Books: Lessons in Life, For All Who Will Read Them
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T.S. Arthur >> Lessons in Life, For All Who Will Read Them
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His inquiry whether she were ill, the servant could not answer.
"Have you seen anything of Clara yet?" asked the friend of Mears,
with a smile, as they met about an hour after they had disturbed the
peace of a trusting, innocent-minded girl, "just for the fun of it."
"I have not," replied Mears.
"Where's Fisher?"
"He is gone also."
"Ah, indeed! I'm sorry the matter was taken so seriously by the
young lady. It was only a joke."
"Yes. That was all; and she ought to have known it."
On the next day, Fisher, who had spent a restless night, called to
ask for Clara as early as he could do so with propriety.
"She wishes you to excuse her," said the servant, who had taken up
his name to the young lady.
"Is she not well?" asked Fisher.
"She has not been out of her room this morning. I don't think she is
very well."
The young man retired with a troubled feeling at his heart. In the
evening he called again; but Clara sent him word, as she had done in
the morning, that she wished to be excused.
In the mean time, the young lady was a prey to the most distressing
doubts. What she had heard, vague as it was, fell like ice upon her
heart. She had no reason to question what had been said, for it was,
as far as appeared to her, the mere expression of a fact made in
confidence by friend to friend without there being an object in
view. If any one had come to her and talked to her after that
manner, she would have rejected the allegations indignantly, and
confidently pronounced them false. But they had met her in a shape
so unexpected, and with so much seeming truth, that she was left no
alternative but to believe.
Fisher called a third time; but still Clara declined seeing him. On
the day after this last attempt, he received a note from her in
these, to him, strange words:--
"DEAR SIR:--Since I last met you, I have become satisfied that a
marriage between us cannot prove a happy one. This conclusion is far
more painful to me than it can possibly be to you. You, I trust,
will soon be able to feel coldly towards her whose fickleness, as
you will call it, so soon led her to change her mind; but a
life-shadow is upon my heart. If you can forget me, do so, in
justice to yourself. As for me, I feel that--but why should say
this? Charles, do not seek to change the resolution I have taken,
for you cannot; do not ask for explanations, for I can give none.
May you be happier than I can ever be! Farewell.
"CLARA."
"Madness!" exclaimed Charles Fisher, as he crumpled this letter in
his hand. "Is there no faith in woman?"
He sought no explanation; he made no effort to change her
resolution; he merely returned this brief answer--
"Clara, you are free."
It was quickly known among the circle of their friends that the
engagement between Fisher and Clara had been broken off. Mears and
his friend, it may be supposed, did not feel very comfortable when
they heard this.
"I didn't think the silly girl would take it so seriously," remarked
one to the other.
"No; it was a mere joke."
"But has turned out a very serious one."
"I guess they'll make it up again before long."
"I hope so. Who would have believed it was in her to take the matter
so much at heart, or to act with so much decision and firmness? I
really think better of the girl than I did before, although I pity
her from my heart."
"Hadn't we better make an effort to undo the wrong we have done?"
"And expose ourselves? Oh, no! We must be as still as death on the
subject. It is too serious an affair. We might get ourselves into
trouble."
"True. But I cannot bear to think that others are suffering from an
act of mine."
"It is not a pleasant consciousness, certainly. But still, to
confess what we have done would place us in a very awkward position.
In fact, not for the world would I have an exposure of this little
act of folly take place. It would affect me in a certain
quarter--where, I need not mention to you--in a way that might be
exceedingly disagreeable."
"I didn't think of that. Yes, I agree with you that we had best keep
quiet about it. I'm sorry; but it can't be helped now."
And so the matter was dismissed.
No one saw Clara Grant in company for the space of twelve months.
When she did appear, all her old friends were struck with the great
change in her appearance. As for Fisher, he had left the city some
months before, and gone off to a Southern town, where, it was said,
he was in good business.
The cause of estrangement between the lovers remained a mystery to
every one. To all questions on the subject, Clara was silent. But
that she was a sufferer every one could see.
"I wish that girl would fall in love with somebody and get married,"
Mears remarked to his friend, about two years after they had passed
off upon Clara their good joke. "Her pale, quiet, suffering face
haunts me wherever I go."
