Finger Posts on the Way of Life

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

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"How so, doctor? I am not aware that I ill-treat him," returned the
shoemaker, looking up with surprise.

"He is not clothed warmly enough for such weather as this."

"You must be mistaken. He has never complained of not feeling warm."

I took hold of Maxwell's pantaloons. They were made of coarse, thick
cloth, and I perceived that there were thick woollen drawers under
them.

"Take off these heavy trowsers and drawers," said I, and in place of
them put on a pair of half-worn corduroy pantaloons, "and go out of
doors and stand in the rain until you are drenched to the skin. The
experiment will enable you to decide for yourself whether Bill is
warmly enough clad."

I spoke with earnestness. Either my manner, or what I said, produced
a strong effect upon the shoemaker. I could see that I had offended
him, and that he was struggling to keep down a feeling of anger that
was ready to pour itself forth upon me for having presumed to remark
upon and interfere with his business.

"Understand me," said I, wishing to prevent the threatened outbreak
of passion, "I speak as a physician, and my duty as a physician
requires me to do so. The knowledge of, and the experience in
diseases, which I possess, enable me to understand better than other
men the causes that produce them, and to give, as I should give, to
the unthinking, a warning of danger. And this I give to you now."

"All very well, doctor," returned Maxwell, "if you don't raise false
alarms."

"Do you think I have done so in the present case?"

"I don't think any thing about it. I know you have."

"Then you think the lad warmly enough clothed?"

"If I did not think so, I would dress him more warmly."

"You have on three times the thickness of clothing that he has." I
fixed my eyes intently on the man as I spoke.

"And his blood is three times as warm as mine. I need not tell you
that, doctor."

"How do you know?"

"How do I know?" speaking contemptuously--"does not everybody know
that?"

"How hot do you suppose your blood is?"

"I don't know."

"Let us suppose it to be eighty degrees. Three times eighty would be
two hundred and forty. Water boils at two hundred and twelve. If it
be indeed true that the lad's blood is above the boiling-point, I
must agree with you that his clothes are quite sufficient to keep
out the cold at any season."

"You understand me well enough, doctor," replied Maxwell, exhibiting
a good deal of confusion. "I mean that a boy's blood is much warmer
than a man's, which, with his greater activity, causes him to be
less affected by cold. I have seen a good deal of boys, and have
been a boy myself, and know all about it."

"Generally speaking, what you affirm about the greater warmth of
young persons is true," I said to this. "But there are many
exceptions. It is true, where there is good health, good spirits,
plenty of good food, and activity. But it is not true where these
are lacking. Nor is it true in any case to the extent you seem to
imagine. Particularly is it not true in the case of the boy about
whom we are conversing."

"Why not in his case, doctor? I can see no reason."

"He has not the vital activity of most boys of his age, and
consequently not the warmth of body. His face is pale and thin, and
his limbs have not the fulness of youth. He has no activity in his
movements."

"Because he is a lazy fellow," replied the shoemaker, knitting his
brows. "He wants the strap two or three times a day; that would make
his blood circulate freely enough."

"Brutal wretch!" I could hardly keep from exclaiming. But for the
boy's sake I put a curb upon my feelings.

"In doing so," I quietly replied, "you would be guilty of sad
cruelty and injustice. The lad can no more help what you call
laziness, than you could help being born with gray eyes. It his
natural bodily temperament. He has not the robust constitution we
see in most boys; and this is his misfortune, not his fault."

Maxwell replied to this by pushing out his lips, drawing up his
chin, half closing his eyes, and nodding his head in a very
contemptuous manner; saying almost as plainly as words could express
it--"All gammon, doctor! You needn't try to come over me with that
kind of nonsense."

Satisfied that it would be useless to say any thing more upon the
subject at that time, I turned away, remarking as I did so--

"If you are not influenced by my advice in this matter, you may
chance to feel more potent reasons. A word to the wise is
sufficient."

The shoemaker made no reply, and we parted. My first impression was
to go immediately to Mr. W----and apprize him of the condition of
his nephew. But a little reflection convinced me that it would be
much better to make some previous inquiries in regard to his family,
and endeavour to ascertain the reason of his estrangement from his
sister. I would then be able to act with more certainty of success.
I soon obtained all the information I desired. The history was an
impressive one. I will give it as briefly as possible.

