LIFE’S LESSONS TEACH CHARITY.

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BY ENNA DUVAL.

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Turn thy eyes back upon thyself, and see thou judge not the doings of others. Thomas A’Kempis.

“We missed you so much at Mrs. Fenton’s last evening, Cornelia; why did you not come?” asked Miss Lee.

“Because Miss Enna had just come to us, and was not well; nor did I feel very well myself.”

“Mrs. Fenton told us Miss Duval had partly promised to come also,” said Miss Ellen Lee, a younger sister of the first speaker.

“So I did,” I replied; “when Mrs. Fenton called at Miss Clemson’s yesterday morning, I told her if I felt well enough in the evening I would come.”

“What a very pleasant young person Miss Clemson is, Miss Duval,” drawled out young Colton, a dangling beau of the Miss Lees, “my sisters go to school to her, and I had no idea their school ma’am was such a nice young woman.”

The young ladies giggled at this would-be witty and patronizing remark, to which I only replied with a cold assenting bow of my head.

“I have never met with her before,” said Miss Ellen Lee, “but I really liked her very much.”

“She converses very well,” said the elder Miss Lee. “We had an opportunity of judging last evening, for she did the most of the talking.”

“She’s one of your talking women, I believe, but that’s her business, you know,” rejoined the dandy, in an affected languid tone of voice, as if the exertion of talking was too much for a person of gentility. A sharp retort trembled on my tongue, but I checked myself, as my eyes passed over his insipid, characterless face; and I returned with such animation to a little drawing I was making for Cornelia’s mother, that I snapped off the end of my pencil.

“I did not know that Miss Clemson visited this winter in society,” said Cornelia. “Is she not in mourning?”

“Oh! no,” exclaimed Miss Ellen Lee, “she is not in mourning, for she was dressed beautifully last evening, she had on a light silver-gray silk, very rich and expensive looking;—any thing but mourning.”

“She does not approve of mourning,” said the elder sister, “and although her brother and his wife died only a few weeks since, I suppose she does not approve of observing any of the customs of society on such occasions, no matter how sad they may be.”

“Why, my dear,” said Mrs. Knowles, a purse-proud parvenue woman, “persons not properly in society, like Miss Clemson, are excusable in differing from its usual customs; it matters little what they do.”

I quietly permitted the conversation to proceed, for I felt too much contempt for the company, to take any trouble to defend my dear friend, Mary Clemson. I knew their remarks proceeded from willful malice, and that it would be of little use to set them right. My little pencil sketch, however, from my repressed temper, was growing quite as spirited under my quick, impulsive touches, as the original, from which I was copying it—the only good that resulted from the gossip; and I should have remained silent, had not my friend, Cornelia Payne—who was not acquainted with Miss Clemson, joined in the conversation, and animadverted pretty severely on Miss Clemson’s want of feeling.

“She might dress as she pleased,” said Cornelia, in reply to a flippant remark of Ellen Lee’s, that Miss Clemson dressed very expensively and extravagantly for one in her position and circumstances; “dressing is a matter that belongs to one’s own taste, and so far as circumstances and means are concerned, that is nobody’s business; but I think it argues a want of feeling, a coldness of heart, when one who has recently gone through so much trouble, can so readily throw it aside and make their appearance at an evening party.”

“Oh, Miss Clemson prides herself upon being above all such weaknesses,” said Miss Hill, another young lady present. “Little Sallie Foster, one of her pupils, told me the other day, that Miss Mary had given her quite a lecture because she cried at the prospect of a rainy day, which would necessarily put off a May party, and said she could scarcely conceive of the necessity of shedding tears, no matter how great the trial might be.”

My memory quickly recalled the scene Miss Hill alluded to. I had been visiting Mary Clemson the week before, and had been present at the conversation with little Sallie Foster. The remark quoted had been meant to apply merely to temporal trials; and as the sobbing Sallie left the room, I remembered the touching, sad expression of my noble, strong-minded friend’s countenance, as she turned to me, and said, “Heaven grant the poor child may never have real trials to weep for.”

“It’s well she is strong enough to overcome natural feeling,” said Cornelia Payne, in reply to Miss Hill’s remark, “that is, well for her own worldly comfort, I mean, but I do not admire such unfeeling persons.”

