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TRUE RICHES
WEALTH WITHOUT WINGS
by
T.S. ARTHUR
1852
INTRODUCTION
The original title chosen for this book was "Riches Without Wings," but the author becoming aware, before giving it a permanent form, that a volume bearing a similar title had appeared some years ago, of which a new edition was about to be issued, thought it best to substitute therefore, "True Riches or Wealth without Wings," which, in fact, expresses more accurately the character and scope of his story.
The lessons herein taught are such as cannot be learned too early, nor dwelt on too long or too often, by those who are engaged in the active and all-absorbing duties of life. In the struggle for natural riches—the wealth that meets the eye and charms the imagination—how many forget that true riches can only be laid up in the heart; and that, without these true riches, which have no wings, gold, the god of this world, cannot bestow a single blessing! To give this truth a varied charm for young and old, the author has made of it a new presentation, and, in so doing, sought to invest it with all the winning attractions in his power to bestow.
To parents who regard the best interests of their children, and to young men and women just stepping upon the world's broad stage of action, we offer our book, in the confident belief that it contains vital principles, which, if laid up in the mind, will, like good seed in good ground, produce an after-harvest, in the garnering of which there will be great joy.
CHAPTER I
"A fair day's business. A very fair day's business," said Leonard Jasper, as he closed a small account-book, over which he had been poring, pencil in hand, for some ten minutes. The tone in which he spoke expressed more than ordinary gratification.
"To what do the sales amount?" asked a young man, clerk to the dealer, approaching his principal as he spoke.
"To just two hundred dollars, Edward. It's the best day we've had for a month."
"The best, in more than one sense," remarked the young man, with a meaning expression.
"You're right there, too," said Jasper, with animation, rubbing his hands together as he spoke, in the manner of one who is particularly well pleased with himself. "I made two or three trades that told largely on the sunny side of profit and loss account."
"True enough. Though I've been afraid, ever since you sold that piece of velvet to Harland's wife, that you cut rather deeper than was prudent."
"Not a bit of it—not a bit of it! Had I asked her three dollars a yard, she would have wanted it for two. So I said six, to begin with, expecting to fall extensively; and, to put a good face on the matter, told her that it cost within a fraction of what I asked to make the importation—remarking, at the same time, that the goods were too rich in quality to bear a profit, and were only kept as a matter of accommodation to certain customers."
"And she bought at five?"
"Yes; thinking she had obtained the velvet at seventy-five cents a yard less than its cost. Generous customer, truly!"
"While you, in reality, made two dollars and a half on every yard she bought."
"Precisely that sum."
"She had six yards."
"Yes; out of which we made a clear profit of fifteen dollars. That will do, I'm thinking. Operations like this count up fast."
"Very fast. But, Mr. Jasper"—
"But what, Edward?"
"Is it altogether prudent to multiply operations of this character? Won't it make for you a bad reputation, and thus diminish, instead of increasing, your custom?"
"I fear nothing of the kind. One-half the people are not satisfied unless you cheat them. I've handled the yardstick, off and on, for the last fifteen or twenty years, and I think my observation during that time is worth something. It tells me this—that a bold face, a smooth tongue, and an easy conscience are worth more in our business than any other qualities. With these you may do as you list. They tell far better than all the 'one-price' and fair-dealing professions, in which people have little faith. In fact, the mass will overreach if they can, and therefore regard these 'honest' assumptions with suspicion."
The young man, Edward Claire, did not make a reply for nearly a minute. Something in the words of Mr. Jasper had fixed his thought, and left him, for a brief space of time, absorbed in his own reflections.
Lifting, at length, his eyes, which had been resting on the floor, he said—
"Our profit on to-day's sales must reach very nearly fifty dollars."
"Just that sum, if I have made a right estimate," replied Jasper; "and that is what I call a fair day's business."
While he was yet speaking, a lad entered the store, and laid upon the counter a small sealed package, bearing the superscription, "Leonard Jasper, Esq." The merchant cut the red tape with which it was tied, broke the seal, and opening the package, took therefrom several papers, over which he ran his eyes hurriedly; his clerk, as he did so, turning away.
"What's this?" muttered Jasper to himself, not at first clearly comprehending the nature of the business to which the communication related. "Executor! To what? Oh! ah! Estate of Ruben Elder. Humph! What possessed him to trouble me with this business? I've no time to play executor to an estate, the whole proceeds of which would hardly fill my trousers' pocket. He was a thriftless fellow at best, and never could more than keep his head out of water. His debts will swallow up every thing, of course, saving my commissions, which I would gladly throw in to be rid of this business."
With this, Jasper tossed the papers into his desk, and, taking up his hat, said to his clerk—"You may shut the store, Edward. Before you leave, see that every thing is made safe."
The merchant than retired, and wended his way homeward.
Edward Claire seemed in no hurry to follow this example. His first act was to close the window-shutters and door—turning the key in the latter, and remaining inside.
Entirely alone, and hidden from observation, the young man seated himself, and let his thoughts, which seemed to be active on some subject, take their own way. He was soon entirely absorbed. Whatever were his thoughts, one thing would have been apparent to an observer—they did not run in a quiet stream. Something disturbed their current, for his brow was knit, his compressed lips had a disturbed motion, and his hands moved about at times uneasily. At length he arose, not hurriedly, but with a deliberate motion, threw his arms behind him, and, bending forward, with his eyes cast down, paced the length of the store two or three times, backward and forward, slowly.
"Fifty dollars profit in one day," he at length said, half audibly. "That will do, certainly. I'd be contented with a tenth part of the sum. He's bound to get rich; that's plain. Fifty dollars in a single day! Leonard Jasper, you're a shrewd one. I shall have to lay aside some of my old-fashioned squeamishness, and take a few lessons from so accomplished a teacher. But, he's a downright cheat!"
Some better thought had swept suddenly, in a gleam of light, across the young man's mind, showing him the true nature of the principles from which the merchant acted, and, for the moment, causing his whole nature to revolt against them. But the light faded slowly; a state of darkness and confusion followed, and then the old current of thought moved on as before.
Slowly, and now with an attitude of deeper abstraction, moved the young man backward and forward the entire length of the room, of which he was the sole occupant. He felt that he was alone, that no human eye could note a single movement. Of the all-seeing Eye he thought not—his spirit's evil counsellors, drawn intimately nigh to him through inclinations to evil, kept that consciousness from his mind.
At length Claire turned to the desk upon which were the account-books that had been used during the day, and commenced turning the leaves of one of them in a way that showed only a half-formed purpose. There was an impulse to something in his mind; an impulse not yet expressed in any form of thought, though in the progress toward something definite.
"Fifty dollars a day!" he murmurs. Ah, that shows the direction of his mind. He is still struggling in temptation, and with all his inherited cupidities bearing him downward.
