Chapter II: Part 2

Busy days followed, when the little trunk was packed, prayers offered, the good-bys said, and her boy Hugh went out into the world.

Four years passed—four years with their new friendships, eager plans, broader outlook, and development of character.

Meantime Widow Wadsworth struggled on, Mr. Carter helping the family somewhat, so that the sisters eventually could fit themselves for teaching. When college days were over another time of anxiety came. Should Hugh have a profession or go into business? He loved books, and finally, after much consideration, he decided to enter the law, working his way as best he could by teaching and writing. Steadily he won success, and before thirty was on the road to fame and fortune.

The years had whitened Widow Wadsworth’s hair. All her family were now earning, and life had become easier. The years, too, had brought changes in the Carter family. The woollen mills had failed to bring money to their owner, and the large home had passed into other hands. Pretty Isabel Carter, whom it was whispered Hugh had desired to marry, had thrown herself away on a showy youth, who married her with the expectation of securing a fortune. James Carter, the only son, was working his way through college.

As is often the case, a woman was longing and praying for James’s success. Jenny Wadsworth was teaching a village school. She and James Carter had been friends. She knew his many good qualities, and whether he ever cared for her or not she determined that his father’s failure should not spoil his life if she could help it. Kate could assist the family, and unbeknown to any one Jenny was saving money for James Carter’s education. One morning a letter was sent to Hugh, saying: “James Carter is trying to work his way through college, and we must help him. Here is one hundred dollars which I have saved, and I will send more soon. Do not tell anybody living, but use it for him. Mr. Carter helped you, and I know you will be only too glad to help James. I see him rarely, but he is a noble fellow, and I long to have him succeed. In a little while he can be in the office with you. Your loving sister, Jenny.”

Hugh smiled as he read the letter, and blessed woman for her sweet self-sacrifice; but a shadow came over his face in a moment. Perhaps he thought of Isabel, and of his own disappointment.

A letter was sent to James the next morning with a check from Hugh and a hundred dollars from “a friend.” “Come to me,” wrote Hugh, “as soon as you are through college, and let me help to repay a little of the debt I shall always owe your father.”

When his course was finished James Carter, manly in physique and refined in face, stood in the doorway of a New York office. He was warmly welcomed by Hugh, who had not seen him for years.

“The debt is more than paid to my father,” said James. “I have had your example always before me to surmount obstacles and make a man of myself, and now in turn I hope to help you by faithful labor. I have been curious to learn of the ‘friend’ who has sent me money. I have thought over all my father’s acquaintances and cannot decide who it can be.”

“Oh, never mind, James; you will learn sometime perhaps, and it is of no consequence if you do not! The act of giving is what broadens hearts, whether the giver ever be known or not. I promised to keep it a secret.”

The two young men went to live in quiet bachelor quarters together. Work, earnest and absorbing, filled the days and often the evenings.

“I have asked mother and Jenny to spend a few days with us,” said Hugh one evening. “Jenny teaches in a town not far from here, and my good mother has been visiting her, and will stay here a little on her way to West Beverly.”

“That will do us good. I have had so little time to see ladies that it will seem quite a home touch to our bachelor life,” responded James.

Mrs. Wadsworth and her daughter came, and a week passed happily. Jenny was intelligent and charming—how could she be other than lovely with such a mother? The four walked in the evenings, Jenny seeming naturally to be left in the care of James, while Hugh delighted in showing attention to his mother. When mother and daughter had gone home the quiet room seemed desolate. Hugh missed them, but James was absolutely homesick. New York, great and fascinating, had lost its attraction. With the departure of one face the sun seemed to fade out of the sky.

“You seem sad, James,” said Hugh, as they sat together one evening,—he wondered if Jenny’s visit did not have something to do with it,—“and perhaps you better take a few days’ vacation and go home.”

“I am restless and unhappy; I scarcely know why. I think a change would do me good.”

James started the next day for West Beverly, but easily persuaded himself that a call on Jenny Wadsworth at the place where she was teaching, if only for a few hours, would make the journey pleasanter. As he surmised, he felt lighter-hearted after his visit with her, especially as he obtained from her a promise that she would correspond with him.

Mrs. Carter, who idolized her son, was made very happy by his coming. When he returned to the city, work seemed less irksome, letters grew singularly interesting and comforting, till one day James said:

“Hugh, there’s no use in trying to hide from you the fact that I love your sister Jenny, and wish to marry her as soon as I can support her.”

“She loved you long ago, James, but I was not allowed to tell you of it. Are you engaged?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’ve found out who the ‘friend’ is, then?”

James Carter turned pale.

“You don’t mean that Jenny earned money to help take me through college?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will pay her back compound interest, the noble girl.”

Years have passed. Hugh, now very wealthy, has never married, but finds a happy home with James and Jenny Carter and their little son Hugh. The Hon. William Carter learned that it pays a thousand-fold to help a boy on in the world, and Jenny rejoices that she, too, helped a young man to success.

THE UNOPENED LETTER.

THERE was a carriage waiting at the door, and the servant had just announced to Miss Hamilton that a gentleman had called to see her.

