Nothing but Money! CHAPTER 2.
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It was beyond the reach of Adam Guyton's imagination to picture his young wife sitting tearful, or in sad, half dreamy abstraction, for an hour after he went away — and all for what he had said about a useless flower. Would his thought have grown tender toward her, if he had known the truth? Would he have chided himself, for letting so small a matter come in to mar the happiness of a young heart, that was beating so true to love and him? No. His thought would have grown sterner, and he would have approved to himself all the coldly-wise sentiments which had been spoken. He would have felt angry toward the flower, which he had only despised as worthless.
Yet, so it was with Lydia. She had a true woman's sensitive appreciation of all things beautiful in nature. From a child, she had been a lover of the earth's bright and beautiful children — the flowers. They spoke to her in a language not understood by grosser natures; and, in their presence, she felt like one lifted into some purer sphere. To hear the flowers despised by lips, whose words had come so often in music to her ears — from lips to which her ear must bend and listen during all her life — ah, that was no light thing! We do not wonder at her tears.
Then, there seemed to her such a hard, cold, calculating vein, in what her husband had said — a spirit not seen before — an intense worldliness — a bowing down to the worship of the lowest and most external things — and an elevation of money as the greatest good. Suddenly, there had come to her a new revelation of his character — not that he had never spoken of economy and prudence — of the repression of inordinate desires, and the folly of waste. These were his favorite themes; and, as he had usually presented them, her thought approved. She would have liked a little more of the ornamental in her household — a few things of beauty for the eye to dwell upon. But, her husband was poor and, in conforming to his circumstances, she felt a sweet pleasure.
Now, a veil had dropped from her eyes, and she saw him in a clearer light. She had thought him earnest and absorbed in business — ambitious to make his way in the world — prudent, calculating, strong-willed, and resolute to do his part in life efficiently. But, she had not understood him as he now appeared in her eyes — a worshiper of mammon, and a despiser of even beauty — if it could not be an offering on this shrine.
When Lydia Guyton took up the day's burden of duties again, it felt heavier than before. Her voice did not break forth into snatches of song, as her hands busied themselves with household cares; nor did her feet bear her with their usual springy tread. A shadow had fallen on the distant landscape: she could not see in it the beauty once so delightful to gaze upon; its odors did not steal in waves of sweetness on her sense — it had caught a shade of dreariness. Alas, for the young heart, when brightness fades from its sunny future! The life of Lydia Guyton was opening into a new experience.
She had, after arousing herself from the depression of mind occasioned by her husband's fuller revelation of himself, cleared off the breakfast table, and set her house in order. An hour or two for needlework came in at this part of the day, and Lydia was sitting by her little table, when a visitor made her appearance in the person of a young married friend. Warm and tender was the greeting that passed between them; for they were heart-companions.
The visitor's name was Diane Hofland. Her husband was a young physician, who had just opened an office, and like the husband of Lydia had all the world before him, in which to sow and reap. The two young men were standing in life at about equal advantage, so far as worldly goods were concerned. Less than a thousand dollars covered the full amount of Guyton's possessions at the time of his marriage; and Hofland's means exceeded this only by a few hundred dollars. One difference existed, which will be regarded as in favor of Guyton; he had earned and saved his seven or eight hundred dollars, while the twelve hundred on which doctor Hofland ventured out into the world, was the remnant of asmall legacy on which he had depended while studying his profession. Guyton's was an accumulating fund — while Hofland's was a diminishing fund. And there was still another difference — Guyton had no taste to gratify; no artificial needs; no expensive weaknesses. A silver dollar, in his eye was more beautiful than a picture, a vase, or a jewel, or anything desirable only on the score of ornament. He cared nothing for music, and the beauty and sweetness of nature made no strong appeals to his inner consciousness. But Dr. Hofland had an acute perception of the beautiful, and tastes, that, if indulged to their full extent — would have drawn largely upon the amplest fortune. On money he set no value, except as a means of procuring that which mind and body required in the world. Applying the philosopher's distinction — he looked at gold subjectively, rather than objectively.
