CHAPTER I.

Use every man after his desert, and who shall escape whipping. HAMLET.

“Did you ever hear a man talk so like a fool as Mr. Barton did yesterday, Sarah?” said Mary Minturn to Miss Gorham. “I declare, I pitied his wife—did not you?”

“No, certainly not,” replied her friend. “Why should I? Mr. Barton does not talk more like a fool now than he did before his marriage. Fanny chose him with her eyes or rather ears open, and if she could put up with his folly then, she may now.”

“True enough,” answered Mary. “And how she came to fall in love with him passes my comprehension. I would not have believed it had it not actually happened.”

“Really, Mary,” said Sarah laughing, “your sympathies and compassions often pass my comprehension. Here you are pitying Fanny for having married a man, who, by your own account, she is in love with.”

“No, Sarah,” replied Mary, “I am not pitying her for marrying the man she is in love with, but for being ashamed of the man she loves.”

“Ashamed of the man she loves!” repeated Miss Gorham with infinite contempt. “Now, really, Mary, you had better reserve your compassion for a more deserving object. If Fanny has married a man she is ashamed of, she should be ashamed of herself.”

“Did you see how painfully she colored as she caught the glance you gave me, when he was attempting an account of Dr. H’s lecture? I could not help feeling for her.”

“I did not remark it,” replied Miss Gorham, “and I have no sympathy for a woman who has so little feeling or principle, I care not which, as to marry a man she despises. She probably does not feel for herself, and I do not know why we should put ourselves to the pain of feeling for her. I remember the time when Fanny Jones used to laugh at Tom Barton as much as either you or I.”

“So do I,” replied Mary. “She little thought then she would ever have him.”

“But finding she could get nobody better, she has thought it as well to marry him, and that is what you call falling in love, Mary.”

“Not at all,” rejoined her friend warmly. “But remember it is three years since Mr. Barton first addressed Fanny, and although she ridiculed him then, she has become attached to him since. His devotion and constancy have really won her.”

“If then she is in love with him,” said Sarah, “she should be satisfied with him; and if she is not she should not have married him; so arrange it any way you will, Mary, I do not see that she is deserving of much pity. If she fancies he has grown wiser during the last three years, so much the better for her; and if she knows he has not, so much the worse. Either way I have no sympathy to bestow upon her, Mary.”

“Well, I have,” replied Mary. “I always pity a sensible person who does a silly thing. It is laying up themselves such a store of suffering for the future.”

“’Pon my word, Mary, you amuse me,” said Sarah, laughing. “Now I might possibly feel for a fool who was committing a folly, as I would for a blind man who walked into the fire, but as to wasting my compassion on those who do such things with their eyes open, is really more than I can undertake. But then,” she continued, half contemptuously, “I have not your stock of sensibilities to go upon, and consequently, perhaps, do well to economize mine, or I certainly should exhaust them before they were called upon for a really deserving object.”

“I consider all suffering as deserving pity,” replied Mary quietly.

“That is more than I do,” returned Sarah with spirit. “Sin and suffering may go together, but I do not consider them equally deserving of compassion, or I should go to the jails and work-houses to bestow my sympathies.”

“And if you did,” replied Mary, “I believe you would go to the places of all others where they would be most called forth. I never pass the city prison without thinking of the many unwritten tragedies it contains. Could we but know the true history of every heart, and the real anguish of every crime that have peopled its walls, I believe we should feel more sorrow than indignation for its unhappy inmates.”

“Then,” replied Sarah, almost angrily, “I think it is well we do not. If in your fine sensibilities we are to lose all sense of right and wrong, I think your ‘unwritten tragedies’ had better remain ‘unwritten’ and unread. They would do infinitely more harm than good. ‘Sorrowing for the unhappy inmates of prisons and work-houses!’ Who would imagine you were talking of jail-birds and vagrants! This is the sickly sentimentality of the day, and I am sorry to see you falling into it, Mary. Let sin meet with its due punishment, and crime call forth the righteous indignation it merits, and then we may hope to see them somewhat diminished.”

“That sin meets with its punishment, even in this world, there can be no doubt, Sarah,” said Mary.

“Does it?” said Sarah, with some bitterness. “And roguery is never successful, nor dishonesty prosperous, I suppose. I think some of our broken institutions and flourishing directors might tell a different story! However, that it will be punished in the next,” she added, in a tone that implied she would be much disappointed if it were otherwise, “is certain, but in this sin and impudence decidedly carry the day. You have only to look around you to see the truth of what I say.”

