Books: Home Lights and Shadows
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T. S. Arthur >> Home Lights and Shadows
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"Too happy to think of others, Jane. We must be careful not to
become isolated and selfish in our pleasures. Our social character
must not be sacrificed. If it is in our power to add to the
happiness of others, it is right that we should mingle in the social
circle."
"I feel the truth of what you say, Walter, and yet I find it hard to
be thus unselfish. I am sure that I would a thousand times rather
remain at home and read with you a pleasant book, or sing and play
for you, than to spend an evening away from our pleasant home."
"I feel the same inclinations. But I am unwilling to encourage them.
And yet, I am not an advocate for continual visitings. The delights
of our own sweet fireside, small though the circle be, I would enjoy
often. But these pleasures will be increased tenfold by our
willingness to let others share them, and, also, by our joining in
their home--delights and social recreations."
A pause of a few moments ensued, when Mrs. Gray said,
"Suppose, then, Walter, we call over and see how they are getting on
at 'home?' Pa and Ma are lonesome, now that I am away."
"Just what I was thinking of, Jane. So get on your things, and we
will join them and spend a pleasant evening."
These brief conversations will indicate to the reader how each of
the young men and their wives were thus early beginning to reap the
fruits of true and false principles of action. We cannot trace each
on his career, step by step, during the passage of many years,
though much that would interest and instruct could be gathered from
their histories. The limits of a brief story like this will not
permit us thus to linger. On, then, to the grand result of their
lives we must pass. Let us look at the summing up of the whole
matter, and see which of the young men started with the true secret
of success in the world, and which of the young ladies evinced most
wisdom in her choice of a husband.
CHAPTER III.
"Poor Mrs. Wilton!" remarked Mrs. Gray, now a cheerful, intelligent
woman of forty, with half-a-dozen grown and half-grown up daughters,
"it makes me sad whenever I see her, or think of her."
"Her husband was not kind to her, I believe, while she lived with
him," said Mrs. Gray's visitor, whom she had addressed.
"It is said so. But I am sure I do not know. I never liked him, nor
thought him a man of principle. I said as much as I thought prudent
to discourage her from receiving his attentions. But she was a gay
girl herself, and was attracted by dashing pretension, rather than
by unobtrusive merit."
"It was thought at one time that Mr. Wilton would lead in the
profession here. I remember when his name used frequently to get
into the newspapers, coupled with high compliments on his brilliant
talents."
"Yes. He flashed before the eyes of the crowd for awhile, but it was
soon discovered that he had more brilliancy than substance. The loss
of two or three important cases, that required solid argument and a
well-digested array of facts and authorities, instead of flights of
fancy and appeals to the feelings, ruined his standing at the bar.
The death of his father-in-law, with an insolvent estate,
immediately after, took wonderfully from the estimation in which he
was held. Thrown, thus, suddenly back, and upon his own resources,
he sunk at once from the point of observation, and lingered around
the court-house, picking up petty cases, as a matter of necessity.
Long before this, I had noticed that Mrs. Wilton had greatly
changed. But now a sadder change took place--a separation from her
husband. The cause of this separation I know not. I never asked her,
nor to me has she ever alluded to it. But it is said that his manner
towards her became insufferable, and that she sought protection and
an asylum among her friends. Be the cause what it may, it is enough
to make her a poor, heart-stricken creature."
"How well I remember, when their parties were the most splendid and
best attended of the season."
"Yes, I well remember it too. Still, even then, gay and brilliant as
Mrs. Wilton was, I never thought her happy. Indeed, seeing her often
alone as I did, I could not but mark the painful contrast in her
spirits. At home, when not entertaining company, she was listless or
unhappy. How often have I come in upon her, and noticed her
moistened eyes."
"Ah me! it must be a wrong beginning that makes so sad an ending."
The truth of the remark, as applicable in this case, struck Mrs.
Gray forcibly, and she mused in thoughtful silence for a few
moments.
"Have you heard the news, Judge Gray?" said a lawyer, addressing the
individual he had named, about the same hour that the conversation,
just noted, occurred.
"No. What is it?"
"Why, Wilton has committed a forgery."
"O no, it cannot be!" said the Judge, in tones of painful surprise.
"It is too true, I fear, Judge."
"Is the amount considerable?"
"Ten thousand dollars is the sum mentioned."
"Has he been arrested?"
