Books: Heart Histories and Life Pictures
T >>
T. S. Arthur >> Heart Histories and Life Pictures
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 | 12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16
"No, I am sure we cannot."
Mrs. Campbell, the lady who had called upon Mrs. May, felt quite
certain that, in obtaining Jane for a nurse, she had been fortunate.
She gave, confidently, to her care, a babe seven months old. At
first, from a mother's natural instinct, she kept her eye upon Jane;
but every thing going on right, she soon ceased to observe her
closely. This was noted by the nurse, who began to breathe with more
freedom. Up to this time, the child placed in her charge had
received the kindest attentions. Now, however, her natural
indifference led her to neglect him in various little ways,
unnoticed by the mother, but felt by the infant. Temptations were
also thrown in her way by the thoughtless exposure of money and
jewelry. Mrs. Campbell supposed, of course, that she was honest, or
she would have been notified of the fact by Mrs. May, of whom she
had inquired Jane's character; and, therefore, never thought of
being on her guard in this respect. Occasionally he could not help
thinking that there ought to be more money in her purse than there
was. But she did not suffer this thought to rise into a suspicion of
unfair dealing against any one. The loss of a costly breast pin, the
gift of a mother long since passed into the invisible world, next
worried her mind; but, even this did not cause her to suspect that
any thing was wrong with her nurse.
This the time passed on, many little losses of money and valued
articles disturbing and troubling the mind of Mrs. Campbell, until
it became necessary to wean her babe. This duty was assigned to
Jane, who took the infant to sleep with her. On the first night, it
cried for several hours--in fact, did not permit Jane to get more
than a few minutes sleep at a time all night. Her patience was tried
severely. Sometimes she would hold the distressed child with angry
violence to her bosom, while it screamed with renewed energy; and
then, finding that it still continued to cry, toss it from her upon
the bed, and let it lie, still screaming, until fear lest its mother
should be tempted to come to her distressed babe, would cause her
again to take it to her arms. A hard time had that poor child of it
on that first night of its most painful experience in the world. It
was scolded, shaken, and even whipped by the unfeeling nurse, until,
at last, worn out nature yielded, and sleep threw its protecting
mantle over the wearied babe.
"How did you get along with Henry?" was the mother's eager question,
as she entered Jane's room soon after daylight.
"O very well, ma'am," returned Jane.
"I heard him cry dreadfully in the night. Several times I thought I
would come in and take him."
"Yes, ma'am, he did scream once or twice very hard; but he soon gave
up, and has long slept as soundly as you now see him."
"Dear little fellow!" murmured the mother in a trembling voice. She
stooped down and kissed him tenderly--tears were in her eyes.
On the next night, Henry screamed again for several hours. Jane, had
she felt an affection for the child, and, from that affection been
led to soothe it with tenderness, might easily have lulled it into
quiet; but her ill-nature disturbed the child. After worrying with
it a long time, she threw it from her with violence, exclaiming as
she did so--
"I'll fix you to-morrow night! There'll be no more of this. They
needn't think I'm going to worry out my life for their cross-grained
brat."
She stopped. For the babe had suddenly ceased crying. Lifting it up,
quickly, she perceived, by the light of the lamp, that its face was
very white, and its lips blue. In alarm, she picked it up and sprang
from the bed. A little water thrown into its face, soon revived it.
But the child did not cry again, and soon fell away into sleep. For
a long time Jane sat partly up in bed, leaning over on her arm, and
looking into little Henry's face. He breathed freely, and seemed to
be as well as ever. She did not wake until morning. When she did,
she found the mother bending over her, and gazing earnestly down
into the face of her sleeping babe. The incident that had occurred
in the night glanced through her mind, and caused her to rise up and
look anxiously at the child. Its sweet, placid face, at once
reassured her.
"He slept better last night," remarked Mrs. Campbell.
"O, yes. He didn't cry any at all, hardly."
"Heaven bless him!" murmured the mother, bending over and kissing
him softly.
On the next morning, when she awoke, Mrs. Campbell felt a strange
uneasiness about her child. Without waiting to dress herself, she
went softly over to the room where Jane slept. It was only a little
after day-light. She found both the child and nurse asleep. There
was something in the atmosphere of the room that oppressed her
lungs, and something peculiar in its odor. Without disturbing Jane,
she stood for several minutes looking into the face of Henry.