“I will be down in a moment,” answered a cheery, blue-eyed girl, as she slipped an unopened letter into her pocket. She had recognized the handwriting as the postman handed it to her. The letter was from a young college senior in the quiet New England town, at home for his summer vacation,—Arthur Ellsworth, a manly fellow, whom she had known and admired from childhood. And now Arthur’s brother, Elmer Ellsworth, was waiting to take her for a drive. The latter was the handsomer of the two possibly, with his fine form and dark eyes. He, also, was in the last year of college life.

After pleasant greetings the young people started, in the bright September morning, for the proposed ride. Who that has driven through Lexington and Woburn, past Mystic pond, will ever forget the quiet country roads, the historic associations, the variety of wooded hills and pretty valleys? Now the two schoolfriends talked of the present with its joy and the future with its hopes, of the books they had studied and the plans they had made. Now they gathered golden-rod, and listened to the song of the birds in the bracing air. It was a fitting time to say what had long been in Elmer’s heart—that sometime, when his profession had been entered upon, she would be the woman whom he wished to make his wife.

It was a hard matter for her to decide. Both brothers had been dear to her, perhaps Arthur especially,—and both were noble and worthy. Arthur had never spoken to her of marriage; and now Elmer had told her his love, and that she could make him happy. Had Arthur spoken first, perhaps her heart would have more warmly responded; but in the beauty of that autumn morning, with the hopeful, earnest young man by her side, she gave her promise to be his wife.

As soon as she reached her home she ran upstairs, hastily threw off her wraps, and remembered the letter from Arthur, in her pocket. Opening it, she read:

“How many times I have wanted to tell you that I loved you! How often have the words died on my lips! But now, before I go back to college, I must ask you if you can return that love, and sometime be mine.”

Alas, that she had not opened the letter sooner! She could not tell Arthur that she had preferred him to Elmer; that were disloyalty to the man whom she had promised to wed. She could only say that she was already betrothed to his brother. She married him whom she had promised. Both men became prominent in the history of New England—this little story is true. One went through life unmarried. His letter was opened too late.

THREE COLLEGE STUDENTS.

“WHAT’S the work for vacation, boys?”

The speaker was a tall, dark-haired, open-faced young man, who sat with his two companions on the sloping ground of Amherst College, looking away to silent Mount Tom and the fertile meadows of the Connecticut-river valley.

“It’s something downright earnest for me,” said James Wellman, a broad-shouldered, big-hearted youth from the neighboring county, who in spite of poverty and many obstacles had fought his way by the hardest work. “I’m in debt for board, books unpaid for; but I’ve seen worse times than these. I’m used to standing alone, so I’m ready for the battle. I shall take an agency—books, or maybe clothes-wringers, to sell.”

“That will be fun, I’ll warrant,” said the first speaker, Grant Reynolds, whose father, a rich manufacturer, had spared no pains to make his son’s life a bed of roses, altogether different from what his own had been.

“Not much fun,” said James. “You wouldn’t like contemptuous looks from women who know less than you, and whose hearts had become hardened because their husbands, once poor, very likely, had become the possessors of houses on aristocratic streets. Why, a woman—I will not call her a lady—whose husband used to be a stable boy, but who has become a rich government official, ordered me out of the house when I was selling chromos. She said ‘agents were tramps and a nuisance;’ and when I explained that I was working my way through college, she answered, remembering the former occupation of her lord, perhaps, ‘Be somebody’s coachman, then, and earn an honorable living.’ I wanted to add, ‘And run away with your pretty daughter;’ but I only replied politely, ‘Nobody would hire an inexperienced man for two months, which is as long as our vacation lasts.’”

“But these must be rare cases,” said Grant. “Most well-to-do ladies are very courteous.”

“Yes, when you meet them on an equality in drawing-rooms; but not always when you are a workingman.”

“Well, I’ll try it for once. It’ll be a fine lark anyway, and I shall learn something of human nature.”

“That you will,” answered Wellman. “I’ll take the country round that aristocratic town down the river, and you may take the stylish avenues. You’ll find blue blood in plenty—blue because the fathers owned land there a little before the present generation. Of course, you’ll find many well-bred people who are proud of their heads rather than of their purses; but even these are often very ‘select.’ We profess equality, and are probably more democratic than any other country; but a little extra amount of front lawn, or the fact that our great-grandfather was a governor, or that one woman has ‘William Morris’ chintz in her chambers, of which, perhaps, her neighbor never heard,—these make various degrees of rank. If our ancestor came over in the ‘Mayflower,’ or was even a sutler in the Revolutionary war, our fame is unalterably fixed.”

“I should like to sell books in so high-toned a town,” said Grant. “Maybe I might fall in love with some dainty daughter of a lineal descendant of a governor, or of a stable-boy!”

“Precious little good it would do a book-agent, for you would be classed among poor people if you worked, no matter how rich your father might be.”

The conversation had been listened to by a light-haired, blue-eyed student, a poet in temperament and by heredity. He was the only child of a devoted minister of the Gospel, now dead, and of a refined and intellectual mother. She would have shielded him from every rough wind had it been possible, but at best she could only pray for him, and send him now and then a little box of comforts, with her fond and beautiful letters. He worked late at night over his books, and his delicately curved mouth had come to bear an expression of sadness as he looked out upon the struggle before him. Heretofore the little money of the household had sufficed; but now he must earn his bread like James Wellman.