The discussion, which was growing rather warm, was here fortunately interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Eldon, a married sister of Sarah’s, who as usual had much to hear and to say when she had not seen Sarah for several days, as happened to be the case on the present occasion. A lively and somewhat satirical description of the dinner at Mrs. Barton’s formed the chief topic of conversation for some time, which highly amused Mrs. Eldon, and even Mary could not help joining in the laugh, although she could not always agree with her quick-witted and rather merciless friend. In fact they seldom did agree, for two more opposite characters than Mary and Sarah could scarcely be met; and what the bond of attraction could be that rendered them so intimate, would have puzzled most people to determine. Sarah was endowed with more than an ordinary share of sense, but it was that kind of good clear _hard_ sense that seldom attracts, although it often amuses. Her chief virtue was her justice, on which she prided herself, and she valued principle, while she placed little faith on feeling. Sensibility and imagination she utterly despised.

Mary, on the contrary, was full of quick sympathies and bright theories, and though often wrong in her premises, was always amiable in her conclusions.

Notwithstanding that they seldom thought alike on any subject, Sarah loved Mary, and, moreover, loved to put her down, which, being easily done, was perhaps a charm in itself; and then she could take liberties with Mary’s good temper, which she could not do with every body’s. And Mary respected Sarah’s mind and relied upon her integrity, although she was somewhat afraid of the severity of her judgments. And besides, they had grown up together, and had got _used_ to each other, which, after all, explains more attachments than any theory of sympathies and associations we have yet met with.

Mrs. Eldon was often amused with the opposite accounts the young friends gave of the same occurrence, and would frequently say, as she laughed,

“One would really suppose, girls, you had been at different places.”

Sarah boasted that she told things just as she saw them, and was very fond of what she called “the plain English of the case;” while Mary perhaps arrived quite as nearly at the truth in making some allowance for human weakness, and in having some compassion for its inconsistencies.

“Why did you not come to tea last evening, Charlotte?” said Sarah, addressing Mrs. Eldon. “I kept the table waiting almost an hour for you.”

“My dear child, I was in such a fright and agitation at that time, that I forgot all about you and your tea-table. Master Georgey escaped from his nurse, and we could not find him for hours. I was almost wild with anxiety and alarm.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed her sister, with much interest; “and where did you find him?”

“Nearly a mile and a half from home. I don’t know how he managed to wander so far, for you know he is not quite two years old yet.”

“And what did you do to him when you found him?” inquired Miss Gorham.

“Do to him? poor little soul; why I gave him his supper and put him to bed,” replied Mrs. Eldon. “The child was exhausted with crying, besides being half dead with fright and fatigue.”

“You don’t mean to say that you did not punish him for his excursion?” exclaimed Sarah, almost incredulously.

“Punish him! No, certainly not,” replied her sister; “but I did what was much wiser. I had a padlock put upon the gate through which the little dog made his escape; so it cannot happen again, and that, you know, is all that is wanted.”

But upon that point Sarah did not at all agree with her sister. She wanted a little summary justice besides, and she said,

“Well, if that is not spoiling children, I do not know what is. And this is the way you let Georgey disobey with impunity, is it?”

“I am sure even you would have been satisfied if you had seen the state the poor little fellow was in when he was brought home,” replied Mrs. Eldon. “You would have thought him quite punished enough. She will not be so hard-hearted by and by, Mary, when she has children of her own,” continued Mrs. Eldon, smiling.

But Sarah was far from satisfied, and was disposed to contend the point, when her sister, rising, said,

“It is time for me to be going home. Is there any thing you want, or that I can do for you?”

“Nothing,” replied Sarah.

“Without,” said Mary, laughing, “you will give Georgey a whipping as soon as you get home. Now acknowledge, Sarah, that you would feel better if Mrs. Eldon would promise to act upon the suggestion.”

“I think Georgey would be the better, if I am not,” replied Sarah. “It is of great importance that he learns early that no misdemeanor will be overlooked.”

“When I can prevent the recurrence of a fault, I am satisfied,” replied Mrs. Eldon.

But Sarah was not. She was always for punishing the past, whether it had reference to the future or not.