Something about it troubled her. It was not so calm as usual, nor
had his skin that white transparency so peculiar to a babe.
"Jane," she at length said, laying her hand upon the nurse.
Jane roused up.
"How did Henry get along last night, Jane?"
"Very well, indeed, ma'am; he did not cry at all."
"Do you think he looks well?"
Jane turned her eyes to the face of the child, and regarded it for
some time.
"O, yes, ma'am, he looks very well; he has been sleeping sound all
night."
Thus assured, Mrs. Campbell regarded Henry for a few minutes longer,
and then left the room. But her heart was not at ease. There was a
weight upon it, and it labored in its office heavily.
"Still asleep," she said, about an hour after, coming into Jane's
room. "It is not usual for him to sleep so long in the morning."
Jane turned away from the penetrating glance of the mother, and
remarked, indifferently:
"He has been worried out for the last two nights. That is the
reason, I suppose."
Mrs. Campbell said no more, but lifted the child in her arms, and
carried it to her own chamber. There she endeavored to awaken it,
but, to her alarm, she found that it still slept heavily in spite of
all her efforts.
Running down into the parlor with it, where her husband sat reading
the morning papers, she exclaimed:
"Oh, Henry! I'm afraid that Jane has been giving this child
something to make him sleep. See! I cannot awake him. Something is
wrong, depend upon it!"
Mr. Campbell took the babe and endeavored to arouse him, but without
effect.
"Call her down here," he then said, in a quick, resolute voice.
Jane was called down.
"What have you given this child?" asked Mr. Campbell, peremptorily.
"Nothing," was the positive answer. "What could I have given him?"
"Call the waiter."
Jane left the room, and in a moment after the waiter entered.
"Go for Doctor B---- as fast as you can, and say to him I must see
him immediately."
The waiter left the house in great haste. In about twenty minutes
Dr. B---- arrived.
"Is there any thing wrong about this child?" Mr. Campbell asked,
placing little Henry in the doctor's arms.
"There is," was replied, after the lapse of about half a minute.
"What have you been giving it."
"Nothing. But we are afraid the nurse has."
"Somebody has been giving it a powerful anodyne, that is certain.
This is no natural sleep. Where is the nurse? let me see her."
Jane was sent for, but word was soon brought that she was not to be
found. She had, in fact, bundled up her clothes, and hastily and
quietly left the house. This confirmed the worst fears of both
parents and physician. But, if any doubt remained, a vial of
laudanum and a spoon, found in the washstand drawer in Jane's room,
dispelled it.
Then most prompt and active treatment was resorted to by Doctor
B---- in the hope of saving the child. But his anxious efforts were
in vain. The deadly narcotic had taken entire possession of the
whole system; had, in fact, usurped the seat of life, and was
poisoning its very fountain. At day dawn on the next morning the
flickering lamp went out, and the sad parents looked their last look
upon their living child.
"I have heard most dreadful news," Mrs. May said to her husband, on
his return home that day.
"You have! What is it?"
"Jane has poisoned Mrs. Campbell's child!"
"Ella!" and Mr. May started from his chair.
"It is true. She had it to wean, and gave it such a dose of
laudanum, that it died."
"Dreadful! What have they done with her?"
"She can't be found, I am told."
"You recommended her to Mrs. Campbell."
"Yes. But I didn't believe she was wicked enough for that."
"Though it is true she ill-treated little Charley, and we knew it. I
don't see how you can ever forgive yourself. I am sure that I don't
feel like ever again looking Mr. Campbell in the face."
"But, Mr. May, you know very well that you didn't want me to say any
thing against Jane to hurt her character."
"True. And it is hard to injure a poor fellow creature by blazoning
her faults about. But I had no idea that Jane was such a wretch!"
"We knew that she would steal, and that she was unkind to children;
and yet, we agreed to recommend her to Mrs. Campbell."
"But it was purely out of kind feelings for the girl, Ella."
"Yes. But is that genuine kindness? Is it real charity? I fear not."
Mr. May was silent. The questions probed him to the quick. Let every
one who is good-hearted in the sense that Mr. May was, ask seriously
the same questions.
SLOW AND SURE.
"YOU'D better take the whole case. These goods will sell as fast as
they can be measured off."
The young man to whom this was said by the polite and active partner
in a certain jobbing house in Philadelphia, shook his head and
replied firmly--
"No, Mr. Johnson. Three pieces are enough for my sales. If they go
off quickly, I can easily get more."
