Finger Posts on the Way of Life

"My brother said well," he murmured, as a ray of light fell suddenly on the darkness of his spirit: "Contentment is better than wealth. Dear brother! Dear old home! Sweet Ellen! Ah, why did I leave you? Too late! too late! A cup, full of the wine of life, was at my lips; but I turned my head away, asking for a more fiery and exciting draught. How vividly comes before me now that parting scene! I am looking into my brother's face. I feel the tight grasp of his hand. His voice is in my ears. Dear brother! And his parting words, I hear them now, even more earnestly than when they were first spoken:—'Should fortune cheat you with the apples of Sodom, return to your home again. Its doors will ever be open, and its hearth-fires bright for you as of old.' Ah! do the fires still burn? How many years have passed since I went forth! And Ellen? But I dare not think of her. It is too late—too late! Even if she be living and unchanged in her affections, I can never lay this false heart at her feet. Her look of love would smite me as with a whip of scorpions."

The step of time had fallen so lightly on the flowery path of those to whom contentment was a higher boon than wealth, that few footmarks were visible. Yet there had been changes in the old homestead. As the smiling years went by, each, as it looked in at the cottage-window, saw the home circle widening, or new beauty crowning the angel brows of happy children. No thorn in his side had Robert's gentle wife proved. As time passed on, closer and closer was she drawn to his bosom; yet never a point had pierced him. Their home was a type of paradise.

It is near the close of a summer day. The evening meal is spread, and they are about gathering around the table, when a stranger enters. His words are vague and brief, his manner singular, his air slightly mysterious. Furtive, yet eager glances go from face to face.

"Are these all your children?" he asks, surprise and admiration mingling in his tones.

"All ours. And, thank God! the little flock is yet unbroken."

The stranger averts his face. He is disturbed by emotions that it is impossible to conceal.

"Contentment is better than wealth," he murmurs. "Oh that I had earlier comprehended this truth!"

The words were not meant for others; but the utterance had been too distinct. They have reached the ears of Robert, who instantly recognises in the stranger his long wandering, long mourned brother.

"William!"

The stranger is on his feet. A moment or two the brothers stand gazing at each other, then tenderly embrace.

"William!"

How the stranger starts and trembles! He had not seen, in the quiet maiden, moving among and ministering to the children so unobtrusively, the one he had parted from years before—the one to whom he had been so false. But her voice has startled his ears with the familiar tones of yesterday.

"Ellen!" Here is an instant oblivion of all the intervening years. He has leaped back over the gloomy gulf, and stands now as he stood ere ambition and lust for gold lured him away from the side of his first and only love. It is well both for him and the faithful maiden that he can so forget the past as to take her in his arms and clasp her almost wildly to his heart. But for this, conscious shame would have betrayed his deeply repented perfidy.

And here we leave them, reader. "Contentment is better than wealth." So the wordling proved, after a bitter experience—which may you be spared! It is far better to realize a truth perceptively, and thence make it a rule of action, than to prove its verity in a life of sharp agony. But how few are able to rise into such a realization!

MATCH-MAKING

"YOU are a sly girl, Mary."

"Not by general reputation, I believe, Mrs. Martindale."

"Oh no. Every one thinks you a little paragon of propriety. But I can see as deep as most people."

"You might as well talk in High Dutch to me, Mrs. Martindale. You would be equally intelligible."

"You are a very innocent girl, Mary."

"I hope I am. Certainly I am not conscious of wishing harm to any one. But pray, Mrs. Martindale, oblige me by coming a little nearer to the point."

"You don't remember any thing about Mrs. Allenson's party—of course?"

"It would be strange if I did not."

"Oh yes. Now you begin to comprehend a little."

"Do speak out plainly, Mrs. Martindale!"

"So innocent! Ah me, Mary! you are a sly girl. You didn't see any thing of a young man there with dark eyes and hair, and a beautiful white, high forehead?"

"If there was an individual there, answering to your description, it is highly probable that I did see him. But what then?"

"Oh, nothing, of course!"

"You are trifling with me, Mrs. Martindale."

