Books: Heart Histories and Life Pictures
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T. S. Arthur >> Heart Histories and Life Pictures
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"I will have no part nor lot in this matter," he said, mentally. And
he was in earnest in this resolution. But not long did his mind rest
easy under his assumed passive relation to a contemplated social
wrong, that one word from him might prevent. From the thought of
betraying Lawson's confidence, his mind shrunk with a certain
instinct of honor; while, at the same time, pressed upon him the
irresistible conviction that a deeper dishonor would attach to him
if he permitted the marriage to take place.
The day passed with him uncomfortably enough. The more he thought
about the matter, the more he felt troubled. In the evening, he met
his sister again, and the sight of her made him more deeply
conscious of the responsibility resting upon him. His oft repeated
mental excuse--"It's none of my business," or, "I can't meddle in
other men's affairs," did not satisfy certain convictions of right
and duty that presented themselves with, to him, a strange
distinctness. The thought of his own sister was instantly associated
with the scheme of some false-hearted wretch, involving her
happiness in the way that the happiness of Caroline Everett was to
be involved; and he felt that the man who knew that another was
plotting against her, and did not apprize him of the fact, was
little less than a villain at heart.
On the next day Williams learned that there was a writ out against
the person of Charles Lawson on a charge of swindling, he having
obtained a sum of money from a broker under circumstances construed
by the laws into crime. This fact determined him to go at once to
Mr. Everett, who, as it might be supposed, was deeply agitated at
the painful intelligence he received. His first thought was to
proceed immediately to New Haven, and there rescue his daughter from
the hands of the young man; but on learning the arrangements that
had been made, he, after much reflecting, concluded that it would be
best to remain in New York, and meet them on their arrival.
In the mean time, the foolish girl, whom Lawson had determined to
sacrifice to his base cupidity, was half wild with delighted
anticipation. Poor child! Passion-wrought romances, written by men
and women who had neither right views of life, nor a purpose in
literature beyond gain or reputation, had bewildered her half-formed
reason, and filled her imagination with. unreal pictures. All her
ideas were false or exaggerated. She was a woman, with the mind of
an inexperienced child; if to say this does not savor of
contradiction. Without dreaming that there might be thorns to pierce
her naked feet in the way she was about to enter, she moved forward
with a joyful confidence.
On the day she had agreed to return with Lawson, she met him early
in the afternoon, and started for New Haven, where they spent the
night. On the following day they left in the steamboat for New York.
All his arrangements for the marriage, were fully explained to
Caroline by Lawson, and most of the time that elapsed after leaving
New Haven, was spent in settling their future action in regard to
the family. Caroline was confident that all would be forgiven after
the first outburst of anger on the part of her father, and that they
would be taken home immediately. The cloud would quickly melt in
tears, and then the sky would be purer and brighter than before.
When the boat touched the wharf, Lawson looked eagerly for the
appearance of his friend Williams, and was disappointed, and no
little troubled, at not seeing him. After most of the passengers had
gone on shore, he called a carriage, and was driven to Howard's,
where he ordered a couple of rooms, after first enquiring whether a
friend had not already performed this service for him. His next step
was to write a note to the Rev. Mr. B----, desiring his immediate
attendance, and, also, one to Williams, informing him of his
arrival. Anxiously, and with a nervous fear lest some untoward
circumstance might prevent the marriage he was about effecting with
a silly heiress, did the young man await the response to these
notes, and great was his relief, when informed, after the lapse of
an hour, that the Reverend gentleman, whose attendance he had
desired, was in the house.
A private parlor had been engaged, and in this the ceremony of
marriage was to take place. This parlor adjoined a chamber, in which
Caroline awaited, with a trembling heart, the issue of events. It
was now, for the first time, as she was about taking the final and
irretrievable step, that her resolution began to fail her. Her
father's anger, the grief of her mother, the unknown state upon
which she was about entering, all came pressing upon her thoughts
with a sense of realization such as she had not known before.
