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

And so it was with the wife of Edward Leslie. Greatly her husband
wondered at the shadows which fell, more and more heavily, on
Madeline--wondered as time wore on, at the paleness of her
cheeks--the sadness which, often, she could not repress when he was
by; the variableness of her spirits--all tending to destroy the
balance of her nervous system, and, finally, ending in confirmed
ill-health, that demanded, imperiously, the diversion of his
thoughts from business and worldly schemes to the means of
prolonging her life.

Alas! What a sad picture to look upon, would it be, were we to
sketch, even in outline, the passing events of the ten years that
preceded this conviction on the part of Mr. Leslie. To Madeline, his
cold, hard, impatient, and, too frequently, cruel re-actions upon
what he thought her unreasonable, captious, dissatisfied states of
mind, having no ground but in her imagination, were heavy
heart-strokes--or, as a discordant hand dashed among her
life-chords, putting them forever out of tune. Oh! The wretchedness,
struggling with patience and concealment, of those weary years. The
days and days, during which her husband maintained towards her a
moody silence, that it seemed would kill her. And yet, so far as the
world went, Mr. Leslie was among the best of husbands. How little
does the world, so called, look beneath the surface of things!

With the weakness of failing health, came, to Madeline, the loss of
mental energy. She had less and less self-control. A brooding
melancholy settled upon her feelings; and she often spent days in
her chamber, refusing to see any one except members of her own
family, and weeping if she were spoken to.

"You will die, Madeline. You will kill yourself!" said her husband,
repeating, one day, the form of speech so often used when he found
his wife in these states of abandonment. He spoke with more than his
usual tenderness, for, to his unimaginative mind had come a quickly
passing, but vivid realization, of what he would lose if she were
taken from him.

"The loss will scarcely be felt," was her murmured answer.

"Your children will, at least, feel it," said Mr. Leslie, in a more
captious and meaning tone than, upon reflection, he would have used.
He felt her words as expressing indifference for himself, and his
quick retort involved, palpably, the same impression in regard to
his wife.

Madeline answered not farther, but her husband's words were not
forgotten--"My children will feel my loss." This thought became so
present to her mind, that none other could, for a space, come into
manifest perception. The mother's heart began quickening into life a
sense of the mother's duty. Thus it was, when her oldest
child--named for herself, and with as loving and dependent a
nature--opened the chamber door, and coming up to her father, made
some request that he did not approve. To the mother's mind, her
desire was one that ought to have been granted; and, she felt, in an
instant, that the manner, as well as the fact of the father's
denial, were both unkind, and that Madeline's heart would be almost
broken. She did not err in this. The child went sobbing from the
room.

How distinctly came before the mind of Mrs. Leslie a picture of the
past. She was, for a time, back in her father's house; and she felt,
for a time, the ever-present, considerate, loving kindness of one
who had made all sunshine in that early home. Slowly came back the
mind of Mrs. Leslie to the present, and she said to herself, not
passively, like one borne on the current of a down-rushing stream,
but resolutely, as one with a purpose to struggle--to suffer, and
yet be strong--

"Yes; my children will feel my loss. I could pass away and be at
rest. I could lie me down and sleep sweetly in the grave. But, is
all my work done? Can I leave these little ones to his tender mer--"

She checked herself in the mental utterance of this sentiment, which
referred to her husband. But, the feeling was in her heart; and it
inspired her with a new purpose. Her thought, turned from herself,
and fixed, with a yearning love upon her children, gave to the blood
a quicker motion through the veins, and to her mind a new activity.
She could no longer remain passive, as she had been for hours,
brooding over her own unhappy state, but arose and left her chamber.
In another room she found her unhappy child, who had gone off to
brood alone over her disappointment, and to weep where none could
see her.

"Madeline, dear!" said the mother, in a loving, sympathetic voice.

Instantly the child flung herself into her arms, and laid her face,
sobbing, upon her bosom.

Gently, yet wisely--for there came, in that moment, to Mrs. Leslie,
a clear perception of all her duty--did the mother seek to soften
Madeline's disappointment, and to inspire her with fortitude to
bear. Beyond her own expectation came success in this effort. The
reason she invented or imagined, for the father's refusal, satisfied
the child; and soon the clouded brow was lit up by the heart's
sunshine.