Anna W----, at the age of twenty, was esteemed and beloved by all
who knew her. Her family was one of wealth and standing, and she
moved in our first circles. She had but one brother, to whom she was
tenderly attached. Philip was her elder by some years. Among the
many who sought the regard of Anna, was a young man named Miller,
who had been for years the intimate friend of her brother. Extremely
fond of his sister, and highly valuing his friend for his many
estimable qualities, Philip was more than gratified when he saw
evidences of attachment springing up between them.

Besides Miller, Anna had another suitor, a young man named
Westfield, who had become quite intimate with her, but who had made
no open declaration of love before Miller came forward and offered
for her hand. Westfield loved Anna passionately, but hesitated to
declare his feelings, long after he had come to the conclusion that
without her for his companion through life, existence would be
undesirable. This arose from the fact of his not being certain in
regard to the maiden's sentiments, Anna was always kind, but
reserved. She was, he could see, ever pleased to meet him; but how
far this pleasure was the same that she experienced in meeting other
friends, he could not tell. While thus hesitating, business required
him to go to New Orleans, and spend some months there. Before
leaving he called three several times upon Miss W----, with the
intention of making known his sentiments, but each time shrank from
the avowal, and finally resolved that he would make the declaration
in writing immediately on his arrival at New Orleans. With this
object in view, he asked her if she were willing to correspond with
him. Anna hesitated a moment or two before replying, and then
assented with a blushing cheek.

For some months before this, Miller had shown more than his usual
attentions to the sister of his friend; and these had been
sufficiently marked to attract Anna's notice. He was a man of
intelligence, fine attainments, honourable sentiments, and of good
personal appearance. To his attractions the maiden was by no means
insensible. But Westfield had a prior claim upon her heart--she
admired the former, but loved the latter unacknowledged to herself.

Immediately on his arrival at New Orleans, Westfield wrote to Anna,
but did not speak of the true nature of his feelings. The letter
touched upon all subjects but the one nearest to his heart. Anna
replied to it briefly, and with evident reserve. This threw such a
damper upon the young man, that he did not write again for nearly
two months, and then not with the warmth and freedom that had
distinguished his first letter.

Meantime, Miller grew more and more constant in his attentions to
Anna: To second these attentions, Philip W----frequently alluded to
his friend in terms of admiration. Gradually Anna became interested
in the young man, and pleased whenever he made her a visit. When
Westfield asked the privilege of opening a correspondence with her,
she believed, from many corroborating circumstances, that he
designed formally addressing her, and that the correspondence would
lead to that result. But as his letters, with the lapse of time,
grew less and less frequent, and more constrained and formal, she
was led to form a different opinion. During all this time Miller's
attentions increased, and Anna's feelings became more and more
interested. Finally, an offer of marriage was made, and, after due
reflection accepted. Three days afterward Miss W----received the
following letter:--

"NEW ORLEANS, June.8th, 18--.

"MY DEAR ANNA,

"A letter from an intimate and mutual friend prompts me at once to
open to you my whole heart. For many months--nay, for more than a
year--I have loved you with an ardour that has made your image ever
present with me, sleeping or waking. Often and often have I resolved
to declare this sentiment, but a foolish weakness has hitherto kept
me silent; and now the danger of losing you constrains me to speak
out as abruptly as freely. When I asked the privilege of opening a
correspondence with you, it was that I might, in my very first
epistle, say what I am now saying; but the same weakness and
hesitation remained. Many times I wrote all I wished to say, folded
and sealed the letter, and--cast it into the flames. I had not the
courage to send it. Foolish weakness! I tremble to think of the
consequences that may follow. Dear Anna!--I will thus address you
until you forbid the tender familiarity, and bid my yearning heart
despair--Dear Anna! write me at once and let me know my fate. Do not
wait for a second post. Until I hear from you I shall be the most
unhappy of mortals. If your heart is still free--if no promise to
another has passed your lips, let me urge my suit by all the
tenderest, holiest, and purest, considerations. No one can love you
with a fervour and devotion surpassing mine; no heart can beat
responsive to your own more surely than mine; no one can cherish you
in his heart of hearts, until life shall cease, more tenderly than I
will cherish you. But I will write no more. Why need I? I shall
count the days and hours until your answer come.

