more sober mood,
in time, succeeded, and although the broker was richer by two
thousand dollars than when he arose in the morning, he was certainly
no happier.

An hour afterward, a business friend came into the office of Mr.
Everett and said--

"Have you heard about Cassen?"

"No; what of him?"

"He's said to be off to California with twenty thousand dollars in
his pockets more than justly belongs to him."

"What!"

"Too true, I believe. His name is in the list of passengers who left
New York in the steamer yesterday."

"The scoundrel!" exclaimed Mr. Everett, who, by this time, was very
considerably excited.

"He owes you, does he?" said the friend.

"I lent him three hundred dollars only day before yesterday."

"A clear swindle."

"Yes, it is. Oh, if I could only get my hands on him!".

Mr. Everett's countenance, as he said this, did not wear a very
amiable expression.

"Don't get excited about it," said the other. "I think he has let
you off quite reasonably. Was that sum all he asked to borrow?"

"Yes."

"I know two at least, who are poorer by a couple of thousands by his
absence."

But Mr. Everett was excited. For half an hour after the individual
left who had communicated this unpleasant piece of news, the broker
walked the floor of his office with compressed lips, a lowering
brow, and most unhappy feelings. The two thousand dollars gain in no
way balanced in his mind the three hundred lost. The pleasure
created by the one had not penetrated deep enough to escape
obliteration by the other.

Of all this, the boy with the dark eyes had taken quick cognizance.
And he comprehended all. Scarcely a moment had his glance been
removed from the countenance or form of Mr. Everett, while the
latter walked with uneasy steps the floor of his office.

As the afternoon waned, the broker's mind grew calmer. The first
excitement produced by the loss, passed away; but it left a sense of
depression and disappointment that completely shadowed his feelings.

Intent as had been the lad's observation of his employer during all
this time, it is a little remarkable that Mr. Everett had not once
been conscious of the fact that the boy's eyes were steadily upon
him. In fact he had been, as was usually the case too much absorbed
in things concerning himself to notice what was peculiar to another,
unless the peculiarity were one readily used to his own advantage.

"John," said Mr. Everett, turning suddenly to the boy, and
encountering his large, earnest eyes, "take this note around to Mr.
Legrand."

John sprang to do his bidding; received the note and was off with
unusual fleetness. But the door which closed upon his form did not
shut out the expression of his sober face and humid glance from the
vision of Mr. Everett. In fact, from some cause, tears had sprung to
the eyes of the musing boy at the very moment he was called upon to
render a service; and, quicker than usual though his motions were,
he had failed to conceal them.

A new train of thought now entered the broker's mind. This child of
his old friend had been taken into his office from a kind of
charitable feeling--though of very low vitality. He paid him a
couple of dollars a week, and thought little more, about him or his
widowed mother. He had too many important interests of his own at
stake, to have his mind turned aside for a trifling matter like
this. But now, as the image of that sad face--for it was unusually
sad at the moment when Mr. Everett looked suddenly toward the
boy--lingered in his mind, growing every moment more distinct, and
more touchingly beautiful, many considerations of duty and humanity
were excited. He remembered his old friend, and the pleasant hours
they had spent together in years long since passed, ere generous
feelings had hardened into ice, or given place to all-pervading
selfishness. He remembered, too, the beautiful girl his friend had
married, and how proudly that friend presented her to their little
world as his bride. The lad had her large, dark, spiritual
eyes--only the light of joy had faded therefrom, giving place to a
strange sadness.

All this was now present to the mind of Mr. Everett, and though he
tried once or twice during the boy's absence to obliterate these
recollections, he was unable to do so.

"How is your mother, John?" kindly asked the broker, when the lad
returned from his errand.

The question was so unexpected, that it confused him.

"She's well--thank you, sir. No--not very well, either--thank you,
sir."

And the boy's face flushed, and his eyes suffused.

"Not very well, you say?" Mr. Everett spoke with kindness, and in a
tone of interest. "Not sick, I hope?"

"No, sir; not very sick. But"----

"But what, John," said Mr., Everett, encouragingly.

"She's in trouble," half stammered the boy, while the colour
deepened on his face.

"Ah, indeed? I'm sorry for that. What is the trouble, John?"

The tears which John had been vainly striving to repress now gushed
over his face, and, with a boyish shame for the weakness, he turned
away and struggled for a time with his overmastering feelings. Mr.
Everett was no little moved by so unexpected an exhibition. He
waited with a new-born consideration for the boy, not unmingled with
respect, until a measure of calmness was restored.

"John," he then said, "if your mother is in trouble, it may be in my
power to relieve her."

