Nothing but Money! CHAPTER 30.
Back to Nothing but Money!
Did Mrs. Guyton repent as the night came down? Did soft pity steal into her heart — pity for the unhappy child whom she had thrust so cruelly from her father's door? Were there no misgivings, nor relentings? Nothing of the kind. She had hardened her heart against Lydia long and long ago, and now only accepted the opportunity for pushing her aside with a resolute hand.
"That girl had the nerve to come here!" she said to Mr. Guyton, in a tone which betrayed more than usual feeling. The children had retired and they were alone.
"What girl?" Mr. Guyton started, and turned, in a disturbed way, toward his wife. "Why, Lydia."
"Lydia!" The blood came darkly into his face. "Is she in town?"
"She was here today."
"What did she want?"
"To make it all up, I presume. To open the way for getting back here, with her beggar of a husband!"
"By heavens, no!" exclaimed Mr. Guyton. "No! No! No! Not while I have breath. What did you say to her?"
"I had nothing to say, beyond letting her understand that she had no longer any rights in this house."
"Did she ask for me?"
"Yes."
"What was your answer?"
"That you would be home in the evening."
"Has she called again?"
"I believe not." The woman lied outright. She knew that Lydia had been there a second time.
"Tell the servants not to admit her. Let her go to her husband. He owns her now. She is nothing to me, now!" The father spoke vehemently, being overcome with passion.
Mrs. Guyton had already given that direction to the servants; but, as if acting under her husband's will, she left the room in pretense.
"It is done," she remarked, on coming back.
Mr. Guyton did not respond. Fearful that he might relent, his wife said, in order to keep the balance of anger against Lydia —
"The coolness with which she came in was surprising; as if she had the same rights here as before."
"She will find out her error!" growled the father.
"So I imagine. The girl who does so wicked a thing, must be left to suffer the consequences."
Mr. Guyton said, "I wish her no harm — but she must go the way she has chosen. I cast her off, utterly. I've said that already, and what I say, I mean."
Satisfied that her husband was on the right side, Mrs. Guyton did not press the subject too closely, lest, in simple opposition, she should throw in a word in favor of his child.
Sleep had become, of late, a chary attendant on the pillow of Adam Guyton. If from any cause, he did not lose himself immediately on going to bed, and thought got free on the wings of truant imagination — he would lie half the night tossing about, and vainly seeking for oblivion; or, if, after getting to sleep, anything disturbed him, a similar result followed. The morning found him exhausted, as often as refreshed. From this cause, Mr. Guyton was beginning to lose ground, as well physically as mentally. Neither body nor brain was sufficiently restored by the night's mission of health. The force of habit, in this thing, had begun to act with other causes, so that a tendency to wakefulness was steadily on the increase, and beginning to assume a grave aspect. It sometimes happened, that the whole night was spent in vain endeavors to lose himself, unconsciousness only being found as darkness gave way to the breaking dawn. Any disturbance was sure to be followed by a state of mental excitement precluding sleep.
If was not surprising, therefore, that, after retiring for the night, Mr. Guyton found his "eyes set wide open," as he often expressed it, and that, instead of falling into a drowsy state, preluding sleep, his mind, in full activity, dwelt on the act and condition of his daughter Lydia. He was not so entirely lost to human feelings, that all touches of nature were dead. He could not wholly cast aside the memories of Lydia's sweet childhood; and now, it seemed, as if a hand were turning leaf after leaf, in the book of his life, and showing him records that stirred his heart with mingled pleasure and pain.
As before intimated, there was a tender side for Lydia in the heart of Mr. Guyton, as hardened as that heart had become; and, therefore, something more than anger afflicted him — and something more than the turbulence of bad passions drove sleep from his pillow on this night following her expulsion from his door.
Two or three times did Mr. Guyton lose himself for just a moment — lose himself only to start up, wide awake, from some frightful dream, the action of which seemed extended over weeks. Then guided by reason, imagination would lead his thoughts to probable consequences that might have followed his turning away of Lydia. Where had she gone? Should harm befall her, would not the sin lie at her father's door? So strongly was this thought forced upon him, that he said aloud, defending himself from the assaults of accusing spirits,
"I did not do it!"
"Do what, Adam?" His wife, from whose pillow busy thought had also banished sleep, startled by the words, arose, leaning on her arm, and bent over her husband.
"Turn Lydia from the house," answered the unhappy man, in a voice that made his wife's heart beat quicker and stronger, for it had a tone of pity and regret.