Her sister bade her good morning, and Sarah remarking that “Charlotte would ruin her children if she persisted in her present system,” the subject dropped, and the friends soon after parted.

“Do you think Sarah will ever marry, Mrs. Eldon?” Mary asked one day; to which she replied,

“No, Mary, I fear she never will. Sarah, from having been placed so young, I suppose, at the head of my father’s house, has acquired an independence both of manner and temper, that, I think, will prevent her marrying. With her quick insight into character, and satirical turn of mind, too, she is not easily interested,” and, Mrs. Eldon might have added, was not interesting; for Sarah was now two-and-twenty, and never had had a lover, nor any thing that approached to one.

She was not handsome, and had no charm of manner that supplied the attraction of beauty. It is true she had more mind and information than usually falls to the lot of women, but though she often amused, she never won. She was upright, true, sincere, but there was a hardness in her uprightness, a brusquerie in her truths, and a downrightness in her sincerity, that rendered them any thing but attractive; and, in fact, she was not popular, and never had been admired. The few young men who from time to time visited at her father’s house she ridiculed without mercy, and Mrs. Eldon soon gave up all hope of ever seeing her married. She consoled herself for the fact by saying that Sarah was one of the few women to whose happiness it was not necessary, and that though with her strong mind and active habits she would have made an admirable head of a family, yet, as it was, she would probably become what is termed a “society woman,” and as such be a most useful member of the community. And, in fact, she seemed gradually falling into the course her sister had in her own mind marked out for her. There was so much good sense in all her views, and so much efficiency in carrying them out, that when once she fell into the class just indicated, she was found too useful to be readily relinquished. Nor was the occupation distasteful to her. Her high sense of duty forbade her living for her own pursuits alone, and watching over the poor, and correcting the idle, and directing and dictating generally, suited not less with her tastes than her principles. It was wonderful how much good she did, and how little gratitude she got for it. No one detected an impostor as quickly as she did, and all doubtful and difficult cases were turned over to her management, and every department that fell to her share was directed with vigilance and understanding, but at the same time many of her poor feared, and some of them hated her. She relieved their necessities while she scolded their recklessness, and most of them, as she turned away, said with bitterness, “that she was a _hard_ lady,” while they blessed Mary’s bonny face when she accompanied her, and never failed to call her “a sweet spoken young lady,” for though she seldom went among them, and gave little, she listened kindly, and felt for their trials and distresses. The difference was, that Sarah’s charity was that of principle, Mary’s of feeling, and to the latter the poor and ignorant always respond, while they shrink from the former.

“Sarah,” said Mary one day, with some embarrassment, “I have a secret to tell you.”

“A secret,” said Sarah, “well, what is it?”

Mary colored as she answered, “Perhaps it may surprise you, and yet it seems to me you must half suspect it.”

“I am sure I do not know what you mean,” replied Sarah, “but if it is a long story give me that flannel petticoat I was making. There,” said she, threading her needle, “begin, I am ready.”

But it did not seem so easy to begin as Sarah supposed, for Mary cleared her throat and then said with an effort,

“I am going to be married.”

“You!” exclaimed Sarah, with extreme surprise. “Why, who to?”

“Oh, Sarah!” said Mary with some disappointment, “how can you ask? To Frank Ludlow, to be sure.”

“To Frank Ludlow!” repeated Sarah.

“Yes; you suspected it before, did you not?”

“Not I, indeed,” replied Sarah, so decidedly that Mary saw the surprise was perfect. “I have noticed that he was attentive to you, but I never dreamt of your liking him.”

“And why not?” asked Mary, not without a little mortification.

“Oh! I don’t know,” answered Sarah carelessly. Her manner seemed to imply that she saw nothing in Frank Ludlow to like particularly.

“You are not pleased,” said Mary presently, in a low voice. “I hope you don’t dislike Frank, Sarah?”

“Who! I dislike him?” said Sarah, looking up from her sewing with surprise. “Not at all. I don’t care about him either one way or the other. But that is not the point in question. If you are in love with him, that is enough, provided,” she added with a smile, “you do not require all your friends to be the same.”

Mary smiled faintly as she said, “Oh no!” for there was something in Sarah’s manner that disappointed and chilled her. She made an effort to say something about her long knowledge of his character and principles, to which Sarah replied,

“I dare say he is a very nice young man, Mary,” while she inwardly wondered what Mary could see in him, to think him worth all the sacrifices she must make if she married him.

