CHAPTER XII.
FORTUNE STILL PROPITIOUS.
But the happy termination of his visit to the Mortons, was not the only high favor Edgar was that morning destined to receive from the hands of capricious fortune. Scarcely had he proceeded half a dozen squares, when, as chance would have it, he met with Dudley. "The very person I desired to see," said the latter, with a cordial shake of the hand. "I was even now on my way to your dwelling." "Happily met, then," replied Edgar, "for I am homeward bound;" and joining arms, the two proceeded on their way. After some casual remarks, on unimportant topics, Dudley said: "Pardon me, Mr. Courtly—but may I inquire how you succeeded in the matter you had in view when last I saw you, as regards pecuniary recompense?" "It proved an entire failure," answered Edgar. "Then, my friend, if you will allow me so to call you, I am both grieved and rejoiced at the same time—grieved, that you should have been disappointed—rejoiced, that I have it in my power to assist you. Since I saw you, I have thought of you much, and of your sister also, and have puzzled my brain no little as to how I could be of service to you and not wound your sensitive feelings. Now the case is this: one of my warmest friends is a young man named Clarence Malcolm, who is rich in this world's goods, and, what is perhaps somewhat rare, as benevolent as he is wealthy. All that I know is known to him, and vice versa, for our minds are as one mind, and consequently your history has been stated to him exactly as to myself. The result is, that he desires me to beg you will accept this as a loan, until such time as you may feel yourself able to return it without the least inconvenience." As he spoke, Dudley extended to Edgar a small purse of gold, which the latter gently waved back, saying: "Be so kind as to return Clarence Malcolm, whom I have never seen, my warmest thanks, and tell him I do not feel myself in a condition at present to borrow, even on his own generous terms. I have already refused a kind offer this morning, simply because my pride revolted at the idea of taking money to which I had no claim. I have never borrowed but once, and then most stern necessity forced me against my will. Let me have a chance to return an equivalent in the shape of la bor, either mentally or physically, and I will accept the money with pleasure—but on no other conditions." Dudley seemed both pleased and displeased at this answer. "I admire both your spirit and principle," he said, after musing a short time; "but still would be better satisfied to have you accept my offer without farther parley. To speak candidly, I think you a little too scrupulous—though if placed in your situation, I should, in all probability, do precisely the same; and this, by the way, happily illustrates the principle, that we often preach what we never practice. You spoke of mental labor—am I to understand you compose?" "I have done a trifle in that way," answered Edgar, modestly, "though nothing worthy of notice." "Indeed!" exclaimed the other, brightening with a new thought; "I am pleased to learn you write at all. Poetry or prose?" "The former has been my choice, and consequently most of my execution, though the latter has come in for a trifling share." "Have you ever published?" "Never." "And why?" "Because my productions are unworthy." "And for the very reason you think so, I will wager they are worthy some of our best poets. True merit, friend Edgar, is always modest, for it requires no ordinary talent to perceive our own defects. By the way, would you like to see your productions in print?" "Why," hesitated Edgar, "if of sufficient merit." "I will venture that, and yet have never seen a line from your pen. Come, I will bargain with you. Will you sell what poems you have on hand?" "But they are worthless, I tell you." "That is not answering my question. Will you sell! Come, do not hesitate! I have a speculation in view, of which I will tell you nothing now, save that to complete it I must purchase your poems. Come, what say you? I will give a hundred dollars for what you have on hand." "You flatter me, Mr. Dudley," returned Edgar, somewhat staggered at the offer; "but really, I cannot take such advantage of your generosity." "Never look for generosity in a bargain, Mr. Courtly; for both buyer and seller, considering their shrewdness at stake, will give nothing then, lest the one boast of his cunning in overreaching the other. In a gift there is generosity—but none in a trade; so set your mind at rest on that score, and consider whether you are willing to take the paltry sum of a hundred dollars for your productions. Of one thing rest assured—that I have an object in buying, and that I, for one, shall be perfectly satisfied, provided you think I have not underpaid you. Say, is it a bargain?—or shall I give more?" "Why, since you press me," replied Edgar, "and since I so sorely need the money, they are yours, on condition you find them not so good as you expected, you will consider yourself under no obligation to take them." "I accept your offer," returned Dudley, with a gleam of delight. "Now, at least," he added, mentally, "I have the means of forcing money upon him without wounding his sensitive feelings." Then he continued aloud: "By-the-by, how would you like to take charge of a magazine or newspaper?" "Were I deemed competent, and the proposition had been made me a few hours ago, nothing would have pleased me better," answered Edgar; "but now I hold myself partially engaged to Calvin Morton." "Indeed!" exclaimed Dudley, in a tone of surprise. "If to read law, you are most fortunate; for he stands the very first in his profession; and is, besides, a gentleman of the right school." "You know him, then?" "Better than I know you." "You seem in fact to know every one." You must bear in mind, I am a native of the city—have lived here all my days— have mingled no little in society, and consequently have been brought in contact with nearly all the old citizens. But tru ly, I am delighted at your prospects; for very few have the honor and good fortune to read law under the tuition of Calvin Morton. I am curious to know by what means you effected the arrangement." Edgar at once proceeded to narrate the circumstance which had led to this result. As he concluded, Dudley grasped his hand and shook it heartily. "Let me congratulate you," he said, "on a fortune in prospective; for you have put one under obligations who will never rest content till he has seen you on the high road to wealth and renown. Calvin Morton is a very singular man. He seldom forgives an injury or insult—he never forgets a favor, no matter how trivial.