Books: Heart Histories and Life Pictures
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T. S. Arthur >> Heart Histories and Life Pictures
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CHAPTER III.
IT was little more than half an hour after the Secretary of the Navy
parted with Jenny, ere she entered his office again; but now with
her beautiful face flushed and eager.
"I have found him!" she exclaimed; "I knew he was on board this
ship!"
The Secretary's interest had been awakened by the former brief
interview with Jenny, and when she came in with the announcement, he
was not only affected with pleasure, but his feelings were touched
by her manner. "How is it, then," he inquired, "that his name is not
to be found in the list of her crew?"
"He entered the service under the name of Edward James."
"Ah! that explains it."
"And now, sir," said Jenny, in a voice so earnest and appealing,
that her auditor felt like granting her desire without a moment's
reflection: "I have come to entreat you to give me his release."
"On what ground do you make this request?" inquired the Secretary,
gazing into the sweet young face of Jenny, with a feeling of respect
blended with admiration.
"On the ground of humanity," was the simple yet earnestly spoken
reply.
"How can you put it on that ground?"
"A young man of his education and abilities can serve society better
in another position."
"But he has chosen the place he is in."
"Not deliberately. In a moment of disappointment and blind passion
he took a false step. Severely has he suffered for this act. Let it
not be prolonged, lest it destroy him. One of his spirit can
scarcely pass through so severe an ordeal without fainting."
"Does Mr. Lofton, his grandfather, desire what you ask?"
"Mr. Lofton is a proud man. He entertained high hopes for Mark, who
has, in this act, so bitterly disappointed them, that he has not
been known to utter his name since the news of his enlistment was
received."
"And his father?"
Jenny shook her head, sighing--
"I don't know anything about him. He was angry, and, I believe, cast
him off."
"And you, then, are his only advocate?"
Jenny's eyes dropped to the floor, and a deeper tinge overspread her
countenance.
"What is your relation to him, and to his friends?" asked the
Secretary, his manner becoming more serious.
It was some moments before Jenny replied. Then she said, in a more
subdued voice:
"I am living with Mr. Lofton. But--"
She hesitated, and then became silent and embarrassed.
"Does Mr. Lofton know of your journey to Washington?"
Jenny shook her head.
"Where did you tell him you were going?"
"I said nothing to him, but came away the moment I heard the ship
was expected to arrive at Norfolk."
"Suppose I release him from the service?"
"I will persuade him to go back with me to Fairview, and then I know
that all will be forgiven between him and his grandfather. You don't
know how Mr. Lofton has failed since Mark went away," added Jenny in
a tone meant to reach the feelings of her auditor.
"He looks many years older. Ah, sir, if you would only grant my
request!"
"Will the young man return to his family! Have you spoken to him
about it?"
"No; I wished not to create hopes that might fail. But give me his
release, and I will have a claim on him."
"And you will require him to go home in acknowledgment of that
claim."
"I will not leave him till he goes back," said Jenny.
"Is he not satisfied in the service?"
"How could he be satisfied with it?" Jenny spoke with a quick
impulse, and with something like rebuke in her voice. "No! It is
crushing out his very life. Think of your own son in such a
position!"
There was something in this appeal, and in the way it was uttered,
that decided the Secretary's mind. A man of acute observation, and
humane feelings, he not only understood pretty clearly the relation
that Jenny bore to Mark and his family, but sympathised with the
young man and resolved to grant the maiden's request. Leaving her
for a few minutes, he went into an adjoining room. When he returned,
he had a sealed letter in his hand directed to the commander of the
ship ----.
"This will procure his dismissal from the service," said he, as he
reached it towards Jenny.
"May heaven reward you!" fell from the lips of the young girl, as
she received the letter. Then, with the tears glistening in her
eyes, she hurriedly left the apartment.
While old Mr. Lofton was yet wondering what Jenny could want with
fifty dollars, a servant came and told him that she had just heard
from a neighbor who came up a little while before from the landing,
that he had seen Jenny go on board of a steamboat that was on its
way to New York.
"It can't be so," quickly answered Mr. Lofton.
"Mr. Jones said, positively, that it was her."
"Tell Henry to go to Mr. Jones and ask him, as a favor, to step over
and see me."
In due time Mr. Jones came.
"Are you certain that you saw Jenny Lawson go on board the steamboat
for New York to-day?" asked Mr. Lofton, when the neighbor appeared.
