"A FINE, GENEROUS FELLOW."
MY friend Peyton was what is called a "fine, generous fellow." He valued money only as a means of obtaining what he desired, and was always ready to spend it with an acquaintance for mutual gratification. Of course, he was a general favourite. Every one spoke well of him, and few hesitated to give his ears the benefit of their good opinion. I was first introduced to him when he was in the neighbourhood of twenty-two years of age. Peyton was then a clerk in the receipt of six hundred dollars a year. He grasped my hand with an air of frankness and sincerity, that at once installed him in my good opinion. A little pleasure excursion was upon the tapis, and he insisted upon my joining it. I readily consented. There were five of us, and the expense to each, if borne mutually, would have been something like one dollar. Peyton managed every thing, even to paying the bills; and when I offered to repay him my proportion, he said—
"No, no!"—pushing back my hand—"nonsense!"
"Yes; but I must insist upon meeting my share of the expense."
"Not a word more. The bill's settled, and you needn't trouble your head about it," was his reply; and he seemed half offended when I still urged upon him to take my portion of the cost.
"What a fine, generous fellow Peyton is!" said one of the party to me, as we met on the next day.
"Did he also refuse to let you share in the expense of our excursion?" I asked.
"After what he said to you, I was afraid of offending him by proposing to do so."
"He certainly is generous—but, I think, to a fault, if I saw a fair specimen of his generosity yesterday."
"We should be just, as well as generous."
"I never heard that he was not just."
"Nor I. But I think he was not just to himself. And I believe it will be found to appear in the end, that, if we are not just to ourselves, we will, somewhere in life, prove unjust to others. I think that his salary is not over twelve dollars a week. If he bore the whole expense of our pleasure excursion, it cost him within a fraction of half his earnings for a week. Had we all shared alike, it would not have been a serious matter to either of us."
"Oh! as to that, it is no very serious matter to him. He will never think of it."
"But, if he does so very frequently, he may feel it sooner or later," I replied.
"I'm sure I don't know any thing about that," was returned. "He is a generous fellow, and I cannot but like him. Indeed, every one likes him."
A few evenings afterwards I met Peyton again.
"Come, let us have some oysters," said he.
I did not object. We went to an oyster-house, and ate and drank as much as our appetites craved. He paid the bill!
Same days afterwards, I fell in with him again, and, in order to retaliate a little, invited him to go and get some refreshments with me. He consented. When I put my hand in my pocket to pay for them, his hand went into his. But I was too quick for him. He seemed uneasy about it. He could feel pleased while giving, but it evidently worried him to be the recipient.
From that time, for some years, I was intimate with the young man. I found that he set no true value upon money. He spent it freely with every one; and every one spoke well of him. "What a generous, whole-souled fellow he is!" or, "What a noble heart he has!" were the expressions constantly made in regard to him. While "Mean fellow!" "Miserly dog!" and other such epithets, were unsparingly used in speaking of a quiet, thoughtful young man, named Merwin, who was clerk with him in the same store. Merwin appeared to set an undue value upon money. He rarely indulged himself in any way, and it was with difficulty that he could ever be induced to join in any pleasures that involved expense. But I always observed that when he did so, he was exact about paying his proportion.
About two years after my acquaintance with Peyton began, an incident let me deeper into the character and quality of his generosity. I called one day at the house of a poor widow woman who washed for me, to ask her to do up some clothes, extra to the usual weekly washing. I thought she looked as if she were in trouble about something, and said so to her.
"It's very hard, at best," she replied, "for a poor woman, with three or four children to provide for, to get along—especially if, like me, she has to depend upon washing and ironing for a living. But when so many neglect to pay her regularly"—
"Neglect to pay their washerwoman!" I said, in a tone of surprise, interrupting her.
"Oh, yes. Many do that!"
"Who?"
"Dashing young men, who spend their money freely, are too apt to neglect these little matters, as they call them."
"And do young men, for whom you work, really neglect to pay you?"
"Some do. There are at least fifteen dollars now owed to me, and I don't know which way to turn to get my last month's rent for my landlord, who has been after me three times this week already. Mr. Peyton owes me ten dollars, and I can't"—
"Mr. Peyton? It can't be possible!"
"Yes, it is, though. He used to be one of the most punctual young men I washed for. But, of late, he never has any money."
"He's a very generous-hearted young man."
"Yes, I know he is," she replied. "But something is wrong with him. He looks worried whenever I ask him for money; and sometimes speaks as if half angry with me for troubling him. There's Mr. Merwin—I wish all were like him. I have never yet taken home his clothes, that I didn't find the money waiting for me, exact to a cent. He counts every piece when he lays out his washing for me, and knows exactly what it will come to: and then, if he happens to be out, the change is always left with the chambermaid. It's a pleasure to do any thing for him."