"So do I. Who could have believed that a mere joke would turn out so
seriously?"
"I wonder if he is married yet?"
"It's doubtful. He appeared to take the matter quite as hard as she
does."
"Well, it's a lesson to me."
"And to me, also."
And, with this not very satisfactory conclusion, the two friends
dropped the subject. Both, since destroying, by a few words spoken
in jest, the happiness of a loving couple, had wooed and won the
maidens of their choice, and were now married. Both, up to this
time, had carefully concealed from their wives the act of which they
had been guilty.
After returning home from a pleasant company, one evening, at which
Clara was present, the wife of Mears said to him--
"You did not seem to enjoy yourself to-night. Are you not well?"
"Oh, yes; I feel quite well," returned Mears.
"Why, then, did you look so sober?"
"I was not aware that I looked more so than usual."
"You did, then. And you look sober now. There must be some cause for
this. What is it, dear?"
Mears was by no means ignorant of the fact that he felt sober. The
presence of Clara distressed him more, instead of less, the oftener
he met her. The question of his wife made him feel half inclined to
tell her the truth. After thinking for a moment, he said--
"I have felt rather graver than usual to-night. Something brought to
my recollection, too vividly, a little act of folly that has been
attended with serious consequences."
His wife looked slightly alarmed.
"It was only a joke--just done for the fun of the thing; but it was
taken, much to my surprise, seriously. I was innocent of any desire
to wound; but a few light words have made two hearts wretched."
Mrs. Mears looked at her husband with surprise. He continued--
"You remember the strange misunderstanding that took place between
Clara Grant and young Fisher, about two years ago?"
"Very well. Poor Clara has never been like herself since that time."
"I was the cause of it."
"You!" said the wife, in astonishment.
"Yes. Clara used to make herself quite conspicuous by the way she
acted towards Fisher, with whom she was under an engagement of
marriage. She hardly saw anybody in company but him. And, besides,
she made bold to declare that he was about as near to perfection as
it was possible for a young man to come. She was always talking
about him to her young female friends, and praising him to the
skies. Her silly speeches were every now and then reported, much to
the amusement of young men to whose ears they happened to find their
way. One evening, at a large party, she was, as usual, anchored by
the side of her lover, and showing off her fondness for him in
rather a ridiculous manner. A young friend and myself, who were
rather amused at this, determined, in a thoughtless moment, that we
would, just for the fun of the thing, run Fisher down in a
confidential undertone to each other, yet loud enough for her to
hear us, if a good opportunity for doing so offered. Before long, we
noticed her sitting alone in a corner near one of the folding-doors.
We managed to get near, yet so as not to appear to notice her, and
then indulged in some light remarks about her lover, mainly to the
effect that if his sweetheart knew him as well as we did, she might
not think him quite so near perfection as she appeared to do.
Shortly afterwards, I searched through the rooms for her in vain.
From that night, the lovers never again met. Clara refused to see
Fisher when he called on her the next day, and shortly afterwards
requested him, in writing, to release her from her
marriage-contract, without giving any reason for her change of
mind."
"Henry," exclaimed Mrs. Mears, her voice and countenance expressing
the painful surprise she felt, "why did you not immediately repair
the wrong you had done?"
"How could I, without exposing myself, and causing perhaps a serious
collision between me and Fisher?"
"You should have braved every consequence," replied Mrs. Mears,
firmly, "rather than permitted two loving hearts to remain severed,
when a word from you would have reunited them. How could you have
hesitated a moment as to what was right to do? But it may not be too
late yet. Clara must know the truth."
"Think what may be the consequence," said Nears.
"Think, rather, what _have been_ the consequences," was the wife's
reply.
It was in vain that Mears argued with his wife about the policy of
letting the matter rest where it was. She was a woman, and could
only feel how deeply Clara had been wronged, as well as the
necessity for an immediate reparation of that wrong. For more than
an hour, she argued the matter with her husband who finally
consented that she should see Clara, and correct the serious error
under which she had been labouring. Early on the next day, Mrs.
Mears called upon the unhappy girl. A closer observation of her face
than she had before made revealed deep marks of suffering.
