SUMMER FRIENDS;OR, "WILL IS MIGHT." "IT is really very unfortunate, that forgery of Mr. Grant's. I don't see what will become of Emma. I presume she won't think of holding up her head after it. I dare say she will expect to be on the same terms with her friends as before,—but the thing is—" "Quite impossible!" said the gay Mrs. Blair, arranging her ringlets; "the man has dragged his family down with him, and there 's no help for it that I can see." "He has no family but Emma," said her friend, "and I suppose some benevolent soul will look after her; at any rate, it don't concern us;" and the two friends (?) tied on their hats for a promenade. Emma Grant was, in truth, almost heart-broken at this sad
faux pas of her father's; but, with the
limited knowledge of human nature gleaned from the experience of a
sunny life of eighteen happy years, she doubted not the willingness of
old friends to assist her in her determination to become a teacher.
To one after another of these summer friends she applied for
patronage. Some "could n't in conscience recommend the daughter of a
defaulter;" some, less free-spoken, went on the non-commital system—"would think of it and let her know,"—taking very good care not to specify any particular time for this good purpose; others, who did n't want their consciences troubled by the sight of her, advised her, very disinterestedly, to "go back in the country somewhere, and occupy the independent position of making herself generally useful in some farmer's family;" others, still, dodged this question by humbly recommending her to apply to persons of greater influence than themselves; and one and all "wished her well, and hoped she 'd succeed,"—thought it very praiseworthy that she should try to do something for herself, but seemed nervously anxious that it should be out of their latitude and longitude; and so, day after day, foot-sore and weary, Emma reached home, with a discouraged heart, and a sad conviction of the selfishness and hollow-heartedness of human nature. In one of these discouraged moods she recollected her old friend,
Mr. Bliss. How strange she should not have thought of him before! She
had often hospitably entertained him, as she presided at her father's
table; he stood very high in repute as a pious man, and very
benevolently inclined; he surely would befriend with his influence the
child of his old, though fallen, friend. With renewed courage she
tied on her bonnet, and set out in search of him. She was fortunate
in finding him in; but, ah! where was the old frank smile, and
extended
hand of friendship? Mr. Bliss might have been carved out of wood for any demonstration of either that she could see. A very stiff bow, and a nervous twitch of his waistband, was her only recognition. With difficulty she choked down the rebellious feelings that sent the flush to her cheek and the indignant tears to her eyes, as she recollected the many evenings he had received a warm welcome to their hospitable fire-side, and timidly explained the purpose of her visit. Mr. Bliss, employing himself during this interval in the apparent arrangement of some business papers, with an air that said, "If you were not a woman I should n't hesitate to show you the door in a civil way; but as it is, though I may listen, that's all it will amount to." Like many other persons in a like dilemma, he quietly made up his mind that if he could succeed in irritating her sufficiently to rouse her spirit, he would in all probability be sooner rid of her; so he remarked that it was "a very bad affair, that of her father's; there could be but one opinion about its disgraceful and dishonorable nature; that, of course, she was n't to blame for it, but she could n't expect to keep her old position now; and that, in short, under the circumstances, he did n't feel as if it would be well for him to interfere in her behalf at present. He had no doubt in time she might 'live down' her father's disgrace;" and so he very comfortably seated himself in the leather-backed arm-chair, and took up a book. A deep red spot burned on Emma Gray's cheek, as she retraced her steps. Her lithe form was drawn up to its full height; there was a fire in her eye, and a firmness and rapidity in her step, that betokened a new energy. She would not be crushed by such selfish cowardice and pusillanimity; she would succeed,—and unaided, too, save by her own invincible determination. It must be that she should triumph yet. "Will is might," said Emma, as she bent all her powers to the accomplishment of her purpose; and when was that motto ever known to fail, when accompanied by a spirit undiscouraged by obstacles? It did not. True, Emma rose early, and sat up late; she lived on a mere crust; she was a stranger to luxury, and many times to necessary comforts. Her pillow was often wet with tears from over-tasked spirits and failing strength; the malicious sneer of the ill-judging, and the croaking prophecy of the ill-natured, fell upon her sensitive ear; old friends, who had eat and drank at her table, "passed by on the other side;" and there were the usual number of good, cautious, timid souls, who stood on the fence, ready to jump down when her position was certain, and she had placed herself beyond the need of their assistance! Foremost in this rank was the correct and proper Mr. Bliss, who soiled no pharisaical garment of his, by juxtaposition with any known sinner, or doubtful person. At the expiration of a year, Emma's school contained pupils from the first families in the city, with whose whole education she was entrusted, and who, making it their home with her, received, out of school hours, the watchful care of a mother. It became increasingly popular, and Emma was able to command her own price for her services. "Why don't you send your daughter to my friend, Miss Grant?" said Mr. Bliss to Senator Hall; "she is a little protege of mine—nice young woman!—came to me at the commencement of her school for my patronage;—the consequence is, she has gone up like a sky-rocket. They call it the 'Model School.'" Condescending Mr. Bliss! It was a pity to take the nonsense out of him; but you should have seen the crest-fallen expression of his whole outer man, as the elegant widower he addressed turned on him a look of withering contempt, saying,—"The young woman of whom you speak, sir, will be my wife before the expiration of another week; and, in her name and mine, I thank you for the very liberal patronage and the manly encouragement you extended to her youth and helplessness in the hour of need." It is needless to add how many times, in the course of the
following week, the inhabitants of ——, who had
found it convenient, entirely to forget the existence of Miss Emma Grant, were heard to interlard their conversation with "My friend, Mrs. Senator Hall." Alas! poor human nature! |