Suddenly he starts, turns his head, and listens eagerly, and with a strange agitation. Some one had tried the door. For a few moments he stood in an attitude of the most profound attention. But the trial was not repeated. How audibly, to his own ears, throbbed his heart! How oppressed was his bosom! How, in a current of fire, rushed the blood to his over-excited brain!
The hand upon the door was but an ordinary occurrence. It might now be only a customer, who, seeing a light within, hoped to supply some neglected want, or a friend passing by, who wished for a few words of pleasant gossip. At any other time Claire would have stepped quickly and with undisturbed expectation to receive the applicant for admission. But guilty thoughts awakened their nervous attendants, suspicion and fear, and these had sounded an instant alarm.
Still, very still, sat Edward Claire, even to the occasional suppression of his breathing, which, to him, seemed strangely loud.
Several minutes elapsed, and then the young man commenced silently to remove the various account-books to their nightly safe deposite in the fire-proof. The cash-box, over the contents of which he lingered, counting note by note and coin by coin, several times repeated, next took its place with the books. The heavy iron door swung to, the key traversed noiselessly the delicate and complicated wards, was removed and deposited in a place of safety; and, yet unrecovered from his mood of abstraction, the clerk left the store, and took his way homeward. From that hour Edward Claire was to be the subject of a fierce temptation. He had admitted an evil suggestion, and had warmed it in the earth of his mind, even to germination. Already a delicate root had penetrated the soil, and was extracting food therefrom. Oh! why did he not instantly pluck it out, when the hand of an infant would have sufficed in strength for the task? Why did he let it remain, shielding it from the cold winds of rational truth and the hot sun of good affections, until it could live, sustained by its own organs of appropriation and nutrition? Why did he let it remain until its lusty growth gave sad promise of an evil tree, in which birds of night find shelter and build nests for their young?
Let us introduce another scene and another personage, who will claim, to some extent, the reader's attention.
There were two small but neatly, though plainly, furnished rooms, in the second story of a house located in a retired street. In one of these rooms tea was prepared, and near the tea-table sat a young woman, with a sleeping babe nestled to-her bosom. She was fair-faced and sunny-haired; and in her blue eyes lay, in calm beauty, sweet tokens of a pure and loving heart. How tenderly she looked down, now and then, upon the slumbering cherub whose winning ways and murmurs of affection had blessed her through the day! Happy young wife! these are thy halcyon days. Care has not thrown upon thee a single shadow from his gloomy wing, and hope pictures the smiling future with a sky of sunny brightness.
"How long he stays away!" had just passed her lips, when the sound of well-known footsteps was heard in the passage below. A brief time, and then the room-door opened, and Edward Claire came in. What a depth of tenderness was in his voice as he bent his lips to those of his young wife, murmuring—
"My Edith!" and then touching, with a gentler pressure, the white forehead of his sleeping babe.
"You were late this evening, dear," said Edith, looking into the face of her husband, whose eyes drooped under her earnest gaze.
"Yes," he replied, with a slight evasion in his tone and manner; "we have been busier than usual to-day."
As he spoke the young wife arose, and taking her slumbering child into the adjoining chamber, laid it gently in its crib. Then returning, she made the tea—the kettle stood boiling by the grate—and in a little while they sat down to their evening meal.
Edith soon observed that her husband was more thoughtful and less talkative than usual. She asked, however, no direct question touching this change; but regarded what he did say with closer attention, hoping to draw a correct inference, without seeming to notice his altered mood.
"Mr. Jasper's business is increasing?" she said, somewhat interrogatively, while they still sat at the table, an expression of her husband's leading to this remark.
"Yes, increasing very rapidly," replied Claire, with animation. "The fact is, he is going to get rich. Do you know that his profit on to-day's sales amounted to fifty dollars?"
"So much?" said Edith, yet in a tone that showed no surprise or particular interest in the matter.
"Fifty dollars a day," resumed Claire, "counting three hundred week-days in the year, gives the handsome sum of fifteen thousand dollars in the year. I'd be satisfied with as much in five years."
There was more feeling in the tone of his voice than he had meant to betray. His young wife lifted her eyes to his face, and looked at him with a wonder she could not conceal.
"Contentment, dear," said she, in a gentle, subdued, yet tender voice, "is great gain. We have enough, and more than enough, to make us happy. Natural riches have no power to fill the heart's most yearning affections; and how often do they take to themselves wings and fly away."
"Enough, dear!" replied Edward Claire, smiling. "O no, not enough, by any means. Five hundred dollars a year is but a meagre sum. What does it procure for us? Only these two rooms and the commonest necessaries of life. We cannot even afford the constant service of a domestic."
"Why, Edward! what has come over you? Have I complained?"
"No, dear, no. But think you I have no ambition to see my wife take a higher place than this?"
"Ambition! Do not again use that word," said Edith, very earnestly. "What has love to do with ambition? What have we to do with the world and its higher places? Will a more elegant home secure for us a purer joy than we have known and still know in this our Eden? Oh, my husband! do not let such thoughts come into your mind. Let us be content with what God in his wisdom provides, assured that it is best for us. In envying the good of another, we destroy our own good. There is a higher wealth than gold, Edward; and it supplies higher wants. There are riches without wings; they lie scattered about our feet; we may fill our coffers, if we will. Treasures of good affections and true thoughts are worth more than all earthly riches, and will bear us far more safely and happily through the world; such treasures are given to all who will receive them, and given in lavish abundance. Let us secure of this wealth, Edward, a liberal share."
"Mere treasures of the mind, Edith, do not sustain natural life, do not supply natural demands. They build no houses; they provide not for increasing wants. We cannot always remain in the ideal world; the sober realities of life will drag us down."
The simple-hearted, true-minded young wife was not understood by her husband. She felt this, and felt it oppressively.
"Have we not enough, Edward, to meet every real want?" she urged. "Do we desire better food or better clothing? Would our bodies be more comfortable because our carpets were of richer material, and our rooms filled with costlier furniture? O no! If not contented with such things as Providence gives us to-day, we shall not find contentment in what he gives us to-morrow; for the same dissatisfied heart will beat in our bosoms. Let Mr. Jasper get rich, if he can; we will not envy his possessions."
"I do not envy him, Edith," replied Claire. "But I cannot feel satisfied with the small salary he pays me. My services are, I know, of greater value than he estimates them, and I feel that I am dealt by unjustly."
Edith made no answer. The subject was repugnant to her feelings, and she did not wish to prolong it. Claire already regretted its introduction. So there was silence for nearly a minute.
When the conversation flowed on again, it embraced a different theme, but had in it no warmth of feeling. Not since they had joined hands at the altar, nearly two years before, had they passed so embarrassed and really unhappy an evening as this. A tempting spirit had found its way into their Paradise, burning with a fierce desire to mar its beauty.