“Cheer up!” said the latter, who had noticed the tell-tale face of the minister’s son, Kent Raymond. “Blue eyes and polished manners will win kindness. We all have to get a trifle mellowed. We, who know how to earn our support, get a little extra schooling more than the other boys, that’s all. Life is good or bad, just as you look out upon it. It’s full of sunshine to me, for I won’t look at the shadows.”

Vacation days came. Kent and Grant took the book-agency, and James the clothes-wringer, among the country folk, who usually have a kindly interest in a boy who means to be somebody in the world.

* * * * *

One bright day soon after, satchels in hand, the two college boys started out along one of the broad avenues of the staid old city.

“Don’t get discouraged!” said Grant to his boyish companion, who shrank from his task. “Remember you’re doing missionary work every time you get a book into a house. We’ll report three hours from now at the end of the street.”

The first house was of gray stone, set back in the grounds; not belonging to one of the old families, who prefer an old mansion, lest they be counted among the _nouveaux riche_. Great bunches of varied-colored coleus and red geranium mingled with the greensward like a piece of mosaic. Vines were beginning to grow over the stone porch, and the whole bespoke comfort, even luxury. Kent pulled the bell with a sinking at heart, as he wondered who would appear and what she would say. A servant, not cleanly in apparel, opened the door after long waiting. The true position of a family can generally be seen through its domestics.

“Are the ladies of the house in?” asked the college boy.

“What do you want of ’em?”

“I am selling a valuable book about the ‘Home.’”

“No, the missus don’t want it. She told me as how she niver let a book-agent inside the door, and she’d scold me if I called her. She niver reads nothin’ but a novel—niver,” volunteered the loquacious, but kind-hearted girl, despite her torn apron and soiled hands.

At the next mansion Kent was told that the “missus” had gone to the seashore; but the knowing look in the servant’s face showed that she had been instructed to make this reply to all callers. It sounded aristocratic to be at Narragansett Pier or on the Atlantic coast, even though finances would not permit of this refreshing journey.

At the next house a kind-faced woman, who really belonged to one of the old families, and felt none too proud to open her own door, bade the young man a pleasant “Good-morning,” and though she did not wish to purchase the book, which, though tastefully made, was commonplace in subject, she thanked him for seeing it, and hoped he would sell elsewhere. His heart was a trifle lighter after this kindly greeting, though his purse grew no heavier. At the next house, and the next, he met with the same refusals. Finally, near the end of the street, the colored man who opened the door was also striving to earn money for a college course. He had been two years in Harvard University already. Both father and mother were dead, but from love for a girl who taught a colored school he had become ambitious, and determined to work his way through some institution. The subject of the book touched his heart. Katie, his school-teacher, would like it; the suggestions about husbands and wives, and the words about neatness, culture, and tenderness, would do both good.

“How much is it?” said the colored youth.

“Two dollars.”

A disappointed look came into the face of the would-be purchaser.

“I receive seventy-five cents commission,” said Kent, “and I will let you have the book for one dollar and a half; that will leave twenty-five cents for my dinner.”

“I hate to ask you to take less, sir, but I can’t pay two dollars, because I haven’t so much. But here’s the one-fifty;” and he added, as he held the book tenderly, “Katie will so like it!” When a man is really in love he can’t help telling somebody, even though it be a book-agent.

Meanwhile Grant Reynolds had been learning his first experience of work in the broad world, which has too little care for and sympathy with toilers. He soon found that selling books from house to house was no “lark,” as he had anticipated. His lips curled in disdain as he was several times addressed rudely by servants, or by women whom he knew were far below him in social position. Did so many fashionable people, then, have two methods of action—one for the rich and the other for the poor?

As he was thus musing, he opened a gate and walked up to a beautiful mansion, Elizabethan in style, that one would imagine to have been just transported from England, with its ivies and great beds of roses. He stopped suddenly, for just before him a fair-haired girl, in simple blue, with broad sun-hat wreathed with daisies, was clipping a bunch of deep-red roses. She looked up half inquiringly, as the young man approached and lifted his hat. He was not abashed—he had seen attractive girls too often for that; but her kind look had an unusual effect after the sharp refusals of the morning.

The frank face of Grant could scarcely help showing its appreciation of both girl and flower, as he said, “I am canvassing for a book: ‘The Past, Present, and Future of America.’”

Perhaps the girl did not care much for the book, but she liked the looks of the tall, manly youth before her, and in her heart admired a man who had energy and will enough to earn a living for himself. Most young men whom she had met had leaned upon their fathers; and it was seldom difficult to tell what laurels they would win in the jostle which we call life.

“May I see the book?” she asked, holding out one white hand, while the other clasped the roses.

“Can I hold the flowers while you look?” said Grant, while a satisfied expression stole about his mouth and large brown eyes.

“It is beautifully illustrated! I like pictures of people greatly. I am always wondering what they have accomplished, or will in the future.”

