"Your experiment failed, did it not, dear?"
The door of the room in which the ladies were sitting opened at the moment, and Frederick Lee entered.
"Not entirely," whispered Kate, as she bent to the ear of her friend. "He is vastly improved—at least, in my eyes."
"And in others' eyes, too," thought Mrs. Morton, as she arose and returned the young man's smiling salutation.
My young friend, Cora Lee, was a gay, dashing girl, fond of dress, and looking always as if, to use a common saying, just out of a bandbox. Cora was a belle, of course, and had many admirers. Among the number of these, was a young man named Edward Douglass, who was the very "pink" of neatness in all matters pertaining to dress, and exceedingly particular in his observance of the little proprieties of life.
I saw, from the first, that if Douglass pressed his suit, Cora's heart would be an easy conquest, and so it proved.
"How admirably they are fitted for each other!" I remarked to my husband, on the night of their wedding. "Their tastes are similar, and their habits so much alike, that no violence will be done to the feelings of either in the more intimate associations that marriage brings. Both are neat in person and orderly by instinct, and both have good principles."
"From all present appearances, the match will be a good one," replied my husband. There was, I thought, something like reservation in his tone.
"Do you really think so?" I said, a little ironically, for Mr. Smith's approval of the marriage was hardly warm enough to suit my fancy.
"Oh, certainly! Why not?" he replied.
I felt a little fretted at my husband's mode of speaking, but made no further remark on the subject. He is never very enthusiastic nor sanguine, and did not mean, in this instance, to doubt the fitness of the parties for happiness in the marriage state—as I half imagined. For myself, I warmly approved of my friend's choice, and called her husband a lucky man to secure, for his companion through life, a woman so admirably fitted to make one like him happy. But a visit which I paid to Cora one day about six weeks after the honeymoon had expired, lessened my enthusiasm on the subject, and awoke some unpleasant doubts. It happened that I called soon after breakfast. Cora met me in the parlour, looking like a very fright. She wore a soiled and rumpled morning wrapper; her hair was in papers; and she had on dirty stockings, and a pair of old slippers down at the heels.
"Bless me, Cora!" said I. "What is the matter? Have you been sick?"
"No. Why do you ask? Is my dishabille rather on the extreme?"
"Candidly, I think it is, Cora," was my frank answer.
"Oh, well! No matter," she carelessly replied, "my fortune's made."
"I don't clearly understand you," said I.
"I'm married, you know."
"Yes; I am aware of that fact."
"No need of being so particular in dress now."
"Why not?"
"Didn't I just say?" replied Cora. "My fortune's made. I've got a husband."
Beneath an air of jesting, was apparent the real earnestness of my friend.
"You dressed with a careful regard to taste and neatness, in order to win Edward's love?" said I.
"Certainly I did."
"And should you not do the same in order to retain it?"
"Why, Mrs. Smith! Do you think my husband's affection goes no deeper than my dress? I should be very sorry indeed to think that. He loves me for myself."
"No doubt of that in the world, Cora. But remember that he cannot see what is in your mind except by what you do or say. If he admires your taste, for instance, it is not from any abstract appreciation thereof, but because the taste manifests itself in what you do. And, depend upon it, he will find it a very hard matter to approve and admire your correct taste in dress, for instance, when you appear before him, day after day, in your present unattractive attire. If you do not dress well for your husband's eyes, for whose eyes, pray, do you dress? You are as neat when abroad as you were before your marriage."
"As to that, Mrs. Smith, common decency requires me to dress well when I go upon the street or into company, to say nothing of the pride one naturally feels in looking well."
"And does not the same common decency and natural pride argue as strongly in favour of your dressing well at home, and for the eye of your husband, whose approval and whose admiration must be dearer to you than the approval and admiration of the whole world?"
"But he doesn't want to see me rigged out in silks and satins all the time. A pretty bill my dressmaker would have against him! Edward has more sense than that, I flatter myself."
"Street or ball-room attire is one thing, Cora, and becoming home apparel another. We look for both in their places."
Thus I argued with the thoughtless young wife, but my words made no impression. When abroad, she dressed with exquisite taste, and was lovely to look upon; but at home, she was careless and slovenly, and made it almost impossible for those who saw her to realize that she was the brilliant beauty they had met in company but a short time before. But even this did not last long. I noticed, after a few months, that the habits of home were confirming themselves, and becoming apparent abroad. Her "fortune was made," and why should she now waste time or employ her thoughts about matters of personal appearance?
The habits of Mr. Douglass, on the contrary, did not change. He was as orderly as before, and dressed with the same regard to neatness. He never appeared at the breakfast-table in the morning without being shaved; nor did he lounge about in the evening in his shirt-sleeves. The slovenly habits into which Cora had fallen annoyed him seriously; and still more so, when her carelessness about her appearance began to manifest itself abroad as well as at home. When he hinted any thing on the subject, she did not hesitate to reply, in a jesting manner, that her fortune was made, and she need not trouble herself any longer about how she looked.
Douglass did not feel very much complimented; but as he had his share of good sense, he saw that to assume a cold and offended manner would do no good.
"If your fortune is made, so is mine," he replied on one occasion, quite coolly and indifferently. Next morning he made his appearance at the breakfast table with a beard of twenty-four hours' growth.
"You haven't shaved this morning, dear," said Cora, to whose eyes the dirty-looking face of her husband was particularly unpleasant.
"No," he replied, carelessly. "It's a serious trouble to shave every day."
"But you look so much better with a cleanly-shaved face."
"Looks are nothing—ease and comfort every thing," said Douglass.
"But common decency, Edward."
"I see nothing indecent in a long beard," replied the husband.
Still Cora argued, but in vain. Her husband went off to his business with his unshaven face.
"I don't know whether to shave or not," said Douglass next morning, running his hand over his rough face, upon which was a beard of forty-eight hours' growth. His wife had hastily thrown on a wrapper, and, with slip-shod feet and head like a mop, was lounging in a large rocking-chair, awaiting the breakfast-bell.
"For mercy's sake, Edward, don't go any longer with that shockingly dirty face," spoke up Cora. "If you knew how dreadfully you look!"
"Looks are nothing," replied Edward, stroking his beard.
"Why, what's come over you all at once?"
"Nothing; only it's such a trouble to shave every day."
"But you didn't shave yesterday."
"I know; I am just as well off to-day as if I had. So much saved, at any rate."
But Cora urged the matter, and her husband finally yielded, and mowed down the luxuriant growth of beard.
