Nothing but Money! CHAPTER 25.
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Events foreshadowed in the last chapter, took their places as things accomplished in due course of time — and Mrs. Harte became the wife of Adam Guyton. At the moment of Mrs. Guyton's death, under circumstances that gave her power over Mr. Guyton, the thought of using that power to her own advantage entered the mind of Mrs. Harte; and from that time, until at the end of two years, she stood, with orange blossoms in her hair, and heard herself pronounced the wife of Adam Guyton, she had never, for an instant, swerved from this first, incipient purpose.
Had she formed an attachment for the man, during these two years? — Women often love strangely, and draw, with an instinct of tenderness, towards natures that seem to possess no qualities essential to love. Nothing of the kind here! Mrs. Harte's bosom never swelled nor warmed with even the beginnings of affection. If it had not been for thewealth of Adam Guyton, and the ends she desired in the possession of wealth — she would have turned from him in disgust, instead of seeking an alliance. As it was, she used him as a stepping-stone to position, regarding him with scarcely more interest than we regard the steps by which we ascend the higher places we seek to gain.
Soon, one by one, disguises fell away from this ambitious woman, and Adam Guyton began to comprehend, with a vague feeling of distrust and anxiety, that he had taken anenemy into his household that might prove too strong for him in any war he should attempt to wage. Changes in their style of living were gradually made, almost without consultation; and then, costly articles of furniture purchased with a boldly assumed right of expenditure, that half appalled the man, who still, though possessing large wealth, shrunk from the extravagance indulged by families of far lighter substance than himself. He did not grow liberal — as he grew rich; but guarded his coffers with the Argus-eyed fidelity that distinguished him in the beginning. If he ventured on a feeble remonstrance, or even grew earnest and excited over some bolder attempt, Mrs. Guyton met him with a few calmly spoken and conclusive sentences, that closed all argument. Not that he was convinced — but impressed with the futility of offering a word in opposition.
The woman was too strong for him; too strong, because he did not really know wherein her strength lay, nor how to assault it. He still feared her for the secret she held. But for that secret — she could never have led him an unwilling man to the marriage altar. It was only because he deemed his good name, perhaps his liberty or life, safest in bonds with her, that he ever permitted himself to be bound; and now, he felt the chains to be very heavy.
Mrs. Harte came into this family, nearly all the elements of which were in conflict from strong selfish proclivities, upon which no wholesome restraints had been laid — with no other end but to serve an inordinate social ambition. During the period in which her relation was simply that of housekeeper, she had failed to draw any affection upon herself, even in the younger children; and towards them she had no right feelings. Naturally systematic and orderly, and being moved, besides, by her purpose to win her way by fear or favor, to a permanent place in the household, she administered all things appertaining to their external lives in a way that left her without reproach. But, after her marriage — after she took the name and position of wife and step-mother — a new state of mind naturally led to new action concerning the children.
They were in her way — six children formed a solid phalanx of obstruction, that would grow stronger with every succeeding year - and the momentous question of how they were to be removed out of her way, came up for consideration, and was deeply pondered. They must not stand between her and final ends — between her, and the absolute possession of Mr. Guyton's large wealth, when the time came for him to follow in the path poor Lydia Guyton had taken. Did she meditate violence! O no. Nothing of that. But Adam Guyton was fifteen years her senior, and she held the chances of survival as altogether on her side. When she became, for a second time in her life, a widow — she desired to have ample wealth as a consoler in widowhood. Having married Adam Guyton only for his money — she must not lose the game on which she had risked her all in life.
Philip, the youngest child, had always been ailing. He was puny, fretful and troublesome. Much to the secret gratification of Mrs. Guyton — and happily for him — death came in mercy — and removed him. For six months, he had tried to say "mother," and feel that the very name was not a mockery to his yearning heart. He died, and the low, soft voice of his step-mother, as she laid her recently jeweled hand on his white brow, said with a tearful tenderness and resignation that deceived only the listeners who were not of the household — "Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." Truth comes often in hypocritical utterances. It was so in the present instance. Not to find heart-relief in this beautiful sentiment, were the words spoken; but to give an impression of religious faith and maternal affection — where none existed.