"Who did turn her from the house?" she asked.
"You," was replied, in emphatic utterance.
"Not in obedience to my own will," said Mrs. Guyton, in her usual cold and distinct utterance. "I acted only in your stead — I did just what I knew you expected me to do under the circumstances. Had I consulted my own feelings, there would have been a difference. So, don't, I beg you, lay any blame at my door."
Guyton only responded to this by a groan, as he turned himself away, and shrinking down in bed, with his face buried in a pillow, tried to shut out thoughts that were troubling him beyond measure. The effort, however, was fruitless. His excited brain kept on with its morbid action, and gave new aspects to the relation in which he stood, not only to Lydia — but to his other children, and also to life separate from family interests. A cloud seemed to rest over everything — a blight seemed to have touched everything. Fear crept into his heart — fear of some impending calamity; the nature of which was undefined — but loss of money was involved, for riches in his estimation made the highest good.
So the night wore on, all the hour-strokes ringing on ears. Morning found Mr. Guyton more than usually unrefreshed. Exhaustion had naturally followed. He was so nervous at breakfast time, that his hand shook as he raised his cup to his lips. Food, beyond a little coffee, he did not take; indeed, he was rarely able to eat anything in the morning.
Mrs. Guyton watched her husband, half covertly — but with eyes that read every aspect presented. Two or three times she sought, by warily put questions, to lead him out — but was unable to get down to the current of his thoughts. While still at the table, a servant brought to Mr. Guyton a letter, which had just been left at the door. He opened it in a hurried, rather disturbed way. Motionless and intent, his wife looked at him across the table. She saw a wave of feeling sweep over his face in a sudden impulse, as he glanced down at the signature before reading the letter.
"Who is it from," she asked.
But Mr. Guyton did not answer. Partly averting his face, he read the communication.
"It is from Doctor Hofland," said Mr. Guyton, rising, as he commenced re-folding the letter. He spoke with an affected unconcern, which did not deceive his wife.
"What does he want?" she inquired, also affecting indifference.
It did not suit Mr. Guyton to answer his wife, and so her question fell idly on the air. A moment later, and the door shut behind him. If Mrs. Guyton had obeyed the impulse that was on her, she would have followed her husband immediately from the room. But that would have been impolitic; showing too eager an interest in his state of mind as affecting Lydia. A brief delay, just for appearance sake, was only an act of prudence — brief as she made it, however, it proved too long, for in the interval her husband left the house.
On reaching his place of business, and retiring to his private counting-room, Mr. Guyton re-opened and again read the letter of Doctor Hofland. It was as follows:
"Dear Sir — At a late hour last evening, I found your daughter Lydia in the street. She said that her stepmother had turned her from your door, and that she had been wandering, over the city, without food, for several hours. She was in a distressed and bewildered state. Two ruffians were in pursuit of her, at the time, and she was fleeing from them with cries of terror. I took her home, and she is now at my house, and I am sorry to say quite ill. Yours, Edward Hofland."
For over five minutes, Mr. Guyton sat, pondering the answer he should make to this communication. Then taking up a pen, he wrote —
Doctor E. Hofland: Dear Sir, For your kindness in protecting my disobedient daughter, I can do no less than give you my thanks. As she is at your house, please render her all needed service. When she is well enough to leave the city, let her go to her husband. Send your bill of expenses to me, and it will be promptly settled. As for the girl, she must make her bed with the friends she has chosen. Her fault is one that will never be forgiven. Yours, Adam Guyton."
Twice this was read over, and then torn up. It was not in agreement with some interposing state of mind — whether of weakness towards his child, or regard for public opinion, cannot be said. After another period of reflection, he wrote again.
"Doctor Hofland: Dear Sir, Your communication is just at hand. It has caused me acute pain. Do for my unhappy child whatever she needs, in common humanity, and hand me the charge. When well enough to be moved, send her back to her husband. Let her understand that all attempts to return home will be fruitless. She will not be received. Even if I consented, all the rest would repel her. The disgrace she has brought upon the family is most keenly and indignantly felt. Yours, Adam Guyton."
This letter shared the same fate. Another was then written.