From that hour, Mrs. Leslie was changed. From that hour, a new
purpose filled her heart. She could not leave her children, nor
could she take them with her if she passed away; and so, she
resolved to live for them, to forget her own suffering, in the
tenderness of maternal care. The mother had risen superior to the
unhappy, unappreciated wife.

All marked the change; yet in none did it awaken more surprise than
in Mr. Leslie. He never fully understood its meaning; and, no
wonder, for he had never understood her from the beginning. He was
too cold and selfish to be able fully to appreciate her character or
relation to him as a wife.

Yet, for all this change--though the long drooping form of Mrs.
Leslie regained something of its erectness, and her exhausted system
a degree of tension--the shadow passed not from her heart or brow;
nor did her cheeks grow warm again with the glow of health. The
delight of her life had failed; and now, she lived only for the
children whom God had given her.

A man of Mr. Leslie's stamp of character too rarely grows wiser in
the true sense. Himself the centre of his world, it is but seldom
that he is able to think enough out of himself to scan the effect of
his daily actions upon others. If collisions take place, he thinks
only of the pain he feels, not of the pain he gives. He is ever
censuring; but rarely takes blame. During the earlier portions of
his married life, Mr. Leslie's mind had chafed a good deal at what
seemed to him Madeline's unreasonable and unwomanly conduct; the
soreness of this was felt even after the change in her exterior that
we have noticed, and he often indulged in the habit of mentally
writing bitter things against her. He had well nigh broken her
heart; and was yet impatient because she gave signs indicative of
pain.

And so, as years wore on, the distance grew wider instead of
becoming less and less. The husband had many things to draw him
forth into the busy world, where he established various interests,
and sought pleasure in their pursuits, while the wife, seldom seen
abroad, buried herself at home, and gave her very life for her
children.

But, even maternal love could not feed for very many years the flame
of her life. The oil was too nearly exhausted when that new supply
came. For a time, the light burned clearly; then it began to fail,
and ere the mother's tasks were half done, it went out in darkness.

How heavy the shadows which then fell upon the household and upon
the heart of Edward Leslie! As he stood, alone, in the chamber of
death, with his eyes fixed upon the pale, wasted countenance, no
more to quicken with life, and felt on his neck the clinging arms
that were thrown around it a few moments before the last sigh of
mortality was breathed; and still heard the eager, "Kiss me, Edward,
once, before I die!"--a new light broke upon him,--and he was
suddenly stung by sharp and self-reproaching thoughts. Had he not
killed her, and, by the slowest and most agonizing process by which
murder can be committed? There was in his mind a startling
perception that such was the awful crime of which he had been
guilty.

Yes, there were shadows on the heart of Edward Leslie; shadows that
never entirely passed away.

THE THANKLESS OFFICE.

"AN object of real charity," said Andrew Lyon to his wife, as a poor
woman withdrew from the room in which they were seated.

"If ever there was a worthy object, she is one," returned Mrs. Lyon.
"A widow, with health so feeble that even ordinary exertion is too
much for her; yet obliged to support, with the labor of her own
hands, not only herself, but three young children. I do not wonder
that she is behind with her rent."

"Nor I," said Mr. Lyon in a voice of sympathy. "How much did she say
was due to her landlord?"

"Ten dollars."

"She will not be able to pay it."

"I fear not. How can she? I give her all my extra sewing, and have
obtained work for her from several ladies; but, with her best
efforts she can barely obtain food and decent clothing for herself
and babes."

"Does it not seem hard," remarked Mr. Lyon, "that one like Mrs.
Arnold, who is so earnest in her efforts to take care of herself and
family, should not receive a helping hand from some one of the many
who could help her without feeling the effort? If I didn't find it
so hard to make both ends meet, I would pay off her arrears of rent
for her, and feel happy in so doing."

"Ah!" exclaimed the kind-hearted wife, "how much I wish that we were
able to do this. But we are not."

"I'll tell you what we can do," said Mr. Lyon, in a cheerful
voice--"or, rather what I can do. It will be a very light matter
for, say ten persons, to give a dollar a-piece, in order to relieve
Mrs. Arnold from her present trouble. There are plenty who would
cheerfully contribute for this good purpose; all that is wanted is
some one to take upon himself the business of making the
collections. That task shall be mine."

"How glad, James, to hear you say so," smilingly replied Mrs. Lyon.
"Oh! what a relief it will be to poor Mrs. Arnold. It will make her
heart as light as a feather. That rent has troubled her sadly. Old
Links, her landlord, has been worrying her about it a good deal,
and, only a week ago, threatened to put her things in the street if
she didn't pay up."