“Ah! then you are ambitious?”

“Yes; mamma thinks too much so for a girl. I have wanted to go to college,” said the natural young woman, “but she thinks it is useless compared with my music.”

Grant hoped she would go on artlessly talking about herself, but she suddenly changed the line of thought, as she said: “I am glad to see a book about America—I love our country! I have been with mamma to England and the south of Europe, but I saw nothing so dear as our own country and people. I think our men the noblest in the world.”

There was no thought of compliment, for she did not even look toward the young man to whom she was apparently talking. At this moment a woman, handsomely attired, stood in the doorway, and with clouded brow bade her come in.

“I was looking at a beautiful book, mamma,” said Marion.

“We want no books of an agent,” said the stern, proud woman. “If we need books we buy them at Hamerton’s” (one of the largest dealers in the East).

“I am in college,” said the young man, piqued at the woman’s rudeness, and half angered that the lovely girl should be found fault with. “I am earning some money in this way,” he added, not wishing to lie about the matter, and yet rather enjoying this study of human nature.

“I am glad to help poor young men,”—she remembered when the shrewd Mr. Colwell, her husband, made his first dollars in common work at railroading,—“but I never buy of agents! Why, we should be bored to death if we did! Besides, I think our country is running to education. Men who should be West on farms are striving to go through college, and then will starve as poor doctors or lawyers in the busy cities. We need men to build our railroads; Mr. Colwell says men are so scarce and labor so dear that he has to import rough foreigners. Education is the bane of common folks. It spoils our girls. Look at those in our high schools!—they’re too good to be servants. While their mothers are toiling over the wash-tub these young misses fit themselves to be teachers. They’d better go West and become farmers’ wives. They’ve got to marry common people, for they can’t get rich men.”

Grant thought to himself how these educated poor girls were to be the great moral force of our country in its grand future; but he made no answer as self-sufficient Mrs. Colwell went on:

“If Marion were to teach, why, all this education would be good for her, perhaps; but my daughter will never be obliged to.”

“But you didn’t see the book, mamma,” pleaded the girl, whose cheeks had become as red as the roses which Grant had handed back to her.

“No; and I’ve no time for it. Your father is waiting to take you to drive. Besides, I was surprised to see you conversing with a stranger.”

The young man lifted his hat to Marion as he passed out of the gate, but not till he had said a word of thanks for her kindness to an unknown student. He thought he saw the blue eyes moisten as they looked up to his, showing that she felt her mother’s harshness to a youth who appeared to be working his way alone in the world.

Marion Colwell was not given to sentiment, but she wondered a thousand times what would become of the handsome college boy, and she could not help taking a bud from the flowers which he held for her and pressing it between the leaves of a book, with some tender yet painful recollections. Marion seemed unusually quiet during the ride with her father, but no word was spoken about the book-agent; for Mr. and Mrs. Colwell lived so independently of each other that the daughter never thought of confiding her troubles to either.

At the end of the three hours the two college students met to recount their experiences and successes. Grant had not sold a single book, but he drew from his pocket a red rosebud, and showing it to Kent said: “I’m foolish, I do believe; but I’ve seen a girl to-day who has paid me a thousand times for all the annoyance of being a book-agent. Perhaps I shall never see her again, but I shall keep in memory one lovely face, and I know she has a noble soul. I took this bud, unbeknown to her, from a bunch I held for her while she looked over that book. I’ll not part with the book either, since she has looked at its pictures.”

Kent did not make fun of him, for he had a warm heart, and enjoyed the picture which Grant drew of the fair young face. The vacation came to its close. Some money had been made by each of the three students, Grant dividing his equally between James and Kent.

* * * * *

Eight years had come and gone. James Wellman was in business, and had become successful. Kent had graduated with honor, but gone home to his widowed mother to die. Grant had studied theology, and for three years had been settled in a Western city, whither he had been drawn by his friend Wellman. A July morning came like that on which he had passed from house to house along the city streets to sell books. The young minister stood in his accustomed place, about to preach from the well-known text, “Cast thy bread upon the waters; for thou shalt find it after many days.” A lady, dressed in blue, who was a stranger to the congregation, entered, and was shown to a seat well in front. She looked long and earnestly at the speaker, as though she was aware whom she had come to hear. For a moment, as the minister caught a glimpse of the face, he changed color, but immediately regained his self-possession.

After the service he stepped directly down to the pew, and the parishioners said to one another: “Why, we didn’t know that the new school-teacher, Miss Colwell, was a friend of our pastor!”

He said, as he shook her hand, “I am glad once more to thank you for your kindness of years ago.” He spoke slowly, as one who has had hopes and conquered them. “Is your mother with you?” involuntarily rose to his lips.

“No; I am alone, and teaching in your city.”

“I have been to your Eastern home, but was told that you had gone West; and further than that I could learn nothing.”

And then the past years were gone over. Mr. Colwell had failed, not with honor, and had been glad to go West, as his wife had recommended Grant to do years before, and had become lost in the whirl of a great city. Mrs. Colwell allowed it to be reported that Marion was to marry a rich widower. A wealthy family came to occupy the Colwell mansion, and society interested itself in the new and forgot the old. And now Marion, poor and unmarried, had come to the public school as a teacher.

