Books: Heart Histories and Life Pictures

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"But these wouldn't have lain on your shelves. You could have sold
them at a quarter of a cent advance to-morrow, and thus cleared
sixty or seventy dollars."

"That is mere speculation."

"Call it what you will; it makes no difference. The chance of making
a good operation was before you, and you did not improve it. You
will never get along at your snail's pace."

There was, in the voice of Mr. Johnson, a tone of contempt that
stung Watson more than any previous remark or, action of his
father-in-law. Thrown, for a moment, off his guard, he replied with
some warmth--

"You may be sure of one thing, at least."

"What?"

"That I shall never embarrass you with any of my fine operations."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Mr. Johnson.

"Time will explain the remark," replied Watson, turning away, and
retiring from the auction room.

A coolness of some months was the consequence of this little
interview.

Time proves all things. At the end of fifteen years, Mortimer, who
had gone on in the way he had begun, was reputed to be worth two
hundred thousand dollars. Every thing he touched turned to money; at
least, so it appeared. His whole conversation was touching handsome
operations in trade; and not a day passed in which he had not some
story of gains to tell. Yet, with all his heavy accumulations, he
was always engaged in money raising, and his line of discounts was
enormous. Such a thing as proper attention to business was almost
out of the question, for nearly his whole time was taken up in
financiering--and some of his financial schemes were on a pretty
grand scale. Watson, on the other hand, had kept plodding along in
the old way, making his regular business purchases, and gradually
extending his operations, as his profits, changing into capital,
enabled him to do so. He was not anxious to get rich fast; at least,
not so anxious as to suffer himself to be tempted from a safe and
prudent course; and was, therefore, content to do well. By this
time, his father-in-law began to understand him a little better than
at first, and to appreciate him more highly. On more than one
occasion, he had been in want of a few thousand dollars in an
emergency, when the check of Watson promptly supplied the pressing
need.

As to the real ability of Watson, few were apprised, for he never
made a display for the sake of establishing a credit. But it was
known to some, that he generally had a comfortable balance in the
bank, and to others that he never exchanged notes, nor asked an
endorser on his business paper. He always purchased for cash, and
thus obtained his goods from five to seven per cent cheaper than his
neighbors; and rarely put his business paper in bank for discount at
a longer date than sixty days. Under this system, his profits were,
usually, ten per cent. more than the profits of many who were
engaged in the same branch of trade. His credit was so good, that
the bank where he kept his account readily gave him all the money he
asked on his regular paper, without requiring other endorsements;
while many of his more dashing neighbors, who were doing half as
much business again, were often obliged to go upon the street to
raise money at from one to two per cent. a month. Moreover, as he
was always to be found at his store, and ready to give his personal
attention to customers, he was able to make his own discriminations
and to form his own estimates of men--and these were generally
correct. The result of this was, that he gradually attracted a class
of dealers who were substantial men; and, in consequence, was little
troubled with bad sales.

Up to this time, there had been but few changes in the external
domestic arrangements of Mr. Watson. He had moved twice, and, each
time, into a larger house. His increasing family made this
necessary. But, while all was comfortable and even elegant in his
dwelling, there was no display whatever.

One day, about this period, as Watson was walking with his
father-in-law, they both paused to look at a handsome house that was
going up in a fashionable part of Walnut street. By the side of it
was a large building lot.

"I have about made up my mind to buy this lot," remarked Watson.

"You?" Mr. Johnson spoke in a tone of surprise.

"Yes. The price is ten thousand dollars. Rather high; but I like the
location."

"What will you do with it?" inquired Mr. Johnson.

"Build upon it."

"As an investment?"

"No. I want a dwelling for myself."

"Indeed! I was not aware that you had any such intentions."

"Oh, yes. I have always intended to build a house so soon as I felt
able to do it according to my own fancy."

Mr. Johnson felt a good deal surprised at this. No more was said,
and the two men walked on.

"How's this? For sale!" said Mr. Johnson. They were opposite the
elegant dwelling of Mr. Mortimer, upon which was posted a hand-bill
setting forth that the property was for sale.

"So it seems," was Watson's quiet answer.

"Why should he sell out?" added Mr. Johnson. "Perhaps he is going to
Europe to make a tour with his family," he suggested.

"It is more probable," said Watson, "that he has got to the end of
his rope."

"What do you mean by that remark?"

"Is obliged to sell in order to save himself."

"Oh, no! Mortimer is rich."