This was going a little too far for my patience, for I respected and loved Cornelia Payne, though I knew her to be somewhat uncharitable, and harsh in her judgments of others.

“Cornelia,” I said, “Miss Clemson is not unfeeling; she has as warm and sensitive a heart as any one I know.”

“Oh, we forgot,” exclaimed the Misses Lee in a breath, “that Miss Clemson was an intimate friend of Miss Duval’s.”

“Yes,” I said, looking at Mrs. Knowles, “my mother knew Miss Clemson’s mother, when she was the rich heiress, Miss Fleming; and your father Mrs. Knowles, made Miss Fleming’s carriage, which was the talk of the town, at the time of her marriage with Mr. Clemson. I have heard my mother frequently speak of it. You remember it, do you not, Mrs. Payne?” I asked, turning to Cornelia’s mother.

“Perfectly well, my dear,” replied this gentlest of all gentlewomen, smiling at my sudden arousing. My tongue was now unloosened, and I felt ready to measure swords, or the more feminine weapon, darning-needles, with them all. I continued —

“I must scold my pretty, thoughtless friend, Mrs. Fenton, for deceiving Miss Clemson. She assured us that only Mrs. Fay and ourselves would be with her last evening; and you, Cornelia, were only invited, because I had promised you and your mother to commence my visit here yesterday, and Mrs. Fenton wanted to secure me, to accompany Mary Clemson. Mrs. Fenton has been one of Miss Clemson’s most attentive friends, and Mrs. Fay knew Mary’s mother when she was a girl. Mrs. Fay wanted to see Miss Clemson on business, and was too infirm to go to her; she wishes Miss Clemson to take charge of her nieces, the Miss Foresters.”

“What, our cousins the Foresters?” exclaimed the two Lees. “Why I think Aunt Fay might have consulted with mamma about it,” continued the elder one, “however, it will be a great thing for Miss Clemson to have them, for the girls are immensely wealthy.”

“Yes, Miss Lee.” I replied, trying to be very calm. “But who would have thought, when your aunt, the now rich Mrs. Fay, and your mother kept the fashionable boarding school, at which Miss Fleming was educated, that Miss Fleming’s daughter would in turn be governess to the nieces of Mrs. Fay and her sister. Life has many strange reverses, Mr. Colton.”

Poor Steenie Colton, colored to the roots of his faded hair and whiskers. I suppose he thought I was going to tell him of his respectable old grandfather, who had kept a very nice meat and vegetable store, but I spared him, for I felt I had said enough to my discomfited gossips.

“Now tell me, Miss Lee,” I asked, “who all were at this evening party of Lizzie Fenton’s.”

“It was no evening party, Miss Duval,” replied the young lady sulkily. “Neither Ellen nor I have said so. Mr. Colton went in with us during the evening to see Aunt Fay.”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but did you go by invitation?”

“Why, Miss Duval?” inquired the younger one pertly, as her elder sister answered me in the negative.

“Because,” I replied, “my friend has been accused of heartlessness and want of feeling by one whom I respect, and to clear Miss Clemson in Cornelia Payne’s opinion, is all I care for. Others may think as they please of her, but Cornelia can appreciate such a noble good woman as Mary Clemson.”

The conversation naturally flagged after this, and soon the morning visiters bade us good day.

“Bravo!” cried Cornelia, after they all left, clapping her little hands on my shoulders. “Bravo! Captain Duval, why you have routed my poor little gossiping brigade completely, put them all to flight.”

“They are the most disagreeable people that visit us,” said Mrs. Payne; “as for those silly Miss Lees, I wonder, Cornelia, how you can endure them.”

“Oh, my dear mother,” replied the daughter, “it takes all sorts of people to make up the world. You know old Patsie tells you that every day. But, Enna, I must know this paragon of yours; we will call on her together.”

I was about to remonstrate with Cornelia for her harsh and hasty judgment, during the preceding conversation, but the entrance of some other visiters prevented me.

