Filial Love Rewarded
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"You are too parsimonious, Henry!" said Mr. Dumas to one of his clerks, as they were together in the counting-house one morning: "give me permission to say, that you do not dress sufficiently genteel to appear as clerk in a fashionable store."
Henry's face was suffused with a deep blush, and, in spite of his endeavors to suppress it, a tear trembled on his manly cheek.
"Did I not know that your salary was sufficient to provide more genteel habiliments," continued Mr. Dumas, "I would increase it."
"My salary is sufficient, sir," replied Henry, in a voice choked with emotion, but with that proud independence of feeling which poverty had not been able to divest him of. His employer noticed his agitation, and immediately changed the subject.
Mr. Dumas was a man of wealth and benevolence; he was a widower and had but one child, a daughter who was the pride of his declining years. She was not as beautiful as an angel, nor as perfect as a Venus; but the goodness, the innocence, the intelligence of her mind shone in her countenance, and you had but to become acquainted with her, to admire, to love her. Such was Caroline Dumas, when Henry first became an inmate in her father's house. No wonder he soon worshiped at her shrine — no wonder he soon loved her with a deep and devoted attention — and, reader, had you known him, you would not have wondered that his love was soon returned, for their souls were congenial; they were cast in virtue's purest mold. And although their tongues never gave utterance to what their hearts felt — yet the language of their eyes was too plain to be misunderstood. Henry was the very soul of honor; and although he perceived with pleasure that he was not altogether indifferent to Caroline, he felt as though he must control the passions which glowed in his bosom. I must not endeavor to win her young and artless heart, thought he — I am penniless, and cannot expect that her father will consent to our union — he has ever treated me with kindness, and I will not be ungrateful.
Thus he reasoned, and thus heroically endeavored to subdue what he considered an ill-fated passion. Caroline had many suitors, and some who were fully worthy of her; but she refused all their overtures with a gentle and decisive firmness. Her father wondered at her conduct, yet could not thwart her inclination.
He was in the decline of life, and wished to see Caroline happily settled before he left the stage of existence. It was not long before he suspected that young Henry was the cause of her indifference to others. The evident pleasure she took in hearing him praised; the blush that overspread their cheeks whenever their eyes met, all served to convince the old gentleman, who had not forgotten that he was once young himself, that they felt more than common interest in each others welfare. He forbore making any remarks on the subject, but was not so much displeased, as penniless Henry would have imagined.
Henry had been about a year in his service. Dumas knew nothing of his family; but his strict integrity, his irreproachable morals, his pleasing manners — all conspired to make him esteem him highly. He was proud of Henry, and wished him to appear as respectably as anyone. He had often wondered at the scantiness of his wardrobe, for, although he dressed with the most scrupulous regard to neatness, his clothes were almost threadbare. Mr. Dumas did not wish to think that this proceeded from a niggardly disposition, and he determined to broach the subject, and if possible, ascertain the real cause — this he did in the manner before related.
Soon after this conversation took place, Mr. Dumas left home on business. As he was returning, and riding through a beautiful village, he alighted at the door of a little cottage and requested a drink. The mistress, with an ease and politeness which convinced him that she had not always been the humble cottager, invited him to enter. He accepted her invitation — and here a scene of poverty and neatness presented itself such as he had never before witnessed. The furniture, which consisted of nothing more than was necessary, was exquisitely clean, so that it gave a charm to poverty, and cast an air of comfort on all around. A venerable-looking old man, who had not seemed to notice the entrance of Mr. Dumas, sat leaning on his staff; his clothes were clean and whole, but so patched that you could scarcely have told which had been the original piece.
"This is your father, I presume," said Mr. Dumas, addressing the mistress of the house.
"It is, sir."
"He seems to be quite aged."
"He is in his eighty-third year; he has survived all his children except myself."
"You have once seen better days?"
"I have — my husband was wealthy; but false friends ruined him — he endorsed notes to a large amount, which stripped us of nearly all our property, and one misfortune followed another, until we were reduced to complete poverty. My husband did not long survive his losses, and two of my children soon followed him."
"Have you any remaining children?"
"I have one, and he is my only support. My health is so feeble that I cannot do much, and my father being blind, needs great attention. My son conceals from my knowledge, the amount of his salary, but I am convinced that he sends me nearly all, if not the whole amount of it."
"Then he is not with you?"
"No, sir, he is clerk for a merchant in Philadelphia."
"Clerk for a merchant in Philadelphia! What is your son's name?"
"Henry Ware."
"Henry Ware!" reiterated Mr. Dumas, "why he is my clerk! I left him at my house not two weeks ago."
Here followed a series of inquiries, which evinced an anxiety and solicitude that a mother alone could feel — to all of which Mr. Dumas replied to her perfect satisfaction.
"You know our Henry," said the old man, raising his head from his staff.
