True Riches: Wealth Without Wings

A few weeks subsequent to the occurrences mentioned in the last chapter, Leonard Jasper received a call from Mr. Melleville, in whose service Claire still remained.  The greeting of the two men was distant, yet courteous.  A few words on current topics passed between them, after which Mr. Melleville said—­

“I have called to ask you a question or two in regard to a child of the late Mr. Elder, to whom you are guardian.”

The blood came instantly to the face of Jasper, who was not prepared for this; and in spite of his struggle to seem self-possessed, his eyes sank under those of his visitor.  In a few moments, he recovered himself, and replied—­

“The child, you mean, who is boarding with Edward Claire?”

“The same.”  The eyes of Melleville were fixed on those of Jasper so steadily, that the latter wavered, and, finally, again dropped to the floor.

“Well, I am ready to hear any thing that you have to say.”  Jasper had thrown off, once more, the vague sense of coming evil that made him cower under the steady gaze of Melleville.

“I learn,” said the latter, “from Mr. Claire, that you refuse to pay any further sums for her maintenance.  Is the property left by her father, to which common report has affixed considerable value, exhausted, or”—­

“I have refused to pay him any further sums,” said Jasper, in a quick, excited voice, interrupting Mr. Melleville.  “Our contract, regularly entered into, has expired by limitation.  He was to have the care of her only until she reached her twelfth year.  Of this fact he is clearly advised, and I wonder at his pertinacity in endeavouring to retain the child, when he knows that I, her guardian, wish to have her in my own possession.”

“He has had her ever since she was a little child; and both he and his wife are now strongly attached to her.  In fact, she regards them as her parents; and their affection for her is not exceeded by their affection for their own children.  To separate them would be exceedingly painful to all parties.  As for the child, it would make her very unhappy.”

“I can’t help that, Mr. Melleville.”  Jasper spoke coldly.

“Under all the circumstances,” said Mr. Melleville, after a pause, speaking slowly, and with considerable emphasis in his words, “it is my opinion that you had better let the child remain where she is.”

“Why do you say so?” Jasper spoke with ill-concealed surprise; and the uneasy, suspicious manner, at first exhibited, returned.

“Claire regards the child as his own; and must so continue to regard her, even though taken out of his hands.”

“Well, what of that?”

“It is for you, Mr. Jasper,” was returned, “to determine for yourself, whether the surveillance of a man like Claire, who cannot now cease to feel a parent’s interest in your ward, will be altogether agreeable.”

“Surveillance!  What do you mean?  I don’t understand this language.  It looks like an effort to force me into measures.  Pray, what have I to fear from Edward Claire?”

“Sometimes,” replied Melleville, with a slow, meaning enunciation, “those we regard as most insignificant are the very ones we should most fear.”

“Fear!  Fear, Mr. Melleville!  You make use of strange language.”

“Perhaps I do,” was answered.  “And, as it seems unpleasant to you, I will say no more.  I did not mean, when I called, to speak just as I have done.  But, as the words have been uttered, I beg you to weigh them well, and to believe that they have a meaning.  Good morning.”

Jasper suppressed the utterance of the word “stay,” which arose to his lips, and returned the bow of Mr. Melleville, who left without further remark.

“What can this mean?” Thus mused Leonard Jasper, when alone.  “Can this scoundrel, Martin, have dropped a hint of the truth?” A slight shiver went through his nerves.  “Something is wrong.  There is suspicion in the thought of Melleville.  I didn’t look for trouble in this quarter.”

To his own unpleasant reflections we will leave the merchant, and return to Edward Claire and his true-minded, loving-hearted wife.

For a week or two after the former entered upon his new duties as assistant clerk in a night-auction, he experienced no serious inconvenience from his more prolonged labours, although it did not escape the watchful eyes of his wife that his complexion was losing its freshness, and that his appetite was far from being so good as before.  After this, he began to suffer oppressive weariness, that made the evening’s toil a daily increasing burden.  Then succeeded a feverish state, accompanied by pains in the head, back, and through the breast.  Edith remonstrated, even with tears; but still Claire went nightly to his task, though each successive evening found him with less and less ability for its performance.