I loved and respected Cornelia Payne; she was one of my dearest friends, and, unlike most girls of her age—we were only nineteen then—she had a strong, decided character. Her oddities did not spring from affectation, nor did her warmly expressed opinions proceed from a spirit of arbitrary obstinacy. She was true and sincere, and had a good, strong mind. She had faults,—who has not? And her principal fault was a sad one, she was harsh and uncharitable in her judgments of others. She had never known trouble or temptation; and honest, firm, and upright herself, she always judged every one by her own standard—a standard that had never been tested by a single trial. Whenever we remonstrated with her, her replies were such as “Nine times out of ten appearances are the best to judge by,” or, “There is so much cant and affectation, so much petty falsehood in society, that it makes one forget there is such a virtue as charity,” or, “There are certain bounds to charity beyond which it ceases to be a virtue, and becomes a weakness, and a cowardly shield to vice,” which replies generally silenced me.

The evening following the conversation which opened this sketch, we were all assembled in the cozie, comfortable library. Some friends had called in, and, according to the too usual custom, the conversation turned upon the absent. The subject of discourse was the conduct of two persons, a husband and wife, with whom the company assembled were sufficiently acquainted, to feel interested in their well or ill doings. A few weeks previous the husband had made a most disgraceful failure, and had been detected in various dishonorable transactions; whereupon his wife, with whom he had always lived happily, apparently, left him, and returned to her family; and since her desertion of him, her friends had made application for a divorce. This was commented upon pretty severely, and almost every one blamed the wife for her heartlessness; and circumstances were mentioned to prove the uniform kindness and lavish indulgence of the husband in the days of his prosperity. My friend Cornelia was almost the only one of the party who defended her.

“That’s so like you, Cornelia,” said her cousin, Harry Peters, laughing, “you always lake ‘the forlorne hope’ in an argument, and seize up the cudgels for the minority.”

“You are unjust, Harry,” replied Cornelia, a little piqued, “I always take the side of my opinion, and defend that which I think honest and right. I scarcely know Mrs. Barclay, therefore, neither am I prejudiced, for she is no favorite of mine; she always seemed to me a cold, selfish woman, even when everybody, and you particularly, Harry, admired her so much. But I do say, that I do not excuse, I uphold her conduct in this matter. Even thus should I have acted had I been thus placed, guided by a strict sense of duty. I could love as devotedly and truly as any of you, but my love would wither away, under the scorching breath of dishonor and crime.”

The conversation grew very animated, and all spoke at once, to express their decided opposition to Cornelia, but she stoutly defended her position.

“True, Cornelia,” said her mother, “your love might be weakened, but would that change of feeling justify desertion?”

“It would not be desertion, mother,” replied Cornelia, “it would be fleeing from the plague spot of sin. No one has a right to subject their spiritual nature to the degrading influence of daily association with crime.”

This was what Harry Peters playfully called, “one of Cornelia’s grand, solemn, rhetorical conclusions,” which generally silenced all further debate, without convincing any one; but often, in after hours of sorrow, Cornelia’s figure and countenance, as she looked during this conversation, would come before me, with painful distinctness. In her earnestness she had arisen from her seat, and her fine, tall figure seemed dilated with indignation, while her beautiful face was stern and severe as that of the avenging Archangel.

Poor Cornelia! then, she knew not what trouble was. Her father was a prosperous merchant, and her mother was a gentle, delicate woman, who rarely interfered with any one, except to do some sweet office of love. Cornelia was a complete contrast to both of her parents; for her father, a bright, joyous, warm-hearted man, was even weakly indulgent to others. They were a loving, happy family, and Cornelia, although stern and severe to what she called error, was enthusiastic in her love for her family, ready to sacrifice any thing for them, if occasion required. I always felt improved in spirit as well as in body, after a visit to them, for they all seemed to enjoy life so healthily and properly. Possessing ample means, and in the midst of a pleasant circle of friends, they appeared to be exempt from humanity’s penalty—trouble. But sunshine dwelleth not always with us, and every light hath its shadow.

I had not been many days with my friends when I observed that the kind, good natured father was not in his usual spirits. It was in the spring, following the winter of 183—, a sad winter to commercial men in ——; and long will it be remembered as a season of trying reverses. Mrs. Payne did not notice the change in her husband; his health was not so strong as usual, which would have accounted for his heaviness had she noticed it; then, fortunately, her younger children monopolized her attention; but Cornelia, I very soon saw, both noticed and felt the change in her father’s manner.

