Books: Home Lights and Shadows
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T. S. Arthur >> Home Lights and Shadows
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Melvina had sought to produce a "sensation" by gay and imposing
attire, and after a brief and partial success, lost her power. But
Caroline, with no wish to be noticed, much less to be the reigning
belle of the evening, consulting her own pure taste, went in simple
garments, and won the spontaneous admiration of all, and, what was
more, the heart of Henry Clarence. He never, after that evening,
could feel any thing of his former tenderness towards Melvina
Felton. The veil had fallen from his eyes. He saw the difference
between the desire of admiration, and a simple love of truth and
honor, too plainly, to cause him to hesitate a moment longer in his
choice between two so opposite in their characters. And yet, to the
eye of an inattentive observer nothing occurred during the progress
of Mrs. Walshingham's party more than ordinarily takes place on such
occasions. All seemed pleased and happy, and Melvina the happiest of
the whole. And yet she had signally failed in her well-laid scheme
to take the heart of Henry Clarence--while Caroline, with no such
design, and in simply following the promptings of a pure heart and a
right taste, had won his affectionate regard.
It was some three or four months after the party at Mrs.
Walshingham's, that Melvina Fenton and Caroline Gay were alone in
the chamber of the latter, in close and interested conversation.
"I have expected as much," the former said, in answer to some
communication made to her by the latter.
"Then you are not surprised?"
"Not at all."
"And I hope not pained by the intelligence?"
"No, Caroline, not now," her friend said, smiling; "though two or
three months ago it would have almost killed me. I, too, have been
wooed and won."
"Indeed! That is news. And who is it, Melvina? I am eager to know."
"Martin Colburn."
"A gentleman, and every way worthy of your hand. But how in the
world comes it that so quiet and modest a young man as Martin has
now the dashing belle?"
"It has occurred quite naturally, Caroline. The dashing belle has
gained a little more good sense than she had a few months ago. She
has not forgotten the party at Mrs. Walsaingham's. And by the bye,
Caroline, how completely you out-generalled me on that occasion. I
had a great mind for a while never to forgive you."
"You are altogether mistaken, Melvina," Caroline said, with a
serious air. "I did not act a part on that occasion. I went but in
my true character, and exhibited no other."
"It was nature, then, eclipsing art; truth of character outshining
the glitter of false assumption. But all that is past, and I am
wiser and better for it, I hope. You will be happy, I know, with
Henry Clarence, for he is worthy of you, and can appreciate your
real excellence; and I shall be happy, I trust, with the man of my
choice."
"No doubt of it, Melvina. And by the way," Caroline said, laughing,
"we shall make another 'sensation,' and then we must be content to
retire into peaceful domestic obscurity. You will have a brilliant
time, I suppose?"
"O yes. I must try my hand at creating one more sensation, the last
and most imposing; and, as my wedding comes the first, you must be
my bridesmaid. You will not refuse?"
"Not if we can agree as to how we are to dress. We ought to be alike
in this, and yet I can never consent to appear in any thing but what
is plain, and beautiful for its simplicity."
"You shall arrange all these. You beat me the last time in creating
a sensation, and now I will give up to your better taste."
And rarely has a bride looked sweeter than did Melvina Fenton on her
wedding-day. Still, she was eclipsed by Caroline, whose native grace
accorded so well with her simple attire, that whoever looked upon
her, looked again, and to admire. The "sensation" they created was
not soon forgotten.
Caroline was married in a week after, and then the fair heroines of
our story passed from the notice of the fashionable world, and were
lost with the thousands who thus yearly desert the gay circles, and
enter the quiet sphere and sweet obscurity of domestic life.
SOMETHING FOR A COLD.
"Henry," said Mr. Green to his little son Henry, a lad in his eighth
year, "I want you to go to the store for me."
Mr. Green was a working-man, who lived in a comfortable cottage,
which he had built from money earned from honest industry. He was,
moreover, a sober, kind-hearted man, well liked by all his
neighbors, and beloved by his own family.
"I'm ready, father," said Henry, who left his play, and went to look
for his cap, the moment he was asked to go on an errand.
"Look in the cupboard, and get the pint flask. It's on the lower
shelf."
Henry did as desired, and then asked--"What shall I get, father?"
"Tell Mr. Brady to send me a pint of good Irish whiskey."
The boy tripped lightly away, singing as he went. He was always
pleased to do an errand for his father.