"So it is said. But I never call a man rich whose paper is floating
about by thousands on the street seeking purchasers at two per cent.
a month."

Just then the carriage of Mortimer drove up to his door, and Mrs.
Mortimer descended to the pavement and passed into the house. Her
face was pale, and had a look of deep distress. It was several years
since Mr. Johnson remembered to have seen her, and he was almost
startled at the painful change which had taken place.

A little while afterwards he looked upon the cheerful, smiling face
of his daughter Flora, and there arose in his heart, almost
involuntarily, an emotion of thankfulness that she was not the wife
of Mortimer. Could he have seen what passed a few hours afterwards,
in the dwelling of the latter, he would have been more thankful than
ever.

It was after eleven o'clock when Mortimer returned home that night.
He had been away since morning. It was rarely that he dined with his
family, but usually came home early in the evening. Since seven
o'clock, the tea-table had been standing in the floor, awaiting his
return. At eight o'clock, as he was still absent, supper was served
to the children, who, soon after, retired for the night. It was
after eleven o'clock as we have said, before Mortimer returned. His
face was pale and haggard. He entered quietly, by means of his
night-key, and went noiselessly up to his chamber. He found his wife
lying across the bed, where, wearied with watching, she had thrown
herself and fallen asleep. For a few moments he stood looking at
her, with a face in which agony and affection were blended. Then he
clasped his hands suddenly against his temples, and groaned aloud.
That groan penetrated the ears of his sleeping wife, who started up
with an exclamation of alarm, as her eyes saw the gesture and
expression of her husband.

"Oh, Henry! what is the matter? Where have you been? Why do you look
so?" she eagerly inquired.

Mortimer did not reply; but continued standing like a statue of
despair.

"Henry! Henry!" cried his wife, springing towards him, and laying
her hands upon his arm. "Dear husband! what is the matter?"

"Ruined! Ruined!" now came hoarsely from the lips of Mortimer, and,
with another deep groan, he threw himself on a sofa, and wrung his
hands in uncontrollable anguish.

"Oh, Henry! speak! What does this mean?" said his wife, the tears
now gushing from her eyes. "Tell me what has happened."

But, "Ruined! Ruined!" was all the wretched man would say for a long
time. At last, however, he made a few vague explanations, to the
effect that he would be compelled to stop payment on the next day.

"I thought," said Mrs. Mortimer, "that the sale of this house was to
afford you all the money you needed."

"It is not sold yet," was all his reply to this. He did not explain
that it was under a heavy mortgage, and that, even if sold, the
amount realized would be a trifle compared with his need on the
following day. During the greater part of the night, Mortimer walked
the floor of his chamber; and, for a portion of the time, his wife
moved like a shadow by his side. But few words passed between them.

When the day broke, Mrs. Mortimer was lying on the bed, asleep.
Tears were on her cheeks. In a crib, beside her, was a fair-haired
child, two years old, breathing sweetly in his innocent slumber; and
over this crib bent the husband and father. His face was now calm,
but very pale, and its expression of sadness, as he gazed upon his
sleeping child, was heart-touching. For many minutes he stood over
the unconscious slumberer; then stooping down, he touched its
forehead lightly with his lips, while a low sigh struggled up from
his bosom. Turning, then, his eyes upon his wife, he gazed at her
for some moments, with a sad, pitying look. He was bending to kiss
her, when a movement, as if she were about to awaken, caused him to
step back, and stand holding his breath, as if he feared the very
sound would disturb her. She did not open her eyes, however, but
turned over, with a low moan of suffering, and an indistinct murmur
of his name.

Mortimer did not again approach the bed-side, but stepped
noiselessly to the chamber door, and passed into the next room,
where three children, who made up the full number of his household
treasures, were buried in tranquil sleep. Long he did not linger
here. A hurried glance was taken of each beloved face, and a kiss
laid lightly upon the lips of each. Then he left the room, moving
down the stairs with a step of fear. A moment or two more, and he
was beyond the threshold of his dwelling.

When Mrs. Mortimer started up from unquiet slumber, as the first
beams of the morning sun fell upon her face, she looked around,
eagerly, for her husband. Not seeing him, she called his name. No
answer was received, and she sprung from the bed. As she did so, a
letter placed conspicuously on the bureau met her eyes. Eagerly
breaking the seal, she read this brief sentence:

"Circumstances make it necessary for me to leave the city by the
earliest conveyance. Say not a word of this to any one--not even to
your father. My safety depends on your silence. I will write to you
in a little while. May Heaven give you strength to bear the trials
through which you are about to pass!"