"How much better you do look!" said the young wife. "Now don't go another day without shaving."
"But why should I take so much trouble about mere looks? I'm just as good with a long beard as with a short one. It's a great deal of trouble to shave every day. You can love me just as well; and why need I care about what others say or think?"
On the following morning, Douglass appeared not only with a long beard, but with a bosom and collar that were both soiled and rumpled.
"Why, Edward! How you do look!" said Cora. "You've neither shaved nor put on a clean shirt."
Edward stroked his face and run his fingers along the edge of his collar, remarking, indifferently, as he did so—
"It's no matter. I look well enough. This being so very particular in dress is waste of time, and I'm getting tired of it."
And in this trim Douglass went off to his business, much to the annoyance of his wife, who could not bear to see her husband looking so slovenly.
Gradually the declension from neatness went on, until Edward was quite a match for his wife; and yet, strange to say, Cora had not taken the hint, broad as it was. In her own person she was as untidy as ever.
About six months after their marriage, we invited a few friends to spend a social evening with us, Cora and her husband among the number. Cora came alone, quite early, and said that her husband was very much engaged, and could not come until after tea. My young friend had not taken much pains with her attire. Indeed, her appearance mortified me, as it contrasted so decidedly with that of the other ladies who were present; and I could not help suggesting to her that she was wrong in being so indifferent about her dress. But she laughingly replied to me—
"You know my fortune's made now, Mrs. Smith. I can afford to be negligent in these matters. It's a great waste of time to dress so much."
I tried to argue against this, but could make no impression upon her.
About an hour after tea, and while we were all engaged in pleasant conversation, the door of the parlour opened, and in walked Mr. Douglass. At first glance I thought I must be mistaken. But no, it was Edward himself. But what a figure he did cut! His uncombed hair was standing up, in stiff spikes, in a hundred different directions; his face could not have felt the touch of a razor for two or three days; and he was guiltless of clean linen for at least the same length of time. His vest was soiled; his boots unblacked; and there was an unmistakable hole in one of his elbows.
"Why, Edward!" exclaimed his wife, with a look of mortification and distress, as her husband came across the room, with a face in which no consciousness of the figure he cut could be detected.
"Why, my dear fellow! What is the matter?" said my husband, frankly; for he perceived that the ladies were beginning to titter, and that the gentlemen were looking at each other, and trying to repress their risible tendencies; and therefore deemed it best to throw off all reserve on the subject.
"The matter? Nothing's the matter, I believe. Why do you ask?"Douglass looked grave.
"Well may he ask, what's the matter?" broke in Cora, energetically."How could you come here in such a plight?"
"In such a plight?" And Edward looked down at himself, felt his beard, and ran his fingers through his hair. "What's the matter? Is any thing wrong?"
"You look as if you'd just waked up from a nap of a week with your clothes on, and come off without washing your face or combing your hair," said my husband.
"Oh!" And Edward's countenance brightened a little. Then he said with much gravity of manner—
"I've been extremely hurried of late; and only left my store a few minutes ago. I hardly thought it worth while to go home to dress up. I knew we were all friends here. Besides,as my fortune is made"—and he glanced with a look not to be mistaken toward his wife—"I don't feel called upon to give as much attention to mere dress as formerly. Before I was married, it was necessary to be particular in these matters, but now it's of no consequence."
I turned toward Cora. Her face was like crimson. In a few moments she arose and went quickly from the room. I followed her, and Edward came after us pretty soon. He found his wife in tears, and sobbing almost hysterically.
"I've got a carriage at the door," said he to me, aside, half laughing, half serious. "So help her on with her things, and we'll retire in disorder."
"But it's too bad in you, Mr. Douglass," replied I.
"Forgive me for making your house the scene of this lesson to Cora," he whispered. "It had to be given, and I thought I could venture to trespass upon your forbearance."
"I'll think about that," said I, in return.
In a few minutes Cora and her husband retired, and in spite of good breeding and every thing else, we all had a hearty laugh over the matter, on my return to the parlour, where I explained the curious little scene that had just occurred.
How Cora and her husband settled the affair between themselves, I never inquired. But one thing is certain, I never saw her in a slovenly dress afterward, at home or abroad. She was cured.
"MY heart is now at rest," remarked Mrs. Presstman to her sister, Mrs. Markland. "Florence has done so well. The match is such a good one."
Mrs. Presstman spoke with animation, but her sister's countenance remained rather grave.
"Mr. Barker is worth at least eighty thousand dollars," resumed Mrs. Presstman. "And my husband says, that if he prospers in business as he has done for the last ten years, he will be the richest merchant in the city. Don't you think we have been fortunate in marrying Florence so well?"
"So far as the securing of wealth goes, Florence has certainly done very well," returned Mrs. Markland. "But, surely, sister, you have a higher idea of marriage than to suppose that wealth in a husband is the primary thing. The quality of his mind is of much more importance."
"Oh, certainly, that is not to be lost sight of. Mr. Barker is an excellent man. Every one speaks well of him. No one stands higher in the community than he does."
"That may be. But the general estimation in which a man is held does not, by any means, determine his fitness to become the husband of one like Florence. I think that when I was here last spring, there was some talk of her preference for a young physician. Was such really the case?"
"There was something of that kind," replied Mrs. Presstman, the colour becoming a very little deeper on her cheek—"a foolish notion of the girl's. But that was broken off long ago. It would not do. We could not afford to let her marry a young doctor with a poor practice. We knew her to be worthy something much higher, as the result has shown."
"Doctor Estill, I believe, was his name?"
"Yes."
"I remember him very well—and liked him much. Was Mr. Barker preferred by Florence to Doctor Estill?"
"Why, yes—no—not at first," half-stammered Mrs. Presstman. "That is, you know, she was foolish, like all young girls, and thought she loved him. But that passed away. She is now as happy as she can be."
Mrs. Markland felt that it was not exactly right to press this matter now that the mischief, if any there were, had been done, and so remarked no further upon the subject. But the admission made in her sister's reply to her last question pained her. It corroborated a suspicion that crossed her mind, when she saw her niece, that all was not right within—that the good match which had been made was only good in appearance. She had loved Florence for the innocence, purity, and elevation of soul that so sweetly characterized her. She knew her to be susceptible of tender impressions, and capable of loving deeply an object really worthy of her love. This plant had been, she feared, removed from the warm green-house of home, where the earth had touched tenderly its delicate roots, while its leaves put forth in a genial air, and placed in a hard soil and a chilling atmosphere, still to live on, but with its beauty and fragrance gone. She might be mistaken. But appearances troubled her.