CHAPTER II
"Oh, what a dream I have had!" exclaimed Mrs. Claire, starting suddenly from sleep, just as the light began to come in dimly through the windows on the next morning; and, as she spoke, she caught hold of her husband, and clung to him, frightened and trembling.
"Oh, such a dream!" she added, as her mind grew clearer, and she felt better assured of the reality that existed. "I thought, love, that we were sitting in our room, as we sit every evening—baby asleep, I sewing, and you, as usual, reading aloud. How happy we were! happier, it seemed, than we had ever been before. A sudden loud knock startled us both. Then two men entered, one of whom drew a paper from his pocket, declaring, as he did so, that you were arrested at the instance of Mr. Jasper, who accused you with having robbed him of a large amount of money."
"Why, Edith!" ejaculated Edward Claire, in a voice of painful surprise. He, too, had been dreaming, and in his dream he had done what his heart prompted him to do on the previous evening—to act unfaithfully toward his employer.
"Oh, it was dreadful! dreadful!" continued Edith. "Rudely they seized and bore you away. Then came the trial. Oh, I see it all as plainly as if it had been real. You, my good, true, noble-hearted husband, who had never wronged another, even in thought—you were accused of robbery in the presence of hundreds, and positive witnesses were brought forward to prove the terrible charge. All they alleged was believed by those who heard. The judges pronounced you guilty, and then sentenced you to a gloomy prison. They were bearing you off, when, in my agony, I awoke. It was terrible, terrible! yet, thank God! only a dream, a fearful dream!"
Claire drew his arms around his young wife, and clasped her with a straining embrace to his bosom. He made no answer for some time. The relation of a dream so singular, under the circumstances, had startled him, and he almost feared to trust his voice in response. At length, with a deeply-drawn, sighing breath, nature's spontaneous struggle for relief, he said—
"Yes, dear, that was a fearful dream. The thought of it makes me shudder. But, after all, it was only a dream; the whispering of a malignant spirit in your ear. Happily, his power to harm extends no further. The fancy may be possessed in sleep, but the reason lies inactive, and the hands remain idle. No guilt can stain the spirit. The night passes, and we go abroad in the morning as pure as when we laid our heads wearily to rest."
"And more," added Edith, her mind fast recovering itself; "with a clearer perception of what is true and good. The soul's disturbed balance finds its equilibrium. It is not the body alone that is refreshed and strengthened. The spirit, plied with temptation after temptation through the day, and almost ready to yield when the night cometh, finds rest also, and time to recover its strength. In the morning it goes forth again, stronger for its season of repose. How often, as the day dawned, have I lifted my heart and thanked God for sleep!"
Thus prompted, an emotion of thankfulness arose in the breast of Claire, but the utterance was kept back from the lips. He had a secret, a painful and revolting secret, in his heart, and he feared lest something should betray its existence to his wife. What would he not have given at the moment to have blotted out for ever the memory of thoughts too earnestly cherished on the evening before, when he was alone with the tempter?
There was a shadow on the heart of Edith Claire. The unusual mood of her husband on the previous evening, and the dream which had haunted her through the night, left impressions that could not be shaken off. She had an instinct of danger—danger lurking in the path of one in whom her very life was bound up.
When Edward was about leaving her to go forth for the day, she lingered by his side and clung to him, as if she could not let him pass from the safe shelter of home.
"Ah! if I could always be with you!" said Edith—"if we could ever move on, hand in hand and side by side, how full to running over would be my cup of happiness!"
"Are we not ever side by side, dear?" replied Claire, tenderly. "You are present to my thought all the day."
"And you to mine. O yes! yes! We are moving side by side; our mutual thought gives presence. Yet it was the bodily presence I desired. But that cannot be."
"Good-bye, love! Good-bye, sweet one!" said Claire, kissing his wife, and gently pressing his lips upon those of the babe she held in her arms. He then passed forth, and took his way to the store of Leonard Jasper, in whose service he had been for two years, or since the date of his marriage.
A scene transpired a few days previous to this, which we will briefly describe. Three persons were alone in a chamber, the furniture of which, though neither elegant nor costly, evinced taste and refinement. Lying upon a bed was a man, evidently near the time of his departure from earth. By his side, and bending over him, was a woman almost as pale as himself. A little girl, not above five years of age, sat on the foot of the bed, with her eyes fixed on the countenance of her father, for such was the relation borne to her by the sick man. A lovely creature she was—beautiful even beyond the common beauty of childhood. For a time a solemn stillness reigned through the chamber. A few low-spoken words had passed between the parents of the child, and then, for a brief period, all was deep, oppressive silence. This was interrupted, at length, by the mother's unrestrained sobs, as she laid her face upon the bosom of her husband, so soon to be taken from her, and wept aloud.
No word of remonstrance or comfort came from the sick man's lips. He only drew his arm about the weeper's neck, and held her closer to his heart.
The troubled waters soon ran clear: there was calmness in their depths.
"It is but for a little while, Fanny," said he, in a feeble yet steady voice; "only for a little while."
"I know; I feel that here," was replied, as a thin, white hand was laid against the speaker's bosom. "And I could patiently await my time, but"——
Her eyes glanced yearningly toward the child, who sat gazing upon her parents, with an instinct of approaching evil at her heart.
Too well did the dying man comprehend the meaning of this glance.
"God will take care of her. He will raise her up friends," said he quickly; yet, even as he spoke, his heart failed him.
"All that is left to us is our trust in Him," murmured the wife and mother. Her voice, though so low as to be almost a whisper, was firm. She realized, as she spoke, how much of bitterness was in the parting hours of the dying one, and she felt that duty required her to sustain him, so far as she had the strength to do so. And so she nerved her woman's heart, almost breaking as it was, to bear and hide her own sorrows, while she strove to comfort and strengthen the failing spirit of her husband.
"God is good," said she, after a brief silence, during which she was striving for the mastery over her weakness. As she spoke, she leaned over the sick man, and looked at him lovingly, and with the smile of an angel on her countenance.
"Yes, God is good, Fanny. Have we not proved this, again and again?" was returned, a feeble light coming into the speaker's pale face.
"A thousand times, dear! a thousand times!" said the wife, earnestly. "He is infinite in his goodness, and we are his children."
"Yes, his children," was the whispered response. And over and over again he repeated the words, "His children;" his voice falling lower and lower each time, until at length his eyes closed, and his in-going thought found no longer an utterance.
Twilight had come. The deepening shadows were fast obscuring all objects in the sick-chamber, where silence reigned, profound almost as death.
"He sleeps," whispered the wife, as she softly raised herself from her reclining position on the bed. "And dear Fanny sleeps also," was added, as her eyes rested upon the unconscious form of her child.