"And all this 'for the fun of it!'" she could not help saying to
herself with a feeling of sorrow. After conversing a short time with
Clara, Mrs. Mears said--
"I heard something, last night, so nearly affecting your peace, that
I have lost no time in seeing you."
"What is that?" asked Clara, a flush passing over her face.
"Two years ago, you were engaged in marriage to Mr. Fisher?"
Clara made no reply, but the flush faded from her face and her lips
quivered slightly for a moment.
"From hearing two persons who were conversing about him make
disparaging remarks, you were led to break off that engagement."
The face of Clara grew still paler, but she continued silent.
"By one of them, I am authorized to tell you that all they said was
in mere jest. They knew you could hear what they said, and made the
remarks purposely for your ear, in order to have a little sport.
They never dreamed of your taking it so seriously."
A deep groan heaved the bosom of Clara; her head fell back, and her
body drooped nervelessly. Mrs. Mears extended her hands quickly and
saved her from falling to the floor.
"This, too, 'for the fun of it!'" she said to herself, bitterly, as
she lifted the inanimate body of the poor girl in her arms, and laid
it upon the sofa.
Without summoning any of the family, Mrs. Mears made use of every
effort in her power to restore the circle of life. In this she was
at last successful. When the mind of Clara had become again active,
and measurably calm, she said to her--
"It was a cruel jest, and the consequences have been most painful.
But I trust it is not yet too late to repair the wrong thus done,
although no compensation can be made for the suffering to which you
have been subjected."
"It is too late, Mrs. Mears--too late!" replied Clara, in a mournful
voice.
"Say not so, my dear young friend."
But Clara shook her head.
It was in vain that Mrs. Mears strove earnestly to lift up her
drooping heart. The calmness with which she had been able to bear
the destruction of all her hopes, because there had seemed an
adequate cause for the sacrifice she had made, was all gone now.
There had been no adequate cause for the sacrifice. Her lover was as
excellent and honourable as she at first believed him to be, and she
had cast him off on the authority of a heartless jest. To all that
her friend could say, she had but one reply to make--
"It is too late now!"
"Not too late, I trust," said Mr. Mears, a good deal disturbed by
his wife's relation of her interview with Clara. "I must ascertain
where Fisher is, and write to him on the subject. Did she say any
thing that led you to believe that she recognised the voices of the
persons whom she heard conversing? Do you think she suspects me in
the matter?"
"I do not think she does."
"So much the better."
The effect upon Clara of the information she had received was very
serious. Deeply as she had been afflicted, the consciousness of
having done right in refusing to marry a man who was destitute, as
she had accidentally discovered, of virtuous principles, sustained
her. But now it was revealed to her that he was as excellent as she
had at first believed him, and that she had been made the victim of
a pleasant joke! There was no longer any thing to hold her up, and
accordingly her spirits completely forsook her, and in less than two
weeks she was seriously ill.
The news of this deeply disturbed Mr. Mears, who had written to
Fisher, and was waiting impatiently for an answer.
"I am afraid we have made the matter worse," he said to his wife,
who, on returning from a visit to Clara, reported that, so far from
improving, she was too evidently sinking, daily. "If Fisher should
have entered into another engagement, or, if his pride has taken
fire at being thrown off on what may appear to him such slight
grounds, I really tremble for the consequences."
"Let us hope for the best," returned Mrs. Mears, "as we have acted
for the best. It was plainly our duty to do as we have done. On that
subject I have no doubt."
Two more weeks of painful suspense and anxiety passed. Clara did not
improve in the least. Mrs. Mears called to see her every few days,
but dared not venture to tell her that her husband had written to
Fisher. She was afraid to fill her mind with this hope, lest it
should fail, and the shock prove too severe. But, even as it was,
life seemed to be rapidly ebbing away.
At length there came a change. Nature rallied, and life, flowed,
though feebly still, in healthier currents through the veins of
Clara Grant. In a week from the time this change took place, she was
able to leave her bed and set up for a few hours each day. But all
who looked into her young face were grieved at the sight. There were
no deep lines of distress there, but the marks of patient, yet
hopeless suffering.