Doubts as to the propriety of what she was about doing, came fast
upon her mind. In the nearness of the approaching event, she could
look upon it stripped of its halo of romance. During the two days
that she had been with Lawson, she had seen him in states of absent
thought, when the true quality of his mind wrote itself out upon his
face so distinctly that even a dim-sighted one could read; and more
than once she had felt an inward shrinking from him that was
irrepressible. Weak and foolish as she was, she was yet pure-minded;
and though in the beginning she did not, because her heart was
overlaid with frivolity, perceive the sphere of his impurity, yet
now, as the moment was near at hand when there was to be a
marriage-conjunction, she began to feel this sphere as something
that suffocated her spirit. At length, in the agitation of
contending thoughts and emotions, the heart of the poor girl failed
her, till, in the utter abandonment of feeling, she gave way to a
flood of tears and commenced wringing her hands. At this moment,
having arranged with the clergyman to begin the ceremony forthwith,
Lawson entered her room, and, to his surprise, saw her in tears.
"Oh, Charles!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands and extending them
towards him, "Take me home to my father! Oh, take me home to my
father!"
Lawson was confounded at such an unexpected change in Caroline. "You
shall go to your father the moment the ceremony is over," he
replied; "Come! Mr. B---- is all ready."
"Oh, no, no! Take me now! Take me now!" returned the poor girl in an
imploring voice. And she sat before the man who had tempted her from
the path of safety, weeping, and quivering like a leaf in the wind.
"Caroline! What has come over you!" said Lawson, in deep perplexity.
"This is only a weakness. Come! Nerve your heart like a brave, good
girl! Come! It will soon be over."
And he bent down and kissed her wet cheek, while she shrunk from him
with an involuntary dread. But, he drew his arm around her waist,
and almost forced her to rise.
"There now! Dry your tears!" And he placed his handkerchief to her
eyes. "It is but a moment of weakness, Caroline,--of natural
weakness."
As he said this, he was pressing her forward towards the door of the
apartment where the clergyman (such clergymen disgrace their
profession) awaited their appearance.
"Charles?" said Caroline, with a suddenly constrained calmness--"do
you love me?"
"Better than my own life!" was instantly replied.
"Then take me to my father. I am too young--too weak--too
inexperienced for this."
"The moment we are united you shall go home," returned Lawson. "I
will not hold you back an instant."
"Let me go now, Charles! Oh, let me go now!"
"Are you mad, girl!" exclaimed the young man, losing his
self-control. And, with a strong arm, he forced her into the next
room. For a brief period, the clergyman hesitated, on seeing the
distressed bride. Then he opened the book he held in his hand and
began to read the service. As his voice, in tones of solemnity,
filled the apartment, Caroline grew calmer. She felt like one driven
forward by a destiny against which it was vain to contend. All the
responses had been made by Lawson, and now the clergyman addressed
her. Passively she was about uttering her assentation, when the door
of the room was thrown open, and two men entered.
"Stop!" was instantly cried in a loud, agitated voice, which
Caroline knew to be that of her father, and never did that voice
come to her ears with a more welcome sound.
Lawson started, and moved from her side. While Caroline yet stood
trembling and doubting, the man who had come in with Mr. Everett
approached Lawson, and laying his hand upon him, said--"I arrest you
on a charge of swindling!"
With a low cry of distress, Caroline sprung towards her father; but
he held his hands out towards her as if to keep her off, saying, at
the same time--
"Are you his wife?"
"No, thank Heaven!" fell from her lips.
In the next moment she was in her father's arms, and both were
weeping.
Narrow indeed was the escape made by Caroline Everett; an escape
which she did not fully comprehend until a few months afterwards,
when the trial of Lawson took place, during which revelations of
villany were made, the recital of which caused her heart to shudder.
Yes, narrow had been her escape! Had her father been delayed a few
moments longer, she would have become the wife of a man soon after
condemned to expiate his crimes against society in the felon's cell!
May a vivid realization of what Caroline Everett escaped, warn other
young girls, who bear a similar relation to society, of the danger
that lurks in their way. Not once in a hundred instances, is a
school girl approached with lover-like attentions, except by a man
who is void of principle; and not once in a hundred instances do
marriages entered upon clandestinely by such persons, prove other
than an introduction to years of wretchedness.
UNREDEEMED PLEDGES.
TWO men were walking along a public thoroughfare in New York. One of
them was a young merchant--the other a man past the prime of life,
and belonging to the community of Friends. They were in
conversation, and the manner of the former, earnest and emphatic,
was in marked contrast with the quiet and thoughtful air of the
other.