Mrs. Markland lived in a neighbouring city, and was on a visit to her sister. During the two weeks that elapsed, while paying this visit, she heard a great deal about the excellent match that Florence had made. No one of the acquaintances of the family had any thing to say that was not congratulatory. More than one mother of an unmarried daughter, she had good cause for concluding, envied her sister the happiness of having the rich Mr. Barker for a son-in-law. When she parted with her niece, on the eve of her return home, there were tears in her mild blue eyes. It was natural—for Florence loved her aunt, and to part with her was painful. Still, those tears troubled Mrs. Markland. She ought of them hours, and days, and months after, as a token that all was not right in her gentle breast.
Briefly let us now sketch a scene that passed twenty years from this period. Twenty years! That is a long time. Yes—but it is a period that tests the truth or falsity of the leading principles with which we set out in life. Twenty years! Ah! how many, even long before that time elapses, prove the fallaciousness of their hopes! discover the sandy foundation upon which they have built!
Let us introduce Mrs. Barker. Her husband has realized even more than he had hoped for, in the item of wealth. He is worth a million.
Rather a small sum in his eye, it is true, now that he possesses it. And from this very fact, its smallness, he is not happy—for is not Mr. T—worth three millions of dollars? Mr. T—, who is no better, if as good as he is? But what of Mrs. Barker? Ah, yes. Let us see how time has passed with her. Let us see if the hours have danced along with her to measures of glad music, or in cadence with a pensive strain. Has hers indeed been agood match? We shall see.
Is that sedate-looking woman, with such a cold expression upon her face, who sits in that elaborately furnished saloon, or parlour, dreamily looking into the glowing grate, Mrs. Barker? Yes, that is the woman who made agood match. Can this indeed be so? I see, in imagination, a gentle, loving creature, whose eyes and ears are open to all things beautiful in creation, and whose heart is moved by all that is good and true. Impelled by the very nature into which she has been born—woman's nature—her spirit yearns for high, holy, interior companionship. She enters into that highest, holiest, most interior relationship—marriage. She must be purely happy. Is this so? Can the woman we have introduced at the end of twenty years be the same being with this gentle girl? Alas! that we should have it to say that it is so. There has been no affliction to produce this change—no misfortune. The children she has borne are all about her, and wealth has been poured liberally into her lap. No external wish has been ungratified. Why, then, should her face wear habitually so strange an expression as it does?
She had been seated for more than half an hour in an abstract mood, when some one came in. She knew the step. It was that of her husband. But she did not turn to him, nor seem conscious of his presence. He merely glanced toward his wife, and then sat down at some distance from her, and took up a newspaper. Thus they remained until a bell announced the evening meal, when both arose and passed in silence to the tea-room. There they were joined by their four children, the eldest at that lovely age when the girl has blushed into young womanhood. All arranged themselves about the table, the younger children conversing together in an under tone, but the father, and mother, and Florence, the oldest child, remaining silent, abstracted, and evidently unhappy from some cause.
The mother and daughter eat but little, and that compulsorily. After the meal was finished, the latter retired to her own apartment, the other children remained with their books in the family sitting-room, and Mr. and Mrs. Barker returned to the parlour.
"I am really out of all patience with you and Florence!" the former said, angrily, as he seated himself beside his wife, in front of the grate. "One would think some terrible calamity were about to happen."
Mrs. Barker made no reply to this. In a moment or two her husband went on, in a dogmatical tone.
"It's the very best match the city affords. Show me another in any way comparable. Is not Lorimer worth at least two millions?—and is not Harman his only son and heir? Surely you and the girl must both be beside yourselves to think of objecting for a single moment."
"A good match is not always made so by wealth," Mrs. Barker returned, in a firm voice, compressing her lips tightly, as she closed the brief sentence.
"You are beside yourself," said the husband, half sneeringly.
"Perhaps I am," somewhat meekly replied Mrs. Barker. Then becoming suddenly excited from the quick glancing of certain thoughts through her mind, she retorted angrily. Her husband did not hesitate to reply in a like spirit. Then ensued a war of words, which ended in a positive declaration that Florence should marry Harman Lorimer. At this the mother burst into tears and left the room.
After that declaration was made, Mrs. Barker knew that further opposition on her part was useless. Florence was gradually brought over by the force of angry threats, persuasions, and arguments, so as finally to consent to become the wife of a man from whom her heart turned with instinctive aversion. But every one called it such a good match, and congratulated the father and mother upon the fortunate issue.
What Mrs. Barker suffered before, during, and after the brilliant festivities that accompanied her tenderly-loved daughter's sacrifice, cannot all be known. Her own heart's history for twenty long years came up before her, and every page of that history she read over, with a weeping spirit, as the history of her sweet child for the dreary future. How many a leaf in her heart had been touched by the frost; had withered, shrunk, and dropped from affection's stem—how many a bud had failed to show its promised petals—how many a blossom had drooped and died ere the tender germ in its bosom could come forth into hardy existence. Inanimate golden leaves, and buds, and blossoms—nay, even fruits were a poor substitute for these. A woman's heart cannot be satisfied with them.
In her own mind, obduracy and coldness had supervened to the first states of disappointed affection. But her heart had rebelled through long, long years against the violence to which it had been subjected—and the calmness, or rather indifference, that at last followed was only like ice upon the surface of a stream—the water still flowing on beneath. Death to the mother would have been a willing sacrifice, could it have saved her child from the living death that she had suffered. But it would not. The father was a resolute tyrant. Money was his god, and to that god he offered up even his child in sacrifice.
Need the rambling hints contained in this brief sketch—this dim outline—be followed by any enforcing reflections? An opposite picture, full of light and warmth, might be drawn, but would it tend to bring the truth to clearer perception, where mothers—true mothers—mothers in spirit as well as in name—are those to whom we hold up the first picture? We think not.
Wealth, reputation, honours, high intelligence in a man—all or either of these—do not constitute him a good match for your child. Marriage is of the heart—the blending of affection with affection, and thought with thought. How, then, can one who loves all that is innocent, and pure, and holy, become interiorly conjoined with a man who is a gross, selfish sensualist? a man who finds happiness only in the external possession of wealth, or honours, or in the indulgence of luxuries? It is impossible! Take away these, and give her, in their stead, one with whom her affections can blend in perfect harmony—one with whom she can become united as one—and earth will be to her a little heaven.