"O sir!" exclaimed the lad eagerly, coming up to Mr. Everett, and,
in the forgetfulness of the moment, laying his small hand upon that
of his employer, "if you will, you can."

Hard indeed would have been the heart that could have withstood the
appealing, eyes lifted by John Levering to the face of Mr. Everett.
But Mr. Everett had not a hard heart. Love of self and the world had
encrusted it with indifference toward others, but the crust was now
broken through.

"Speak freely, my good lad," said he, kindly. "Tell me of your
mother. What is her trouble?"

"We are very poor, sir." Tremulous and mournful was the boy's voice.
"And mother isn't well. She does all she can; and my wages help a
little. But there are three of us children; and I am the oldest.
None of the rest can earn any thing. Mother couldn't help getting
behind with the rent, sir, because she hadn't the money to pay it
with. This morning, the man who owns the house where we live came
for some money, and when mother told him that she had none, he got,
oh, so angry! and frightened us all. He said, if the rent wasn't
paid by to-morrow, he'd turn us all into the street. Poor mother!
She went to bed sick."

"How much does your mother owe the man?" asked Mr. Everett.

"Oh, it's a great deal, sir. I'm afraid she'll never be able to pay
it; and I don't know what we'll do."

"How much?"

"Fourteen dollars, sir," answered the lad.

"Is that all?" And Mr. Everett thrust his hand into his pocket.
"Here are twenty dollars. Run home to your mother, and give them to
her with my compliments."

The boy grasped the money eagerly, and, as he did so, in an
irrepressible burst of gratitude, kissed the hand from which he
received it. He did not speak, for strong emotion choked all
utterance; but Mr. Everett saw his heart in his large, wet eyes, and
it was overflowing with thankfulness.

"Stay a moment," said the broker, as John Levering was about passing
through the door. "Perhaps I had better write a note to your
mother."

"I wish you would, sir," answered the boy, as he came slowly back.

A brief note was written, in which Mr. Everett not only offered
present aid, but promised, for the sake of old recollections that
now were crowding fast upon his mind, to be the widow's future
friend.

For half an hour after the lad departed, the broker sat musing, with
his eyes upon the floor. His thoughts were clear, and his feelings
tranquil. He had made, on that day, the sum of two thousand dollars
by a single transaction, but the thought of this large accession to
his worldly goods did not give him a tithe of the pleasure he
derived from the bestowal of twenty dollars. He thought, too, of the
three hundred dollars he had lost by a misplaced confidence; yet,
even as the shadow cast from that event began to fall upon his
heart, the bright face of John Levering was conjured up by fancy,
and all was sunny again.

Mr. Everett went home to his family on that evening, a
cheerful-minded man. Why? Not because he was richer by nearly two
thousand dollars. That circumstance would have possessed no power to
lift him above the shadowed, fretful state which he loss of three
hundred dollars had produced. Why? He had bestowed of his abundance,
and thus made suffering hearts glad; and the consciousness of this
pervaded his bosom with a warming sense of delight.

Thus it is, that true benevolence carries with it, ever a double
blessing. Thus it is, that in giving, more is often gained than in
eager accumulation or selfish withholding.

PAYING THE DOCTOR.

AFTER a day of unusual anxiety and fatigue, Dr. Elton found himself
snugly wrapped up in a liberal quantity of blankets and bed-quilts,
just as the clock struck twelve one stormy night in February. For
over half an hour he had lain awake, racking his brain in reference
to two or three critical cases which were on his hands; but tired
nature could keep up no longer, and the sweet oblivion of sleep was
stealing over his senses. But just as he had lost himself, the bell
over his head began to ring furiously, and brought him into the
middle of the floor in an instant. Pushing his head out of the
window, he interrogated the messenger below, just too late to save
that individual the trouble of giving the bell-rope another violent
demonstration of his skill.

"Mr. Marvel wants you to come and see Charley immediately," replied
the messenger.

"What's the matter with Charley?"

"He's got the croup, I believe."

"Tell him I'll be there in a moment," said Dr. Elton, drawing in his
head. Hurrying on his clothes, he descended to his office, and,
possessing himself of some necessary medicines, it being too late
for the family to send out a prescription, wrapped his cloak around
him, and turned out into the storm.

It was at least half a mile to the residence of Mr. Marvel, and by,
the time the doctor arrived there, he was cold, wet, and
uncomfortable both in mind and body. Ascending to the chamber, he
was not a little surprised to find Charley, a bright little fellow
of some two years old, sitting up in his crib as lively as a
cricket.

"O doctor! we've been _so_ frightened!" said Mrs. Marvel, as Dr.
Elton entered. "We thought Charley had the croup, he breathed so
loud. But he don't seem to get any worse. What do you think of him,
doctor?"