At last, he came home from the store of Mr. Melleville, at the usual tea-time, feeling so unwell that he was forced to lie down.  He had no appetite for supper, and merely sipped part of a cup of tea brought to him by his wife as he still reclined upon the bed.

“Don’t get up,” said Edith, seeing her husband, after he had lain for some time, about to rise.

“I can’t lie here any longer; it’s nearly seven o’clock now.”

“You’re not going out to-night!”

“O yes; I must be at the store.  There is no one to take my place, and the sales will begin by the time I can get there.”

“But you are too sick to go out, Edward.”

“I feel much better than I did, Edith.  This little rest has refreshed me a great deal.”

“No—­no, Edward!  You must not go away,” said his wife in a distressed voice.  “You are sick now, and the extra exertion of an evening may throw you into a serious illness.”

“I feel a great deal better, dear,” urged Claire.  “But, sick or well, I must be there to-night, for the sale cannot go on without me.  If I do not feel better to-morrow, I will ask Mr. F——­ to get some one, temporarily, in my place.”

Still Edith opposed, but in vain.

By the time Claire arrived at the auction store, his head was throbbing with a pain so intense that he could scarcely see.  Still, he resolutely persevered in his determination to go through, if possible, with the duties of the evening; and so, taking his place at his desk, as the auctioneer went upon the stand to cry the goods which had been advertised for sale, he prepared to keep the usual record of purchasers and prices.  This he was able to do for half an hour, when overtaxed and exhausted nature could bear up no longer.

“Mr. Claire,” said the auctioneer, as he took in hand a new article, “did you make that last entry?—­Mr. Jackson, ten cents a yard.”

Claire’s head had fallen over on the book in which he had been writing, and the auctioneer, supposing him only yielding to a momentary feeling of fatigue, or indolence, thus called his attention to his duties.

But Claire made no answer.

“Say! young man!  Are you asleep!” The auctioneer spoke now with some sharpness of tone; but, as before, his words were not heeded.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Claire?  Are you sick?”

Still no response or movement.

“Mr. Claire!  Bless me!” The auctioneer was now by his side, with his hand on him.  “Bring some water, quick!  He’s fainted—­or is dead!  Here! some one help me to lay him down.”

Two or three men came quickly behind the auctioneer’s stand and assisted to lift the insensible man from the high stool on which he was seated, and place his body in a reclining position.  Then water was dashed into his face, and various other means of restoration used.  Full ten minutes passed before signs of returning life were exhibited.  His recovery was very slow, and it was nearly an hour before he was well enough to be removed to his dwelling.

The shock of his appearance, supported from the carriage in which he had been conveyed home, by two men, was terrible to his wife, whose anxiety and fear had wrought her feelings already up to a high pitch of excitement.

“Oh! what is the matter?  What has happened?” she cried, wringing her hands, while her face blanched to a deathly paleness.

“Don’t be frightened,” returned Claire, smiling feebly.  “It was only a slight fainting fit.  I’m over it now.”

“That’s all, madam,” said the men who had brought him home.  “He merely fainted.  Don’t be alarmed.  It’s all over.”

After receiving the thanks of Claire and his assurances that he needed nothing further from their kindness, the men retired, and Edward then made every effort in his power to calm down the feelings of his wife, who continued weeping.  This was no easy task, particularly as he was unable long to hide the many evidences of serious illness from which he was suffering.  Against his remonstrance, so soon as she saw how it was with him, Mrs. Claire sent off the domestic for their family physician; who on learning the causes which led to the condition in which he found his patient, hesitated not to say that he must, as he valued his life, give up the night tasks he had imposed upon himself.

“Other men,” said Claire, in answer to this, “devote quite as many hours to business.”

“All men are not alike in constitution,” returned the physician.  “And even the strongest do not make overdrafts upon the system, without finding, sooner or later, a deficit in their health-account.  As for you, nature has not given you the physical ability for great endurance.  You cannot overtask yourself without a derangement of machinery.”

How reluctantly, and with what a feeling of weakness, Claire acquiesced in this decision, the reader may imagine.