"He isn't liked generally as well as Mr. Peyton is," said I.
"Isn't he? It's strange!" the poor woman returned, innocently.
On the very next day, I saw Peyton riding out with an acquaintance in a buggy.
"Who paid for your ride, yesterday?" I said to the latter, with whom I was quite familiar, when next we met.
"Oh, Peyton, of course. He always pays, you know. He's a fine, generous fellow. I wish there were more like him."
"That you might ride out for nothing a little oftener, hey?"
My friend coloured slightly.
"No, not that," said he. "But you know there is so much selfishness in the world; we hardly ever meet a man who is willing to make the slightest sacrifice for the good of others."
"True. And I suppose it is this very selfishness that makes us so warmly admire a man like Mr. Peyton, who is willing to gratify us at his own charge. It's a pleasant thing to ride out and see the country, but we are apt to think twice about the costs before we act once. But if some friend will only stand the expense, how generous and whole-souled we think him! It is the same in every thing else. We like the enjoyments, but can't afford the expense; and he is a generous, fine-hearted fellow, who will squander his money in order to gratify us. Isn't that it, my friend?" said I, slapping him on the shoulder.
He looked half convinced, and a little sheepish, to use an expressive Saxonism.
On the evening succeeding this day, Peyton sat alone in his room, his head leaning upon his hand, and his brow contracted. There was a tap at his door. "Come in." A poorly-clad, middle-aged woman entered. It was his washerwoman.
The lines on the young man's brow became deeper.
"Can't you let me have some money, Mr. Peyton? My landlord is pressing hard for his rent, and I cannot pay him until you pay me."
"Really, Mrs. Lee, it is impossible just now; I am entirely out of money. But my salary will be due in three weeks, and then I will pay you up the whole. You must make your landlord wait until that time. I am very sorry to put you to this trouble. But it will never happen again."
The young man really did feel sorry, and expressed it in his face as well as in the tone of his voice.
"Can't you let me have one or two dollars, Mr. Peyton? I am entirely out of money."
"It is impossible—I haven't a shilling left. But try and wait three weeks, and then it will all come to you in a lump, and do you a great deal more good than if you had it a dollar at a time."
Mrs. Lee retired slowly, and with a disappointed air. The young man sighed heavily as she closed the door after her. He had been too generous, and now he could not be just. The buggy in which he had driven out with his friend on that day had cost him his last two dollars—a sum which would have lightened the heart of his poor washerwoman.
"The fact is, my salary is too small," said he, rising and walking about his room uneasily. "It is not enough to support me. If the account were fully made up, tailor's bill, bootmaker's bill, and all, I dare say I should find myself at least three hundred dollars in debt."
Merwin received the same salary that he did, and was just three hundred dollars ahead. He dressed as well, owed no man a dollar, and was far happier. It is true, he was not called a "fine, generous fellow," by persons who took good care of their own money, while they were very willing to enjoy the good things of life at a friend's expense. But he did not mind this. The want of such a reputation did not disturb his mind very seriously.
After Mrs. Lee had been gone half an hour, Peyton's door was flung suddenly open. A young man, bounding in, with extended hand came bustling up to him.
"Ah, Peyton, my fine fellow! How are you? how are you?" And he shook Peyton's hand quite vigorously.
"Hearty!—and how are you, Freeman?"
"Oh, gay as a lark. I have come to ask a favour of you."
"Name it."
"I want fifty dollars."
Peyton shrugged his shoulders.
"I must have it, my boy! I never yet knew you to desert a friend, and I don't believe you will do so now."
"Suppose I haven't fifty dollars?"
"You can borrow it for me. I only want it for a few days. You shall have it back on next Monday. Try for me—there's a generous fellow!"
"There's a generous fellow," was irresistible. It came home to Peyton in the right place. He forgot poor Mrs. Lee, his unpaid tailor's bill, and sundry other troublesome accounts.
"If I can get an advance of fifty dollars on my salary to-morrow, you shall have it."
"Thank you! thank you! I knew I shouldn't have to ask twice when I called upon Henry Peyton. It always does me good to grasp the hand of such a man as you are."
On the next day, an advance of fifty dollars was asked and obtained. This sum was loaned as promised. In two weeks, the individual who borrowed it was in New Orleans, from whence he had the best of reasons for not wishing to return to the north. Of course, the generous Henry Peyton lost his money.
An increase of salary to a thousand dollars only made him less careful of his money. Before, he lived as freely as if his income had been one-third above what it was; now, he increased his expenses in a like ratio. It was a pleasure to him to spend his money—not for himself alone, but among his friends.
