Chapter IV: Part 4

From that time, Joseph, who had looked forward with pleasure to the period when, as a man, he could commence his business, and prosecute it with energy and success, became dissatisfied with the trade he was learning. The contemptuous words of Mary Dielman made him feel that there was something low in the calling of a tailor--something beneath the dignity of a man. He did not reason on the subject; he only felt. Gradually he withdrew himself from society, and shut himself up at home, devoting all his leisure to reading and study. This was continued until he attained the age of manhood, soon after which he procured the situation of clerk in a dry-goods store. At his trade he could easily earn twelve dollars a week; but he left it, because he was silly enough to be ashamed of it, and went into a dry-goods store at a salary of four hundred dollars a year. As a clerk he felt more like a man. Why he should, is more than I can comprehend. But so it was.

As for Mary Dielman, she was not aware, at the time when she felt so pleased with the attentions of Joseph Fletcher, that he was a tailor--a calling for which she always expressed the most supreme contempt. Her thoughtless words were not, therefore, meant for his ears. The fact that she had uttered them was not remembered ten minutes after they were spoken. Why she no longer met the fine-looking, attentive and intelligent young man, she did not know. Often she thought of him, and often searched the room for him, with her eyes, when in company.

Nearly four years passed before they again met. Then Joseph was greatly improved, and so was the beautiful maiden. The half-extinguished fire of love, that had been smouldering in their bosoms, rekindled, and now burned with a steady flame. They saw each other frequently, and it was not long before the young man told her all that was in his heart, and she heard the story with tremulous delight.

The father of Mary, although a merchant, was not nearly so well off in the world as many tailors. His family was expensive and drew too heavily upon his income. The capital employed in trade was therefore kept low, and his operations were often crippled for want of adequate means. He had nothing, therefore, to settle upon his daughter. When young Fletcher applied for her hand, his salary was five hundred dollars. Mr. Dielman thought his prospects not over flattering, but still gave his consent; at the same time advising him not to think of marriage for a year or two, when he would no doubt be in a better condition to take a wife.

The young couple, like most young couples, were impatient to be married; and Joseph Fletcher, in order to be in a condition that would justify him in talking a wife, was impatient to go into business. Somehow or other, it had entered his mind that any young man of business capacity and enterprise could do well in the West; and he finally made up his mind to take a stock of goods, which he found no difficulty in obtaining, and go to Madison, in Indiana. Before starting, however, he engaged to return in six months, or so soon as he was fairly under way, and make Mary his wife. At the time named, he was back, when the marriage took place, and he returned with his bride to Madison.

At the trade of a tailor, the young man had served an apprenticeship of seven years. He was a good workman, and had, during the last two years of his apprenticeship, assisted his master in cutting; so that in the art to which he was educated he was thoroughly at home; and, in setting it up, would have been sure of success. But success was by no means so certain a thing in the new pursuit unwisely adopted. He had been familiar with it for only about two years; in that time he had performed his part as a clerk to the entire satisfaction of his employers; but he had not gained sufficient knowledge of the principles of trade, nor was his experience enlarged enough to justify his entering into business, especially as he did not possess a dollar of real capital. The result was as might have been expected. A year and a half of great difficulty and anxiety was all the time required to bring his experiment to a close.

Finding that he was in difficulty, two or three of his principal eastern creditors, whose claims were due, sent out their accounts to a lawyer, With directions to put them in suit immediately. This brought his affairs to a crisis. An arrangement was made for the benefit of all the creditors, and the young man thrown out of business, with less than a hundred dollars in his pocket. Nearly about the same time, Mr. Dielman, the father of his wife, failed likewise.

As a serious loss has been sustained by his eastern creditors on account of the unfortunate termination of his business, Fletcher could not think of going back. He therefore sought to obtain employment as a clerk in Madison. Failing in this, he visited Louisville and Cincinnati, but with no better success. He was unknown in the two last-named cities, and therefore his failure to obtain employment there was no matter of surprise.

Things now wore a very serious aspect. A few weeks found the unhappy young man reduced to the extremity of breaking up and selling his furniture by auction in order to get money to live upon. There was scarcely a store in Madison at which he had not sought for employment. But all his efforts proved vain. He had a good trade; why, you will ask, did he not endeavour to get work at that? You forget. It was the trade of a tailor!--the calling so despised by his wife. How could he own to her that he was but a tailor! How could he break to her the disgraceful truth that she had married a tailor!

The money obtained by selling their furniture did not last a very long time.

"I will make another effort to obtain employment in Cincinnati," said the young man, after they were reduced almost to their last dollar. "It is useless to try any longer in this place. I have waited and hoped for some favourable turn of fortune, until my heart is sick."

His wife made no objection, for she had none to make.

On the next day, Fletcher left for Cincinnati. He arrived there in the night. On the following morning, he left the hotel at which he had stopped, and, going into Main street, entered the first merchant-tailor's shop that came in his way.

"Have you any work?" he asked.

"We have room for a journeyman, and are in want of one. Can you do the best work?"

"I can."

"Did you serve your time in the city?"

"No. I am from the East."

"Very well. Here is a job all ready. You can go to work at once."

