The Young Lady CHAPTER 6.
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One, two, and three years passed rapidly away, during which Mrs. Merlin, who had a second time become a mother, permitted herself to be more and more absorbed in the fashionable frivolities which occupy so much and so unworthily, the minds of too large a number of those whose educations have fitted them for spheres of extended usefulness. So pained and disheartened had old Uncle Peter become at all this, that he ceased any longer to protest against his niece's shameful waste of time and neglect of duty. His visits, which had during the first two years of her marriage been very frequent, were now made at long intervals, and professedly to see the children; but really as much for Cecilia's sake as theirs, for the interest he felt in her, nothing could weaken or obliterate. But, five years from the time of his niece's marriage, a change came — painful, but beneficial.
There are but few instances in real life, where a young person starts with false ideas, carried out into wrong practices — that truth is not taught by reverses or afflictions. How merciful and wise is the Providence that thus chastens! And when society becomes infected with evils, which are adopted by the weak because they are fashionable, and thus pervade whole masses — how certain is the occurrence of some extensive reverses or afflictions, that operate like storms in the atmosphere, purifying social corruptions, and bringing the minds of all back to rest for real happiness upon the basis of truth and nature. As in individual cases, so in these more general instances, may be traced the hand of Divine Providence — correcting and reproving for good.
In one of those general upheavings of the elements of social organization, arising out of a universal prevalence of commercial disasters, breaking up and reducing to a state of dependence upon daily exertions hundreds of families that had given tone to fashionable society, did Mr. and Mrs. Merlin and the family of Mr. Howard, fall from their high position. With a large family dependent upon him for subsistence, Mr. Howard could do nothing for his daughter and her family. That duty had to devolve upon her husband, whose business had been entirely swept from his control.
During the brief period in which Mr. Merlin's property and business were melting and passing away as rapidly as a snow wreath beneath a summer's sun, he said nothing to his young wife of the terrible reverse which awaited her. In fact, he could not. It was hard enough to bear the burdens already pressing upon him; but to have added to these, the repinings and distress of his wife, was more than he could think of without exquisite pain.
But the trial had to be met, and he at length nerved himself to endure it. Though little more than a boy when married, the mind of young Merlin had rapidly developed itself while actively engaged in business, and at the end of five years, when compelled to yield — he possessed a manly tone of character, and firmness enough to look the storm steadily in the face. And, moreover, in old Uncle Peter, he found a steady friend and a competent adviser. To him he submitted all his condition, and sought his advice before taking any important step. In doing so, he acted wisely, for the old man had a cool head, united with much experience in business.
One day, near the close of all arrangements prior to a relinquishment of business, Uncle Peter entered the store of Mr. Merlin, and found him sitting at his desk, in an attitude, and with an expression of deep despondency.
"Come, come, Theodore, this will never do! You are a man — and must act like a man," he said, laying his hand familiarly upon Merlin's arm. "The ordeal, though severe, will prove you as gold tried in the fire."
"It is not for myself, Uncle Peter, that I feel troubled," Merlin replied in a sad tone. "It is on Cecilia's account. I have not yet been able to break the matter to her, and she yet remains unconscious of the approaching storm, which is now about bursting over her head."
"Then go at once, Theodore, and tell her the whole truth. The sooner this is done, the better. It will prove a severe shock to her, without doubt; and for a time she may sink under it — but, in the end it will reveal, I am sure, a latent principle of independence, and a confidence in her own resources, which will be worth far more to both of you in the way of producing a state of permanent happiness, than could all the wealth of the Indies, were it possible for you to possess it."
"It will be a terrible shock to her."
"Without doubt it will. But you cannot break its force by procrastination. It must and will come in spite of you. Go then, Theodore, and tell her the plain truth. I am sorry, indeed, that you did not confide to her your financial embarrassments from the first."
"How could I?" the young man replied with feeling. "Her whole delight seems to be in the enjoyment of that society, and those luxuries which wealth and social standing alone can give. To strip hereof these, is to make her absolutely miserable."
"Not permanently so, I trust. This reverse, I fondly hope, is destined to make her a wiser and better woman."
"May Heaven grant it!" was Merlin's fervent ejaculation.
After the dinner hour on that day, during which Mr. Merlin had scarcely tasted food, the husband and wife found themselves seated alone. The former, under the conviction that a communication of his real circumstances could be put off no longer, remained for some time silent, endeavoring to think of some form of breaking the painful news to his wife, which would not come upon her with too severe a shock. At last he said —
"Cecilia, I am afraid we shall have to give up this house."
"Why so?" she asked in a tone of surprise.
"Because the rent is higher than we can afford to pay."
"Why, what in the world do you mean, Theodore?" exclaimed Mrs. Merlin, with a look of astonishment. "I am sure our house is a common one compared to those in which some of our friends live. Indeed, it was only this morning that I was talking to Mrs. Melrose about this very thing; and she said that it was due to our position in society, to live in a much handsomer establishment than we now do. She said that there was a house vacant in Bleeker Street, at two thousand dollars a year, that would be just the thing for us; and we have appointed this afternoon at four to go and look at it."