"No. But the officers are hard after him. The newspapers will
announce the fact to-morrow morning."
Judge Gray leaned his head upon his hand, and, with his eyes cast
upon the floor, sat for some moments in painful thought.
"Poor man!" he at length said, looking up. "The end has come at
last. I have long feared for him. He started wrong in the
beginning."
"I hope they will catch him," remarked the individual he was
addressing.
Judge Gray did not reply, but cast his eyes again upon the floor.
"He has lived by gambling these six years," continued the lawyer,
"and I suppose he has committed this forgery to pay some 'debt of
honor.' Well, I can't say that I am sorry to be rid of him from this
bar, for he was not a pleasant man to be forced into contact with."
"And yet he was a man of some talents," remarked the Judge,
musingly.
"And when that is said all is said. Without industry, legal
knowledge, or sound principles of action, what was he good for? He
would do for a political stump declaimer--but, as a lawyer, in any
case of moment, he was not worth a copper."
And thus saying, the lawyer turned away, and left Judge Gray to his
own thoughts.
"I have unpleasant news to tell you, Jane," said Judge Gray, coming
into the room where sat his wife, an hour afterwards.
"What is that, husband?" asked Mrs. Gray, looking up with a
concerned countenance.
"Why, our old friend Charles Wilton has committed a forgery!"
"Poor Cara! It will break her heart," Mrs. Gray said in a sad tone.
"I do not suppose she has much affection for him, Jane."
"No, but she has a good deal of pride left--all, in fact, that
sustains her. This last blow, I fear, will be too much for one who
has no true strength of character."
"Would it not be well for you to call in and see her to-morrow? The
papers will all announce the fact in the morning, and she may need
the consolation which a true friend might be able to afford her."
"I will go, most certainly, much as my natural feelings shrink from
the task. Where she is, I am sure she has no one to lean upon: for
there is not one of her so-called friends, upon whom she feels
herself a burden, that can or will sympathize with her truly."
"Go, then. And may mercy's errand find mercy's reward."
On the next morning all the city papers teemed with accounts of the
late forgery, and blazoned Charles Wilton's name, with many
opprobrious epithets before the public. Some went even so far as to
allude to his wife, whom they said he had forsaken years before, and
who was now, it was alleged, living in poverty, and, some hinted in
disgrace and infamy.
Early in the day, Mrs. Gray repaired to the cheerless home of her
early friend. She was shown to her chamber, where she found her
lying insensible on the bed, with one of the newspapers in her hand,
that alluded to herself in disgraceful terms.
Long and patient efforts to restore her, at length produced the
desired result. But it was many days before she seemed distinctly
conscious of what was passing or would converse with any degree of
coherency.
"Come and spend a few weeks with me, Cara."
Mrs. Gray said to her, one day, on calling in to see her; "I am sure
it will do you good."
There was a sad, but grateful expression in the pale face of Mrs.
Wilton, as she looked into the eye of her old friend, but ventured
no reply.
"You will come, will you not, Cara?" urged Mrs. Gray.
"My presence in your happy family would be like the shadow of an
evil wing," said she bitterly.
"Our happy family, say-rather, would chase away the gloomy shadows
that darken your heart. Come then, and we will give you a cheerful
welcome."
"I feel much inclined, and yet I hesitate, for I ought not to throw
a gloom over your household," and the tears filled her eyes, and
glistened through the lids which were closed suddenly over them.
"Come, and welcome!" Mrs. Gray urged, taking her hand and gently
pressing it.
That evening Mrs. Wilton spent in the pleasant family of her old
friend.
Three weeks afterwards, Mrs. Gray asked of her husband, if anything
had been heard of Mr. Wilton.
"Nothing," he replied. "He has escaped all pursuit thus far, and the
officers, completely at fault, have returned."
"I cannot say that I am sorry, at least for the sake of his wife.
She seems more cheerful since she came here. I feel sometimes as if
I should like to offer her a home, for she has none, that might
truly be so called."
"Act up to your kind desire, Jane, if you think it right to do so,"
said her husband. "Perhaps in no other home open to her could so
much be done for her comfort."
The home was accordingly offered, and tearfully accepted.
