Trial and Triumph CHAPTER 3.
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"A most distressing affair this," remarked a business friend, to Philip Emerson, a few weeks later in the history of events.
"What affair?" inquired the young man.
"I allude to the failure of the United States Bank, and the ruin it has brought into hundreds of families."
"Oh, yes, that is a distressing affair, truly, I saw poor Mrs. Meriam a little while ago, and the sight of her made my heart ache. She is reduced, with her children, from competency to poverty and dependence."
"And Mrs. Lynn, too."
"What!"
"Everything left by Mr. Lynn, was invested in this stock. Of fifty thousand dollars, but five thousand are left."
"Are you not in error here?" asked Emerson.
"No, I saw her agent, Mr. Williams, half an hour ago; and he told me that he had just paid into her hands, the proceeds of five hundred shares at ten dollars a share."
"Bless me! I never dreamed of this."
"It is too true. Poor woman! I feel very sorry for her."
The friend retired, and Emerson fell into a mood of deep thoughtfulness. A generous impulse first moved over the surface of his heart; but the rippling waves soon met a counter current, and all was in commotion. A selfish and sordid principle ruled in his mind, and this opposed the almost instant determination to renew his offer of marriage to Mary Lynn, and thus show her how devoted was his attachment. For the whole of that day the struggle went on, and was continued in the loneliness and silence of his chamber, when he retired at night.
Philip had been as sincere in his attachment to Mary as it is possible for any one to be, who admits worldly and selfish considerations into his mind. It is not at all probable, that he would have permitted his love to center upon her, had she not possessed some attractions beyond what were personal. She was a lovely, pure-minded, right thinking girl, with every quality to give happiness in marriage; and the better Emerson knew her — the more clearly was this perceived. As their intimacy became closer, he lost sight, to a considerable extent, of some of the first mercenary ideas that influenced him, and his affection assumed a truer character. But, now, the baser qualities of his love again appeared. The stream that ran so pure, was troubled. Circumstances had become materially changed.
It was near midnight before the mind of Emerson grew calm in a generous purpose. Then he wrote a letter to Mary.
"I have just heard," thus he addressed her, "of the sad loss your mother has sustained in the failure of the United States Bank. Until now, I was not aware that her property was invested in the stock of this institution. The news has deeply grieved me, and, were it not for the relations that exist between you and myself, I would at once hasten to offer your family, in person, the sympathy which I feel. Except for this unhappy event, I would not again have ventured to address you. But, now that I see dark clouds of adversitygathering over the head of one in whom I feel the deepest interest, and hear the distant roar of the coming tempest, I am impelled by something that I cannot resist to renew the offer, she a little while ago declined. Dear Mary! believe me, that I address you in no selfish spirit. Do not turn from me again without looking deep into your own heart. If my image is there — and I believe that it is — do not lightly efface it. Drop a line, on receiving this, and say that a visit from me will be acceptable. Speak but a single word of encouragement, and I will be instantly at your side."
While writing this letter, Emerson felt all the glow of a generous impulse; but as he read it over and over again, and thought of a marriage in which not a single worldly advantage would be gained, his mind became once more troubled, and he wavered in his resolutions.
"Shall I humble myself again?" he said aloud. "Shall I put myself in the way of another repulse, which will be more humiliating than former ones? Shall I lay my genuine regard at her feet — that she may trample upon it?"
Again he entered upon a struggle, which continued until near day dawn. Then he slept for a few hours. His mind was calmer and clearer when he awoke. After thoughtfully reviewing his relation to Mary, and considering her altered condition, he resolved to send the letter he had written, and did so. — But scarcely had it passed from his hands beyond recall, before he repented of what he had done. In spite of all his efforts to resist its influence, the fact that Mary, if she now accepted his offer, would come to him a portionless bride, was changing, materially, the state of his feelings. The force of attraction with which he was drawn towards her, was sensibly weakened; and he was conscious of the fact.
Emerson was an importer and dealer in elegant and fancy articles. His store was much frequented by fashionable people, especially ladies. About an hour after his letter to Mary was dispatched, and when his sober second thoughts were bringing repentance for the act — a young and beautiful girl entered with the design of purchasing some article. She was the daughter of a manufacturer in good circumstances, named Barker, and in her person and accomplishments, combined many attractions. She smiled winningly upon Emerson as he met her at the counter. The young man was struck by her beauty more than on any previous occasion; and there was in the tones of her voice a melody he had not perceived before. She lingered longer than usual in making her purchases, and seemed quite interested in the conversation he addressed to her; and, as she left the store, turned, on gaining the street, to glance back at the handsome young dealer.