Dr. Elton felt his pulse, listened to his respiration, examined the
appearance of his skin, and then said, emphatically--

"I think you'd better all be in bed!"

"It's better to be scared than hurt, doctor," responded Mr. Marvel.

"Humph!" ejaculated Dr. Elton.

"Don't you think you'd better give him something, doctor?" said Mrs.
Marvel.

"What for, ma'am?"

"To keep him from having the croup. Don't you think he's threatened
with it?"

"Not half as much as I am," replied the doctor, who made a quick
retreat, fearing that he would give way too much to his irritated
feelings, and offend a family who were able to pay.

Next morning, on the debtor side of his ledger, under the name of
Mr. Marvel, Dr. Elton made this entry; _To one night-visit to son,_
$5. "And it's well for me that he's able to pay," added the doctor,
mentally, as he replaced the book in the drawer from which he had
taken it. Scarcely had this necessary part of the business been
performed, when the same messenger who had summoned him the night
before, came post-haste into the office, with the announcement that
Mrs. Marvel wanted him to come there immediately, as Charley had got
a high fever.

Obedient to the summons, Dr. Elton soon made his appearance, and
found both Mr. and Mrs. Marvel greatly concerned about their little
boy.

"I'm _so_ 'fraid of the scarlet fever, doctor!" said Mrs. Marvel.
"Do you think it's any thing like that?" she continued with much
anxiety, turning upon Charley a look of deep maternal affection.

Dr. Elton felt of Charley's pulse, and looked at his tongue, and
then wrote a prescription in silence.

"What do you think of him, doctor?" asked the father, much
concerned.

"He's not dangerous, sir. Give him this, and if he should grow
worse, send for me."

The doctor bowed and departed, and the fond parents sent off for the
medicine. It was in the form of a very small dose of rhubarb, and
poor Charley had to have his nose held tight, and the nauseous stuff
poured down his throat. In the afternoon, when the doctor called, on
being sent for, there were some slight febrile symptoms, consequent
upon excitement and loss of rest. The medicine, contrary to his
expectation, heightened, instead of allaying these; and long before
nightfall he was summoned again to attend his little patient. Much
to his surprise, he found him with a hot skin, flushed face, and
quickened pulse. Mrs. Marvel was in a state of terrible alarm.

"I knew there was more the matter with him than you thought for,
doctor!" said the mother, while Dr. Elton examined his patient. "You
thought it was nothing, but I knew better. If you'd only prescribed
last night, as I wanted you to, all this might have been saved."

"Don't be alarmed, madam," said the doctor, "there is nothing
serious in this fever. It will soon subside."

Mrs. Marvel shook her head.

"It's the scarlet fever, doctor, I know it is!" said she,
passionately, bursting into tears.

"Let me beg of you, madam, not to distress yourself. I assure you
there is no danger!"

"So you said last night, doctor; and just see how much worse he is
getting!"

As Dr. Elton was generally a man of few words, he said no more, but
wrote a prescription, and went away, promising, however, at the
earnest request of Mrs. Marvel, to call again that night.

About nine o'clock he called in, and found Charley's fever in no
degree abated. Mrs. Marvel was in tears, and her husband pacing the
floor in a state of great uneasiness.

"O doctor, he'll die, I'm sure he'll die!" said Mrs. Marvel, weeping
bitterly.

"Don't be alarmed, my dear madam," replied the doctor. "I assure you
it is nothing serious."

"Oh, I'm 'sure it's the scarlet fever! It's all about now."

"No, madam, I am in earnest when I tell you it is nothing of the
kind. His throat is not in the least sore."

"Yes, doctor, it is sore!"

"How do you know?" responded the doctor, examining Charley's mouth
and throat, which showed not the least symptom of any irritation of
the mucous membrane. "It can't be sore from any serious cause. Some
trifling swelling of the glands is all that can occasion it, if any
exist."

Thus assured, and in a positive manner, Mrs. Marvel's alarm in some
degree abated, and after ordering a warm bath, the doctor retired.

About three o'clock the doctor was again sent for in great haste. On
entering the chamber of his little patient, he found his fever all
gone, and he in a pleasant sleep.

"What do you think of him, doctor?" asked Mrs. Marvel, in a low,
anxious whisper.

"I think he's doing as well as he can."

"But a'n't it strange, doctor, that he should breathe so low? He
looks so pale, and lays so quiet! Are you sure he's not dying?"

"Dying!" exclaimed Dr. Elton,--"he's no more dying than you are!
Really, Mrs. Marvel, yon torment yourself with unnecessary fears!
Nature is only a little exhausted from struggling with the fever, he
will be like a new person by morning."

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