Two hours later, and the last record was made in Ruben Elder's Book of Life.
For half an hour before the closing scene, his mind was clear, and he then spoke calmly of what he had done for those who were to remain behind.
"To Leonard Jasper, my old friend," said he to his wife, "I have left the management of my affairs. He will see that every thing is done for the best. There is not much property, yet enough to insure a small income; and, when you follow me to the better land, sufficient for the support and education of our child."
Peacefully, after this, he sank away, and, like a weary child falling into slumber, slept that sleep from which the awakening is in another world.
How Leonard Jasper received the announcement of his executorship has been seen. The dying man had referred to him as an old friend; but, as the reader has already concluded, there was little room in his sordid heart for so pure a sentiment as that of friendship. He, however, lost no time in ascertaining the amount of property left by Elder, which consisted of two small houses in the city, and a barren tract of about sixty acres of land, somewhere in Pennsylvania, which had been taken for a debt of five hundred dollars. In view of his death, Elder had wound up his business some months before, paid off what he owed, and collected in nearly all outstanding accounts; so that little work remained for his executor, except to dispose of the unprofitable tract of land and invest the proceeds.
On the day following the opening of our story, Jasper, who still felt annoyed at the prospect of more trouble than profit in the matter of his executorship, made a formal call upon the widow of his old friend.
The servant, to whom he gave his name, stated that Mrs. Elder was so ill as not to be able to leave her room.
"I will call again, then, in a few days," said he. "Be sure you give her my name correctly. Mr. Jasper—Leonard Jasper."
The face of the servant wore a troubled aspect.
"She is very sick, sir," said she, in a worried, hesitating manner. "Won't you take a seat, for a moment, until I go up and tell her that you are here? Maybe she would like to see you. I think I heard her mention your name a little while ago."
Jasper sat down, and the domestic left the room. She was gone but a short time, when she returned and said that Mrs. Elder wished to see him. Jasper arose and followed her up-stairs. There were some strange misgivings in his heart—some vague, troubled anticipations, that oppressed his feelings. But he had little time for thought ere he was ushered into the chamber of his friend's widow.
A single glance sufficed to tell him the whole sad truth of the case. There was no room for mistake. The bright, glazed eyes, the rigid, colourless lips, the ashen countenance, all testified that the hour of her departure drew nigh. How strong, we had almost said, how beautiful, was the contrasted form and features of her lovely child, whose face, so full of life and rosy health, pressed the same pillow that supported her weary head.
Feebly the dying woman extended her hand, as Mr. Jasper came in, saying, as she did so—
"I am glad you have come; I was about sending for you."
A slight tremor of the lips accompanied her words, and it was plain that the presence of Jasper, whose relation to her and her child she understood, caused a wave of emotion to sweep over her heart.
"I am sorry, Mrs. Elder, to find you so very ill," said Jasper, with as much of sympathy in his voice as he could command. "Has your physician been here to-day?"
"It is past that, sir—past that," was replied. "There is no further any hope for me in the physician's art."
A sob choked all further utterance.
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Arrived, at length, at the dwelling from which they had just borne forth the dead, Claire gently lifted out the child, and entered the house with her. Two persons only were within, the domestic and the woman who, on the day previous, had spoken of taking to her own home the little orphaned one. The former had on her shawl and bonnet, and said that she was about going away.
"You will not leave this child here alone," said Edward.
"I will take her for the present," spoke up the other. "Would you like to go home with me, Fanny?" addressing the child. "Come,"—and she held out her hands.
But the child shrank closer to the side of Edward, and looked up into his face with a silent appeal that his heart could not resist.
"Thank you, ma'am," he returned politely. "But we won't trouble you to do that. I will take her to my own home for the present. Would you like to go with me, dear?"
Fanny answered with a grateful look, as she lifted her beautiful eyes again to his face.
And so, after the woman and the domestic had departed, Edward Claire locked up the house, and taking the willing child by the hand, led her away to his own humble dwelling.
Having turned himself resolutely away from evil, already were the better impulses of his nature quickened into active life. A beautiful humanity was rising up to fill the place so recently about to be consecrated to the worship of a hideous selfishness.
CHAPTER VI
Edward Claire was in no doubt as to the reception the motherless child would receive from his kind-hearted wife. A word or two of explanation enabled her to comprehend the feeling from which he had acted.
"You were right, Edward," said she in hearty approval. "I am glad you brought her home. Come, dear," speaking to the wondering, partly shrinking orphan, "let me take off your bonnet."
She kissed the child's sweet lips and then gazed for some moments into her face, pleased, yet half surprised, at her remarkable beauty.
Little Fanny felt that she was among friends. The sad expression of her face soon wore off, light came back to her eyes, and her prattling tongue released itself from a long silence. An hour afterward, when she was laid to sleep in a temporary bed, made for her on the floor, her heavy eyelids fell quickly, with their long lashes upon her cheeks, and she was soon in the world of dreams.
Then followed a long and serious conference between Edward and his wife.
"I saw Mr. Melleville to-day," said the former.
"Did you? I am glad of that," was answered.
"He will give me a place."
"Glad again."
"But, Edith, as I supposed, he can only pay me a salary of four hundred dollars."
"No matter," was the prompt reply; "it is better than five hundred where you are."
"Can we live on it, Edith?" Edward spoke in a troubled voice.
"Why not? It is but to use a little more economy in our expenses—to live on two dollars a week less than we now spend; and that will not be very hard to do. Trust it to me, dear. I will bring the account out even. And we will be just as happy. As happy? Oh, a thousand times happier! A hundred dollars! How poorly will that compensate for broken peace and a disquieted conscience. Edward, is it possible for you to remain where you are, and be innocent?"
"I fear not, Edith," was the unhesitating reply. "And yet, dear, I should be man enough, should have integrity enough, to resist the temptations that might come in my way."
"Do not think of remaining where you are," said the young wife earnestly. "If Mr. Melleville will pay you four hundred dollars a year, take his offer and leave Mr. Jasper. It will be a gain rather than a loss to us."
"A gain, Edith?"
"Yes, a gain in all that is worth having in life—peace of mind flowing from a consciousness of right action. Will money buy this? No, Edward. Highly as riches are esteemed—the one great good in life as they are regarded—they never have given and never will give this best of all blessings. How little, how very little of the world's happiness, after all, flows from the possession of money. Did you ever think of that, Edward?"
"Perhaps not."
"And yet, is it not worth a passing thought? Mr. and Mrs. Casswell are rich—we are poor. Which do you think the happiest?"
"Oh, we are happiest, a thousand times," said Edward warmly. "I would not exchange places with him, were he worth a million for every thousand."