The morning found him something better, but not well enough to sit up.  Mrs. Claire had, by this time, recovered in a measure her calmness and confidence.  She had thought much, during the sleepless hours of the preceding night, and though the future was far from opening clearly to her straining vision, her mind rested in a well-assured confidence that all things would work together for their good.  She knew in whom she trusted.  On the Rock of Ages she had built the habitation where dwelt her higher hopes; and the storms of this world had no power to prevail against it.

How little dreamed gentle Fanny Elder—­or Fanny Claire, as she was called—­when she laid her cheek lovingly to that of her sick “father”—­she knew him by no other name—­and drew her arms around his neck, that he was suffering alone on her account.  In her unselfish love, Claire felt a sweet compensation—­while all he endured on her account had the effect to draw her, as it were, into his very heart.

As quickly as it could be done, Mrs. Claire got through with the most pressing of her morning duties, and then, the older children away to school, she came and sat down by her husband’s bedside, and took his hand in hers.  As he looked into her face, pale from sleeplessness and anxiety, tears filled his eyes.

“O, Edie!” said he, his voice tremulous with feeling, “isn’t this disheartening?  What are we to do?”

“He careth for us,” was the low, calmly spoken reply; and, as Edith lifted a finger upward, a ray of heavenly confidence beamed in her countenance.

“I know, Edie; I know, but”—­

The sick man left his sentence unfinished.  A heavy sigh marking his state of doubt and darkness.

“We must feel as well as know, Edward,” said his wife.  “God is good.  In looking back through all our past life, does not the retrospection lead to this undoubting conclusion?  I am sure you will say yes.  Has he not, in every case, proved better to us than all our fears?—­Why, then, should we distrust him now?  In the beautiful language of Cowper, let us say in these dark seasons—­

  ’Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
    But trust Him for His grace;
  Behind a frowning providence
    He hides a smiling face. 
  His purposes will ripen fast,
    Unfolding every hour;
  The bud may have a bitter taste,
    But sweet will be the flower.’

“Shall we doubt the sun’s existence, because the night has fallen?  No, dear husband, no!  There are bright stars smiling above us in token of his unerring return.  We know that the morning cometh after a season of darkness; and so, after our spirits have lingered awhile in the realm of shadows, the light will break in from above.  Has it not always been so, Edward?”

“He has led us by a way which we knew not.”

The sick man’s eyes were closed as he murmured these words; and his voice was slightly tremulous, yet expressive of a returning state of confidence.

“Yet, how safely,” replied Edith.  “When our feet were in slippery places, and we leaned on Him, did he not support us firmly? and when the mire and clay were deep in our path, did He not keep us from sinking therein?”

“He is goodness itself,” said Claire, a calmer expression coming into his face.  “It is wrong so to let doubt, distrust, and fear creep in and get possession of the heart; but, we are human—­weakness and error are born with us.  When the way in which we are walking is suddenly closed up before us, and we see the opening to no other way, how can we keep the faint heart from sinking?”

“Only as Peter was saved from sinking.  If we look to God, He will lift our hearts above the yielding billows.  If we stand still, hopefully and trustingly, the high mountain before us will become as a plain, so that we can walk on in a smooth way, joyful and rejoicing.”

“And so this high mountain, which has risen up so suddenly, will soon be cleft for us or levelled to a plain, if we wait patiently and confidingly for its removal?”

“Oh!  I am sure of it, Edward,” replied Mrs. Claire, with a beautiful enthusiasm.  “We are His creatures, and He loves us with an infinite love.  When his children are disposed to trust too much to the arm of flesh, He sometimes shows them their weakness in order that they may feel His strength.  Faithfully and unselfishly, my husband, have you tried to meet the suddenly increased demand upon us:  and this out of love for one of God’s children.  In the trial, weakness has prevailed over strength.  Suddenly your hands have fallen to your side powerless.  God saw it all; and permitted it all; and, in His own good time, will supply, from other sources, all that is really needed.  We have the promise—­our bread shall be given, and our water sure—­not only the natural food that sustains outward life, but the true bread of heavenly affections, and the waters of pure truth, which nourish and sustain the spirit.”