The birth of a son to Mrs. Guyton was an event on which momentous issues depended. If, before this period, she had pondered the virtual disinheritance of her predecessor's children, the accomplishment of that result became, now, a well-defined purpose. The motive was strengthened seven-fold. Already she had begun her work in a secret fostering of antagonisms that existed among the children — so that permanent alienations might result, and the enemy she had to encounter stand divided and in conflict with itself. After the birth of her own child, Mrs. Guyton used every means within her reach to turn the father's mind away from his other children. She gave him no peace until Henry, John and Lydia were sent away from the city to a boarding school, where they were kept for years, only visiting their homes during seasons of vacation.
With the pleasure that only an evil spirit could realize, Mrs. Guyton saw at each return of the older children, that John and Lydia were moving in paths, the end of which would be almost certain alienation from their father. John's spendthrift habits, and carnal propensities, she stimulated by frequent additions to the limited supply of pocket money that was allowed; and he had learned to write to her in confidence, and solicit these additions with a certainty of always receiving a favorable response. In sending him money, Mrs. Guyton never failed to give admonition of the soundest kind, and always enjoined secrecy, as the knowledge by his father of these departures from his wishes, would result in cutting off all indulgence. John loved himself and the means of enjoyment thus conferred, too well to betray their secret. And as habits of self-indulgence grew stronger, his calls for money increased, until Mrs. Guyton found the drain upon her individual purse, becoming far heavier than she could conveniently bear. Then limitations had to be imposed. Against limitations, sensuality always rebels. The boy demanded increased supplies; but his step-mother was, whenever it suited her so to be, as unyielding as iron. She did not meet his demands for an increase — but lessened the sums she had been accustomed to transmit. Self-denial was not in the boy. Towards restriction, he had only one course of action, and that was resistance. But, resistance to his stepmother he soon discovered to be a waste of strength, he must take from her just what she chose to accord, and make up the balance of his desires in some other way.
In some other way! Ah, there was peril here! Deeply versed in human nature, Mrs. Guyton was not unaware of the boy's danger. She knew very well, that the good advice, aboutcurbing appetite and desire — about self-restraint, and all that — which she urged in her letters, would pass him like the idle wind, and that he would cast about for some means of obtaining the sums of money which she denied. Her indulgence had increased his grosser propensities — and to the cutting down of gratification, he would not submit. If one source of supply were diminished, he must find another.
Mrs. Guyton had not been well-informed as to John's defect of principle — but many lapses from integrity had come under her own observation, and she was, therefore, fully prepared to hear, at any time, of his disgrace at school, on the accusation and proof of dishonest appropriations; and not only prepared as to an anticipation of the fact — but strong in a spirit of submission and resignation whenever the fact would be announced.
Several years had glided away since the three older children left home for school. Henry had gained his nineteenth year; John was reaching towards eighteen and Lydia was a tall, womanly looking girl, only a year younger than John. At home, the family had been increased by an addition of two more children, numbering three born to the second Mrs. Guyton — two sons and one daughter — all living arguments against the rights of Mr. Guyton's first children.
At this period, we will bring the reader, for a little while, to a nearer point of observation, and let him see in what measure the ends of life with Adam Guyton, are working out the grand results of happiness which, twenty years before, made the future look so bright with promise, that patience to wait the slow evolution of years could hardly be maintained.
Mr. Guyton left his home one morning, with the pressure on his feelings that always rested there while at home — a pressure which had its origin in an ever-abiding sense of weakness. Out in the world his money was an undisputed argument. His will was free; his word a law. But, at home, as in the latter days of his first wife — there was a subtle, almost intangible power, against which resistance seemed hopeless. If he struck against it, like a man beating the wind, the result was only self-exhaustion. Mrs. Guyton did not, like her predecessor — oppose an open resistance, or stifle him with passiveness. She was usually calm, self-possessed, and gentle in tone; never meeting him with resolute opposition; yet, was he all the while conscious, that she was bending him to her will, and gaining at every point of approach. She was the watchful spider, silently spinning her web! He did not feel the silken cord, of invisible fineness, as it fell lightly over him — but only knew that he was in her toils, when some movement warned him of his bands and his helplessness.