"Jane," said the sad hearted woman, "I cannot tell you how much I
have suffered in the last twenty years. How much from
heart-sickening disappointments, and lacerated affections. High
hopes and brilliant expectations that made my weak brain giddy to
think of, have all ended thus. How weak and foolish--how mad we
were! But my husband was not all to blame. I was as insane in my
views of life as he. We lived only for ourselves--thought and cared
only for ourselves--and here is the result. How wisely and well did
you choose, Jane. Where my eye saw nothing to admire, yours more
skilled, perceived the virgin ore of truth. I was dazzled by show,
while you looked below the surface, and saw true character, and its
effect in action. How signally has each of us been rewarded!" and
the heart-stricken creature bowed her head and wept.
And now, kind reader, if there be one who has followed us thus far,
are you disappointed in not meeting some startling denoument, or
some effective point in this narrative. I hope not. Natural results
have followed, in just order, the adoption of true and false
principles of action--and thus will they ever follow. Learn, then, a
lesson from the history of the two young men and the maidens of
their choice. Let every young man remember, that all permanent
success in life depends upon the adoption of such principles of
action as are founded in honesty and truth; and let every young
woman take it to heart, that all her married life will be affected
by the principles which her husband sets down as rules of action.
Let her give no consideration to his brilliant prospect, or his
brilliant mind, if sound moral principles do not govern him.
"But what became of Charles Wilton and his wife?" I hear a
bright-eyed maiden asking, as she turns half impatient from my
homily.
Wilton has escaped justice thus far, and his wife, growing more and
more cheerful every day, is still the inmate of Judge Gray's family,
and I trust will remain so until the end of her journeying here. And
what is more, she is learning the secret, that there is more
happiness in caring for others, than in being all absorbed in
selfish consideration. Still, she is a sad wreck upon the stream of
life--a warning beacon for your eyes, young lady.
VISITING AS NEIGHBORS.
"I see that the house next door has been taken," remarked Mr. Leland
to his wife, as they sat alone one pleasant summer evening.
"Yes. The family moved in to-day," returned Mrs. Leland.
"Do you know their name?"
"It is Halloran."
"Halloran, Halloran," said Mr. Leland, musingly. "I wonder if it's
the same family that lived in Parker Street."
"Yes, the same; and I wish they had stayed there."
"Their moving in next door need not trouble us, Jane. They are not
on our list of acquaintances."
"But I shall have to call upon Mrs. Haloran; and Emma upon her
grown-up daughter Mary."
"I do not see how that is to follow as a consequence of their
removal into our neighborhood."
"Politeness requires us to visit them as neighbors."
"Are they really our neighbors?" asked Mr. Leland, significantly.
"Certainly they are. How strange that you should ask the question!"
"What constitutes them such? Not mere proximity, certainly. Because
a person happens to live in a house near by, can that make him or
her really a neighbor, and entitled to the attention and
consideration due a neighbor?"
This remark caused Mrs. Leland to look thoughtful. "It ought not,"
she said, after sitting silent a little while, "but still, it does."
"I do not think so. A neighbor--that is, one to whom kind offices is
due--ought to come with higher claims than the mere fact of living
in a certain house located near by the dwelling in which we reside.
If mere location is to make any one a neighbor, we have no
protection against the annoyance and intrusions of persons we do not
like; nay, against evil-minded persons, who would delight more in
doing us injury than good. These Hallorans for instance. They move
in good society; but they are not persons to our mind. I should not
like to see you on terms of intimacy with Mrs. Halloran, or Jane
with her daughter. In fact, the latter I should feel, did it exist,
to be a calamity."
"Still they _are_ our neighbors," Mrs. Leland said. "I do not see
how we can avoid calling upon them."
"Perhaps," remarked the husband, "you have not thought seriously
enough on the subject.
"Who is my neighbor? is a question of importance, and ought to be
answered in every mind. Something more than living in the same
street, or block of houses, is evidently implied in the word
neighbor. It clearly involves a reciprocity of good feelings. Mere
proximity in space cannot effect this. It requires another kind of
nearness--the nearness of similar affections; and these must,
necessarily, be unselfish; for in selfishness there is no
reciprocity. Under this view, could you consider yourself the
neighbor of such a person as Mrs. Halloran?"
"No matter what the character, we should be kind to all. Every one
should be our neighbor, so far as this is concerned. Do you not
think so?"
"I do not, Jane."
"Should we not be kind to every one?"