"Oh, yes, sir; it was her," replied the man.
"Did you speak to her?"
"I was going to, but she hurried past me without looking in my
face."
"Had she anything with her?"
"There was a small bundle in her hand."
"Strange--strange--very strange," murmured the old man to himself.
"What does it mean? Where can she have gone?"
"Did she say nothing about going away?"
"Nothing--nothing!"
Mr. Lofton's eyes fell to the floor, and he sat thinking for some
moments.
"Mr. Jones," said he, at length, "can you go to New York for me?"
"I suppose so," replied Mr. Jones.
"When will the morning boat from Albany pass here?"
"In about two hours."
"Then get yourself ready, if you please, and come over to me. I do
not like this of Jenny, and must find out where she has gone."
Mr. Jones promised to do as was desired, and went to make all
necessary preparations. Before he returned, a domestic brought Mr.
Lofton a sealed note bearing his address, which she had found in
Jenny's chamber. It was as follows:
"Do not be alarmed at my telling you that, when you receive this, I
will be on a journey of two or three hundred miles in extent, and
may not return for weeks. Believe me, that my purpose is a good one.
I hope to be back much sooner than I have said. When I do get home,
I know you will approve of what I have done. My errand is one of
Mercy.
"Humbly and faithfully yours, JENNY."
It was some time before Mr. Lofton's mind grew calm and clear, after
reading this note. That Jenny's absence was, in some way, connected
with Mark, was a thought that soon presented itself. But, in what
way, he could not make out; for he had never heard the name of the
ship in which his grandson sailed, and knew nothing of her expected
arrival home.
By the time Mr. Jones appeared, ready to start on the proposed
mission to New York, Mr. Lofton had made up his mind not to attempt
to follow Jenny, but to wait for some word from her. Not until this
sudden separation took place did Mr. Lofton understand how necessary
to his happiness the affectionate girl had become. So troubled was
he at her absence, and so anxious for her safety, that when night
came he found himself unable to sleep. In thinking about the dangers
that would gather around one so ignorant of the world, his
imagination magnified the trials and temptations to which, alone as
she was, she would be exposed. Such thoughts kept him tossing
anxiously upon his pillow, or restlessly pacing the chamber floor
until day dawn. Then, from over-excitement and loss of rest, he was
seriously indisposed--so much so, that his physician had to be
called in during the day. He found him with a good deal of fever,
and deemed it necessary to resort to depletion, as well as to the
application of other remedies to allay the over-action of his vital
system. These prostrated him at once--so much so, that he was unable
to sit up. Before night he was so seriously ill that the physician
had to be sent for again. The fever had returned with great
violence, and the pressure on his brain was so great that he had
become slightly delirious.
During the second night, this active stage of the disease continued;
but all the worst symptoms subsided towards morning. Daylight found
him sleeping quietly, with a cool moist skin, and a low, regular
pulse. Towards mid-day he awoke; but the anxiety that came with
thought brought back many of the unfavorable symptoms, and he was
worse again towards evening. On the third day he was again better,
but so weak as to be unable to sit up.
How greatly did old Mr. Lofton miss the gentle girl, who had become
almost as dear to him as a child, during this brief illness, brought
on by her strange absence. No hand could smooth his pillow like
hers. No presence could supply her place by his side. He was
companionless, now that she was away; and his heart reached vainly
around for something to lean upon for support.
On the fourth day he was better, and sat up a little. But his
anxiety for Jenny was increasing. Where could she be? He read her
brief letter over and over again.
"May not return for weeks," he said, as he held the letter in his
hand. "Where can she have gone? Foolish child! Why did she not
consult with me? I would have advised her for the best."
Late on the afternoon of that day, Jenny, in company with Mark, the
latter in the dress of a seaman in the United States service, passed
from a steamboat at the landing near Fairview, and took their way
towards the mansion of Mr. Lofton. They had not proceeded far,
before the young man began to linger, while Jenny showed every
disposition to press on rapidly. At length Mark stopped.
"Jenny," said he, while a cloud settled on his face, "you've had
your own way up to this moment. I've been passive in your hands. But
I can't go on with you any further."
"Don't say that," returned Jenny, her voice almost imploring in its
tones. And in the earnestness of her desire to bring Mark back to
his grandfather, she seized one of his hands, and, by a gentle
force, drew him a few paces in the direction they had been going.