The minister called often at the school, and finally the gossips suspected that the cause of education was not the only motive for his visits. Once when he called he laid down a pressed and faded red bud. “Do you remember those flowers I held so many years ago?” And, blushing, she told him of a similar one which she treasured.

A look of joy and half surprise came into his face. “Did you, then, think of one whom you supposed a poor boy, Marion?”

“And do you think of one who is in reality a poor girl now?”

The wedding was a quiet one, Marion wearing, at Grant’s request, a simple blue dress, with red roses in her hand. What were Mrs. Colwell’s thoughts as she looked at the book-agent, now her son, no one could know, for poverty had not made her less proud, but it had doubtless made her more considerate and courteous.

“I would sell books again to find you, Marion;” and her pretty blue eyes looked their happiness in response.

THE TWILIGHT HOUR SOCIETY.

“HELÉNA, we must send out the invitations this very afternoon for the new literary society. It must be done with great care, too. I wish this to be the most select club of the West.”

The speaker was Mrs. Helen Brunswick, who had just returned from Europe. She was a lady of considerable culture and taste, and, what was not an inconvenient addition, of wealth. Her husband, a good business man, had died—perhaps opportunely; for, though Mrs. Brunswick was polite to him, she told her bosom friends that “he was not poetical,” and, therefore, not a very congenial spirit. His wife was a teacher when he married her, poor, but of very good family, and his money was undoubtedly the chief attraction.

She had one child, whose name, for the sake of elegance, she always called Heléna rather than Helen, and of whom she was very fond; but her one absorbing plan was to make her home a literary centre. She bought, on her return from Europe, an old-fashioned house,—a new one would have seemed vulgar to her æsthetic taste,—and furnished it as nearly as possible like the houses of some celebrated persons which she had seen abroad. She revelled in old tapestries, and bronzes which looked as though they were made in the bronze age.

Heléna sat down, note-book in hand, to make out a list of those who were to be honored members of the new association.

“Shall we invite Fanny Green, mamma?”

“Oh, no, dear! She is only a local poet, getting a few articles into the newspapers here and there. This society will not be established to help struggling newspaper writers or embryo artists. These will make their way somehow if they have talent, but the elegant ladies of Lakeville will not care to associate with such crude aspirants. We must take those from the very highest walks of life, those who enjoy art especially, and can prepare an essay on sculpture or Egyptian lore. The young artists and novelists are usually poor and hard workers, so they would have no time to look up these subjects, which require great research and the leisure that only a lady of wealth has.”

“But, mamma, it would so help the rising artists if their pictures could be brought before the society. They would be purchased, probably, for the elegant homes.”

“Oh, no! Most elegant ladies want a picture painted by a famous artist, so that when they speak of the work to a friend the talent will be seen at once.”

“Don’t they know talent when they see it, whether John Smith or Bougereau painted it?”

“Oh, dear, no, Heléna! You must not ask too much of people. I don’t care to read a book unless a well-known name is on the title-page. I consider it a waste of time. As soon as a man has made his mark I am glad to read him.”

The rising artists and the rising editors and contributors were not invited to membership in the new organization. Thirty-five names were sent out.

“We must not have more than twenty-five in the circle, Heléna, for large societies are never select. If there are but a few, and those very literary, they will praise each other and feel proud of the pleasure of belonging. There’s everything in knowing how to handle women. Let them think it is exclusive and there will be a great longing to join; and when they cannot be admitted, from the smallness of the number, the society will become the leading topic of the city. Each member, too, will be all the more interested if she takes her turn in writing an essay, and this would not be possible in a large society.”

“Why, mother, half of those whom you have named couldn’t write an essay!”

“Well, my child, they have some friend who can help them. Money always buys help, and usually of a very superior kind.”

The invitations were sent out, and in due time the elegant ladies arrived. They admired Mrs. Brunswick’s rugs, her choice bits of needlework from abroad, and especially her antique bronzes.

The first tribulation of the society was over the adoption of a name. The “Mutual Club” was suggested, but “club” seemed strong-minded to some of the ladies present, and was abandoned. One suggested the “Society for Intellectual Growth,” but this seemed to suggest labor, and it would not be best to suggest very much work to such a charming circle. Mrs. Brunswick herself suggested, after many others had spoken, that the “Twilight Hour” would be poetic and refining, and as the members would usually come late in the afternoon, or in the evening if some celebrity were invited, this name would cover all times and seasons, convey no impression of moral reforms, and frighten no husbands with the fear that their wives would become unsuited to pretty gowns by mental wear.

This name was voted a happy thought, and the plan proceeded. A committee on membership was suggested, only twenty having responded to the invitation, and five more could be admitted. One lady, the wife of a senator, must be secured at all hazards, and this committee were to wait upon her at once. Another lady had travelled nearly the world over, and had several millions in her own right, and must on no account be omitted. A third was selected for no especial reason except she had held herself above ordinary society, and the select had come to regard this as a sign of aristocracy. Real aristocracy is too quiet to attract much attention, but the unreal is very prevalent.