"Seriously, then, Mary, I was very much pleased to notice the attentions shown you by Mr. Fenwick, and more pleased at seeing how much those attentions appeared to gratify you. He is a young man in a thousand."

"I am sure I saw nothing very particular in his attentions to me; and I am very certain that I was also more gratified at the attentions shown by him, than I was by those of other young men present."

"Of course not."

"You seem to doubt my word?"

"Oh no—I don't doubt your word. But on these subjects young ladies feel themselves privileged to—to"–

"To what, Mrs. Martindale?"

"Nothing—only. But don't you think Mr. Fenwick a charming young man?"

"I didn't perceive any thing very remarkable about him."

"He did about you. I saw that, clearly."

"How can you talk so to me, Mrs. Martindale?"

"Oh la! Do hear the girl! Did you never have a beau, Mary?"

"Yes, many a one. What of it?"

"And a lover too?"

"I know nothing about lovers."

As Mary Lester said this, her heart made a fluttering bound, and an emotion, new and strange, but sweet, swelled and trembled in her bosom.

"But you soon will, Mary, or I'm mistaken."

Mrs. Martindale saw the cheek of the fair girl kindle, and her eye brighten, and she said to herself, with an inward smile of satisfaction—

"I'll make a match of it yet—see if I don't! What a beautiful couple they will be!"

Mrs. Martindale was one of that singular class of elderly ladies whose chief delight consists in match-making. Many and many a couple had she brought together in her time, and she lived in the pleasing hope of seeing many more united. It was a remarkable fact, however, that in nearly every instance where her kind offices had been interposed, the result had not been the very happiest in the world. This fact, however, never seemed to strike her. The one great end of her life was to get people together—to pair them off. Whether they jogged on harmoniously together, or pulled separate ways, was no concern of hers. Her business was to make the matches. As to living in harmony, or the opposite, that concerned the couples themselves, and to that they must look themselves. It was enough for her to make the matches, without being obliged to accord the dispositions.

As in every thing else, practice makes perfect, so in this occupation, practice gave to Mrs. Martindale great skill in discerning character—at least, of such character as she could operate on. And she could, moreover, tell the progressive states of mind of those upon whom she exercised her kind offices, almost as truly as if she heard them expressed in words. It was, therefore, clear to her, after her first essay, that Mary Lester's affections might very easily be brought out and made to linger about the young man whom she had, in her wisdom, chosen as her husband. As Mary was a very sweet girl, and, moreover, had a father well to do in the world, she had no fears about interesting Mr. Fenwick in her favour.

Only a few days passed before Mrs. Martindale managed to throw herself into the company of the young man.

"How were you pleased with the party, Mr. Fenwick?" she began.

"At Mrs. Allenson's?"

"Yes."

"Very much."

"So I thought."

"Did I seem, then, particularly pleased?"

"I thought so."

"Indeed! Well, I can't say that I was interested a great deal more than I usually am on such occasions."

"Not a great deal more?"

"No, I certainly was not."

"But a little more?"

"Perhaps I was; but I cannot be positive."

"Oh yes. I know it. And I'm of the opinion that you were not the only person there who was interested a little more than usual."

"Ah, indeed! And who was the other, pray?"

"A dear little girl, whom I could mention."

"Who was she?"

"The sweetest young lady in the room."

"Well, what was her name?"

"Can't you guess?"

"I am not good at guessing."

"Try."

"Mary Lester?"

"Of course! Ha! ha! ha! I knew it."

"Knew what?"

"Oh yes, Mr. Innocence! Knew what!"

"You are disposed to be quite merry, Mrs. Martindale."

"I always feel merry when I see a young couple like you and Mary Lester mutually pleased with each other."

"Mutually pleased?"

"Of course, mutually pleased."

"How do you know that, Mrs. Martindale?"

"Haven't I got a good pair of eyes in my head?"

"Very good, I should certainly think, to make such a wonderful discovery."

"Seriously, though, Mr. Fenwick, do you not think Mary Lester a very sweet girl?"

"Certainly I do."

"And just such a one as you could love?"

"Any one, it seems to me, might love Mary Lester; but then, it is just as apparent that she could not love any one who might chance to offer."

