MORAL COURAGE.
BY ALICE B. NEAL.
PART I.
"Ah, lonely, very lonely, is the room
Where love, domestic love, no longer nestles,
But, smitten by the common stroke of doom,
The corpse lies on the tressels!"—Hood.
Yes, there was death in the house. The closed windows told it to the passers-by; and the crape which hung heavily from the door, tied with a black ribbon, denoted that one in the prime of life was laid low. Strangers looked at it with a glance of curiosity and hurried past, forgetting the next moment, in the bright sunshine and busy avocations of life, that they had received a solemn warning to prepare for a like mysterious change. Acquaintances walked with a slower step, as it caught the eye, and thought of the sad scenes that must be passing within that house of mourning.
Friends said it was "a great blow," and wondered vaguely what would become of the wife and children; and some knelt at night surrounded by unclouded happiness in their own homes, but nevertheless praying with a full heart for those who had so suddenly been left desolate.
The day of the funeral came, and the husband and father was carried from the home that had been almost an earthly paradise to be laid beneath "the cold clod of the valley," and the weeping family clung to each other, and sobbed and prayed as that first dreary night came on, and they recognized all the vacancy of hearth and heart. Such scenes are daily passing; yet the world goes on as ever, and some dance to the music of gay revelry, while others put on the "garments of heaviness" with breaking hearts.
And then the return to actual life! How harassing it is when our thoughts are with the dead and the living claim our care! Mrs. Burton found the sad truth of this as, with well meant, but harsh kindness, she found her brother waiting one morning, scarce a week from the day that had made her a widow, to talk over her future prospects. He had an ungracious task before him; for he was forced to communicate what was galling to his pride, as well as distressing to those more nearly interested in the intelligence. Mr. Burton's affairs were left in almost inextricable confusion; a pittance, a mere pittance, of some two hundred a year was all that would remain to his family; and what was this when their annual expenditure had been thousands? He was luxurious in taste, and had not hesitated to gratify every whim. He was an indulgent father, and had lavished uncounted sums upon his children. He had not intended to be unjust to them or his lovely wife; but he was one of those who seem to think a long life secured to them by present health, and, being in excellent business, thought it time to "lay by" when the children were educated and his boys began to "look out for themselves." Besides, he belonged to one of the oldest, proudest families in the city, and he was not to be outshone by any of them.
But how did matters stand now that, by an unalterable decree, he had been suddenly removed from them? Let us see if he had been "a just man," as was pompously stated in his epitaph. Lucy, the eldest daughter, was but nineteen, beautiful, accomplished, and betrothed to the son of an old friend. She was provided for, said the world, and, of course, their relatives could take charge of the younger children—Grace, ten, Willie and George, the one just entered at a classical school, and the other almost ready for college, although only fifteen. Mrs. Burton would have enough to maintain her, no doubt, and so the matter was charitably settled and quietly laid aside for a discussion of the last opera night by the ladies, or a sudden rise in stocks by the gentlemen, upon whose feeling, sensitive minds it had obtruded itself.
Such a conversation was passing that very morning, as Mrs. Burton sat listening to a hurried account of the pressing liabilities that would sweep away even her own marriage portion when, for the first time in a shielded, prosperous life, care and business anxiety came upon her. It is not strange that she was completely bewildered by the new aspect of affairs. She had thought her domestic loss too great a sorrow to bear up under, and now all this crushing weight added to it! What was to be done? Her brother-in-law had but one thing to propose. Lucy would probably marry soon, and Mrs. Burton would no doubt find a comfortable home with her, and be of great assistance to the young wife in managing her domestic concerns The children would be distributed among Mr. Burton's relatives. He himself would take George into his counting-house. He was old enough to be of some service.
Mrs. Burton was a devoted mother. With all her thoughtlessness, she was both fond and proud of her children, and to have them taken from her was to bereave her of every earthly happiness. And George, with his quick mind and high ambition, to be tied down in a counting-room, when he had talent for anything in the profession he already looked forward to, the law! Willie, proud, spirited, affectionate Willie, and her beautiful Grace, dependents upon the bounty of relatives! She could not bear the thought.
But she was not alone in this. Lucy had been summoned to join the deliberation, and astonished her uncle not a little by the firmness with which she said—
"That never will do, sir!"