One pleasant, soft morning, Mrs. Payne being too much engaged with some home duties, to accompany us on a shopping or visiting excursion, Cornelia and I concluded to take a long drive out of the town, that we might enjoy the refreshing spring air. The trees were just budding, and Nature was unfolding a light, tender green mantle of foliage. We took long breaths of the delicious air, and it seemed as if the heavy cloud, which hung around us all in town, was dispelled completely, under the genial influence of the youthful spring. Cornelia was brighter, and as we pointed out to each other striking bits of the landscape, or noticed the graceful branches of the trees, and the delicate hues of the blossoms, we chanted aloud, passages from the old English poets, who so particularly rejoiced in, and welcomed so melodiously, the “Coming of the longed-for May.” How vividly does my memory recal every word uttered during that drive. I remember quoting with gleeful spirit, a verse from Herrick, which is full of that bounding, flowing melody that is heard in wild wood and dell, Nature’s own music.

“Rise and put on your foliage and be seen

To come forth like the spring time fresh and green,

And sweet as Flora. Take no care

For jewels for your gown or hair;

Fear not the leaves will strew

Gems in abundance upon you;

Besides the childhood of the day has kept,

Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.”

As the horses’ heads turned homeward Cornelia’s gayety faded away, and after a few moments of serious silence, she looked up and said,

“My dear, own Enna, I am very much afraid we are about to have some heavy trouble to contend with.”

“Why, Cornelia?” was my reply, for as this was the first time she had spoken to me of her presentiment of sorrow, I did not wish to add to it, by letting her know that I likewise had observed the cause for it. She told me that she could not tell why she anticipated this trouble; that she knew nothing certain, but she had, like myself, noticed a change in her father—something of moment she was sure must be resting heavily on his mind, for he had not had his usual spirits for some time.

“At night,” said she, “when my dear mother is asleep, I hear him walking his dressing-room sometimes until day-dawn. Mother says he is not well, but I am very confident that it is not sickness of the body that affects him; it is, I fear, sickness of the mind; and yet how foolish, if it be pecuniary difficulties, to grieve so much about it and keep it from us.”

“He knows, dear Cornelia,” I replied, “how unfit his family are to bear reverses of fortune. You alone are able to bear up against loss of means.”

“That’s true,” she sighed, “God only knows what is coming, but I pray He may send strength when the dark hour of trial does burst upon us.”

Poor girl, she did not know how much her father needed her prayer at that very moment, for the hour of trial had arrived to him, and strength was indeed wanting.

At dinner Mrs. Payne received a note from her husband, in which he said, that he would not be at home, until late in the evening, as he was very busy at the counting-house. The meal was a silent one, for even Mrs. Payne looked serious, and expressed her anxiety for her husband’s health, which she feared might be injured by over-exertion. As we arose from the dinner table, Mrs. Payne put her arm affectionately around Cornelia, and said,

“Come, my daughter, give us some of your beautiful music, something that is very brilliant to enliven us, for we are rather heavy this evening.”

I knew well that Cornelia was unfit for any exertion, and as we entered the gay, light drawing-room I seated myself at the piano, and asked Mrs. Payne if my music would not answer the purpose as well as Cornelia’s. Cornelia’s eyes expressed such a world of thanks, that I felt quite repaid for the effort—for effort it was—and soon after I noticed that she quietly slipped out of the room. Mrs. Payne was passionately fond of music, and I sang and played for her, nearly two hours. She was a fine harpist, though she seldom played, but I even prevailed upon her, to play with me some harp duets. While we were in the midst of a brilliant piece, the waiter entered, and said that Mr. Payne wished to see me in the library.

“Mr. Payne at home?” inquired Mrs. Payne.

“Yes, ma’am,” answered the man, “he has been in some time, but has been busy with some gentleman in the library.”

“Some news for you from home, Enna, dear,” said Mrs. Payne quietly. “I suppose Mr. Payne thinks we have company with us, we are so musical, and he feels too tired to come up.”

“Very likely.” I answered with forced calmness, glad that her easy, happy disposition prevented her from feeling the sad apprehensions which had chilled my heart at the summons. I knew, from the expression of the waiter’s face, that something was wrong, and as I reached the lower hall he said to me, as he left me,

“Miss Cornelia’s very sick in the library, Miss Enna.”

