An American Story of Real Life CHAPTER 3.
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"Ah! Good morning, Harry! Good morning!"
"Good morning, Tom. I'm glad to see you! How are you, my boy? How are you?" grasping the hand that was extended, and shaking it long and heartily.
"Really, Harry, you seem to be on the mountaintop this morning."
"And so I am. Confound it, old fellow! I'm sure of success!"
"So I would suspect, after seeing the peculiar manner in which Bell leaned on your arm, last night."
"You observed it, then, did you?"
"O, of course."
"And I felt it, Tom--which was a thousand times better! She's mine as sure as fate! knew that I would prove irresistible, if I only laid myself out for it. I'm not the commonest looking fellow that walks Chestnut Street--am I"
"No, not by a dozen. But, say, Harry, did you talk love to her?"
"O, no! only poetry and sentiment. Last night I spent most of the time in reading her character, which I found I could do as readily as I can read a book."
"Well, how were you pleased with it?"
"Admirably, of course!"
"She'll make just the wife you want!"
"The what?"
"The wife."
"Ha! I'm not looking out for a wife."
"For what, then?"
"You're simple, Tom! For a fortune, of course. Have you so soon forgotten our conversation of yesterday? As to the wife part, no doubt that will be well enough. Still, I'm a little afraid."
"Of what?"
"Afraid that she will love me too well."
"Love you too well?"
"Yes! There rests my only fear. But that's her problem--not mine."
"I don't see any particular objection to her loving you as hard as she pleases."
"You're dull this morning, Tom. I would like a wife, if I must have one--an inevitable necessity, I believe, since my old man is so close with his purse-strings--who would mind her own business, and let me mind mine. She might have her own life if she chose, and dash it in any kind of style that pleased her. Of course, I would want the same privilege. Now, from what I can see of Bell, she's not exactly that kind of a person. She would want her husband tied to her apron strings all the while. Would want to be kissed twenty times a day, and all that silly nonsense. Or else there would be a constant succession of April showers. Do you understand now?"
"Clearly! But that's a risk you will have to run. A consequence that must be endured, if it can't be helped. Money will cover a multitude of sins and imperfections."
"You're right, Tom! and if she chooses to indulge in all that sentimental kind of nonsense, she must take the consequence. For certain it is, I can't stomach it--and will not. I'll leave her in freedom to come in when she pleases, go out when she pleases, and do what she pleases; and, as I want nothing but what is fair, shall take the same privilege myself."
"Precisely! You seem to be pretty sure of her, however?"
"So I am. I, made an impression last night, that is not going to be effaced."
"But suppose the old man win not consent?"
"Did you never hear of a runaway match, Tom?"
"O, yes," laughingly.
"Then you'll hear of another, in that case. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly! You are a rare fellow, Harry."
"Aren't I! Still, I must avoid that last necessity, if possible. It might stand in the way of my fingering the old fellow's cash as soon as I wish."
"You'd better be looking out for an office then, hadn't you?"
"Yes, I suppose I had. Confound the necessity! What fools some of these old codgers are! A man is nothing in their eyes, unless he is a worker. Pah!"
"What a figure you will cut, sitting with solemn importance in your office, surrounded with books, and a tin sign on your window--Henry Ware, Attorney at Law Ha! ha! ha?"
"Do hush, Tom! or I shall get sick!"
"It'll have to be done, though. I wonder who will be your first client?"
"Some loafer, up for assault and battery, I suppose."
"As likely as not. But come, I have an engagement at twelve, and it is almost that time now."
"Let us drink first," replied Harry, and turning to the bar-keeper--for they had met, as usual, in a tavern--ordered some brandy. The two worthies then drank success to Harry's enterprise, and parted.
It was, probably, an hour after, that young Ware entered his father's counting-room, and after glancing over the newspapers, sought an opportunity to converse with the old gentleman.
"I've been thinking a good deal about what you suggested a few days ago, father," he said, with a serious air.
"Well, to what conclusion have you come?" was the reply, in a grave tone.
"That you are right. A young man of my age ought not to be spending his time so idly as I am now doing."
"You have concluded to open an office, then?"
"I have. And if you will furnish me with the necessary books, I will put myself down to business at once."