"Well, my dear, perhaps you can propose a more feasible plan. Does Mr. Allan intend to 'marry the whole family?'"
The ill-concealed irony and coarseness of this remark brought a flush to the young girl's face, and a fire to her eyes that made her more like her haughty relative than ever, as she answered—
"I have not consulted with Mr. Allan; for I did not know there was any need of consultation. No doubt he still thinks as I did an hour ago, that—my father—that we were still secured a home at least." And her voice faltered; for she could not yet speak that name without tears, and the harshness of their situation was forced upon her painfully.
"Well, leave him out of the question. Something must be done. Creditors are at your very door; harpies that will not be satisfied so long as you are living on Wilton carpets and dining with silver that has never yet been paid for."
Mrs. Burton instinctively turned towards her daughter, as if she could in reality suggest some plan by which everything could readily be arranged. She felt revived by the quick decision of Lucy's tone and manner.
"I have no plans. I can scarcely think as yet," she said, passing her hand hurriedly across her brow; "but to-morrow: at least we can be in peace until then. Only one thing I am certain of, that, so long as I have health and strength, my mother and brothers shall not be dependent on any one."
"Those hands work, indeed!" returned Mr. William Burton, glancing almost contemptuously on the white fingers locked so resolutely together, on which sparkled a ring of great value, the betrothed gift of her lover. "Go to Allan with your resolution, and see what he will say. Come, come now, don't be obstinate and foolish, Lucy. You are poor George's child, and as like him as you can be. I mustn't get vexed with you. I know it's a great shock. I feel it so myself; but we must be brave and put up with trouble we can't help."
It was with a swelling heart, and oftentimes gushes of bitter tears, that Lucy trod the floor of her room all that long afternoon, while her mother received, in the parlor below, visits of condolence from friends and acquaintances, who came, some because custom required it, and others because they had suffered and sorrowed, and knew how welcome a kindly sympathy had been in their affliction. The children, Grace and Willie, sat reading together with their arms about each other until the twilight came, and they began to wonder what made sister stay away alone so long, and finally deputed George to go "very softly" and see if she would not come down to tea, "as Doctor Howard was still talking to mamma, and they were very lonely."
"Come in," said Lucy, as she recognized her brother's voice; and then she made him sit down beside her, and led him to talk of their future life and what he had intended to accomplish. It had been in the boy's mind all day, and he spoke very earnestly. He would be so industrious after this, and study so hard, and be a great lawyer like Uncle Thomas, and then mamma should come and live with him, when Lucy was married and the children grown up. Ah, how could she damp such fond anticipations and throw the shadow of care over that bright young face, from which she had parted back the clustering locks that she might look steadfastly into those clear, eloquent eyes! So she gave up her first resolve of telling him all the truth, but said—
"Dear brother, what if it should be necessary for us to move into a smaller house, and for you to give up study and go into business for a few years until we get rich again, and Willie is large enough to help himself a little?"
The shadow came, after all, and the boy's face lost its eager, hopeful look.
"I knew it would be hard, and that you do not like business; but we all have to bear trials. Think of poor mamma; for her sake, George. And because it would be right," she added, after a moment. "But we will talk more about this some other day; only think of it, brother, and be brave. Ask strength from Heaven to do rightly," and she pointed to her dressing-table, where an open Bible lay, stained with tears.
Ah, how many schemes she revolved in her mind that night, when she could not sleep, and envied the calm repose of Grace, who shared her room, and was lying so quietly beside her. And then she rose and turned to her Bible again, as she had never sought it before, although it had always been dear to her; for she was of those who had "remembered their Creator in the days of their youth." One sentence caught her attention; no doubt she had read it a hundred times before, but she never had known its meaning until now.
"In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct thy paths."
How full of hope and assurance it was! and something like a smile quivered about her lips as she knelt and laid her heart open to the Father of the Fatherless.
But several days passed before anything like a feasible plan suggested itself. Mrs. Burton was ready to do anything Lucy thought best; but her mind seemed to be paralyzed by the succession of misfortunes. Yet still another trial remained for the devoted girl, and harder to bear, that it came so unexpectedly.