But for the instant fear for her husband, which this communication
brought into the mind of Mrs. Mortimer, the shock would have
rendered her insensible. He was in danger, and upon her discretion
depended his safety. This gave her strength for the moment. Her
first act was to destroy the note. Next she strove to repress the
wild throbbings of her heart, and to assume a calm exterior. Vain
efforts! She was too weak for the trial; and who can wonder that she
was?

Mr. Johnson was sitting in his store about half past three o'clock
that afternoon, when a man came in and asked him for the payment of
a note of five thousand dollars. He was a Notary.

"A protest!" exclaimed Mr. Johnson, in astonishment. "What does this
mean?"

"I don't understand this," said he, after a moment or two. "I have
no paper out for that amount falling due to-day. Let me see it?"

The note was handed to him.

"It's a forgery!" said he, promptly. "To whom is it payable?" he
added. "To Mortimer, as I live!"

And he handed it back to the Notary, who departed.

Soon after he saw the father-in-law of Mortimer go hurriedly past
his store. A glimpse of his countenance showed that he was strongly
agitated.

"Have you heard the news?" asked his son-in-law, coming in, half an
hour afterwards.

"What?"

"Mortimer has been detected in a forgery!"

"Upon whom?"

"His father-in-law."

"He has forged my name also."

"He has!"

"Yes. A note for five thousand dollars was presented to me by the
Notary a little while ago."

"Is it possible? But this is no loss to you."

"If he has resorted to forgery to sustain himself," replied Mr.
Johnson, looking serious, "his affairs are, of course, in a
desperate condition."

"Of course."

"I am on his paper to at least twenty thousand dollars."

"You!"

"Such, I am sorry to say, is the case. And to meet that paper will
try me severely. Oh, dear! How little I dreamed of this! I thought
him one of the soundest men in the city."

"I am pained to hear that you are so deeply involved," said Mr.
Watson. "But, do not let it trouble you too much. I will defer my
building intentions to another time, and let you have whatever money
you may need."

Mr. Johnson made no answer. His eyes were upon the floor and his
thoughts away back to the time when he had suffered the great
disappointment of seeing his daughter marry the slow, plodding
Watson, instead of becoming the wife of the enterprising Mortimer.

"I will try, my son," said he, at length, in a subdued voice, "to
get through without drawing upon you too largely. Ah, me! How blind
I have been."

"You may depend on me for at least twenty thousand dollars," replied
Watson, cheerfully; "and for even more, if it is needed."

It was soon known that Mortimer had committed extensive forgeries
upon various persons, and that he had left the city. Officers were
immediately despatched for his arrest, and in a few days he was
brought back as a criminal. In his ruin, many others were involved.
Among these was his father-in-law, who was stripped of every dollar
in his old age.

"Slow and sure--slow and sure. Yes, Watson was right." Thus mused
Mr. Johnson, a few months afterwards, on hearing that Mortimer was
arraigned before the criminal court, to stand his trial for forgery.
"It is the safest and the best way, and certainly leads to
prosperity. Ah, me! How are we drawn aside into false ways through
our eagerness to obtain wealth by a nearer road than that of patient
industry in legitimate trade. Where one is successful, a dozen are
ruined by this error. Slow and sure! Yes, that is the true doctrine.
Watson was right, as the result has proved. Happy for me that his
was a better experiment than that of the envied Mortimer!"

THE SCHOOL GIRL.

"WHERE now?" said Frederick Williams to his friend Charles Lawson,
on entering his own office and finding the latter, carpet-bag in
hand, awaiting his arrival.

"Off for a day or two on a little business affair," replied Lawson.

"Business! What have you to do with business?"

"Not ordinary, vulgar business," returned Lawson with a slight toss
of the head and an expression of contempt.

"Oh! It's of a peculiar nature?"

"It is--very peculiar; and, moreover, I want the good offices of a
friend, to enable me the more certainly to accomplish my purposes."

"Come! sit down and explain yourself," said Williams.

"Haven't a moment to spare. The boat goes in half an hour."

"What boat?"

"The New Haven boat. So come, go along with me to the slip, and
we'll talk the matter over by the way."

"I'm all attention," said Williams, as the two young men stepped
forth upon the pavement.

"Well, you must know," began Lawson, "that I have a first rate love
affair on my hands."

"You!"

"Now don't smile; but hear me."

"Go on--I'm all attention."

"You know old Everett?"

"Thomas Everett, the silk importer?"

"The same."