"I don't know about that, Mr. Watson," replied the jobber. "I shall
be greatly mistaken if we have a case of these goods left by the end
of a week. Every one who looks at them, buys. Miller bought two
whole cases this morning. In the original packages, we sell them at
a half cent per yard lower than by the piece."
"If they are gone, I can buy something else," said the cautious
purchaser.
"Then you won't let me sell you a case?"
"No, sir."
"You buy too cautiously," said Johnson.
"Do you think so?"
"I know so. The fact is, I can sell some of your neighbors as much
in an hour as I can sell you in a week. We jobbers would starve if
there were no more active men in the trade than you are, friend
Watson."
Watson smiled in a quiet, self-satisfied way as he replied--
"The number of wholesale dealers might be diminished; but failures
among them would be of less frequent occurrence. Slow and sure, is
my motto."
"Slow and sure don't make much headway in these times. Enterprise is
the word. A man has to be swift-footed to keep up with the general
movement."
"I don't expect to get rich in a day," said Watson.
"You'll hardly be disappointed in your expectation," remarked
Johnson, a little sarcastically. His customer did not notice the
feeling his tones expressed, but went on to select a piece or two of
goods, here and there, from various packages, as the styles happened
to suit him.
"Five per cent. off for cash, I suppose," said Watson, after
completing his purchase.
"Oh, certainly," replied the dealer. "Do you wish to cash the bill?"
"Yes; I wish to do a cash business as far as I can. It is rather
slow work at first; but it is safest, and sure to come out right in
the end."
"You're behind the times, Watson," said Johnson, shaking his head.
"Tell me--who can do the most profitable business, a man with a
capital of five thousand dollars, or a man with twenty thousand?"
"The latter, of course."
"Very well. Don't you understand that credit is capital?"
"It isn't cash capital."
"What is the difference, pray, between the profit on ten thousand
dollars' worth of goods purchased on time or purchased for cash?"
"Just five hundred dollars," said Watson.
"How do you make that out?" The jobber did not see the meaning of
his customer.
"You discount five per cent. for cash, don't you?" replied Watson,
smiling.
"True. But, if you don't happen to have the ten thousand dollars
cash, at the time you wish to make a purchase, don't you see what an
advantage credit gives you? Estimate the profit at twenty per cent.
on a cash purchase, and your credit enables you to make fifteen per
cent. where you would have made nothing."
"All very good theory," said Watson. "It looks beautiful on paper.
Thousands have figured themselves out rich in this way, but, alas!
discovered themselves poor in the end. If all would work just
right--if the thousands of dollars of goods bought on credit would
invariably sell at good profit and in time to meet the purchase
notes, then your credit business would be first rate. But, my little
observation tells me that this isn't always the case--that your
large credit men are forever on the street, money hunting, instead
of in their stores looking after their business. Instead of getting
discounts that add to their profits, they are constantly suffering
discounts of the other kind; and, too often, these, and the
accumulating stock of unsaleable goods--the consequence of credit
temptations in purchasing--reduce the fifteen per cent. you speak of
down to ten, and even five per cent. A large business makes large
store-expenses; and these eat away a serious amount of small profits
on large sales. Better sell twenty thousand dollars' worth of goods
at twenty per cent. profit, than eighty thousand at five per cent.
You can do it with less labor, less anxiety, and at less cost for
rent and clerk hire. At least, Mr. Johnson, this is my mode of
reasoning."
"Well, plod along," replied Johnson. "Little boats keep near the
shore. But, let me tell you, my young friend, your mind is rather
too limited for a merchant of this day. There is Mortimer, who began
business about the time you did. How much do you think he has made
by a good credit?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"Fifty thousand dollars."
"And by the next turn of fortune's wheel, may lose it all."
"Not he. Mortimer, though young, is too shrewd a merchant for that.
Do you know that he made ten thousand by the late rise in cotton;
and all without touching a dollar in his business?"
"I heard something of it. But, suppose prices had receded instead of
advancing? What of this good credit, then?"
"You're too timid--too prudent, Watson," said the merchant, "and
will be left behind in the race for prosperity by men of half your
ability."
"No matter; I will be content," was the reply of Watson.
It happened, a short time after this little interchange of views on
business matters, that Watson met the daughter of Mr. Johnson in a
company where he chanced to be. She was an accomplished and
interesting young woman, and pleased Watson particularly; and it is
but truth to say, that she was equally well pleased with him.