The young man did not hesitate. He took the bundle of work that was given him, and was shown into the back shop. He wrote home immediately that he had obtained employment, which he hoped would be permanent, and that he would be in Madison, Saturday about midnight, and leave again on Sunday evening. He did not say, however, what kind of employment he had procured. That was a secret he meant, if possible, to conceal. When he met his wife, he evaded her direct questions as to the kind of employment he was engaged in, somewhat to her surprise.

For a month, Fletcher went and returned from Cincinnati, weekly, bringing home about eight dollars each week, after paying all his expenses. By that time, his wife insisted so strongly upon going to Cincinnati with him, and taking boarding, that he could make no reasonable objection to the step. And so they removed, Fletcher feeling many serious misgivings at heart, lest his wife should make a discovery of the truth that she had married only a tailor!

"Where did you say the store was at which you are employed?" she asked, a day or two after they were comfortably settled at a very pleasant boarding-house in Cincinnati.

"On Main street," replied Fletcher, a little coldly.

"What is the name of the firm? I forget."

"Carter & Cassard."

Fletcher could not lie outright to his wife, so he told her the truth, but with great reluctance.

No more was said then on the subject. About a week afterward, Mrs. Fletcher said to her husband, "I was along Main street to-day, and looked at the signs over every dry-goods store that I passed, but I did not see that of Carter & Cassard."

In spite of all he could do, the blood rushed to the face of the young man, and his eyes fell under the steady look directed toward him by his wife.

"The store is there, nevertheless," said he. His manner and the tone in which he spoke excited in the mind of his wife a feeling of surprise.

For the next four days, there was a strong conflict in Fletcher's mind between false pride and duty. It grieves me to say that, in the end, the former conquered. On Saturday night, he came home with a troubled look, and told his wife that he had lost his situation, which he said had only been a temporary one. In this he certainly went beyond the truth, for he had given it up voluntarily.

The poor young creature's heart sank in her. They had only been in Cincinnati about two weeks; were among entire strangers, and all means of subsistence were again taken from them. It is no wonder that she wept bitterly upon receiving this sudden and distressing intelligence. To see his wife in tears filled the heart of Fletcher with the severest pangs. He more than half repented of what he had done. But the thought of confessing that he was only a tailor made him firm in his resolution to meet any consequence rather than that.

"He was a fool!" exclaimed Kate, no longer able to restrain her indignation against the young man, and thus breaking in upon her aunt's narrative.

"But remember, Kate, how contemptuously he had heard her speak of his trade, and even vow that she would rather drown herself than marry a tailor."

"Suppose she did say this, when a thoughtless girl"--

"As you are, Kate."

"Don't bring me into the matter, aunt. But suppose she did say so, is that any reason for his starving her? He was bound to use his best efforts for the support of his family, and ought to have been thankful, under the circumstances, that he was a tailor."

"So I think. And his wife ought to have been thankful too."

"And I suppose she would have been if he had possessed the manliness to tell her the truth."

"No doubt in the world of that," returned Aunt Prudence, and then resumed her narrative:

A week was spent by the young man in another vain effort to find employment as a clerk. Then he avowed his intention to go to Louisville, and see if nothing could be done there.

"Try longer here, Joseph. Don't go away yet," earnestly and tearfully pleaded his wife. "You don't know how hard it is for me to be separated from you. I am lonely through the day, and the nights pass, oh! so heavily. Something may turn up for you here. Try for a while longer."

"But our money is nearly all gone. If I don't go now, I shall have no means of getting away from this place. I feel sure that I can find something to do there."

His wife pleaded with him, but in vain. To Louisville he went, and there got work at the first shop to which he made application. At the end of a week he sent his wife money, and told her that he had procured temporary employment. She wrote back asking if she might not join him immediately. But to this he objected, on the score that, as his situation was not a permanent one, he might, in a few weeks, be obliged to leave Louisville and go somewhere else. This, to his wife, was by no means satisfactory. But she could do no less than submit.

Thus separated, they lived for the next three months, Fletcher visiting his wife and child once every two weeks, and spending Sunday with them. During the time, he made good wages. But both himself and wife were very unhappy. Earnestly did the latter plead with her husband to be allowed to remove to Louisville. To this however, he steadily objected. Daily he lived in the hope of securing a clerkship in some store, and thus, being able to rise above the low condition in which he was placed. The moment he reached that consummation, so much desired, he would instantly remove his family.

At length, it happened that Fletcher did not write once, instead of several times, during one of the periods of two weeks that he was regularly absent. The Sunday morning when he was expected home arrived, but it did not bring, as usual, his anxiously looked-for presence. His wife was almost beside herself with alarm. No letter coming on Monday, she took her child and started for Louisville in the first boat. She arrived at daylight, on Tuesday morning, in a strange city, herself a total stranger to all therein, except her husband, and perfectly ignorant as to where he was to be found. The captain of the steamboat kindly attended her to a boarding-house, and there she was left, without a single clue in her mind as to the means of finding her husband. Inquiries were made of all in the boarding-house, but no one had heard even the name of Joseph Fletcher. As soon as she could make arrangements to get out, Mrs. Fletcher visited all the dry-goods stores in the city, for in some one of these she supposed her husband to be employed, although he had never stated particularly the kind of business in which he was engaged. This search, after being continued for a greater part of the day, turned out fruitless. Night found the unhappy wife in an agony of suspense and alarm. Some one at the boarding-house advised her to have an advertisement for her husband inserted in a morning paper. She did not hesitate long about this course. In the morning, a brief advertisement appeared; and about nine o'clock a man called and asked to see her.