"I know something about him."

"You know, I presume, that he has a pretty fair looking daughter?"

"And I know," replied Williams, "that when 'pretty fair looking' is
said, pretty much all is said in her favor."

"Not by a great deal," was the decided answer of Lawson.

"Pray what is there beyond this that a man can call attractive?"

"Her father's money."

"I didn't think of that."

"Didn't you?"

"No. But it would take the saving influence of a pretty large sum to
give her a marriageable merit in my eyes."

"Gold hides a multitude of defects, you know, Fred."

"It does; but it has to be heaped up very high to cover a wife's
defects, if they be as radical as those in Caroline Everett. Why, to
speak out the plain, homespun truth, the girl's a fool!"

"She isn't over bright, Fred, I know," replied Lawson. "But to call
her a fool, is to use rather a broad assertion."

"She certainly hasn't good common sense. I would be ashamed of her
in company a dozen times a day if she were any thing to me."

"She's young, you know, Fred."

"Yes, a young and silly girl."

"Just silly enough for my purpose. But, she will grow older and
wiser, you know. Young and silly is a very good fault."

"Where is she now?"

"At a boarding school some thirty miles from New Haven. Do you know
why her father sent her there?"

"No."

"She would meet me on her way to and from school while in the city,
and the old gentleman had, I presume, some objections to me as a
son-in-law."

"And not without reason," replied Williams.

"I could not have asked him to do a thing more consonant with my
wishes," continued Lawson. "Caroline told me where she was going,
and I was not long in making a visit to the neighborhood. Great
attention is paid to physical development in the school, and the
young ladies are required to walk, daily, in the open air, amid the
beautiful, romantic, and secluded scenery by which the place is
surrounded. They walk alone, or in company, as suits their fancies.
Caroline chose to walk alone when I was near at hand; and we met in
a certain retired glen, where the sweet quiet of nature was broken
only by the dreamy murmur of a silvery stream, and there we talked
of love. It is not in the heart of a woman to withstand a scene like
this. I told, in burning words, my passion, and she hearkened and
was won." Lawson paused for some moments; but, as Williams made no
remark, he continued--

"It is hopeless to think of gaining her father's consent to a
marriage. He is pence-proud, and I, as you know, am penniless."

"I do not think he would be likely to fancy you for a son-in-law,"
said Williams.

"I have the best of reasons, for knowing that he would not. He has
already spoken of me to his daughter in very severe terms."

"As she has informed you?"

"Yes. But, like a sensible girl, she prefers consulting her own
taste in matters of the heart."

"A very sensible girl, certainly!"

"Isn't she! Well, as delays are dangerous, I have made up my mind to
consummate this business as quickly as possible. You know how hard
pressed I am in certain quarters, and how necessary it is that I
should get my pecuniary matters in a more stable position. In a
word, then, my business, on the present occasion, is to remove
Caroline from school, it being my opinion that she has completed her
education."

"Has she consented to this?"

"No; but she won't require any great persuasion. I'll manage all
that. What I want you to do is, first, to engage me rooms at
Howard's, and, second, to meet me at the boat, day after to-morrow,
with a carriage."

"Where will you have the ceremony performed?"

"In this city. I have already engaged the Rev. Mr. B---- to do that
little work for me. He will join us at the hotel immediately on our
arrival, and in your presence, as a witness, the knot will be tied."

"All very nicely arranged," said Williams.

"Isn't it! And what is more, the whole thing will go off like clock
work. Of course I can depend on you. You will meet us at the boat."

"I will, certainly."

"Then good by." They were by this time at the landing. The two young
men shook hands, and Lawson sprung on board of the boat, while
Williams returned thoughtfully to his office.

Charles Lawson was a young man having neither principle nor
character. A connection with certain families in New York, added to
a good address, polished manners, and an unblushing assurance, had
given him access to society at certain points, and of this facility
he had taken every advantage. Too idle and dissolute for useful
effort in society, he looked with a cold, calculating baseness to
marriage as the means whereby he was to gain the position at which
he aspired. Possessing no attractive virtues--no personal merits of
any kind, his prospects of a connection, such as he wished to form,
through the medium of any honorable advances, were hopeless, and
this he perfectly well understood. But, the conviction did not in
the least abate the ardor of his purpose. And, in a mean and
dastardly spirit, he approached one young school girl after another,
until he found in Caroline Everett one weak enough to be flattered
by his attentions. The father of Caroline, who was a man of some
discrimination and force of mind, understood his daughter's
character, and knowing the danger to which she was exposed, kept
upon her a watchful eye. Caroline's meetings with Lawson were not
continued long before he became aware of the fact, and he at once
removed her to a school at a distance from the city. It would have
been wiser had he taken her home altogether. Lawson could have
desired no better arrangement, so far as his wishes were concerned.