"Yours, in life and death,

"H. WESTFIELD."

Tears gushed from the eyes of Anna W----, as she read the last line
of this unlooked for epistle, her whole frame trembled, and her
heart beat heavily in her bosom. It was a long time before she was
sufficiently composed to answer the letter. When she did answer, it
was, briefly, thus--

"BALTIMORE, June 28, 18--.

"MR. H. WESTFIELD.

"Dear Sir:--Had your letter of the 18th, come a week earlier, my
answer might have been different. Now I can only bid you forget me.

"Yours, &c.

ANNA."

"Forget you?" was the answer received to this. "Forget you? Bid me
forget myself! No, I can never forget you. A week!--a week earlier?
Why should a single week fix our fates for ever. You are not
married. That I learn from my friend. It need not, then, be too
late. If you love me, as I infer from your letter, throw yourself
upon the magnanimity of the man to whom you are betrothed, and he
will release you from your engagement. I know him. He is
generous-minded, and proud. Tell him he has not and cannot have your
whole heart. That will be enough. He will bid you be free."

The reply of Anna was in these few words. "Henry Westfield; it is
too late. Do not write to me again. I cannot listen to such language
as you use to me without dishonour."

This half-maddened the young man. He wrote several times urging Anna
by every consideration he could name to break her engagement with
Miller. But she laid his letters aside unanswered.

An early day for the marriage was named. The stay of Westfield at
the South was prolonged several months beyond the time at first
determined upon. He returned to Baltimore a month after the proposed
union of Anna with Miller had been consummated.

Although induced, from the blinding ardency of his feelings, to urge
Anna to break the engagement she had formed, this did not arise from
any want of regard in his mind to the sacredness of the marriage
relation. So suddenly had the intelligence of her contract with
Miller come upon him, coupled with the admission that if his
proposal had come a week earlier it might have been accepted, that
for a time his mind did not act with its usual clearness. But, when
the marriage of her he so idolized took place, Westfield, as a man
of high moral sense, gave up all hope, and endeavoured to banish
from his heart the image of one who had been so dearly beloved. On
his return to Baltimore, he did not attempt to renew his
acquaintance with Anna. This he deemed imprudent, as well as wrong.
But, as their circle of acquaintance was the same, and as the
husband and brother of Anna were his friends, it was impossible for
him long to be in the city without meeting, her. They met a few
weeks after his return, at the house of a friend who had a large
company. Westfield saw Anna at the opposite side of one of the
parlours soon after he came in. The question of leaving the house
came up and was some time debated. This he finally determined not to
do, for several reasons. He could not always avoid her; and the
attempt to do so would only make matters worse, for it would attract
attention and occasion remarks. But, although he remained with the
company, he preferred keeping as distant as possible from Anna. His
feelings were yet too strong. To meet her calmly was impossible, and
to meet her in any other way, would, he felt, be wrong. While he
thus thought and felt, the husband of Anna touched him on the arm
and said--

"Come! I must introduce you to my wife. You were one of her old
friends, but have not once called upon her since your return from
the South. She complains of your neglect, and, I think, justly.
Come!"

Westfield could not hesitate. There was no retreat. In a space of
time shorter than it takes to write this sentence, he was standing
before the young bride, struggling manfully for the mastery over
himself. This was only partial--not complete. Anna, on the contrary,
exhibited very few, if any signs of disturbance. She received him
with a warm, frank, cordial manner, that soon made him feel at
ease--it caused a pleasant glow in his bosom. As soon as they had
fairly entered into conversation, the young husband left them. His
presence had caused Westfield to experience some restraint; this
gave way as soon as he withdrew to another part of the room, and he
felt that no eye but an indifferent one was upon him. An hour passed
like a minute. When supper was announced, Westfield offered his arm
to conduct Anna to the refreshment room. She looked around for her
husband, and, not seeing him, accepted. the attention. Just as they
were about leaving the parlour, Miller came up, and Westfield
offered to resign his wife to his care, but he politely declined
taking her from his arm. At supper, the husband and the former lover
seemed to vie with each other in their attention to Anna, who never
felt happier in her life. Why she experienced more pleasurable
feelings than usual, she did not pause to inquire. She was conscious
of being happy, and that was all.