Edith ceased speaking.  Her husband did not make an immediate reply; but lay pondering her words, and letting his thoughts expand their wings in the purer atmosphere into which she had lifted him.

After that they conversed together hopefully of the future; not that they saw the way more clearly before them, but heavenly confidence had taken the place of human distrust.

It was, perhaps, eleven o’clock in the day—­the doctor had been there, and pronounced the condition of his patient favourable, but enjoined quiet and prolonged rest from either bodily or mental exertion—­and the mind of Claire was beginning to run again in a slightly troubled channel.

“Here is a letter for you,” said his wife, coming into the room, after a brief absence.  “A young man just left it at the door.”

Claire took the letter, wondering as he did so who it could be from.  On breaking the seal, and unfolding it, he was greatly surprised to find within a check to his order for one hundred and fifty dollars, signed Leonard Jasper; and still more surprised to read the accompanying note, which was in these words: 

“Enclosed you will find one hundred and fifty dollars, the sum due you for Fanny Elder’s maintenance during the past and current quarter.  When convenient, I should be glad to see you.  Seeing that the child has remained with you so long, I don’t know that it will be advisable to make a change now, although I had other views in regard to her.  However, when you call, we can settle matters in regard to her definitively.”

“Better to us than all our fears,” murmured Claire, as he handed the letter to his wife, who read it with a truly thankful heart.

“Our way is smooth once more,” she said, smiling through outpressing tears—­“the mountain has become a level plain.  All the dark clouds have been swept from our sky, and the sun is shining even more brightly than of old.”

It was more than a week before Claire was sufficiently recovered to go out and attend to business as usual.  At the first opportunity, he called upon Mr. Jasper, who received him with marked kindness of manner.

“I do not, now,” said the merchant, “entertain the same views in regard to my ward that I did some time ago.  Your opposition to my wishes then, fretted me a good deal; and I made up my mind, decisively, that so soon as she was twelve years of age, you must give her up.  It was from this feeling that I acted when I refused to pay your last order.  Since then, I have reflected a good deal on the subject; and reflection has modified, considerably, my feelings.  I can understand how strong must be the attachment of both yourself and wife, and how painful the thought of separation from a long-cherished object of affection.”

“The dread of separation, Mr. Jasper,” replied Claire, “has haunted us during the last two years like an evil spirit.”

“It need haunt you no more, Edward,” was the kindly spoken reply.  “If you still wish to retain the care of this child, you are free to do so.”

“You have taken a mountain from my heart, Mr. Jasper,” was the young man’s feeling response.

“It is settled, then, Edward, that she remains with you.  And now I must say a word about her education.  I wish that to be thorough.  She must have good advantages; better than the sum now paid for her maintenance will procure.”

Claire made no reply, and Jasper continued—­

“I have this to propose.  The bulk of property left by her father is contained in two moderate-sized houses, one of which is at this time without a tenant.  It is a very comfortable house for a small family.  Just the thing, I should say, for you.  If you will move into this house, you shall have it rent free, as a set-off to the increased charge Fanny will be to you in future.  The three hundred per annum will be paid as usual.  How will that do?”

“The compensation, I think, will be greater than the service,” replied Claire.

“Not at all.  During the next five or six years, or until she gains her majority, you will find the cost of clothing and education a constantly increasing sum.  I know more about these things than you do.  And I am very sure, since I understand your relation to her, that twice this expenditure, could not gain for her what she will have while in your care.  As her guardian, I feel it my duty to provide liberally for her comfort and education, and to this you, of course, can have nothing to object.”

And Claire did not object.  In a few weeks from that time he removed into one of the houses mentioned by Jasper—­a larger and far more comfortable one than that in which he had lived for several years.  Here, with a thankful heart, he gathered his wife and children around him.  How happy they all were!  Not selfishly happy—­if such contradictory terms may be used—­but happy in the warmth of mutual love.  A heaven on earth was this little household.  Shall we contrast it with that of Leonard Jasper?  No!—­the opposite picture would leave upon the reader’s mind too sad an impression; and we will not burden this chapter with another shadow.