"There is so much idleness and imposture among the poor," said the
merchant, "that you never know when your alms are going to do harm
or good. The beggar we just passed is able to work; and that woman
sitting at the corner with a sick child in her arms, would be far
better off in the almshouse. No man is more willing to give than I
am, if I only knew where and when to give."
"If we look around us carefully, Mr. Edwards," returned the Quaker,
we need be at no loss on this subject. Objects enough will present
themselves. Virtuous want is, in most cases, unobtrusive, and will
suffer rather than extend a hand for relief. We must seek for
objects of benevolence in by-places. We must turn aside into
untrodden walks."
"But even then," objected Mr. Edwards, "we cannot be certain that
idleness and vice are not at the basis of the destitution we find. I
have had my doubts whether any who exercise the abilities which God
has given them, need want for the ordinary comforts of life in this
country. In all cases of destitution, there is something wrong, you
may depend upon it."
"Perhaps there is," said the Quaker. "Evil of some kind is ever the
cause of destitution and wretchedness. Such bitter waters as these
cannot flow from a sweet fountain. Still, many are brought to
suffering through the evil ways of others; and many whose own wrong
doings have reacted upon them in unhappy consequences, deeply repent
of the past, and earnestly desire to live better lives in future.
Both need kindness, encouragement, and, it may be, assistance; and
it is the duty of those who have enough and to spare, to stretch
forth their hands to aid, comfort and sustain them."
"Yes. That is true. But, how are we to know who are the real objects
of our benevolence?"
"We have but to open our eyes and see, Mr. Edwards," said the
Quaker. "The objects of benevolence are all around us."
"Show me a worthy object, and you will find me ready to relieve it,"
returned the merchant. "I am not so selfish as to be indifferent to
human suffering. But I think it wrong to encourage idleness and
vice; and for this reason, I never give unless I am certain that the
object who presents himself is worthy."
"True benevolence does not always require us to give alms," said the
Friend. "We may do much to aid, comfort and help on with their
burdens our fellow travellers, and yet not bestow upon them what is
called charity. Mere alms-giving, as thee has intimated, but too
often encourages vice and idleness. But thee desires to find a
worthy object of benevolence. Let us see if we cannot find one, What
have we here?" And as the Quaker said this he paused before a
building, from the door of which protruded a red flag, containing
the words, "Auction this day." On a large card just beneath the flag
was the announcement, "Positive sale of unredeemed pledges."
"Let us turn in here," said the Quaker. "No doubt we shall find
enough to excite our sympathies."
Mr. Edwards thought this a strange proposal; but he felt a little
curious, and followed his companion without hesitation.
The sale had already begun, and there was a small company assembled.
Among them, the merchant noticed a young woman whose face was
partially veiled. She was sitting a little apart from the rest, and
did not appear to take any interest in the bidding. But he noticed
that, after an article was knocked off, she was all attention until
the next was put up, and then, the moment it was named, relapsed
into a sort of listlessness or abstraction.
The articles sold embraced a great variety of things useful and
ornamental. In the main they were made up of watches, silver plate,
jewellery and wearing apparel. There were garments of every kind,
quality and condition, upon which money to about a fourth of their
real value had been loaned; and not having been redeemed, they were
now to be sold for the benefit of the pawnbroker.
The company bid with animation, and article after article was sold
off. The interest at first awakened by the scene, new to the young
merchant, wore off in a little while, and turning to his companion
he said--"I don't see that much is to be gained by staying here."
"Wait a little longer, and perhaps thee will think differently,"
returned the Quaker, glancing towards the young woman who has been
mentioned, as he spoke.
The words had scarcely passed his lips, when the auctioneer took up
a small gold locket containing a miniature, and holding it up, asked
for a bid.
"How much for this? How much for this beautiful gold locket and
miniature? Give me a bid. Ten dollars! Eight dollars! Five dollars!
Four dollars--why, gentlemen, it never cost less than fifty! Four
dollars! Four dollars! Will no one give four dollars for this
beautiful gold locket and miniature? It's thrown away at that
price."
At the mention of the locket, the young woman came forward and
looked up anxiously at the auctioneer. Mr. Edwards could see enough
of her face to ascertain that it was an interesting and intelligent
one, though very sad.
"Three dollars!" continued the auctioneer. But there was no bid.
"Two dollars! One dollar!"