The desired number was made up, and the “Twilight Hour Society,” as was expected, became the talk of Lakeville. A Gentlemen’s Night was given occasionally, and those only were invited who were supposed to be poetic. There was a leaning toward the ministerial profession, and a few judges and doctors were permitted to enter the select circle. The time came when it was necessary to invite a celebrity. Mrs. Wentworth was talking the matter over with Mrs. Brunswick.

“I hear,” said the former lady, “that the author of the new book which has just appeared in Boston, “The Story of a Life,” is to be at Lakeville soon to visit a cousin. The book is selling rapidly. It is a delightful psychological story of a woman’s heart, I have heard, and the men are as eager to read it as the women. Mr. Smithnight, the author, has become famous suddenly, and all the young ladies are enthusiastic over him. He is quite young, and very delightful, they say.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Brunswick, “anything that comes from Boston is delightful! Society is very deep there. The people are always making a study of hidden things of the mind, while we at the West are so very practical over the bread and butter matters of life. Alas! how far we are drifting from the beautiful and the sublime! We must have Mr. Smithnight at our next reception, and make it as elegant as possible. How lovely those people are who write books!”

The cousin of Mr. Smithnight, who lived on a side street, and never would have been thought worthy to step into the Twilight Hour circle, was visited, and asked if a reception for Mr. Smithnight could possibly be arranged. The young Plato was glad to be shown off before the admiring gaze of the uncultured West, and readily consented to be present.

“Heléna,” said Mrs. Brunswick, as they draped the mantel with smilax and lilies of the valley, “I have always hoped that you would marry an author. Perhaps in Mr. Smithnight you will find your ideal.”

“I hope he’s handsome, mamma, and not too conceited, as so many literary people are.”

“I think you misjudge literary people, dear. They must hold themselves aloof from general society, else they would not be considered so great. You know a writer across the water always seems greater to us than our own authors.”

The old-fashioned house of the Brunswicks was lighted, not so gorgeously as to seem loud, and fragrant flowers were in profusion. Very elegant people came in their choicest robes to pay allegiance to the new novelist. Had he been a poet, he must needs have waited till he was fifty for America to find out whether he had genius or no; had he been a scientist, he would not have won his fame till death probably; but having given the public a well-written book which sold, America at once pronounced him a genius. Without doubt there were wheels within wheels which procured its publication. Perhaps he was a cousin to some first-class novelist, or had a governor to recommend his work; for how are publishers to know when a thing will be a success? Nearly all the great books, like “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” and “Jane Eyre,” have been refused for months, and even years.

Mr. Smithnight was present to receive the homage of Lakeville. He had a fine, even commanding, presence: black hair, which lay lightly over his forehead, a stray lock drooping occasionally, which his white hand tossed back; expressive dark eyes; and a bland smile. He was evidently a good student of human nature, for, while he was egotistical,—successful men usually have a good opinion of themselves,—he had the tact to make every lady feel that the intellectual culture of Lakeville was something phenomenal. Mrs. Brunswick thanked him heartily for coming, coming from such a centre of knowledge as Boston, to stimulate the over-practical West. She wanted to enjoy his conversation at another time, when she and dear Heléna could have him all to themselves. As he took his departure he held Heléna’s hand somewhat tenderly, and begged the pleasure of frequent visits during his short stay at Lakeville.

“Heléna,” said Mrs. Brunswick, after the guests had departed, “I think Mr. Smithnight the most charming celebrity we have ever had. Think how people will speak of it! I know of nothing so delightful as a salon for literary people. How many must envy me the rare pleasure of bringing together these appreciative people and these great people! You know some of our celebrities from other cities have been so dull and stupid, and read such non-understandable essays, that our ladies have not known what to say or do. I think some of the manuscripts must have lain in trunks for years. But Mr. Smithnight is so charming, so fresh and entertaining! I think he likes you, Heléna, for I saw him bestowing very admiring glances upon you.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t trouble myself much about him. I liked him, though, well enough.”

“Oh, you must be very polite to him, my dear, for literary chances are so rare at the West! Think where such a man would place you.”

Mr. Smithnight’s stay at Lakeville grew from days into weeks, and finally into months. He was a frequent visitor at Mrs. Brunswick’s, and rumor whispered that he was to wed Heléna. Mrs. Brunswick made him the lion of the city. She bought sundry copies of the “Story of a Life,” and placed them where they would receive glowing notices by the press, and be read by the most select of Lakeville society. She sent several copies abroad, telling the recipients that it was written by a special friend of Heléna’s.

Mr. Smithnight had found no such encouraging aid in Boston. There a few mutual friends helped each other, but the outside world troubled itself little about the strugglers for fame. At last it was publicly announced that Mr. Smithnight and Heléna were engaged. Some common-sense mothers wondered if he had the ability to earn a living, knowing that literature in general is not a paying business. Some wondered whether he was able to spend so much as he seemed to be doing weekly; but marrying a young lady well-to-do might be an effective way of meeting debts.

Mrs. Brunswick would have preferred that the young couple live with her, but Heléna wished a house of her own, which was accordingly purchased. Mr. Smithnight, with his refined taste, helped in the selection of the furniture and the bridal trousseau, and did not hesitate to buy the best.