"Of course not. And I should be very sorry to think that she could. But of one thing I am certain, she cannot look upon you with unfavourable eyes."

"Mrs. Martindale!"

"I am in earnest, Mr. Fenwick."

"What reason have you for thinking so?"

"Very good reason. I had my eyes on you both at Mrs. Allenson's party, and I saw as plain as could be that Mary was deeply interested. Since then, I have met her, and observed her eye brighten and her cheek kindle at the mention of your name. Mr. Fenwick, she is a prize well worth winning, and may be yours."

"Are you, then, really serious?" the young man now said, his tone and manner changing.

"Assuredly I am, Mr. Fenwick."

"Mary Lester, you know, moves in a circle above my own; that is, her father is accounted rich, and I am known to have nothing but my own energies to depend upon."

"All that is nothing. Win her affections, and she must be yours."

"But I am not so certain that I can do that."

"Nonsense! It is half done already."

"You seem very positive about the matter."

"Because I am never mistaken on these subjects. I can tell, the moment I see a young couple together, whether they will suit each other or not."

"And you think, then, that we will just suit?"

"Certainly I do."

"I only wish that I could think so."

"Do you, indeed? I am glad to hear you say that. I thought you could not be insensible to the charms of so sweet a girl."

"Do you, then, really believe that if I offered myself to Mary Lester, she would accept me?"

"If you went the right way about it, I am sure she would."

"What do you mean by the right way?"

"The right way for you, of course, is to endeavour to win her affections. She is already, I can see, strongly prepossessed in your favour, but is not herself aware to what extent her feelings are interested. Throw yourself into her company as much as you can, and when in her company pay her the kindest attentions. But do not visit her at her own house at present, or her father may crush the whole affair. When I see her again, I will drop a word in your favour."

"I am certainly very much indebted to you, Mrs. Martindale, for your kind hints and promised interference. I have often felt drawn toward Mary, but always checked the feeling, because I had no idea that I, could make an impression on her mind."

"Faint heart never won fair lady," was Mrs. Martindale's encouraging response.

"Well, Mary," said the lady to Miss Lester, a few days afterward, "have you seen Mr. Fenwick since?"

"Mr. Fenwick!" said she, in tones of affected surprise.

"Yes, Mr. Fenwick."

"No—of course not. Why do you ask so strange a question? He does not visit me."

"Don't he? Well, I have seen him."

"Have you? Then I hope you were very much delighted with his company, for he seems to be a favourite of yours."

"He certainly is a favourite of mine, Mary. I have known him for a good many years, and have always esteemed him highly. There are few young men who can claim to be his equal."

"I doubt not but there are hundreds to be met with every day as good as he."

"Perhaps so, Mary. I have not, however, been so fortunate as to come across them."

"No doubt he is a paragon!"

"Whether he be one or not, he at least thinks there is no one like you."

"Like me!" ejaculated Mary, taken thus suddenly by surprise, while the colour mounted to her face, and deepened about her eyes and forehead.

"Yes, like you. The fact is, Mary, he thinks and speaks of you in the kindest terms. You have evidently interested him very much."

"I certainly never intended to do so, Mrs. Martindale."

"Of course not, Mary. I never supposed for a moment that you had. Still he is interested, and deeply so."

Having ventured thus far, Mrs. Martindale deemed it prudent to say no more for the present, but to leave her insinuations to work upon Mary's heart what they were designed to effect. She was satisfied that all was as she could wish—that both Fenwick and Mary were interested in each other; and she knew enough of the human heart, and of her own power over it, when exercised in a certain way, to know that it would not be long before they were much more deeply interested.

Like all the rest of Mrs. Martindale's selections of parties for matrimony, the present was a very injudicious one. Mary was only seventeen—too young, by three or four years, to be able properly to judge of character; and Fenwick was by no means a suitable man for her husband. He was himself only about twenty-one, with a character not yet fully decided, though the different constituents of his mind were just ready to take their various positions, and fixed and distinctive forms. Unfortunately, these mental and moral relations were not truly balanced; there was an evident bias of selfishness and evil over generous and true principles. As Mrs. Martindale was no profound judge of character, she could not, of course, make a true discrimination of Fenwick's moral fitness for the husband of Mary Lester. Indeed, she never attempted to analyze character, nor had she an idea of any thing beneath the surface. Personal appearance, an affable exterior, and a little flattery of herself, were the three things which, in her estimation, went to make up a perfect character—were enough to constitute the beau ideal of a husband for any one.