Mary could say no more. There was something so slighting in the phrase “nice young man,” and it was so evident that Sarah did not think much of him, that her spirits sunk, and she soon after left her friend, more dejected than she had been since her engagement had taken place.

Mary soon after married, and Sarah was left more to herself and her independent ways than ever, and what with her societies and Sunday-schools, and the many occupations she contrived to make for herself, time rolled quietly on, and Sarah continued very much fulfilling the destiny her sister had long since predicted would be her fate.

“Charlotte,” said Mr. Eldon to his wife one day about this time, “what is Allen doing forever at your father’s? It seems to me that I never go there that I do not meet him.”

“I don’t know,” answered Mrs. Eldon carelessly. “Yet, now that you speak of it, I remember that he is there a good deal. He is such a quiet, silent person that one sees him without thinking of him. I wonder what does take him there. I suppose it is a habit he has fallen into. You know young men will sometimes visit at a house without any particular object.”

“That may be,” replied her husband, “but I do not think it is so in the present instance. I think Allen admires Sarah.”

“Do you?” said his wife with surprise, for the idea of Sarah’s exciting particular admiration was new to her. “I should be sorry for him if it were so,” she added.

“Why so?” inquired Mr. Eldon.

“Because,” she replied, “he seems an amiable young man, and I should be sorry for his disappointment.”

“But I am not so sure he will be disappointed,” pursued Mr. Eldon.

“My dear husband!” exclaimed Mrs. Eldon almost indignantly, “you surely do not suppose that Sarah would have a man so inferior to herself as Allen—he is a gentlemanly, amiable person, but decidedly weak.”

“Sarah would not be the first clever woman who has married a fool,” continued Mr. Eldon.

“But he must be younger than herself,” pursued Mrs. Eldon.

“About the same age, I imagine,” said her husband. “However, if the idea has not occurred to you before, look to it now. If I am not much mistaken, Sarah is interested in him. It would not be a bad match for her, though certainly not one we would have expected her to make.”

And, strange as it may seem, Mr. Eldon’s observations had not deceived him. Weak men generally admire clever women. Not having the capacity to entertain themselves, they like somebody who can do it for them. Sarah was now upon the point of doing what she had ridiculed others for all her life, viz., falling in love with one who was not her equal. She had often wondered before where the charm, where even the flattery could be, of the admiration of an inferior. But Sarah had reached her twenty-seventh year without even exciting that admiration, and consequently did not understand the charm, and it is wonderful what a difference the thing’s being personal makes in these matters. We often refuse with the utmost sincerity for our friends somebody who, perhaps, would be accepted for ourselves. So it proved with Sarah. She would not have hesitated had Mr. Allen proposed for Mary, but the case was changed when she found herself the object of his humble and devoted attentions, her sayings admired, her opinions adopted, her looks watched, as they had never been admired, adopted, or watched before. Flattery is certainly bewitching, and few can withstand genuine admiration. But when they come with the freshness of novelty, and the charm of unexpectedness, the head must be very sound, or the heart very cold that can altogether repel them. Sarah had abandoned herself to their influence before she was aware of it. She did not yield gracefully, however, nor without a struggle; and she had been engaged several weeks before she could summon courage to communicate the intelligence to Mrs. Eldon. It was in vain she repeated to herself that she “had only her own happiness to consult,” and that “she cared not what others said.” Her usual independence almost deserted her, and for the first time in her life she dreaded a smile, and shrank from hearing “plain English.”

“Dear, dear Sarah!” exclaimed Mrs. Ludlow, as she embraced her friend most affectionately, “how could you keep me so long in the dark? But I am come to congratulate, and not scold you. And now tell me all about it;” and the how, and the when, and the where, followed in quick succession, and was listened to with such animated interest and cordial sympathy, and all that Mary knew or thought, or had ever heard, that was favorable to Mr. Allen, was poured forth so kindly, that Sarah’s spirits rose, and, as she parted with her friend, she felt an elasticity and joyousness of heart that she had not experienced since her engagement.

“Heaven bless her kind nature!” said Sarah, with a degree of enthusiasm that was unusual to her; “I always feel better after I have been with her.”

Had the same observation ever been made on parting with Sarah? We doubt it.