One afternoon, when the last articles had been purchased, a wild rumor was heard on the street that Mr. Smithnight had been seen driving out of town with a lady who was not Heléna Brunswick; that many bills had been contracted in Mrs. Brunswick’s name and left unpaid; and that money had been obtained at the bank fraudulently by the departing celebrity.

Mrs. Brunswick was overwhelmed with the news. Heléna was exceedingly annoyed, but in no wise heart-broken, because for years she had liked a poor young artist of the city, who was not thought high enough to be invited to the Twilight Hour Society.

The literary association finally disbanded. Mrs. Brunswick sold the old-fashioned home and moved to another city, holding no more receptions for celebrities. Heléna married her poor artist, who rose to eminence in his profession.

SLAVE AMY.

IN NORTH CAROLINA over a century ago lived Mr. John Payne, a wealthy planter, descended from an earl’s daughter. He and Thomas Jefferson, who afterwards became President of the United States, both loved the same beautiful girl, Mary Coles. She preferred young Payne, and married him, and became the mother of Dolly, the wife of President James Madison, one of the most beloved women ever in the White House.

Dolly was an uncommonly beautiful child, and her fond mother, lest the sun should tan her face, used to sew a sunbonnet on her head every morning, and put long gloves on her arms when she went to school.

Mr. Payne, her father, a Quaker, became convinced that slavery was a sin, and sold his plantation, freed his slaves, and moved to Philadelphia in 1786. This was just after the Revolutionary war, and the money of the country had become depreciated.

John, his oldest son, was travelling in Europe, and came home to help his father start in business. Neither knew much about close economy, or business methods, or the dishonesty of some of their competitors. After a time Mr. Payne failed, and the rich family was reduced to poverty.

The father sank under his misfortune. A wealthy young man by the name of Todd, of excellent habits, had befriended Mr. Payne in his pecuniary troubles. He wished to marry Dolly, but she did not love him well enough.

The father called the young beauty of nineteen to his dying bed and told her his wish that she should accept John Todd. Dolly consented, and thus made her father’s last days happy. Mr. Todd proved a devoted husband, but died of yellow fever three years after their marriage, leaving Dolly with two little children, one a baby of three weeks, who died soon after. Two years later she married James Madison.

Mr. Payne and his beautiful wife, Mary Coles, had always been kind to their slaves, so much so that some refused to leave them, and came to Philadelphia to live in their house.

One poor slave, called “Mother Amy,” when freed, went out to service. She saved all her money carefully; nobody could guess for what purpose. She was unlettered, but she had the gratitude and devotion characteristic of her race.

For herself she could endure poverty and not mind it. She did not need or care for fine clothes, but she could not bear that the woman who was once her lovely owner should be in reduced circumstances.

When death came for “Mother Amy” after all the hard years of labor, she left five hundred dollars, which she had struggled all the years to save, to Mrs. Payne, her widowed mistress.

One does not have to look in elegant mansions, or among the educated only, for the noble virtues of self-sacrifice. No character is fine or beautiful without it. “Mother Amy” left a name and example worthy to be remembered.

LIKE OUR NEIGHBORS.

“WE MUST have a party,” said Mrs. Morris to her husband. “I am under obligations to Mrs. Raymond and Mrs. Nichols, and to no end of ladies who have invited me to their homes.”

“I don’t see how we can afford it, wife, for times are hard. I haven’t made a cent, scarcely, in business during the past year.”

“Well, it will never do to let people know that we are straitened. That would hurt your business. Besides, the children are coming on; and I must keep in society for their sakes. I don’t want to have a party in a niggardly way, either. We must have the house fixed up to look as well as our neighbors’, and I must have my last silk dress made over in the present style.”

Mr. Morris sighed, for he found life a struggle. If he had spent money for tobacco, clubs, and the like, there might have been some excuse for Mrs. Morris’s lack of economy; but he was careful and saving, and, had his wife been of a similar disposition, they would have been in easy circumstances. As it was, people wondered why she dressed so well, and commented upon it; but she thought they admired her good looks and fine appearance. The world, after all, is fairly sensible, and usually knows better than we think whether people can afford fine houses and fine clothes. There is seldom any great amount of deception.

Mrs. Morris carried her points, as usual. Money was borrowed; the dress was made over; the guests were invited; and the Morris party, with its flowers and supper and display, was the talk of the hour, till it was forgotten in the next sensation.

Mrs. Morris had to go to the seashore every year, because her neighbors did. She left her comfortable home; and for six weeks, while Mr. Morris lived as best he could, she had the joy of staying in a small, inconvenient, unattractive room at a hotel, where she was kept awake by noise in the corridors, missed the refreshing shade of her own trees at home, and was more tired at the end of the season than at the beginning.

Mrs. Morris had to enlarge her house by a music-room and a library, because her neighbors did. She read little, but a library was a good thing to have. It made one seem intellectual. She was somewhat intelligent, but superficial. As for music, she did not play much; but sometimes her guests did, and a music-room was an attraction.