"Yes, kind; but not in the acceptation of the word as you have used
it. There is a false, as well as a true kindness. And it often
happens that true kindness appears to be any thing but what it
really is. In order to be kind to another, we are not always
required to exhibit flattering attentions. These often injure where
distance and reserve would do good. Besides, they too frequently
give power to such as are evil-disposed--a power that is exercised
injuriously to others."
"But the simple fact of my calling upon Mrs. Halloran cannot,
possibly, give her the power of injuring me or any one else."
"I think differently. The fact that you have called upon her will be
a reason for some others to do the same; for, you know, there are
persons who never act from a distinct sense of right, but merely
follow in the wake of others. Thus the influence of a selfish,
censorious, evil-minded woman will be extended. So far as you are
concerned, the danger may be greater than you imagine. Is Mary
Halloran, in your estimation, a fit companion for our daughter?
Could she become intimate with her, and not suffer a moral
deterioration?"
"I think not."
"Are you sure that a call upon Mrs. Halloran will not lead to this
result?"
"No, I am not _sure_. Still, I do not apprehend any danger."
"I should be very much afraid of the experiment."
"But, do you not think, husband, that, apart from all these fears, I
am bound to extend to Mrs. Halloran the courtesies due a neighbor?"
"I cannot, in the true sense of the word, consider her a neighbor;
and, therefore, do not see that you owe her the courtesies to which
you allude. It is the good in any one that really makes the
neighbor. This good should ever be regarded. But, to show
attentions, and give eminence and consideration to an evil-minded
person, is to make evil, instead of good, the neighbor.--It is to
give that power to evil which is ever exercised in injury to
others."
Mrs. Leland's mind perceived only in a small degree the force of
what her husband said.--She was not a woman who troubled herself
about the characters of those who stood upon a certain level in
society. Mrs. Halloran claimed her place from wealth and family
connexions, and this place was rather above than below that occupied
by Mrs. Leland. The temptation to call upon her was, therefore,
pretty strong. It was not so much a regard for her new neighbor, as
a desire to make her acquaintance, that influenced her.--Acting in
opposition to her husband's judgment, in a few days she called upon
Mrs. Halloran.
She found her, to use her own words, a "charming woman." The next
move was for the daughter to call upon Mary Halloran. Before the
week passed, these calls had been returned. In a month the two
families--that is, the female members of them--had become quite
intimate. This intimacy troubled Mr. Leland. He was a man of pure
principles, and could tolerate no deviation from them. Deeply did he
regret any association that might tend to weaken the respect for
such principles with which he had sought to inspire the mind of his
daughter. In them he knew lay the power that was to protect her in
the world. But he could not interfere, arbitrarily, with his wife;
that he would have considered more dangerous than to let her act in
freedom. But he felt concerned for the consequence, and frequently
urged her not to be too intimate with her new neighbor.
"Some evil, I am sure, will grow out of it," he would say, whenever
allusion was in any way made to the subject of his wife's intimacy
with Mrs. Halloran. "No one can touch pitch and not be defiled."
"I really must blame you," Mrs. Leland replied to a remark like
this, "for your blind opposition to Mrs. Halloran. The more I see of
her, the better I like her. She is a perfect lady. So kind, so
affable, so--so"--
Mr. Leland shook his head.
"The mere gloss of polite society," he returned. "There is no
soundness in her heart. We know that, for the tree is judged by its
fruit."
"We have seen no evil fruit," said the wife.
"Others have, and we _know_ that others have.--Her conduct in the
case of the Percys is notorious."
"Common report is always exaggerated."
"Though it usually has some foundation in truth. But granting all
the exaggeration and false judgment that usually appertain to common
report, is it not wiser to act as if common report were true, until
we know it to be false?"
But it was useless for Mr. Leland to talk.--His wife was charmed
with the fascinating neighbor, and would hear nothing against her.
Jane, too, had become intimate with Mary Halloran, a bold-faced
girl, who spent half of her time in the street, and talked of little
else but beaux and dress. Jane was eighteen, and before her
acquaintance with Mary, had been but little into company. Her
intimacy with Mary soon put new notions into her head. She began to
think more of dress, and scarcely a day passed that she did not go
out with her very intimate and pleasant friend. Mrs. Leland did not
like this. Much as she was pleased Mrs. Halloran, she never fancied
the daughter a great deal, and would have been much better satisfied
if the two young ladies had not become quite so intimate.
"Where are you going?" she said to Jane, who came down stairs
dressed to go out, one morning.
