Title: Rising in the world : A tale for the rich and poor
Author: Arthur, T. S. (Timothy Shay)
Language: English
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                      RISING IN THE WORLD;

                 A Tale for the Rich and Poor.



                       BY T. S. ARTHUR,

             AUTHOR OF "KEEPING UP APPEARANCES,"
               "RICHES HAVE WINGS," ETC., ETC.



                         NEW EDITION.



                           NEW YORK:
                      HUBBARD & BURGESS,
                     133 WILLIAM STREET.
                             1859.



    Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847,
                      BY BAKER & SCRIBNER,
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
             for the Southern District of New York.



CONTENTS.

  CHAPTER I. THE TWO FRIENDS

  CHAPTER II. BEGINNING TO RISE

  CHAPTER III. MORAL DECLENSION

  CHAPTER IV. THE FIRST GREAT ERROR

  CHAPTER V. RIGHT AND WRONG PRINCIPLES

  CHAPTER VI. GENEROUS SELF-DEVOTION

  CHAPTER VII. ACTING FROM PRINCIPLE

  CHAPTER VIII. AN INIQUITOUS SCHEME

  CHAPTER IX. A MATRIMONIAL SPECULATION

  CHAPTER X. PERFECTLY LEGAL

  CHAPTER XI. A BIT OF RETALIATION

  CHAPTER XII. BASENESS OF CHARACTER

  CHAPTER XIII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

  CHAPTER XIV. RISING TO A TRUE LEVEL

  CHAPTER XV. PREJUDICES REMOVED

  CHAPTER XVI. AN UPWARD MOVEMENT

  CHAPTER XVII. BITTER FRUITS

  CHAPTER XVIII. A NEW ASPECT OF AFFAIRS

  CHAPTER XIX. CONTRASTS

  CHAPTER XX. CONCLUSION



RISING IN THE WORLD.

CHAPTER I.

THE TWO FRIENDS.

Two young men of nearly equal abilities, left college at the same
time. Their names were Lawrence Dunbar and Lloyd Hudson. Mr. Dunbar,
the father of Lawrence, was a retail grocer in Philadelphia. He
had, in early life, received but few educational advantages; and,
in consequence thereof, saw many opportunities for rising above his
condition, pass unimproved. Fully sensible of the advanced position
which a liberal education gives to every man, he determined that no
expense, in his power to meet, should be spared, in order to have his
son thoroughly furnished in everything required to place him side by
side in the race for wealth and distinction with the best in the land.
To this end, he used the utmost economy in his family, in order that he
might be able to send his son to college. In doing this, he was unjust
to the sisters of Lawrence; who were neither taught music nor dancing,
nor, in fact, anything for which the father had to pay a single dollar.
The advantages afforded by the public schools were deemed ample for
them. Upon the son, Mr. Dunbar lavished all that he could spare, as an
investment that would pay well at some future day.

Near neighbor to Mr. Dunbar, lived an industrious, intelligent
watchmaker, named Hudson, whose family consisted of a son and two
daughters. Mr. Hudson saw quite as clearly as did Mr. Dunbar, the
great advantage which every young man possesses, who is blessed with a
liberal education: and it had been his intention, from the first, to
give his son every opportunity in his power for acquiring information.
But, in considering the son, he did not disregard his daughters. Lloyd
Hudson and Lawrence Dunbar were entered at college, for a four years'
course, at the same time. They had grown up together as boys, and were
pleased at the prospect of going through their higher studies together.

At college, the characters of the young men began to harden into more
permanent forms than they had before assumed, and to show distinctive
features. Home influences and precepts, uniting with hereditary
tendencies, gave to each its peculiar modification.

During the whole time that they remained at college, the young
men, though unlike in disposition, were particular friends, and
often conversed together of their future prospects. One of these
conversations, held only the day previous to their starting for home,
after having completed their course, will give some idea of the
difference that existed between them.

"There is no time to be lost now," remarked young Dunbar. "Here we are,
twenty years of age, and the study of a profession yet to be entered
upon. You, strangely enough, talk of medicine."

"Why do you say, strangely?" asked Hudson. "There must be physicians,
as well as lawyers and merchants."

"And so there must be cobblers and tinkers. You have talents and
education, Lloyd, and if you properly apply, them, will rise in the
world. Every man should look to this."

"What do you mean by rising in the world?"

"Becoming rich and distinguished. At the bar, a man of talents and
force of character may rise to eminence in a few years. Eminence in
the legal profession brings wealth as a necessary consequence. In
mercantile pursuits, the same road to wealth and honor is open. But to
what can a physician look forward?"

"There are many eminent physicians."

"Eminent for what? For making pills and plasters?"

"Eminent for usefulness," said Hudson, calmly.

"Usefulness!" Dunbar uttered this word with manifest contempt. "My
ambition does not lie in that direction. I am neither a St. Paul nor a
Howard."

"To be eminently useful, is the highest distinction attainable. What
are great wealth or brilliant talents, if not applied to a good
purpose?" replied Hudson. "I will read you a passage in the last letter
I received from my father on this very subject, to show you how he
thinks, and I must own that I think with him." And the young man drew a
letter from his pocket, and read—

   "Having completed your collegiate course, your next step, my son,
is to decide upon the calling you mean to pursue. In coming to this
decision, let me admonish you to look well to the motives that prompt
your choice. If you feel a selfish regard to your own advancement in
the world, struggle against and repress it; for, though by this you may
attain wealth and a name, it will never bring you happiness, and that
highest of all honors, the reputation of having accomplished some good
for your fellow men. Have, therefore, in choosing a profession, regard
to the good you may be able to do, as well as the good to yourself
that you wish to obtain. You have spoken of medicine. There are ways
in life that lead more certainly to wealth; and there are avenues to
distinction more easily trodden But if your mind turns towards the
medical profession, with anything like a desire to enter into it, I
will not speak a word against your choice. You will find it an arduous
calling, but one in which you can do much good; and one in which
your own character may be purified and elevated. You will rise into
eminence—true eminence—here, as well as in any other pursuit; for I
know you have the required ability, and I believe you are not under the
dominion of merely selfish purposes."

"All that is very good in the abstract," returned Dunbar; "but few,
if any, can carry out in life the unselfish purposes from which your
father expects you to act. It is not in us. Now, I think that my father
understands human nature, and the springs of human impulses better than
your father does, and as you have given me the benefit of your parental
suggestions, I will give you the benefit of mine;" and the young man
drew a letter from his pocket and read—

   "I have been weighing with great deliberation what you say about the
choice of a profession, and, like you, am not yet able to decide which
is best. At the bar, you will rise in the world, and gain distinction
as a man of talents; while in mercantile pursuits, you will attain
wealth and the elevation in society that its possession always gives.
In either profession, if you are patient, sagacious, and persevering,
your talents and education will carry you up to a high place. Now which
of the two conditions is most desirable I am hardly able to determine.
Wealth gives great advantages and great power; while eminence, in a
profession like the law opens a wide field to ambition, at the same
time that it ensures ample means, if not extensive wealth. When we
meet, we will consider these matters together, and arrive at some
certain conclusion. There is no time to be lost."

"Now, all that I can understand," said young Dunbar. "But I must own
that what your father says finds no response in my bosom. I suppose a
doctor may be very useful to his fellows, but who thanks him for it,
or even pays his bills, moderate as they may be, without grumbling? As
for me, I don't see any particular pleasure that I should derive from
devoting myself to the good of others, and especially in so slavish a
calling as that of the physician. And it's my opinion that you will be
sick of it before you are ten years older."

"As to that," replied Hudson, "I do not expect to find all plain
sailing, let me adopt what pursuit I may. Medicine I incline to as
a profession, though not because I can be more useful in it than I
can be in any other; for every regular calling in life regards the
common good, and in each and all of them men may engage with unselfish
motives; but because it suits my temper of mind, and I can see clearly
how in the practice of it I can attain the requisite external things I
need, at the same time that I can be of great use to my fellows. As for
the ambition to rise in the world to a distinguished position, of which
you speak, I must own that I do not feel as strongly as you do its
impulses. That I shall rise just as high as I deserve, there is not the
least doubt, and with this conviction I am content to enter upon the
life-toil that is before me, with patient confidence that all will come
out right in the future."

"Too quiet a philosophy for me, Lloyd," returned Dunbar. "I feel the
spurs of ambition already piercing my sides. I am resolved to rise in
the world: I know that I possess the ability, and I mean to tax it
to the utmost. As for other men's good, let them take care of that
themselves. I shall seek my own, well convinced that if I do not, there
will be no one to seek it for me."

"To regard the good of others, while we seek our own, is by no means a
difficult thing," replied Hudson. "This is a truth which I have been
taught by my father from the first. Indeed, he has ever sought most
earnestly to impress it upon my mind."

"He is not anxious to see you rise in the world?" said Dunbar.

"Most anxious; for, he says, the higher I rise, the more extended will
be my sphere of usefulness. But he, when he speaks of rising in the
world, means something more than the mere attainment of wealth, or
honorable distinction in the eyes of men."

"What more can he mean?"

"No man truly rises in the world, he says, who does not overcome and
rise above the evil and selfish passions of his nature. There is an
internal as well as an external elevation; and the latter without the
former, is, in his estimation, more of a curse than a blessing. To rise
internally as well as externally, we must regard the good of others as
well as our own good, in all the acts of our lives. Can you not see
this?"

"Dimly; that is all."

"Even that is something."

"But it is altogether impracticable. A kind of Utopian
philosophy—beautiful to look upon, but impossible to introduce into
real life."

"Not at all, Lawrence. I believe that my father strictly regards the
good of others in every business transaction."

"He has that reputation certainly, and, I will believe, justly. I have
heard my father say, that he was the most rigidly honest and unselfish
man he had ever known. But, look at the result. Your father has
attained neither wealth nor eminence, though a man of good mind."

"The reason is plain. Want of education, and early opportunity. But we
have just what he lacked."

"Well, Lloyd," returned Dunbar, "all that I have to say on this subject
is, that if you have any fancy for this looking after other people's
affairs, I have not. I think I shall find just as much as I can well do
in looking after and taking care of my own. My father has set his heart
on seeing me rise in the world, and has sacrificed much to that end: he
shall not be disappointed, unless the Fates are against me. I mean to
rise. If I fail in my purpose, the fault shall not lie at my door."

"And I mean to rise also," said Hudson, in a calm, yet firm voice. "All
these severe and prolonged studies which I have entered into and passed
through, cannot remain unproductive in my mind. They will give me the
power of self-elevation; and that power I intend calling into full
requisition. What the particular result will be, I cannot tell, nor am
I in any concern about it. That all will come out right, both in regard
to myself and others, I do not doubt."



CHAPTER II.

BEGINNING TO RISE.

LAW was finally decided upon as the profession for Lawrence Dunbar, and
he was placed in the office of an attorney named Harker. At the same
time, Hudson commenced the study of medicine. To sustain these young
men for two or three years longer, required sacrifices to be made at
home. The father of Dunbar had already unjustly deprived his daughters
of many advantages, in order to provide for the elevation of the family
through the eminence to be acquired by the son; and now he proposed
that they should learn trades, in order to support themselves, and
relieve him of the burden of their maintenance.

Ellen, who was a year older than Lawrence, and Mary, who was two years
younger, accordingly went to learn trades soon after the son entered
upon his legal studies. The one became a mantua-maker, and the other a
tailoress. Six months of apprenticeship proved sufficient to qualify
Ellen and Mary to take care of themselves. After that time, they went
out into families to sew, and were rarely at home except on Sundays.
Although not fairly dealt by, the two girls did not murmur, nor was
their affection for their brother at all diminished. In fact, the
common purpose of the family was one in which Ellen and Mary took their
appropriate share, and felt their allotted interest. To Lawrence was
committed the task of elevating and giving to the family a name, and
it was their duty, as well as pleasure, to aid in all ways possible.
So they felt, and so they acted. The acquiring of a trade, and the
maintenance of themselves, in order that the expense of supporting
Lawrence, until able to support himself, might be the more easily
borne, were not matters of necessity, so much as they were matters of
choice, after the suggestion as to what would be best for them to do,
had been made by their father. That is, Mr. Dunbar did not say that
they must learn trades and support themselves; but merely suggested it,
as a relief to himself, more heavily burdened with expenses than he
could well bear. He well knew that a hint would be sufficient. Had he
not, a command would have done what a word accomplished.

It did not take more than a year for Lawrence to rise high enough to
feel superior to all his family—father, mother, and sisters; and to
allude to the former as the "old man" and the "old woman." His fine
talents and superior education made him a favorite with his legal
preceptor, who took pleasure in introducing him to persons moving in
a much higher sphere, and into families where there was a degree of
elegance and refinement far beyond what he had been used to seeing. He
next began to be ashamed of Ellen and Mary, who were without any polite
accomplishments, and degraded to the position of mere sempstresses; and
this, too, when they generously supplied him with pocket-money out of
their hard earnings!

At twenty-two, Lawrence Dunbar was admitted to practice. The attorney
under whom his studies had been conducted, saw what was in him.