She descended from her room to the parlour with a wildly throbbing heart, but staggered forward and sank into a chair, weak almost as an infant, when she saw that the man was a stranger, instead of her husband, whom she had expected to meet.

"Are you Mrs. Fletcher?" he asked.

"I am," she faintly replied.

"You advertised for information in regard to your husband?"

"I did. Where is he? Oh, sir, has any thing happened to him?"

"No, ma'am, nothing serious. He has only been sick for a week or ten days; that is, the man I refer to has. Your husband is a tailor?"

"Is the man you speak of a tailor?" eagerly asked Mrs. Fletcher.

"He is, ma'am; and has been working for me at No.--Fourth street."

"Then he is not my husband," replied the poor wife, bursting into tears. "My husband is a clerk." In the bitterness of a keen disappointment, rendered sharper by doubt and fear, Mrs. Fletcher wept for some minutes. When she could command her feelings to some extent, she thanked the tailor for calling, and repeated what she had said, that the man at his house could not be her husband.

"He is from Cincinnati, ma'am; and goes there once in every two weeks. I know that he has wife and child there," said the man.

"Still he cannot be my husband," replied Mrs. Fletcher; "for my husband is not a tailor."

"No, not in that case, certainly." And the man owed and withdrew.

All day long the wife waited for some more satisfactory reply to her advertisement, but no farther response to it was made. The call of the tailor seemed like a mockery of her unhappy condition.

Night came, and all remained in doubt and darkness; and then the mind of Mrs. Fletcher turned to the visit of the tailor, half despairingly, in order to find some feeble gleam of hope. Perhaps, she said to herself, as she thought about it, there is some mistake. Perhaps it is my husband after all, and the man is in some error about his being a tailor. As she thought, it suddenly flashed through her mind that there had been a good deal of mystery made by her husband about his situation in Cincinnati as well as in Louisville, which always struck her as a little strange. Could it be possible that his real business was that of a tailor? All at once she remembered that her husband had been particularly silent in regard to his early history. Trembling with excitement, she left the house about eight o'clock in the evening, and started for the place where she remembered that the tailor said he lived. He was in his shop, and recollected her the moment she entered.

"Can I see the man you told me was named Fletcher?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am; and I sincerely hope there has been some mistake, and that you will find him to be your husband; for he is very ill, and needs to be nursed by a careful hand."

Mrs. Fletcher followed the tailor up stairs, her heart scarcely beating under the pressure of suspense. In a small chamber in the third story, the atmosphere of which was close, oppressive, and filled with an offensive odour, she was shown a man lying upon a bed. She needed not a second glance, as the dim light fell upon his pale, emaciated face, to decide her doubts. Her husband lay before her. Eagerly she called his name, but his eyes did not open. She spoke to him again and again, but he did not recognise, even if he heard her voice.

On inquiring, she found that he was ill with a violent fever, which the doctor said was about at its crisis. This had been brought on by too long continued labour--he having worked, often, sixteen and seventeen hours out of the twenty-four--by that means earning a third more wages than any journeyman in the shop.

Alarmed and troubled as she was, Mrs. Fletcher was utterly confounded by all this. She could not comprehend it. All night she hovered over the pillow of her husband, giving him medicine at the proper times, placing the cooling draught to his lips or bathing his hot forehead. Frequently she called his name, earnestly and tenderly, but the sound awoke no motions in his sluggish mind. Toward morning, she was sitting with her face resting against a pillow, when his voice, speaking distinctly, aroused her from a half slumber into which she had, momentarily, lost herself. In an instant she was leaning over him, with his name upon her lips. His eyes were opens and he looked steadily into her face. But it was evident that he did not know her.

"Joseph! Joseph! don't you know me?" said she. "I am your wife. I am here with you."

"Poor Mary!" he murmured, sadly, not understanding what was said. "If she knew all, it would break her heart."

"What would break her heart?" quickly asked his wife.

"Poor Mary! She said she would never marry"--here the sick man's voice became inarticulate.

But all was clear to the mind of Mrs. Fletcher. She remembered how often she had made the thoughtless remark to which her husband evidently referred. The tears again fell over her cheeks, until they dropped even upon the face of her husband, who, after he had said this, muttered for a while, inarticulately, and then, closing his eyes, went off into sleep.

Toward morning a slight moisture broke out all over him, and his sleep that was heavy, became soft and tranquil. The crisis was past! In order not to disturb the quiet slumberer, Mrs. Fletcher sat down by the bedside perfectly still. It was not very long before, over-wearied as she was, sleep likewise stole over her senses. It was daylight when she was awakened by hearing her name called. Starting up, she met the face of her husband turned earnestly toward her.

"Dear husband!" she exclaimed, "do you know me?"

"Yes, Mary. But how came you here?" he said, in a feeble voice.

