Nothing but Money! CHAPTER 1.
Back to Nothing but Money!
"What is the price?"
The speaker was a young woman with a small basket on her arm, in which was a steak, a bunch of asparagus, and half-a-dozen eggs. She had lifted a geranium from the stand of a market gardener, and stood looking at its pink and white blossoms with admiring eyes.
"Twenty-five cents," replied the man. The words seemed to make the flower-pot heavier, for the hand that held it went down suddenly, like a scale on receiving additional weight, and the geranium took its place among the verbenas, pansies, roses, phlox and petunias on the flower-stand.
A shade of disappointment fell over the young woman's face.
"Take it for twenty?" said the gardener.
There was only a silent shake of the head, as the young woman turned away.
"Take it for fifteen cents?" asked the man.
She lifted the flower again, pressed a leaf between her fingers, and inhaled its fragrance. That sweet impression on her sense was the concluding argument. The geranium was hers.
Let us observe this young woman a little more closely, as she moves homeward with a light step, carrying her market-basket in one hand and her flower in the other. Her face is pretty and girlish. Round, blossom-tinted cheeks, fresh and pure; soft blue eyes, full of nestling loves, and bright with hopes that look sweetly confident, onward toward the coming years. Her dress is of pink and white calico, plain in the main, and fitting her form closely. The skirt has no trimming, and displaying a small foot and ankle. The foot is covered with a morocco slipper; black ribbons are crossed on the instep and tied around the ankle. A light blue ribbon binds her slender waist, two long ends falling at the side and fluttering in the fresh June air, as she goes tripping on her homeward way. A cottage bonnet of straw, simply trimmed with a band of puffed ribbon, throws her face into half shadow, and gives it a softer beauty. She is twenty — no more.
There is nothing striking or unusual in the appearance of this young girl; and yet, as she passes along, one and another turn and glance back for a second observation. There may be two reasons — the harmony and good taste manifest in her plain attire, and the calm sweetness of her fair young countenance. Thus far, life has been to her a pleasant experience. But this need not be told — you see it at a glance.
Not far away from the market-house stands a small brick dwelling, two stories high. It is new, with a white front door, and green venetian shutters at the windows of both stories. The street door opens into a little parlor. We will take an inventory of the furniture.
On the floor is a red and green ingrain carpet, and six drab-colored Windsor chairs look at each other from the opposite walls. A small mahogany table; a narrow mantel glass, flanked by two tall lamps; shovel and tongs at the fire-place — complete the attire of this first and best room.
Next to it is the breakfast and sitting-room. On the floor of this is a carpet, woven in red, yellow, green, and white stripes. A small pine table, stained red, standing in the center of the room, is covered with a snowy table-cloth and set with breakfast-things for two. Four Windsor chairs, a mahogany work-stand, a pair of broad-bottomed brass candlesticks on the mantel-piece, and a few unimportant trifles, complete the furniture of this room.
Opening from this room is a small kitchen; above are two chambers, and above these two attics.
The dwelling and its furniture are humble. We have the abode of a young married couple, beginning the world, according to their means, in the most unambitious manner. The rent of this house is one hundred and fifty dollars a year; the entire cost of the furniture three hundred. Enough had been laid up by the young husband to pay for the furnishing, and still have two or three hundred in reserve.
It is early morning, not much beyond six, and Adam Guyton sits by the window awaiting his wife's return from Lexington market. Lydia's small soft hands are to prepare his breakfast, for they have as yet no servant. As he sits by the window, we will take his portrait. Age about twenty-five; the firm thin lips, slightly falling brow, and cold calculating eyes, plainly indicating the lapse of some years since his departure from lighthearted youth. Our young husband is a man in all that appertains to an earnest life-purpose. He has already measured himself with the world, and girded up his loins for battle.
We cannot say that we like the expression of his face, as he sits by the window waiting for his young wife's return. It is in repose, and expresses some habitual state of mind, or to speak more accurately, the quality of some habitual state. His eyes, half closed, are looking forward upon life — not observant of anything external. There is something hard — we may wrong him to say cruel — in his inflexible mouth. If it was even a little sensual and voluptuous, we might like it better. How very cold his face is! Perhaps the dark complexion may have something to do with this appearance. We cannot say; but it is cold and calm. The blood seems never to have found its way there, giving a rich warmth to cheek and brow. All is of the same hue, from forehead to chin. We wonder if it lights up when feelings are at play?