"Doctor Hofland: Dear Sir, Your letter has pained me exceedingly. I was not at home when Lydia called; but, even if I had been, I would have declined seeing her. Of course, no one imagined that she was in the city alone, or without a lodging place. Where is her husband? Let her go to him as soon as she is well enough to leave your house. Please impress it on her mind, that all hope of a reconciliation with her family must be abandoned. Her fault is one that can neither be forgotten nor forgiven. From henceforth, she will be held as a stranger. Yours, Adam Guyton."
This letter, no more satisfactory to the writer than had been the others, was sent to Doctor Hofland; but, in sending it, the thought of his child was not cast out from the father's mind. He might turn away from her — might shut his door against her — but, for all that, her image would creep in and haunt him with its perpetual presence.
Notwithstanding his letter to Doctor Hofland was so worded as to close the door against all attempts at effecting a reconciliation, Mr. Guyton, in his secret thoughts, held to the belief that the Doctor would not let the matter die. A hundred times during the day, did his eyes glance towards the counting-room door, as he heard feet approaching, or the sound of a hand on the knob, certainly expecting to see the form of Doctor Hofland, or to receive a letter from him by the hand of a messenger. A higher respect for the Doctor, all at once took possession of his mind. For years he had held him in indifferent estimation, because he thought him poor and thriftless; and though he was now ranking high in his profession, and honorably spoken of by all, he lacked, still, in the eyes of the rich merchant, the money-sign of worth. But the fact that his daughter had found a refuge with the Doctor, and that the Doctor had addressed him a cold, formal note on the subject, in replying to which he had found it difficult to express himself satisfactorily, now conspired to work a change in his mind. He did not stand so far above the Doctor, nor hold him in such poor regard as before.
All day long, Mr. Guyton looked for some response to his note — but none came. Night found him, with an unusual weight upon his feelings; and when he retired, it was to be haunted all through the weary hours by waking dreams, that found no pleasant changes. Not alone upon Lydia did his thoughts dwell. They went out upon the wide reaching sea, following after the son whom he had committed to the waves. How would he be returned, if he came back at all? Better or worse? Alas! prophecy in the father's mind was dark, very dark. In regard to Edwin, a warning word had already been received from the Principal of the school to which he had been sent. The boy's deportment was not good; and there was a hint indicative of something more serious. A proposition to bring him home had been met by a resolute objection on the part of his wife. Edwin was out of her way, and she did not mean to have him in it again — at least, not without a strong opposing effort. Then, recent losses in trade, and some large, current operations that began to look anything but promising, added to these causes of mental disturbance, and completely barred out the renewing influences of sleep.
At midnight, Mr. Guyton was walking the floor of his chamber, unable, any longer, to lie in bed. For nearly an hour, he moved about, silent-footed, so that his wife might not awake, and then tried his pillow again. But, the mind was as active as before, and went on creating, reviewing, and prophesying evil, with unabating fertility.
As day began to dawn, Mr. Guyton, remembering that sleep had often come at this hour, resigned himself, in forced expectation of its stealthy approaches; but, the very state of mind thus induced, kept off the slumberous charms, and drove him from his bed an hour before the usual time of rising.
"You don't look well this morning," said his wife, regarding him with real concern. They were at the breakfast table.
Mr. Guyton did not answer, though the remark produced a change in the expression of his face.
"Does your head ache?"
Mr. Guyton had reached up his hands, suddenly, and pressed them against his temples.
"No," — he answered, with an evasion of tone, as if he did not care to be observed or questioned. "My head doesn't ache," and he withdrew his hands.
Mrs. Guyton looked still more concerned, and, also, a little puzzled.
"Are you going to eat anything?" she asked, a little while afterwards.
"I've no appetite in the morning," he replied, pushing back his chair, and leaving the table, with his single cup of coffee not half emptied. His wife called after him — but he paid no heed to her remonstrance. Taking his hat from the stand in the hall, he went out.
Mr. Guyton did not doubt but that he should find, among the morning's letters, one from Doctor Hofland. But, in this, he was mistaken — disappointed we might in truth say. The fact is, outspoken as had been his communication in regard to Lydia, a secret desire for mediation on the part of Doctor Hofland was felt. Not that he wished for a reconciliation with Lydia, or meant to let her consider him as other than a stranger — but his interest in his child was not dead; old, old chords of affection, entwined in her earlier years, were pulling at his heart; and, while angry, he still desired to know how it was with her in the present, and how it would be in the future.
But, the day passed, and the curtain which his own hand had let fall between him and his daughter, was not lifted. Doctor Hofland had accepted his decision as final.
Back to Nothing but Money!