"We will speak of that at some other time," she replied. "Enough that I am here, where I ought to have been ten days ago. But that was not my fault."

Fletcher was about to make some farther remark, when his wife placed her finger upon his lips, and said--

"You must not talk, dear; your disease has just made a favourable change, and your life depends upon your being perfectly quiet. Enough for me to say that I know all, and love you just as well, perhaps better. You are a weak, foolish man, Joseph," she added, with a smile, "or else thought me a weak and foolish woman. But all that we can settle hereafter. Thank God that I have found you; and that you are, to all appearances, out of danger."

Aunt Prudence looked into Kate's face, and saw that tears were on her cheeks.

"Would you have loved him less, Kate," she asked, "if he had been your husband?"

"He would have been the same to me whatever might have been his calling. That could not have changed him."

"No, certainly not. But I have a word or two more to add. As soon as Fletcher was well enough to go to work, he took his place again upon the shop-board, his wife feeling happier than she had felt for a long time. In about six months he rose to be foreman of the shop, and a year after that became a partner in the business At the end of ten years he sold out his interest in the business, and returned to the East with thirty thousand dollars in cash. This handsome capital enabled him to get into an old and well-established mercantile house as partner, where he remained until his death. About the time of his return to the East, you, Kate, were born."

"I!" ejaculated the astonished girl.

"Yes. Their two older children died while they were in Louisville, and you, their third child, were born about six months before they left."

"I!" repeat Kate, in the same surprised tone of voice.

"Yes, dear, you! I have given you a history of your own father and mother. So, as you're the daughter of a tailor, you must not object to a tailor for a husband, if he be the right kind of a man."

It may very naturally be supposed that Kate had but little to say against tailors after that, although we are by no means sure that she had any intention of becoming the bride of one.

THE MAIDEN'S CHOICE.

"TWO offers at once! You are truly a favoured maiden, Rose," said Annette Lewis to her young friend Rose Lilton, in a gay tone. "It is husband or no husband with most of us; but you have a choice between two."

"And happy shall I be if I have the wisdom to choose rightly," was the reply of Rose.

"If it were my case, I don't think that I should have much difficulty in making a choice."

"Don't you? Suppose, then, you give me the benefit of your preference."

"Oh, no, not for the world!" replied Annette, laughing. "I'm afraid you might be jealous of me afterwards."

"Never fear. I am not of a jealous disposition."

"No, I won't commit myself in regard to your lovers. But, if they were mine, I would soon let it be known where my preference lay."

"Then you won't assist me in coming to a decision? Surely I am entitled to this act of friendship."

"If you put it upon that ground, Rose, I do not see how I can refuse."

"I do put it upon that ground, Annette. And now I ask you, as a friend, to give me your opinion of the two young men, James Hambleton and Marcus Gray, who have seen such wonderful attractions in my humble self as to become suitors for my hand at the same time."

"Decidedly, then, Rose, I should prefer Marcus Gray."

"There is about him, certainly, Annette, much to attract a maiden's eye and to captivate her heart but it has occurred to me that the most glittering surface does not always indicate the purest gold beneath. I remember once to have seen a massive chain, wrought from pure ounces, placed beside another that was far inferior in quality, but with a surface of ten times richer hue. Had I not been told the difference, I would have chosen the latter as in every way more valuable; but when it was explained that one bore the hue of genuine gold, while the other had been coloured by a process known to jewellers, I was struck with the lesson it taught."

"What lesson, Rose?"

"That the richest substance has not always the most glittering exterior. That real worth, satisfied with the consciousness of interior soundness of principle, assumes few imposing exterior aspects and forms."

"And that rule you apply to these two young men?"

"By that rule I wish to be guided, in some degree, in my choice, Annette. I wish to keep my mind so balanced, that it may not be swayed from a sound discrimination by any thing of imposing exterior."

"But is not the exterior--that which meets the eye--all that we can judge from? Is not the exterior a true expression of what is within?"

"Not by any means, Annette. I grant that it should be, but it is not. Look at the fact I have just named respecting the gold chains."

"But they were inanimate substances. They were not faces, where thoughts, feelings, and principles find expression."

"Do you suppose, Annette, that bad gold would ever have been coloured so as to look even more beautiful than that which is genuine, if there had not been men who assumed exterior graces and virtues that were not in their minds? No. The very fact you adduce strengthens my position. The time was, in the earlier and purer ages--the golden ages of the world's existence--when the countenance was the true index to the mind. Then it was a well-tuned instrument, and the mind within a skilful player; to whose touch every muscle, and chord, and minute fibre gave answering melody. That time has passed. Men now school their faces to deception; it is an art which nearly all practise--I and you too often. We study to hide our real feelings; to appear, in a certain sense, what we are not. Look at some men whom we meet every day, with faces whose calmness, I should rather say rigidity, gives no evidence that a single emotion ever crosses the waveless ocean of their minds. But it is not so; the mind within is active with thought and feelings; but the instrument formed for it to play upon has lost its tune, or bears only relaxed or broken chords."

"You have a strange, visionary way of talking sometimes, Rose," replied Annette, as her friend ceased speaking. "All that may do for your transcendentalists, or whatever you call them; but it won't do when you come down to the practical matter-of-fact business of life."

