Nothing but Money! CHAPTER 16.
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On the day afterwards, Mrs. Guyton called, as she had purposed, to see her old friend. It was a long time since they had met face to face; and over two years since their last exchange of formal visits. Her heart was now full of sympathy, pity, and tender interest. The misfortune of Diane had awakened old feelings that came back upon her like a flood. When she reached the pleasant little house, standing modestly back from the street, in which, years gone by, she had passed many sweet hours with this dear friend, it looked so poor and small in contrast with her own spacious and elegant home, that she could not repress a sigh for Diane, as she entered through the gate and moved down the bordered walk leading to the door. Her hand trembled as she raised it to the bell and gave a timid ring.
"Is Mrs. Hofland at home?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered the tidily dressed servant, who admitted her to the Doctor's office.
"Walk upstairs."
Mrs. Guyton hesitated.
"Walk up to the parlor, if you please, ma'am." And the girl conducted Mrs. Guyton along the narrow passage and stairway to the front room in the second story.
"What name shall I say, ma'am?" The servant's manner was cheerful and intelligent. Mrs. Guyton handed her a card, and she retired. Nearly five minutes passed before Diane made her appearance, and in that time, Mrs. Guyton had opportunity to note each article in the room. How poor and meager everything looked. The carpet was faded and threadbare, and the scant furniture plain and out of fashion. Only two small pictures hung on the walls, and they were portraits. A pair of china match boxes, and a small gilt candelabra, composed the mantel ornaments. A pair of painted shades, considerably worn, tempered the light at the windows. How painfully all this contrasted itself in the mind of Mrs. Guyton, with the attractive surroundings which, on her last visit, made so pleasant the home of Diane. She remembered the choice books and pictures; the innumerable statuettes and objects of taste, with which her husband had made beautiful their dwelling. Ah, how sad a fall had come!
In the midst of her reverie, Mrs. Guyton heard the footsteps of her friend, and rose to meet her. In the moments of intervening suspense, her heart almost stood still. She had pictured a pale, sad, wasted, and despondent countenance; an almost hopeless being with whom she could weep — but offer few words of comfort.
The door opened. Was that bright face, over which smiles were sporting; those eyes, brimming with a loving welcome — the face and eyes of Diane Hofland? Yes, even so!
"Why, Lydia! This is indeed a pleasure!" and she came forward quickly, grasping the hand of her old friend, and kissing her with a heart-warmth that made the sluggish blood leap in new impulses along her veins.
"Deal Diane!" said Mrs. Guyton, as they sat down, side by side, holding tightly each other's hands, "I cannot tell you how deeply this misfortune has touched me. I only heard of it last night, and it put sleep far from me."
"What misfortune, dear?" The sober hue that fell over the countenance of Mrs. Hofland, did not by any means extinguish the sunbeams.
Mrs. Guyton glanced, meaningly, about the poorly furnished room.
"Oh, yes. I understand you. But, there has been no misfortune, Lydia. This change is wholly voluntary, and marks an ascent, not descent in our fortunes."
Mrs. Guyton looked wonderingly into Diane's face. She did not understand her.
"Voluntary, Diane?" she questioned.
"Yes, dear; entirely so."
The eyes of Mrs. Guyton went wandering around the room again, and came back to the face of her friend.
"I do not understand it," she said, shaking her head in a grave, doubting way.
"Oh, I can make it all clear. But first take off your bonnet, and lay aside your shawl. You must make me a good visit. It is so long since you were here."
"My heart has been with you, Diane. An old friend is worth a dozen new ones," returned Mrs. Guyton, as she drew off her bonnet.
Then they sat down again, side by side, and hand in hand.
"Tell me about this change, Diane. It troubles me," said Mrs. Guyton.
And now, the face of Mrs. Hofland grew sober, as thought went back to the painful trials out of which she had just come.
"We were in debt, Lydia," she answered. "Neither the Doctor nor I have looked as closely to the relation between income and outgo, as prudence requires. Our tastes led our thoughts too much away from the homely economies of life, and the result was financial embarrassment. Some rough experiences opened our eyes to the wrong and folly of all this, and we made up our minds to go back a little, and make a new start in the world. So, we gave up our big house in Charles street, sold off every article that we could do without, paid our debts, and snuggled ourselves away in this cosy little place. It was large enough for happiness once, and we still find it so again. The burden of debt being removed — our hearts beat to a lighter measure. No, dear, it was not misfortune that brought us here — but honest independence. If the change works any social alienations, they will not hurt us; for we dwell too much in the real things of life, to be affected by any new adjustment of its unreal things. We look more to hearts than faces. Today has brought me sweet compensation!"
Diane paused, looking tenderly into her friend's face —
"What, Diane?"
"Your return, darling." Tears sprang into her eyes.
"My heart has always held you as a precious thing, Lydia. The old love has never grown dim — cannot grow dim — cannot die. If we have seemed to stand coldly apart, there has been no coldness with me. Circumstance, not inner change, has come between us. I always felt that this was so; and now I know it. To get back an old friend, Lydia, is to gain more than I have lost."