"We shall hear of that young man yet," he said, in allusion to his
student, while conversing with a member of the profession on the day
Lawrence was admitted to the bar. "He has got it in him, if ever a
young lawyer had. Shrewd, acute, ardent, and ambitious; there is
nothing in the way of his rising in the world. Ten years from this, and
he will be on the Bench, or in the Halls of Legislation."

"If not too scrupulous about the means necessary to be used."

"I believe him to be perfectly honorable, in the general acceptation
of the term. No doubt he will look to his own interests. He would be a
fool if he did not."

"Any man is. But, you know, there are some persons who are troubled
with very tender consciences, and who are exceedingly nice in stepping
along, lest they tread upon somebody's toes. Of course they make but
slow progress; if, indeed, two steps backwards are not taken to every
one forwards."

"Dunbar, if I understand his character aright, is not troubled with any
such tenderness of conscience. He will let people take care of their
own toes."

"So I should think, from what little I have seen of him. Would you not
do well to associate him with you in your larger practice? You have had
his assistance so long, that I should think you could hardly do without
him."

"Just what I have been thinking about. It would give him a chance, and
really take nothing from me; for I have more practice than I can attend
to properly. And, besides I feel a pride in the young man, and want to
see him distinguish himself. His talents must not be hidden under a
bushel."

In a day or two, the lawyer who had been his preceptor, said to
Lawrence—

"Have you found an office to suit you?"

"Not yet," was replied. "I have seen two or three, but do not like the
locations."

"You are still determined to commence your profession in this city?"

"Oh, yes. I have no ambition to be a mere country lawyer. I feel that I
have talents, and I wish to give them an appropriate sphere."

"You mean to rise in your profession?"

"I do, in spite of all difficulties."

"Your progress will be slow at first."

"I am aware of that. But I have patience, and can 'bide my time.' I
shall not be so foolish as to attempt to run before I can walk, and
thus incur the risk of stumbling. But I will be content to creep, then
walk, and afterwards run."

"Wisely resolved. Above all things, hold fast to the spirit of
patience. Impatience clouds the mind, and leads, inevitably, to
mistakes. In the profession you have chosen, you will need a cool head
and a firm heart. The one you will find as requisite as the other."

"Of that I am convinced. Indispensable to success, especially in law,
is a certain sternness as well as firmness of purpose. It will not do
to give place to amiable weaknesses, or deferences to the feelings
and interests of others. This would be to look back after having once
grasped the plough. As for me, I am not made of such yielding stuff. My
very life-purpose is to rise, and I mean to make all else bend to that
purpose."

"Keep to this, Lawrence, and your success is certain. You have
expressed right sentiments. Whoever looks to rising in the world,
must lay aside what you have justly called 'amiable weaknesses,' and
prepare, with a sternness of purpose, for the attainment of his ends.
I have been thinking about you, for a day or two, quite earnestly,
and have finally concluded to offer you a share in my business, which
you know is large, if you care about accepting it. In fact, I hardly
see how I can do well without you. Associated with me, you would have
the opportunity of at once coming forward in the argument of causes
of lieve importance, and thus gaining public attention. How does my
proposition strike you?"

"How else than favorably could it strike me? No hesitation or
reflection is needed on my part. Without any statement of the terms of
the association, I accept your proposition."

The terms which the lawyer proposed, and which were approved, were a
fifth of the proceeds of his practice from the day a joint interest was
arranged between him and his former student.

This arrangement made Lawrence at once independent of his family.
The fact of independence, the moment it existed, brought the feeling
of independence, and with this came a lighter estimation of the
sacrifices that had been made for, and the benefits received by him.
Some time before this he had grown cold towards his sisters, whose
want of gentility and polite accomplishments made them, in his eyes,
inferior and beneath him. Instead of devoting a part of his income to
their maintenance, and to the completion of their detective education
(especially in the case of his youngest sister, who had not yet reached
her twentieth year), he thought only of himself, and looked upon the
money he was earning as one of the levers he was to use in elevating
himself. He gave place in his mind to no "amiable weaknesses." He
understood too well what was due to himself.

When Lloyd Hudson came home from college, he had very different
feelings towards his sisters. He went with them into company, and was,
to some extent, proud of them, for they were good looking, dressed
with taste, and had as much intelligence as any of the young ladies
with whom they associated. He had not yet seen enough of society to
enable him to make the disparaging contrasts that arose in his mind a
year subsequently. Among the friends of his sisters was a young girl
named Mary Lee, to whom Lloyd was introduced soon after he came home
from college. She was an orphan, and lived with an aunt who had a small
income. This aunt, who was much attached to Mary, had spared no expense
that she could afford in the education of her niece, who was a very
beautiful girl, and highly accomplished for one in her condition.

With this lovely and accomplished young creature Lawrence Dunbar was
enamored, almost at first sight. She seemed a worthy object of his
regard, and one who would grace any social position to which he might
attain. No very long time passed before he was so deeply in love
with her, that words were scarcely necessary to assure the maiden of
the fact. Her heart easily yielded. When he ventured to breathe the
sentiment that was in his heart, tears of joy sprang into her eyes as a
glad response. Though her lips uttered no sound, the young man read the
looked-for answer in her countenance.

There were few purer or better hearts than that which beat in the bosom
of Mary Lee. For so selfish and worldly-minded a man as Lawrence Dunbar
promised to be, she was too good. Her love could never fix itself
upon his moral qualities. It was the appearance of all excellences of
character which she saw in him, that she loved, and loved as deeply as
if it were real, because she thought it real.

About a week after Mary Lee had heard from the lips of Dunbar the
heart-thrilling confession of his love, she sat alone, near the close
of a mild evening in June, with Lloyd Hudson, who of late had become
more frequent in his visits. For Lloyd she entertained a feeling of
respect, amounting almost to deference. There was an air of thought
and mien of sobriety about him, that while it did not exactly repel,
interposed between her and him a delicate reserve, which made their
intercourse more polite than familiar.

On the occasion to which we refer, Lloyd was even more thoughtful and
sober than usual. Something seemed to oppress him, and take away his
ability to converse with even his accustomed freedom. At last, he took,
suddenly, the maiden's hand in his, and before she had time to recover
from the surprise occasioned by the unexpected movement, said—

"Mary, answer me frankly one question. Is this hand free?"

"It is not, Mr. Hudson," she replied, withdrawing it from his.

"Not free!" he ejaculated with surprise, while the blood rushed to his
face. "Can I have heard you aright?"

Mary Lee did not insult the young man by haughty and half-triumphant
scorn. She was too generous, too kind in her nature, and felt too deep
a respect for him to do that. Hers was not even coldness in manner, but
a gentle, yet firm avowal that another had sought and won her love.

For days and weeks, for months and it might be said for years, did Mary
remember at times, and with strange feelings, the look which the young
man cast upon her, as snatching her hand and imprinting a kiss upon it,
he turned suddenly away and fled from her presence.



CHAPTER III.

MORAL DECLENSION.

ALONE—amid books, mortars, vials, and the more startling appendages of
a doctor's office—sat the young student, whose suit had been rejected.
The volumes over which he had been poring were closed; the anatomical
preparations laid aside; the theory and practice of medicine alike
forgotten. He sat with his head bowed down; his whole attitude one of
deep dejection.

"It is folly to give way thus," he said, arousing himself. "Her heart
and her hand are already pledged to another, and can, therefore, never
be mine. How little did I dream of this! Sweet girl! How can I give up
the dear hope of one day calling her my own! But it must be done. Who
can be my fortunate rival?"

As this last sentence was uttered almost aloud, the door of the office
opened, and his friend Lawrence Dunbar came in.

"What has come over you, Lloyd?" he said, as soon as he had looked into
Hudson's face. "One would think you hadn't a friend in the world."

"I am not so badly off as that comes to, I hope; though I cannot say
that I feel very bright. But you look as if you were in the best
possible humor with yourself and everybody else."

"And so I am; and I have cause to be, Lloyd! I have something to tell
you, as a friend, which I think will gratify you exceedingly."

"Ah! What is it?"

"I have wooed and won the sweetest maiden in the city."

"You have?"

"Yes, young as I am—too young, as nine out of ten of our greybeards
would say—I have settled that most important matter, and infinitely to
my satisfaction. Now, who do you think the maiden is? You know her.
Guess! You will approve my choice, I'll wager a sixpence."

"I cannot guess," replied Hudson, a sudden suspicion of the truth
flashing over his mind, and causing his pulses to throb more quickly.

"It is Mary Lee!"

The utmost effort of Hudson was required to keep from betraying undue
disturbance at this communication.

"Now don't you approve of my choice?" asked the friend, gaily. "Have I
not shown taste?"

"I think you have."

"You think I have! Why don't you go into heroics about it, and say what
you really believe. If you had come with a similar communication, I
would have wrung your hand half off. She's a charming girl, isn't she?"

"Yes; charming."

"Don't talk like a parrot! Can't you invent some expression of
admiration?"

"She needs no praise from me, Lawrence," replied Hudson, speaking with
gravity. "I have always looked upon her as the pride of her sex."

"Well, but gravely said. You are as phlegmatic as a Greenlander. I
think she will grace any circle into which she may be thrown: don't
you?"

"I certainly do."

"Of course, I mean to rise in the world far above my present position.
That, you know, I have settled long ago; and my wife must be one who
can rise with me. It would not do to have a wife who felt more at home
in the kitchen than in the parlor, or who would not be a fit associate
for ladies of any rank. I am much mistaken in Mary if she will not
grace any circle into which I may be able to introduce her."

There was a something in the way this was uttered by Dunbar that caused
an indignant emotion to rise in the breast of Hudson. He did not make a
reply, and his friend went on.

"Of course, I must look to this. No matter how much I might have loved
Mary, if I had perceived in her anything that led me to doubt her being
able to support the dignity and character of a refined lady, I would
have passed her aside."

"You are quite cool about the matter," remarked Hudson, with a slight
manifestation of disturbance in his voice. He felt impatient, and could
not entirely control himself.

"A cool head and a warm heart: that is my motto."

"Parrot!" was the indignant, though mental ejaculation of Hudson.

"Your head is cool, certainly," he said aloud.

"And do you doubt the warmth of my heart?"

"I didn't say so."

"But am I not to infer that from what you do say?"

"I would not like to say that your heart was not warm, Lawrence; but I
will remark, that your very cool heads are apt to chill the blood so
much that the heart cannot restore it to a healthy temperature."

"As to that, I prefer a cool head, rather than a heart so warm as to
soften the brains," replied Dunbar. "I go for cool heads, you know."

"And I for warm hearts," replied Hudson.

"Which makes the difference between us. A few years will show which
is best. I will just say, however, in passing, as we happen to be on
the subject and speaking a little freely, that I think your defect
lies just where you have indicated it. Your feelings are too generous.
Your heart is too warm. You think too much of others and too little of
yourself. This will not do, if you expect to rise in the world. All
these amiable weaknesses must be laid aside as hindrances."

"If that is the price of elevation in this world, I do not wish to
rise," said Hudson.

"It is, you may depend upon it," his friend replied.

"A position that I must doubt."

"If you continue to doubt it, you will remain where you are."

"And I shall be content, if elevation is to be purchased at the price
you name."

"You're a foolish fellow, Lloyd!"

"Time will show that. I expect to rise upon my system, as much as you
expect to rise upon yours."

"As high?"

"Higher, perhaps."

"Time, as you say, will show."

"I am willing to trust in time."

"And so am I."

The sober mood in which Dunbar found his friend was in no way congenial
to his feelings, and he did not long oppress the young student with his
presence.

"And it is upon him that Mary—sweet Mary Lee! has thrown herself away,"
murmured Hudson, when he was again alone. "He does not love her as I
love her—he cannot! Ah, me! So the world goes." And he bent his head
again down upon the table from which he had raised it when Dunbar came
in.

It was some days before the young student could sufficiently compose
his mind to resume, with anything like his former ardor, the study of
his profession. That a change had passed over him was noticed by all
his friends, but no one knew the cause. His secret was locked in his
own bosom.

After he had parted from Mary Lee, the maiden retired to her chamber,
and sitting down with a sigh, fell into a deep reverie. As to what she
thought and felt, we cannot say; but her face was not so bright and
happy as it had been for many days before.

The fact of the engagement of Dunbar with Mary Lee soon transpired,
and reached the young man's family before he had thought it proper to
acquaint them with what he had done. To his surprise, he found that his
father was by no means pleased with this step. He had no particular
objection to the young lady, so far as matters personal to herself were
concerned; but to her condition he had a very decided objection.

"You have committed a most egregious mistake," he said, manifesting
strong displeasure, "and have marred your future prospects more than
you dream. A young man of any ambition is a fool to think of marriage
before he is twenty-eight or thirty. He establishes his position first;
he writes his name so high that all can read it, and then makes his
selection of a wife from the hundreds whose hands are ready to grasp
the one he outstretches. Six or seven years from this time, wealth and
high connexions may easily be secured by marriage. Lawrence! I thought
better of you. What is Mary Lee! How will a marriage with her advance
your interests in the world, or help to place you higher?"