One day, she sat alone, in a dreamy, musing state, with a book lying
upon her lap. She had been trying to read, but found it impossible
to take any interest in the pages over which her eyes passed, while
her mind scarcely apprehended the sense. Some one opened the door;
but she did not look around. The person, whoever it was, remained
only for a moment or two, and then withdrew. In a little while the
door opened again, and some one entered and came towards her with
the tread of a man. She started to her feet, while her heart gave a
sudden bound. As she turned, her eyes fell upon the form of her long
absent lover. For an instant, perhaps longer, she looked into his
face to read it as the index of his heart, and then she lay
quivering on his bosom.
A few weeks later, Clara became the bride of Charles Fisher, and
left with him for the South. Neither of them ever knew the authors
of the wrong they had suffered. It was better, perhaps, that in this
they should remain ignorant.
So much "_for the fun of it_."
FORGIVE AND FORGET.
Forgive and forget! Why the world would be lonely,
The garden a wilderness left to deform,
If the flowers but remembered the chilling winds only,
And the fields gave no verdure for fear of the storm! C. SWAIN.
"FORGIVE and forget, Herbert."
"No, I will neither forgive nor forget. The thing was done wantonly.
I never pass by a direct insult."
"Admit that it was done wantonly; but this I doubt. He is an old
friend, long tried and long esteemed. He could not have been
himself; he must have been carried away by some wrong impulse, when
he offended you."
"He acted from something in him, of course."
"We all do so. Nothing external can touch our volition, unless there
be that within which corresponds to the impelling agent."
"Very well. This conduct of Marston shows him to be internally
unworthy of my regard; shows him to possess a trait of character
that unfits him to be my friend. I have been mistaken in him. He now
stands revealed in his true light, a mean-spirited fellow."
"Don't use such language towards Marston, my young friend."
"He has no principle. He wished to render me ridiculous and do me
harm. A man who could act as he did, cannot possess a spark of
honourable feeling. Does a good fountain send forth bitter waters?
Is not a tree known by its fruit? When a man seeks wantonly to
insult and injure me, I discover that he wants principle, and wish
to have no more to do with him."
"Perhaps," said the individual with whom Herbert Arnest was
conversing, "it is your wounded self-love, more than your high
regard for principle, that speaks so eloquently against Marston."
"Mr. Welford!"
"Nay, my young friend, do not be offended with me. Your years, twice
told, would not make mine. I have lived long enough to get a cool
head and understand something of the springs of action that lie in
the human heart. The best, at best, have little to be proud of, and
much to lament over, in the matter of high and honourable impulses.
It is a far easier thing to do wrong than right; far easier to be
led away by our evil passions than to compel ourselves always to
regard justice and judgment in our dealings with others. Test
yourself by this rule. Would your feelings for Marston be the same
if he had only acted toward another as he has acted toward you? Do
not say 'yes' from a hasty impulse. Reflect coolly about it. If not,
then it is not so much a regard to principle, as your regard to
yourself, that causes you to be so bitterly offended."
This plain language was not relished by the young man. It was
touching the very thing in him that Marston had offended--his
self-love. He replied, coldly--
"As for that, I am very well satisfied with my own reasons for being
displeased with Marston; and am perfectly willing to be responsible
for my own action in this case. I will change very much from my
present feelings, if I ever have any thing more to do with him."
"God give you a better mind then," replied Mr. Welford. "It is the
best wish I can express for you."
The two young men who were now at variance with each other had been
friends for many years. As they entered the world, the hereditary
character of each came more fully into external manifestation, and
revealed traits not before seen, and not always the most agreeable
to others. Edward Marston had his faults, and so had Herbert Arnest:
the latter quite as many as the former. There was a mutual
observation of these, and a mutual forbearance towards each other
for a considerable time, although each thought more than was
necessary about things in the other that ought to be corrected. A
fault with Marston was quickness of temper and a disposition to say
unpleasant, cutting things, without due reflection. But he had a
forgiving disposition, and very many amiable and excellent
qualities. Arnest was also quick-tempered. His leading defect of
character was self-esteem, which made him exceedingly sensitive in
regard to the conduct of others as affecting the general estimation
of himself. He could not bear to have any freedom taken with him, in
company, even by his best friend. He felt it to be humiliating, if
not degrading. He, therefore, was a man of many dislikes, for one
and another were every now and then doing or saying something that
hurt more or less severely his self-esteem.