The young men had been acquainted from boyhood. Their parents were neighbors, and they had attended school together. One from choice, entered a store, and the other, also from choice, became a student of medicine. At this point in their lives there was a divergence in feeling as well as in pursuits. Guyton did not lack mind; he had as clear and strong an intellect as Hofland, and in any profession would have been his peer — stood above him, perhaps. His choice of a mercantile life came from no peculiar fondness or fitness for the pursuit — but simply from a monetary consideration of the case. He saw through trade — the surest road to wealth, and took that road in consequence.
So much, briefly, of the two men and their antecedents. The reader has already comprehended them. They are types of two great classes, to both of which the world owes much. They do not seem of much account in their day of humble obscurity. Their spheres of life are narrow, their places in the world unnoted, their influence scarcely perceived. Strong men, men of gold, men of intellect, if from any cause their eyes happen to fall upon them, hold them in light consideration. They see not an oak's great promise — in the acorn's tender shoot, nor dream of the imperial river, as they step, without a thought of its crystalline waters, over the slender rivulet.
The wives of these young men had been early friends, also. But their tastes were more nearly accordant. Yet Lydia was not so clear-seeing, nor so strong-willed as Diane — or else she would never have given her hand to Adam Guyton. Diane would have penetrated more deeply into his real character; would have comprehended his quality better — and she would have had decision enough to turn from him resolutely, when he approached as a lover.
A flood of light made radiant the face of Lydia Guyton as her young friend entered. Their lips met in a heart-warm kiss; their arms went fondly twining about neck and waist. Diane held a small bunch of choice flowers in her hand.
"They are for you, dear," she said, after the kisses had been given, and words of love exchanged.
"Oh! how sweet! Thank you, Diane!" and Lydia received the offering, gazing on it with eyes that felt and drank in the beauty that held them.
"The Doctor bought me a lovely bouquet as he passed through the market this morning, and I have divided it for my friend," said Diane.
"It was so kind of you!"
As Lydia said this, she turned her face partly aside.
A thought came in to mar the pleasure of the moment; to steal away the fragrance that was breathing upon her lips. Almost involuntarily, her eyes wandered to the geranium that stood, yet, upon her work-stand. Diane's husband had made her a gift of flowers; but Adam Guyton had blamed her for buying a single blossoming plant, with which to beautify her home.
"They are very sweet," she added, as she commenced examining the flowers that made up the cluster in her hand. "How the fragrance of this mignonette takes me back along the way of girlhood; and I see the woods and fields again, by the magic of sweet briar and myrtle. What a delicate tint is in this rose! And this bud! Oh! is it not exquisite? White, crimson, soft fading pink, purple, and golden. What a power there is in beauty, Diane! In color and grace of form united. They speak to some inner sense, and that sense responds in thrills of pleasure."
As she ceased, a faint sigh came fluttering through her lips.
"Ah," she continued, "if the useful and the beautiful in life were more closely united. But the hard, stern, plodding useful, persistently separates itself from the beautiful, or spurns and tramples it under foot."
"It is for us to unite them," said Diane. "The doctor and I were talking of that very thing this morning."
"Beauty is costly," remarked Lydia, "and we are poor."
There was a shade of depression in her voice.
"And cheap, also," answered Diane. "A flower is not costly, and yet, in nature, there is no other form of such exquisite grace and delicate proportion; and all the riches of color are added; and all the sweetness of perfume. If taste is genuine — if our love of beauty is, indeed, a passion of the soul — then may we find perpetual enjoyments, even though our lot in life is poor and humble. A true lover of art may enjoy a statue or a picture far more than the owner. Speaking on this very subject, the doctor remarked a day or two ago, that the love of possessing works of art, was inferior to the love of art itself, and that therefore, the man of true taste, though unblessed by fortune, might enter into higher pleasures than those to whom wealth brought every desire of the eye. If I look at the picture in a rich man's gallery, and carry it away in my thought, am I not its owner in the highest sense? Fire cannot destroy it; misfortune cannot bear it away; no accident can mar its fair proportions. It hangs in the gallery of my soul, among other precious things, and the outside world has no power over it. It is mine, though his ownership cease; mine, though the paint and canvas are borne away to the poles."
"You are growing into a philosopher," said Lydia, smiling.