It is no cause of wonder, that in being so generous to some, he was forced to be unjust to others. He was still behindhand with his poor old washer-woman—owed for boarding, clothes, hats, boots, and a dozen other matters—and was, in consequence, a good deal harassed with duns. Still, he was called by some of his old cronies, "a fine, generous fellow." A few were rather colder in their expressions. He had borrowed money from them, and did not offer to return it; and he was such a generous-minded young man, that they felt a delicacy about calling his attention to it.
"Can you raise a couple of thousand dollars?" was asked of him by a friend, when he was twenty-seven years old. "If you can, I know a first-rate chance to get into business."
"Indeed! What is the nature of it?"
The friend told him all he knew, and he was satisfied that a better offering might never present itself. But two thousand dollars were indispensable.
"Can't you borrow it?" suggested the friend.
"I will try."
"Try your best. You will never again have such an opportunity."
Peyton did try, but in vain. Those who could lend it to him considered him "too good-hearted a fellow" to trust with money; and he was forced to see that tide, which if he could have taken it at the flood, would have led him on to fortune, slowly and steadily recede.
To Merwin the same offer was made. He had fifteen hundred dollars laid by, and easily procured the balance. No one was afraid to trust him with money.
"What a fool I have been!" was the mental exclamation of Peyton, when he learned that his fellow-clerk had been able, with his own earnings, on a salary no larger than his own, to save enough to embrace the golden opportunity which he was forced to pass by. "They call Merwin mean and selfish—and I am called a generous fellow. That means, he has acted like a wise man, and I like a fool, I suppose. I know him better than they do. He is neither mean nor selfish, but careful and prudent, as I ought to have been. His mother is poor, and so is mine. Ah, me!" and the thought of his mother caused him to clasp both hands against his forehead. "I believe two dollars of his salary have been sent weekly to his poor mother. But I have never helped mine a single cent. There is the mean man, and here is the generous one. Fool! fool! wretch! He has fifteen hundred dollars ahead, after having sent his mother one hundred dollars a year for five or six years, and I am over five hundred dollars in debt. A fine, generous fellow, truly!"
The mind of Peyton was, as it should be, disturbed to its very centre. His eyes were fairly opened, and he saw just where he stood, and what he was worth as a generous man.
"They have flattered my weakness," said he, bitterly, "to eat and drink and ride at my expense. It was easy to say, 'how free-hearted he is,' so that I could hear them. A cheap way of enjoying the good things of life, verily! But the end has come to all this. I am just twenty-seven years old to-day; in five years more I shall be thirty-two. My salary is one thousand dollars. I pay one hundred and fifty dollars a year for boarding; one hundred and fifty more shall clothe me and furnish all my spending-money, which shall be precious little. One year from to-day, if I live, I will owe no man a dollar. My kind old mother, whom I have so long neglected, shall hear from me at once—ten dollars every month I dedicate to her. Come what will, nothing shall touch that. After I am clear of debt, I will save all above my necessary expenses, until I get one or two thousand dollars ahead, which shall be in five years. Then I will look out for a golden opportunity, such as Mervin has found. This agreement with myself I solemnly enter into in the sight of heaven, and nothing shall tempt me to violate it."
"Are you going to ride out this afternoon, Peyton?" inquired a young friend, breaking in upon him at this moment.
"Yes, if you'll hire the buggy," was promptly returned.
"I can't afford that."
"Nor I either. How much is your salary?"
"Only a thousand."
"Just what mine is. If you can't, I am sure I cannot."
"Of course, you ought to be the best judge. I knew you rode out almost every afternoon, and liked company."
"Yes, I have done so; but that's past. I have been a 'fine, generous fellow,' long enough to get in debt and mar my prospects for life, perhaps; but I am going to assume a new character. No doubt the very ones who have had so many rides, oyster suppers, and theatre tickets at my expense, will all at once discover that I am as mean and selfish as Mervin; but it's no great odds. I only wish I had been as truly noble and generous in the right quarters as he has been."
"You are in a strange humour to-day."
"I am in a changed humour. That it is so very strange, I do not see—unless for me to think wisely is strange, and perhaps it is."
"Well, all I have to say is, that I, for one, do not blame you, even if I do lose a fine ride into the country now and then," was the frank response.
Peyton went to work in the matter of reform in right good earnest, but he found it hard work; old habits and inclinations were very strong. Still he had some strength of mind, and he brought this into as vigorous exercise as it was possible for him to do, mainly with success, but sometimes with gentle lapses into self-indulgence.
His mother lived in a neighbouring town, and was in humble circumstances. She supported herself by keeping a shop for the sale of various little articles. The old lady sat behind her counter, one afternoon, sewing, and thinking of her only son.
"Ah, me!" she sighed, letting her hands fall wearily in her lap, "I thought Henry would have done something for himself long before this; but he is a wild, free-hearted boy, and I suppose spends every thing as he goes along, just as his father did. I'm afraid he will never do any thing for himself. It is a long time since he wrote home. Ah, me!"
