Married and Single CHAPTER 17.
Back to Married and Single
On the evening of the same day on which Lane has been introduced to the reader, Mr. Trueman came home from his store, feeling rather more care weighing upon his mind than usual. All his life, it had required close attention to business and strict economy at home, to make, as it is said, "both ends meet." For the past ten years, his expenses had increased rather than diminished. In that period it had cost him most, for the education of his children, in which he had spared no expense that could possibly be afforded. The two youngest — Ellen, just sixteen, and Mary, but ten years old — were still at school. John, a fine young man of twenty, was clerk in a wholesale store. William, the reader knows, has left home and hearth-fire to wander in the world; whether dead or alive, those who loved him most could not tell. Edith, and her little boy, now six years old, with the quiet-faced mother of his household treasures, make up the family of Trueman.
On that day he had been making some estimates in regard to his business, and found that, for three years, his profits had been gradually diminishing. New stores had sprung into existence, and new modes of conducting business prevailed. He had become too old to change his quiet, methodical habits — into the dashing, boasting, go-ahead fashion of the day. His sign, too, had become old and dimmed, his fixtures worn, and the whole appearance of his store quite unattractive when put in contrast with the newer establishments that were flourishing all around him. It is no matter of surprise, that he was gradually losing business. He did not see the cause; or, if it were presented to his mind, he felt that he was too old to change; he could not do business upon the new plan.
A knowledge of the fact that he was gradually losing his business, and that it was even now barely productive enough to meet the expenses of his family, naturally caused his mind to fall into a sober mood. In this state he came home.
During the time passed at the tea-table but little was said. The father usually led the conversation, or participated in it freely; but as he did neither, it was plain to all that something weighed upon his mind. This made each one feel disinclined to talk. After tea, Trueman retired to the family sitting-room, and, taking his usual place in a large, old-fashioned chair, gave himself up to unpleasing thoughts connected with the declension of his business. No one came into the sitting-room but John. Edith and her mother had duties to perform, and the two younger daughters left the tea-table to study their lessons.
The young man, who had noticed, with the rest, his father's thoughtful mood, and half guessed the reason (for, engaged in a somewhat similar branch of trade, though on a larger scale, he saw the defects in his father's mode of doing business), sat down near him, hoping that some remark would be made by which he could lead his father to talk of his affairs; but he showed no inclination to do so.
"How is business now?" the young man at length asked.
"Not very good," was replied. "There are too many going into the same branch. It is all cut up."
There was something desponding in the tone of Trueman's voice. John was silent for some time.
"I had a talk with the head of our firm today," he broke this silence by saying, "about my future position. You know I have been with them for five years, and, up to this time, have received but four hundred dollars a year."
"Yes. Well, what was the result?"
"All that I could wish. I have one year more to stay; for that I am to get eight hundred dollars."
"You are?"
"Yes, sir. And I shall claim the privilege of devoting just four hundred dollars as my proportion of the expenses of the family for the coming year. After I become of age, a farther advance is promised. Beyond that, plain hints were given that I would be cared for. The principal partner in the firm has a brother, a few years older than myself, who has a capital of forty thousand dollars. He has been in the store for several months, gaining a knowledge of the business. In about two years he expects to commence for himself and it has been intimated to me that I shall be needed to join with him as the business partner. Of course I shall not object."
"No," returned the father, with an animated smile, all his anxieties scattered to the winds, "I presume not. Really, you have cheering news to set off against my despondency."
"I hope you will never permit yourself again to despond, father," John said, with affectionate seriousness. "I believe you have confidence in me. I know you would have. I am now twenty years of age, with a salary from which I can easily and most cheerfully spare four or five hundred dollars, to make up any deficit in your business; and I claim the right of doing this. I claim the right of aiding in the support and education of my sisters. After this year I shall stand on firmer ground, and be able to do more, should more be required."
After saying this, the noble-spirited young man dexterously sought to change the subject of conversation, in which he succeeded. Not long after, his mother and three sisters came in, and gathered around a table, some with needlework, and others with books. All perceived instantly that the father was in a more cheerful frame of mind. The cause, they did not know; but that was a matter of indifference; it was to the effect they looked. As for Mr. Trueman, the news given him by his son, had brought up his mind to a cheerful tone. He did not think of the aid offered him — the lightening of his burdens in the support of a large family — he only thought of the good fortune and bright prospect opening before his boy, whose manly character, intelligence, and moral worth had long afforded him a pleasure that only a parent's heart can estimate.
As his children gathered together, engaging in agreeable conversation for a time, and then becoming occupied with book or work, as taste, duty, or inclination prompted — the father's eye glistened as it rested upon them.
"For these, my household treasures, Father, I thank you!" he said, in silent gratitude, lifting his heart upward. "May no beast of prey enter this peaceful fold; no evil thing harm its gentle inhabitants; no tempter betray them to wrong."
Edith sat sewing just opposite to her father. The light fell strongly upon her face. Since the news of her husband's death, she was gradually gaining a more cheerful tone of mind, although she had not yet gone abroad into society. Her unhappy condition had been a source of much pain of mind to Trueman. Now, as he looked steadily into her calm face, he saw little that indicated a troubled heart. The marks of suffering were indeed there, but they were evidences of what had been, not of anything existing in the present.
"Dear child! over whom the wild winds have swept with desolating fury," he added, in silent speech, "how thankful am I that the storm is past. May not even the shadow of a portending cloud again darken on your path of life!"
As he said this, Edith, as if conscious of what was passing in the mind of her father, lifted her head, and looked him in the face for a moment or two with a glance of pure affection. Then she resumed her work. The mother, too, turned her eyes towards him, and then Ellen, closing her book as she spoke, said, "Really, this is selfish. We are all either reading or sewing, and not caring for father, who sits there with no one to say a word to him."
"No, no, don't think of me. Read on and sew on, just as you were. I am not lonely. Pleasant thoughts are my companions."
But Ellen's remark caused John to say,
"True enough, sister; and it isn't just right. Suppose I read aloud for an hour — I have a very entertaining book — and then you can give us some music."
This met the approbation of all. John read for an hour. But whether the father thought more of the contents of the book than of his loving, dutiful children — we cannot say. The evening was closed by some fine music by Ellen, who had already attained great proficiency, and then all separated for the night. It was a happy family, and Trueman was happiest of all; happiest, because in him were becoming manifest the results of a life spent in the faithful performance of all known duties. He had no great errors to look back upon when too late to correct them. He had chosen wisely his lot in life, and his reward was sweet.
Two scenes more, and our history is complete. We shall pass over fifteen additional years, and see what they have done for the married man and the bachelor. At sixty-five, the account of life is pretty well made up, and the result certain. First, then, Milford Lane will appear before us. It will not require long to decide whether he has realized all his selfish hopes in life — whether he has found the calm and peaceful old age he anticipated.
Back to Married and Single