"Cecilia," her husband resumed, in a sad but firm voice, "we shall not only be compelled to give up this house, but to move into one much smaller. My business has entirely failed, and in a few days I shall be broken up, and not left with a single dollar."
"But my father is rich," Mrs. Merlin replied calmly, "and he will keep us up, and help you into business again."
"Your father, Cecilia, is in no better condition than myself. In less than a week, he will be thrown upon the world, like your husband, penniless."
"Impossible!" ejaculated Mrs. Merlin, her face becoming instantly as pale as ashes.
"It is, alas! too true, Cecilia. And we stand not thus alone. Hundreds around us are tottering, ready to fall. But, let us remember, that within our own bosoms, lie resources of comfort in all conditions. I still possess health, and spirits unbroken, and trust again to rise."
To this no reply was made, other than a gush of tears and a fit of bitter weeping. It was in vain that her husband endeavored to soothe her with words of encouragement and comfort. The suddenly communicated and unexpected intelligence seemed utterly to paralyze all the energies of her mind; to shut out every thought but of herself, and the consequences to herself of the dreadful change about to take place. In the bitterness of the first consciousness of what was to befall her, she wished herself dead. After vainly trying to console and comfort his wife, Mr. Merlin was compelled to leave her and return to his store, where urgent business awaited his attention. As he rose to leave her, he took her hand in his, and pressed it affectionately, murmuring in her ear as he did so, a word of encouragement; but she returned not the pressure of his hand, nor lifted so much as her head to give to her husband a look or a word of genuine sympathy. And thus he left her, his bosom oppressed, as if burdened by a heavy weight.
It was about half an hour after his departure, that Mrs. Melrose came in, according to appointment. She found Cecilia sitting as her husband had left her, with her face hidden from view.
"My dear Mrs. Merlin! What is the matter?" her visitor asked in an earnest voice, as she perceived that her attitude was one of distress.
"O Mrs. Melrose!" quickly exclaimed Cecilia, lifting her pale, tear-stained face, at the sound of her voice, "what dreadful, dreadful news I have heard! It will kill me!"
"My dear, dear madam!" returned Mrs. Melrose, seating herself by her side, and drawing the head of her friend to her bosom with tenderness — "what news have you heard? What has happened to so overwhelm you with distress?"
"My husband has just told me," sobbed out Mrs. Merlin, that his business is all broken up, and that we will have to give up this house, and sink, of course, into obscurity! O, is it not dreadful!"
"What do you say?" ejaculated Mrs. Melrose suddenly, in a changed voice, partly withdrawing herself from her fond proximity to her friend. "Broken up in his business?"
"O yes! He says he is all broken up in business, and my father too; and that we shall have to move into a much smaller house."
"A smaller house! Why, dear me! this is not much more than a pigeon-box of an affair anyhow! — and going to move into a smaller house! How can he think of such a thing! I came to go with you to see the house in Bleeker street, but I suppose its no use to go now."
"O no! Of course not. But isn't it dreadful, Mrs. Melrose?"
"It is, indeed, Cecilia," was the rather cold reply. "But as it can't be helped now, the best thing for you is to bear it as well as you can."
"But how can I bear it, Mrs. Melrose?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Cecilia. Other people have had to bear the same things, time and time again, and I suppose you will have to do it with as good a grace as possible. I don't see myself as any good ever comes of crying over spilled milk. But as you aren't going out to look at the house we were speaking about, I must be moving along. I have several places to call at, this afternoon. So I must bid you good-bye. Try and keep up your head up. All will no doubt come out right in the end."
There was something so changed, so cold, and unsympathizing in Mrs. Melrose's voice and manner as she said this, and then made a movement towards the door, that poor Mrs. Merlin could not be mistaken for a moment in regard to her true feelings. She did not even attempt to make a reply, or to ask her fair-weather friend to remain; but allowed her to leave the room and the house without a word.
"Can this be indeed true? — or is it a dream?" she said, arousing herself about half an hour after Mrs. Melrose had gone away, with a feeling of indignation at the heartlessness of one she had ever looked upon as her best friend. "And so, thus ends all her professions of love and friendship! Who would have believed it!"
As Mrs. Merlin uttered these words, she lifted her head, and compressed her lips firmly. Then she began to reflect more calmly and rationally upon the circumstances by which she found herself so unexpectedly surrounded; to think of her father and mother reduced to poverty in their old age — and to feel deeply for them on account of the sudden calamity that had overtaken them. But all seemed so like a dream, that she found it difficult to realize the truth. While still in this state of mind, Uncle Peter, whose face she had not seen for a month, opened the door of the room in which she was sitting.
"I am here, Cecilia," he said, coming up to her, and offering his hand, "to sympathize with you in your troubles, and at the same time, to congratulate you on things being no worse than they are."
"I don't know well how they could be much worse," Cecilia said, in a gloomy tone, while the tears started from her eyes afresh.