And the mother lifted her work again, and strained her dimmed eyes over it.
"Here's a letter for you at last, Mother Peyton," said the well-known voice of the postman, breaking in upon her just at this moment. "That boy of yours don't write home as often as he used to."
"A letter from Henry! Oh, that is pleasant! Dear boy! he doesn't forget his mother."
"No, one would think not," muttered the postman, as he walked away, "considering how often he writes to her."
With trembling hands, Mrs. Peyton broke the seal; a bank-bill crumpled in her fingers as she opened the letter. A portion of its contents was:
"DEAR MOTHER—I have had some very serious thoughts of late about my way of living. You know I never liked to be considered mean; this led me to be, what seemed to everybody, very generous. Everybody was pleased to eat, and drink, and ride at my expense; but no one seemed inclined to let me do the same at his expense. I have been getting a good salary for six or seven years, and, for a part of that time, as much as a thousand dollars. I am ashamed to say that I have not a farthing laid by; nay, what is worse, I owe a good many little bills. But, dear mother, I think I have come fairly to my senses. I have come to a resolution not to spend a dollar foolishly; thus far I have been able to keep my promise to myself, and, by the help of heaven, I mean to keep it to the end. My first thought, on seeing my folly, was of my shameful disregard to my mother's condition. In this letter are ten dollars. Every month you will receive from me a like sum—more, if you need it. As soon as I can lay by a couple of thousand dollars, I will look around for some means of entering into business, and, as soon after as possible, make provision for you, that your last days may be spent in ease and comfort."
"God bless the dear boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Peyton, dropping the letter, while the tears gushed from her eyes. The happy mother wept long for joy. With her trembling hand she wrote a reply, and urged him, by the tenderest and most sacred considerations, to keep to his good resolutions.
At the end of a year Peyton examined his affairs, and found himself freed from debt; but there were nearly one hundred dollars for which he could not account. He puzzled over it for one or two evenings, and made out over fifty dollars spent foolishly.
"No doubt the rest of it will have to be passed to that account," said he, at last, half angry with himself. "I'll have to watch closer than this. At the end of the next year, I'll not be in doubt about where a hundred dollars have gone."
It was but rarely, now, that you would hear the name of Peyton mentioned. Before, everybody said he was a "fine, generous fellow;" everybody praised him. Now he seemed to be forgotten, or esteemed of no consideration. He felt this; but he had started to accomplish a certain end, and he had sufficient strength of mind not to be driven from his course.
"Have you seen Peyton of late?" I asked, some two years after this change in his habits. I spoke to one of his old intimate associates.
"No, not for a month of Sundays," was his lightly-spoken reply. "What a remarkable change has passed over him! Once, he used to be a fine, generous fellow—his heart was in his hand; but now he is as penurious as a miser, and even more selfish: he will neither give nor take. If you happen to be walking with him, and, after waiting as long as decency will permit to be asked to step in somewhere for refreshments, you propose something, he meets you with—'No, I thank you, I am not dry,' or hungry, as the case may be. It's downright savage, it is!"
"This is a specimen of the way in which the world estimates men," said I to myself, after separating from the individual who complained thus of Peyton. "The world is wonderfully impartial in its judgment of men's conduct!"
At the end of five years from the time Peyton reformed his loose habits, he had saved up and placed out at interest the sum of two thousand dollars; and this, after having sent to his mother, regularly, ten dollars every month during the whole period. The fact that he had saved so much was not suspected by any. It was supposed that he had laid up some money, but no one thought he had over four or five hundred dollars.
"I wish you had about three thousand dollars," said Merwin to him, one day. Merwin's business had turned out well. In five years, he had cleared over twenty thousand dollars.
"Why?" asked Peyton.
"I know a first-rate chance for you."
"Indeed. Where?"
"There is a very good business that has been fairly established, and is now languishing for want of a little capital. The man who has made it will take a partner if he can bring in three thousand dollars, which would make the whole concern easy, perfectly safe, and sure of success."
"It's more than I have," returned Peyton, in a voice that was slightly sad.
"So I supposed," Merwin said.
"Although such needn't have been the case, if I had acted as wisely as you through life."
"It's never too late to mend our ways, you know."
"True. But a year mis-spent, is a whole year lost. No matter how hard we strive, we can never make it up. To the day of our death, there will be one year deficient in the sum of life's account."
"A just remark, no doubt. How much would every man save, if he would take good care not only of his years, but of his weeks and days! The sum of life is made up of small aggregations."
"And so the sum of a man's fortune. A dollar mis-spent is a dollar lost, and never can be regained. You say that it will require three thousand dollars to admit a partner into the business of which you just spoke?"
