Keeping up Appearances CHAPTER 5.
Back to Three Years in a Man-trap
As early as Mr. Hartman had arisen, and as impatient as he was to hear from Lucy — his suspense, so far as she was concerned, did not terminate until a couple of hours from the time he left his uneasy pillow. Up to the time when the breakfast bell was rung, Lucy had not made her appearance, Mr. and Mrs. Hartman took their places at the table, and listened to hear her descending from her chamber. But she did not come down.
"It's no use, Agnes," said Mr. Hartman, pushing aside the cup she had handed him, after sipping a few spoonfuls of the coffee it contained. "I can't eat a mouthful until this matter is decided. I wish you would go up and hear what the girl has to say."
Mrs. Hartman arose from the table and left the room without making any reply. She was absent about five minutes. When she returned, she found her husband moving uneasily about the room.
"Well! what does she say now?" he asked quickly.
Mrs. Hartman shook her head — but did not reply immediately.
"What does she say, Agnes? For Heaven's sake don't prolong the miserable suspense, or I shall go beside myself!"
"'I can say nothing,' that is all the reply she makes."
"Ungrateful girl! Thus does she repay all our kindness!" exclaimed Mr. Hartman, passionately. As he thus spoke, Lucy entered and heard what he said. A moan of anguishescaped her lips, and she sank upon a chair as if a strong hand had forced her down suddenly. Her uncle's ear caught the sound, and turning quickly, his eyes rested upon her face that was as pale as ashes, and marked with an expression of agony. For the first time it occurred to Mr. Hartman, that something more than a mere girlish whim might be the cause of Lucy's objection to the proposed marriage; and he felt an instant regret at having uttered the words that had fallen upon her ears, and which seemed to have completely stunned her. He stood, irresolute, for some time, with his eyes fixed upon Lucy; then he walked quickly from the room without speaking. In a few moments the street door was heard to shut with a heavy jar.
"When Mr. Hartman arrived at his office, he found upon his desk a note, couched in these brief terms:
"My Dear Sir: A night's reflection has caused me to change my mind. I now beg to withdraw the offer I made yesterday; its non-acceptance, up to this time, leaving me free to do so. The two hundred pounds I lent you a few days ago, I shall need tomorrow. William Burnside."
Quietly did Mr. Hartman re-fold this note, and place it in his desk. His heart beat no quicker; his mind was unexcited; his countenance exhibited no disturbance. The communication he had just read was like a stunning blow. When he had, in some degree, recovered from the effects produced by this unexpected change in the views and feelings of Mr. Burnside, Mr. Hartman's first act was to draw a cheque for two hundred pounds, which he enclosed in the following brief note:
"Mr. Burnside, Dear Sir — Enclosed you will find a cheque for two hundred pounds. Please return me, by bearer, my due bill for that amount which you hold. Lester Hartman."
When Mr. Hartman reached home at dinner time, in a very sober mood, his first inquiry was for Lucy.
"She went out some two hours after you left this morning, and has not since returned," replied his wife.
"What did she say?"
"Nothing."
"Didn't you talk to her?"
"I tried to speak to her — but my tongue could find no word that it did not seem like mockery to utter."
"Poor girl! She has taken the whole matter harder, it seems, than I had any idea would be the case. I wish she had not overheard that rash speech of mine. It must have hurt her exceedingly. Well, Agnes," he continued, in a changed tone, "it's all over, I fear. Mr. Burnside sent me this strange note today" — handing the note he had received, to his wife, who read it eagerly. "I can't imagine what could have produced the change. But you see, from its brevity, and the closing demand — that something has occurred to make him suspect my real condition — at least, so I interpret its meaning. That he has withdrawn his proposals for the hand of Lucy, we need not apprise her; it will be sufficient to say that she is at liberty to decline his offer. As for me, I see but little prospect for keeping up for more than a few weeks at most."
"Do not despair," said Mrs. Hartman; "relief may come from a quarter least expected, and at a time when most needed."
"Yes, this may be so. But the chances are ten to one against it. I am afraid, Agnes, that there is little to hope for. When I think of it, I feel sometimes as if I would go mad. I believe, if I stood alone, I could meet this dreaded reverse with calmness. But to have my family visited with such an all-sweeping calamity as the one that threatens me, seems more than I can bear."
"Think not of us, Lester," returned Mrs. Hartman, with generous warmth. "Do the best you can — and then meet whatever result follows, with patience and resignation. You need not grieve for us. Both Lucy and myself will bear any change that comes, and bear it, I trust, cheerfully. For my part, I would, if the choice were left me, choose a thousand times over the lowest condition that poverty could entail — rather than see the sacrifice made which was proposed. That, I believe, would have been the greatest evil that could have befallen us, and the time may come, Lester, when you will see it as I do."
"I don't know; perhaps you may be right. My mind is too much bewildered to think clearly upon any subject. But I must own, that the withdrawal of Mr. Burnside's proposal does not affect me as much as I would have supposed, nor do I regret it very deeply. I believe that I was wrong to have even thought of overruling Lucy's objections to a marriage with anyone — in order to save myself from a dreadful evil. Poor child! I wish the events of the last two days could be blotted from her memory as well as mine. But, I fear, they never can."
Lucy did not return home during the dinner hour, a circumstance that occasioned some surprise in the mind of her uncle and aunt.
When Mr. Hartman went back to his shop in the afternoon, after having held a long conversation with his wife, in which she urged him not to give way to desponding thought — but to meet as bravely as possible whatever event might transpire, no matter how disastrous — his mind was calmer. It was also made active in its search after the ways and means by which to save his many maturing financial obligations from dishonor. During the brief time in which the offer of Mr. Burnside had been pending, every thought had rested in that one mode of relief. That having totally failed, his mind came back gradually into its old state, and resumed its former activity.