"To me, it seems eminently a practical principle, Annette. We must act, in all important matters in life, with a just discrimination; and how can we truly discriminate, if we are not versed in those principles upon which, and only upon which, right discriminations can be made?"

"I must confess, Rose," replied her young friend, "that I do not see much bearing that all this has upon the matter under discussion; or, at least, I cannot see the truth of its application. Gold never assumes a leaden exterior."

"Well?"

"We need not be very eminent philosophers to tell one from the other."

"No, of course not."

"Very well. Here is Marcus Gray, with a genuine golden exterior, and James Hambleton with a leaden one."

"I do not grant the position, Annette. It is true that Mr. Hambleton is not so brilliant and showy; but I have found in him one quality that I have not yet discovered in the other."

"What is that?"

"Depth of feeling, and high moral principle."

"You certainly do not pretend to affirm that Mr. Gray has neither feeling nor principle?"

"Of course I do not. I only say that I have never yet perceived any very strong indications of their existence."

"Why, Rose!"

"I am in earnest, Annette. I doubt not that he possesses both, and, I trust, in a high degree. But he seems to be so constantly acting a brilliant and effective part, that nature, unadorned and simple, has no chance to speak out. It is not so with Mr. Hambleton. Every word he utters shows that he is speaking what he really feels; and often, though not so highly polished in speech as Mr. Gray, have I heard him utter sentiments of genuine truth and humanity, in a tone that made my heart bound with pleasure at recognising the simple eloquence of nature. His character, Annette, I find it no way difficult to read; that of Marcus Gray puzzles my closest scrutiny."

"I certainly cannot sympathize with you in your singular notions, Rose," her friend replied. "I have never discovered either of the peculiarities in these young men that you seem to make of so much importance. As for Mr. Gray, he is a man of whom any woman might feel proud; for he combines intelligence with courteous manners and a fine person: while this Hambleton is, to me, insufferably stupid. And no one, I am sure, can call his address and manners any thing like polished. Indeed, I should pronounce him downright boorish and awkward. Who would want a man for a husband of whom she would be ashamed? Not I, certainly."

"I will readily grant you, Annette," said Rose, as her friend ceased speaking, "that Mr. Hambleton's exterior attractions are not to be compared with those of Mr. Gray; but, as I said before, in a matter like this, where it is the quality of the mind, and not the external appearance of the man alone, that is to give happiness, it behooves a maiden to look beneath the surface, as I am trying to do now."

"But I could not love a man like Mr. Hambleton, unless, indeed, there were no possibility of getting any one else. In that case, I would make a choice of evils between single blessedness and such a husband. But to have two such offers as these, Rose, and hesitate to make a choice, strikes me as singular indeed!"

"I do not hesitate, Annette," was the quiet reply.

"Have you, then, indeed decided, Rose?"

"I have--and this conversation has caused me to decide; for, as it has progressed, my mind has been enabled to see truly the real difference in the characters of my suitors."

"You have, then, decided in favor of Mr. Gray?"

"Indeed I have not, Annette. Though I admire his fine talents and his polished exterior, yet I have never been able to perceive in him those qualities upon which my heart can rest in confidence. He may possess these in even a higher degree than Mr. Hambleton, but I am afraid to run so great a risk. In the latter, I know there are moral qualities that I can love, and that I can repose upon."

"But he is so dull, Rose."

"I really do not think so, Annette. There is not so much flash about him, if I may use the word, as about Mr. Gray. But as to his being dull, I must beg to differ with you. To me, his conversation is always interesting."

"It never is so to me. And, besides all that, his tastes and mine are as widely different as the poles. Why, Rose, if you become his wife, you will sink into obscurity at once. He never can make any impression on society. It is not in him."

"Rather make no impression on society at all, than a false or disgraceful one, say I," was the firm reply of Rose.

"You cannot, certainly, mean to say," returned her friend, "that the impression made upon society by Mr. Gray is either a false or disgraceful one."

"I should be sorry to make that assertion, for I do not believe such to be the case," Rose replied. "What I mean is, that I can read Mr. Hambleton's true character, and I know it to be based upon fixed and high-toned principles. These can never make the woman who truly loves him unhappy. They give place to no moral contingencies, by which hopes are so often wrecked, and hearts broken. Now, in regard to Mr. Gray, there is nothing in his character, so far as I can, read it, upon which to predicate safe calculations of this kind. He is intelligent, and highly interesting as a companion. His personal appearance and his address are attractive. But all below the exterior is hidden. The moral qualities of the man never show themselves. I feel that to give my heart to such a one would be risking too much. Of course, I must decline his offer."

"Indeed, indeed, Rose, I think you are very foolish!"

"Time will show, Annette."

"Yes, time will show," was the prophetic response. And time did show that Rose made a right choice, when she accepted the offer of James Hambleton, and gave him, with her hand, a warm, true heart.

THE FORTUNE-HUNTER.

"I KNOW a young lady who will suit you exactly."

"Indeed!"

"It's a fact. She is just the thing."

"Is she rich?"

"Of course."

"How rich?"

"Worth some fifty thousand dollars."