"Yes. Nothing less will do."
"I have but two thousand."
"Have you so much, Peyton?" said Merwin, with a brightening face.
"I have."
"Right glad am I to hear it. I only wish that I could furnish you with a thousand more. But it is out of my power entirely. Our business requires the use of every dollar we have; and it would not be just to my partner to draw out so large a sum for the purpose of assisting a friend in whom he can feel no interest."
"No, of course not. I neither ask nor expect it. I will wait a little longer. Something else will offer."
"But nothing so really advantageous as this. Let me see. I think I might get you five hundred dollars, if you could borrow as much more."
"That I cannot do. I never asked a favour of any one in my life."
"Though you have dispensed thousands."
"Foolishly perhaps. But no matter. I will wait."
A week afterward, Peyton, who dismissed all thought of embracing the proposed offer of going in business, paid a visit to his mother. He had not seen her for a year. She was still cheerful, active, and retained her usual good health.
"I think it time you gave up this shop, mother," said he to her. "You are too old now to be working so closely. I've got something saved up for a rainy day, in case any thing should go wrong with me for a time. You will give up this shop, won't you?"
"No, Henry; not yet. I am still able to help myself, and so long as I am able, I wish to do it. If you have saved any thing, you had better keep it until an opportunity for going into business offers."
"Such a chance has just presented itself. But I hadn't capital enough."
"How much have you saved?"
"Two thousand dollars."
"So much? How much is required?"
"Three thousand dollars."
"And you have but two?"
"That is all—though a friend did offer to get me five hundred more. But twenty-five hundred is not sufficient. There must be three thousand."
Mrs. Peyton made no reply. She sat a few minutes, and then arose and went up-stairs. In about ten minutes she came down, and approaching her son, with a warm glow of pleasure upon her face, placed a small roll in his hands, saying as she did so—
"There is all you need, my son. The money you sent me so regularly for the last five years, I have kept untouched for some such moment as this. I did not feel that I needed it. Take it back, and start fairly in the world. In a few more years I may need rest, as life draws nearer to a close. Then I trust you will be in circumstances so good that I needn't feel myself a burden to you."
"A burden? Dear mother! Do not speak of ever being a burden to me," said the young man, embracing his parent with tearful emotion. "No—no," and he pushed back her hand; "I cannot take that money. It is yours. I will not risk in business the little treasure you have saved up so carefully. I may not succeed. No—no!" and he still pushed back his mother's hand—"it is of no use—I cannot—I will not take it!"
The roll of money fell to the floor.
"It is yours, Henry, not mine," urged the mother. "I did not stand in need of it."
"Your son owed you much more than that. He was wrong that he did not double the amount to you, in order to make up for former years of neglect. No—no—I tell you, mother, I cannot take your money. Nothing would tempt me to do it. I will wait a little longer. Other opportunities will soon offer."
It was in vain that Mrs. Peyton urged her son, until her distress of mind became so great that he was almost forced to receive the money she pushed upon him—although, in doing so, it was with the intention of leaving it behind him when he returned to the city. But the deep satisfaction evinced by his mother, on his consenting to take it, was of a kind that he did not feel it would be right for him to do violence to. When he did return to the city, he could not find it in his heart to leave the money, just six hundred dollars, on the table in the little room where he slept, as he had at first resolved to do. He took it with him; but with the intention of investing it for her in some safe security.
When he again met Merwin, he was urged so strongly to make an effort to raise the capital requisite to become a partner in the business that had been named to him, that after some severe struggles with himself, he at last consented to use the money he had brought home with him. His friend loaned him four hundred dollars to make up the required sum.
The business succeeded beyond his expectations. In a few years he was able to marry, and live in a very comfortable style. He would hear none of the objections urged by his mother against living with him, but shut up her shop in spite of her remonstrances, and brought her to the city. No one who saw her during the remaining ten years of her life would have called her unhappy.
I know Peyton still. He is not now, by general reputation, "a fine, generous fellow." But he is a good citizen, a good husband, and a good father; and was a good son while his mother lived with him. He has won the means of really benefiting others, and few are more willing than he is to do it, when it can be done in the right way. He is "generous" still—but wisely so.
TAKING IT FOR GRANTED.
MR. EVERTON was the editor and publisher of the —— Journal, and, like too many occupying his position, was not on the best terms in the world with certain of his contemporaries of the same city. One morning, on opening the paper from a rival office, he found an article therein, which appeared as a communication, that pointed to him so directly as to leave no room for mistake as to the allusions that were made.