"Nor I with his wife," returned Edith. "So money, in their case, does not give happiness. Now look at William Everhart and his wife. When we were married they occupied two rooms, at a low rent, as we now do. Their income was just what ours has been. Well, they enjoyed life. We visited them frequently, and they often called to see us. But for a little ambition on the part of both to make some show, they would have possessed a large share of that inestimable blessing, contentment. After a while, William's salary was raised to one thousand dollars. Then they must have a whole house to themselves, as if their two nice rooms were not as large and comfortable, and as well suited to their real wants as before. They must, also, have showy furniture for their friends to look at. Were they any happier for this change?—for this marked improvement in their external condition? We have talked this over before, Edward. No, they were not. In fact, they were not so comfortable. With added means had come a whole train of clamorous wants, that even the doubled salary could not supply."
"Everhart gets fifteen hundred a year, now," remarked Claire.
"That will account, then," said Edith, smiling, "for Emma's unsettled state of mind when I last saw her. New wants have been created; and they have disturbed the former tranquillity."
"All are not so foolish as they have been. I think we might bear an increased income without the drawbacks that have attended theirs."
"If it had been best for us, my husband, God would have provided it. It is in his loving-kindness that he has opened the way so opportunely for you to leave the path of doubt and danger for one of confidence and safety; and, in doing it, he has really increased your salary."
"Increased it, Edith! Why do you say that?"
"Will we not be happier for the change?" asked Edith, smiling.
"I believe so."
"Then, surely, the salary is increased by so much of heartfelt pleasure. Why do you desire an increase rather than a diminution of income?"
"In order to procure more of the comforts of life," was answered.
"Comfort for the body, and satisfaction for the mind?"
"Yes."
"Could our bodies really enjoy more than they now enjoy? They are warmly clothed, fully fed, and are in good health. Is it not so?"
"It is."
"Then, if by taking Mr. Melleville's offer, you lose nothing for the body, and gain largely for the mind, is not your income increased?"
"Ah, Edith!" said Claire, fondly, "you are a wonderful reasoner. Who will gainsay such arguments?"
"Do I not argue fairly? Are not my positions sound, and my deductions clearly brought forth?"
"If I could always see and feel as I do now," said Claire, in a low, pleased tone of voice, "how smoothly would life glide onward. Money is not every thing. Ah! how fully that is seen. There are possessions not to be bought with gold."
"And they are mental possessions—states of the mind, Edward," spoke up Edith quickly. "Riches that never fade, nor fail; that take to themselves no wings. Oh, let us gather of these abundantly, as we walk on our way through life."
"Heaven has indeed blessed me." Such was the heartfelt admission of Edward Claire, made in the silence of his own thoughts. "With a different wife—a lover of the world and its poor vanities—how imminent would have been my danger! Alas! scarcely any thing less than a miracle would have saved me. I shudder as I realize the fearful danger through which I have just passed. I thank God for so good a wife."
The first inquiry made by Jasper, when he met Edward on the next morning, was in relation to what he had seen at the funeral, and, particularly, as to the disposition that had been made of the child.
"I took her home with me," was replied, in answer to a direct question.
"You did!" Jasper seemed taken by surprise. "How came that, Edward?"
"When I returned from the cemetery, I found the domestic ready to leave the house. Of course the poor child could not remain there alone; so I took her home with me for the night."
"How did your wife like that?" asked Jasper, with something in his tone that showed a personal interest in the reply.
"Very well. I did just what she would have done under the circumstances."
"You have only one child, I believe?" said Jasper, after a pause of some moments.
"That is all."
"Only three in family?"
"Only three."
"How would you like to increase it? Suppose you keep this child of Elder's, now she is with you. I have been looking a little into the affairs of the estate, and find that there are two houses, unincumbered, that are rented each for two hundred and fifty dollars a year. Of course, you will receive a reasonable sum for taking care of the child. What do you say to it? As executor, I will pay you five dollars a week for boarding and clothing her until she is twelve years of age. After that, a new arrangement can be made."
"I can't give an answer until I consult my wife," said Claire, in reply to so unexpected a proposition.
"Urge her to accept the offer, Edward. Just think what it will add to your income. I'm sure it won't cost you one-half the sum, weekly, that I have specified, to find the child in every thing."
"Perhaps not. But all will depend on my wife. We are living, now, in two rooms, and keep no domestic. An addition of one to our family might so increase her care and labour as to make a servant necessary. Then we should have to have an additional room; the rent of which and the wages and board of the servant would amount to nearly as much as we would receive from you on account of the child."
"Yes, I see that," returned Jasper. And he mused for some moments. He was particularly anxious that Claire should take the orphan, for then all the trouble of looking after and caring for her would be taken from him, and that would be a good deal gained.
"I'll tell you what, Edward," he added. "If you will take her, I will call the sum six dollars a week—or three hundred a year. That will make the matter perfectly easy. If your wife does not seem at first inclined, talk to her seriously. This addition to your income will be a great help. To show her that I am perfectly in earnest, and that you can depend on receiving the sum specified, I will draw up a little agreement, which, if all parties are satisfied, can be signed at once."
Claire promised to talk the matter over with his wife at dinner-time.
The morning did not pass without varied assaults upon the young man's recent good resolutions. Several times he had customers in from whom it would have been easy to get more than a fair profit, but he steadily adhered to what he believed to be right, notwithstanding Jasper once or twice expressed dissatisfaction at his not having made better sales, and particularly at his failing to sell a piece of cloth, because he would not pledge his word as to its colour and quality—neither of which were good.
The proposition of Jasper for him to make, in his family, a place for the orphan, caused Claire to postpone the announcement of his intention to leave his service, until after he had seen and conferred with his wife.
At the usual dinner-hour, Claire returned home. His mind had become by this time somewhat disturbed. The long-cherished love of money, subdued for a brief season, was becoming active again. Here were six dollars to be added, weekly, to his income, provided his wife approved the arrangement,—and it was to come through Jasper. The more he thought of this increase, the more his natural cupidity was stirred, and the less willing he felt to give up the proposed one hundred dollars in his salary. If he persisted in leaving Jasper, there would, in all probability, be a breach between them, and this would, he felt certain, prevent an arrangement that he liked better and better the more he thought about it. He was in this state of mind when he arrived at home.
On pushing open the door of their sitting-room, the attention of Claire was arrested by the animated expression of his wife's face. She raised her finger to enjoin silence. Tripping lightly to his side, she drew her arm within his, and whispered—
"Come into the chamber, dear—tread softly—there, isn't that sweet?—isn't it lovely?"
The sight was lovely indeed. A pillow had been thrown on the floor, and upon this lay sleeping, arm in arm, the two children. Pressed close together were their rosy checks; and the sunny curls of Fanny Elder were mixed, like gleams of sunshine, amid the darker ringlets that covered profusely the head of little Edith.