"I should have thought of this before," remarked Andrew Lyon. "There
are hundreds of people who are willing enough to give if they were
only certain in regard to the object. Here is one worthy enough in
every way. Be it my business to present her claims to benevolent
consideration. Let me see. To whom shall I go? There are Jones, and
Green, and Tompkins. I can get a dollar from each of them. That will
be three dollars--and one from myself, will make four. Who else is
there? Oh! Malcolm! I'm sure of a dollar from him; and, also, from
Smith, Todd, and Perry."

Confident in the success of his benevolent scheme, Mr. Lyon started
forth, early on the very next day, for the purpose of obtaining, by
subscription, the poor widow's rent. The first person he called on
was Malcolm.

"Ah, friend Lyon," said Malcolm, smiling blandly. "Good morning!
What can I do for you to-day?"

"Nothing for me, but something for a poor widow, who is behind with
her rent," replied Andrew Lyon. "I want just one dollar from you,
and as much more from some eight or nine as benevolent as yourself."

At the words "poor widow," the countenance of Malcolm fell, and when
his visiter ceased, he replied in a changed and husky voice,
clearing his throat two or three times as he spoke,

"Are you sure she is deserving, Mr. Lyon?" The man's manner had
become exceedingly grave.

"None more so," was the prompt answer. "She is in poor health, and
has three children to support with the product of her needle. If any
one needs assistance it is Mrs. Arnold."

"Oh! ah! The widow of Jacob Arnold."

"The same," replied Andrew Lyon.

Malcolm's face did not brighten with a feeling of heart-warm
benevolence. But, he turned slowly away, and opening his
money-drawer, _very slowly_, toyed with his fingers amid its
contents. At length he took therefrom a dollar bill, and said, as he
presented it to Lyon,--sighing involuntarily as he did so--

"I suppose I must do my part. But, we are called upon so often."

The ardor of Andrew Lyon's benevolent feelings suddenly cooled at
this unexpected reception. He had entered upon his work under the
glow of a pure enthusiasm; anticipating a hearty response the moment
his errand was made known.

"I thank you in the widow's name," said he, as he took the dollar.
When he turned from Mr. Malcolm's store, it was with a pressure on
his feelings, as if he had asked the coldly-given favor for himself.

It was not without an effort that Lyon compelled himself to call
upon Mr. Green, considered the "next best man" on his list. But he
entered his place of business with far less confidence than he had
felt when calling upon Malcolm. His story told, Green without a word
or smile, drew two half dollars from his pocket, and presented them.

"Thank you," said Lyon.

"Welcome," returned Green.

Oppressed with a feeling of embarrassment, Lyon stood for a few
moments. Then bowing, he said--

"Good morning."

"Good morning," was coldly and formally responded.

And thus the alms-seeker and alms-giver parted.

"Better be at his shop, attending to his work," muttered Green to
himself, as his visitor retired. "Men ain't very apt to get along
too well in the world who spend their time in begging for every
object of charity that happens to turn up. And there are plenty of
such, dear knows. He's got a dollar out of me; may it do him, or the
poor widow he talked so glibly about, much good."

Cold water had been poured upon the feelings of Andrew Lyon. He had
raised two dollars for the poor widow, but, at what a sacrifice for
one so sensitive as himself. Instead of keeping on in his work of
benevolence, he went to his shop, and entered upon the day's
employment. How disappointed he felt;--and this disappointment was
mingled with a certain sense of humiliation, as if he had been
asking alms for himself.

"Catch me at this work again!" he said, half aloud, as his thoughts
dwelt upon what had so recently occurred. "But this is not right,"
he added, quickly. "It is a weakness in me to feel so. Poor Mrs.
Arnold must be relieved; and it is my duty to see that she gets
relief. I had no thought of a reception like this. People can talk
of benevolence; but putting the hand in the pocket is another affair
altogether. I never dreamed that such men as Malcolm and Green could
be insensible to an appeal like the one I made."

"I've got two dollars towards paying Mrs. Arnold's rent," he said to
himself, in a more cheerful tone, sometime afterwards; "and it will
go hard if I don't raise the whole amount for her. All are not like
Green and Malcolm. Jones is a kind-hearted man, and will instantly
respond to the call of humanity. I'll go and see him."