Of course, Mr. Everton was considerably disturbed by the occurrence, and thoughts of retaliation arose in his mind. The style was not that of the editor, and so, though he felt incensed at that personage for admitting the article, he went beyond him, and cast about in his mind for some clue that would enable him to identify the writer. In this he did not long find himself at a loss. He had a man in his employment who possessed all the ability necessary to write the article, and upon whom, for certain reasons, he soon fixed the origin of the attack.
"Have you seen that article in the Gazette?" asked an acquaintance, who came into Everton's office while he sat with the paper referred to still in his hand.
"I have," replied Everton, compressing his lips.
"Well, what do you think of it?"
"It'll do no harm, of course; but that doesn't touch the malice of the writer."
"No."
"Nor make him any the less base at heart."
"Do you know the author?"
"I believe so."
"Who is he?"
"My impression is, that Ayres wrote it."
"Ayres?"
"Yes."
"Why, he is indebted to you for his bread!"
"I know he is, and that makes his act one of deeper baseness."
"What could have induced him to be guilty of such a thing?"
"That's just what I've been trying to study out, and I believe I understand it all fully. Some six months ago, he asked me to sign a recommendation for his appointment to a vacant clerkship in one of our banks. I told him that I would do so with pleasure, only that my nephew was an applicant, and I had already given him my name. He didn't appear to like this, which I thought very unreasonable, to say the least of it."
"Why, the man must be insane! How could he expect you to sign the application of two men for the same place? Especially, how could he expect you to give him a preference over your own nephew?"
"Some men are strangely unreasonable."
"We don't live long in this world ere becoming cognisant of that fact."
"And for this he has held a grudge against you, and now takes occasion to revenge himself."
"So it would seem. I know of nothing else that he can have against me. I have uniformly treated him with kindness and consideration."
"There must be something radically base in his character."
"I'm afraid there is."
"I wouldn't have such a man in my employment."
Everton shrugged his shoulders and elevated his eyebrows, but said nothing.
"A man who attempts thus to injure you in your business by false representations, will not hesitate to wrong you in other ways," said the acquaintance.
"A very natural inference," replied Everton. "I'm sorry to have to think so badly of Ayres; but, as you say, a man who would, in so base a manner, attack another, would not hesitate to do him an injury if a good opportunity offered."
"And it's well for you to think of that."
"True. However, I do not see that he has much chance to do me an ill-turn where he is. So far, I must do him the justice to say that he is faithful in the discharge of all his duties."
"He knows that his situation depends upon this."
"Of course. His own interest prompts him to do right here; but when an opportunity to stab me in the dark offers, he embraces it. He did not, probably, imagine that I would see the hand that held the dagger."
"No."
"But I am not so blind as he imagined. Well, such work must not be permitted to go unpunished."
"It ought not to be. When a man indulges his ill-nature towards one individual with entire impunity, he soon gains courage for extended attacks, and others become sharers in the result of his vindictiveness. It is a duty that a man owes the community to let all who maliciously wrong him feel the consequences due to their acts."
"No doubt you are right; and, if I keep my present mind, I shall let my particular friend Mr. Ayres feel that it is not always safe to stab even in the dark."
The more Mr. Everton thought over the matter, the more fully satisfied was he that Ayres had made the attack upon him. This person was engaged as reporter and assistant editor of his newspaper, at a salary of ten dollars a week. He had a family, consisting of a wife and four children, the expense of whose maintenance rather exceeded than came within his income, and small accumulations of debt were a natural result.
Everton had felt some interest in this man, who possessed considerable ability as a writer; he saw that he had a heavy weight upon him, and often noticed that he looked anxious and dejected. On the very day previous to the appearance of the article above referred to, he had been thinking of him with more than usual interest, and had actually meditated an increase of salary as a compensation for more extended services. But that was out of the question now. The wanton and injurious attack which had just appeared shut up all his bowels of compassion, and so far from meditating the conferring of a benefit upon Ayres, he rather inclined to a dismissal of the young man from his establishment. The longer he dwelt upon it, the more inclined was he to pursue this course, and, finally, he made up his mind to take some one else in his place. One day, after some struggles with himself, he said, "Mr. Ayres, if you can suit yourself in a place, I wish you would do so in the course of the next week or two."
The young man looked surprised, and the blood instantly suffused his face.
"Have I not given you satisfaction?" inquired Ayres.
"Yes—yes—I have no fault to find with you," replied Mr. Everton, with some embarrassment in his air. "But I wish to bring in another person who has some claims on me."
In this, Mr. Everton rather exceeded the truth. His equivocation was not manly, and Ayres was deceived by it into the inference of a reason for his dismissal foreign to the true one.
"Oh, very well," he replied, coldly. "If you wish another to take my place, I will give it up immediately."
Mr. Everton bowed with a formal air, and the young man, who felt hurt at his manner, and partly stunned by the unexpected announcement that he must give up his situation, retired at once.