Mr. Guyton left home one morning, as we have said, with the usual uncomfortable weight upon his feelings, and repaired to his store. A number of letters were on his desk, most of them business letters, directed to the firm. Among them, were two addressed to himself. One of these, he recognized as from his son Henry. The business letters were first read. Then he broke the seal of one of those that remained. It read thus:
"Dear Sir: I have most painful intelligence to communicate. Your son John has been guilty of conduct that renders it impossible for me any longer to continue him in my school. The charge of stealing money, and various articles belonging to other people, has been so fully proved against him, that no question as to his guilt is entertained by anyone. Not wishing, for your sake and his own, to subject him to the disgrace of expulsion, I write to request that you will direct his immediate return home. He is already suspended from participation in the exercises of my school.
"It is also my duty to say, that John's habits are of a dangerous kind, and will, unless they can be broken, lead him to certain ruin! The freedom with which he has been supplied with pocket money, has led to constant self-indulgence, and he has, during the last six months, as I now learn, been several times intoxicated. To my surprise and pain, I have been informed within twenty-four hours, that he has, for some time, kept wines and other liquors, in his room. I very much regret that a knowledge of this fact was so long concealed from me by those who were advised of it. My object in communicating it now, is that you may clearly comprehend his danger, and so be able to adopt the most effectual means for his rescue."
The first reading of this letter, so stunned Mr. Guyton that his mind fell into a state of painful confusion. He rallied in a little while, and read the letter again, when the whole truth stood out in all its shocking magnitude.
"A thief and a drunkard!" Mr. Guyton shuddered inwardly, as he repeated this sentence to himself. He was in his counting-room, with clerks around him, and must not betray an outward sign of the agitation against which he was struggling.
Next, Henry's letter was opened. It recounted, with some particularity, the criminal conduct of his brother, condemning him in strong language, and prophesying no good in the future. "He doesn't seem to have a single redeeming quality," was the strong language used by Henry, "after his father's own heart," followed by sentences like these: "He only thinks of self-indulgence, and would spend a thousand dollars a month, if he had his will." "I don't know how it is — but, to my certain knowledge, he spends three or four dollars — to one of your allowance. Where does the rest come from? He's in debt to the boys; but not enough to account for this. I'm afraid he gambles." The letter closed as follows: "I must come home, also; for, after John's conduct, I can't look an honest boy fairly in the face. Anyway, I'm tired of study, and want to get into business."
When Mr. Guyton went home at dinner-time, he said to his wife, in a tone that betrayed his unhappy feelings —
"The boys are going to leave school."
"What?" Mrs. Guyton turned upon her husband with a suddenness of manner, and a degree of surprise, unusual for one so guarded, and so externally placid.
"The boys are coming home from school."
"To remain?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"John has got himself into some trouble, and Adam doesn't wish to remain after his brother leaves."
"But haven't you a word to say on a matter like this?" demanded Mrs. Guyton.
"The matter is pretty well out of my hands," returned Mr. Guyton, with some impatience.
"Out of your hands? I don't understand you."
Mr. Guyton had not intended to show the letters he had received to his wife, for he was not ignorant of the fact that she was more ready to defend John than to blame him; but, acting under a confused impulse, he drew the teacher's communication from his pocket, and placed it in her possession. She read it through, calmly.
"This is trouble!" fell from her lips; but, her voice did not add to the force of her words; for, already, she was considering the facts revealed with reference to their bearing on her future schemes.
"Trouble, and disgrace added!" said Mr, Guyton, with a stormy vehemence of manner, that sometimes betrayed itself under unusual provocation — "I'm tempted to disown the wretch! A son of mine turn thief! Ugh! Horrible!"
"I would sooner see him dead," answered Mrs. Guyton. How closely her declaration came to the actual truth!
"Dead! Ho! Death would be as nothing in comparison."
"What are you going to do with him?" Mrs. Guyton put the question almost sharply, her interest in the matter betraying her from the citadel of her strength — external calm.
"Do? Heaven only knows!"
"Idleness in a city will only make ruin the swifter. Temptations meet the unwary at every step."
"I know — I know. He must be set to work at something," answered Mr. Guyton, casting about in his thoughts — but without seeing any light.
"I wouldn't bring him home," said Mrs. Guyton, speaking from the over-anxiety she felt in reference to the two boys' return.
"Why not? What would you do?" Guyton knit his brows, and looked sternly at his wife. She had betrayed herself, and he saw a little below the surface. "Isn't home the best and safest place for him? — Home, where father and mother can watch and guard, warn, lead, or admonish? I know that temptation lurks in cities; but home-influence ought to be stronger than temptation. Let us see if it cannot be made so in John's case."