"This cold of mine gets worse," remarked Mr. Green to his wife, as
Henry left the house. "I believe I'll try old Mr. Vandeusen's
remedy--a bowl of hot whiskey-punch. He says it always cures him; it
throws him into a free perspiration, and the next morning he feels
as clear as a bell."
"It is not always good," remarked Mrs. Green, "to have the pores
open. We are more liable to take cold."
"Very true. It is necessary to be careful how we expose ourselves
afterwards."
"I think I can make you some herb-tea, that would do you as much
good as the whiskey punch," said Mrs. Green.
"Perhaps you could," returned her husband, "but I don't like your
bitter stuff. It never was to my fancy."
Mrs. Green smiled, and said no more.
"A few moments afterwards, the door opened, and Henry came in,
looking pale and frightened.
"Oh, father!" he cried, panting, "Mr. Brooks is killing Margaret!"
"What!" Mr. Green started to his feet.
"Oh!" exclaimed the child, "he's killing her! he's killing her! I
saw him strike her on the head with his fist." And tears rolled over
the boy's cheeks.
Knowing Brooks to be a violent man when intoxicated, Mr. Green lost
not a moment in hesitation or reflection, but left his house
hurriedly, and ran to the dwelling of his neighbor, which was near
at hand. On entering the house, a sad scene presented itself. The
oldest daughter of Brooks, a girl in her seventeenth year, was lying
upon a bed, insensible, while a large bruised and bloody spot on the
side of her face showed where the iron fist of her brutal father had
done its fearful if not fatal work. Her mother bent over her,
weeping; while two little girls were shrinking with frightened looks
into a corner of the room.
Mr. Green looked around for the wretched man, who, in the insanity
of drunkenness, had done this dreadful deed; but he was not to be
seen.
"Where is Mr. Brooks?" he asked.
"He has gone for the doctor," was replied.
And in a few minutes he came in with a physician. He was partially
sobered, and his countenance had a troubled expression. His eyes
shrunk beneath the steady, rebuking gaze of his neighbors.
"Did you say your daughter had fallen down stairs?" said the doctor,
as he leaned over Margaret, and examined the dreadful bruise on her
cheek.
"Yes--yes," stammered the guilty father, adding this falsehood to
the evil act.
"Had the injury been a few inches farther up, she would ere this
have breathed her last," said the doctor--looking steadily at
Brooks, until the eyes of the latter sunk to the floor.
Just then there were signs of returning life in the poor girl, and
the doctor turned towards her all his attention. In a little while,
she began to moan, and moved her arms about, and soon opened her
eyes.
After she was fully restored again to conscious life, Mr. Green
returned to his home, where he was met with eager questions from his
wife.--After describing all he had seen, he made this remark--
"There are few better men than Thomas Brooks when he it sober; but
when he is drunk he acts like a demon."
"He must be a demon to strike with his hard fist, a delicate
creature like his daughter Margaret. And she is so good a girl. Ah,
me! to what dreadful consequences does this drinking lead!"
"It takes away a man's reason," said Mr. Green, "and when this is
gone, he becomes the passive subject of evil influences. He is, in
fact, no longer a man."
Mrs. Green sighed deeply.
"His poor wife!" she murmured; "how my heart aches for her, and his
poor children! If the husband and father changes, from a guardian
and provider for his family, into their brutal assailant, to whom
can they look for protection? Oh, it is sad! sad!"
"It is dreadful! dreadful!" said Mr. Green.--
"It is only a few years ago," he added, "since Brooks began to show
that he was drinking too freely. He always liked his glass, but he
knew how to control himself, and never drowned his reason in his
cups. Of late, however, he seems to have lost all control over
himself. I never saw a man abandon himself so suddenly."
"All effects of this kind can be traced back to very small
beginnings," remarked Mrs. Green.
"Yes. A man does not become a drunkard in a day. The habit is one of
very gradual formation."
"But when once formed," said Mrs. Green, "hardly any power seems
strong enough to break it. It clings to a man as if it were a part
of himself."
"And we might almost say that it was a part of himself," replied Mr.
Green: "for whatever we do from a confirmed habit, fixes in the mind
an inclination thereto, that carries us away as a vessel is borne
upon the current of a river."
"How careful, then, should every one be, not to put himself in the
way of forming so dangerous a habit. Well do I remember when Mr.