"One dollar," was the response from a man who stood just in front of
the woman. Mr. Edwards, whose eyes were upon the latter, noticed
that she became much agitated the moment this bid was made.
"One dollar we have! One dollar! Only one dollar!" cried the
auctioneer. "Only one dollar for a gold locket and miniature worth
forty. One dollar!"
"Nine shillings," said the young woman in a low, timid voice.
"Nine shillings bid! Nine shillings! Nine shillings!"
"Ten shillings," said the first bidder.
"Ten shillings it is! Ten shillings, and thrown away. Ten
shillings!"
"Eleven shillings," said the girl, beginning to grow excited. Mr.
Edwards, who could not keep his eyes off of her face, from which the
veil had entirely fallen, saw that she was trembling with eagerness
and anxiety.
"Eleven shillings!" repeated the auctioneer, glancing at the first
bidder, a coarse-looking man, and the only one who seemed disposed
to bid against the young woman.
"Twelve shillings," said the man resolutely.
A paleness went over the face of the other bidder, and a quick
tremor passed through her frame.
"Twelve shillings is bid. Twelve shillings is bid. Twelve
shillings!" And the auctioneer now looked towards the young woman
who, in a faint voice, said--
"Thirteen shillings."
By this time the merchant began to understand the meaning of what
was passing before him. The miniature was that of a middle-aged
lady; and it required no great strength of imagination to determine
that the original was the mother of the young woman who seemed so
anxious to possess the locket.
"But how came it here?" was the involuntary suggestion to the mind
of Mr. Edwards. "Who pawned it? Did she?"
"Fourteen shillings," said the man who was bidding, breaking in upon
the reflections of Mr. Edwards.
The veil that had been drawn aside, fell instantly over the face of
the young woman, and she shrunk back from her prominent position,
yet still remained in the room.
"Fourteen shillings is bid. Fourteen shillings! Are you all done?
Fourteen shillings for a gold locket and miniature. Fourteen!
Once!---"
The companion of Mr. Edwards glanced towards him with a meaning
look. The merchants for a moment bewildered, found his mind clear
again.
"Twice!" screamed the auctioneer. "Once! Twice! Three----"
"Twenty shillings," dropped from the lips of Mr. Edwards.
"Twenty shillings! Twenty shillings!" cried the auctioneer with
renewed animation. The man who had been bidding against the girl
turned quickly to see what bold bidder was in the field: and most of
the company turned with him. The young woman at the same time drew
aside her veil and looked anxiously towards Mr. Edwards, who, as he
obtained a fuller view of her face, was struck with it as familiar.
"Twenty-one shillings," was bid in opposition.
"Twenty-five," said the merchant, promptly.
The first bidder, seeing that Mr. Edwards was determined to run
against him, and being a little afraid that he might be left with a
ruinous bid on his hands, declined advancing, and the locket was
assigned to the young merchant, who, as soon as he had received it,
turned and presented it to the young woman, saying as he did so--
"It is yours."
The young woman caught hold of it with an eager gesture, and after
gazing on it for a few moments, pressed it to her lips.
"I have not the money to pay for it," she said in a low sad voice,
recovering herself in a few moments; and seeking to return the
miniature.
"It is yours!" replied Mr. Edwards. Then thrusting back the hand she
had extended, and speaking with some emotion, he said--"Keep
it--keep it, in Heaven's name!"
And saying this he hastily retired, for he became conscious that
many eyes were upon him; and he felt half ashamed to have betrayed
his weakness before a coarse, unfeeling crowd. For a few moments he
lingered in the street; but his companion not appearing, he went on
his way, musing on the singular adventure he had encountered. The
more distinctly he recalled the young woman's face, the more
strangely familiar did it seem.
About an hour afterwards, as Mr. Edwards sat reading a letter, the
Quaker entered his store.
"Ah, how do you do? I am glad to see you," said the merchant, his
manner more than usually earnest. "Did you see anything more of that
young woman?"
"Yes," replied the Quaker. "I could not leave one like her without
knowing something of her past life and present circumstances. I
think even you will hardly be disposed to regard her as an object
unworthy of interest."
"No, certainly I will not. Her appearance, and the circumstances
under which we found her, are all in her favor."
"But we turned aside from the beaten path. We looked into a by-place
to us; or we would not have discovered her. She was not obtrusive.