"Well, sir, then you know as worthy a lad as ever lived. God will bless him for his goodness to his old grandfather," he added in a tremulous voice, while the tears ran down his cheeks.
"He is a worthy fellow, to be sure," said Mr. Dumas, rising and placing a well-filled purse in the hands of the old man. "He is a worthy fellow, and shall not lack friends."
"Noble boy," said he, mentally, as he was riding alone, ruminating on his late interview, "noble boy — he shall not lack wealth to enable him to distribute happiness. I believe he loves my girl, and if he does, he shall have her and all my property in the bargain!"
Filled with this project, and determined if possible to ascertain the true state of their hearts, he entered the breakfast room the next morning after his arrival home.
"Do you know that Henry is about to leave us to go to England, and try his fortune?" he carelessly observed.
"Henry about to leave!" said Caroline, dropping the work she held in her hand, "about to leave us and going to England!" she added, in a tone which evinced the deepest interest.
"But what if he is, my child?"
"Nothing, father, nothing; only I thought we would be rather lonesome."
"Tell me, Caroline," said Mr. Dumas, tenderly embracing her, "tell me — do you not love Henry? You know I wish your happiness, my child. I have ever treated you with kindness, and you have never until now hid anything from your father."
"Neither will I now," she replied, hiding her face in his bosom. "I do most sincerely esteem him; but do not for worlds tell him of it, for he has never said it was returned."
"I will soon find that out, and without telling him, too," replied the father, leaving the room.
"Henry," said he, as he entered the counting-house, "you expect to visit the country shortly, do you not?"
"Yes, in about a month."
"If it would not be inconvenient," rejoined Mr. Dumas, "I would like to have you defer it a week or two longer."
"It will be no inconvenience, sir, and if it will oblige you, I will wait with pleasure."
"It will most certainly oblige me, for Caroline is to be married in about five weeks, and I would not miss having you attend the wedding."
"Caroline to be married, sir!" said Henry, starting as if by an electric shock, "Caroline to be married! — can it be possible?"
"To be sure it is — but what is there amazing in that?"
"Nothing, sir, only it was rather sudden — rather unexpected — that is all."
"It is rather sudden, to be sure," replied Mr. Dumas; "but I am an old man, and as the man of her choice is well worthy of her, I see no use in waiting any longer, and am very glad you can stay for the wedding."
"I cannot stay, sir, indeed I cannot!" replied Henry, forgetting what he had previously said.
"You cannot!" rejoined Mr. Dumas, "why, you said you would."
"Yes, sir, but business requires my presence in the country, and I must go."
"But you said it would put you to no inconvenience, and that you would wait with pleasure."
"Command me in anything else, sir, but in this respect I cannot oblige you," said Henry, rising and walking with rapid strides across the floor.
Poor fellow! he had thought his passion subdued; but when he found that Caroline was soon so irrevocably to become another's — the latent spark burst forth in an unextinguished flame; and he found it in vain to endeavor to conceal his emotion.
The old gentleman regarded him with a look of earnestness. "Henry," said he, "tell me frankly, do you love my girl?"
"I will be candid with you, sir," replied Henry, conscious that his agitation had betrayed him, "had I a fortune such as she merits, and as you, sir, have a right to expect — I would think myself the happiest of men, could I gain her love."
"Then she is yours!" cried the delighted old man; "say not a word about property, my boy; true worth is better than riches. I was only trying you, Henry. Caroline will never be married to any other than yourself!"
The transition from despair to happiness was great. For a moment, Henry remained silent; but his looks spoke volumes. At last, "I will not deceive you, sir," said he; "I am poorer than you suppose — I have a mother and grandfather, who are — "
"I know it, I know it all, Henry," said Mr. Dumas, interrupting him. "I know the reason of your parsimony, as I called it, and I honor you for it. It is that which first put it into my head to give you Caroline — she will be yours, and may God bless you both."
Shortly after this conversation, Henry avowed his love to Caroline, and solicited her hand, and it is needless to say he did not solicit in vain. Caroline would have deferred their union until the ensuing spring, but her father was inexorable. He had told Henry that his daughter was going to be married in five weeks, and he would not forfeit his word. "But, perhaps," added he, apparently recollecting himself, and turning to Henry, "perhaps we shall have to defer it, after all, for you have important business in the country about that time!"
"Be merciful, sir," said Henry, smiling, "I did not wish to witness the sacrifice of my own happiness!"
"I am merciful," replied the old gentleman, "and for that reason I would not wish to put you to the inconvenience of staying. You said that you would willingly oblige me, but you could not, indeed you could not."
"You have once been young, sir," said Henry.
"I know it, I know it," replied he, laughing heartily; "but I am afraid that too many of us old folks forget it — however, if you can postpone your journey, I suppose we must have a wedding."
We have only to add, that the family of Henry was sent for, and the nuptials solemnized at the appointed time; and that, blessed with the filial love of Henry and Caroline, the old people passed the remainder of their days in peace and happiness.
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