"Did you ever see any thing so beautiful?" said the delighted mother.
"What a picture it would make!" remarked Edward, who was charmed with the sight.
"Oh, lovely! How I would like just such a picture!
"She is a beautiful child," said Edward.
"Very," was the hearty response. "Very—and so sweet-tempered and winning in her ways. Do you know, I am already attached to her. And little Edie is so delighted. They have played all the morning like kittens; and a little while ago lay down, just as you see them—tired out, I suppose—and fell off to sleep. It must have been hard for the mother to part with that child—hard, very hard."
And Mrs. Claire sighed.
"You will scarcely be willing to give her up, if she remains here long," said Edward.
"I don't know how I should feel to part from her, even now. Oh, isn't it sad to think that she has no living soul to love or care for her in the world."
"Mr. Jasper is her guardian, you know."
"Yes; and such a guardian!"
"I should not like to have my child dependent on his tender mercies, certainly. But he will have little to do with her beyond paying the bills for her maintenance. He will place her in some family to board; and her present comfort and future well-being will depend very much upon the character of the persons who have charge of her."
Edith sighed.
"I wish," said she, after a pause, "that we were able to take her. But we are not."
And she sighed again.
"Mr. Jasper will pay six dollars a week to any one who will take the entire care of her until she is twelve years of age."
"Will he?" A sudden light had gleamed over the face of Mrs. Claire.
"Yes; he said so this morning."
"Then, why may not we take her? I am willing," was Edith's quick suggestion.
"It is a great care and responsibility," said Edward.
"I shall not feel it so. When the heart prompts, duty becomes a pleasure. O yes, dear, let us take the child by all means."
"Can we make room for her?"
"Why not? Her little bed, in a corner of our chamber, will in noway incommode us; and through the day she will be a companion for Edie. If you could only have seen how sweetly they played together! Edie has not been half the trouble to-day that she usually is."
"It will rest altogether with you, Edith," said Claire, seriously. "In fact, Mr. Jasper proposed that we should take Fanny. I did not give him much encouragement, however."
"Have you any objection, dear?" asked Edith.
"None. The sum to be paid weekly will more than cover the additional cost of housekeeping. If you are prepared for the extra duties that must come, I have nothing to urge against the arrangement."
"If extra duties are involved, I will perform them as a labour of love. Without the sum to be paid for the child's maintenance, I would have been ready to take her in and let her share our home. She is now in the special guardianship of the Father of the fatherless, and he will provide for her, no matter who become the almoners of his bounty. This is my faith, Edward, and in this faith I would have freely acted even without the provision that has been made."
"Let it be then, as you wish, Edith."
"How providential this increase of our income, Edward!" said his wife, soon afterward, while the subject of taking Fanny into their little household was yet the burden of their conversation. "We shall gain here all, and more than all that will be lost in giving up your situation with Mr. Jasper. Did I not say to you that good would come of this guardianship; and is there not, even now, a foreshadowing of things to come?"
"Perhaps there is," replied Edward thoughtfully. "But my eye of faith is not so clear as yours."
"Let me see for you then, dear," said Edith, in a tender voice. "I am an earnest confider in the good purposes of our Heavenly Father. I trust in them, as a ship trusts in its well-grounded anchor. That, in summing up the events of our life, when the time of our departure comes, we shall see clearly that each has been wisely ordered or provided for by One who is infinitely good and wise, I never for an instant doubt. Oh, if you could only see with me, eye to eye, Edward! But you will, love, you will—that my heart assures me. It may be some time yet—but it will come."
"May it come right speedily!" was the fervent response of Edward Claire.
CHAPTER VII
"Well, Edward, what does your wife say?" Such was the inquiry of Jasper, immediately on the return of his clerk from dinner.
"There will be no difficulty, so far as she is concerned," the young man answered.
"None, did you say, Edward?"
"None. She is willing to take the child, under the arrangement you propose."
"That is, for three hundred dollars a year, to find her in every thing?"
"Yes; until she is twelve years of age."
"So I understand it. After that, as the expense of her clothing and education will increase, we can make a new arrangement. Very well. I'm glad you have decided to take the child. It won't cost you six dollars a week, for the present, I am sure: so the additional income will be quite a help to you."
"I don't know how that will be. At any rate, we are willing to take the child into our family."
"Suppose then, Edward, we mutually sign this little agreement to that effect, which I have drawn up."
And Jasper took a paper from his desk, which he handed to Edward.
"I've no objection," said the latter, after he had read it over. "It binds me to the maintenance of the child until she is twelve years of age, and you to the payment therefor of three hundred dollars a year, in quarterly payments of seventy-five dollars each."
"Yes, that is the simple statement of the matter. You see, I have prepared duplicates: one for you, and one for myself. I will sign them first."
And Jasper took a pen and placed upon each of the documents his sign-manual.
Claire did the same; and a clerk witnessed the signatures. Each, then, took a copy. Thus, quickly and fully, was the matter arranged.
This fact of giving to the contract a legal form, was, under the circumstances, the very thing Claire most desired. He had already begun to see difficulties ahead, so soon as he announced his intention of leaving Jasper's service; particularly, as no reason that he could give would satisfy the merchant—difficulties growing out of this new relation as the personal guardian of little Fanny Elder. The signing of a regular contract for the payment of a certain sum of money, quarterly, for the child's maintenance, gave him a legal right to collect that sum, should Jasper, from any change of feeling, be disposed at some future time to give him trouble. This was something gained.
It was with exceeding reluctance that Claire forced himself, during the afternoon, to announce his intention to leave Mr. Jasper. Had he not promised Mr. Melleville and his wife to do this, it would certainly have been postponed for the present; perhaps altogether. But his word was passed to both of them, and he felt that to defer the matter would be wrong. So, an opportunity offering, he said—
"I believe, Mr. Jasper, that I shall have to leave you."
"Leave me, Edward!" Mr. Jasper was taken altogether by surprise. "What is the meaning of this? You have expressed no dissatisfaction. What is wrong?"
The position of Edward was a trying one. He could not state the true reasons for wishing to leave his present situation, without giving great offence, and making, perhaps, an enemy. This he wished, if possible, to avoid. A few days before he would not have scrupled at the broadest equivocation, or even at a direct falsehood. But there had been a birth of better principles in his mind, and he was in the desire to let them govern his conduct. As he did not answer promptly the question of Jasper as to his reasons for wishing to leave him, the latter said—
"This seems to be some sudden purpose, Edward. Are you going to receive a higher salary?"
Still Edward did not reply; but looked worried and irresolute. Taking it for granted that no motive but a pecuniary one could have prompted this desire for change, Jasper continued—
"I have been satisfied with you, Edward. You seem to understand me, and to comprehend my mode of doing business. I have found you industrious, prompt, and cheerful in performing your duties. These are qualities not always to be obtained. I do not, therefore, wish to part with you. If a hundred, or even a hundred and fifty dollars a year, will be any consideration, your salary is increased from to-day."