The father, who was present, saw, with a slight feeling of
disapprobation, the lively conversation that passed between the
young man and his daughter; and when an occasion offered, a day or
two afterwards, made it a point to refer to him in a way to give the
impression that he held him in light estimation. Flora, that was the
daughter's name, did not appear to notice his remark. One evening,
not long after this, as the family of Mr. Johnson were about leaving
the tea-table, where they had remained later than usual, a domestic
announced that there was a gentleman in the parlor.
"Who is it?" inquired Flora.
"Mr. Mortimer," was answered.
An expression of dislike came into the face of Flora, as she said--
"He didn't ask for me?"
"Yes," was the servant's reply.
"Tell him that I'm engaged, Nancy."
"No, no!" said Mr. Johnson, quickly. "This would not be right. _Are_
you engaged?"
"That means, father, that I don't wish to see him; and he will so
understand me."
"Don't wish to see him? Why not?"
"Because I don't like him."
"Don't like him?" Mr. Johnson's manner was slightly impatient.
"Perhaps you don't know him."
The way in which her father spoke, rather embarrassed Flora. She
cast down her eye and stood for a few moments.
"Tell Mr. Mortimer that I will see him in a little while," she then
said, and, as the domestic retired to give the answer, she ascended
to her chamber to make some slight additions to her toilet.
To meet the young man by constraint, as it were, was only to
increase in Flora's mind the dislike she had expressed. So coldly
and formally was Mortimer received, that he found his visit rather
unpleasant than agreeable, and retired, after sitting an hour,
somewhat puzzled as to the real estimation in which he was held by
the lady, for whom he felt more than a slight preference.
Mr. Johnson was very much inclined to estimate others by a
money-standard of valuation. A man was a man, in his eyes, when he
possessed those qualities of mind that would enable him to make his
way in the world--in other words, to get rich. It was this ability
in Mortimer that elevated him in his regard, and produced a feeling
of pleasure when he saw him inclined to pay attention to his
daughter. And it was the apparent want of this ability in Watson,
that caused him to be lightly esteemed.
Men like Mr. Johnson are never very wise in their estimates of
character; nor do they usually adopt the best means of attaining
their ends when they meet with opposition. This was illustrated in
the present case. Mortimer was frequently referred to in the
presence of Flora, and praised in the highest terms; while the bare
mention of Watson's name was sure to occasion a series of
disparaging remarks. The effect was just the opposite of what was
intended. The more her father said in favor of the thrifty young
merchant, the stronger was the repugnance felt towards him by Flora;
and the more he had to say against Watson, the better she liked him.
This went on until there came a formal application from Mortimer for
the hand of Flora. It was made to Mr. Johnson first, who replied to
the young man that if he could win the maiden's favor, he had his
full approval. But to win the maiden's favor was not so easy a task,
as the young man soon found. His offered hand was firmly declined.
"Am I to consider your present decision as final?" said the young
man, in surprise and disappointment.
"I wish you to do so, Mr. Mortimer," said Flora.
"Your father approves my suit," said he. "I have his full consent to
make you this offer of my hand."
"I cannot but feel flattered at your preference," returned Flora;
"but, to accept your offer, would not be just either to you or
myself. I, therefore, wish you to understand me as being entirely in
earnest."
This closed the interview and definitely settled the question. When
Mr. Johnson learned that the offer of Mortimer had been declined, he
was very angry with his daughter, and, in the passionate excitement
of his feelings, committed a piece of folly for which he felt an
immediate sense of shame and regret.
The interview between Mr. Mortimer and Flora took place during the
afternoon, and Mr. Johnson learned the result from a note received
from the disappointed young man, just as he was about leaving his
store to return home. Flora did not join the family at the
tea-table, on that evening, for her mind was a good deal disturbed,
and she wished to regain her calmness and self-possession before
meeting her father.
Mr. Johnson was sitting in a moody and angry state of mind about an
hour after supper, when a domestic came into the room and said that
Mr. Watson was in the parlor.
"What does he want here?" asked Mr. Johnson, in a rough, excited
voice.
"He asked for Miss Flora," returned the servant.
"Where is she?"
"In her room."
"Well, let her stay there. I'll see him myself."
And without taking time for reflection, Mr. Johnson descended to the
parlor.
"Mr. Watson," said he, coldly, as the young man arose and advanced
towards him.