Dunbar had never thought of this. For once the warm heart had gained
an advantage over the cool head. It was his first error of this kind,
and it was the last. He did not argue the matter with his father, nor
attempt to palliate what he had done. The mistake he had committed
was too palpable at the first glance. A few words had made this clear
as daylight. Mary was poor; she could not, therefore, aid him in his
upward struggle by the strong elevating power of wealth. She was humble
and unknown, and could not advance his interests by connecting him with
an influential family, or introducing him into a higher circle than the
one in which he was moving.

After the interview with his father, for whose opinions he always had
great respect, Dunbar felt sober. He acknowledged that he had indeed
fallen into an error, even while the maiden's image impressed itself
warmly upon his heart. That she was worthy to rise with him he had
been fully satisfied; but he had not yet advanced far enough in the
world's selfish wisdom to understand that there was a higher truth to
be learned on this subject. His father's words revealed this to his
approving reason.

"But it is now too late," he said to himself, as he sat dreaming over
the subject some hours afterwards, with his law books open, but unread,
before him. "The engagement has been entered into, and cannot be
broken. All I can do is to make the best of it. Mary is a lovely girl,
and worthy to be loved. I might get a rich wife, but none so good, none
so pure, none so truthful. I must only struggle the harder. They shall
see that I can rise, even in spite of this drawback."

These were his first thoughts and purposes. But the reflection of
what he had lost kept haunting him; and the involuntary contrast
between Mary, portionless and unknown, and some beautiful heiress,
highly accomplished and highly connected, kept arising and dimming the
maiden's image that had been stamped upon his heart.

No very long time passed before Mary Lee perceived something in her
lover that inwardly disturbed her. There was a change of some kind
in him. He came as often, stayed as long, and uttered as many tender
words, but still there was a change. He appeared the same, and yet her
heart had an instinct that he was not the same.

The manner of old Mr. Dunbar, after the discovery of his son's folly,
as he called it, was colder and more reserved than before. He was
disappointed, and had lost, to some extent, confidence in his son. If,
in the outset, he could commit such a fatal mistake, what surety was
there for the future? "None at all," he said to himself. "He will start
aside at every false allurement."

About twelve months after Lawrence Dunbar had entered upon the study
of law, his preceptor, who took a fancy to him from the first, paid
him the compliment of inviting him to his house to spend an evening
on the occasion of his having company. A little to his surprise, for
he had not expected that, the young man found himself in a brilliant
party, with beauty, fashion, and the evidences of wealth all around
him. Mr. Harker, his patron, took pains to introduce him pretty freely,
of which favor the young mart judiciously availed himself. Among the
ladies, there was an air of self-possession, elegance, and refinement,
such as he had never before met. He regarded them with scarcely
concealed admiration; and not without drawing contrasts between them
and the unimposing, gentle, yet beautiful Mary Lee. The contrast was
not favorable to his betrothed. He felt that she was inferior to the
brilliant women who flashed around him; and that a marriage with her
must retard rather than accelerate his upward movement.

From this party, Dunbar went home feeling both elated and depressed. He
had taken a step upward, and this elated him; but the upward movement
made him painfully conscious that there was a cord around his neck and
a weight attached to it.

"Why did I act with such haste? Why did I commit this folly?" he said,
scarcely reflecting upon the import of his words. His true feelings had
clothed themselves in true thoughts in a moment when he was off his
guard.

Shame reddened his cheek, but did not silence the utterance within him.
As yet, the thought of violating his marriage contract had found no
place in his mind. That was a baseness still to be developed. He could
regret the folly that had united him, by an honorable pledge, to one
now considered below him, but the thought of violating that pledge had
not presented itself.

From this time, Mary was conscious of a change. The evidences were too
palpable to be mistaken. Dunbar spoke to her of the party, and of the
brilliant ladies whose presence graced it, with an admiration that
caused, she hardly at first knew why, a feeling of soberness. To her he
was changed from that time; and with a consciousness of change, came
a suspicion of the cause; for, in conversation, he sometimes betrayed
enough of his real aspirations to reveal to her quick instincts more
than the truth.

Still, his visits were as constant as before, and his heart, when
left to its own better impulses, was true to its first love. Months
passed, and the young man's circle of new acquaintances grew wider
and wider. Through the partial kindness of Mr. Harker who omitted
no opportunity for introducing his student to people of standing in
society, he found himself gradually making friends and associates of an
entirely different class to those he had been in the habit of meeting.
Attractive as he had at first deemed Mary Lee, he was fated to see her
attractions waning before more brilliant young ladies of a fashionable
education, and fashionable habits and manners. Thus the sun of his love
grew dimmer and dimmer, until it ceased to shine upon his heart with
the radiant warmth of earlier days. Mary appeared to change. He asked
himself, sometimes, what there was about her that could have won his
admiration. Her beauty was tame to what he saw almost every day, and in
mind, manners, and accomplishments, she was incomparably below dozens
of young ladies of whose acquaintance he could boast.

At last, from being cold and reserved towards Mary, he began to neglect
her. Weeks would sometimes be allowed to intervene between his visits.
The thought of breaking his engagement with her, at first repulsed, was
now seriously entertained; and as soon as entertained, reasons fully
sufficient to justify the step were discovered.

There were, of course, difficulties in the way, and he felt troubled.
But there was too much at stake to give place to long continued
irresolution. Before a year after his introduction into a higher circle
of acquaintance had expired, his mind was fully made up to cast aside
the loving heart that would have been true to him through life.



CHAPTER IV.

THE FIRST GREAT ERROR.

THE youngest sister of Lawrence was much attached to Mary Lee, and met
her frequently. It did not escape her eyes, that there was a change in
her brother, and that Mary was unhappy. But the cause of that change
had not occurred to her. That both her father and mother disapproved
the selection which Lawrence had made, she was too well aware; but she
approved it with all her heart, for she knew better than they did, and
could better appreciate the virtues of his betrothed.

One evening Mary Dunbar called upon Mary Lee, and surprised her in
tears. Drawing her arm about her neck, she tenderly inquired the cause
of her affliction. Mary Lee tried to evade the question, but the sister
of Lawrence, connecting the unhappiness of Mary with her brother,
pleaded so strongly for her confidence, that she could not resist the
earnest desire she had to utter what was in her mind.

"Lawrence is not what he was," she said, her tears flowing afresh.

"He is changed, but not to you, I hope," returned the sister.

"Yes, to me," replied Mary, after she had recovered herself enough to
speak in a quivering voice. "I fear that he has ceased to love me.
Weeks have passed since he was here."

"Weeks!"

"Yes, weeks. And when he does come, he is so cold and reserved that his
presence chills me."

"Cold and reserved to you!" Mary spoke with surprise.

"And now, Mary," the maiden said, forcing down her feelings and
speaking calmly, "have you any suspicion of the cause?"

"As I live, none," was the earnest reply.

"But I have."

"Then tell me, freely, what you think," said the sister.

"Either he is won by another, or—"

"Won by another! Mary! He is not so base as that. You wrong my brother."

"God grant that I do! But he is changed to me, that I know. He has
ceased to love me as he did; that, too, I know. As to the cause, it
matters not, perhaps. Enough that I am no longer loved."

The face of the unhappy girl was pale, her eyes full of tears, and hear
lips quivering. Mary Dunbar did not reply for some time; for she did
not know what to say. At last she looked up from the floor, and was
about speaking, when a servant came to the door of the chamber in which
they were sitting, and said that Mr. Dunbar was in the parlor.

"Know the cause this night, Mary," said the sister, rising. "Do not let
him go without the fullest explanation of his changed manner towards
you. I will retire; you need not mention that I was here."

The two friends parted, one to go home to her father's house and there
await her brother's return, to whom she meant to speak freely as soon
as she could see him, and the other to meet her estranged lover.

After parting with Mary Dunbar, Mary Lee spent nearly ten minutes
in the effort to school her feelings so as to meet Dunbar without
betraying the deep disturbance under which she was laboring. She then
descended to the parlor.

"How do you do, Mary?" the young man said, as she entered the room,
rising, and advancing to meet her. He smiled and extended his hand; but
his smile was cold, and his manner constrained. Mary was equally cold
and restrained. She allowed him to take her hand, but without returning
the slight pressure he gave. Dunbar made no allusion to the fact of his
not having visited her for an unusually long space of time.

"Have you been well, Mary?" he asked, in such a marked tone of
indifference as caused a spot on the maiden's cheek suddenly to burn.

"Well, I thank you," she said, formally. Their eyes met, and remained
fixed for a moment, then both fell to the floor.

"You do not look very well," remarked Dunbar, speaking with evident
embarrassment.

Mary uttered no reply. There was a silence of some moments; then she
said, with some firmness of tone—

"It is some time since you were here, Mr. Dunbar."

"Yes," he replied, "it is. About four weeks I think."

"A few months ago you did not allow so long a time to pass without
seeing me." Mary's eyes were full upon him, and their glance firm and
penetrating.

"True," he replied. "I had more leisure on my hands then. But—"

The fixed look of the maiden, that seemed as if reading his very
thoughts, disturbed him. He paused, stammered, and let his eyes fall to
the floor.

"Lawrence Dunbar!" said Mary, in a quick, emphatic voice, "speak out
plainly! There is, of course, a reason for your prolonged absence, and
your present coldness. That reason I have a right to know, and I claim
an avowal of it now."

Lawrence still exhibited embarrassment, and made one or two ineffectual
attempts to speak.

"You have ceased to love me," said Mary.

"I—I—Mary. No. I—I can never cease to lo—love you. But—"

"But what?" The maiden's voice was quick and sharp, while her eyes,
usually so mild in their expression, flashed with an indignant light.

"A marriage contract is a serious matter, and should not be entered
into, except after the maturest deliberation. I see now that in the
ardency of youth I mistook mere passion for—"

"Lawrence Dunbar! Say no more. You are free, if that is what you want."

"I—I, Mary! Do not doubt that I loved you sincerely. But a wide
intercourse with the world, and—"

"Say no more! Say no more, in Heaven's name! I have told you that you
were free."

"But I would not part in anger, Mary. If I erred it was from weakness.
Your beauty, your grace, your loveliness of charac—"

"Silence!" And the maiden, erst so gentle and loving, stamped her foot
imperiously. "Silence! I will hear no more. Enough that you wish to be
free. Go!—" her voice softened—"Go! And may you never feel—"

The maiden lost the self-control which, by a powerful effort, she had
thus far been enabled to maintain. Her utterance was choked, and the
tears came gushing from her eyes. Quickly turning away, she left her
false lover alone in the room where their exciting interview had been
held. Dunbar hurried from the house in no very happy frame of mind,
yet feeling that a weight had been taken from his bosom. He was no
longer betrothed in marriage to one who would have hindered his upward
movement. He was free, and, even in his shame, rejoiced in his freedom.

When Mary Lee entered her own chamber, her face was ashy pale, her eyes
almost fixed, and her frame quivering with agitation. She had just
sufficient strength to reach her bed, and sink down upon it with a moan
of anguish. It was after midnight before she arose from her prostrate
position, and then it was merely to lay aside her outer garments, and
sink back again upon the bed in helpless abandonment of feeling.

Instead of returning to the family with whom she was engaged as
sempstress, Mary Dunbar, when she left her friend, went to her father's
house, and there waited until her brother came home, which he did not
long after. Her mind was made up to speak to him freely on the subject
of Mary Lee.

"Can I say a few words to you alone, Lawrence?" she asked. And they
withdrew from the rest of the family.

"On what subject?" the young man asked, as soon as they were alone.

"Mary Lee is the subject," she said, fixing her eyes steadily upon him.

The color mounted to his face as he replied—

"What of her, pray?"

"You have not visited Mary for some time."

"You are mistaken; I saw her to-night."

"Though for the first time in several weeks. I saw Mary this evening
also, and found her greatly distressed at your neglect and coldness."

"She will complain of it no more."

"Why?" quickly asked the sister.

"Because she no longer has a right to complain."

"Lawrence! What do you mean?"

"I don't know, Mary, that I ever gave you authority to interrogate me
in regard to my actions."

"Though, by virtue of the love I bear you as your sister, I claim the
right to do so in the present case." Mary spoke firmly. "It is no light
thing, Lawrence," she continued, "to trifle with a young heart. Mary
did not seek you. It was you that sought her; you that—"

"Mary," said the young man, interrupting her, "though I deny your right
to question me in regard to my conduct, I will explain to you, although
I have little hope of making you hear reason. My love for Mary Lee was
a mere boyish fancy. She was bright and beautiful to my inexperienced
eyes; and, in a moment of weakness, I committed the folly of asking her
hand in marriage. Our father was justly displeased at this; and no very
long time passed before I saw clearly enough that I had done wrong,
that a marriage with her would mar all my worldly prospects."

"How?" inquired Mary.

"To plod along in the humble sphere in which I was born is not my
intention. I mean to rise in the world as high, if possible, as the
highest. Already I can perceive the upward movement. When I marry,
therefore, I must choose one who can aid in my elevation. Wealth, high
connexions, superior education, and accomplishments, are indispensable.
These Mary Lee cannot bring me, and, therefore, she can never become my
wife. This is settled."

"Have you not entered into a solemn contract? Is not your honor
pledged?" Said Mary, in a deep, earnest voice.