From that time, Westfield became a regular visiter at the house of
Mr. Miller, with whom he was now more intimate than before. He came
and went without ceremony, and frequently spent hours with Anna
while her husband was away. This intimacy continued for two or three
years without attracting any attention from the social gossips who
infest every circle.

"It is high time you were married."

Or--

"Westfield, why don't you go more into company?"

Or--

"I really believe you are in love with Mrs. Miller."

Were laughing remarks often made by his friends, to which he always
made some laughing answer; but no one dreamed of thinking his
intimacy with Anna an improper one. He was looked upon as a warm
friend of both her husband and herself, and inclined to be something
of an "old bachelor." If she were seen at the theatre, or on the
street, with Westfield, it was looked upon almost as much a matter
of course as if she were with her husband. It is but fair to state,
that the fact of his ever having been an avowed lover was not known,
except to a very few. He had kept his own secret, and so had the
object of his misplaced affection.

No suspicion had ever crossed the generous mind of Miller, although
there were times when he felt that his friend was in the way, and
wished that his visits might be less frequent and shorter. But such
feelings were of rare occurrence. One day, about three years after
his marriage, a friend said to him, half in jest, and half in
earnest--

"Miller, a'n't you jealous of Westfield?"

"Oh yes--very jealous," he returned, in mock seriousness.

"I don't think I would like my wife's old flame to be quite as
intimate with her as Westfield is with your wife."

"Perhaps I would be a little jealous if I believed him to be an old
flame."

"Don't you know it?"

The tone and look that accompanied this question, more than the
question itself, produced an instant revulsion in Miller's feelings.

"No, I do not know it!" he replied, emphatically--"Do _you_ know
it?"

Conscious that he had gone too far, the friend hesitated, and
appeared confused.

"Why have you spoken to me in the way that you have done? Are you
jesting or in earnest?"

Miller's face was pale, and his lip quivered as he said this.

"Seriously, my friend," replied the other, "if you do not know that
Westfield was a suitor to your wife, and only made known his love to
her after you had offered her your hand, it is time that you did
know it. I thought you were aware of this."

"No, I never dreamed of such a thing. Surely it cannot be true."

"I know it to be true, for I was in correspondence with Westfield,
and was fully aware of his sentiments. Your marriage almost set him
beside himself."

As soon as Miller could get away from the individual who gave him
this startling information, he turned his steps homeward. He did not
ask himself why he did so. In fact, there was no purpose in his
mind. He felt wretched beyond description. The information just
conveyed, awakened the most dreadful suspicions, that would not
yield to any effort his generous feelings made to banish them.

On arriving at home, (it was five o'clock in the afternoon,) he
found that his wife had gone out; and further learned that Westfield
had called for her in a carriage, and that they had ridden out
together. This information did not, in the least, tend to quiet the
uneasiness he felt.

Going up into the chambers, he noticed many evidences of Anna's
having dressed, herself to go out, in haste. The door of the
wardrobe stood open, and also one of her drawers, with her bunch of
keys lying upon the bureau. The dress she had on when he left her at
dinner-time, had been changed for another, and, instead of being
hung up, was thrown across a chair.

The drawer that stood open was her private drawer, in which she kept
all her trinkets, and little matters particularly her own. Its
contents her husband had never seen, and had never desired to see.
Now, however, something more than mere curiosity prompted him to
look somewhat narrowly into its contents. In one corner of this
drawer he found a small casket, beautifully inlaid, that had never
before come under his notice. Its workmanship was costly and
exquisite. He lifted it and examined it carefully, and then taking
the bunch of keys that lay before him, tried the smallest in the
lock. The lid flew open. A few letters, and a small braid of hair,
were its only contents. These letters were addressed to her under
her maiden name. The husband was about unfolding one of them, when
he let it fall suddenly into the casket, saying, as he did so--

"No, no! I have no right to read these letters. They were not
addressed to my wife." With an effort he closed the drawer and
forced himself from the room. But the fact that Westfield had been a
suitor for the hand of Anna, and was now on terms of the closest
intimacy with her, coming up vividly in his mind, he came, after
some reflection, to the firm conclusion that he ought to know the
contents of letters treasured so carefully--letters that he had
every reason now to believe were from Westfield. Their post-mark he
had noticed. They were from New Orleans.