"That is right, Henry," said Mr. Ware, in a cheerful tone, his face suddenly brightening. "Your repugnance to any kind of business, has been to me a source of great anxiety. Idle pleasure-taking, let me assure you, Henry, is the poorest possible way in which to seek for real happiness. In that path it never has, and never will be found."
"I believe you are right," replied the son, with hypocritical gravity. "I am sure, that mere pleasure-taking, as you term it, has never given true satisfaction to the mind."
"And never will, rest assured, if you pursue that course. Most truly do I rejoice to find a better perception of things dawning upon your mind. If you will only enter upon your profession with application, energy, and industry--you must rise into eminence, for you have, naturally, a mind that is active, and comprehensive in its grasp. Or, if you would prefer entering into business with me, the way is open and a quicker road to independence, before you. Here is capital and every facility that may be needed."
"I think I should prefer law," replied the son, after musing for an instant or two. "It offers a better field for the exercise of my talents."
"So it does. Let it be law, then. I am satisfied. As soon as you meet with an office to suit you, let me know, and I will have it fitted up handsomely. In the mean time, furnish me with a list of such books as you want, and they shall be ready."
"I will hand you a list tomorrow," replied Henry.
After half an hour's further conference, which ended in the transference of a check to the young man for two hundred dollars, he left the counting room. A few hours after, he met his crony, Tom, or Thomas Handy.
"Well, Tom, I've talked to the old man about that law office," was his salutation.
"You are quick on the trigger? How was he pleased?"
"Tickled to death, of course! He thinks that I will be second to none at the bar, if I only devote myself to the profession with untiring zeal and industry."'
"Indeed! That's flattering!"
"Untiring zeal and industry! Oh, dear! That would be a catastrophe, as old What-do-you-call-him says."
"He thought you were in solemn earnest, then?"
"Of course. And gave me some capital and good advice; though, for the soul of me, I can't recollect a word of it now."
"No consequence."
"But I will tell you what I do recollect"
"Well!"
"How I came over him too nicely for a couple of hundred."
"Indeed!"
"It's a fact. I talked, and talked, until I got him in a capital good humor, and then came down upon him for a check. He was completely cornered, and could not say no. So here's the hundred I borrowed from you last week, and much obliged to you. The other hundred will pay off a small debt or two, and leave me a little spending money. My stock was getting rather low."
While Henry Ware was thus, in cold, unprincipled heartlessness, laying his plans for securing the hand of a pure-minded, intelligent, affectionate girl--Bell's heart was trembling with love's first and tenderest emotions. The expression of his face, as he looked into hers, the tones of his voice, if not the words he had uttered--all told her that he had awakened an interest in his feelings; and even in many a remembered word, could she trace a meaning that plainly spoke of love. She was, of course, in a dreamy, abstracted mood.
Mr. Martin, whose ardent affection for his children, made him observant of them, had noticed on the preceding evening, that young Ware was over attentive to Bell. He was not pleased to see this, for he understood the young man's character pretty thoroughly. He did not suppose these attentions had anything serious in them. Still, a fear that such might be the case, was naturally awakened. Once during the evening he had missed them for some time, and was just on the eve of strolling out into the garden to see if they were lingering there, when they came in, and separating from each other, mingled generally with the company. He could not but notice, however, that Bell's eye wandered too frequently toward the young man, with a look of interest. This troubled him for the moment--but he soon dismissed it as an idle fear.
Several times during the next day, as opportunity for observation presented itself, he could not but observe that Bell had a look of quiet abstraction which was unusual to her. This recalled to his mind the preceding evening, and the feeling of uneasiness that was then experienced returned.
"Have you noticed Bell particularly today?" he inquired of her mother, as they sat alone that evening.
"I have not. Why do you ask?"
"It seems to me that she is not altogether in as good spirits as usual."
"Now that you mention it, I do remember that she has appeared rather dull. Perhaps it is from fatigue. You know she danced a good deal last night, and that it was late before any of us got to bed."
"Very true. But still, I have thought that there might possibly be another reason."
"What other reason could there be?"
"Didn't you observe that young Ware was over attentive to her last night?"
"Young Henry Ware?"
"Yes."
"No, I did not."
"Well, he was a good deal more so, than pleased me."
"Henry Ware! Why, he's not out of his teens yet, is he?"