"No contract exists, no pledges remain. I am free."

"And my brother has done this!" said Mary. "Lawrence, the day will come
when, for this baseness—I can call it by no better name—when, for this
baseness, you will repent. And this is your rising in the world! Oh!
what a price to pay for elevation! Love, truth, honor, all trampled
under foot. Faith broken—hearts crushed—hopes blighted. If this is the
bud and blossom, what will be the fruit!"

The young man was much disturbed. But, in his "upward movement," he had
already begun to feel contempt for his humble, unaccomplished sisters,
who had suffered wrong for his sake, and his spirit could ill brook a
reproof from one of them.

"From this moment, Mary," he said, speaking with a contracted brow,
and in an offended tone, "let your lips be sealed in silence on this
subject. What I have done is done, and I do not repent. It was a strong
trial, and I suffered in it. But the trial is past. The separation,
good for both of us, has taken place. We shall not meet again, I think,
for our ways are diverging; if we do meet, it will be as strangers.
Good night!"

And the young man turned suddenly from his sister and left the room.



CHAPTER V.

RIGHT AND WRONG PRINCIPLES.

EVEN before Hudson succeeded in getting his diploma, Dunbar had come
before the court in a case of great importance, and made quite an
impression on the public mind. His argument was reported. On the day
this report appeared in the newspapers, something brought to his mind
his old friend and college companion, whom he had not met for nearly a
year. He did not analyse very carefully the feeling that induced him to
look in upon Hudson; if he had, he would have discovered something like
a desire to exhibit his rising greatness, and cause him to appreciate
the contrast between them. He found Hudson engaged in preparing his
thesis to be submitted to the professors of the Medical College at an
approaching examination of students.

"Ah! How are you, my old friend?" he said, in a gay, off-hand manner,
as he met Hudson. "I was passing, and thought I would just look in and
see if you were yet alive. What are you about? Hav'n't you graduated
yet?"

"Not yet; but if fortunate, I shall have my diploma in a week or two,"
returned Hudson.

"And then—"

"And then I shall see what can be done in the way of making a beginning
in the world."

"Do you expect to remain in the city?"

"I have not yet determined that question. It is probable that I may go
South."

"More chance there for you, I should think. It is too healthy here. I
verily believe there are as many doctors as sick people in this goodly
city."

"Though not so many lawyers as rogues and scoundrels," returned Dunbar,
with a smile; "therefore the more chance for you."

"Just it. The fact is, Lloyd," and Dunbar slapped the student upon the
shoulder, "if it was not for the sins and iniquities of the people, I
don't know what you or I would do. We should make great allowance for
them, don't you think so?"

"We should do all in our power to lessen the amount of evil and
suffering in the world," replied Hudson.

"And starve for our pains. If there were no cheating and roguery in
the world, what would become of all the lawyers? and if there were no
sickness, what would become of the doctors?"

"They would find some better employment, I hope. I am not afraid but
that I should get along quite as well, if not better, than under the
present system of things."

"I am very well satisfied as it is. By the way, did you see the report
of my argument before the court, in the case of Holton vs. Nix?"

"I did."

"Well, what do you think of it?"

"It was ingenious."

"Nothing more?"

"Yes, ingenious in making the worse appear the better reason."

"The highest compliment you could pay me. We had the worst side of the
case."

"So I perceived."

"And, in spite of it, succeeded in gaining for our client."

"And doing a great wrong."

"I have nothing to do with that. My duty was to my client. I was bound
to gain his cause for him, and I did so."

"At the expense of truth, justice, and integrity."

"If you please to say so. That comes under the head of abstract morals.
But with such abstractions lawyers have nothing to do. We are bound in
conscience to take care of our client's interests. He commits them to
our hands, and honor and honesty demand that we should protect them by
every means in our power."

"Not by unfair means," said Hudson.

"If your client's cause is not sound, how can you sustain it by sound
arguments? You must divert the attention of the court from the true
point at issue, and take advantage of every defect or error of your
opponent to make his good cause appear a bad one. Here lies the test
of a truly good lawyer. I see no great credit that a man deserves for
gaining a perfectly plain case. Anybody ought to do that. It is in the
bad cause that the lawyer shows his real power."

"And this is legal integrity!" said the student. "No, Lawrence Dunbar,
I will not credit it! The lawyer may be the guardian of rights, and yet
remain true to himself. You have mistaken the true character of the
profession."

"There can be but two sides to a question. A right side and a wrong
side. And one of these a lawyer has to argue. If he is on the wrong
side, pray how is he to do justice to his client and not violate what
you would call legal integrity?"

"True," said the student, "there is, to every question in dispute, a
right side and a wrong side; but where the right and where the wrong
lies, is not so easily determined. What the lawyer has to do is to
advocate or defend his client's rights, nothing more. This is his use
in the community; and when he goes beyond it, he goes beyond what
his client has a right to demand or he a right to give. Depend upon
it, Lawrence—and you must pardon my plain utterance of what is in my
mind—the lawyer who permits himself to use unfair means to gain a
client's cause, will not find it a hard task to continue his client's
cause year after year, in order, if possible, to swell the amount of
his fees."

"I don't know that you are far out of the way," was the young man's
unblushing avowal. "In fact, that is done every day. I know a young
lawyer who has yet had but two cases of importance, and he nurses them
well, I assure you. They afford him a very comfortable support. Now
would not he be a fool to close up these cases in a week, when it is
the easiest thing in the world to continue them for a year or eighteen
months? Do you blame him?"

"I do, for he is not an honest man."

"He's not a saint, I will admit. But, as to honesty, there are
different opinions about that. I, for one, don't blame him. If people
are the fools to go to law, they must expect to lose some of their
surplus feathers."

"Would you do so?"

"Certainly I would; and am doing it. Mr. Harker, with whom I am now
professionally connected, as you are no doubt aware, has a large
business. He is a good lawyer, but never possessed the tact which some
other men have of making the most of his cases. It will be my business
to reform this, and I have already commenced it."

"Does he not object?"

"He! No indeed. He is pleased at it Why not? It will put money into his
pocket as well as mine. My interest in his business is worth now at the
rate of two thousand dollars a year, but before a twelvemonth passes I
will make it equal to three thousand dollars."

"By nursing cases?"

"Yes, by that; and also by infusing more energy into all our business.
I am bound to go up, you know. That is my ambition. If anybody is fool
enough to bend his head for me to place my feet upon his shoulders, you
will not find me hesitating about making good use of the opportunity.
Do you blame me!"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because the means of rising that you propose to yourself I do not
believe to be just."

"It's the custom in our profession, and he who neglects to fall into
it, will be apt to remain in status quo."

"I must still doubt that. Had I chosen law for a profession, instead of
medicine, I would have tried the honest course."

"And remained a poor devil of a lawyer all your life," said Dunbar,
a little rudely. The plain words of his old friend had touched him a
little, indifferently as he treated them.

"As to the result, I never think of that," returned Hudson. "I ask
myself, 'Is it right?' and trustfully await the issue. I feel that
I have talents, and I believe that if we possess ability and use it
faithfully for the good of others, we shall have our reward,—if in
nothing else, an approving conscience."

Dunbar tossed his head with a slight air of contempt, as he said—

"How soon do you expect your profession, conducted on your principles,
to give you an income of two thousand dollars a year?"

"I don't know that it ever will."

"And can you be content with that, or less than that?"

"With whatever comes, I will strive to be content."

"And even say, thank God for nothing! if nothing comes."

There was something insolent in the young lawyer's manner which was
felt by Hudson, and against which his fine spirit rebelled.

"One thing is plain," he said, speaking in a voice changed from its
former tone, and looking somewhat sternly at Dunbar, "that you and
I have different principles, and that these lead us in the present,
and will lead us in the future, into different practices. There is no
harmony between these principles, and, therefore, can be no sympathy
between us. It is therefore better, perhaps, that we should not meet,
for we cannot meet as friends."

"As you please," said Dunbar, with an offended air, rising as he spoke.
"I rather think I shall lose nothing. Good morning!"

"Good morning," returned Hudson, bowing with cold politeness.

And thus the two young men parted. They met for a brief season, but to
sunder their friendship for ever.



CHAPTER VI.

GENEROUS SELF-DEVOTION.

THE day on which Lloyd Hudson was to pass his examination was one of
considerable interest and anxiety at home. Old Mr. Hudson, equable in
temper as he was, found it impossible to fix his mind upon business,
or to give it anything beyond the most formal attention. The mother
and sisters spent most of the time sitting in each other's rooms, and
talking of Lloyd. The girls—Martha and Ella—were sanguine about the
result; but Mrs. Hudson had her fears.

The usual dinner hour did not bring the young student.

"I thought it would have been all over before this," said Mr. Hudson,
as they gathered around the table. "But the work of examination is,
doubtless, slow. There is a large class this year."

"If he should be rejected," remarked the mother.

"We won't think that possible," said Martha. "I am sure Lloyd is well
prepared. No one could study harder than he has studied."

"But to think of five or six learned professors examining a young
student."

"That is one side of the case," said Mr. Hudson, "and the other is,
that they will examine him on the very points they have taught him.
They will ask him no questions, the answers to which they have not
before given him over and over again in their lectures, and which he
has not seen in books. I think we may safely believe that Lloyd is
fully prepared for the trial, and will pass through it with credit to
himself and honor to the school."

Just then the door was thrown open, and Lloyd walked in with a face
whose brightness told the story of his success.

"All right, I see," said the father, while his heart bounded as lightly
as a boy's.

"Yes, all right, father," returned Lloyd. "The professors did me the
honor to say that I passed the best examination of any who preceded me."

The mother and sisters could not restrain their joy, but starting from
the table, expressed the gladness they felt by warmly embracing the son
and brother.

"And now, my son," said old Mr. Hudson, as they were all together
that evening, "having passed successfully through your long day of
preparation for future usefulness in the world, the question as to the
next step comes up. What are your thoughts in respect to the future?
Have you turned your eyes in that direction?"

"I have thought a good deal of the future," replied the young man,
"but without arriving at any definite conclusion. Of course I wish
to consult you on the subject. Up to this time I have been entirely
dependent upon you for everything. This must now cease, and I must,
hereafter, depend upon my own exertions, which, at first, will meet
with but poor returns. The first thing to determine will be, where to
locate myself."

"Where but in this city?" said the mother, quickly. "You will not go
away from Philadelphia."

"A young physician has but a poor chance in a large city like this,
mother," replied Lloyd. "I might sit in my office for years without
getting practice sufficient to support me. But in some country town
at the West or South, I will doubtless find an opening of sufficient
importance to enable me to sustain myself."

"All that involves serious considerations," remarked Mr. Hudson. "As
Lloyd says, he ought now to sustain himself but if, in the nature of
things, is cannot be done without too great a sacrifice, he must be
sustained for a time longer. A practice in this city, if it can be
made, will be worth securing, even at considerable cost, for in a city
like Philadelphia, a physician of eminent abilities may rise into a
much more distinguished position, and be much more useful, than he can
in a small country town, where everything is circumscribed."

"I am afraid you overrate my ability, father," said the young man, with
the modesty he felt. "Eminence in the medical profession in a city like
this, is attained only by the few."

"By the few, my son, who, to good natural abilities, add untiring
industry and patient thought. You may rise high if you will; but all
the hindrances lie with yourself, and may be overcome. If you deem
your studies at an end when you get your diploma, then you will not
rise above a mere plodding physician, who is retrograding every year,
instead of advancing. But, if you remain a student, and, year after
year, add to your stock of information, at the same time that you
endeavor to make all practical, eminence will come as a natural result."

"That I know, as yet, nothing, I am deeply conscious," replied Lloyd.
"No one, therefore, can feel more sensibly than I do the necessity
for continuing the study of my profession with unremitting assiduity;
and not only of what directly appertains to it, but of all that has
an indirect bearing upon it. As to the eminence, I am content to let
that come, if ever it does come, as the consequence of well-directed
efforts."

"That is the true spirit, my son," replied Mr. Hudson. "Think not of
eminence as the end of your exertions, but rather as a consequence that
may or may not flow from them but which, if it ever does come, will
give you the ability to be more widely useful. If this be your spirit,
I incline to the opinion that you had better remain in Philadelphia,
where the field is wider, and the opportunities greater."

"But I cannot think of burdening you longer. It would not be right."

"It will be right if done in the right spirit, my son," replied the
high-minded watchmaker, who, though in humble circumstances, had a
noble nature. "What we do should not be in sole reference to ourselves.
Our acts ought to have some reference to the good of others. I believe
that it will be right for me to help you for one or two or three years,
until you are able to support yourself, for, thereby, you will the more
surely rise into a high and useful position. The sacrifice on my part
will be small, compared to the good attained."

The unanimous voice of the family was in favor of Lloyd's remaining
in Philadelphia, and living at home as before. It would be better for
him, in the end, to do so, he believed; but still, the thought of
burdening his father weighed upon his mind, and kept him for some time
undecided. When alone with him, his sisters urged strongly his giving
up all thought of removing from the city. To Martha he said, about a
week after he had received his diploma, and while the subject was yet
in agitation, in answer to the question, "Why will you think of leaving
us, brother?"