Yes, for it has lighted up suddenly, and all that looked repellant has fled. He has started from the window and is at the door, where his young wife is standing.
"Are you not late, dear?"
He draws out his watch and glances at the time. Ah! that sudden smile which looked so sweet around his mouth is fading quickly.
"What time is it?"
Do you see the brightness toning down on her face as her eyes dwell on his countenance.
"Half past six; and you know I must be at business by a little after seven."
His eyes fell upon the geranium.
"Isn't it sweet?"
The young wife plucks a fragrant leaf and hands it to her husband. He does not smell of it, but tears it to pieces in an absent way.
"It is half past six, remember, Lydia."
He could think only of the business that awaited him.
She goes past him with her face a little paler. She has felt more than we have perceived. The coldness has struck downward with a chill.
In fifteen minutes, during which time Adam Guyton has walked the floor across parlor and breakfast-room with unceasing tread, the meal is served. It consists of coffee, bread and butter, and boiled eggs. The geranium is on the work-stand, and its fragrance filled the room.
"Isn't it sweet?" The wife has poured her husband a cup of coffee, and he is busy with his eggs and read and butter. "And it cost only fifteen cents. The man asked a quarter."
The young husband turned his eyes upon the flowers.
"How much for that thing, did you say?"
"Fifteen cents."
"Humph! What else did you buy?"
"A steak, half-a-dozen eggs, and a bunch of asparagus."
"What did they cost?"
"Let me see — twenty-five, seven, and ten — forty two cents."
"And the flower fifteen?"
"Yes."
"So your flower cost nearly half as much as your dinner."
Adam Guyton shakes his head after a very sober fashion.
"But that's the way of the world, my dear," he adds, in a moralizing strain, and with more of severity than kindness in his tone. "Ornament, beauty, and amusement are permitted to consume half of almost every man's substance. People should get along easily enough with their necessities. It is the burden of superfluous things that makes so many stooping shoulders. Now, we must be wiser than all this, Lydia. We must not let external glitter and show bewilder us. There's no use in that flower, which has cost as much as three loaves of bread, or your half-dozen eggs and bunch of asparagus."
Tears are in Lydia's eyes, but her husband does not observe them; her appetite is gone, but he fails to notice the fact. His thought rests in the importance of making her feel that only life's necessities are to be regarded — that money is a thing of too much importance in the world to be wasted on trifles.
"Money is a great power, Lydia," he goes on. "If we have money at command, and to fall back upon — we can be independent of everything and everybody. But, if we waste our money, instead of keeping it for use — we will be the slaves of every changing fad. Money is a reality, and abides. If you save it up — you have a well-grounded assurance of finding it all safe in the time of need. But your pretty flowers wither up and die, or, living, are a care, and useless. I have made it a rule, for years, not to buy anything that I did not really need. Some men can't keep a dollar to save their lives. They not only spend foolishly all they receive — but their covetous eyes lead them into debt for things that are wholly useless! Such men you find always in trouble. They complain about not being able to get along in the world, and never seem to comprehend the fact that the fault lies at their own door."
"Flowers are not useless things, Adam. God made them."
There is a pleading tone in the low, tender voice of Lydia Guyton, as she looks across the table at her husband.
"And he made the rivers also; but that is no reason why we should turn them from their courses, and let them sweep in destruction through our dwellings," is triumphantly answered.
"There is no harm in flowers. They destroy nothing. But, on the contrary, restore to the mind much that is lost in our jarring life-experiences. They are God's messengers of delight to our hearts."
"All poetry, Lydia! All poetry! Your flower, there, has destroyed fifteen cents — a thing actually demonstrable. Three loaves of bread would have given us blood and muscle for work in the world. But that poor trifle! Bah! Its useless."
Lydia is neither strong-willed, nor given to contention. She does not, therefore, urge her view of the case — but sighs, and remains silent. Adam Guyton talks on, having the argument all to himself, and rises, at length, from the breakfast-table with the air of a man who has settled a favorite point beyond all controversy.
"Throw your geranium out of the window, dear," half laughing, half in earnest, as he kisses his wife at parting. "It has already brought you more trouble than it is worth five times over!"
Back to Nothing but Money!