In the opposite course, alas! the evil does not always stop with your own child. The curse is too often continued unto the third and fourth generation—yea, even through long succeeding ages—to eternity itself! Who can calculate the evil that may flow from a single perversion of the marriage union—that is, a marriage entered into from other than the true motives? None but God himself!
"COME, Henry," said Blanche Armour to her brother, who had seemed unusually silent and thoughtful since tea time,—"I want you to read while I make this cap for ma."
"Excuse me, Blanche, if you please, I don't feel like reading to-night," the brother replied, shading his face both from the light and the penetrating glance of his sister, as he spoke.
Blanche did not repeat the request, for it was a habit with her never to urge her brother; nor, indeed, any one, to do a thing for which he seemed disinclined. She, therefore, took her work-basket, and sat down by the centre-table, without saying any thing farther, and commenced sewing. But she did not feel quite easy, for it was too apparent that Henry was disturbed about something. For several days he had seemed more than usually reserved and thoughtful. Now he was gloomy as well as thoughtful. Of course, there was a cause for this. And as this cause was hidden from Blanche, she could not but feel troubled. Several times during the evening she attempted to draw him out into conversation, but he would reply to her in monosyllables, and then fall back into his state of silent abstraction of mind. Once or twice he got up and walked across the floor, and then again resumed his seat, as if he had compelled himself to sit down by a strong effort of the will. Thus the time passed away, until the usual hour of retiring for the night came, when Blanche put up her work, and rising from her chair by the centre-table, went to Henry, and stooping down over him, as he lay half reclined upon the sofa, kissed him tenderly, and murmured an affectionate "good night."
"Good night, dear," he returned, without rising or adding another word.
Blanche lingered a moment, and then, with a repressed sigh, left the room, and retired to her chamber. She could not understand her brother's strange mood. For him to be troubled and silent was altogether new. And the cause? Why should he conceal it from her, toward whom, till now, he had never withheld any thing that gave him either pleasure or pain?
The moment Blanche retired, the whole manner of Henry Armour changed. He arose from the sofa and commenced walking the floor with rapid steps, while the deep lines upon his forehead and his strongly compressed lips showed him to be labouring under some powerful mental excitement. He continued to walk thus hurriedly backward and forward for the space of half an hour; when, as if some long debated point had been at last decided, he grasped the parlour door with a firm hand, threw it open, took from the rack his hat, cloak, and cane, and in a few moments was in the street.
The jar of the street door, as it closed, was distinctly heard by Blanche, and this caused the troubled feeling which had oppressed her all the evening, to change into one of anxiety. Where could Henry be going at this late hour? He rarely stayed out beyond ten o'clock; and she had never before known him to leave the house after the usual bedtime of the family. His going out had, of course, something to do with his unhappy mood. What could it mean? She could not suspect him of any wrong. She knew him to be too pure-minded and honourable. But there was mystery connected with his conduct—and this troubled her. She had just laid aside a book, that she had taken up for the purpose of reading a few pages before retiring for the night, and commenced disrobing herself, when the sound of the door closing after her brother startled her, and caused her to pause and think. She could not now retire, for to sleep would be impossible. She, therefore, drew a shawl about her, and again resumed her book, determined to sit up until Henry's return. But little that she read made a very distinct impression on her mind. Her thoughts were with her brother, whom she tenderly loved, and had learned to confide in as one of pure sentiments and firm principles.
While Henry Armour still lingered at home in moody indecision of mind, a small party of young men were assembled in an upper room of a celebrated refectory, drinking, smoking, and indulging in conversation, a large portion of which would have shocked a modest ear. They were all members of wealthy and respectable families. Some had passed their majority, and others still lingered between nineteen and twenty-one,—that dangerous age for a young man—especially if he be so unfortunate as to have little to do, and a liberal supply of pocket money.
"Confound the fellow! What keeps him so long?" said one of the company, looking at his watch. "It's nearly ten o'clock, and he has not made his appearance."
"Whom do you mean? Armour?" asked another.
"Certainly I do. He promised to join us again to-night."
"So he did! But I'll bet a pewter sixpence he won't come."
"Why?"
"His sister won't let him. Don't you know that he is tied to her apron string almost every night, the silly fellow! Why don't he be a man, and enjoy life as it goes?"
"Sure enough! What is life worth, if its pleasures are all to be sacrificed for a sister?" returned the other, sneeringly.
"Here! Pass that champagne," interrupted one of the company. "Let Harry Armour break his engagement for a sister if he likes. That needn't mar our enjoyment. There are enough of us here for a regular good time."
"Here's a toast," cried another, as he lifted a sparkling glass to his lips—"Pleasant dreams to the old folks!"
"Good! Good! Good!" passed round the table, about which the young revellers were gathered, and each drained a glass to the well understood sentiment.
In the mean time, young Armour had left his home, having decided at last, and after a long struggle with himself, to join this gay company, as he had agreed to do. It was, in fact, a little club, formed a short time previous, the members of which met once a week to eat, drink, smoke, and corrupt each other by ridiculing those salutary moral restraints which, once laid aside, leave the thoughtless youth in imminent danger of ruin.
Henry Armour had been blessed with a sister a year or two older than himself, who loved him tenderly. The more rapid development of her mind, as well as body, had given her the appearance of maturity that enabled her to exercise a strong influence over him. Of the dangers that beset the path of a young man, she knew little or nothing. The constant effort which she made to render home agreeable to her brother by consulting his tastes, and entering into every thing that seemed to give him pleasure, did not, therefore, spring from a wish to guard him from the world's allurements; it was the spontaneous result of a pure fraternal affection. But it had the right effect. To him, there was no place like home; nor any smile so alluring, or voice so sweet, as his sister's. And abroad, no company possessed a perfect charm, unless Blanche were one of its members.
This continued until Henry gained his twenty-second year, when, as a law student, he found himself thrown more and more into the company of young men of his own age, and the same standing in society. An occasional ride out with one and another of these, at which times an hour at least was always spent in a public house, opened to him new scenes in life, and for a young man of lively, buoyant mind, not altogether unattractive. That there was danger in these paths he did not attempt to disguise from himself. More than one, or two, or three, whom he met on almost every visit he made to a fashionable resort for young men, about five miles from the city, showed too strong indications of having passed beyond the bounds of self-control, as well in their use of wines and stronger drinks as in their conduct, which was too free from those external decent restraints that we look for even in men who make no pretensions to virtue. But he did not fear for himself. The exhibitions which these made of themselves instinctively disgusted him. Still, he did not perceive that he was less and less shocked at some things he beheld, and more than at first inclined to laugh at follies which verged too nearly upon moral delinquencies.