"Yes he is, and thinks himself to be of no little degree of importance. I never was much prepossessed in his favor, however, though I esteem his father very highly, as a man ofsterling principles. Pity that his son did not more resemble him."
"I would not like Henry Ware to become attached to Bell. He is not the man that pleases my fancy."
"Nor mine either. Indeed, I would esteem it a calamity to our family, for one of my daughters to have her affections called out by a young man who possesses no more claims to good character than he."
"And yet what are we to do?" said the mother, in a serious tone, "We cannot deny him our house, nor can we refuse to let Bell attend parties where we know he will be present."
"All too true," replied Mr. Martin. "Our families are on terms of intimacy, and his father is one of my oldest and firmest friends. Still, regard for old Mr. Ware ought not to be a sufficient reason why I should sacrifice my daughter to his worthless son."
"That is very true. And yet no real danger may exist. The young man may never have had a serious thought of marriage--or a single regard, beyond that of mere friendship for Bell."
"That may be--but I fear it is otherwise. They were together a great deal last evening, and today Bell is evidently changed, and more pensive and thoughtful than usual."
"You really alarm me!" replied Mrs. Martin, in a voice of concern.
"There is cause of serious alarm; and that is why I have spoken on the subject," rejoined her husband. "Now is the point of time in our daughters' histories, when a false step may wreck their hopes forever. How many, alas! how many sweet girls have we seen in the last twenty years, with hearts as pure and innocent, and hopes as brilliant as those of our own dear children, thrown down from the pinnacle of happiness, to hopeless misery, by marriage. You remember Anne Milford--one of the gentlest and loveliest of her gender; how her affections were won by a man who has not only dragged her down, down, down, into abject poverty--but who never could and never did return a tenth of the deep love she lavished upon him. I met her in the street today. Her pale, sad face, with its dreamy expression, made my heart ache."
"But even if young Ware should have made an impression on Bell's mind--and even if it were to end in marriage, which Heaven forbid! she can never be reduced to poverty, as poor Anne has been."
"There is no guaranty for that, in such a man as the son of Mr. Ware."
"Why not?"
"He will never earn a dollar, unless driven to it by necessity; and even then, the little that he would make, would be of no account."
"But both his father and you are rich."
"Riches, says the good Book, take to themselves wings and fly away, Fanny."
"True, but--"
"Your observation and my own," said Mr. Martin, interrupting his wife, "prove that the wealth, which is accumulated by a man in this country, rarely reaches his grand-children. In four cases out of five, it is all gone in a few years after his death--squandered by improvident children, who, never having earned a dollar--have no idea of the value of money. Henry Ware is just the man to squander, with a rapidity four-fold greater than his father ever accumulated. I will pass away in a brief period, and so will that excellent old man, his father; and then, if Bell should be his wife, it will take only a few years to bring them down to poverty and obscurity. It makes my heart sick, Fanny, to think of it. I would a hundred times rather see her the wife of Mr. Lane, than of that young spendthrift. He, though poor now, is a man of principle, and has habits of attention to business. He must rise in the world--while Ware will as certainly sink. In this country, all men, sooner or later, find their level. True merit, united with persevering industry, must rise into positions of influence and wealth--while idleness and extravagance must as inevitably sink into obscurity and dependence.
"Of course. Bell could not fancy him."
"No, nor he, Bell, I suppose. They do not now stand upon the same level; and where there is not true equality--there cannot be a true reciprocal affection. But do you know thatMr. Lane has taken a fancy to our Mary?"
"Yes, I learned it for the first time this morning."
"And it delighted you, of course?"
"It did. Mary is one of the best of girls, and I have always felt strongly attached to her. To know that she is going to do so well, gives me a sincere pleasure--though I shall be sorry indeed to lose her."
"Mr. Lane mentioned it to me today, and I said, 'take her with all my heart! I believe you are worthy of each other.' How glad I shall feel if I can only say the same, when the hands of my daughters are asked. But young ladies, occupying their position in society, are surrounded with dangers on every hand, and it is little less than a miracle if they escape. Idle fortune-hunters are ever on the alert with insidious arts, to ensnare their naive affections, and are, alas! too often successful."
"May such a one never be successful in winning the love of either of my children!"
"Amen!" was the heartfelt response of Mr. Martin.
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