Marston had none of this peculiar weakness of his friend. He rarely
thought about the estimation in which he was held, and never let the
mere opinions of others influence him. But he was careful not to do
any thing that violated his own self-respect.
The breach between the young men occurred thus. The two friends were
in company with several others, and there was present a young lady
in whose eyes Arnest wished to appear in as favourable a light as
possible. He was relating an adventure in which he was the principal
hero, and, in doing so, exaggerated his own action so far as to
amuse Marston, who happened to know all about the circumstances, and
provoke from him some remarks that placed the whole affair in rather
a ridiculous light, and caused a laugh at Arnest's expense.
The young man's self-esteem was deeply wounded. Even the lady, for
whose ears the narrative had been more especially given, laughed
heartily, and made one or two light remarks; or, rather, heavy ones
for the ears of Arnest. He was deeply disturbed though at the time
he managed to conceal almost entirely what he felt.
Marston, however, saw that his thoughtless words had done more (sic)
than he had intended them to do, both upon the company and upon the
sensitive mind of his friend. He regretted having uttered them and
waited only until he should leave the company with Arnest, to
express his sorrow for what he had done. But his friend did not give
him this opportunity, for he managed to retire alone, thus
expressing to Marston the fact that he was seriously offended.
Early the next morning, Marston called at the residence of his
friend, in order to make an apology for having offended him; but he
happened not to be at home. On arriving at his office, he found a
note from Arnest, couched in the most offensive terms. The language
was such as to extinguish all desire or intention to apologize.
"Henceforth we are strangers," he said, as he thrust the note aside.
An hour afterward, they met on the street, looked coldly into each
other's face, and passed without even a nod. That act sealed the
record of estrangement.
Mr. Wellford was an old gentleman who was well acquainted with both
of the young men, and esteemed them for the good qualities they
possessed. When he heard of the occurrence just related, he was much
grieved, and sought to heal the breach that had been made; but
without success. Arnest's self-esteem had been sorely wounded, and
he would not forgive what he considered a wanton outrage. Marston
felt himself deeply insulted by the note he had received, and
maintained that he would forfeit his self-respect were he to hold
any intercourse whatever with a man who could, on so small a
provocation, write such a scandalous letter. Thus the matter stood;
wounded self-esteem on one side, and insulted self-respect on the
other, not only maintaining the breach, but widening it every day.
Mr Wellford used his utmost influence with his young friends to bend
them from their anger, but he argued the matter in vain. The voice
of pride was stronger than the voice of reason.
Months were suffered to go by, and even years to elapse, and still
they were as strangers. Circumstances threw them constantly
together; they met in places of business; they sat in full view of
each other in church on the holy Sabbath; they mingled in the same
social circles; the friends of one were the friends of the other;
but they rarely looked into each other's face, and never spoke. Did
this make them happier? No! For, "_If ye forgive not men their
trespasses, neither will your heavenly Father forgive your
trespasses_." Did they feel indifferent toward each other? Not by
any means! Arnest still dwelt on and magnified the provocation he
had received, but thought that the expression of his indignation had
not been of a character to give as great offence to Marston as it
had done. And Marston, as time passed, thought more and more lightly
of the few jesting words he had spoken, and considered them less and
less provocation for the insulting note he had received, which he
still had, and sometimes turned up and read.
The old friends were forced to think of each other often, for both
were rising in the world, and rising into general esteem and
respectability. The name of the one was often mentioned with
approbation in the presence of the other; and it sometimes happened
that they were thrown together in such a way as to render their
position toward each other really embarrassing: as, for instance,
one was called to preside at a public meeting, and the other chosen
secretary. Neither could refuse, and there had to be an official
intercourse between them; it was cold and formal in the extreme; and
neither could see as he looked into the eyes of the other, a glimmer
of the old light of friendship.
Mr. Wellford was present at this meeting, and marked the fact that
the intercourse between Arnest and Marston was official only--that
they did not unbend to each other in the least. He was grieved to
see it, for he knew the good qualities of both, and he had a high
respect for them.
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