"Because I cannot make up my mind to depend upon father any longer. His
business, I have heard him say, is not so good as it was; and, besides,
he is growing old, and needs freedom from labor, rather than heavier
burdens. I feel, sister, that it would not be just."

To this Martha did not reply for some moments. She, too, felt that her
father's duties were too severe for him, and rather wished to see them
lightened instead of increased.

"It is true what you say about father," she remarked. "He ought not
to be more heavily burdened than he is, and he need not be. Ella and
I have talked that matter over, and decided that we will take a few
scholars and teach them music until you—"

"Never!" ejaculated the young man, firmly. "I will not listen to such
an arrangement."

"Why not, Lloyd?"

"You and Ella become music teachers for the purpose of supporting me
who ought to support you? No—no! Don't breathe it to me again. I will
go South."

"My brother will hear reason," said Martha, calmly.

"There is no reason in that," replied Lloyd, impatiently.

"And why not? All agree that it will be best for you to remain here.
The difficulty in the way is the slowness with which a practice is
acquired in a large city like this, and the inability of a young
physician to support himself for a year or two. Ella and I, in love
and duty, agree to do a certain thing, right in itself—as right as to
practise medicine—in order to sustain our brother, a young physician,
until he can sustain himself. Can he, upon any just plea, refuse to let
us be coworkers, in affection, with him in his honorable elevation.
Will he do violence to our love and sisterly pride? Will he abandon
his home, with all its dear associations, and go off among strangers,
because the voice of false pride is louder than the voice of reason and
love? No! Our brother will not so lightly esteem our offering. He will
not trample it under his feet!"

"Martha! Martha!" exclaimed the young man, "you must not urge me thus.
You paralyse, instead of giving strength to my judgment. My sisters
teach music to support me! Away with the thought!"

"False pride, false independence, Lloyd. It is nothing else. We have
the time and the ability; and whether you accept what we propose or
not, whether you go or stay, we shall do as we said. Our father demands
our consideration, and he shall have it. Long enough has he been
burdened for our support. But, oh! how much sweeter would be our tasks,
how much lighter our duties, if you would still consent to make home
glad with your presence."

Martha spoke with great tenderness; and she saw that her words made an
impression.

"Say that you will remain with us, brother," she continued. "Home will
not seem like home to any of us when you are gone. Do not be the first
to break the circle, when no real necessity for doing so exists."

The young man was silent, yet much disturbed.

"I will think about it a little longer," he said, in an agitated voice.
"At present I will only say, that this unexpected manifestation of
affection by you and Ella has touched me deeply. May it meet its just
reward."

"The reward is in your hands, brother. Do not withhold it," returned
Martha.

"Be silent, sister. You throw my thoughts all into confusion," said
Lloyd Hudson, in a tender yet rebuking-voice. "How am I to decide as to
the right course for me to take, when you bear down my feelings at this
rate? I must think more about it. I think alone. What I conscientiously
believe to be right, that I will do, and do it though all the world
oppose."

"In determining what is right for you to do, I will merely say,"
remarked the sister, "that if you admit into your counsels any
suggestions from false pride, your conclusions will be in great danger
of having in them a tincture of error. If there is any bias of feeling,
let it be given by love and not pride."



CHAPTER VII.

ACTING FROM PRINCIPLE.

"FATHER, I cannot! You may call it a weakness; I will even acknowledge
that it is. But to let my sisters support me by hard labor is more
than I will permit. Let me go South. I will find some place where my
services are needed. It will be better than to sit down idly here to
wait for a practice that may be years in coming."

"Martha and Ella will do what they say, independent of your movements
altogether, and I approve their determination. All of us should be
usefully employed. They have the time and the ability, and are wise to
give them both a right direction. But, independent of all that, here
is a home for you. The burden of your presence, my son, will be far
lighter than the burden of your absence. Do not go then. I shall be
unhappy if you leave us so causelessly."

The reasoning of his father Lloyd had withstood, but could not resist
an earnest appeal like this, made with a lip that trembled and a voice
that had lost its uniform steadiness.

"Let it be as you wish," he said, in a low tone. "I trust that all
will be right. If you feel the burden too heavily, you will say so. As
quickly as I can, I will relieve you."

There were cheerful hearts in the dwelling of the watchmaker when it
was known that Lloyd had yielded, and was to remain.

An office was immediately secured, and Doctor Hudson put up his sign.
He did not expect any practice at first, and, therefore, was not
disturbed because he received none. Anatomy and surgery had attracted
most of his attention while a student, and to the perfecting of skill
in these he gave the principal portion of his time and attention now.
He attended all the hospital operations of consequence, and assisted
the surgeons in the performance of their difficult and often dangerous
tasks. His devotion to this branch of his profession, amounting almost
to enthusiasm, did not escape the notice of those with whom he was
thereby brought into contact. He was often alluded to by surgeons of
high standing, when he deemed himself scarcely noticed by them.

One day the professor of anatomy in the school from which he had
received his diploma called upon him. It was nearly a year after he
had opened his office, and at a time when he was beginning to feel
discouraged about a practice. The professor soon made known his
business.

"Doctor," he said, "our demonstrator of anatomy is not half so capable
as you are, nor is he a great favorite I would prefer you a hundred
times, and so, I believe, would every student in the school. Now it so
happens that he has been called away for a couple of weeks, and some
one must be had in his place during his absence. I wish you to fill
it. This will give you a chance to exhibit your superior skill, and
so far make in your favor, that it will be an easy matter to have him
displaced and you appointed in his stead some few months hence."

"Excuse me, doctor," replied Hudson, "but I cannot meet your wishes
under that view of the case. Doctor S— is a good anatomist and
demonstrates quite well. I would not, for the world, have him displaced
to make room for me. If I rise, it must not be at the expense of
another's downfall."

The professor looked astonished, for a moment or two, at this
unexpected reply. He then said:—

"I believe you are right, doctor. Forgive me for having made a
proposition so repugnant to the honorable principles you hold. I
see that I erred. My anxiety to have the very best talent in every
department of our school, has led me to think of means not altogether
as fair as they should be. Still, there must be some one to demonstrate
to the class while Doctor S— is away, and I know of none so capable of
doing it as yourself. I must, therefore, beg of you to reconsider your
prompt decision of the matter, and consent to serve the class for a
couple of weeks."

"Indeed, Doctor," returned Hudson, "I cannot change the resolution I
have declared. It would not be right for me to do so. I could not feel
in any degree of freedom. Why did not Doctor S— name some one to take
his place?"

"So he did."

"Ah! Who?"

"Doctor D—. Just think of it! Why, I doubt if he remembers enough of
his anatomy to tell the difference between a sinus and a foramen."

"You underrate him, doctor," said Hudson. "D— will give a very fair
demonstration."

"And you one a thousand times better."

"I doubt that. But, waiving this question, doctor, it is impossible for
me, under the circumstances, to meet your wishes. The fact that Doctor
S— has named Dr. D—, settles the matter definitively. If, in any other
way, I can serve the school, it will give me pleasure to do it."

"While I cannot but regret your decision, think as I will about it,"
returned the professor, "I must do you the justice to say, that I am
constrained to honor your principles. Few men would have resisted the
temptation. It would be better for the world, perhaps, if there were
more like you."

When Hudson mentioned at home what had occurred, there was not one who
did not express a warm approval of his conduct.

"It is only what I expected of you, Lloyd," said the father. "Be ever
true to right principles, and you will be true to yourself. You need
not be concerned for the issue."

Two weeks from the day Doctor Hudson received a visit from the
professor of anatomy, that individual called upon him again.

"You are probably aware," he said, "that the father of Doctor S—, a
physician of large practice in Boston, is dead. It was his illness that
made the absence of S— necessary."

"Yes, I have heard it," returned Hudson.

"You may not have heard, however, that S— is to remain in Boston, and
take up his father's practice?"

"That intelligence has not before reached me."

"It is true, nevertheless. I received a letter from S— to that effect
yesterday. This morning, at a meeting of the Faculty, I made known his
decision, and brought forward your talents and anatomical skill as
fitting you in a peculiar manner to take his place. You were appointed
without a question, and by a unanimous vote. Let me congratulate you
on the occasion, as I have already congratulated the school. An honor
has been worthily conferred. You can now accept the chair, and feel
yourself fairly entitled to it."

"For your kindness I feel truly gratified," replied Hudson, showing
more emotion than he wished to exhibit. "I accept the appointment, and
will endeavor to discharge the duties appertaining to it to the best of
my ability."

"Which will leave us no cause of complaint!"

"When am I expected to take charge of the demonstrations before your
school?"

"Immediately. Doctor D— has already been informed of your appointment,
and will give place to you after to-day."

"Very well. I will be at my post in due season."

Nothing could have happened more accordant to the young man's wishes
than this. Besides giving his abilities full scope, it secured him
an ample income, considering his habits of strict economy, as there
were nearly a hundred and fifty students in the class, and the
demonstrator's ticket was ten dollars.

The first thing he did, after communicating his good fortune at home,
was to insist that Martha and Ella should give up their scholars. To
this, however, they promptly objected, as they had a large number of
pupils, and were receiving from four to five hundred dollars each per
annum. The marriage of Martha to a worthy young man, a few months
afterwards, settled the matter, however, as far as she was concerned;
but Ella continued her useful and profitable employment.



CHAPTER VIII.

AN INIQUITOUS SCHEME.

"Too slow—too slow. I must go up faster. Harker gets the lion's share
of reputation and profit. It is time there was some new arrangement."

Dunbar was alone, and walking uneasily about. Five years had passed
since his co-partnership with Mr. Harker, and still his interest in the
business was only a fifth, although by his efforts he had increased the
practice of the office. True, he had accumulated about ten thousand
dollars, which he was using in a way that netted him from fifteen to
twenty per cent annually.

In the meantime, the sisters had married honest and industrious
mechanics, and for thus degrading him had been virtually disowned. He
never even paid them the compliment of a visit, and if he met them by
chance, treated them with chilling formality. Old Mr. Dunbar still kept
his grocery, but the expense of sustaining his son for so many years
had sapped the foundation of his business, and he now found himself
involved in debts which he saw no hope of paying. Still he struggled
on, without assistance or sympathy from his unnatural child, who,
by the diversion of a thousand or two dollars from his own selfish
projects, might have relieved his parent from a burden under which he
felt himself sinking.

For some time he had been dissatisfied with the share of profit he
obtained in the business of the office. Harker, who felt a pride in his
old student, had taken pains, from the first, to push Dunbar forward
in all important cases; and by this means gave him a prominence which,
alone, he would not have gained for twenty years. This great advantage,
with a fifth of the profits of the business, he had considered ample
remuneration. His own expenses were very large; for both himself and
family were expensive in their habits. While Dunbar, upon one-fifth
of the practice, was saving at least two thousand dollars a year, he
usually spent all he made, and was, in fact, notwithstanding an income
of over ten thousand dollars per annum, a poor man.

"I think I can stand alone," Dunbar continued, uttering his thoughts
aloud as he walked the floor of his office. "There are at least half a
dozen of our clients of whom I am sure, and out of them, if I manage it
right, I can get at least as much as the whole of my present income."

While thus meditating, a stranger entered, and asked if either Mr.
Harker or Mr. Dunbar was in.

"My name is Dunbar," said the young attorney, bowing.

"Ah! Then you are the one I wish to see. I have a claim against a
distant relative, involving a large amount of property, out of which I
have for a long time been unjustly held, and for the recovery of which
I have determined to appeal to the law. The terms I have to propose to
counsel are a fee of ten thousand dollars if successful, and nothing if
unsuccessful."

Dunbar made careful inquiries as to the nature of the claim, and took
two or three days for examination into its foundation and the law
bearing upon it. He was satisfied from this investigation that the
claim was, to some extent, founded in justice; and there were strong
points in the case, which gave hope of a successful issue.

In the course of his conference with the individual who wished to
prosecute this claim, Dunbar found that he put much more confidence
in his ability than he did in that of Mr. Harker, and once or twice
inquired whether Mr. Harker would object to any legal advantage that it
might be found necessary to take. A few days' reflection decided the
mind of Dunbar, and he said to his client, whose name was Malcolm,—

"I have been for some time meditating a separation from Harker, and
have, at length, determined upon taking that step. If you will defer
the opening of this suit for a couple of months, I will be ready to
undertake it myself, and prosecute it with undivided energy."

"Nothing could be more agreeable," returned Malcolm. "I will defer
the matter as you suggest." And so it was deferred until Dunbar could
arrange and settle all that appertained to his contemplated dissolution
with his old preceptor, who received his proposition with astonishment.
Nothing that Harker could say had any effect upon Dunbar. His mind was
fully made up for a separation, and it took place accordingly.

From all that appears, this was an unwise act for Dunbar; but he had
thoughts and intentions in regard to the new case expressed to none.
What these were will appear in the end.

As soon as the young attorney launched from the shore in his own boat,
he took up the important case that had been offered him, and made a
vigorous demonstration upon the party in possession of the property to
be litigated. Of course there was a defence, which was intrusted, as he
had shrewdly anticipated from his knowledge of the party concerned, to
an attorney of tact and shrewdness, with principles just about as pure
as his own. The two legal gentlemen entered into close conference from
the first, though, to all appearances, they were almost as hostile as
their respective clients.