But he resisted that force, and they stood still again.
"I don't think I can go back, Jenny," said Mark, in a subdued voice:
"I have some pride left, much as has been crushed out of me during
the period of my absence, and this rises higher and higher in my
heart the nearer I approach my grandfather. How can I meet him!"
"Only come into his presence, Mark," urged Jenny, speaking tenderly
and familiarly. She had addressed him as Mr. Clifford, but he had
forbidden that, saying--
"To you my name is Mark--let none other pass your lips!"
"Only come into his presence. You need not speak to him, nor look
towards him. This is all I ask."
"But, the humiliation of going back after my resentment of his
former treatment," said Mark. "I can bear anything but this bending
of my pride--this humbling of myself to others."
"Don't think of yourself, Mark," replied Jenny. "Think of your
grandfather, on whom your absence has wrought so sad a change. Think
of what he must have suffered to break down so in less than two
years. In pity to him, then, come back. Be guided by me, Mark, and I
will lead you right. Think of that strange dream!"
At this appeal, Mark moved quickly forward by the side of the
beautiful girl, who had so improved in every way--mind and body
having developed wonderfully since he parted with her--that he was
filled all the while by wonder, respect and admiration. He moved by
her side as if influenced by a spell that subdued his own will.
In silence they walked along, side by side, the pressure of thought
and feeling on each mind being so strong as to take away the desire
to speak, until the old mansion house of Mr. Lofton appeared in
view. Here Mark stopped again; but the tenderly uttered "Come," and
the tearful glance of Jenny, effectually controlled the promptings
of an unbroken will. Together, in a few minutes afterwards, they
approached the house and entered.
"Where is Mr. Lofton?" asked Jenny of a servant who met them in the
great hall.
"He's been very ill," replied the servant.
"Ill!" Jenny became pale.
"Yes, very ill. But he is better now."
"Where is he?"
"In his own chamber."
For a moment Jenny hesitated whether to go up alone, or in company
with Mark. She would have preferred going alone; but fearing that,
if she parted even thus briefly from Mark, her strong influence over
him, by means of which she had brought him, almost as a struggling
prisoner, thus far, would be weakened, and he tempted to turn from
the house, she resolved to venture upon the experiment of entering
Mr. Lofton's sick chamber, in company with his grandson.
"Is he sitting up?" she asked of the servant.
"He's been sitting up a good deal to-day, but is lying down now."
"He's much better?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Come," said Jenny, turning to Mark, and moving towards the
stairway. Mark followed passively. On entering the chamber of Mr.
Lofton, they found him sleeping.
Both silently approached, and looked upon his venerable face,
composed in deep slumber. Tears came to the eyes of Mark as he gazed
at the countenance of his grandfather, and his heart became soft as
the heart of a child. While they yet stood looking at him, his lips
moved, and he uttered both their names. Then he seemed disturbed,
and moaned, as if in pain.
"Grandfather!" said Mark, taking the old man's hand, and bending
over him.
Quickly his eyes opened. For a few moments he gazed earnestly upon
Mark, and then tightened his hand upon that of the young man, closed
his eyes again, and murmured in a voice that deeply touched the
returning wanderer--
"My poor boy! My poor boy! Why did you do so? Why did you break my
heart? But, God be thanked, you are back again! God be thanked!"
"Jenny!" said the old man, quickly, as he felt her take his other
hand and press it to her lips. "And it was for this you left me!
Dear child, I forgive you!"
As he spoke, he drew her hand over towards the one that grasped that
of Mark, and uniting them together, murmured--
"If you love each other, it is all right. My blessing shall go with
you."
How mild and delicious was the thrill that ran through each of the
hearts of his auditors. This was more than they expected. Mark
tightly grasped the hand that was placed within his own, and that
hand gave back an answering pressure. Thus was the past reconciled
with the present; while a vista was opened toward a bright future.
Little more than a year has passed since this joyful event took
place. Mark Clifford, with the entire approval of his grandfather,
who furnished a handsome capital for the purpose, entered, during
the time, into the mercantile house of his father as a partner, and
is now actively engaged in business, well sobered by his severe
experience. He has taken a lovely bride, who is the charm of all
circles into which she is introduced; and her name is Jenny. But few
who meet her dream that she once grew, a beautiful wild flower, near
the banks of the Hudson.