Touched deeply by this, the heart of Lydia gushed in tears from her eyes. She had come, trying in her weakness, to gather up strength to support Diane in the hour of darkness and trial; but Diane was strong, and brave, and cheerful. The storm, which, in her fear, had brought desolation to the heart of an old friend — had swept by without harm. Thegarden of her mind had not lost a green leaf, nor a fragrant blossom. Before this calm strength — her own spirit bowed in tearful weakness. Strong to comfort, a little while before — she was nerveless now.
"And how is it with you, Lydia?" asked Mrs. Hofland, as she looked more closely at her friend, whose pale, thin face, suggested bad health and a mind ill at ease.
Tears filled the eyes of Lydia again — her lips quivered as she tried to answer. Then she hid her face against Diane, and struggled with the rising tide. A few strong sobs shook her wasted frame.
"Dear friend!" murmured Diane, kissing her forehead, "God comforts; God strengthens."
But, there was no reply.
"It was not good for us to have held apart from each other so long," murmured Diane.
"Oh, no, no, it was not good. But it was my fault, not yours," answered Lydia, "and mine has been the loss. While you have grown strong in the life-battle, I have grown weaker — weaker — weaker. I thought you had suffered misfortune, and came to offer the love and sympathy that was in my heart; but, I find you brave and cheerful. Earthly storms cannot shatter the fair temple your soul has built — earthly clouds cannot darken its windows, Diane! With you is the beauty of life, with me its desolation!"
"No, no, my friend; do not say that," replied Diane.
"There is beauty for all — peace for all."
"Not for me," was sadly responded — "not for me. I have lost my way in the world, and something tells me that I shall never find it again — never."
"Dear Lydia! How strangely you talk. Do not let such thoughts haunt your soul. Tormenting spirits have gained access to your mind and afflict you with their dark suggestions. Look up to God, who is the comforter, the enlightener, the sustainer. He will make a plain way for you; He will strike rifts in the cloud; He will bring you peace."
"Not in this world, Diane." Mrs. Guyton raised her head, and turned a pale face, over which a strong calm had fallen, upon her friend. "Not in this world, Diane." She repeated the sentence in a steady voice.
"He will, He will; but you must look up."
"I cannot, Diane."
"Oh, my friend, the promise is to everyone. Come unto Me all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. We cannot fall into any state of mind beyond God's reach and sympathy. He came down to man's lowest extremity. We cannot be in any suffering, or darkness, or temptation, through which He did not pass in the Incarnation, and out of which He cannot lift us. He knows our sorrows. He is acquainted with our grief — for into his human soul, He received all possible human suffering, and by subduing the evil from which it flowed, changed sorrow into joy, and grief into gladness."
"It may be so, Diane; but I have lost my way, and cannot find it again. You have one to lean upon — I stand alone. You have a husband — I am worse than widowed. Dear friend! — bear with me a little, and hear me speak as I never thought to speak in the ear of living mortal. Delicacy, honor, right — all, all, oppose my speech — yet, only in utterance now, can my poor heart be saved from paralysis. The sweetness of your life, as I see it now, has made me feel, more painfully — the bitterness of my own. Diane, my soul is imprisoned and starving — and only death can give it release. Adam has shut the door, and turned the key."
"Oh, Lydia! Don't talk so. I shall think your mind wandering."
A strange gleam shot across Lydia's wan face — a strange light flashed in her eyes. Mrs. Hofland felt a cold shudder run to her heart. The suggestion was unfortunate.
"I would not wonder if it went wholly astray," said Mrs. Guyton, mournfully. "Many women have lost their reason through lighter suffering than mine."
"This is not well," answered Diane. "Let us be strong and brave — let us endure and be patient. God's better time will come. Out of much tribulation — the saints go upward, at last, white-robed and rejoicing."
But Lydia shook her head slowly and sadly, and drawing a little away, said — "If you will not hear me, well. I can keep silent though my heart breaks."
Instantly Diane threw an arm around her friend. "Dear Lydia! say on. Speak to me as if I were a sister — nay; nearer and dearer than a sister. I hold you in my heart. Your life is precious to me. It is not well with my friend; there is darkness in her soul — her feet are moving along uncertain ways. How is it? Why has the night fallen so soon? Why have her steps wandered?"
"I have no husband, Diane!" The tones struck sharply on the ears of Mrs. Hofland. "There is a man, named Adam Guyton who promised to be my husband; a man to whose soul my soul sought to wed itself. But, he has turned from my love and bound himself to another!"
"Lydia!" Mrs. Hofland was shocked. "It is even so, my friend. Human love has died out of him. Gold is his bride!"
Mrs. Guyton was silent for a time, and then went on. "With Adam, money is the greatest good. Its love has crushed out all other loves. Husband, father, friend, in their true signification — these are no more. Avarice has supplanted them. And I am a woman, Diane; a woman, and bound to this man — hopelessly bound. His wife, in law, and the mother of his children; but mammon is his mistress. Can a woman bear this? Can a woman's heart beat against a heart of gold — and not be hurt at every pulsation? I tell you no, Diane — no — no — no! There may be those of our gender who, thus conditioned, would compensate or revenge themselves by license, or undying contention; but these are nottrue women. A true woman must love; rob her of this necessity of her nature — and you darken her whole life, as mine is darkened."