"I will not go down without a long and vigorous struggle to ride out the storm," he said, "all may yet be saved."
In this more evenly balanced frame of mind, Mr. Hartman returned home in the evening; his thoughts now specially directed towards his niece, to meet whom he felt some little reluctance, after all that had passed. His first question was for Lucy.
"She hasn't come in yet," was the answer he received.
"Not come home yet!" he said, in surprise. "Where can she be?"
"I do not know. She went away without saying anything to me, about an hour after breakfast."
"Are you sure she has not returned?"
"Oh yes! I have done little else but listen for her to come in, all day."
"But perhaps she came in without your hearing her. Have you been to her room to see if she were not there?"
"No, I have been so certain about her not having returned, that I never thought of going to her room. But I will step up and see if she has come in, although I have no expectation of finding her there."
In a little while Mrs. Hartman returned to the room where she had left her husband, holding in one hand a sealed letter, and in the other an open letter. Her face was blanched, her lips quivering, and her eyes filled with tears. Without speaking, she handed the sealed letter to her husband, to whom it was directed. Eagerly opening it, Mr. Hartman read with the most acute pain, its surprising contents.
"My Dear Uncle — Since the time of my father's death, when I was but a child, you have taken his place, and have been to me all that he could have been, and I have loved you as tenderly, I believe, as I could have loved him. Up to this period, I have never, knowingly, disobeyed you, nor acted contrary to your wishes in anything. But now you have asked me to do what I dare not do; what I solemnly believe would be sin in the sight of God. I know how much depends upon my acceptance of the proposal made to me. I know that all your worldly prospects hang upon it; and I know you must, as you do, think me ungrateful, as unworthy of the kindness you have bestowed upon me. But, uncle, the sacrifice you ask is too fearful a one. I would willingly die, rather than make it. As I said before, I dare not make it, for I feel that I should do a wrong that no subsequent repentance could atone for — no subsequent act repair.
"This being the case, it is plain to me that I have no further claim upon you for support, protection, or love. This I have forfeited. Under this consciousness, as painful as it is to me, I feel constrained by every just consideration to pass from under your roof, and to look only to my own exertions for the comfort and blessings which I have so long and so freely received from you. That God may avert the calamity you so much dread, is my most earnest prayer. If, without committing sin, I could avert it, oh! how quickly would it be done!
"And now, dear uncle, let me say, and you must believe me when I say it, that in the feelings which prompt this act there is not a shadow of resentment. I have forfeited all claim to your protection and support, and I leave you under this assurance. May Heaven bring the time and opportunity for me to show you that I am not altogether ungrateful for the many kindnesses I have received at your hands! Lucy."
The letter written by Lucy to her aunt more fully expressed the anguish of mind under which she was suffering, and showed how painful was the trial to which she had subjected herself. It was as follows:
"My Dear Aunt — This will inform you that I no longer feel myself at liberty to remain in my uncle's house. In leaving it, as I now do, it is neither from anger nor resentment; nor is it from the impulse of wounded feelings; but from a deep conviction of the fact that I have no longer any right to receive from his hands the blessings and comforts of life, while I refuse to do almost the only thing which he ever asked me to do, and that, something of such vital consequence to him. God knows how willingly I would make almost any sacrifice for either you or him! — but this was asking of me too much. I could not do it. Death would have been in every way preferable. With my views of marriage, and my feelings on the subject of the one proposed, to have yielded to my uncle's wishes would have been like consenting to the destruction of my own soul. The act, for me, would have been little less than a commission of the unpardonable sin. But he cannot see it thus, and, therefore, thinks me ungrateful for all the kindness with which he has blessed me. Alas! how little does he know my heart!
"In resolving to take this step, my dear aunt, it has not been without fully understanding its nature. In doing it, my greatest grief has been in thinking how deeply it will afflict you. You have been to me as my own mother. You have loved me with as pure a love as she could have felt, had she lived, and I know that you cannot part with me thus, without suffering the severest pain; nor will I suffer less. But what I am about to do, I feel must be done. I could not lift, again, my head in my uncle's house. I could not receive from his hands a continuance of what I have already so freely received — when, at the same time, I refuse to do for him what he tells me will save him from ruin. I pray that this dreaded evil may not visit him. If Heaven would only spare him this great reverse of fortune that he dreads, I think I could be happy, even though estranged from his love; but if the blow does fall, I shall be more wretched, I fear, than he can possibly be.
"I have only taken with me a few changes of clothing; nothing beyond that, I felt at liberty to take. All my best dresses and jewelry, also my watch and gold chain, you will find in my drawers. You have taught me the use of my needle, and have also taught me that a life of idleness is not a true life for any one — but a false life, leading always to unhappiness. I am likewise well-skilled in music; and am able, I think, to teach either the Spanish or French language. I shall, therefore, be at no loss for the means of self-sustenance. If I do not gain it by one of these abilities, I can easily do it by another.
"And now, dear aunt! with a heart full almost to breaking, I bid you farewell. Do not think strange or hard of me for this step. I cannot refrain from taking it. Believe that I love you as deeply, purely, and tenderly — as ever any child loved a parent; and that I believe you to love me as tenderly as ever any mother loved a child. For both you and uncle I shall never cease to pray. May your reward, for the kindness I have received at your hand, be a hundred fold. Lucy."
"Where has she gone?" asked Mr. Hartman, in a choking voice, as he finished reading his wife's letter.
"Heaven only knows!" was the reply. "Of that she has not breathed a word."
Mr. Hartman sank into a chair with a groan. The hour that followed was as full of bitter reflections as were any other twenty-four hours of his whole life.
Back to Three Years in a Man-trap