Gradually his circle of acquaintance with young men of the gay class extended, and a freer participation with them in many of their pleasures came as a natural consequence.
"Come," said one of them to him, as the two met in the street, by accident, one evening,—"I want you to go with me."
"But why should I go with you? Or, rather, where are you going?" asked Armour.
"To meet some of our friends down at C—'s," replied the young man.
"What are you going to do there?" farther inquired Armour.
"Nothing more than to drink a glass of wine, and have some pleasant chit-chat. So come along."
"Will I be welcome?"
"Certainly you will. I'll guarantee that. Some half dozen of us have formed a little club, and each member has the privilege of inviting any one he pleases. To-night I invite you, and on the next evening I expect to see you present, not as a guest, but as a member. So come along, and see how you like us."
Armour had no definite object in view. He had walked out, because he felt rather listless at home, Blanche having retired with a sick headache. It required, therefore, no persuasion to induce him to yield to the friend's invitation. Arrived at C—'s, a fashionable house of refreshment, the two young men passed up stairs and entered one of the private apartments of the house, which they found handsomely furnished and brilliantly lighted. In this, gathered around a circular, or rather oblong table, were five or six young men, nearly all of them well known to Armour. On the table were bottles of wine and glasses—the latter filled.
"Just in time!" cried the president of the club. "Henry Armour, I bid you welcome! Here's a place waiting for you," placing his hand upon a chair by his side as he spoke. "And now," as Armour seated himself, "let me fill your glass. We were waiting for a sentiment to find its way out of some brain as you came in, and our brimming glasses had stood untasted for more than a minute. Can't you help us to a toast?"
"Here's to good fellowship!" said Armour, promptly lifting his glass, and touching it to that of the president.
"To be drunk standing," added the president.
All rose on the instant, and drank with mock solemnity to the sentiment of their guest.
Then followed brilliant flashes of wit, or what was thought to be wit. To these succeeded the song, the jest, the story,—and to these again the sparkling wine-cup. Gayly thus passed the hours, until midnight stole quietly upon the thoughtless revellers. Surprised, on reference to his watch, to find that it was one o'clock, Armour arose and begged to be excused.
"I move that our guest be excused on one condition," said the friend who had brought him to the company. "And that is, on his promise to meet with us again, on this evening next week."
"What do you think of the condition?" asked the president, who, like nearly all of the rest, was rather the worse for the wine he had taken, looking at Armour as he spoke.
"I agree to it with pleasure," was the prompt reply.
"Another drink before you go, then," said the president, "and I will give the toast. Fill up your glasses."
The bottle again passed round the table.
"Here's to a good fellow!" was the sentiment announced. It was received standing. Armour then retired with bewildered senses. The gay scene that had floated before his eyes, and in which himself had been an actor, and the freedom with which he had taken wine, left him confused, almost in regard to his own identity. He did not seem to himself the same person he had been a few hours before. A new world had opened before him, and he had, almost involuntarily, entered into, and become a citizen of that world. Long after he had reached his home, and retired to his bed, did his imagination revel amid the scenes he had just left. In sleep, too, fancy was busy. But here came a change. Serpents would too often glide across the table around which the gay company, himself a member, were assembled; or some other sudden and more appalling change scatter into fragments the bright phantasma of his dreams.
The sober morning found him in a soberer mood. Calm, cold, unimpassioned reflection came. What had he been doing? What path had he entered; and whither did it lead? These were questions that would intrude themselves, and clamour for an answer. He shut his eyes and endeavoured again to sleep. Waking thoughts were worse than the airy terrors which had visited him in sleep. At length he arose, with dull pains in his head, and an oppressive sluggishness of the whole body. But more painful than his own reflections, or the physical consequences of the last night's irregularity, was the thought of meeting Blanche, and bearing the glance of her innocent eyes. He felt that he had been among the impure,—and worse, that he had enjoyed their impure sentiments, and indulged with them in excess of wine. The taint was upon him, and the pure mind of his sister must instinctively perceive it. These thoughts made him wretched. He really dreaded to meet her. But this could not be avoided.
"You do not look well, brother," said Blanche, almost as soon as she saw him.
"I am not well," he replied, avoiding her steady look. "My head aches, and I feel dull and heavy."
"What has caused it, brother?" the affectionate girl asked, with a look and voice of real concern.
Now this was, of all others, the question that Henry was least prepared to answer. He could not utter a direct falsehood. From that his firm principles shrunk. Nor could he equivocate, for he considered equivocation little better than a direct falsehood. "Why should I wish to conceal any part of my conduct from her?" he asked himself, in his dilemma. But the answer was instant and conclusive. His participation in the revelry of the last night was a thing not to be whispered in her ear. Not being prepared, then, to tell the truth, and shrinking from falsehood and equivocation, Armour preferred silence as the least evil of the three. The question of Blanche was not, therefore, answered. At the breakfast-table, his father and mother remarked upon his appearance. To this, he merely replied that he was not well. As soon as the meal was over, he went out, glad to escape the eye of Blanche, which, it seemed to him, rested searchingly upon him all the while.
A walk of half an hour in the fresh morning air dispelled the dull pain in his head, and restored his whole system to a more healthy tone. This drove away, to some extent, the oppressive feeling of self-condemnation he had indulged. The scenes of the previous evening, though silly enough for sensible young men to engage in, seemed less objectionable than they had appeared to him on his first review. To laugh involuntarily at several remembered jests and stories, the points of which were not exactly the most chaste or reverential, marked the change that a short period had produced in his state of mind. During that day, he did not fall in with any of his wild companions of the last evening, too many of whom had already fairly entered the road to ruin. The evening was spent at home, in the society of Blanche. He read while she sewed, or he turned for her the leaves of her music book, or accompanied her upon the flute while she played him a favourite air upon the piano. Conversation upon books, music, society, and other topics of interest, filled up the time not occupied in these mental recreations, and added zest, variety, and unflagging interest to the gently-passing hours. On the next evening they attended a concert, and on the next a party. On that succeeding, Henry went out to see a friend of a different character from any of those with whom he had passed the hours a few nights previous—a friend about his own age, of fixed habits and principles, who, like himself, was preparing for the bar. With him he spent a more rational evening than with the others, and, what was better, no sting was left behind.