Brooks was married. A more promising young man could not be
found--nor one with a kinder heart. The last evil I feared for him
and his gentle wife was that of drunkenness. Alas! that this
calamity should have fallen upon their household.--What evil, short
of crime, is greater than this?"
"It is so hopeless," remarked Mr. Green. "I have talked with Brooks
a good many times, but it has done no good. He promises amendment,
but does not keep his promise a day."
"Touch not, taste not, handle not. This is the only safe rule," said
Mrs. Green.
"Yes, I believe it," returned her husband.--"The man who never
drinks is in no danger of becoming a drunkard."
For some time, Mr. and Mrs. Green continued to converse about the
sad incident which had just transpired in the family of their
neighbor, while their little son, upon whose mind the fearful sight
he had witnessed was still painfully vivid, sat and listened to all
they were saying, with a clear comprehension of the meaning of the
whole.
After awhile the subject was dropped. There had been a silence of
some minutes, when the attention of Mr. Green was again called to
certain unpleasant bodily sensations, and he said--
"I declare! this cold of mine is very bad. I must do something to
break it before it gets worse. Henry, did you get that Irish whiskey
I sent for?"
"No, sir," replied the child, "I was so frightened when I saw Mr.
Brooks strike Margaret, that I ran back."
"Oh, well, I don't wonder! It was dreadful. Mr. Brooks was very
wicked to do so. But take the flask and run over to the store. Tell
Brady that I want a pint of good Irish whiskey."
Henry turned from his father, and went to the table on which he had
placed the flask. He did not move with his usual alacrity.
"It was whiskey, wasn't it," said the child, as he took the bottle
in his hand, "that made Mr. Brooks strike Margaret?" And he looked
so earnestly into his father's face, and with so strange an
expression, that the man felt disturbed, while he yet wondered at
the manner of the lad.
"Yes," replied Mr. Green, "it was the whiskey. Mr. Brooks, if he had
been sober, would not have hurt a hair of her head."
Henry looked at the bottle, then at his father, in so strange a way,
that Mr. Green, who did not at first comprehend what was in the
child's thoughts wondered still more. All was soon understood, for
Harry, bursting into tears, laid down the flask, and, throwing his
arms around his father's neck, said--
"Oh, father! don't get any whiskey!"
Mr. Green deeply touched by the incident, hugged his boy tightly to
his bosom. He said--
"I only wanted it for medicine, dear. But, never mind. I won't let
such dangerous stuff come into my house. Mother shall make me some
of her herb-tea, and that will do as well."
Henry looked up, after a while, timidly.--"You're not angry with me,
father?" came from his innocent lips.
"Oh, no, my child! Why should I be angry?" replied Mr. Green,
kissing the cheek of his boy. Then the sunshine came back again to
Henry's heart, and he was happy as before.
Mrs. Green made the herb-tea for her husband, and it proved quite as
good for him as the whiskey-punch. A glass or two of cold water, on
going to bed, would probably have been of more real advantage in the
case, than either of these doubtful remedies.
THE PORTRAIT.
"BLESS the happy art!" ejaculated Mrs. Morton, wiping the moisture
from her eyes. "Could anything be more perfect than that likeness of
his sweet, innocent face? Dear little Willie! I fear I love him too
much."
"It is indeed perfect," said Mr. Morton, after viewing the picture
in many lights. "My favourite painter has surpassed himself. What
could be more like life, than that gentle, half-pensive face looking
so quiet and thoughtful, and yet so full of childhood's most
innocent, happy expression?"
Mr. Morton, here introduced to the reader, was a wealthy merchant of
Philadelphia, and a liberal patron of the arts. He had, already,
obtained several pictures from Sully, who was, with him, as an
artist, a great favourite. The last order had just been sent home.
It was a portrait of his youngest, and favourite child--a sweet
little boy, upon whose head three summers had not yet smiled.
"I would not take the world for it!" said Mrs. Morton after looking
at it long and steadily for the hundredth time. "Dear little fellow!
A year from now, and how changed he will be. And every year he will
be changing and changing; but this cannot alter, and even from the
period of manhood, we may look back and see our Willie's face when
but a child."
"Every one who is able," remarked Mr. Morton, "should have the
portraits of his children taken. What better legacy could a father
leave to his child, than the image of his own innocent face! Surely,
it were enough to drive away thoughts of evil, and call up old and
innocent affections, for any man, even the man of crime, to look for
but a moment upon the image of what he was in childhood."