"O yes, my child, they might be a great deal worse. At this very time there are many, very many in this city, and men too with families on their hands, who have not only been broken up in their business, but cannot find anything to do by which to earn a dollar. Fortunately, this will not be your husband's case. True, he will have to give up everything, and quit business. But then, I have succeeded this day in securing him a good situation as a clerk, at eight hundred dollars a year. So you see that there is still daylight ahead, Cecilia."
"Eight hundred dollars a year!" replied the niece in sincere astonishment. "And does anyone suppose that we can live on eight hundred dollars a year. Why, our rent alone is a thousand dollars."
"Of course you will have to reduce your rent."
"And suppose we do reduce it, even as low as five hundred dollars. Will three hundred support us? Our servants' hire alone amounts to that sum."
"You will have to dispense with some of them, for one thing, and live in a house at a rent of one half of five hundred dollars — and perhaps less than that, for another thing."
"That is out of the question, Uncle Peter. I must have a cook, a nurse, and a chambermaid. Perhaps the waiter might be dispensed with — but I don't see how. And as for living in some dirty, base neighborhood, in a shabby house, at two hundred and fifty dollars, that is what I will never consent to do!"
"There is no necessity for going into a dirty, base neighborhood; nor for living in a shabby house, either. Your true way will be to rent the half of a genteel house in a pleasant and respectable part of the city, and then dispense with all your servants but one."
"Impossible! Who will take care of the children?"
"Let their mother take care of them. They could not have one who would feel more interest for them than she."
"Uncle Peter!"
"I am serious, Cecilia," replied the old man in a soothing tone. "Come now, let me find you once more a reasonable woman. You are aware that both your husband and father are reduced to poverty — are you not?"
"Yes."
"And that the most that it will be possible for your husband to earn, at least for the next twelve months, will be eight hundred dollars."
"So you have told me."
"And what I have told you, is the precise truth. Very well. Now, if your income is but eight hundred dollars, how can you expect to keep three or four servants? Would it be honest for you to employ them, and then not be able to give them their wages? Would it be right for you thus to burden your husband with debts which it would be out of his power to pay?"
"But, Uncle, how is it possible for me to do without a nurse?" My youngest baby is only four months old, and still lies at the bosom. I can't do anything with it, you know."
"I don't know any such thing, Cecilia. The nurse will have to wean it, and then hand it over to you. It will be hard for the dear little thing, but it cannot be helped. You will not be able to keep its nurse more than a few weeks until you get moved and settled in your new home, and become a little accustomed to taking charge of the baby. Your house will be so much smaller, that you will not need either a chambermaid or waiter. They would be in your way. Your cook, having much less to do than now, can attend to your chamber and her own, and thus leave you nothing to do but to see after the children."
"And become a perfect slave!" Mrs. Merlin said with indignant warmth.
"If you please so to consider yourself," was the old man's half petulant remark.
"That's just what I don't intend doing."
"Very well. Let's hear what you do intend doing? Come now! Perhaps you can strike out some new way of living on eight hundred dollars a year, undreamed of before, in which you can reside in a fine house, with fine furniture, and keep three or four servants. Come! let me hear your plan."
"I don't believe you have a single spark of feeling for me — no I don't! I believe you would be glad to see me brought right down into the gutter!" poor Cecilia exclaimed with bitterness; and then yielded to another flood of tears. As soon as this had in some measure subsided, the old man said in a softened tone:
"Cecilia, my dear child, it is because I really love you that I speak to you plainly. I can see, what you are not willing to see the necessity for an entire change in your mode of living; a change which must involve many and great sacrifices and privations. But there is only one right course, under these trying circumstances, for you to pursue; and that is to look your trials steadily in the face, and bravely resolve to meet them with an unshrinking front. Hundreds before you have met and passed, safely through far severer trials, and hundreds at this very time, in this very city, and of those, too, raised as tenderly, and as unused as you to rough contact with the world, are bearing up under far heavier burdens than such as are about to be laid upon your shoulders. And will you weakly shrink away and shun your duties, where others have taken up theirs like true women, and performed them with cheerfulness. Let this not be said of my niece. Let her rather think of her husband and children, and for their sakes resolve to brave nobly the storm that is breaking over her head."
At this moment, when Cecilia was beginning to listen calmly, and really to feel in a measure strengthened and inspirited by Uncle Peter's words, the door of the room in which they sat was thrown suddenly open, and her mother, Mrs. Howard, came sweeping in, her countenance exhibiting the deepest anguish.
"O, my child! my dear child!" she exclaimed in a tone of passionate distress, rushing forward and throwing her arms around Cecilia. "What is to become of us all! What is to become of you, my poor, dear child! Oh! Oh! Oh! dear! Oh!"
And then followed a scene of sobbing and moaning, that, instead of softening Uncle Peter in the slightest decree — irritated him so much. Finding that all hope of doing anything towards making Cecilia conscious of her duty just at that time, was at an end — the old man took up his hat, and, without a word, left the house and his sister and niece, to pass through this scene of weak distress alone.
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