Still, young Armour could never think of the "club" without having his mind thrown into a tumult. It awoke into activity opposing principles. Good and evil came in contact, and battled for supremacy. There was in his mind a clear conviction that to indulge in dissipation of that character, would be injurious both to moral and physical health. And yet, having tasted of the delusive sweets, he was tempted to further indulgence. Meeting with some two or three of the "members" during the week, and listening to their extravagant praise of the "club," and the pleasure of uniting in unrestrained social intercourse, made warm by generous wine, tended to make more active the contest going on within—for the good principles that had been stored up in his mind were not to be easily silenced. Their hold upon his character was deep. They had entered into its warp and woof, and were not to be eradicated or silenced in a moment. As the time for the next meeting of the club approached, this battle grew more violent. The condition into which it had brought him by the arrival of the night on which he had promised again to join his gay friends, the reader has already seen. He was still unable to decide his course of action. Inclination prompted him to go; good principles opposed. "But then I have passed my word that I would go, and my word must be inviolable." Here reason came in to the aid of his inclinations, and made in their favour a strong preponderance.
We have seen that, yet undecided, he lingered at home, but in a state of mind strangely different from any in which his sister had ever seen him. Still debating the question, he lay, half reclined upon the sofa, when Blanche touched her innocent lips to his, and murmured a tender good-night. That kiss passed through his frame like an electric current. It came just as his imagination had pictured an impure image, and scattered it instantly. But no decision of the question had yet been made, and the withdrawal of Blanche only took off an external restraint from his feelings. He quietly arose and commenced pacing the floor. This he continued for some time. At last the decision was made.
"I have passed my word, and that ends it," said he, and instantly left the house. Without permitting himself to review the matter again, although a voice within asked loudly to be heard, he walked hastily in the direction of the club-room. In ten minutes he gained the door, opened it without pausing, and stood in the midst of the wild company within. His entrance was greeted with shouts of welcome, and the toast, "Here's to a good fellow!" with which he had parted from them, was repeated on his return, all standing as it was drunk.
To this followed a sentiment that cannot be repeated here. It was too gross. All drunk to it but Armour. He could not, for it involved a foul slander upon the other sex, and he had a sister whose pure kiss was yet warm upon his lips. The individual who proposed the toast marked this omission, and pointed it out by saying—
"What's the matter, Harry? Is not the wine good?"
The colour mounted to the young man's face as he replied, with a forced smile—
"Yes, much better than the sentiment."
"What ails the sentiment?" asked the propounder of it, in a tone of affected surprise.
"I have a sister," was the brief, firm reply of Armour.
"So Charley, here, was just saying," retorted the other, with a merry laugh; "and, what is more, that he'd bet a sixpence you were tied to her apron-string, and would not be here to-night! Ha! ha!"
The effect of this upon the mind of Armour was decisive. He loved, nay, almost revered his sister.
She had been like an angel of innocence about his path from early years. He knew her to be as pure as the mountain snow-flake. And yet that sister's influence over him was sneered at by one who had just uttered a foul-mouthed slander upon her whole sex. The scales fell instantly from his eyes. He saw the dangerous ground upon, which he stood; while the character of his associates appeared in a new light. They were on a road that he did not wish to travel. There were serpents concealed amid the flowers that sprung along their path, and he shuddered as he thought of their poisonous fangs. Quick as a flash of light, these things passed through his mind, and caused him to act with instant resolution. Rising from the chair he had already taken, he retired, without a word, from the room. A sneering laugh followed him, but he either heard it not or gave it no heed.
The book which Blanche resumed after she had heard her brother go out, soon ceased to interest her. She was too much troubled about him to be able to fix her mind on any thing else. His singularly disturbed state, and the fact of his having left the house at that late hour, caused her to feel great uneasiness. This was beginning to excite her imagination, and to cause her to fancy many reasons for his strange conduct, none of which were calculated in any degree to allay the anxiety she felt. Anxiety was fast verging upon serious alarm, when she heard the sound of footsteps approaching the house. She listened breathlessly. Surely it was the sound of Henry's footsteps! Yes! Yes! It was indeed her brother. The tears gushed from her eyes as she heard him enter below and pass up to his chamber. He was safe from harm, and for this her heart lifted itself up in fervent thankfulness! How near he had been to falling, that pure-minded maiden never knew, nor how it had been her image and the remembrance of her parting kiss that had saved him in the moment of his greatest danger. Happy he who is blest with such a sister! And happier still, if her innocence be suffered to overshadow him in the hours of temptation!
THERE are three words, in the utterance of which more power over the feelings is gained than in the utterance of any other words in the language. These are "Mother," "Home," and "Heaven." Each appeals to a different emotion—each bears influence over the heart from the cradle to the grave.—And just in the degree that this influence is active, are man's best interests secured for time and eternity.
Only of "home" do we here intend to speak; and, in particular, as to the influence of the home of taste. We hear much, in these days, of enlarging the sphere of woman's social duties; as if, in the sphere of home, nothing remained to be done, and she must either fold her hands in idleness, or step forth to engage with man in life's sterner conflicts. But it is not true that our homes are as they might be, if their presiding genius fully comprehended all that was needed to make home what the word implies. Among those in poorer circumstances, this is especially so. They are too apt to regard matters of taste as mere superfluities; to speak lightly of order, neatness, and ornament; to think time and money spent on such things as useless. But this is a serious mistake, involving, often, the most lamentable consequences.
If we expect our children to grow up with a love for things pure and orderly, we must surround them with the representations thereof in the homes where first impressions are formed. The mind rests upon and is moulded by things external to a far greater extent than many suppose. These are not only a mirror, reflecting all that passes before the surface, but a highly sensitive mirror, that, like the Daguerreotype plate, retains the image it receives. If the image be orderly and beautiful, it will ever have power to excite orderly and beautiful thoughts in the mind; but if it be impure and disorderly, its lasting influence will be debasing. If you meet with a coarse, vulgar-minded man or woman, and are able to trace back the thread of life until the period of early years, you will be sure to find the existence of coarse and vulgar influences; and, in most cases, the opposite will alike be found to hold good.
There is no excuse for disorder in a household, no matter how small or how low the range of income, but idleness or indifference. The time required to maintain neatness, order, and cleanliness, is small, if the will is active and the hands prompt. Every home, even the poorest, may become a home of taste, and present order and forms of beauty, if there is only a willing purpose in the mind.