On the day succeeding that on which Lawson left New York, Caroline
was taking her morning walk with two or three companions, when she
noticed a mark on a certain tree, which she knew as a sign that her
lover was in the neighborhood and awaiting her in the secluded glen,
half a mile distant, where they had already met. Feigning to have
forgotten something, she ran back, but as soon as she was out of
sight of her companions, she glided off with rapid steps in the
direction where she expected to find Lawson. And she was not
disappointed.

"Dear Caroline!" he exclaimed, with affected tenderness, drawing his
arm about her and kissing her cheek, as he met her. "How happy I am
to see you again! Oh! it has seemed months since I looked upon your
sweet young face."

"And yet it is only a week since you were here," returned Caroline,
looking at him fondly.

"I cannot bear this separation. It makes me wretched," said Lawson.

"And I am miserable," responded Caroline, with a sigh, and her eyes
fell to the ground. "Miserable," she repeated.

"I love you, tenderly, devotedly," said Lawson, as he tightly
clasped the hand he had taken: "and it is my most ardent wish to
make you happy. Oh! why should a parent's mistaken will interpose
between us and our dearest wishes?"

Caroline leaned toward the young man, but did not reply.

"Is there any hope of his being induced to give his consent
to--to--our--union?"

"None, I fear," came from the lips of Caroline in a faint whisper.

"Is he so strongly prejudiced against me?"

"Yes."

"Then, what are we to do?"

Caroline sighed.

"To meet, hopelessly, is only to make us the more wretched," said
Lawson. "Better part, and forever, than suffer a martyrdom of
affection like this."

Still closer shrunk the weak and foolish girl to the young man's
side. She was like a bird in the magic circle of the charmer.

"Caroline," said Lawson, after another period of silence, and his
voice was low, tender and penetrating--"Are you willing, for my
sake, to brave your father's anger?"

"For your sake, Charles!" replied Caroline, with sudden enthusiasm.
"Yes--yes. His anger would be light to the loss of your affection."

"Bless your true heart!" exclaimed Lawson. "I knew that I had not
trusted it in vain. And now, my dear girl, let me speak freely of
the nature of my present visit. With you, I believe, that all hope
of your father's consent is vain. But, he is a man of tender
feelings, and loves you as the apple of his eye."

Thus urged the tempter, and Caroline listened eagerly.

"If," he continued, "we precipitate a union--if we put the marriage
rite between us and his strong opposition, that opposition will grow
weak as a withering leaf. He cannot turn from you. He loves you too
well."

Caroline did not answer; but, it needed no words to tell Lawson that
he was not urging his wishes in vain.

"I am here," at length he said, boldly, "for the purpose of taking
you to New York. Will you go with me?"

"For what end?" she whispered.

"To become my wife."

There was no starting, shrinking, nor trembling at this proposal.
Caroline was prepared for it; and, in the blindness of a mistaken
love, ready to do as the tempter wished. Poor lamb! She was to be
led to the slaughter, decked with ribbons and garlands, a victim by
her own consent.

Frederick Williams, the friend of Lawson, was a young attorney, who
had fallen into rather wild company, and strayed to some distance
along the paths of dissipation. But, he had a young and
lovely-minded sister, who possessed much influence over him. The
very sphere of her purity kept him from debasing himself to any
great extent, and ever drew him back from a total abandonment of
himself in the hour of temptation. He had been thrown a good deal
into the society of Lawson, who had many attractive points for young
men about him, and who knew how to adapt himself to the characters
of those with whom he associated. In some things he did not like
Lawson, who, at times, manifested such an entire want of principle,
that he felt shocked. On parting with Lawson at the boat, as we have
seen, he walked thoughtfully away. His mind was far from approving
what he had heard, and the more he reflected upon it, the less
satisfied did he feel. He knew enough of the character of Lawson to
be well satisfied that his marriage with Caroline, who was an
overgrown, weak-minded school girl, would prove the wreck of her
future happiness, and the thought of becoming a party to such a
transaction troubled him. On returning to his office, he found his
sister waiting for him, and, as his eyes rested upon her innocent
young countenance, the idea of her being made the victim of so base
a marriage, flashed with a pang amid his thoughts.

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