Before commencing a suit, Malcolm, who had a small business, by means
of which he was barely able to support his family, had made sundry
efforts to compromise his claim. He had even offered to take a sum as
small as twenty-five thousand dollars, although the amount in dispute
was over a hundred thousand. But all such overtures were rejected.
No sooner, however, was the suit commenced, and the terms upon which
Dunbar had undertaken its prosecution known, than an offer was made to
Malcolm to settle the matter by paying him the sum he had previously
demanded. This fact he immediately communicated to his lawyer, and
asked if he had not better accept the proposition.

"Accept it?" returned Dunbar, with well-assumed surprise. "No! Nor
double the amount. Your case is as clear as noon-day. I have already
stated it to two of our judges, and they agree with me that you have
everything on your side. The very fact that an offer to compromise has
been made, shows that the defendant's counsel has been acute enough to
see the weak points of his case, and to advise the course that has been
taken. He's as timid as a hare, at any rate; and a mere old woman at
the bar. I am astonished at his being employed in a case involving so
much."

Thus assured, Malcolm declined the offer.

That evening the plaintiff's and defendant's lawyers met at the office
of the former.

"Have you seen Malcolm?" was the first question asked.

"Yes," replied Dunbar. "He was here this morning."

"And wanted to settle the matter, I suppose."

"Oh, yes. He was warm for it at first, but I soon satisfied him that
it would be folly to do so. I suppose you might induce your client to
offer thirty or forty thousand dollars in order to get a clear title to
his remaining property."

"Yes, I think that might be done. It will be easy for me to show him
that the chances are two to one against him, if he permits the suit to
go on."

"The easiest thing in the world. When do you see your client?"

"T shall see him early to-morrow."

"You think, then, that we might get something like thirty thousand
dollars out of him?"

"Yes. But it will not do to let the matter be settled before some heavy
costs are made to accrue, which Malcolm will have to pay off before he
can begin de novo, after I throw you out on a demurrer, and which, of
course, he will not be able to settle."

"That is all understood, of course. What I don't like in this matter,
is being thrown out of the case on a demurrer, a circumstance that is
never creditable to a lawyer. I may gain fifteen or twenty thousand
dollars, but will not my reputation as an acute lawyer suffer too
severely? I sometimes think it will."

"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. A chance like this does
not occur every day."

"I am well aware of that."

"Money is power, you know. Money is reputation—money is everything.
With plenty of money you may set the world at defiance."

"But I don't call fifteen or twenty thousand dollars plenty of money."

"Though a very important sum in the process of accumulation."

"Yes, there is no doubt of that. I think," Dunbar added, after
reflecting for some moments, "that some less apparent defect might be
substituted for the one I have admitted, and which would not reflect so
strongly upon my want of legal acumen."

"And by doing so, jeopardize the result."

"I am safe for ten thousand, you know; and I am not sure that I ought
not to be satisfied with that and the reputation success in this case
will give me."

"If you were absolutely certain of success, then what you say has some
force. But, of that, you are by no means sure. We have all the money
on our side, and can oppose you with any required force of counsel;
and even in the case of a decision adverse to our interests, inset all
the costs, and go up with an appeal. You could not settle this matter
in two or three years, if we give you battle in good earnest, as we
certainly shall, and then the result is doubtful. None know better
than you and I how little calculation is to be made on the decision of
Courts."

Dunbar did not reply to this; but sat with his eyes fixed upon the
floor. His companion, after a few moments, resumed—

"My fee in this case is to be five thousand dollars, if successful,
and one thousand if I fail. If I throw you out on the demurrer, and
thus completely kill Malcolm, I will get my five thousand, of course.
I can therefore afford, if we get thirty thousand dollars out of old
Harrison, to let your share be twenty thousand, and take ten myself.
How will that do?"

"It looks rather better, I must confess," said Dunbar; "and it shall
stand so, if you can arrange all upon the terms proposed."

"I will accomplish it without doubt, unless I have mistaken my man."

This settled, the friends in iniquity parted.

Lawrence Dunbar was far from feeling easy in mind about this affair.
Not that he was troubled by anything his conscience ventured to
suggest, for that spoke in such low whispers that the words rarely
arose to an audible murmur. But he was fearful lest he was playing too
high. Two individuals, at least, would know him to be a scoundrel, and
the knowledge of that fact, with indubitable proofs thereof, he did
not think safe in anybody's hands. But the temptation had proved too
strong for him, and he was committed to an extent that made it doubtful
whether to retreat was not more perilous than to advance.

Thus it is that evil blinds her votaries. It is easy to walk in the
plain path of rectitude; but few can tread the devious ways of the
wrong-doer without bewilderment at some point, and doubt whether to go
forward or seek to retrace the steps that have been taken.



CHAPTER IX.

A MATRIMONIAL SPECULATION.

FIVE years had not passed over the head of Lawrence Dunbar without
advances being made by him in certain quarters for the purpose of
securing an advantageous matrimonial alliance. That was something of
which he never for a moment lost sight. Three times had he met with
signal failures; but a renewed effort, and in a new quarter, promised a
somewhat better result.

A young lady named Henrietta Gay, said to be worth sixty or seventy
thousand dollars in her own right, made her appearance in fashionable
circles a few months before the time Dunbar thought it wise to dissolve
the business relation that had for some years existed between him and
Mr. Harker. Miss Gay was from Baltimore, and had come to live with a
relative, a widow lady, residing in Philadelphia. About her personal
appearance there was nothing attractive; neither were her manners
agreeable, nor her conversation intelligent and interesting. Two or
three fortune hunters approached, as soon as her money-value became
known, but there was something about her that instinctively repulsed
them.

As Miss Gay was a near relative of a certain very distinguished citizen
of Maryland, and had connexions of standing and wealth in Philadelphia,
her introduction into fashionable circles was direct. Dunbar was rot
long in finding her out; nor did he allow space for much hesitation
before becoming her devoted admirer. The young attorney was handsome
and agreeable; and every one spoke of him as possessing talents of
a high order that would inevitably carry him up to a distinguished
position. His attentions were of the most flattering kind, and Miss
Gay was flattered by them. The conquest was easier than Dunbar had
expected. The lady's heart was won at the first assault. After having
gained the prize, the lawyer began to think more seriously about
the value, and to feel a desire to know something more certain on
that head. Common report set down the fortune of Miss Gay at seventy
thousand dollars. It might be more or it might be less; but to no
prudent investigation ventured upon came any satisfactory answer. It
would not do to press the matter too closely, lest, by some means, his
affection for the lady's money instead of herself, should get wind and
be breathed into her ears. The understanding in regard to her wealth
was so general and decided, that Dunbar felt pretty well satisfied that
he had gained a prize in the matrimonial lottery.

A more intimate association with Miss Gay, after the engagement had
taken place, made Dunbar acquainted with points in her character that
were by no means agreeable. She possessed a strong self-will; had very
contracted views of everything, and was passionate in the extreme.
Whatever her money might do for him, it was soon clear to his mind,
that, personally, she would reflect no light upon him in society. Take
her all in all, she was the most uninteresting and unattractive woman
he had ever known. To this conclusion he was reluctantly forced, in
less than three months after his betrothment.

But from her to her sixty or seventy thousand dollars his thoughts
would turn, and then he always breathed more freely. He was anxious for
the time to come when that pretty little fortune would be fully within
his possession.

"Add that to what I already have," he would sometimes say, "and I
think I may not fear to shake my fist in the world's face, and bid it
defiance."

The young attorney would have named an early day for the marriage, but
the lady was in no hurry. The ensuing spring she thought quite time
enough. It was then midsummer. Delicacy forbade his urging the matter,
and so he submitted to lie out of her handsome fortune for six or eight
months, with as good a grace as possible.

The lawyer of old Mr. Harrison called upon that gentleman on the
morning following his interview with Dunbar.

"He has declined the proposition," said Harrison, as soon as the
attorney appeared.

"Has he, indeed?"

"Yes. Here is his note, declaring it his intention, under advice of
counsel, to prosecute the matter to a decision."

"He has good counsel, and will, doubtless, run us hard, though I by no
means consider the case desperate. If a compromise could be effected,
however, I cannot but think it would be the wisest for us to accept it."

"But how is it to be brought about?"

"Every man has his price."

"So I hold."

"And this Dunbar among the rest."

"No doubt of it."

"He is to get ten thousand dollars if he succeeds in establishing his
client's right in the property you hold."

"So I understand."

"It is the fee, and nothing else, that binds him to Malcolm."

"Then you think Dunbar has a money-price."

"I am sure of it. Could anything but the money of Miss Gay tempt him
into a marriage contract with her, which I am told has actually been
formed."

"You must be in error," said Mr. Harrison, with a look of surprise.

"No, I believe not."

"With Miss Gay?"

"Yes."

The old gentleman indulged himself for a moment or two in an inward
laugh or chuckle, and then said—

"Well, how are we to manage this sharp young attorney, who has arrayed
his artillery in such a formidable style?"

"By paying him better for losing Malcolm's suit than Malcolm pays him
for gaining it."

"Aha! is that your game? And you think this can be done?"

"I have no doubt of it."

"You think he can sacrifice his client if so disposed."

"Oh, yes. By the introduction of some defect in his bill, he can put it
in my power to throw him out of court on a demurrer."

"But that will not settle the matter. Malcolm can order him or some
other lawyer to begin de novo with an amended bill."

"True; but before that can be done the costs must all be paid. They
may be made so heavy that Malcolm will find himself in no condition
to settle them. Then, by executing what little he has, under an order
of the court for the recovery of costs, we may break him up riot and
branch, and so get rid of him in that way."

"You're a sharp set of boys," said old Mr. Harrison. "And I rather
think a man's a fool to allow you to get him into your hands. If I'd
paid this Malcolm the twenty-five thousand dollars he originally asked,
I would have been wise. Now I shall think myself well off if I escape
with a loss of double that sum."

"It won't be so bad as that, I guess. I am very sure that an offer
of twenty-five or thirty thousand dollars will completely silence
all scruples of conscience that Dunbar may happen to have, and fully
satisfy his cupidity."

"Twenty-five or thirty thousand, indeed! I agree with you that he has
his price, and a pretty high one it is, by the way. He must be more
reasonable than that."

"Shall I feel his pulse?"

"Oh, yes. It will do no harm to know how it beats."

"A precious set of rascals!" exclaimed Harrison, after the lawyer had
left him. "This Dunbar is the man I once heard Harker prophesy would
rise in the world. And he is rising sure enough. At this rate of
elevation, he will soon be out of sight of all honest men. But he's
keen if he gets ahead of me in this affair. If I am not mistaken, I
can play off a card upon him that he little dreams is in my hand. And
as for my own keen attorney will take good care never again to venture
on the ocean of law with him as my pilot. The man who would propose a
bribe would take one."

"I have felt his pulse," said the lawyer of Harrison, sententiously, as
that gentleman entered his office, and leisurely seated himself, a few
days afterwards.

"Well. How does it beat?"

"Healthily as we could wish. He is not adverse; but, as I supposed he
would do, fixes his price high."

"How much?"

"He must have thirty thousand dollars."

"The deuce he must! You did not go wide of the mark when you named the
price that would buy him."

"No. It seems that I was correct. I thought I knew him pretty well."

"Then for thirty thousand dollars guaranteed to him in case we make
good our defence through a flaw in his bill, he will so frame his bill
as to leave room for a demurrer."

"Yes. That is what he assents to."

"Very well; we understand him clearly. Now what is your opinion? Shall
we pay him this large sum to give us the case, or shall we push on, and
try to get it in spite of him?"

"I am clearly of opinion," replied the lawyer, "that we ought to plough
with Malcolm's heifer, seeing that he is ready to bend his neck to the
yoke. It will cost something, but it makes so much sure."

"Very well. You can arrange the matter with Dunbar. At the proper time
I will be ready to fulfil my part of the contract."

"He is not willing to act as proposed, unless he has the most ample
security that the amount specified will be forthcoming," said the
lawyer, slightly hesitating as he spoke.

"Ah! I suppose not," replied Harrison. "Let him name the security he
wants, and I will see if I cannot satisfy him."

"Very well. That is all he asks."

"Tell him," said Harrison, "to be sure that the flaw in the bill is
palpable. It would be folly for him to undertake the matter and not do
it well."

"I will myself see to that," replied the lawyer.

"How soon will the case come up?" asked Harrison.

"The longer we can keep it off the better."

"How so?"

"By that means we shall accumulate heavy costs, which will have to be
settled before a new bill can be filed."

"Ah! Yes; I see."

"I hardly think we shall get an argument on the demurrer before six or
nine months."

"So long? I wish it could be earlier."

"There is too much at stake to hurry the matter."

"True. I must leave all to your better judgment."

The lawyer and his client parted, each thinking that he understood the
other fully; but both were a little mistaken in this.



CHAPTER X.

PERFECTLY LEGAL.