After again hesitating and debating the question for some time, he
finally determined to know their contents. He read them over and
over again, each sentence almost maddening him. They were from
Westfield. The reader already knows their contents. From their
appearance, it was evident that they had been read over very many
times; one of them bore traces of tears. For some time the feelings
of Miller were in a state of wild excitement. While this continued,
had his wife or Westfield appeared, he would have been tempted to
commit some desperate act. But this state gradually gave way to a
more sober one. The letters were replaced carefully, the casket
locked, and every thing restored to its former appearance. The
husband then sat down to reflect, as calmly as was in his power,
upon the aspect of affairs. The more he thought, the more closely he
compared the sentiments of the letters so carefully treasured with
the subsequent. familiarity of his wife with Westfield, the more
satisfied was he that he had been deeply and irreparably
wronged--wronged in a way for which there was no atonement.

As this conviction fully formed itself in his mind, the question of
what he should do came up for immediate decision. He had one child,
about eighteen months old, around whom his tenderest affections had
entwined themselves; but when he remembered that his friend's
intimacy with his wife had run almost parallel with their marriage,
a harrowing suspicion crossed his mind, and made his heart turn from
the form of beauty and innocence it had loved so purely.

The final conclusion of the agonized husband was to abandon his wife
at once, taking with him the corroborating evidence of her
unfaithfulness. He returned to her private drawer, and taking from
it the letters of Westfield and the braid of hair, placed them in
his pocket. He then packed his clothes and private papers in a
trunk, which he ordered to be sent to Gadsby's Hotel. Half an hour,
before his wife's return, he had abandoned her for ever.

When Mrs. Miller came home, it was as late as tea-time. She was
accompanied by Westfield, who came into the house with his usual
familiarity, intending to share with the family in their evening
meal, and enjoy a social hour afterward.

Finding that her husband was not in the parlour--it was past the
usual hour of his return--nor anywhere in the house, Mrs. Miller
inquired if he had not been home.

"Oh yes, ma'am," said the servant to whom she spoke, "he came home
more than two hours ago."

"Did he go out again?" she asked, without suspicion of any thing
being wrong.

"Yes, ma'am. He went up-stairs and stayed a good while, and then
came down and told Ben to take his trunk to Gadsby's."

The face of Mrs. Miller blanched in an instant. She turned quickly
away and ran up to her chamber. Her drawer, which she had not
noticed before, stood open. She eagerly seized her precious casket;
this, too, was open, and the contents gone! Strength and
consciousness remained long enough for her to reach the bed, upon
which she fell, fainting.

When the life-blood once more flowed through her veins, and she was
sufficiently restored to see what was passing around her, she found
the servants and Westfield standing by her bedside. The latter
looked anxiously into her face. She motioned him to come near. As he
bent his ear low toward her face, she whispered--

"Leave me. You must never again visit this house, nor appear to be
on terms of intimacy with me."

"Why?"

"Go, Mr. Westfield. Let what I have said suffice. Neither of us have
acted with the prudence that should have governed our conduct, all
things considered. Go at once! In time you will know enough, and
more than enough."

Westfield still hesitated, but Mrs. Miller motioned him away with an
imperative manner; he then withdrew, looking earnestly back at every
step.

A glass of wine and water was ordered by Anna, after drinking which,
she arose from the bed, and desired all her domestics to leave the
room.

Meantime, her husband was suffering the most poignant anguish of
mind. On retiring to a hotel, he sent for the brother of his wife,
and to him submitted the letters he had taken from Anna's casket.
After they had been hurriedly perused, he said--

"You know the intimacy of Westfield with Anna. Put that fact
alongside of these letters and their careful preservation, and what
is your conclusion?"

"Accursed villain!" exclaimed W----, grinding his teeth and stamping
upon the floor, his anger completely overmastering him. "His life
shall pay the price of my sister's dishonour. Madness!"

"You think, then, as I do," said the husband, with forced calmness,
"that confidence, nay, every thing sacred and holy, has been
violated?"

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