So, off Andrew Lyon started to see this individual.

"I've come begging, Mr. Jones," said he, on meeting him. And he
spoke in a frank, pleasant manner.

"Then you've come to the wrong shop; that's all I have to say," was
the blunt answer.

"Don't say that, Mr. Jones. Hear my story, first."

"I do say it, and I'm in earnest," returned Jones. "I feel as poor
as Job's turkey, to-day."

"I only want a dollar to help a poor widow pay her rent," said Lyon.

"Oh, hang all the poor widows! If that's your game, you'll get
nothing here. I've got my hands full to pay my own rent. A nice time
I'd have in handing out a dollar to every poor widow in town to help
pay her rent! No, no, my friend, you can't get anything here."

"Just as you feel about it," said Andrew Lyon. "There's no
compulsion in the matter."

"No, I presume not," was rather coldly replied.

Lyon returned to his shop, still more disheartened than before. He
had undertaken a thankless office.

Nearly two hours elapsed before his resolution to persevere in the
good work he had begun came back with sufficient force to prompt to
another effort. Then he dropped in upon his neighbor Tompkins, to
whom he made known his errand.

"Why, yes, I suppose I must do something in a case like this," said
Tompkins, with the tone and air of a man who was cornered. "But,
there are so many calls for charity, that we are naturally enough
led to hold on pretty tightly to our purse strings. Poor woman! I
feel sorry for her. How much do you want?"

"I am trying to get ten persons, including myself, to give a dollar
each."

"Well, here's my dollar." And Tompkins forced a smile to his face as
he handed over his contribution--but the smile did not conceal an
expression which said very plainly--

"I hope you will not trouble me again in this way."

"You may be sure I will not," muttered Lyon, as he went away. He
fully understood the meaning of the expression.

Only one more application did the kind-hearted man make. It was
successful; but, there was something in the manner of the individual
who gave his dollar, that Lyon felt as a rebuke.

"And so poor Mrs. Arnold did not get the whole of her arrears of
rent paid off," says some one who has felt an interest in her favor.

Oh, yes she did. Mr. Lyon begged five dollars, and added five more
from his own slender purse. But, he cannot be induced again to
undertake the thankless office of seeking relief from the benevolent
for a fellow creature in need. He has learned that a great many who
refuse alms on the plea that the object presented is not worthy, are
but little more inclined to charitable deeds, when on this point
there is no question.

How many who read this can sympathise with Andrew Lyon. Few men who
have hearts to feel for others but have been impelled, at some time
in their lives, to seek aid for a fellow-creature in need. That
their office was a thankless one, they have too soon become aware.
Even those who responded to their call most liberally, in too many
instances gave in a way that left an unpleasant impression behind.
How quickly has the first glow of generous feeling, that sought to
extend itself to others, that they might share the pleasure of
humanity, been chilled; and, instead of finding the task an easy
one, it has proved to be hard, and, too often, humiliating! Alas,
that this should be! That men should shut their hearts so
instinctively at the voice of charity.

We have not written this to discourage active efforts in the
benevolent; but to hold up a mirror in which another class may see
themselves. At best, the office of him who seeks of his fellow-men
aid for the suffering and indigent, is an unpleasant one. It is all
sacrifice on his part, and the least that can be done is to honor
his disinterested regard for others in distress, and treat him with
delicacy and consideration.

GOING TO THE SPRINGS; OR, VULGAR PEOPLE.

"I SUPPOSE you will all be off to Saratoga, in a week or two," said
Uncle Joseph Garland to his three nieces, as he sat chatting with
them and their mother, one hot day, about the first of July.

"We're not going to Saratoga this year," replied Emily, the eldest,
with a toss of her head.

"Indeed! And why not, Emily?"

"Everybody goes to Saratoga, now."

"Who do you mean by everybody, Emily?"

"Why, I mean merchants, shop-keepers, and tradesmen, with their
wives and daughters, all mixed up together, into a kind of
hodge-podge. It used to be a fashionable place of resort--but people
that think any thing of themselves, don't go there now."

"Bless me, child!" ejaculated old Uncle Joseph, in surprise. "This
is all new to me. But you were there last year."

"I know. And that cured us all. There was not a day in which we were
not crowded down to the table among the most vulgar kind of people."

"How, vulgar, Emily?"

"Why, there was Mr. Jones, the watchmaker, with his wife and two
daughters. I need not explain what I mean by vulgar, when I give you
that information."