— With him there is no half way. He loves or he hates. Unlike what you represent your uncle, there is no dissembling. As a general thing, what he thinks he says, and what he says he means. And as to his daughter, the fair Edith, a sweeter creature does not live. What! blushing, eh! So, so—then you readily believe all I can say of her, I see. Well, I must repeat, I think you very, very fortunate.— Speaking of your uncle, reminds me that Clarence, who visits there occasionally, has promised to sift the matter, regarding what you told me, to the very bottom; and if he can prove he has acted basely, he will expose his hypocrasy, and hold him up to the scorn of all honest men." Conversing thus, Edgar and Dudley at last reached the abode of the former.— Virginia, as Edgar entered in advance of his friend, at once flew to embrace him; but on perceiving who followed, she paused, blushed, and in an embarrassed manner, while she timidly proffered her hand, said: "You have taken me by surprise, Mr. Dudley: I thought Edgar was alone." "Let me hope the surprise does not prove a disagreable one!" returned Dudley, carnestly, with a flushed countenance. "O, no, no!" rejoined Virginia, with sudden energy, looking full in the face of her guest; and then immediately added, letting her gaze sink modestly to the ground: "The friends of my brother are always welcome." "I trust," rejoined Dudley, in a low, bland tone, "I may be considered the friend of both!" Virginia, embarrassed, did not reply, though evidently desirous to do so, which Edgar perceiving, quickly came to her aid, by saying: "We are both proud, I assure you, Mr. Dudley, of your disinterested friendship— for disinterested it is, since we have all and you nothing to gain by it." "Ah, my dear friend, you mistake entirely," responded Dudley, with a smile, "in supposing there can be such a thing as disinterested friendship. Whatever gratifies, interests us; and where either our pride, vanity, sympathies, or more common place feelings are enlisted, we cannot be wholly disinterested. It is a prevalent idea, that when one performs a noble act and conceals it from the world, he does it through disinterested motives. But it is not so. His sel
f-approving conscience is his reward; and that kind of reward being what he seeks, and of more gratification to him than the world's applause, becomes the motive incentive to action. In friendship, especially, there is self to gratify on both sides; for where self is not enlisted, there can be no interest; where interest is wanting, there must be indifference; and where is indifference, there can be no friendship. We may call friendship disinterested, to distinguish it from the seeming friendship of base self-interest—which latter, in my opinion, is unworthy the ennobling name of the former—though even in the purest of the former, if we look into it closely, we shall find self the basis on which the fabric is reared. But I am running into a dissertation, where I only intended a simple explanation, and so will conclude ere I tax your patience too far." But on such and similar topics Edgar never wearied of conversing; and the two friends continued in a pleasant discussion for more than an hour, gradually passing from one subject to another, as each was suggested by a continuous train of ideas. Virginia, though for the most part silent, occasionally joined in and expressed her views, in a manner that both surprised and pleased her guest, who acknowledged to himself he had not before given her credit for-one half the mind she really possessed. Her remarks were ever terse, concise, and to the point; and what was still farther evidence of good judgement, were always well-timed; and Dudley, discovering all this with delight, could not but admire her and admit to himself she was one of the most lovely, intelligent and fascinating of her sex—certainly a great deal to be admitted by one who had seen so much of intellectual society, in favor of one he now beheld for the second time. And how was it with Virginia? She gazed upon the handsome countenance of Dudley, she listened to the full, rich melody of his voice, and marked the lofty and not unfrequently poetical and original sentiment which flowed from his lips, with feelings both new and strange to her— the while she took no note of Time, who, casting aside his glass and renewing his youth for the nonce, now flew by on the wings of lightning. Passing from one thing to another, the conversation at last turned upon poetry, a theme with which all were familiar, and in which all were alike interested. "O, above all things, do I love poetry!" said Virginia, with enthusiasm: and then she added, a moment after, in a faltering tone, vainly struggling to suppress her emotion: "And so did our poor, dear mother." For a short time there was a dead silence; and the tears sprang from the eyes of both Edgar and his sister, as they thought upon her who had so loved, but who was forever gone from among them. Even Dudley was much affected at witnessing their silent grief; but knowing it both useless and detrimental, since it could not restore the dead and must impair the energies of the living, he began, in a mild, soothing tone, to console, and gradually lead their thoughts back to their previous channel. "We should not mourn too much," he said, "for those who have preceded us only for a brief space at the longest; but rather console ourselves with the thought, that earth is not our abiding place, and that we are destined to meet again in that bright realm where the poetry of music makes an eternal melody to delight us forever. And