Mary's father was a merchant of considerable wealth and standing in society, and possessing high-toned feelings and principles. Mary was his oldest child. He loved her tenderly, and, moreover, felt all a parent's pride in one so young, so lovely, and so innocent.

Fenwick had, until within a few months, been a clerk in a retail dry-goods store, at a very small salary. A calculating, but not too honest a wholesale dealer in the same line, desirous of getting rid of a large stock of unsaleable goods, proposed to the young man to set him up in business—a proposition which was instantly accepted. The credit thus furnished to Fenwick was an inducement for others to sell to him; and so, without a single dollar of capital, he obtained a store full of goods. The scheme of the individual who had thus induced him to venture upon a troubled and uncertain sea, was to get paid fair prices for his own depreciated goods out of Fenwick's first sales, and then gradually to withdraw his support, compelling him to buy of other jobbing houses, until his indebtedness to him would be but nominal. He was very well assured that the young merchant could not stand it over a year or two, and for that length of time only by a system of borrowing and accommodations; but as to the result he cared nothing, so that he effected a good sale of a bad stock.

Notwithstanding such an unpromising condition of his affairs, even if fully known to Mr. Lester, that gentleman would not have strongly opposed a union of his daughter with Mr. Fenwick, had he been a man of strong mind, intelligence, energy, and high-toned principles—for he was philosopher enough to know that these will elevate a man under any circumstances. But Fenwick had no decided points in his character. He had limited intelligence, and no energy arising from clear perceptions and strong resolutions. He was a man fit to captivate a young and innocent girl, but not to hold the affection of a generous-minded woman.

In the natural order of events, such a circumstance as a marriage union between the daughter of Mr. Lester, and an individual like Fenwick, was not at all likely to occur. But a meddlesome woman, who, by the accident of circumstances, had found free access to the family of Mr. Lester, set herself seriously at work to interfere with the orderly course of things, and effect a conjunction between two in no way fitted for each other, either in external circumstances or similarity of character. But let us trace the progress of this artificial passion, fanned into a blaze by the officious Mrs. Martindale. After having agitated the heart of Mary with the idea of being beloved, while she coolly calculated its effects upon her, the match-monger sought an early opportunity for another interview with Fenwick.

"I have seen Mary since we last met," she said.

"Well, do you think I have any thing to hope?"

"Certainly I do. I mentioned your name to her on purpose, and I could see that the heart of the dear little thing began to flutter at the very sound; and when I bantered her, she blushed, and was all confusion."

"When shall I be able to meet her again?"

"Next week, I think. There is to be a party at Mrs. Cameron's and as I am a particular friend of the family, I will endeavour to get you an invitation."

"Mary is to be there, of course?"

"Certainly."

"Are you sure that you can get me invited?"

"Yes, I think so. Mrs. Cameron, it is true, has some exclusive notions of her own; but I have no doubt of being able to remove them."

"Try, by all means."

"You may depend on me for that," was Mrs. Martindale's encouraging reply.

The evening of Mrs. Cameron's party soon came around. Mrs. Martindale had been as good as her word, and managed to get Fenwick invited, although he had never in his life met either Mr. or Mrs. Cameron. But he had no delicate and manly scruples on the subject. All he desired was to get invited; the way in which it was done was of no consequence to him.

Mary Lester was seated by the side of her interested friend when the young man entered. Her heart gave a quick bound as she saw him come in, while a pleasant thrill pervaded her bosom. He at once advanced toward them, while Mrs. Martindale rose, and after receiving him with her blandest manner, presented him to Mary, so as to give him an opportunity for being in her society at once. Both were, as might very naturally be supposed, a good deal embarrassed, for each was conscious that now a new relation existed between them. This their very kind friend observed, and with much tact introduced subjects of conversation, until she had paved the way, for a freer intercourse, and then she left them alone for a brief period, not, however, without carefully observing them, to see how they "got along together," as she mentally expressed it.