"I cannot do as you wish," she said to her lover, when her resolution was finally taken. "God only knows how hard the struggle has been, and still is. But I should despise myself if I turned from one duty to take up another. How could I expect a blessing upon it? We are both young; I but nineteen, you twenty-three. Five years from now we shall still have a long life before us, and then we shall be all the happier for this self-denial. Is it asking too much of you?—too great a sacrifice, James?"
"I cannot understand you, Lucy. Don't speak enigmas."
"Well, then, have I not explained it clearly?—that my labor is necessary to my mother and all of them, until the younger children are old enough to act for themselves; and, even to be your wife, great happiness as it would be to me, I cannot desert them."
"You are a noble girl, Lucy," he said, as you would admire anything that was beautiful in a picture or a statue. And yet she seemed to know that he did not feel with her—"could not understand her," as he had said.
"And do you not think I am right?"
"I can't say that I do—that is, exactly. I can't see that you are bound to waste five years, the best years of life, when the family can be otherwise provided for. You say your uncles have offered to do all that is necessary; your mother would always be welcome in my house." And James Allan actually regarded himself, and had done so for some days, a perfect model of virtuous self-denial in making the proposal, and "going on" with a match that more worldly friends now advised him against. There was a difference between the daughter of the prosperous merchant and the ruined bankrupt.
"You never have had brothers and sisters, James."
"And so shall love you all the better, darling. You will have none to be jealous of."
"Ah, now listen to me. Do not place obstacles in the path of my duty. Tell me, am I selfish towards you?"
She did not think he could say "yes," or feel it. She knew that if the probation had been proposed to her for his sake, she would have consented joyfully, happy in the power to show how true her love was, and she would have strengthened and encouraged him in every way.
He was silent for a moment, and then he said, slowly—
"And what do you propose to do? Teach, I suppose." It grated upon his ear to think that any one who would be hereafter connected with him should use time or talent in her own support. He would much rather have given the necessary sum outright; but that Lucy would not listen to.
"No, I shall not teach."
"And what in creation will you do?" he ejaculated, surprised from his accustomed politeness into an abrupt betrayal of native rudeness.
"I am going to learn a trade and work at it, and have a shop, when I can manage one."
"Good heavens, Lucy, you are mad! What has put such an insane idea into your head?"
"Thought, thought—constant, harassing, anxious thought. As a teacher or governess I could do little more than support myself; and I know I have taste and enterprise, and George will assist me, and I feel I shall succeed."
"Never to be my wife afterwards!"
"James!" and she started to her feet, the hot blood mounting to her face. She could not believe she had heard aright, and came back to him, laying her hand upon his arm and looking beseechingly into his face. He was angry now. Pride, and more than pride, vanity, were aroused. What! his wife to have been behind a counter!—to hear it said, in after years, "O yes! Mrs. Allan was a shop girl!" It was not that his treasure would be exposed to rude and unfeeling association; it was not that he would shield her from toil! He shook her from him—
"As true as I am speaking, if you persist in this, I will never marry you!"
"You never shall!"
She turned quietly, but firmly, and went towards the door. There were no tears, no expostulations. It was not her nature. Neither was that deep emphatic tone the voice of passion. But a mask had dropped from the real character of one she had almost reverenced, who had been invested by the halo of her love with every high and noble quality.
"Lucy!"
No answer; and then the woman triumphed, and she turned her face so that he could see how deadly pale she was, as she said, not raising her eyes—
"God bless you, James, for the happiness of the past!"
He knew that he was forgiven; but he also felt that, outwardly, there could be no reconciliation. In an instant, all her goodness and purity came into his mind. He felt all that he had lost when too late to regain it. But he stifled remorse and regret by pride and fancied injury, as he left the house never to return again.
There followed a wretched, stormy interview with her uncle, whose anger knew no bounds when Lucy told him that her engagement with James Allan was broken, and for what reason. She was called "idiot" and "ungrateful," her scheme was ridiculed and discouraged, until Mrs. Burton even began to take her brother's view of the case, and think that her daughter had acted inexcusably when, with a little forbearance, she could have retained the care and love of one who had a father's sanction to call her wife. And finally threats were tried to induce her to use her influence to reconcile the family to the first plan proposed; for Mr. William Burton solemnly declared that, if the daughter of his brother disgraced the family by becoming "a milliner's girl," he would disown her, and his children should never recognize her again.