speaking of poetry again— who among the great masters of song is your favorite, Edgar?" "It is difficult for me to say," replied the latter, drying his eyes, "for each is my favorite in his particular sphere. When I read Milton, I think none can approach him, for he is great in sublimity; and in his masterly conceptions of what we never saw, stands preminent—a something ennobled, exalted and inspired far above frail humanity, and almost beyond human comprehension. I read Shakespeare, and feel he is equally great in his line—that of creating what we have seen, and depicting all the varying passions of the human heart. I read Byron, and love him for his wild grandeur of thought, when he grapples with the dark spirits of the storm, expands his soul over the mighty relics of the past, throws out the sarcasm of a noble heart on the villainies of a hollowhearted world, or portrays, with an immortal pen, the grandest scenes in nature and art. I delight in the melodies of Moore; for when I drink his flowery thoughts, I ever fancy myself reposing on a bed of roses, beside some murmuring stream, whose continual ripple sings me to a quiet sleep. The argument and classic beauty of Pope excites my admiration, and the poetical romance of Scott is a source of unalloyed pleasure. Take them all in all, it is impossible for me to select my particular favorite; for like the dishes on a table at a feast, we must needs partake a little of each, to satisfy our changing desires and make our repast complete." "You have expressed my own views and feelings, as regards the great poets, better than I could have done myself," rejoined Dudley, delightedly. "And now that I have had your opinion, I must see your own composition." "Nay," said Edgar, blushing, "since we have been speaking of the great masters, I am really ashamed to display my humble efforts." noshouremmber, my friend, that all were beginners once, and that no one could have predicted from a first attempt, that a Milton, a Shakespeare or a Byron would follow. Nature has never produced what she cannot again; and so we may even look to see poets of the present become as great as the greatest of the past." "Well, as you have bargained for my effusions, unseen, you of course have a right to examine your purchase," rejoined Edgar; "and this shall be my apology for bringing them forward;" and retiring into the adjoining apartment, he shortly returned with a package of some dozen articles, neatly written and folded with care. Dudley seized them with avidity, and, in spite of Edgar's protestations, opened and began to peruse them. "Beautiful!" he exclaimed, as his eye ran rapidly over the first; "beautiful! Ah, better still!" he pursued, as he concluded the second. And then hastily scanning the others, he added, grasping Edgar's hand: "My friend, I do not wish to flatter you, but, for a first attempt, I have never seen any thing to compare with these. I have reason to rejoice at my bargain. Here is your money;" and he counted Edgar down a hundred dollars in gold. It would be impossible to describe the feelings of the latter, as he modestly accepted the reward of his toil. It was gold honestly earned, and it was his: gold paid to his genius: gold that told him he had talents above the herd—that at least he was fit for something; and as he thought over the events of the day, his eyes brightened, his soul seemed to expand, and with a sort of giddiness, common to first success, he already fancied he stood on the dizzy heights of fame and beheld an admiring world at his feet. As for Virginia, she was all bewilderment; for the whole proceeding was a mystery to her; but she saw her brother had at least the means of living, and her heart bounded with delight at the thought. "When next we meet," said Dudley, as he rose to take leave, "I trust I shall see you both in a station befitting your early years and education;" and pressing the hands of both warmly, but with a heightened color as his own touched Virginia's, he departed. As soon as he was gone, Edgar sat down, drew his sister upon his knee, kissed her sweet lips, and, in a voice tremulous with joy, told her all that had happened, and the bright prospects now in store for them; and both mingled their tears of gladness, that the night of their sorrow was passing away and a day of brightness was already dawning. "We must not appear before our new friends in these faded garments," said Edgar; "and now that I have money, honestly my own, let us forth and make some purchases. Oh, that our poor mother were living!—how this would make her heart rejoice!" Carrying out his own suggestion, Edgar purchased a ready-made suit for himself, and a handsome black dress and bennet for his sister; and when they had donned their new habiliments, each congratulated the other on appearing again as in the days of their prosperity. "And now," said Virginia, as she carefully folded the cast off garments, "let us preserve these, should fortune prove propitious once more, to remind us of our days of adversity; so that when we behold our fellows suffering, we may remember what we have endured and not forget to be charitable." "As you will," replied Edgar; "but with you and I, my sweet sister, it will hardly need these as remembrancers of what we have been. Ha! what is this?" he added, as, in overhauling his garments, a paper secured in the torn lining caught his eye. "Good heavens! is it possible!" he continued, drawing it forth. "It is the lost check, as I live." Great were the rejoicings of Edgar and his sister a
t this discovery, for to them it seemed inexhaustible wealth. As it was not yet past banking hours, Edgar hastened to Wall street, and in a short time returned to Virginia with more than a thousand dollars in his possession. And then what joy was in their hearts, as, with arms thrown fondly around each other, they sat and talked over their plans for the morrow. Alas! poor oppressed orphans!—they little dreamed what the morrow, or even the night, had in store for them. The fowler had sprung his net, and they were already becoming entangled in its meshes.
Bennett, Emerson - Oliver Goldfinch Page 11