On the next day, the Gazette contained another article, in which there was even a plainer reference to Mr. Everton than before, and it exhibited a bitterness of spirit that was vindictive. He was no longer in doubt as to the origin of these attacks, if he had been previously. In various parts of this last article, he could detect the particular style of Ayres.
"I see that fellow is at work on you again," said the person with whom he had before conversed on the subject.
"Yes; but, like the viper, I think he is by this time aware that he is biting on a file."
"Ah! Have you dismissed him from your service?"
"Yes, sir."
"You have served him right. No man who attempted to injure me should eat my bread. What did he say?"
"Nothing. What could he say? When I told him to find himself another place as quickly as possible, his guilt wrote itself in his countenance."
"Has he obtained a situation?"
"I don't know; and, what is more, don't care."
"I hope he has, for the sake of his family. It's a pity that they should suffer for his evil deeds."
"I didn't think of them, or I might not have dismissed him; but it is done now, and there the matter rests."
And there Mr. Everton let it rest, so far as Ayres was concerned. The individual obtained in his place had been, for some years, connected with the press as news collector and paragraph writer. His name was Tompkins. He was not a general favourite, and had never been very highly regarded by Mr. Everton; but he must have some one to fill the place made vacant by the removal of Ayres, and Tompkins was the most available person to be had. There was a difference in the Journal after Tompkins took the place of assistant editor, and a very perceptible difference; it was not for the better.
About three months after Mr. Everton had dismissed Ayres from his establishment, a gentleman said to him,
"I am told that the young man who formerly assisted in your paper is in very destitute circumstances."
"Ayres?"
"Yes. That is his name."
"I am sorry to hear it. I wish him no ill; though he tried to do me all the harm he could."
"I am sorry to hear that. I always had a good opinion of him; and come, now, to see if I can't interest you in his favour."
Everton shook his head.
"I don't wish to have any thing to do with him."
"It pains me to hear you speak so. What has he done to cause you to feel so unkindly towards him?"
"He attacked me in another newspaper, wantonly, at the very time he was employed in my office."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, and in a way to do me a serious injury."
"That is bad. Where did the attack appear?"
"In the Gazette."
"Did you trace it to him?"
"Yes; or, rather, it bore internal evidence that enabled me to fix it upon him unequivocally."
"Did you charge it upon him?"
"No. I wished to have no quarrel with him, although he evidently tried to get up one with me. I settled the matter by notifying him to leave my employment."
"You are certain that he wrote the article?"
"Oh, yes; positive."
And yet the very pertinence of the question threw a doubt into the mind of Mr. Everton.
The gentleman with whom he was conversing on retiring went to the office of the Gazette, with the editor of which he was well acquainted.
"Do you remember," said he, "an attack on Mr. Everton, which, some time ago, appeared in your paper?"
The editor reflected a few moments, and then replied:
"A few months since, two or three articles were published in the Gazette that did refer to Everton in not a very kind manner."
"Do you know the author?"
"Yes."
"Have you any reasons for wishing to conceal his name?"
"None at all. They were written by a young man who was then in my office, named Tompkins."
"You are certain of this?"
"I am certain that he brought them to me in his own manuscript."
"Everton suspected a man named Ayres to be the author."
"His assistant editor at the time?"
"Yes; and what is more, discharged him from his employment on the strength of this suspicion."
"What injustice! Ayres is as innocent as you are."
"I am glad to hear it. The consequences to the poor man have been very sad. He has had no regular employment since, and his family are now suffering for even the common necessaries of life."
"That is very bad. Why didn't he deny the charge when it was made against him?"
"He was never accused. Everton took it for granted that he was guilty, and acted from this erroneous conclusion."
"What a commentary upon hasty judgments! Has he no employment now?"
"None."
"Then I will give him a situation. I know him to be competent for the place I wish filled; and I believe he will be faithful."
Here the interview ceased, and the gentleman who had taken the pains to sift out the truth returned to Everton's office.
"Well," said he, on entering, "I believe I have got to the bottom of this matter."
"What matter?" asked Everton, looking slightly surprised.
"The matter of Ayres's supposed attack upon you."
"Why do you say supposed?"
"Because it was only supposed. Ayres didn't write the article of which you complain."
"How do you know?"
"I've seen the editor of the Gazette."
"Did he say that Ayres was not the author?"
"He did."
"Who wrote it then?"
"A man named Tompkins, who was at the time employed in his office."
Everton sprang from his chair as if he had been stung.
"Tompkins!" he exclaimed.
"So he says."
"Can it be possible! And I have the viper in my employment."
"You have?"
"Yes; he has filled the place of Ayres nearly ever since the latter was dismissed from my office."
"Then you have punished the innocent and rewarded the guilty."
"So much for taking a thing for granted," said Everton, as he moved, restlessly, about the floor of his office.