"Mary and I are going to make some calls," she replied.
"You were out making calls, yesterday, with Mary, and the day before
also. This is too great a waste of time, Jane. I would rather see
you at home more."
"I don't know why you should wish to confine me down to the house.
Mary Halloran goes and comes when she pleases."
"Mary Halloran is in the street a great deal too much. I am far from
wishing to see you imitate her example."
"But what harm is there in it, mother?"
"A great deal, Jane. It gives idle habits, and makes the mind
dissatisfied with the more sober duties of life."
"I am too young for the sober duties of life," said Jane, rather
pertly.
"That is, doubtless, one of your friend Mary's sentiments; and it is
worthy of her."
This was true, and Jane did not deny it.
"Go now," said Mrs. Leland, with much sobriety of manner. "But
remember that I disapprove of this gadding about, and object to its
continuance. I should be very sorry to have your father know to what
extent you are carrying it."
Jane went out and called for Mary, and the two young ladies made a
few calls, and then walked the streets until dinner time; not,
however, alone, but accompanied by a dashing young fellow, who had
been introduced to Mary a few evenings before, and now made bold to
follow up the acquaintance, encouraged by a glance from the young
lady's bright, inviting eyes.
Mrs. Leland, in the mean time, felt unhappy. Her daughter was
changing, and the change troubled her. The intimacy formed with Mary
Halloran, it was clear, was doing her no good, but harm. By this
time, too, she had noticed some things in the mother that were by no
means to her taste. There was a coarseness, vulgarity and want of
delicacy about her, that showed itself more and more every day,
traits of character particularly offensive to Mrs. Leland, who was a
woman of refined sentiments. Besides, Mrs. Halloran's conversation
involved topics neither interesting nor instructing to her
neighbors; and often of a decidedly objectionable kind. In fact, she
liked her less and less every day, and felt her too frequently
repeated visits as an annoyance; and though "Why don't you come in
to see me oftener?" was repeated almost daily, she did not return
more than one out of every half dozen calls she received.
"I've seen Jane in the street with that Mary Halloran no less than
three times this week," said Mr. Leland, one day, "and on two of
these occasions there was a beau accompanying each of the young
ladies."
"She goes out too often, I know," returned Mrs. Leland seriously. "I
have objected to it several times, but the girl's head seems turned
with that Mary Halloran. I do wish she had never known her."
"So do I, from my heart. We knew what she was, and never should have
permitted Jane to make her acquaintance, if it had been in our power
to prevent it."
"It is too late now, and can't be helped."
"Too late to prevent the acquaintance, but not too late to prevent
some of the evil consequences likely to grow out of such an improper
intimacy, which must cease from the present time."
"It will be a difficult matter to break it off now."
"No matter how difficult it may be, it must be done. The first step
toward it you will have to make, in being less intimate with the
mother, whom I like less and less the oftener I meet her."
"That step, so far as I am concerned, has already been taken. I have
ceased visiting Mrs. Halloran almost entirely; but she is here just
as often, and sadly annoys me. I dislike her more and more every
day."
"If I saw as much in any one to object to as you see in Mrs.
Halloran, I would soon make visiting a thing by no means agreeable.
You can easily get rid of her intrusive familiarity if you think
proper."
"Yes, by offending her, and getting the ill-will of a low-minded
unprincipled woman; a thing that no one wants."
"Better offend her than suffer, as we are likely to suffer, from a
continuance of the acquaintance. Offend the mother, I say, and thus
you get rid of the daughter."
But Mrs. Leland was not prepared for this step, yet. From having
been fascinated by Mrs. Halloran, she now began to fear her.
"I should not like to have her talk of me as she talks of some
people whom I think a great deal better than she is."
"Let her talk. What she says will be no scandal," returned Mr.
Leland.
"Even admit that, I don't want to be on bad terms with a neighbor.
If she were to remove from the neighborhood, the thing would assume
a different aspect. As it is, I cannot do as I please."
"Can't you indeed? Then I think we had better move forthwith, in
order that you may be free to act right. There is one thing that I
intend doing, immediately, in any event, and that is, to forbid Jane
from associating any longer with Mary Halloran."
"She cannot help herself. Mary calls for her every day."
"She can help going out with her and returning her calls; and this
she must do."
"I wish it could be prevented. But I am afraid of harsh measures."
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