More than flattered, was Emerson by this manifestation of interest on the part of the beautiful girl, and her image was distinct before his mind for a long time after she had retired; so distinct, as partially to obscure the image of Mary Lynn.
From that time, the heart of Emerson beat with a more troubled motion. Hourly he waited, in expectation of an answer to his letter. His pulse would give a quicker throb at the entrance of anyone who seemed like the bearer of a communication from Mary. But the day wore on, and no answer came.
The letter sent by Emerson to Mary Lynn, came first into the hands of her mother, who unscrupulously broke the seal, and read the contents — with what feelings the reader may imagine. She then placed the letter in a new envelope, re-directed it, and had it sent up to her daughter's room, who received it without the least suspicion that her mother knew what it contained. Mary read it over hastily, and wept as she read. While it remained open in her hand, Mrs. Lynn entered. The first impulse of Mary was to conceal the letter, and she made a movement to do so, but checked herself.
"Who is that from?" asked Mrs. Lynn, at once referring to the letter in Mary's hand.
"From Philip," was replied, unhesitatingly.
"Indeed!" Mrs. Lynn affected surprise. "Can I see it?"
Mary handed her the letter, which she read over for the second time.
"A noble, generous-hearted young man!" exclaimed Mrs. Lynn, with enthusiasm. "Surely, Mary, you cannot but respond to this in the spirit with which it is written!"
"I wish it had not been written," was murmured, in reply.
"Why do you say that?" inquired Mrs. Lynn.
"Because it will be to me the cause of renewed pain. I had hoped that this trial was over."
"Mary, in the present extremity, can you for a moment hesitate? Think of me — think of your brother and sister. Will you see us go down into poverty and suffering, when a word from you could save us?"
"Oh, mother! Why will you tempt me in this way?" said Mary, in great distress. "If you love me, let me be alone for the present. Give me time to reflect and look upwards."'
There was more in the manner of this appeal, than in the words, which affected Mrs. Lynn. She felt conscious of having taken an ungenerous advantage of her daughter, and an emotion of shame went over her selfish and worldly heart. For a few moments she lingered in her daughter's room, and then retired. The moment she closed the door, Mary sunk on her knees and buried her face in her hands. For a long, long time, she remained in this attitude, almost motionless. When, at last, she rose, her face was calm, and elevated in expression. A little while afterwards, she left the house and took her way towards a less fashionable part of the town than that in which she resided. At a moderate-sized, comfortable-looking house, she stopped, and on ringing, was admitted. Running upstairs, as familiarly as if at home, she entered one of the rooms, where sat a lady past the prime of life, in whose countenance was impressed the beauty of a truly wise and virtuous spirit.
"Mary, dear!" she said, affectionately, as the young girl entered, and she kissed her fair cheek with the tenderness of a mother.
"Dear aunt!" replied Mary, leaning her face against her, and trying to repress the sobs that were ready to break forth. "I have come to ask you a few more questions, and to seek further your advice."
"Say on, child," returned the lady.
"I wish to speak of Philip," said Mary.
"Does he still persecute you with his offers of marriage?" was remarked, in a voice of surprise.
"He has heard of our loss of property, and comes forward again. But here is his letter — read it."
The aunt — she was the sister of Mary's father — took the letter of Emerson and read it carefully.
"I hardly expected this of him," she remarked, as she refolded the letter, and handed it back to Mary. "It certainly places him in a more favorable light."
"Does it alter his real quality of mind?" asked Mary.
"All acts which spring from unselfish motives, change, in a degree, the evil qualities of the mind. A man who does right from a deliberate purpose, is just so much the better. He may recede or advance from the point gained, according as he afterwards gives place to good or bad influences."
"Yes, I can understand that. But I wish to ask you one or two questions about Philip."
"Say on."
"About the two pictures he sold to Mr. Harding. You are certain that Philip represented them as having just been received from his agent in Paris?"
"So Mr. Harding has informed me!"
"And you are still further certain that he bought them for a mere trifle, at a sale in New York?"