So soon as the editor of the —— Journal was alone, he sent for Tompkins, who was in another part of the building. As the young man entered his office, he said to him, in a sharp, abrupt manner,—
"Do you remember certain articles against me that appeared in the Gazette a few months ago?"
The young man, whose face became instantly red as scarlet, stammered out that he did remember them.
"And you wrote them?"
"Ye—ye—yes; bu—but I have regretted it since, very much."
"You can put on your hat and leave my employment as quickly as you please," said Mr. Everton, angrily. He had little control of himself, and generally acted from the spur of the occasion.
Tompkins, thus severely punished for going out of the way to attack a man against whom he entertained a private grudge, beat a hasty retreat, and left Mr. Everton in no very comfortable frame of mind.
On being so unceremoniously dismissed from employment, Mr. Ayres, who was by nature morbidly sensitive, shrank into himself, and experienced a most painful feeling of helplessness. He was not of a cheerful, confident, hopeful disposition. He could not face the world, and battle for his place in it, like many other men. A little thing discouraged him. To be thrust out of his place so unceremoniously—to be turned off for another, stung him deeply. But the worst of all was, the supply of bread for his family was cut off, and no other resource was before him.
From that time, for three months, his earnings never went above the weekly average of five dollars; and he hardly knew on one day where he was to obtain employment for the next. His wife, though in poor health, was obliged to dispense with all assistance, and perform, with her own hands, the entire work of the family. This wore her down daily, and Ayres saw her face growing thinner, and her step becoming more feeble, without the power to lighten her burdens.
Thus it went on from week to week. Sometimes, the unhappy man would grow desperate, and, under this feeling, force himself to make applications—to him humiliating—for employment at a fair compensation. But he was always unsuccessful.
Sickness at last smote the frame of his wife. She had borne up as long as strength remained, but the weight was too heavy, and she sank under it.
Sickness and utter destitution came together. Ayres had not been able to get any thing at all to do for several days, and money and food were both exhausted. A neighbour, hearing of this, had sent in a basket of provisions. But Ayres could not touch it. His sensitive pride of independence was not wholly extinguished. The children ate, and he blessed the hand of the giver for their sakes; yet, even while he did so, a feeling of weakness and humiliation brought tears to his eyes. His spirits were broken, and he folded his arms in impotent despair. While sitting wrapt in the gloomiest feelings, there came a knock at his door. One of the children opened it, and a lad came in with a note in his hand. On breaking the seal, he found it to be from the publisher of the Gazette, who offered him a permanent situation at twelve dollars a week. So overcome was he by such unexpected good fortune, that he with difficulty controlled his feelings before the messenger. Handing the note to his wife, who was lying on the bed, he turned to a table and wrote a hasty answer, accepting the place, and stating that he would be down in the course of an hour. As the boy departed, he looked towards his wife. She had turned her face to the wall, and was weeping violently.
"It was very dark, Jane," said Ayres, as he took her hand, bending over her at the same time and kissing her forehead, "very dark; but the light is breaking."
Scarcely had the boy departed, when a heavy rap at the door disturbed the inmates of that humble dwelling.
"Mr. Everton!" exclaimed Ayres in surprise, as he opened the door.
"I want you to come back to my office," said the visitor, speaking in a slightly agitated voice. "I never ought to have parted with you. But to make some amends, your wages shall be twelve dollars a week. And here," handing out some money as he spoke, "is your pay for a month in advance."
"I thank you for the offer, Mr. Everton," replied the young man, "but the publisher of the Gazette has already tendered me a situation, and I have accepted it."
The countenance of Mr. Everton fell.
"When did this occur?" he inquired.
"His messenger has been gone only a moment."
Mr. Everton stood for a few seconds irresolute, while his eyes took in the images of distress and destitution apparent on every hand. His feelings no one need envy. If his thoughts had been uttered at the time, his words would have been, "This is the work of my hands!" He still held out the money, but Ayres did not touch it.
"What does he offer you?" he at length asked.
"Twelve dollars a week," was replied.
"I will make it fifteen."
"I thank you," said Ayres, in answer to this, "but my word is passed, and I cannot recall it."
"Then take this as a loan, and repay me when you can."
Saying this, Everton tossed a small roll of bank bills upon the floor, at the feet of the young man, adding as he did so—"And if you are ever in want of a situation, come to me."
He then hurriedly retired, with what feelings the reader may imagine.
The reason for this suddenly awakened interest on the part of Mr. Everton, Ayres did not know until he entered the service of his new employer. He had the magnanimity to forgive him, notwithstanding all he had suffered; and he is now back again in his service on a more liberal salary than he ever before enjoyed.
Mr. Everton is now exceedingly careful how he takes any thing for granted.