It is often charged upon men—particularly operatives with low wages—that they do not love their homes, preferring to spend their evening hours in bar-rooms, or wandering about with other men as little attracted by the household sphere as themselves, until the time for rest. If you were to go into the homes of such, in most cases, you would hardly wonder at the aversion manifested. The dirty, disordered rooms, which their toiling wives deem it a waste of time and labour to make tidy and comfortable for their reception, it would be a perversion to call homes. Home attracts; but these repel. And so, with a feeling of discomfort, the men wander away, fall into temptation, and usually spend, in self-indulgence, money that otherwise would have gone to increase home comforts, if there had been any to increase. And so it is, in its degree, in the homes of every class. The more pleasant, orderly, and tasteful home is made, in all its departments and associations, the stronger is its attractive power, and the more potent its influence over those who are required to go forth into the world and meet its thousand allurements. If every thing is right there, it will surely draw them back, with a steady retraction, through all their absent moments, and they will feel, on repassing the threshold, that, in the wide, wide world, there is no spot to them so full of blessings.
What true woman does not aspire to be the genius of such a home?
"IT'S no use to talk; I can't do it. The idea of punishing a child in cold blood makes me shiver all over. I certainly think that, in the mind of any one who can do it, there must be a latent vein of cruelty."
This remark was made by Mrs. Stanley to her friend and visiter Mrs.Noland.
"I have known parents," she continued, "who would go about executing some punishment with a coolness and deliberation that to me was frightful. No promise, no appeal, no tear of alarm or agony, from the penitent little culprit, would have the least effect. The law must be fulfilled even to the jot and tittle."
"The disobedient child, doubtless, knew the law," remarked Mrs.Noland.
"Perhaps so. But even if it did, great allowance ought to be made for the ardor with which children seek the gratification of their desires, and the readiness with which they forget."
"No parent should lay down a law not right in itself; nor one obedience to which was not good for the child."
"But it is very hard to do this. We have not the wisdom of Solomon. Every day, nay, almost every hour, we err in judgment; and especially in a matter so little understood as the management of children."
"Better, then, have very few laws, and them of the clearest kind. But, having them, implicit obedience should be exacted. At least, that is my rule."
"And you punish for every infraction?"
"Certainly. But, I am always sure that the child is fully aware of his fault, and let my punishment be graduated according to the wilfulness of the act."
"And you do this coolly?"
"Oh, yes. I never punish a child while I am excited with a feeling of indignation for the offence."
"If I waited for that to pass off, I could never punish one of my children."
"Do you find, under this system, that your children are growing up orderly and obedient?"
"No, indeed! Of course I do not. Who ever heard of orderly and obedient children? In fact, who would wish their children to be mere automatons? I am sure I would not. They are, by nature, restless, and impatient of control. It will not do to break down their young spirits. As for punishments, I don't believe much in them, any how. I have an idea that the less they are brought into requisition the better. They harden children. Kindness, long suffering, and forbearance will accomplish a great deal more, and in the end be better for the child."
At this moment a little fellow came sliding into the parlour, with a look that said plainly enough, "I know you don't want me here."
"Run out, Charley, dear," said Mrs. Stanley, in a mild voice.
But Charley did not seem to notice his mother's words, for he continued advancing toward her, until he was by her side, when he paused and looked the visiter steadily in the face.
"Charley, you must run out, my dear," said Mrs. Stanley, in a firmer and more decided voice.
But Charley only leaned heavily against his mother, not heeding in the smallest degree her words. Knowing how impossible it would be to get the child out of the room, without a resort to violence, Mrs. Stanley said no more to him, but continued the conversation with her friend. She had only spoken a few words, however, before Charley interrupted her by saying—
"Mother!—Mother!—Give me a piece of cake."
"No, my son. You have had cake enough this afternoon," replied Mrs.Stanley.
"Oh yes, do, mother, give me a piece of cake."
"It will make you sick, Charley."
"No, it won't. Please give me some."
"I had rather not."
"Yes, mother. Oh do! I want a piece of cake."
"Go 'way, Charles, and don't tease me."
There was a slight expression of impatience in the mother's voice. The child ceased his importunities for a few moments, but just as Mrs. Stanley had commenced a sentence, intended to embody some wise saying in regard to the management of children, the little boy broke in upon her with—
"I say, mother, give me a piece of cake, won't you?" in quite a loud voice.
Mrs. Stanley felt irritated by this importunity, but she governed herself. Satisfied that there would be no peace unless the cake were forthcoming, she said, looking affectionately at the child:
"Poor little fellow! I suppose he does feel hungry. I don't think another piece of cake will hurt him. Excuse me a moment, Mrs. Noland."
The cake was obtained by Charley in the very way he had, hundreds of times before, accomplished his purpose, that is, by teasing it out of his mother. For the next ten minutes the friends conversed, unmolested. At the end of that time Charley again made his appearance.
"Go up into the nursery, and stay with Ellen," said Mrs. Stanley.
The child took no notice, whatever, of this direction, but walked steadily up to where his mother was sitting, saying, as he paused by her side—
"I want another piece of cake."
"Not any more, my son."
"Yes, mother. Give me some more."
"No." This was spoken in a very positive way. Charley began to beg in a whining tone, which, not producing the desired effect, soon rose into a well-defined cry.
"I declare! I never saw such a hungry set as my children are. They will eat constantly from morning until night." Mrs. Stanley did not say this in the most amiable tone of voice.
"Mother! I want a piece of cake," cried Charley.
"I'll give you one little piece more; but, remember, that it will be the last; so don't ask me again."
Charley stopped crying at once. Mrs. Stanley went out with him. As soon as she was far enough from the parlour not to be heard, she took Charley by the shoulders, and giving him a violent shake, said—
"You little rebel, you! If you come into the parlour again, I'll skin you!"
The cake was given. Charley cared about as much for the threat as he did for the shaking. He had gained his end.
"I pray daily for patience to bear with my children," said Mrs.Stanley, on returning to the parlour. "They try us severely."
"That they do," replied Mrs. Noland. "But it is in our power, by firmness, consistency, and kindness, to render our tasks comparatively light."
"Perhaps so. I try to be firm, and consistent, and kind with my children; to exercise toward them constant forbearance; but, after all, it is very hard to know exactly how to govern them."
"Mother, can't I go over into the square?" asked Emma, looking into the parlour just at this time. She was a little girl about eight years old.
"I would rather not have you go, my dear," returned Mrs. Stanley.
"Oh yes, mother, do let me go," urged Emma.
"Ellen can't go with you now; and I do not wish you to go alone."
"I can go well enough, mother."
"Well, run along then, you intolerable little tease, you!"
Emma scampered away, and Mrs. Stanley remarked—
"That is the way. They gain their ends by importunity."
"But should you allow that, my friend?"