"Dear friend!" said Mrs. Hofland, drawing an arm tightly around Lydia, "you have children. There is mother-love as well as wife-love."
"Children! Yes, I have children!" The tones of Mrs. Guyton's voice gave Diane another shock.
"Children!" she continued, bitterly — "Have not the lion's whelps — the lion's tooth? Yes, I have children; or, more truly speaking, a cage of young wild beasts, perpetually struggling against each other, in whom the animal nature grows stronger every day. I grow weaker and weaker, in contention. A little while — and they will devour me!"
"Lydia, this is dreadful! You are talking wildly. It cannot be so." Mrs. Hofland pushed her friend away, and looked anxiously into her face. She feared the glare of insanity. But, though the eyes of Lydia were tearless and fixed, they gave back intelligent glances.
"I am talking in sober earnest, Diane. It is just as I have said. My children, as they grow older, grow more and more away from my influence. Henry, who is like his father in everything, sets himself against me so resolutely, that I am often powerless in my efforts to move him. If his father is present, an appeal against my authority is generally conclusive. The boy is both avaricious and cruel, and I see these evils gaining strength daily. All that I can do, is like beating the wind. John is forever in contention with Henry, and they are growing to hate each other. Lydia throws herself in mad antagonism against her brothers, and takes more pleasure in strife than anything else. She does not seem to have anymoral sense whatever — any conscience — any respect. And my three younger children are like the elder. I do not wish to live until they become grown up men and women; for they will either tear each other like uncaged beasts, or part in undying hate. Oh, to be the mother of such a brood! Would that I had died as a baby in my mother's arms!"
Pent up feelings overflowed their boundaries, and Mrs. Guyton fell upon her friend, and wept violently, for a long time.
"Forgive me, Diane," she said, on regaining calmness, "for having intruded things which should have been sacred to myself. I never thought to have spoken thus to any living soul; but, there are times of weakness, when utterance becomes a necessity. Ah, Diane, if I could have talked to you of what was in my heart, years ago, it might have been better. The burden of unexpressed anguish has been too great for me. I am conscious of daily decreasing strength. Mind and body are fast giving way. I feel weak and bewildered nearly all the time. The elements with which I have to contend, are too strong for me."
"God is strong. Lay your burden on him, Lydia."
"I have turned from Him, and He has turned from me," answered Mrs. Guyton, in a hopeless kind of utterance.
"Nay, nay, my dear friend! God is an ever-present help to all who look to him."
"That may be so, Diane; but we do not look to Him. Ours is a Godless house. No praying; no Bible reading; no church going. We are heathen!"
"I do not wonder that you are in darkness and bewilderment, Lydia," said Diane, soberly and impressively, "I do not wonder that your children are growing up in strife. I do not wonder that your eyes look fearfully down the future. If there is no regard for God in your house; no storing of precious truths from the Bible in the minds of your children; no lifting of hearts upward in prayer to God — the case is bad indeed. You must try to change all this!"
But Mrs. Guyton shook her head, murmuring, in a weak way — "I cannot."
"Don't say that, Lydia. You can, if you will. If the older children are, as intimated, beyond your influence — so begin with the little ones. Save them."
At this moment Mrs. Hofland's two oldest children entered the room, quietly, an arm of each around the other's waist.
"Who are these? Not your little Diane and Frank?" said Mrs. Guyton, reaching her hands to the children, who came to her side in a respectful way, and looked pleasantly into her face.
"Diane and Frank," replied Mrs. Hofland, as a bright smile lit up her countenance. "This is Mrs. Guyton, don't you remember her?" And she spoke to the children.
Diane said yes, and Frank stood silent, with his look modestly cast down. Mrs. Guyton kissed them, tears filling her eyes as she thought how rudely and harshly her oldest children would have dashed into the room, had she been at home, and Mrs. Hofland the visitor.
Their entrance having interrupted the conversation, when resumed, it kept away from the unhappy subject in which it had dwelt from the beginning, and reached a more cheerful elevation.
"You will come to see me, Diane?" said Mrs. Guyton, as she held tightly the hand of Mrs. Hofland, at parting.
"Oh yes."
"Come soon."
"Yes, very soon."
"Remember me to your good husband. I wish he were, as once, Adam's friend."
"He would stand his friend today, Lydia, if there were any need of service. If there is a distance between them, it is not, I can assure you, the Doctor's fault."
"I know that, Diane. Adam proved himself unworthy of such a friend. Whatever distance intervenes — he made it. But we will not talk of that. Good by, dear! Come very soon. You don't know how much good it will do me."
There was a prolonged, tightly given pressure of hands, and then the two friends separated. Lydia returned to her large, elegantly furnished house, and to her husband who counted his gold by many thousands; but returned with a heavy heart. It looked, in her thought, more cheerless, more desolate than ever — now that she had felt the love-warmth of Diane's home. She went, in pity and sympathy for an old friend in misfortune — but returned, sadly conscious that with her was the misfortune, and with Diane the sunshine of true prosperity.
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