Mrs. Morris had to have a good pew in church, for she desired to be eminently respectable. She had to give occasionally, or be thought mean. She must be seen now and then at concerts, operas, and lectures, or she would not be in good society.

She had to have a horse and carriage, as these were needed for making calls. She was obliged to keep servants, because she was so busy with social life. Had her visits been among the poor or the unfortunate, they might have helped the world; but her time now was spent simply for her own social pleasure, and with the thought, perhaps, that she was adding to Mr. Morris’s popularity. He cared for his home, however, far more than for the outside world, and would have been happier had he been permitted to enjoy it.

Mrs. Morris, by persistent effort and tact, had become quite a social leader. It never seemed to occur to her that, when people lived beyond their means, there must sometime be a settlement.

This came one day when Mr. Morris was severely injured by a street-car, lingered for several months, and then died. It was a great blow to Mrs. Morris in more ways than one. When the income ceased the house was sold to pay borrowed money, the parties and suppers were over, the fine clothes disappeared, and with them Mrs. Morris’s position in society. The world forgot her. It was a hard lesson to learn, but a lesson that many women have learned to their sorrow. Yet many must travel the old road of experience.

TWO AT ONCE.

IT WAS the afternoon of May 15. A young lady sat by an open window looking out upon the hawthorn and laburnum trees, and yet her thoughts seemed to be elsewhere.

About her was every luxury. The brick house, in Queen Anne style, was set in the midst of trees, many of them now in blossom, or graceful with their seed-tassels. Far away in the distance the ocean could be seen. The girl herself added much to this charm of the picture, as she rested her elbow upon her blue-velvet writing-desk, where scores of addressed envelopes were piled up. She took up one and read the superscription—“Herbert Underwood, 7 Brompton Place.”

“I am really sorry. I wish it had not gone so far,” she said aloud, as the color faded a little from her cheek; “but then,” and the color came back, “Herbert will not mind it more than other men. They seem to forget such things soon. I have loved him for years, as two may who grow up together, but other girls are ready to accept him.

“I wonder if he will really care much. He will be surprised when he reads these cards announcing my marriage to another. Engaged to two at once! I suppose they will say I am a coquette. It is so delightful to be admired—to be loved. I really wish I had told him that Robert loves me also. Robert is not richer nor handsomer, but Herbert seems more like a brother.

“Besides, it will be so charming to live in Washington, and meet all the celebrities. I hope it is not frivolous, for I suppose all girls like society. I wonder what Herbert will do. Perhaps he will write me that he is broken-hearted; perhaps he will come in person and rebuke me. He is very proud, though, and I think he will bear it bravely. I had a friend who engaged herself to two at once, and the rejected young man shot himself. I hope Herbert will not do that!”

The cards were sent, and preparations went forward for a grand wedding. Dresses were tried on, and boxes of presents were opened with eager curiosity—those offerings which usually mean so little, and cramp the recipients for the next ten years in returning like favors. There was nothing from Herbert—not even a letter.

“How strange!” said the expectant bride. When Mr. Underwood received the cards he was indeed confounded, not heart-broken, for though he had long loved Clara Rawley he had questioned for some time her complete devotion to him.

She had been a society prize—rich, pretty, admired. He, likewise of fine family, could have won many. It was of course a disappointment, a humiliation. His friends would know it, and wonder at it. Some men would have taken a hasty departure to Europe; some would have been embittered by a young woman’s double dealing. He determined, perhaps not the most honorable thing for him, to recompense evil for evil.

By wise investigation he ascertained at what hour the happy bridegroom, Robert Spalding, was expected at the home of his betrothed, and decided to meet him on the train previous to his arrival. They had met each other once or twice, and thus it was not difficult to discern in the crowded cars the handsome face of his rival.

“Mr. Spalding, I believe.”

“Yes. Oh, I remember you—Mr. Underwood, the friend of Miss Rawley! Glad to see you; sit down.”

Presently the conversation turned upon the approaching wedding, and then with apparent calmness, but with indignation, Herbert told him how he had been engaged to Miss Rawley for several years, and of her perfidy.

Mr. Spalding listened with astonishment, and when he had finished, lost faith, ceased to find her the ideal of his life. She had been faithless to one; she might be to another. She certainly was undeserving of the love he had given her. He determined, then and there, to retrace his steps, and sent her a telegram, followed by a letter, telling her of the withdrawal of his hand.

The Rawley family were in consternation when the letter was received. Clara was piqued, angered, and became ill over it, and was sent to Europe. The careless if not heartless girl had been punished.

THE HOUSE-WARMING.

“ALMOST ready for the great event,” said Mr. Josiah Midland, portly and genial, to his wife Martha, as they stood on the porch of a two-story brick house, nearly completed. “I want the new house for you, Martha, and I want it also, I must confess, to show the people of Collinston that Josiah Midland has been a financial success. You know life has been a struggle since I left this town a boy, and worked my way on the railroad to a place of trust. Life is not an easy thing for the best of us, and where the one gains in the race, the many are so bound by the needs of every day that they can never rise above their surroundings. I kept good habits and saved my money. I owe that teaching to my hard-working mother.”