FILLED, by the positive assurances of his lawyer, with the hope of
success, Malcolm, in a few months, became so much occupied with his
suit that he neglected his business, which, at best, gave his family
but a poor support. A large fortune was almost within his reach, and
he could think of nothing but the near prospect of grasping it. What
were the coppers, the fips, and the levies that came in so slowly over
his counter, compared with property worth, at the lowest estimate, a
hundred thousand dollars? No wonder that he felt contempt for his petty
business, and neglected it.

Some time before the lawyers were ready to have the case called up for
trial, Malcolm was beginning to feel sorely the effects of his want of
attention to business. Several small notes had to lie over, thereby
hurting his credit, and preventing him from keeping up a selling stock
of goods.

Conscious that he was committing an error in suffering his mind to be
so diverted from his business, Malcolm strove hard with himself to
correct the error, but without effect. His eyes could not rest upon his
own dry stubble field, for looking at the golden grain waving in fields
beyond.

At length creditors began to be urgent for their money; business grew
worse and worse, and there was a prospect of a crisis in his affairs
before any decision would be had upon his suit.

"Mr. Dunbar, I wish this matter hurried to, an issue," he said to his
lawyer about six months after the suit had been commenced. "If it
is not, I shall be forced to accept Harrison's offer of twenty-five
thousand dollars. I have more than half regretted fifty times since
that I hadn't closed with it."

"Are your circumstances so pressing?" inquired Dunbar.

"Indeed they are. There are three or four suits against me. I have the
writs in my pocket. It is no use to defend them, for I have no defence
to make. The claims are just. If I do not get relief soon, what little
I have will go into the hands of the sheriff."

"That is bad," returned Dunbar, in a voice of sympathy. "But don't give
up so easily I can save your effects for you."

"How?"

"What are your goods and furniture worth?"

"A couple of thousand dollars, I suppose. My stock has got very low.
The fact is, I have thought so much about this suit against Harrison,
as to neglect my business. For these embarrassments I have only myself
to blame. I was a fool, but couldn't help it."

"You think they would bring two thousand dollars under the hammer, if
fairly sold?"

"I hardly think they would bring that under the hammer."

"A thousand or twelve hundred, then?"

"O yes; readily."

"Very well. I will lend you three hundred dollars on your note on
demand. This will make me your creditor. You can then confess judgment
on the note, and I will issue an execution and sell you out by the
sheriff before any one else can get a judgment against you."

"Sell me out by the sheriff!" exclaimed Malcolm, with a look of
surprise. "What difference will that make, pray? It is this breaking
up, root and branch, process that I wish to avoid."

"That is just what I want to do for you. I wish to save you. You don't
understand, I see, the nature of an amicable sale by the sheriff."

"No, I certainly do not. Never having had anything to do with that
gentleman, I am not familiar with all his proceedings."

"I will explain. By the laws of this State no assignments of property
for the benefit of particular creditors are legal. But by the same
laws, the creditor who can first get out his execution sweeps off
everything, provided his claim be as large as the proceeds of the
property sold. This enables a debtor to give precedence to whomsoever
he pleases by a confession of judgment. Of course there must be a sale
of the property, but then it can be conducted in such a way as to
attract very little attention. Leave the thing in my hands, and I will
see that even your next door neighbor shall not know it. Of course, I
do not mean to touch your property. My object is to secure you in its
possession."

"But there must be public advertisements and handbills?" said Malcolm.

"I know. But the advertisement can be inserted in some country paper
where no citizen will ever see it."

"But the handbills? To make it legal they must be posted."

"Granted. But the law doesn't specify the number. Two will answer."

"It certainly requires them to be put up in public places."

"Very well. The sheriff's office is a public place."

"It can be seen there."

"Not if the face be to the wall; or if some one pull it down in half a
minute after it is put up. The law requires the bills to be put up, but
doesn't say how long they shall remain up."

"A bell will have to be rung, and a bill put up on the premises."

"Yes. But the bell can be rung in the alley at the rear of your house.
Or a few strokes of it made on the opposite side of the street, and no
one be the wiser for it. As to the bill, the poster, who understands
all this, will put it up a little after daylight, when there is no
one in the street. Before he is out of sight it can be torn down by a
person employed for the purpose. For fifteen or twenty dollars all this
can be managed to a charm."

"I never heard of this before," said Malcolm, opening his eyes with
astonishment.

"It is done every day," replied the lawyer. "The men about the
sheriff's office understand it all perfectly."

"Still, if anybody buys the goods, they must be delivered."

"That doesn't follow. You can get a friend to bid in everything in my
name. He must bid very low, so that the entire amount of sales shall
not exceed three hundred dollars. After that, I will settle all with
the sheriff, and you can go on as before. The sale can take place in
the room back of your store, and even your wife up stairs need not know
it. All you have to do will be to furnish the deputy-sheriff with a
correct list of what is to be sold. You can call a whole row of shelves
a lot, to be struck off at a single bid, and he will go through all the
forms of a sale in a low voice, and the clerk and customers in your
store will be none the wiser."

"And that's the way it's done!" said Malcolm. "I have often wondered
how people who were broken up root and branch managed to retain their
furniture, for instance."

"It is by the aid of friends, through an amicable sale."

"I did not expect this act of kindness from you, Mr. Dunbar," said
Malcolm, now recollecting the deep obligation under which the lawyer
was placing him. "When it is in my power, I hope to make you feel that
I am grateful. What is done must be done, I suppose, immediately."

"Yes. For if it be not all over before judgments are obtained and
executions issued by those who are suing, some trouble may be given,
although the sale could not be prevented."

"I am ready to have the matter as speedily arranged as possible."

"Very well. If you will draw me a note on demand for three hundred
dollars, I will hand you my check for that amount. To-morrow, if you
will call round, the confession of judgment can be made. Things will go
on smoothly enough after that. Leave it all in my hands. I can manage
these underlings of the law to a nicety. In due time I will notify you
how to act."

The thing proposed by the lawyer was done. Malcolm was quietly sold out
by the sheriff, and Dunbar got legal possession of all the goods in his
store and furniture in his house.

"I think I shall be able to manage him now," he said to himself, with a
cold and heartless sneer, "should he prove troublesome. Harrison will
hear no more from him after this suit is lost. What fools some men are!"



CHAPTER XI.

A BIT OF RETALIATION.

AFTER the sheriff's sale had taken place, Malcolm tried to fix his mind
more intently on his business, but he found this almost impossible. The
argument in his suit against Harrison was to come on at the next term,
only two months off, and his anxiety about the result kept his thoughts
in such a continued state of excitement, that he injured rather than
benefited his business by whatever was done to advance it.

One day he called upon Dunbar, to ask how the matter was progressing.
He found the lawyer looking very serious.

"How do things look now?" he asked.

"Bad, I am sorry to say."

Malcolm turned pale.

"What is the matter?" he asked, anxiously, "The defence has filed a
demurrer to our bill."

"A what?"

"Has taken exception to a trifling informality, upon which we may be
thrown out of court. It is the merest trifle in the world; but it is a
lawyer's business to make a mountain out of a molehill, and Harrison's
counsel is good at that work."

"And what then?"

"It is impossible to say what then."

"Can we not begin again with an amended bill?"

"Not unless all the costs that have accrued be paid; and they will be
heavy."

"How much?"

"It is impossible now to tell. I shall immediately prepare an answer
to this demurrer, and have it argued at the earliest possible day. I
have strong hopes of satisfying the court that it is a very unimportant
informality, in no way affecting the main question, and thus secure a
hearing on the bill itself."

"And if successful in this, what is your opinion now as to the result
on the main question."

"Not quite so favorable as it was," replied Dunbar, with some gravity.
"The defendant has some strong points to urge, and will bring forward
proofs to substantiate his title that we had no idea were in existence."

"Indeed!" Malcolm's face had a look of blank astonishment.

"I am sorry to find that it is so. They are working hard to defeat us,
and will leave no stone unturned. Harrison, you know, has all the money
on his side, and money is powerful."

Poor Malcolm went home feeling most wretched. Up to this point, all his
expectations had been of the most sanguine character. Now his hopes
were dashed to the earth, and he saw not only the golden harvest he had
expected to reap left, in all probability, for the sickle of another,
but his own unfruitful field in danger of passing out of his possession.

"Fool that I was!" he muttered to himself, as he walked home from the
lawyer's office. "I should have taken Harrison's offer in spite of
Dunbar."

"Why not take it as it is?" said his wife to him, after he had
mentioned to her the new aspect assumed by the case, and expressed
again his regret at not having compromised when it was in his power.

"Sure enough! I will see Harrison this very hour. He offered
twenty-five thousand dollars. Ten will have to go to Dunbar, I suppose;
but that will leave us fifteen thousand dollars, and upon this we can
make a fair start, and get on very well. Yes I will see him at once."

"Do. It is your best course. I have no faith in these lawyers. When
a man once goes into their hands, they snap their fingers at his
judgment."

"True enough. Yes, I will see Harrison and take his offer."

Old Mr. Harrison was sitting in his counting room, looking over a
newspaper, and feeling in a pleasant state of mind, when his relative,
who had commenced a suit in the hope of dispossessing him of his
property, entered. The brow of Harrison contracted the moment he saw
him. Malcolm felt embarrassed, but entered at once upon the business of
his visit.

"I have concluded," he said, "to accept your offer to compromise this
suit."

"The deuce you have!" returned Harrison with a sneer.

"You made the offer some months ago, and I declined under advice of
counsel, although my own wish was to accept it. Now, I have determined
to act upon the dictate of my own judgment, and without consulting him."

"You are too late, my friend," replied Harrison. "Your case isn't worth
that!" snapping his fingers. "As far as right is concerned, you have no
more claim upon my property than I have upon that of John Jacob Astor.
To save trouble and vexation, I was willing to buy you off at your own
price; but you refused to take your own stipulation, and now I mean to
stand the issue. I suppose you are aware of the beautiful position in
which your lawyer has placed your suit before the court?"

"I am aware that your lawyer has taken exception to the terms of the
bill; but I am not at all sure that the court will attach any weight to
these exceptions. But, even if our bill is thrown out, it is an easy
matter to amend it, and begin again."

"Not so easy as you may imagine. I happen to know all about that. I
rather think, after we settle you on the demurrer, that we shall hear
no more about your claim."

"Then you will not compromise?"

"No, not for half the sum you name."

"Good morning," said Malcolm, turning quickly away.

"Good morning," and Harrison lifted his newspaper, and resumed its
perusal.

In due time the argument on the demurrer took place, and the court
decided against the bill as informal. Malcolm was present during the
contest, and could not help being struck with the weakness of his own
counsel's position and arguments, and the tact, force, and ingenuity of
the defence. He saw, before the matter was submitted to the court, that
he would have but little chance; and he was not deceived.

After the decision had been made, he called to see Dunbar, in no very
happy frame of mind.

"You must begin again," he said, peremptorily. "They never would have
stopped at a demurrer, if they hadn't been afraid to try the case on
its own merits."

"Are you prepared to settle the costs?" asked the lawyer, coolly.
"Because there is no beginning de novo until that is done."

"How much are they?"

"Somewhere in the neighborhood of fifteen hundred dollars."

"Impossible!"

"It is too true. The defence has done everything in its power to
accumulate costs, and they are heavy. Under the most rigid taxation,
they could not be reduced a hundred dollars."

"Fifteen hundred dollars!" Malcolm's face was pale, and his lips
trembled. "Then all is, indeed, hopeless! Mr. Dunbar!" he resumed, with
some energy, after a brief pause, "in simple justice you ought to pay
these costs, and resume the prosecution on an amended bill."

"Ah! And why so?" There was something insulting in the attorney's
manner, which aroused the feelings of his client.

"You are to blame for losing the suit, and, in common justice, should
make good what your ignorance or neglect has lost."

"Ignorance or neglect!" exclaimed Dunbar, his face instantly suffused.
"Do you know whom you are addressing?"

"I think I ought to know by this time," returned Malcolm, who was fast
losing control of himself. "I am talking to a lawyer who has lost me an
important suit, through a flaw in his bill, of which the merest legal
tyro would be ashamed."

"You will repent this," said Dunbar, setting his teeth closely
together. "I never pass by an insult from friend or foe."

"I can never repent knowing you more bitterly than I now do."

"You are mistaken," coolly replied Dunbar, who had regained his
self-possession. "You will repent it far more bitterly."

There was something so full of meaning in the way this was uttered,
that Malcolm was startled by it. At that moment he remembered that all
he had in the world could be swept from his possession in a moment by
the lawyer, whose property, by virtue of a sheriff's sale, it really
was. Conscious, at the same time, of the folly of provoking a man who
had him so fully in his power, he withheld the insulting retort that
was on his lips, and turning away abruptly, left the office.

Malcolm was sitting in his store on the next day, brooding over his
unhappy condition when a sheriff's officer came in, and informed him
that Dunbar had ordered a sale of everything in a week, and that
the store must be immediately closed, and the key delivered into
the officer's hands. Remonstrance was of no avail. The order was
imperative, and the officer executed a portion of it by closing the
windows and doors with his own hands. As the family could not leave the
premises forthwith, a watchman was stationed in the store and dwelling
to see that nothing was removed.