This, to Edward, was unexpected. He felt more bewildered and irresolute than at first. So important an advance in his income, set against a reduction of the present amount, was a strong temptation, and he felt his old desires for money arraying themselves in his mind.
"I will think over your offer," said he. "I did not expect this. In the morning I will be prepared to decide."
"Very well, Edward. If you remain, your salary will be increased to six hundred and fifty dollars."
To Claire had now come another hour of darkness. The little strength, just born of higher principles, was to be sorely tried. Gold was in one scale, and the heavenly riches that are without wings in the other. Which was to overbalance?
The moment Claire entered the presence of his wife, on returning home that evening, she saw that a change had taken place—an unfavourable change; and a shadow fell upon her pure spirit.
"I spoke to Mr. Jasper about leaving him," he remarked, soon after he came in.
"What did he say?" inquired Edith.
"He does not wish me to go."
"I do not wonder at that. But, of course, he is governed merely by a selfish regard to his own interests."
"He offers to increase my salary to six hundred and fifty dollars," said Edward, in a voice that left his wife in no doubt as to the effect which this had produced.
"A thousand dollars a year, Edward," was the serious answer, "would be a poor compensation for such services as he requires. Loss of self-respect, loss of honour, loss of the immortal soul, are all involved. Think of this, my dear husband! and do not for a moment hesitate."
But Edward did hesitate. This unexpected offer of so important an increase in his salary had excited his love of money, temporarily quiescent. He saw in such an increase a great temporal good; and this obscured his perception of a higher good, which, a little while before, had been so clear.
"I am not so sure, Edith," said he, "that all these sad consequences are necessarily involved. I am under no obligation to deal unfairly with his customers. My duty will be done, when I sell to them all I can at a fair profit. If he choose to take an excess of profit in his own dealing, that is his affair. I need not be partaker in his guilt."
"Edward!" returned his wife, laying her hand upon his arm, and speaking in a low, impressive voice—"Do you really believe that you can give satisfaction to Mr. Jasper in all things, and yet keep your conscience void of offence before God and man? Think of his character and requirements—think of the kind of service you have, in too many instances, rendered him—and then say whether it will be possible to satisfy him without putting in jeopardy all that a man should hold dear—all that is worth living for? Oh, Edward! do not let this offer blind you for a moment to the real truth."
"Then you would have me reject the offer?"
"Without an instant's hesitation, Edward."
"It is a tempting one. And then, look at the other side, Edith. Only four hundred dollars a year, instead of six hundred and fifty."
"I feel it as no temptation. The latter sum, in the present case, is by far the better salary, for it will give us higher sources of enjoyment. What are millions of dollars, and a disquiet mind, compared to a few hundreds, and sweet peace? If you remain with Jasper, an unhappy spirit will surely steal into our dwelling—if you take, for the present, your old place with Mr. Melleville, how brightly will each morning's sun shine in upon us, and how calmly will the blessed evening draw around her curtains of repose!"
Edith had always possessed great influence over her husband. He loved her very tenderly; and was ever loth to do any thing to which she made opposition. She was no creature of mere impulse—of weak caprices—of captious, yet unbending will. If she opposed her husband in any thing, it was on the ground of its non-agreement with just principles; and she always sustained her positions with the clearest and most direct modes of argumentation. Not with elaborate reasonings, but rather in the declaration of things self-evident—the quick perceptions of a pure, truth-loving mind. How inestimable the blessing of such a wife!
"No doubt you have the better reason on your side, Edith," replied her husband, his manner very much subdued. "But it is difficult for me to unclasp my hand to let fall therefrom the natural good which I can see and estimate, for the seemingly unreal and unsubstantial good that, to your purer vision, looms up so imposingly."
"Unreal—unsubstantial—Edward!" said Edith, in reply to this. "Are states of mind unreal?"
"I have not always found them so," was answered.
"Is happiness, or misery, unreal? Oh, are they not our most palpable realizations? It is not mere wealth that is sought for as an end—that is not the natural good for which the many are striving. It is the mental enjoyment that possession promises—the state of mind that would be gained through gold as a means. Is it not so? Think."
"Yes—that is, undoubtedly, the case."
"But, is it possible for money to give peace and true enjoyment, if, in the spirit, even though not in the letter, violence is done to the laws of both God and man? Can ill-gotten gain produce heavenly beatitudes?—and there are none others. The heart never grows truly warm and joyous except when light from above streams through the darkened vapours with which earth-fires have surrounded it. Oh, my husband! Turn yourself away from this world's false allurements, and seek with me the true riches. Whatever may be your lot in life—I care not how poor and humble—I shall walk erect and cheerful by your side if you have been able to keep a conscience void of offence; but if this be not so, and you bring to me gold and treasure without stint, my head will lie bowed upon my bosom, and my heart throb in low, grief-burdened pulsations. False lights, believe me, Edward, are hung out by the world, and they lure life's mariner on to dangerous coasts. Let us remain on a smooth and sunny sea, while we can, and not tempt the troubled and uncertain wave, unless duty requires the venture. Then, with virtue at the helm, and the light of God's love in the sky, we will find a sure haven at last."
"It shall be as you wish, Edith," said Claire, as he gazed with admiring affection into the bright and glowing face of his wife, that was lovely in her beautiful enthusiasm.
"No—no, Edward! Don't say as I wish," was her quick reply. "I cannot bear that you should act merely under my influence as an external pressure. If I have seemed to use persuasion, it has not been to force you over to my way of thinking. But, cannot you see that I am right? Does not your reason approve of what I say?"
"It does, Edith. I can see, as well as feel, that you are right. But, the offer of a present good is a strong temptation. I speak freely."
"And I thank you for doing so. Oh! never conceal from me your inmost thoughts. You say that you can see as well as feel that I am right?"
"Yes; I freely acknowledge that."
"Your reason approves what I have said?"
"Fully."
"This tells you that it will be better for you in the end to accept of four hundred dollars from Mr. Melleville, than to remain with Mr. Jasper at six hundred and fifty?"
"It does, Edith."
"Then, my husband, let the reason which God has given to you as a guide, direct you now in the right way. Do not act under influence from me—for then the act will not be freely your own—but, as a truly rational, and, therefore, a wise man, choose now the way in which an enlightened reason tells you that you ought to walk."
"I have chosen, Edith," was the young man's low, but firm reply.
"How?" The wife spoke with a sudden, trembling eagerness, and held her breath for an answer.
"I will leave my present place, and return to Mr. Melleville."
"God be thanked!" came sobbing from the lips of Edith, as she threw herself in unrestrained joy upon the bosom of her husband.