She asked no aid; but, with the last few shillings that remained to
her in the world, had gone to recover, if possible, an unredeemed
pledge--the miniature of her mother, on which she had obtained a
small advance of money to buy food and medicine for the dying
original. This is but one of the thousand cases of real distress
that are all around us. We could see them if we did but turn aside
for a moment into ways unfamiliar to our feet."
"Did you learn who she was, and anything of her condition?" asked
Mr. Edwards.
"Oh yes. To do so was but a common dictate of humanity. I would have
felt it as a stain upon my conscience to have left one like her
uncared for in the circumstances under which we found her."
"Did you accompany her home?"
"Yes; I went with her to the place she called her home--a room in
which there was scarcely an article of comfort--and there learned
the history of her past life and present condition. Does thee
remember Belgrave, who carried on a large business in Maiden Lane
some years ago?"
"Very well. But, surely this girl is not Mary Belgrave?"
"Yes. It was Mary Belgrave whom we met at the pawnbroker's sale."
"Mary Belgrave! Can it be possible? I knew the family had become
poor; but not so poor as this!"
And Mr. Edwards, much disturbed in mind, walked uneasily about the
floor. But soon pausing, he said--
"And so her mother is dead!"
"Yes. Her father died two years ago and her mother, who has been
sick ever since, died last week in abject poverty, leaving Mary
friendless, in a world where the poor and needy are but little
regarded. The miniature which Mary had secretly pawned in order to
supply the last earthly need of her mother, she sought by her labor
to redeem; but ere she had been able to save up enough for the
purpose, the time for which the pledge had been taken, expired, and
the pawn broker refused to renew it. Under the faint hope that she
might be able to buy it in with the little pittance of money she had
saved, she attended the sale where we found her."
The merchant had resumed his seat, and although he had listened
attentively to the Quaker's brief history, he did not make any
reply, but soon became lost in thought. From this he was interrupted
by his visitor, who said, as he moved towards the door--
"I will bid thee good morning, friend Edwards."
"One moment, if you please," said the merchant, arousing himself,
and speaking earnestly, "Where does Mary Belgrave live?"
The Friend answered the question, and, as Mr. Edwards did not seem
inclined to ask any more, and besides fell back again into an
abstract state, he wished him good morning and retired.
The poor girl was sitting alone in her room sewing, late in the
afternoon of the day on which the incident at the auction room
occurred, musing, as she had mused for hours, upon the unexpected
adventure. She did not, in the excitement of the moment, know Mr.
Edwards when he first tendered her the miniature; but when he said
with peculiar emphasis and earnestness, turning away as he
spoke--"Keep it, in Heaven's name!" she recognized him fully. Since
that moment, she had not been able to keep the thought of him from
her mind. They had been intimate friends at one time; but this was
while they were both very young. Then he had professed for her a
boyish passion; and she had loved him with the childish fondness of
a young school-girl. As they grew older, circumstances separated
them more; and though no hearts were broken in consequence, both
often thought of the early days of innocence and affection with
pleasure.
Mary sat sewing, as we have said, late in the afternoon of the day
on which the incident at the auction room occurred, when there was a
tap at her door. On opening it, Mr. Edwards stood before her. She
stepped back a pace or two in instant surprise and confusion, and he
advanced into the desolate room. In a moment, however, Mary
recovered herself, and with as much self-possession as, under the
circumstances, she could assume, asked her unexpected visitor to
take a chair, which she offered him.
Mr. Edwards sat down, feeling much oppressed. Mary was so changed in
everything, except in the purity and beauty of her countenance,
since he had seen her years before, that his feelings were
completely borne down. But he soon recovered himself enough to speak
to her of what was in his mind. He had an old aunt, who had been a
friend of Mary's mother, and from her he brought a message and an
offer of a home. Her carriage was at the door--it had been sent for
her--and he urged her to go with him immediately. Mary had no good
reason for declining so kind an offer. It was a home that she most
of all needed; and she could not refuse one like this.
"There is another unredeemed pledge," said Mr. Edwards,
significantly, as he sat conversing with Mary about a year after she
had found a home in the house of his aunt. Allusion had been made to
the miniature of Mary's mother.
"Ah!" was the simple response.
"Yes. Don't you remember," and he took Mary's unresisting hand--"the
pledge of this hand which you made me, I cannot tell how many years
ago?"
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