"I cannot say that I have any clearer idea of what you mean, Emily."

"You talk strangely, uncle! You do not suppose that we are going to
associate with the Joneses?"

"I did not say that I did. Still, I am in the dark as to what you
mean by the most vulgar kind of people."

"Why, common people, brother," said Mrs. Ludlow, coming up to the
aid of her daughter. "Mr. Jones is only a watchmaker, and therefore
has no business to push himself and family into the company of
genteel people."

"Saratoga is a place of public resort," was the quiet reply.

"Well, genteel people will have to stay away, then, that's all. I,
at least, for one, am not going to be annoyed as I have been for the
last two or three seasons at Saratoga, by being thrown amongst all
sorts of people."

"They never troubled me any," spoke up Florence Ludlow, the youngest
of the three sisters. "For my part, I liked Mary Jones very much.
She was----"

"You are too much of a child to be able to judge in matters of this
kind," said the mother, interrupting Florence.

Florence was fifteen; light-hearted and innocent. She had never been
able, thus far in life, to appreciate the exclusive principles upon
which her mother and sisters acted, and had, in consequence,
frequently fallen under their censure. Purity of heart, and the
genuine graces flowing from a truly feminine spirit, always
attracted her, no matter what the station of the individual in whose
society she happened to be thrown. The remark of her mother silenced
her, for the time, for experience had taught her that no good ever
resulted from a repetition of her opinions on a subject of this
kind.

"And I trust she will ever remain the child she is, in these
matters," said Uncle Joseph, with emphasis. "It is the duty of every
one, sister, to do all that he can to set aside the false ideas of
distinction prevailing in the social world, and to build up on a
broader and truer foundation, a right estimate of men and things.
Florence, I have observed, discriminates according to the quality of
the person's mind into whose society she is thrown, and estimates
accordingly. But you, and Emily, and Adeline, judge of people
according to their rank in society--that is according to the
position to which wealth alone has raised them. In this way, and in
no other, can you be thrown so into association with 'all kinds of
people,' as to be really affected by them. For, the result of my
observation is, that in any circle where a mere external sign is the
passport to association, 'all sorts of people,' the good, the bad,
and the indifferent, are mingled. It is not a very hard thing for a
bad man to get rich, sister; but for a man of evil principles to
rise above them, is very hard, indeed; and is an occurrence that too
rarely happens. The consequence is, that they who are rich, are not
always the ones whom we should most desire to mingle with."

"I don't see that there is any use in our talking about these
things, brother," replied Mrs. Ludlow. "You know that you and I
never did agree in matters of this kind. As I have often told you, I
think you incline to be rather low in your social views."

"How can that be a low view which regards the quality of another,
and estimates him accordingly?" was the reply.

"I don't pretend to argue with you, on these subjects, brother; so
you will oblige me by dropping them," said Mrs. Ludlow, coloring,
and speaking in an offended tone.

"Well, well, never mind," Uncle Joseph replied, soothingly. "We will
drop them."

Then turning to Emily, he continued--

"And so your minds are made up not to go to Saratoga?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Well, where do you intend spending the summer months?"

"I hardly know yet. But, if I have my say, we will take a trip in
one of the steamers. A flying visit to London would be delightful."

"What does your father say to that?"

"Why, he won't listen to it. But I'll do my best to bring him
round--and so will Adeline. As for Florence, I believe I will ask
father to let her go to Saratoga with the Joneses."

"I shall have no very decided objections," was the quiet reply of
Florence. A half angry and reproving glance from her mother, warned
her to be more discreet in the declaration of her sentiments.

"A young lady should never attempt to influence her father," said
Uncle Joseph. "She should trust to his judgment in all matters, and
be willing to deny herself any pleasure to which he objected. If
your father will not listen to your proposition to go to London, be
sure that he has some good reason for it."

"Well, I don't know that he has such very good reasons, beyond his
reluctance to go away from business," Emily replied, tossing her
head.

"And should not you, as his daughter, consider this a most
conclusive reason? Ought not your father's wishes and feelings be
considered first?"

"You may see it so, Uncle; but I cannot say that I do."

"Emily," and Uncle Joseph spoke in an excited tone of voice, "If you
hold these sentiments, you are unworthy of such a man as your
father!"

"Brother, you must not speak to the girls in that way," said Mrs.
Ludlow.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16