"And yet there are some," added Mrs. Morton, "who call portraits,
and indeed, all paintings, mere luxuries--meaning, thereby,
something that is utterly useless."
"Yes, there are such, but even they, it seems to me, might perceive
their use in preserving the innocent features of their children. The
good impressions made in infancy and childhood, are rarely if ever
lost; they come back upon every one at times, and are, frequently,
all-powerful in the influence they exert against evil. How like a
spell to call back those innocent thoughts and affections, would be
the image of a man's face in childhood! No one, it seems to me,
could resist its influence."
One, two, and three years passed away, and every one wrought some
change upon "little Willie," but each change seemed to the fond
parents an improvement,--yet, did they not look back to earlier
years, as they glanced at his picture, with less of tender emotion,
and heart-stirring delight. But now a sad change, the saddest of all
changes that occur, took place. Disease fastened upon the child, and
ere the parents, and fond sisters of a younger and only brother,
were fully sensible of danger, the spirit of the child had fled. We
will not linger to pain the reader with any minute description of
the deep and abiding grief that fell, like a shadow from an evil
wing overspreading them, upon the household of Mr. Morton, but pass
on to scenes more exciting, if not less moving to the heart.
For many weeks, Mrs. Morton could not trust herself to look up to
the picture that still hung in its place, the picture of her lost
one. But after time had, in some degree, mellowed the grief that
weighed down her spirits, she found a melancholy delight in gazing
intently upon the beautiful face that was still fresh and
unchanged--that still looked the impersonation of innocence.
"He was too pure and too lovely for the earth," she said, one day,
to her husband, about two months after his death, leaning her head
upon his shoulder--"and so the angels took him."
"Then do not grieve for him," Mr. Morton replied in a soothing tone.
"We know that he is with the angels, and where they are, is neither
evil, nor sorrow, nor pain. Much as I loved him, much as I grieved
for his loss, I would not recall him if I could. But, our picture
cannot die. And though it is mute and inanimate, yet it is something
to awaken remembrances, that, even though sad, we delight to
cherish. It is something to remind us, that we have a child in
heaven."
But the loss of their child seemed but the beginning of sorrows to
Mr. Morton and his family. An unexpected series of failures in
business so fatally involved him, that extrication became
impossible. He was an honest man, and therefore, this sudden
disastrous aspect of affairs was doubly painful, for he knew no
other course but the honourable giving up of everything. On learning
the whole truth in relation to his business, he came home, and after
opening the sad news to his wife, he called his family around him.
"My dear children," he said, "I have painful news to break to you;
but you cannot know it too soon. Owing to a succession of heavy
failures, my business has become embarrassed beyond hope. I must
give up all,--even our comfortable and elegant home must be changed
for one less expensive, and less comfortable. Can you, my children,
bear with cheerfulness and contentment such a changed condition?"
The heart of each one had already been subdued and chastened by the
affliction that removed the little playmate of all so suddenly away,
and now the news of a painful and unlooked-for reverse came with a
shock that, for a few moments, bewildered and alarmed.
"Are not my children willing to share the good and evil of life with
their father?" Mr. Morton resumed after the gush of tears that
followed the announcement of his changed fortunes had in a degree
subsided.
"Yes, dear father! be they what they may," Constance, the eldest, a
young lady in her seventeenth year, said, looking up affectionately
through her tears.
Mary, next in years, pressed up to her father's side, and twining an
arm around his neck, kissed his forehead tenderly. She did not
speak; for her heart was too full; but it needed no words to assure
him that her love was as true as the needle to the pole.
Eliza, but twelve, and like an unfolding bud half revealing the
loveliness and beauty within, could not fully comprehend the whole
matter. But enough she did understand, to know that her father was
in trouble, and this brought her also to his side.
"Do not think of us, dear father!" Constance said, after the pause
of a few oppressive moments. "Let the change be what it may, it
cannot take from us our father's love, and our father's honourable
principles. Nor can it change the true affection of his children. I
feel as if I could say, With my father I could go unto prison or to
death."
The father was much moved. "That trial, my dear children, I trust
you may never be called upon to meet. The whole extent of the
painful one into which you are about to enter, you cannot now
possibly realize, and I earnestly hope that your hearts may not fail
you while passing through the deep waters. But one thought may
strengthen; think that by your patience and cheerfulness, your
father's burdens will be lightened. He cannot see you pained without
suffering a double pang himself."