"I am. The pictures belonged to an old friend of mine in that city. I have seen them on her walls hundreds of times. When I saw them again at Mr. Harding's, and heard his story about having paid Emerson five hundred dollars for the pair, as choice old pictures, just received from his agent in Paris, I was curious enough to write to my friend. She informed me that she had sent a part of her furniture to auction — these pictures among the rest — and that the latter had sold for ten dollars apiece. I didn't like the look of this. Knowing Emerson's intimacy with you, I determined to gain some certain information on the subject, and so wrote to my friend asking her as a favor to ascertain, if possible, from the auctioneer, the name of the purchaser of the pictures. In a few days I received an answer, stating that the name was Emerson. I wrote still further, inquiring as to his residence. It was in this city. That I might be entirely certain in the matter, I then related to my friend how the pictures had been sold for five hundred dollars, and under what representations, and asked if she would oblige me by a still more particular inquiry of the auctioneer, who happened to be a friend. Her reply was conclusive. Philip Emerson is the man. Moreover, she wrote that the auctioneer expressed himself, as not in the least surprised by Emerson. 'That,' said he, 'is one of his every day tricks. I shall hear all about it on his next visit to New York. If his own stories are true, he has made several thousand dollars in the last few years by operations of this kind. He's a shrewd fellow; and thinks nothing of a business lie. All fair in trade is his motto.'"
Mary sighed deeply as her aunt ceased speaking.
"He is not an honest man," said she, at length, in a firm voice.
"Actions like this do not flow from an honest principle," replied the aunt.
"A good tree cannot bear evil fruit."
"Nor a sweet fountain send forth bitter waters," added the aunt. "Still, Mary, we must take this into consideration, "that men engaged in business are very apt, in their eagerness for gain, to lose sight of the landmarks of strict integrity. Where trick and overreaching is resorted to on every hand, even honest men may be led, almost imperceptibly, away from their integrity."
"Not honest men, aunt," replied Mary. "If there were not a foundation of dishonesty in the mind, a man would shrink from a dishonest act — as quickly as shrinks the leaf of a sensitive plant when touched."
"You are no doubt correct in this," remarked the aunt.
"I am in a great strait," said Mary, in a sad voice. "Mother knows of this letter from Philip, and expects me to return a favorable answer. If I regarded myself alone, I would not hesitate a moment. But, in my decision, the happiness and comfort of others are involved. Mother has lost, by the failure of the bank, nearly everything. We are left without any means of support. If I accept Philip's renewed offer, little apparent change will take place in our external circumstances. But, if I decline it, we sink down at once from our present position. As for myself, I am ready to meet any form of worldly reverse, to bear any privation and toil that may come — rather than give myself to a man in whose integrity I can place no sure reliance. How could I unite myself to the moral wisdom of my husband — when in heart he was dishonest? My spirit, instead of uniting in a glad and happy union, would shrink away and turn from him. Instead of a gradual union, growing from day to day and year to year — there would be a gradual separation, and both would become wretched. Oh! the very thought appalls me! Dear aunt! think for me, and advise me in this fearful extremity."
"As each one is responsible for his own actions — with each individual, must rest the determination to action."
"I know that, aunt. But feeling too often obscures the judgment. The mind of one in my position, can hardly be said to be in equilibrium."
"The minds of all are held in perpetual equilibrium, Mary. Every one who sincerely desires to do right, will, in passing through life's trials and temptations — see the right way so clearly, that not a doubt will remain. And so it will be in your case. All that is needed is firmness to do right in the face of all consequences."
"If I cannot respect Philip — if I utterly condemn the principles which govern his business life — if I see him to be so blinded by selfishness as to do wrong to his neighbors — ought I to marry him?"
"Answer the question yourself, Mary."
"Most emphatically do I say NO," was the earnest reply of Mary Lynn.
"Right, my child! Right! The evil consequences of such a union may not be calculated," responded the aunt, warmly. "It is not the mere person that is loved, in marriage; nor is it the intellectual endowments; nor graces of mind and action. No, love goes far below all these, and seeks for mental and moral qualities, and, if it does not find what is good and true — it droops, and withers, and dies. If you would not put your happiness both here and hereafter in jeopardy — decline this offer!"
"My heart blesses you for these words!" exclaimed Mary, grasping the hand of her aunt. "They give strength to my own weak purpose in this time of painful trial."
"You must look higher for strength, my dear child; for you will need a greater than human aid, to sustain you in passing through the fire."
Mary's eyes glanced upwards involuntarily.
"How sadly mother will be disappointed at this decision," murmured the young girl, breaking, soon after, the silence that followed her last remark.
"The time, I doubt not, will come," said the aunt, "when she will rejoice that you had the firmness to reject an offer which promised so much of worldly advantage, with so little of genuine happiness."
"Until that time, what will I not have to suffer? Oh, how my heart shrinks from the trial," sighed Mary.
"God will give you strength," was answered. "Be true to yourself and Him — and you will be fully sustained."
Again the maiden's eyes glanced upwards, and she breathed a prayer for sustaining power.
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