"I can promise nothing," answered Mrs. Guyton, drawing coldly back into herself. "As for Adam and John, they have always acted with as much independence as if I were a nonentity. They have never clearly acknowledged my rights in the household; and, were I to attempt control or influence, so far as they are concerned — open war would be the consequence. There is no use in concealing the fact — John is wholly beyond my reach; and if, in bringing him home, you calculate anything on my power of restraint or direction, you build on a foundation of sand."
Mr. Guyton did not answer. What could he say? The will of a woman like his wife, was too strong a thing for him to act against; particularly, when to the will was added a subtleand far-seeing spirit. He did not venture to speak of duty, forbearance and self-denial; for these had never been elements of power in his own life; and he doubted as to their existence, as moral forces, with anyone. They might answer as catch words, and to make oratorical points in a sermon; but were of little worth as ends of action — certainly of no value in his home. No; he did not speak to his wife of duty, forbearance, or self-denial — lest she should fling the words back in his face with cold contempt!
"If Henry and John come home," resumed Mrs. Guyton, Edwin must go away to school somewhere. He's nearly past me now, and, in league with his two older brothers, will setmy authority aside, as nothing. The fact is, Mr. Guyton, the house isn't large enough to hold us all; and you might as well comprehend the fact first as last. Three to one are too many; and I can't make my way against such odds. With Edwin alone, I am taxed to the utmost to maintain myself in peace. Put Henry and John on the enemies' side, and I shall he driven from the house in less than two months."
"You speak wildly," said Mr. Guyton, in a tone of impatience, beginning to stalk about the floor in quick, short turns.
"Not wildly, but soberly. Facts are stubborn things, sir. You don't know half of what I'm required to put up with from your children, old and young. They are the curse of my life!"
Mr. Guyton stopped suddenly, before the woman who said this, and gazed at her with a countenance on which surprise blended with a shade of fear.
"That is strange talk," he ventured to say.
"And it is true talk," answered Mrs. Guyton, firmly. "No woman could have done more than I have done for your children's well-being and comfort; but, they set themselves against me from the beginning, disputing every inch of ground I assumed in the family, and yearly gaining strength, until now, they are able to set me at defiance. If you go over to them, the end has come. I must step aside, and find protection somewhere else."
"Woman! Are you beside yourself?" exclaimed Mr. Guyton.
"No, sir," was the cold, steady reply. "I am in possession of all my faculties, and able to comprehend, clearly, my position. The odds are against me. When Henry and John return, I shall, in all probability, have to take my children and seek another home. Submit to dictation and insult from them — I will not! Enough has already been endured."
There was a flashing light in her eyes, never seen by Mr. Guyton until now. Hitherto calmness of purpose had marked all her actions. If she set herself in opposition to her husband's will, she wrought so in concealment, that he had scarcely a suspicion of her purpose until it was accomplished. But now, she stood revealed in a sterner, more resolute, and more defiant character. She meant to come into open conflict with his elder children — not recklessly and blindly; nor in any doubt as to the outcome — but well assured in her own mind of victory.
"But, what am I to do with them?" asked Mr. Guyton. "They are my children, and this is their home."
"Require their proper submission," said his wife firmly.
"Easily said," was replied, with returning impatience.
"If you cannot rule them — then I cannot," answered Mrs. Guyton, "and so the antagonism remains. As for me, I am a lover of peace and order; but, at the same time, will not accept peace at the cost of humiliation. Self-respect forbids that. As your wife, and their mother by your choice — I will never submit to their insults, defiances, and impertinences. While they were little children, I bore everything, as was my duty, trusting to win their love; but now, when they are on the verge of manhood, I am absolved of duty, and will stand upon my rights — asking nothing and yielding nothing. If Henry and John are to come home, well. But unless you send Edwin away, there will be no peace or safety. Henry and John are always in opposition to each other, and I may stand between them, giving a side to each, and so maintain myself; but if Edwin stays at home, he will go over to one or the other, and hold me at defiance. Therefore, think well before you act, for I am in earnest. I trust there will be no open rupture with me and the boys; but if they attempt to set me aside now, trouble will as surely come as the night comes after the day. So, I warn you, act with circumspection. There is a crisis at hand."
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