CHAPTER VIII
"I don't just understand this," said Jasper to himself, after the interview with his clerk described in another chapter. "I thought him perfectly satisfied. He didn't say he was offered a higher salary. Ah! guess I've got it now. It's only a bit of a ruse on his part to get me to increase his wages. I didn't think of this before. Well, it has succeeded; and, in truth, he's worth all I've offered him. Shrewd, quick, and sharp; he's a young man just to my mind. Should he grow restless again, I must tempt him with the idea of a partnership at some future period. If business goes on increasing, I shall want some one with me whom I can trust and depend on more fully than on a clerk."
Thus, in the mind of Jasper, all was settled; and he was fully prepared, on the next morning, when he met Edward to hear from him that he would remain in his service. A different decision took him altogether by surprise.
"Where are you going?" he asked. Edward hesitated a moment ere replying.
"Back to Mr. Melleville's."
"To Melleville's! Will he give you more salary than I have agreed to pay?"
"No," was the answer; "but I have reasons for wishing to accept the place he offers me."
"Well, just as you please," said Jasper, coldly. "Every one must suit himself."
And, with the air of a person offended, he turned himself from the young man. Soon after he went out, and did not come back for two or three hours. When he re-entered the store there was an angry flash in his eyes, which rested somewhat sternly upon Claire.
"Let me say a word with you, Edward."
There happened to be no customer in to engage the clerk's attention, and he retired, with his employer, to the back part of the store. Jasper then turned and confronted him with a stern aspect.
"Well, young man!" said he sharply, "it seems that you have been making rather free with my good name, of late; representing me as a cheat and a swindler."
For a few moments the mind of Claire was strongly excited and in a perfect maze of confusion. The blood mounted to his face, and he felt a rising and choking sensation in his throat. Wisely he forbore any answer until he had regained his self-possession. Then, with a coolness that surprised even himself, he said—
"That's a broad accusation, Mr. Jasper. Will you go with me to your authority?"
Jasper was not just prepared for a response like this; and he cooled down, instantly, several degrees.
"My authority is quite satisfactory," he returned, still manifesting angry feeling. "That you have been slandering me is plain; and, also, betraying the confidential transactions of the house. It is full time we parted—full time. I didn't dream that I was warming an adder to sting me?"
"I must insist, Mr. Jasper," said Claire firmly, "that you give me your authority for all this. Let me stand face to face with the man who has so broadly accused me."
"Then you deny it all?"
"I shall neither affirm nor deny any thing. You have angrily accused me of having done you a great wrong. All I ask is your authority, and the right to stand face to face with that authority. This is no light matter, Mr. Jasper."
"Well said, young man. It is no light matter, as you will, perhaps, know to your sorrow in the end. Don't suppose, for a moment, that I shall either forget or forgive this outrage. Leave me because I cheat in my business!" An expression of unmitigated contempt was on his face. "Poh! What hypocrisy! I know you! And let Mr. Melleville beware. He, I more than suspect, is at the bottom of this. But he'll rue the day he crossed my path—he will!"
And Jasper ground his teeth in anger.
By this time, Claire had become entirely self-possessed. He was both surprised and troubled; yet concealed, as far as possible, the real state of his feelings.
"So far as Mr. Melleville is concerned," said he, "I wish you to understand, that I applied to him for the situation."
"Exactly! That is in agreement with what I heard. I was such a rogue that you could not live with me and keep a clear conscience—so you sought for a place with an honest man."
Claire dropped his eyes to the floor, and stood musing for some considerable time. When he raised them, he looked steadily at his employer and said—
"Mr. Jasper, I never made use of the words you have repeated."
"If not the very words, those of a like signification?"
"To whom? There is no need of concealment, Mr. Jasper." Claire was feeling less and less anxious for the result of this conference every moment. "Speak out freely, and you will find me ready to do the same. There had been some underhand work here—or some betrayal of an ill-advised confidence. The former, I am most ready to believe. In a word, sir, and to bring this at once to an issue—your informant in this matter is Henry Parker, who lives with Mr. Melleville."
The change instantly perceptible in the manner of Jasper showed that Edward's suspicion was right. He had, all at once, remembered that, during his conversation with Melleville, this young man was near.
"I see how it is," he continued. "An eavesdropper has reported, with his own comments and exaggerations, a strictly confidential interview. Such being the case, I will state the plain truth of the matter. Are you prepared to hear it?"
"Oh, certainly," replied Jasper, with a covert sneer in his voice. "I'm prepared to hear any thing."
"Very well. What I have to say is now wrung from me. I did not wish to leave you in anger. I did not wish to draw upon me your ill-will. But, what is unavoidable must be borne. It is true, Mr. Jasper, as you have been informed, that I am not satisfied with your way of doing business."
"How long since, pray?" asked Jasper, with ill-disguised contempt.
"I did not like it in the beginning, but gradually suffered myself to think that all was fair in trade, until I found I was no better than a common cheat! Happily, I have been able to make a sudden pause in the way I was going. From this time, I will serve no man who expects me to overreach a customer in dealing. So soon as my mind was fully made up to leave your employment, I called to see my old friend, Mr. Melleville; stated to him, frankly and fully, what I thought and felt; and asked him if he could not make room for me in his store. Parker doubtless overheard a part of what we were saying, and reported it to you. I would, let me say in passing, much rather hold my relation to this unpleasant business than his. Mr. Melleville offered me my old salary—four hundred dollars—and I agreed to enter his service."
"Four hundred dollars!" Jasper said this in unfeigned surprise.
"Yes, sir; that is all he can afford to pay, and of course all I will receive."
"And I offered you six hundred and fifty."
"True."
"Edward, you are the most consummate fool I ever heard of."
"Time will show that," was the undisturbed reply. "I have made my election thoughtfully, and am prepared to meet the result."
"You'll repent of this; mark my word for it."
"I may regret your ill-will, Mr. Jasper; but never repent this step. I'm only thankful that I possessed sufficient resolution to take it."
"When are you going?"
"Not before the end of this month, unless you wish it otherwise. I would like to give you full time to supply my place."
"You can go at once, if it so please you. In fact, after what has just passed, I don't see how you can remain, or I tolerate your presence."
"I am ready for this, Mr. Jasper," coolly replied the young man.
"How much is due you?" was inquired, after a brief silence.
"Twenty-five dollars, I believe," answered Claire.
Jasper threw open a ledger that lay on the desk, and, turning to the young man's account, ran his eyes up the two columns of figures, and then struck a balance.
"Just twenty-seven dollars," said he, after a second examination of the figures. "And here's the money," he added, as he took some bills from the desk and counted out the sum just mentioned. "Now sign me a receipt in full to date, and that ends the matter."
The receipt w