Old Mr. Lofton could not be separated from Jenny; and, as he could
not separate her from her husband, he has removed to the city, where
he has an elegant residence, in which her voice is the music and her
smiles the ever present sunshine.
SHADOWS.
A HAPPY-HEARTED child was Madeline Henry, for the glad sunshine ever
lay upon the threshold of her early home. Her father, a cheerful,
unselfish man, left the world and its business cares behind him when
he placed his hand upon the door of entrance to his household
treasures. Like other men, he had his anxieties, his hopes and
losses, his disappointments and troubles; but he wisely and humanely
strove to banish these from his thoughts, when he entered the
home-sanctuary, lest his presence should bring a shadow instead of
sunshine.
Madeline was just twenty years of age, when, as the wife of Edward
Leslie, she left this warm down-covered nest, and was borne to a new
and more elegant home.
Mr. Leslie was her senior by eight or nine years. He began his
business life at the age of twenty-two, as partner in a well
established mercantile house, and, as he was able to place ten
thousand dollars in the concern, his position, in the matter of
profits, was good from the beginning. Yet, for all this,
notwithstanding more than one loving-hearted girl, in whose eyes he
might have found favor, crossed his path, he resolutely turned his
thoughts away, lest the fascination should be too strong for him. He
resolved not to marry until he felt able to maintain a certain style
of living.
Thus were the heart's impulses checked; thus were the first tender
leaves of affection frozen in the cold breath of mere calculation.
He wronged himself in this; yet, in his worldliness and ignorance,
did he feel proud of being above, what he called, the weaknesses of
other men.
It was but natural that Mr. Leslie should become, in a measure,
reserved towards others. Should assume a statelier step, and more
set forms of speech. Should repress, more and more, his heart's
impulses.
In Leslie, the love of money was strong; yet there was in his
character a firmly laid basis of integrity. Though shrewd in his
dealings, he never stooped to a system of overreaching. He was not
long, therefore, in establishing a good reputation among business
men. In social circles, where he occasionally appeared, almost as a
matter of course he became an object of interest.
Observation, as it regards character, is, by far, too superficial.
With most persons, merely what strikes the eye is sufficient ground
for an opinion; and this opinion is freely and positively expressed.
Thus, a good reputation comes, as a natural consequence, to a man
who lives in the practice of most of the apparent social virtues,
while he may possess no real kindness of heart, may be selfish to an
extreme degree.
Thus it was with Mr. Leslie. He was generally regarded as a model of
a man; and when he, at length, approached Madeline Henry as a lover,
the friends of the young lady regarded her as particularly
fortunate.
As for Madeline, she rather shrunk, at first, from his advances.
There was a coldness in his sphere that chilled her; a rigid
propriety of speech and action that inspired too much respect and
deference. Gradually, however, love for the maiden, (if by such a
term it might be called) fused his hard exterior, and his manner
became so softened, gentle and affectionate, that she yielded up to
him a most precious treasure--the love of her young and trusting
heart.
Just twenty years old, as we have said, was Madeline when she
passed, as the bride of Mr. Leslie, from the warm home-nest in which
she had reposed so happily, to become the mistress of an elegant
mansion. Though in age a woman, she was, in many things, but a child
in feelings. Tenderly cared for and petted by her father, her spirit
had been, in a measure, sustained by love as an aliment.
One like Madeline is not fit to be the wife of such a man as Edward
Leslie. For him, a cold, calculating woman of the world were a
better companion. One who has her own selfish ends to gain; and who
can find, in fashion, gaiety, or personal indulgence, full
compensation for a husband's love.
Madeline was scarcely the bride of a week, ere shadows began to fall
upon her heart; and the form that interposed itself between her and
the sunlight, was the form of her husband. As a daughter, love had
ever gone forth in lavish expression. This had been encouraged by
all the associations of home. But, from the beginning of her wedded
life, she felt the manner of her husband like the weight of a hand
on her bosom, repressing her heart's outgushing impulses.
It was on the fifth evening of their marriage, about the early
twilight hour, and Madeline, alone, almost for the first time since
morning, sat awaiting the return of her husband. Full of pleasant
thoughts was her mind, and warm with love her heart. A few hours of
separation from Edward had made her impatient to meet him again.
When, at length, she heard him enter, she sprang to meet him, and,
with an exclamation of delight, threw her arms about his neck.