"Are you sure?"

"Certainly. Her father died about a year ago, and she was his only child. Her mother has been dead many years. The old man was well off, and his daughter received all of his property, and, as she is of age, she has it all under her own control."

"Is she handsome?"

"Just so-so. But that don't matter a great deal. Gold is beautiful."

"Exactly. And intelligent?"

"I've seen smarter girls. But that's all the better, you know."

"Yes. Well now, who is she? That's the next question."

"Her name is Margaretta Riston, and she is now living with an old aunt in Sycamore street."

"Are you acquainted?"

"Intimately."

"Then be kind enough to introduce me forthwith. I must make a conquest of some rich heiress soon, or I shall have to run away, or petition for the benefit of the Insolvent Law."

"To-night, if you choose."

"Very well--let it be to-night. There is no time to be lost."

"Suppose she won't accept you?"

"She must. I'm as good-looking a fellow as you'll find in a dozen; and I flatter myself that I have a smooth tongue in my head."

"Well, success to you, I say! But look here, Smith: if you succeed, I shall expect a premium."

"There'll be no difficulty about that, Perkins. But let me secure the prize first; and then say how much you'll want. You'll not find me the man to forget a friend."

"I'm sure of that," responded the other, laughing.

And then the friends shook each other's hands heartily, promising, as they parted, to meet early in the evening, preparatory to visiting the heiress.

"You would not have me suspicious of every young man who visits me!" said Margaretta Riston, in reply to a remark made by her aunt, on the same evening that the two young men had proposed calling on her.

"I would rather have you suspicious, or, rather, exceedingly watchful, than to be altogether off of your guard. Many dangers beset the path of a rich young girl like you. There are, and I am sorry to say it, too many young men in society, who are mere money-hunters--young men who would marry an heiress during the first hour of their acquaintance, and marry her, of course, only for her money."

"I can hardly credit it, aunt. And I am sure that no young men of my acquaintance are so selfish and mercenary!"

"In that assumption lies a fatal error, believe me, my dear niece! Too many, alas! too many young girls have vainly imagined, as you do now, that, though there might be men of base characters in society, none such were of their acquaintances. These have awakened from their fatal error with the sad consciousness that they had become victims to their fond infidelity. Rather suspect all until you have convincing evidence to the contrary, than remain unguarded until it is too late."

"But don't you see, aunt, how in this case I would do wrong to sincere and honest minds? And I cannot bear the thought of doing wrong to any one."

"You do no wrong to any one, my niece, in with-holding full confidence until there is evidence that full confidence may be safely bestowed. In the present evil state of the world, involving, as it does, so much of false appearance, hypocrisy, and selfish motive, it is absolutely necessary, especially with one in your situation, to withhold all confidence, until there is unquestionable proof of virtuous principle."

"There is at least one young man, who visits here, that I think is above such mean suspicions," Margaretta said.

"So I think," the aunt replied.

"Whom do you mean, aunt?"

"I mean Thomas Fielding."

"Thomas Fielding! Well, he may be; but--"

"But what, Margaretta?"

"Oh, nothing, aunt. But I do not like Mr. Fielding so very much."

"Why not, child?"

"I can hardly tell. But there is no character about him."

"No character! Really, Margaretta, you surprise me. There is more character and principle about him than about any young man who comes to this house."

"I cannot think so, aunt. He is too tame, prosy, and old-fashioned for me."

"Whom then did you mean?" the aunt asked, with an expression of concern in her tones.

"Why, Mr. Perkins, to be sure."

The aunt shook her head.

"I am afraid, Margaretta, that Mr. Perkins is a man of few principles, but thoroughly selfish ones."

"How strangely you talk, aunt! Why, he is any thing but a selfish man. I am sure he is the most gentlemanly, thoughtful, and polite man that visits here. He is much more attentive to others, in company, than Mr. Fielding; and that, I am sure, indicates a kinder regard for others."

"Not always, Margaretta. It may sometimes indicate a cold-hearted, calm assurance, assumed for selfish ends; while its opposite may be from a natural reserve or timidity of character."

"But you don't mean to say, surely, that Mr. Perkins is such a one as you intimate?"

"If I am correct in my observation, he is all that I have insinuated. In a word, he is, in my opinion, a mere money-hunter."

"I am sure, aunt, he is not so constant in his attentions as he was some time, ago; and, if he were merely a money-hunter, he would not, of course, abate those attentions."

"No--not unless he had discovered a richer prize."

"Indeed, aunt, you wrong him."

"I should be sorry to do so, Margaretta. But I do not form my opinions hastily. I try to look close before I come to conclusions. But I have stronger testimony than my own observations."

"What is that?"

"Why, I heard this morning that he is to be married in a few weeks to Harriet Pomeroy."

"Indeed, you must be mistaken, aunt," said Margaretta, suddenly rising to her feet.

"I presume not," was the quiet reply. "My information came almost direct."

The entrance of visitors now interrupted the conversation.

"Permit me to introduce my very particular friend, Mr. Smith," said the individual about whom the aunt and her niece were conversing, as he entered the handsome parlour of Mrs. Riston.