This was a great trial, but a harder one had been borne, and Lucy found a friend to uphold her in her course when she was sorely tempted to abandon it. Dr. Howard had been for many years their family physician, and had watched her from earliest childhood with no little interest. His daughter Mary was Lucy's most intimate friend, and through her he heard of all that was passing in the family of his deceased friend. His little carriage was standing at the door as Mr. Burton left the house, the morning of the last interview, and Lucy, still sitting in the parlor, her head upon her hands, lost in deep and painful thought, was roused by his kindly voice and fatherly manner, to be comforted by his sympathy and strengthened by his approval.
"I know all, my little daughter," said the warm-hearted old gentleman. "As for that James Allan, you've had a lucky escape, and I'd willingly see him"—
"Doctor!" interrupted Lucy, for she could not hear that once loved name spoken of so harshly.
"Well, well, I suppose you were fond of him, or you never could have promised what you did. But we won't think of that part of the subject. Now tell me exactly what you want to do, and then we will see if there's a possibility of accomplishing it."
So Lucy unfolded her plans more fully than she had yet done to any one. Their milliner was a widow lady who had under her direction one of those large work-rooms employing twenty or thirty girls. Her customers were among the wealthiest and most fashionable people in the city, and, as she was very intelligent and a person of excellent taste, they frequently consulted her about an entire wardrobe, and in this way Lucy had often listened to her conversation. Only one month ago, her mother and herself were taking Mrs. Hill's advice with regard to her own trousseau, a part of which was already purchased; and while Lucy was waiting for her mother to call for her, she had been much interested in a history of Mrs. Hill's own business experience, resulting from a report that she was thinking of retiring before long. Lucy found, to her amazement, that, in twenty years, she had not only educated her family, but saved enough to make her entirely comfortable. This conversation might have been forgotten, had not a necessity for exertion been forced so suddenly upon her; and knowing, from the salaries of her own teachers, that she could not hope to do more than maintain herself in that way, Mrs. Hill's success flashed upon her mind as an encouraging precedent.
At first, she scarcely counted the cost, it is true. She forgot that it would make an entire change in her social position, strange as it may seem in a so-called republican country, and, above all, in a city where "all men" were first declared to be "equal." She could not judge, from her own true, affectionate nature, the result such a decision would have upon her future prospects in domestic life. That was the thought which cheered her at first, the beacon star that was to guide her through all toil and self-denial; but it had been quenched, with all else that had made life bright to her. And as yet she knew nothing of actual physical fatigue or deprivation; this was yet to break upon her.
Dr. Howard, like a true friend, pointed out all this, kindly, it is true, but in the strongest colors; and when he found that even then she did not give up her scheme, he patted her glossy curls as he would have done Mary's, and said she was "a little heroine," and he did not doubt that she could succeed.
"Whoever show themselves weak enough to desert you, my child," he said, "you have always a friend in me, remember that; and you must use me whenever you want advice or assistance. Don't hesitate to come to me in all your little trials and troubles, and my house shall be a second home to you."
Then, to have her mind relieved of all anxiety on this score at once, for he saw the sad changes the past few weeks had made in her worn face, he proposed to go at once and consult Mrs. Hill, and see how they could manage time and terms. It seemed a long hour to Lucy before the sound of his carriage-wheels was heard again; but he came at last, his face beaming with pleasure, and told her how heartily Mrs. Hill had entered into her plans, that she would herself direct the short apprenticeship, and engage her services when it was completed. There was a little note from the lady herself, so full of good will and kindliness, that the young girl's faith in human nature was revived, and her path seemed indeed "directed" by the God in whom she trusted.
How thankfully she reviewed the events of the day to her mother that night, with a look more like happiness than she had worn since her father's death. And Mrs. Burton seemed, for the first time, interested in it, and was thankful for everything that would keep them all together.
George was enthusiastic, as he always was in everything he entered into, and, throwing his arms about her neck, declared she was "the best sister in the world, and he had no doubt she would make a fortune." The younger children could not, of course, fully understand the case, but knew that something pleasant had happened and they were indebted to Lucy for it. It was the happiest night the Burtons had known since their father's death.