His manner caused the visitor to pause, and let the hand he had
extended fall to his side.
"Well, what is your wish?" asked Mr. Johnson. He looked with knit
brows into Watson's face.
"I have called to see your daughter Flora," returned the young man,
calmly.
"Then, I wish you to understand that your call is not agreeable,"
said the father of the young lady, with great rudeness of manner.
"Not agreeable to whom?" asked Watson, manifesting no excitement.
"Not agreeable to me," replied Mr. Johnson. "Nor agreeable to any
one in this house."
"Do you speak for your daughter?" inquired the young man.
"I have a right to speak for her, if any one has," was the evasive
answer.
Watson bowed respectfully, and, without a word more, retired from
the house.
The calm dignity with which he had received the rough treatment of
Mr. Johnson, rebuked the latter, and added a feeling of shame to his
other causes of mental disquietude.
On the next day Flora received a letter from Watson, in part in
these words--
"I called, last evening, but was not so fortunate as to see you.
Your father met me in the parlor, and on learning that my visit was
to you, desired me not to come again. This circumstance makes it
imperative on me to declare what might have been sometime longer
delayed--my sincere regard for you. If you feel towards me as your
father does, then I have not a word more to say; but I do not
believe this, and, therefore, I cannot let his disapproval, in a
matter so intimately concerning my happiness, and it may be yours,
influence me to the formation of a hasty decision. I deeply regret
your father's state of feeling. His full approval of my suit, next
to yours, I feel to be in every way desirable.
"But, why need I multiply words? Again, I declare that I feel for
you a sincere affection. If you can return this, say so with as
little delay as possible; and if you cannot, be equally frank with
me."
Watson did not err in his belief that Flora reciprocated his tender
sentiments; nor was he kept long in suspense. She made an early
reply, avowing her own attachment, but urging him; for her sake, to
do all in his power to overcome her father's prejudices. But this
was no easy task. In the end, however, Mr. Johnson, who saw, too
plainly, that opposition on his part would be of no avail, yielded a
kind of forced consent that the plodding, behind-the-age young
merchant, should lead Flora to the altar. That his daughter should
be content with such a man, was to him a source of deep
mortification. His own expectations in regard to her had been of a
far higher character.
"He'll never set the world on fire;" "A man of no enterprise;" "A
dull plodder;" with similar allusions to his son-in-law, were
overheard by Mr. Johnson on the night of the wedding party, and
added no little to the ill-concealed chagrin from which he suffered.
They were made by individuals who belonged to the new school of
business men, of whom Mortimer was a representative. He, too, was
present. His disappointment in not obtaining the hand of Flora, had
been solaced in the favor of one whose social standing and
money-value was regarded as considerably above that of the maiden
who had declined the offer of his hand. He saw Flora given to
another without a feeling of regret. A few months afterwards, he
married the daughter of a gentleman who considered himself fortunate
in obtaining a son-in-law that promised to be one of the richest men
in the city.
It was with a very poor grace that Mr. Johnson bore his
disappointment; so poor, that he scarcely treated the husband of his
daughter with becoming respect. To add to his uncomfortable feelings
by contrast, Mortimer built himself a splendid dwelling almost
beside the modest residence of Mr. Watson, and after furnishing it
in the most costly and elegant style, gave a grand entertainment.
Invitations to this were not extended to either Mr. Johnson's family
or to that of his son-in-law--an omission that was particularly
galling to the former.
A few weeks subsequent to this, Mr. Johnson stood beside Mr. Watson
in an auction room. To the latter a sample of new goods, just
introduced, was knocked down, and when asked by the auctioneer how
many cases he would take, he replied "Two."
"Say ten," whispered Mr. Johnson in his ear.
"Two cases are enough for my sales," quietly returned the young man.
"But they're a great bargain. You can sell them at an advance,"
urged Mr. Johnson.
"Perhaps so. But I'd rather not go out of my regular line of
business."
By this time, the auctioneer's repeated question of "Who'll take
another case?" had been responded to by half a dozen voices, and the
lot of goods was gone.
"You're too prudent," said Mr. Johnson, with some impatience in his
manner.
"No," replied the young man, with his usual calm tone and quiet
smile. "Slow and sure--that is my motto. I only buy the quantity of
an article that I am pretty sure will sell. Then I get a certain
profit, and am not troubled with paying for goods that are lying on
my shelves and depreciating in value daily."
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 | 12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16