I opened the library-door, and Heaven grant such another sight may never be presented to me again. On a lounge lay Cornelia, partly insensible, and before her knelt her father, not in trouble for her sickness only, but in anguish, deep, heart-rending anguish. In low tones he besought his child to open her eyes, to look at him, and tell him she did not despise him. I saw the insensibility was passing off, and I raised her head and moistened her lips with some water. As I took the water from the table, I saw on it a case of pistols, over which I hastily threw my handkerchief, though chilled and trembling with fear of I scarcely knew what. When I raised Cornelia, and Mr. Payne saw her returning consciousness, he shrunk, like a guilty thing, behind a large, old-fashioned screen, that stood partly in front of the lounge. Cornelia stared wildly around.

“Where is father?” she exclaimed, and before I could answer, she darted from the lounge, and was about leaving the room, when she heard his low, suppressed groan; quick as thought she was beside him. She covered his hands, that hid his face, with kisses—she soothed him with every affectionate endearing word, and as he cowered to the ground, she raised him as a mother would a child. They sat on the lounge together, her arms encircled him tenderly, while her lips rested on his brow, that was wrinkled with heavy lines of anguish.

“My dear, dear father,” she said, “have you forgotten your daughter, your Cornelia, who could not live without you? Come, come, I was only a little sick; it is all over now, and Enna Duval is here, to take care of us both. Come, cheer up; think of mother, and Tom, and Cassy, and all the dear ones. We are all left to you yet.”

Thus she tenderly soothed him, and I, seeing that she was so much stronger, thought I had better leave the room. As I put my hand on the door, Cornelia gave a low cry of alarm, I turned and saw that Mr. Payne was in violent convulsions. In a little while the best physicians in town were summoned, and Mr. Payne declared to be in great danger, for his disease was a raging brain fever. For days we watched beside his bed—Cornelia and I—for with nervous anxiety she kept every one from her father that she could. He raved incessantly of disgrace and crime, and during his agonized ravings, my poor friend would weep bitterly. I never saw such devoted tenderness as Cornelia displayed during this fearful illness. At one time death seemed almost inevitable, but as Mr. Payne possessed a good constitution, and had always been a man of regular habits, he rallied under this sickness, which would have proved fatal to most men. But when the delirium left him, and he opened his languid eyes beaming, though dimly, with the light of reason, their expression of anguish was painful indeed. Cornelia was beside him, her arms around him, and the sweetest, tenderest words of love fell from her lips to greet his returning senses.

“Then, my daughter,” he said in a low, feeble whisper, “you do not hate and despise your father.”

No words could express the deep love of Cornelia’s embrace, and with soothing, tender expressions she sought to quiet him, which succeeded, for he sunk back in her arms with a calm, peaceful smile on his sad, care-worn face.

Mr. Payne grew gradually better, dear reader, and during the hours of convalescence, when I was at different times alone with him, he told me the sad scene which had occurred previous to his sending for me to the library. He had been staggering under a load of business difficulties for some time, as Cornelia had suspected, but could not bear to look upon his affairs as they really were. He could not summon strength and courage to come to his wife, and tell her that all the fine fortune her father had left, was gone, that she and her children were penniless. Day after day he struggled on,—difficulties increased, and in a moment of desperation, to relieve himself of a pressing demand, he added the crime of forgery to the load of debt; hoping to relieve himself before he should be discovered.

This happened on the day, at the very time of our drive, when Cornelia was praying for strength. He had some days before written to a business firm in a neighboring town for assistance. Upon them he had some, yes, great claims, for ten years before his capital had established them in business; and he anxiously looked for an answer to his demand, in order to relieve himself before any one could discover his weak act. Late in the afternoon he received, instead of the frank, friendly aid he expected, a cold, short refusal. He staggered home. The enormity of his offence increased upon him, and as he reached his home, the consciousness of having added disgrace to poverty, almost set him wild. He went first into the library, which was in the lower part of the house, because, as he said, the sound of music and gayety that came from the drawing-room, maddened him. He had scarcely entered the room when the hall-bell rang, and the servant ushered into the dimly lighted library, a gentleman; and as he heard his name announced, Mr. Payne shuddered,—it was the very name he had used unlawfully, a few hours before. It was a young merchant of great property, which he had inherited from his father.