"Yes, thanks to my good husband. He is helping me to get up higher, so to speak; to breathe in a purer mental region; to see things in their best relations. We are poor, you know — but the doctor says, that we may be as happy in our poverty, as the rich in their riches; nay happier, for we are free from the temptations of the rich. The lesson we have to learn, is that which teaches a moderation of desire. We must cultivate a love for the beautiful, rather than a love of possession; and learn to see beauty with an inner vision."
Ah, how different all this from the uttered sentiment of Lydia's husband! He looked only to possession — to wealth as the best gift the world had to bestow. Beauty, in comparison to gold, was nothing. He spurned it as unlovely! The contrast, now so strongly presented, almost saddened the heart of Lydia.
"You are not so bright as usual," said her friend.
Lydia smiled, and tried to look happy. But the light did not linger sweetly radiant in her countenance. It faded out slowly.
"How is the doctor succeeding?" asked Lydia, changing the subject.
"As well as might be expected," was the reply. "He has been called to one or two good families, and if he should be liked, their influence will be of great use to him."
"Will his income be sufficient for your expenses?" inquired Lydia.
"O dear, no! So far, his paying practice has not been at the rate of three hundred dollars a year."
"You say 'paying practice;' has he any other?"
"Yes, and a full share of it among the poor."
"Ah! Is that so? Does he attend the poor for nothing?"
"There is sickness among the extremely poor, as well as among others; and the physician cannot refuse to visit and help the sick, just because they have no money to recompense his services. We happen to have many very poor people in our neighborhood, and the doctor is called in frequently. It is a Christian duty to attend them, and one from which he cannot hold back. They are God's patients, he says, and he is so largely a debtor to God, that he must take all opportunities for payment."
"They ought to recompense him in something, if it were ever so small," said Lydia.
"How are you to live? The laborer is always worthy of his hire."
"The Doctor has still five hundred dollars on which to draw. This will carry us through a year; beyond that, we trust in God's good Providence."
"Not a very encouraging prospect."
"We push aside discouraging thoughts," was replied. "Today is ours, and we try to get all the happiness from today that it has in store. This the Doctor calls life's true philosophy. I get a little nervous, sometimes; and look into the future in a spirit of doubt. What is the result? Doubt peoples the future with forms of evil, and my heart grows faint as I look at them. But, when I turn back to the present, I find myself surrounded with blessings; and I lift my heart in thankfulness. 'Only today is ours, Diane,' my husband will say, when I question about the time to come, 'only today is ours, to work in and enjoy. Let us do our work faithfully, and take the enjoyments, and God will see that our tomorrows are all right.' It does me good to hear him say this. He is such a consistent, right-hearted man, Lydia! His thought is so clear, that I see it always, when expressed, as the utterance of truth. It does not come into my heart to question what he says. But I am only talking of what interests me. How is Mr. Guyton — and what are your prospects in the world? How is life looking in the far away future, to which the eyes will turn with asking glances?"
"My husband is not so easy in mind as yours," replied Lydia, "Though his present condition and future prospects look more promising. His salary has been raised to twelve hundred dollars, and it will not cost us over six or seven hundred to live at the limit. Then he confidently expects to receive an interest in the business of the firm where he is employed. Give him that position, he says, and he will consider his fortune made — will, to use his favorite expression, 'snap his fingers in the world's face.'"
"I am glad to know that everything has such an encouraging aspect," answered Diane, with genuine pleasure. "You ought to be very happy."
Lydia sighed faintly, as her eyes dropped to the ground. That fair promise in the future, did not fill her desires. There were intuitions in her soul, which pictured something more — yet left a trembling fear of disappointment. This day was to be memorable in the history of her inner life, as one on which her mind had awakened to a new consciousness concerning her husband's character, and its lack of harmony with her own. What Diane had just said of her husband, was as a foil bringing out to clearer perception, the opposite characteristics of Adam Guyton — and they were unlovely in her eyes. Not that he had all at once revealed himself in his true aspect. Lydia had failed to read the signs aright. They puzzled her at times; and she often questioned as to a meaning beyond anything dreamed of in her estimate of the man to whom she had committed all things that were holiest and most sacred. But today the veil dropped from her eyes. That brief scene with the flowers was a revelation; and she stood no longer a questioner, or in doubt.
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