"Trust us, father," was the calm, earnest, affectionate reply of
Constance; and it was plain, by the deep resolution expressed in the
faces of her sisters, that she spoke for them as well as herself.
And now, the shadow that was obscuring their earthly prospects,
began to fall thicker upon them. At the meeting of his creditors
which was called, he gave a full statement of his affairs.
"And now," he said, "I am here to assign everything. In consequence
of heavy, and you all must see, unavoidable, losses, this assignment
will include all my property, and still leave a small deficiency.
Beyond that, I can only hope for success in my future exertions, and
pledge that success in anticipation. Can I do more?"
"We could not ask for more certainly," was the cold response of a
single individual, made in a tone of voice implying no sympathy with
the debtor's misfortunes, but rather indicating disappointment that
the whole amount of his claim could not be made out of the assets.
Some degree of sympathy, some kind consideration for his painful
condition Mr. Morton naturally looked for, but nearly every kind
emotion for him was stifled by the sordid disappointment which each
one of his former business friends felt in losing what they valued,
as their feelings indicated, above everything else--their money.
"When will the assignment be made?" was the next remark.
"Appoint your trustees, and I am ready at any moment."
Trustees were accordingly appointed, and these had a private
conference with, and received their instructions from the creditors.
In a week they commenced their work of appraisement. After a
thorough and careful examination into accounts, deeds, mortgages,
and documents of various kinds, and becoming satisfied that every
thing was as Mr. Morton had stated it, it was found that the
property represented by these would cover ninety cents in the
dollar.
"Your furniture and plate comes next," said one of the trustees.
Mr. Morton bowed and said, while his heart sunk in his bosom--
"To-morrow I will be ready for that."
"But why not to-day?" inquired one of the trustees. "We are anxious
to get through with this unpleasant business."
"I said to-morrow," Mr. Morton replied, while a red spot burned upon
his cheek.
The trustees looked at each other, and hesitated.
"Surely," said the debtor, "you cannot hesitate to let me have a
single day in which to prepare my family for so painful a duty as
that which is required of me."
"We should suppose," remarked one of the trustees, in reply, "that
your family were already prepared for that."
The debtor looked the last speaker searchingly in the face for some
moments, and then said, as if satisfied with the examination--
"Then you are afraid that I will make way, in the mean time, with
some of my plate!"
"I did not say so, Mr. Morton. But, you know we are under oath to
protect the interest of the creditors."
An indignant reply trembled on the lips of Morton, but he curbed his
feelings with a strong effort.
"I am ready now," he said, after a few moments of hurried
self-communion. "The sooner it is over the better."
Half an hour after he entered his house with the trustees, and sworn
appraiser. He left them in the parlour below, while he held a brief
but painful interview with his family.
"Do not distress yourself, dear father!" Constance said, laying her
hand upon his shoulder. We expected this, and have fully nerved
ourselves for the trial."
"May he who watches over, and regards us all, bless you, my
children!" the father said with emotion, and hurriedly left them.
A careful inventory of the costly furniture that adorned the
parlours was first taken. The plate was then displayed, rich and
beautiful, and valued; and then the trustees lifted their eyes to
the wall--they were connoisseurs in the fine arts; at least one of
them was, but a taste for the arts had, in his case, failed to
soften his feelings. He looked at a picture much as a dealer in
precious stones looks at a diamond, to determine its money-value.
"That is from Guido," he said, looking admiringly at a sweet
picture, which had always been a favourite of Mr. Morton's, "and it
is worth a hundred dollars."
"Shall I put it down at that?" asked the appraiser, who had little
experience in valuing pictures.
"Yes; put it down at one hundred. It will bring that under the
hammer, any day," replied the connoisseur. "Ah, what have we here? A
copy from Murillo's 'Good Shepherd.' Isn't that a lovely picture?
Worth a hundred and fifty, every cent. And here is 'Our Saviour,'
from Da Vinci's celebrated picture of the Last Supper; and a
'Magdalen' from Correggio. You are a judge of pictures, I see, Mr.
Morton! But what is this?" he said, eyeing closely a large
engraving, richly framed.
"A proof, as I live! from the only plate worth looking at of
Raphael's Madonna of St. Sixtus. I'll give fifty dollars for that,
myself."
The pictures named were all entered up by the appraiser, and then
the group continued their examination.
"Here is a Sully," remarked the trustee above alluded to, pausing
before Willie's portrait.
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