There was a cold dignity in the way this act was received by Edward
Leslie, that chilled the feelings of his wife. Quickly disengaging
her arms, she assumed a more guarded exterior; yet, trying all the
while, to be cheerful in manner. We say "trying;" for a shadow had
fallen on her young heart--and, to seem cheerful was from an effort.
They sat down, side by side, in the pensive twilight close to the
windows, through which came fragrant airs; and Madeline laid her
hand upon that of her husband. Checked in the first gush of
feelings, she now remained silent, yet with her yearning spirit
intently listening for words of tenderness and endearment.
"I have been greatly vexed to-day."
These were the very words he uttered. How chilly they fell upon the
ears of his expectant wife.
"What has happened?" she asked, in a voice of concern.
"Oh, nothing in reality more than usual. Men in business are exposed
to a thousand annoyances. If all the world were honest, trade would
be pleasant enough. But you have to watch every one you deal with as
closely as if he were a rogue. A man, whom I had confided in and
befriended, tried to overreach me today, and it has hurt me a good
deal. I couldn't have believed it of him."
Nothing more was said on either side for several minutes. Leslie,
absorbed in thoughts of business, so far forgot the presence of his
wife, as to withdraw the hand upon which her's was laid. How
palpable to her was the coldness of his heart! She felt it as an
atmosphere around him.
After tea, Leslie remarked, as he arose from the table, that he
wished to see a friend on some matter of business; but would be home
early. Not even a kiss did he leave with Madeline to cheer her
during his absence. His selfish dignity could not stoop to such
childishness.
The young bride passed the evening with no companionship but her
tears. When Leslie came home, and looked upon her sober face, he was
not struck with its aspect as being unusual. It did not enter his
imagination that she could be otherwise than happy. Was she not
_his_ wife? And had she not, around her, every thing to make the
heart satisfied? He verily believed that she had. He spoke to her
kindly, yet, as she felt, indifferently, while her heart was pining
for words of warm affection.
This was the first shadow that fell, darkly, across the young wife's
path. For hours after her husband's senses were locked in slumber,
she lay wakeful and weeping. He understood not, if he remarked the
fact, why her cheeks had less color and her eyes less brightness on
the morning that succeeded to this, on Madeline's part, never
forgotten evening.
We need not present a scene from the sixth, the seventh, or even the
twentieth day of Madeline's married life. All moved on with a kind
of even tenor. Order--we might almost say, mercantile order--reigned
throughout the household. And yet, shadows were filling more and
more heavily over the young wife's feelings. To be loved, was an
element of her existence--to be loved with expression. But,
expressive fondness was not one of the cold, dignified Mr. Leslie's
weaknesses. He loved Madeline--as much as he was capable of loving
anything out of himself. And he had given her the highest possible
evidence of this love, by making her his wife.--What more could she
ask? It never occurred to his unsentimental thought, that words and
acts of endearment were absolutely essential to her happiness. That
her world of interest was a world of affections, and that without
his companionship in this world, her heart would feel an aching
void.
Who will wonder that, as weeks and months went by, shadows were more
apparent on the sunny face of Madeline? Yet, such shadows, when they
became visible to casual eyes, did excite wonder. What was there to
break the play of sunshine on her countenance?
"The more some people have, the more dissatisfied they are,"
remarked one superficial observer to another, in reply to some
communication touching Mrs. Leslie's want of spirits.
"Yes," was answered. "Nothing but _real_ trouble ever brings such
persons to their senses."
Ah! Is not heart-trouble the most real of all with which we are
visited? There comes to it, so rarely, a balm of healing. To those
external evils which merely affect the personal comfort, the mind
quickly accommodates itself. We may find happiness in either
prosperity or adversity. But, what true happiness is there for a
loving heart, if, from the only source of reciprocation, there is
but an imperfect response? A strong mind may accommodate itself, in
the exercise of a firm religious philosophy, to even these
circumstances, and like the wisely discriminating bee, extract honey
from even the most unpromising flower. But, it is hard--nay, almost
impossible--for one like Madeline, reared as she was in so warm an
atmosphere of love, to fall back upon and find a sustaining power,
in such a philosophy. Her spirit first must droop. There must be a
passing through the fire, with painful purification. Alas! How many
perish in the ordeal!--How many gentle, loving ones, unequally
mated, die, daily, around us; moving on to the grave, so far as the
world knows, by the way of some fatal bodily ailment; yet, in truth,
failing by a heart-sickness that has dried up the fountains of life.
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