“I have come, Mr. Payne,” said the young man, as the servant closed the door, “to return to your hands a paper which you must destroy. No human being knows of it, but you and myself—and believe me, my dear sir,” he added, in a voice trembling with feeling, as the guilty man buried his face in his hands, groaning aloud, “believe me, I am certain, that great, great must have been the temptation—the trial that goaded Hartley Payne to such an act; and I thank God! it was upon me—upon the son of Jacob Hallett you did it. You befriended my father in the dark hour of poverty, you helped him up on the stepping-stone to fortune, and had you come to me in your emergency for this money,—that and double, and thrice treble the amount, should have been freely yours.”

Young Hallett then tore the note into a thousand pieces and burned it.

“I thank you,” said Mr Payne in a hoarse voice, “you have saved me from disgrace which is worse than death; but you must leave me now, and when I am more composed I will express to you my gratitude.”

“Not until you will promise me,” answered young Hallett, “that you will let me come to you to-morrow, and give me the satisfaction of assisting you in your trouble.”

Mr. Payne took the kind young man’s proffered hand, and pressing it, assured him, in broken words, that he would accept his offer; and young Hallett seeing that Mr. Payne was really suffering from the humiliation and mortification which his presence caused him, left him.

Mr. Payne walked up and down the room once or twice. He felt like a maniac. The crime he had committed stood before him in letters of fire. Maddened with remorse, he opened an escritoir, and taking from it a case of pistols, which were loaded, he laid it upon the table. Calmly he snapped the spring of the case, and throwing back the lid, took out one of the pistols, which he held deliberately to his head. As he did this, he heard a low shriek beside him, and with a strong grasp, the pistol was taken from his hand. He turned—and beside him stood Cornelia.

She had been in the library all the while. She had come there from the drawing-room after dinner, to watch for her father’s return, and had fallen asleep on the lounge, which was hidden by the large old screen that stood between it and the door. Her sleep was heavy from exhaustion, and she had not awakened until Mr. Hallett had entered; this aroused her, and with chilling horror she heard the whole conversation between them. After he left the room, she lay stunned, and was only aroused by the click of the escritoir lock. This startled her, and she sprang to her feet, just in time to save her father’s life. The revulsion was so great, that she sank to the floor, insensible, and then it was he sent for me.

Mr. Payne knew Cornelia’s stern, severe opinions; he remembered also how she always shrunk from all those who had been guilty of even venial sins, and he felt more keenly, the mortification of his crime before her, than before any other living being. But so beautifully, so tenderly, and respectfully did she bear herself toward him, that one might have fancied she had forgotten every thing but the fear of losing her father. He grew stronger, and as soon as his health was restored he courageously examined his affairs.

Young Hallett, who during Mr. Payne’s sickness had been an excellent and efficient friend, was of great service. Every thing was given up, the magnificent town house, the carriages and horses, the plate, and every luxury; but my friends looked very happy in their pleasant country home, and though quite humble was their style of living, they scarcely seemed to miss their former splendor.

Even the tender, delicate Mrs. Payne, who had been born and reared in luxury, and for whom we had all trembled, bore the reverse of fortune as brightly and philosophically as Cornelia. But the most beautiful sight was the great change that had taken place in my friend Cornelia’s character. All sternness, all severity had vanished, and the gentlest spirit of Christian, loving charity displayed itself in every word, every act of hers.

“Sweet are the uses adversity,” I often repeated to myself, when looking at her. Toward her father she always displayed the most delicate and affectionate respect, and the children no longer found in her a stern, close judging Mentor, but a kind, loving, indulgent companion.

Three years after, a gay party assembled at Mr. Payne’s little country house. It was the wedding party of our dear Cornelia, who was the bride of Mr. Hallett. She is now the mistress of a fine establishment, and had the satisfaction of seeing her father once more comfortable. He was for many years associated in business with his son-in-law, and no one ever knew or dreamed that the highly respected Hartley Payne, of the wealthy firm of Hallett & Payne, was once on the verge of disgraceful ruin.