Mr. Smith and Mr. Perkins were, of course, received with great affability by Margaretta, who concealed the impression made upon her mind by the piece of information just conveyed by her aunt.

As for Mrs. Riston, she was studiedly polite, but gave the young men no very apparent encouragement. An hour soon passed away, and then the visitors retired.

"Well, Smith, what do you think of her?" asked Perkins, as the two gained the street.

"You're sure she's worth fifty thousand dollars?"

"Oh, yes. There's no mistake about that."

"But _how_ do you know? This is a matter about which there should be no mistake."

"I got a friend to examine the transfer books of the bank where the stock is. Will that satisfy you?"

"You did? And pray why did you do that?"

"A strange question! but I'll tell you, as you seem dull. I had a notion of her myself."

"You had?"

"I had."

"And why did you get out of the notion?"

"Because I saw another whom I liked better."

"She was richer, I suppose."

"How can you insinuate such a thing?" And Perkins laughed in a low, meaning chuckle.

"Ah, I perceive. Well, how much is she worth?"

"About a hundred thousand."

"Are you sure of her?"

"Certainly! The thing's all settled."

"You're a lucky dog, Perkins! But see here, what did you mean by the premium you talked of for bringing about a match between me and Miss Riston?"

"Oh, as to that, I was only jesting. But you haven't told me how you like the young lady yet."

"Oh, she'll do, I reckon," said Smith, tossing his head half contemptuously.

"Do you think you can secure her?"

"Easily enough. But then I must get her away as often as possible from that old Cerberus of an aunt. I didn't like her looks at all."

"She's suspicious."

"That's clear. Well, she must be wide awake if I commence playing against her in real earnest. I can win any girl's affections that I choose."

"You have a pretty fair conceit of yourself, I see."

"I wouldn't give a cent for a man that hadn't. The fact is, Perkins, these girls have but one end in view, and that is to get married. They know that they have to wait to be asked, and, trembling in fear lest they shall not get another offer, they are always ready to jump eagerly at the first."

"Pretty true, I believe. But, Smith, don't you think Margaretta quite a fair specimen of a girl?"

"Oh, yes. And I have no doubt that I shall love her well enough, if she don't attempt to put on airs, and throw up to me that she was rich, and I poor. I'll never stand that."

"She'll not be so foolish, I presume."

"She'd better not, I can tell her, if she doesn't wish to get into hot water." And the young man laughed at his own half-in-earnest jesting.

"He's a very agreeable young man, isn't he, aunt?" said Margaretta, after the two young men had gone away.

"Who? Mr. Smith, as Mr. Perkins called him?"

"Yes."

"He has a smooth enough tongue, if that is any recommendation; but I do not like him. Indeed, he is far more disagreeable to me than his very particular friend, Mr. Perkins."

"Oh, aunt, how can you talk so! I'm sure he was very agreeable. At least, I thought so."

"That was because he flattered you so cleverly."

"How _can_ you insinuate such a thing, aunt? Surely I am not so weak and vain as to be imposed upon and beguiled by a flatterer!"

"Some men understand how to flatter very ingeniously; and, to me, Mr. Smith seemed peculiarly adept in the art. He managed it so adroitly as to give it all the effect, without its being apparent to the subject of his experiments."

"Indeed, aunt, you are mistaken. I despise a flatterer as much as you do. But I am sure that I saw nothing like flattery about Mr. Smith."

"I am sorry that you did not, Margaretta. But take my advice, and be on your guard. That man's motives in coming to see you, believe me, are not the purest in the world."

"You are far too suspicious, aunt; I am sure you are."

"Perhaps I have had cause. At any rate, Margaretta, I have lived longer in, and seen much more of the world than you have, and I ought to have a clearer perception of character. For your own sake, then, try and confide in my judgment."

"I ought to confide in your judgment, aunt, I know; but I cannot see as you do in this particular instance."

"Then you ought rather to suspect the correctness of your own observation, when it leads to conclusions so utterly opposed to mine."

To this Margaretta did not reply. It seemed too much like giving up her own rationality to assent to it, and she did not wish to pain her aunt by objections.

On the next evening, a quiet, intelligent, and modest-looking young man called in, and spent an hour or two with Margaretta and her aunt. He did not present so imposing and showy an exterior as did Mr. Smith, but his conversation had in it far more substance and real common sense. After he had retired, Margaretta said--

"Well, it is no use; I cannot take any pleasure in the society of Thomas Fielding."

"Why not, my dear?" asked the aunt.

"Oh, I don't know; but he is so dull and prosy."

"I am sure he don't seem dull to me, Margaretta. He doesn't talk a great deal, it is true; but, then, what he does say is characterized by good sense, and evinces a discriminating mind."

"But don't you think, aunt, that my money has some influence in bringing him here?" And Margaretta looked up archly into her aunt's face.

"It may have, for aught I can tell. We cannot see the motives of any one. But I should be inclined to think that money would have little influence with Thomas Fielding, were not every thing else in agreement. He is, I think, a man of fixed and genuine principles."

"No doubt, aunt. But, still, I can't relish his society. And if I can't, I can't."

"Very true. If you can't enjoy his company, why you can't. But it cannot be, certainly, from any want, on his part, of gentlemanly manners, or kind attentions to you."

