Part 4

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.