"There was no particular reason why Emma should not go to the square. I didn't think, at first, when I said I would rather not have her go, or I would have said 'yes' at once. It is so difficult to decide upon children's requests on the spur of the moment."
"But after you had said that you did not want her to go to the square, would it not have been better to have made her abide by your wishes?"
"I don't think it would have been right for me to have deprived the child of the pleasure of playing in the square, from the mere pride of consistency. I was wrong in objecting at first—to have adhered to my objection would have been still a greater wrong;—don't you think so?"
"I do not," returned Mrs. Noland. "I know of no greater evil in a family, than for the children to discover that their parents vacillate in any matter regarding them. A denial once made to any request should be positive, even if, in a moment after, it be seen to have been made without sufficient reason."
"I cannot agree with you. Justice, I hold, to be paramount in all things. We should never wrong a child."
The third appearance of Charley again broke in upon the conversation.
"Give me another piece of cake, mother."
"What! Didn't I tell you that there was no more for you? No! you cannot have another morsel."
"I want some more cake," whined the child.
"Not a crumb more, sir."
The whine rose into a cry.
"Go up stairs, sir."
Charley did not move.
"Go this instant."
"Give me some cake."
"No."
The cry swelled into a loud bawl.
Mrs. Stanley became excessively annoyed. "I never saw such persevering children in my life," said she, impatiently. "They don't regard what I say any more than if I had not spoken. Charles! Go out of the parlour this moment!"
The tone in which this was uttered the child understood. He left the parlour slowly, but continued to cry at the top of his voice. The parlour bell was rung, and Ellen the nurse appeared.
"Do, Ellen, give that boy another piece of cake! There is no other way to keep him quiet."
In about three minutes after this direction had been given, all was still again. Mrs. Stanley now changed the topic of conversation. Her manner was not quite so cheerful as before. The conduct of Charley had worried and mortified her.
The last piece of cake had not been really wanted. Charley asked for it because a spirit of opposition had been aroused, but he had no appetite to eat it. It was crumbled about the floor and wasted. His mother had peace for the next hour. After that she went into the kitchen to give directions, and make some preparations for tea. Charley was by her side.
"Ellen, take this child out," said she.
Ellen took hold of Charley's arm.
"No!—no!—Go 'way, Ellen!" he screamed.
"There!—there!—never mind. Let him stay," said the mother.
A jar of preserved fruit was brought forth.
"Give me some?" asked Charley.
"No, not now. You will get some at the table."
"I want some now. Give me some now."
A spoonful of the preserves was put into a saucer, and given to the child.
"Give me some more," said he, holding up his saucer in about half a minute.
"No. Wait until tea is ready."
"Give me some sweetmeats. I want more, mother!"
"I tell you, no."
A loud bawl followed.
"I declare this child will worry me to death!" exclaimed the mother, her mind all in confusion, lading out a large spoonful of the fruit, and putting it into his saucer.
When this was eaten, still more was demanded, and peremptorily refused. Crying was resorted to, but without effect, though it was loud and deafening. Finding this unsuccessful, the spoiled urchin determined to help himself. As soon as his mother's back was turned, he clambered up to the table and seized the jar containing the preserves. In pulling it over far enough to get his spoon into it, the balance of the jar was destroyed, and over it went, rolling off upon the floor, and breaking with a loud crash. At the moment this occurred, Mrs. Stanley entered the room. Her patience, that had been severely tried, was now completely overthrown. She was angry enough to punish her child, and feel a delight in doing so. Seizing him by one arm, she lifted him from the floor, as if he had been but a feather, and hurried with him up to her chamber. There she whipped him unmercifully, and then put him to bed. He continued to cry after she had done so, when she commanded him to stop in a voice that he dared not disobey. An hour afterward, when much cooled down, she passed through the chamber. She looked down upon her little boy with a feeling of repentance for her anger and the severity of her punishment. This feeling was in no way mitigated on hearing the child sob in his sleep. The mother felt very unhappy.
So much for Mrs. Stanley—so much for her tenderness of feeling—so much for her warm-blooded system. Its effects need not be exposed further. Its folly need not be set in any plainer light.
Some weeks afterward she was spending an afternoon with Mrs. Noland. Her favourite topic was the management of children, and she introduced it as usual, inveighing as was her wont against the cruelty of punishing children—especially in cold blood, as she called it. For her part, she never punished except in extreme cases, and not then, unless provoked to do so. Unless she felt angry, and punished on the spur of the moment, she could not do it at all. During the conversation, which was led pretty much by Mrs. Stanley, a child, about the age of Charley, came into the parlour. He walked up to his mother and whispered some request in her ear.
"Oh no, Master Harry!" was the smiling, but decided reply.
The child lingered with a look of disappointment. At length he came up, and kissing his mother, asked again, in a sweet, earnest way, for what he had been at first denied.
"After I said no!" And Mrs. Noland looked gravely into his face.
Tears came into Henry's eyes. But he said no more. In a moment or two he silently left the room.
"Mrs. Noland! How could you resist that dear little fellow? I declare it was right down cruel in you."
The eyes of Mrs. Stanley glistened as she spoke.
"It would have been far more cruel to him if I had yielded, after once having said 'no'—far more cruel had I given him what I knew would have injured him."
"But, I don't see how you could refuse so dear a child, when he asked you in such a sweet, affectionate manner. I should have given him any thing in the world he had asked for."
"That's not my way. I say 'no' only when I have good reason, and then I never change."
"Never?"
"Never."
Henry appeared at the parlour door again.
"Come in, dear," said Mrs. Noland.
The child came quickly forward, put up his mouth to kiss her, and then nestled closely by his mother's side. The conversation continued, without the slightest interruption from him.
"Dear little fellow," said Mrs. Stanley, once or twice, looking into the child's face, and smoothing his hair with her hand.
When the tea bell rung, the family assembled in the dining-room. A visiter made it necessary that one of the children should wait. Henry was by the table as usual.
"Harry, dear," said his mother, "you will have to wait and come withEllen."
The child felt very much disappointed. He looked up into his mother's face for a moment, and then, without a word, went out of the room.
"Poor little fellow! It is really a pity to make him wait; and he is so good," said Mrs. Stanley. "I am sure we can make room for him. Do call him back, and let him sit by me."
And she moved close to one of the older children as she spoke. "Here is plenty of room."
Mrs. Noland thought for a moment, and then told the waiter to call Henry back. The child came in as quietly as he had gone out, and came up to his mother's side.
"My dear," said Mrs. Noland, "this good lady here has made room for you by her side. You can go and sit by her."