"No; but, then, he is so dull. I should die if I had no other company."

"Indeed, my child," Aunt Riston said, in a serious tone, "you ought to make the effort to esteem and relish the society of those who have evidently some stability of character, and whose conversation has in it the evidence of mature observation, combined with sound and virtuous principles, more than you do the flippant nonsense of mere ladies' men, or selfish, unprincipled fortune-hunters."

"Indeed, aunt, you are too severe on my favourites!" And Margaretta laughed gaily.

But to her aunt there was something sad in the sound of that laugh. It seemed like the knell of long and fondly cherished hopes.

"What do you think of Margaretta Riston, Mary?" asked Thomas Fielding of his sister, on the next evening after the visit just mentioned.

"Why do you ask so seriously, brother?" the sister said, looking into his face, with a smile playing about her lips.

"For a serious reason, sister. Can you guess what it is?"

"Perhaps so, and therefore I will not tax your modesty so far as to make you confess it."

"Very well, Mary. And now answer my question. What do you think of Margaretta?"

"I know nothing against her, brother."

"Nothing against her! Don't you know any thing in her favour?"

"Well, perhaps I do. She is said to be worth some fifty thousand dollars."

"Nonsense, Mary! What do I care about her fifty thousand dollars? Don't you know any thing else in her favour?"

"Why, yes, brother. As long as you seem so serious about the matter, I think Margaretta a fine girl. She is amiable in disposition--is well educated--tolerably good-looking, and, I think, ordinarily intelligent."

"Ordinarily intelligent!"

"Yes. Certainly there is nothing extraordinary about her."

"No, of course not."

"Well, brother, what next?"

"Why, simply, Mary, I like Margaretta very much. The oftener I see her, the more am I drawn towards her. To tell the plain, homely truth, I love her."

"And don't care any thing about her fifty thousand dollars?"

"No Mary, I don't think I do. Indeed, if I know my own feelings, I would rather she were not worth a dollar."

"And why so, Thomas?"

"Because, I fear the perverting influence of wealth on her mind. I am afraid her position will give her false views of life. I wish to marry for a _wife_--not for _money_. I can make money myself."

"Still, Thomas, Margaretta is, I think, an innocent-minded, good girl. I do not see that she has been much warped by her position."

"So she seems to me, and I am glad that my sister's observation corroborates my own. And now, Mary, do you think I have any thing to hope?"

"Certainly, I do."

"But why do you think so?"

"Because Margaretta must have good sense enough to see that you are a man of correct principles, and an affectionate disposition."

"Still, she may not see in me that which interests her sufficiently to induce her to marry me."

"That is true. But I don't believe you have any thing to fear."

"I cannot help fearing, Mary, for the simple reason, that I find my affections so much interested. A disappointment would be attended with extreme pain."

"Then I would end suspense at once."

"I will. To-morrow evening I will declare my feelings."

It was about nine o'clock on the next evening, while Mary Fielding sat reading by the centre-table, that her brother entered hastily, and threw himself upon the sofa, a deep sigh escaping him as he did so.

"What ails you, Thomas?" inquired his sister, rising and approaching him.

But he made no reply.

"Tell me, what ails you, Thomas?" Mary urged, taking his hand affectionately.

"I have been to see Margaretta," the brother at length replied, in as calm a voice as he could assume.

"And she has not, surely, declined your offer?"

"She has, and with what appeared to me an intimation that I loved her money, perhaps, better than herself."

"Surely not, brother!"

"To me it seemed so. Certainly she treated lightly my declaration, and almost jested with me."

The sister stood silent for some moments, and then said--

"The woman who could thus jest with you, Thomas, is unworthy of you."

"So I am trying to convince myself. But the trial is a deeply painful one."

And painful it proved for many weeks afterwards. But, finally, he was enabled to rise above his feelings.

In the mean time, Mr. Smith had wooed the heiress successfully, and, in doing so, his own heart had become interested, or, at least, he deceived himself into the belief that such was the case. He no longer jested, as he had done at first, about her money, nor declared, even to his friend Perkins, how strong an influence it had upon his affections. More serious thoughts of marriage had caused these selfish motives to retire out of sight and acknowledgment; but still they existed and still ruled his actions.

The aunt, when Margaretta made known to her that the young man had offered himself, was pained beyond measure, particularly as it was evident that her niece favoured the suitor.

"Indeed, Margaretta," said she, earnestly, "he is not worthy of you!"

"You judge him harshly, aunt," the niece replied. "I know him to be all that either of us could wish for."

"But how do you know, Margaretta?"

"I have observed him closely, and am sure that, I cannot be deceived in him."

"Alas! my child, if you know nothing beyond your own observation, you are far more ignorant than you suppose. Be guided, then, by me--trust more to my observation than your own. He is not the man to make you happy! Let me urge you, then, to keep him at a distance."

"I should do injustice to my own feelings, aunt, and to my own sense of right, were I to do so. In a word, and to speak out plainly, he offered himself last evening, and I accepted him!"

"Rash girl!" exclaimed Mrs. Riston, lifting her hands in astonishment and pain, "how could you thus deceive your best friend? How so sadly deceive yourself?"