She had little cause for further concern on this account, for Fenwick had a smooth and ready tongue in his head, and five years behind the counter of a retail dealer had taught him how to use it. Instead of finding it necessary to prompt them, the wily Mrs. Martindale soon discovered that her kind offices were needed to restrain them a little, lest the evidence of their being too well pleased with each other should be discovered by the company.

Two or three interviews more were all that were needed to bring about a declaration from the young man. Previous to his taking this step, however, Mrs. Martindale had fully prepared Mary's mind for it.

"You own to me, Mary," said she, during one of the many conversations now held with her on the subject of Fenwick's attentions, "that you love him?"

"I do, Mrs. Martindale," the young lady replied, in a tone half sad, leaning at the same time upon the shoulder of her friend. "But I am conscious that I have been wrong in permitting my affections to become so much interested without having consulted my mother."

"It will never do for you to consult her now, Mary, for she does not know Mr. Fenwick as you and I know him. She will judge of him, as will your father, from appearances, and forbid you to keep his company."

"I am sure that such will be the case, and you cannot tell how it troubles me. From childhood up I have been taught to confide in them, and, except in this thing, have never once deceived them. The idea of doing so now, is one that gives me constant pain. I feel that I have not acted wisely in this matter."

"Nonsense, Mary! Parents never think with their children in these matters. It would make no odds whom you happened to love, they would most certainly oppose you. I never yet knew a young lady whose parents fully approved her choice of a husband."

"I feel very certain that mine will not approve my choice; and I cannot bear the idea of their displeasure. Sometimes I feel half determined to tell them all, let the consequences be what they may."

"Oh no, no, Mary! not for the world. They would no doubt take steps to prevent your again meeting each other."

"What, then, shall I do, Mrs. Martindale?"

"See Mr. Fenwick whenever an opportunity offers, and leave the rest to me. I will advise you when and how to act."

The almost involuntary admissions made by Mary in this conversation, were at once conveyed to the ears of Fenwick, who soon sought an opportunity openly to declare his love. Of course, his suit was not rejected. Thus, under the advice and direction of a most injudicious woman, who had betrayed the confidence placed in her, was a young girl, unacquainted with life, innocent and unsuspicious, wooed and won, and her parents wholly ignorant of the circumstance.

Thoughts of marriage follow quickly a declaration of love. Once with the prize in view, Fenwick was eager to have it wholly in his possession. Mrs. Martindale was, of course, the mutual friend and adviser, and she urged an immediate clandestine marriage. For many weeks Mary resisted the persuasions of both. Fenwick and Mrs. Martindale; but at last, in a state of half distraction of mind, she consented to secretly leave her father's house, and throw herself upon the protection of one she had not known for six months, and of whose true character she had no certain knowledge.

"Mary is out a great deal of late, it seems to me," Mr. Lester remarked, as he sat alone with his wife one evening about ten o'clock.

"So I was just thinking. There is, scarcely an evening now in the week that she has not an engagement somewhere."

"I cannot say that I much approve of such a course myself. There is always danger of a girl, just at Mary's age, forming injudicious preferences for young men, if she be thrown much into their company, unattended by a proper adviser."

"Mrs. Martindale is very fond of Mary, and I believe is with her a good deal."

"Mrs. Martindale? Humph! Do you know that I have no great confidence in that woman?"

"Why?"

"Have you forgotten the hand she had in bringing about that most unfortunate marriage of Caroline Howell?"

"I had almost forgotten it. Or, rather, I never paid much attention to the rumour in regard to her interference in the matter; because, you know, people will talk."

"And to some purpose, often; at least, I am persuaded that there is truth in all that is alleged in this instance. And now that my thoughts begin to run in this way, I do really feel concerned lest the reason of Mary's frequent absence of late, in company with Mrs. Martindale, has some reference to a matter of this kind. Have you not observed some change in her of late?"

"She has not been very cheerful for the last two or three months."