For a few hours, Malcolm was completely paralysed. He saw himself
hopelessly ruined, and his family reduced in a single moment to want.
After the first shock had subsided, his mind again became active, and
indignation at the conduct of the lawyer set him to thinking whether
it were not in his power to circumvent him. Not being able to hit upon
any plan, for Dunbar was holding him as with the grip of a bear, he
determined to consult a lawyer, muttering to himself as he came to this
conclusion—

"Fight dog with dog! It's the only way." So with a fee of five dollars
in hand he went to a lawyer and stated his case.

"He's got you in his power, certainly," the lawyer said; "but as
the sale will not take place for a week, you might have some things
removed. There would be no injustice in this, for his claim was only
three hundred dollars, and your goods, you say, are worth at least
fifteen hundred, all of which are legally his."

"But he has a sheriff's watchman on the premises."

"Indeed! That is bad. Still, the thing can be managed, though it must
be done adroitly. What kind of a man is the watchman?"

"A good-natured Irishman, who can never get done expressing his
sympathy for me."

"He's short and stout, and fifty years old, at least?"

"Yes."

"I know him very well. There will be no great difficulty in managing
him. He goes home to his dinner, I suppose, about twelve o'clock."

"Yes, every day, and is gone an hour."

"Very well. At eleven o'clock to-morrow do you ask him to go out with
you and get something to drink. He will go. Manage to keep him at the
tavern until after twelve o'clock, and then he will go home for his
dinner instead of going back to your house. That, you see, will give
you two hours. Previous to this, you must arrange with a friend to come
with a furniture wagon or two, while you are treating the watchman, and
remove some of your most valuable things to where Dunbar will never
find them. This can be done every day, until little remains behind of
any value. Of course you will take care to diminish the show of goods
as little as possible, so as to give the watchman an excuse for not
seeing what is going on."

"You don't mean to say that he will understand the game we are
playing?" said Malcolm.

"Certainly I do. A sheriff's watchman is no fool, whatever he may seem
to be. Of course you will put a five or a ten dollar bill into his hand
before you retire with your family, and leave him in full possession,
saying to him that it is but a just remuneration for the consideration
he has had in making his presence so little offensive to yourself and
family, when it might have been far otherwise."

"And you really think all this can be done?" said Malcolm, scarcely
crediting the lawyer's affirmation.

"Certainly it can, if you choose to carry it through."

"Choose!" ejaculated Malcolm. "I think I will choose. The cursed
villain! I would go through fire and water to circumvent him. He knew
he was about losing my case, and his fee into the bargain, and he
thought he would get something out of me for his trouble."

"You do just as I recommend, and you can save nearly all your goods and
furniture."

"I will follow your advice to the letter," replied Malcolm, as he shook
the lawyer's hand, and hurriedly left his office.

"Another trick of the profession," he said, to himself as he walked
homeward. "Nothing like misfortune to make a man acquainted with the
subtleties of law, and the rascalities practised in its execution."

When Dunbar came to sell the goods and furniture of Malcolm, he
realized, after paying all fees and expenses, one hundred and
sixty-five dollars! When he demanded this sum from the sheriff, that
officer showed him a rule of the court in favor of Malcolm's landlord
for one hundred and fifty dollars, amount of rent due. So the lawyer
got fifteen dollars for his three hundred!



CHAPTER XII.

BASENESS OF CHARACTER.

WHILE the events detailed in the last few chapters were progressing,
the time for Dunbar's marriage with the wealthy Miss Gay was drawing
near. A handsome house was taken in Arch street, at a rent of eight
hundred dollars, and furnished at an expense of nearly ten thousand.
The young attorney had a great idea of style, and was anxious to make
an impression on the public mind. The fact that he was rising in the
world, he wished all to know, and he thought that with a hundred
thousand dollars he could make quite an impression. The hundred
thousand dollars were to be made up by his future wife's fortune, his
share of the thirty thousand dollars to be received from Harrison
for betraying and ruining his client, and by what he had already
accumulated.

The wedding occasion was to be celebrated by a large party given by the
aunt of Miss Gay, at which the most fashionable people in the city were
to be present.

Long before this period, Dunbar had removed from his father's house as
too obscure and humble for one of his standing, and for three or four
years boarded at a large hotel in Chestnut-street. He did not go home
very often, and when he did there was something in his manner that
affected his parents disagreeably. Evidently he felt as much contempt
for their low condition and ignorance as he felt pride in his own
elevation.

In thinking of the large wedding party to be, and of the crowd of
great and fashionable people who were to be there, he could not help
feeling unpleasant at the idea of having such plain, common-looking
people present as his parents, and especially under the acknowledgment
of bearing so important a relation to him. As to his sisters, they had
degraded themselves in his eyes, and he had no thought of inviting them
and their "vulgar husbands." He was under no obligation, he felt, to do
that.

"You will, of course, be at the wedding," he said to his father and
mother, about a week before the event named was to take place. His tone
belied his words! If he had said, "Of course you will not be at the
wedding," the words and tone would have been in true correspondence.

"I suppose we ought to be there," replied old Mr. Dunbar, a little
coldly, "I hardly think there are any who have a better right."

"You will invite Ellen and Mary," said the mother.

"I can't invite them without inviting their husbands, and I certainly
shall not introduce them to my friends as brothers-in-law."

"And why not, pray?" asked the father, with some sternness of manner.

"Low, vulgar mechanics among the first people of the city? I must beg
to be excused." And the young attorney drew himself up proudly.

"They are honest and honorable men; characters not too plenty even
among your first people, as you call them." There was an indignant
expression in the old man's voice.

"I don't care what they are, father. They occupy one position and I
another. I never approved of my sisters marrying them, and never will.
I never intended to have any intercourse with them, and never will.
That matter I settled long and long ago. I shall not invite them to my
wedding, nor insult Mary and Ellen by inviting them alone."

"You are an unnatural brother!" said Mrs. Dunbar, speaking with
great warmth. She could no longer control her indignant feelings.
She well knew the worth of Ellen and Mary, and the excellence of the
men they had married. From both she received, at all times, the most
affectionate attentions, while her son Lawrence had, for years, treated
her with neglect or ill-concealed contempt.

"You may think of me as you please, mother," replied the young man, in
a slight insulting manner. "But I know what is due to myself and to my
standing in society, and shall not be tempted to forget it. It is no
fault of mine, that my sisters degraded themselves."

"Silence!" exclaimed the old man, sternly. "I will not hear language so
false and insulting. They have not degraded themselves. They cannot!
Better children than are Mary and Ellen no parents ever had. I wish we
could say as much for our son, for whose sake they were deeply wronged.
To elevate you, Lawrence, they were depressed; and now you spurn them
with your foot contemptuously. Truly have you risen in the world—risen
above all that is just, noble, and honorable. Thus is our folly, thus
is our injustice to those good girls, your sisters, repaid!"

"If you can receive me at home in no better spirit, I shall remain
away." This was said coldly and deliberately.

"Cockatrice! Go!" said the father, passionately.

Lawrence Dunbar turned suddenly on his heel and left the house.

"That was too harsh, father," said Mrs. Dunbar to her husband, as the
tears fell slowly over her time-marked face.

"I don't know. Such language from a child stings worse than the fang of
a serpent. I could not bear it."

"He will hardly come home again."

"Let him stay away then. His visits have never been frequent nor
pleasant. He has come in mere shame at his neglect whenever he has
come, and rarely went away without insulting us in word or manner. Our
hope was that he might rise in the world, and we denied ourselves and
wronged our daughters, that he might have the fullest opportunity; and
thus he repays us."

Old Mr. Dunbar did not see that the fruit of his son's mature life was
but a legitimate growth from the seeds he had at first planted in his
mind. He had been taught to look at eminence in the world as an end,
and not as the means to a higher end—usefulness to mankind. The son
was to rise; but he was not taught that discrimination as to the means
of rising must be used. The end was the main thing, and whatever means
were considered favorable to its attainment, were adopted without a
moment's hesitation. But he did think of Mary Lee, and how different it
must have been if she had become the wife of his son.

The gay wedding took place without the presence of a single member
of Dunbar's family. The interview with his parents had disturbed the
lawyer a good deal, but, upon the whole, he was not sorry that it had
occurred. If the old people were going to hold on to his sisters and
their husbands, a separation would have to take place at any rate, and
the earlier, he felt, the better.

Among others present at the wedding was Mr. Harrison, who had been
able, just three days before, to throw Malcolm's case out of court by
means of the defect which Dunbar had purposely left in his bill. The
latter observed, with some surprise, that Harrison was on the most
intimate and even familiar terms with his bride. On inquiry, he was
informed that Harrison was an old and intimate friend of his bride's
father, and her legal guardian. This surprised him more, and did not
make him feel altogether comfortable. On the very day before, he had
received thirty thousand dollars from Harrison, for playing false to
his client, and had given the old man a receipt, the tenor of which he
thought peculiar, but which Harrison insisted upon having before paying
the money. It was as follows:—

 "Received of Malcolm Harrison the sum of thirty thousand dollars in
 full of all demands, past, present, and to come, it being understood
 that the parties know each other too well ever to venture upon any new
 transactions.

   "LAWRENCE DUNBAR."

Dunbar thought, that in case any new transactions should ever occur, he
could take good care to get the pay before any service was rendered.
The receipt was made less objectionable than one expressing the true
nature of the transaction would have been.

"Of course I owe you nothing now, I never shall owe you anything,"
said Harrison, as he folded the receipt and placed it carefully in his
pocket. "If, at any time hereafter, you should happen to stumble upon
a claim against me, don't think of presenting it, for I pledge you my
word, if you do, that I will shake this receipt in your face and bid
you defiance. The day may come, young man, when you and I will know
each other better,—or rather when you will know me better than you now
do. As for you, I believe I understand your character pretty well, and
cannot refrain from telling you that I think you the most precious
scoundrel I ever met."

"I will not compliment you so much as to be angry at that fine speech,"
returned Dunbar, with great composure. "As far as scoundrelism is
concerned, I apprehend that we stand somewhere upon the same level."

A bright spot burned instantly on the old man's cheek, but he did not
lose his self-command, and merely answered—

"Time will show that," and waived the lawyer to retire.

The discovery that this man was the guardian of his wife, could not,
in the very nature of things, be very agreeable to Dunbar. It caused,
instantly, sundry ugly suggestions to arise in his mind, that by no
means added to the joy of his wedding night.

"Thank God that she is off my hands," said old Mr. Harrison to his
wife, as they returned from the festive scene, "and that she has
another guardian."

"You've had trouble enough with her," returned the wife.

"Yes; and but for her father's sake, I should have been tempted long
ago to place her property in her hands, and have nothing more to do
with her."

"Her husband appears like a very fine young man."

"She's as quite as good as he is. I think them well matched."

"Suppose he should, by any means, hear of her improper conduct. Would
not the consequence be bad?"

"He can't hear much worse of her than she can hear of him. She never
was guilty of direct impropriety of conduct that could touch her moral
character, although there is no telling what she would have done, had
there not been, always, the most careful guardianship over her. If we
had not brought her to Philadelphia when we did, I'm afraid she would
have been lost."

"It's a relief that she's married, certainly."

"Isn't it; even if only married for her money, which I hear her husband
sets down at seventy thousand dollars."

"He'll find himself mistaken."

"Won't he. As bitterly as ever a man did."

So much for the prospect of happiness in the married life of Lawrence
Dunbar.

We must now glance back for a few years, and bring up the history of
other characters in our story.



CHAPTER XIII.

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

As demonstrator of anatomy, Dr. Hudson soon stood high in the school of
medicine in which he had been chosen to occupy that position. All who
came in contact with him were as much struck with his extreme modesty,
as with his wide intelligence on all subjects nearly or remotely
connected with his profession. As an anatomist, he was seen to be
greatly in advance of his predecessor, and to his demonstrations the
class even paid a closer attention than they did to the lectures of the
professor himself.

To surgery Hudson gave a large share of his attention. Before he had
been six months in the school, he performed one of the most difficult
operations known in medical annals. A report of this was made by a
professional man who was present to one of the newspapers, from whence
it was copied into the several medical journals in this country and
England. The notoriety which this case gave to Dr. Hudson, brought him
immediately before the public, and established his reputation as a
surgeon. From that time his practice began to assume some importance;
and although very young for a surgeon, he had a number of very
important cases intrusted to his care.

The temptation to use the knife Hudson found, as all young surgeons do,
very strong. But he set it down as a rule, never to use the knife where
there were hopes of a cure without it.

"The surgeon's skill," he would say, "does not lie so much in the use
of the knife as in his ability to cure without its use. The knife is
only a last resort."

The number of cures that he made of cases upon which he was called to
operate, without the "last resort," endeared him to many who had shrunk
with terrible fear from the knife. They were, ever after, his fast
friends, and spoke of him on all proper occasions in the warmest manner.

A rapid increase of practice was the natural consequence of this. His
youth and modest demeanor prejudiced many against him as a physician;
but none who once employed him, wished to give him up; for they felt,
after seeing him a few times in the sick chamber, that he not only
understood what he was about, but was governed by highly conscientious
principles in the discharge of his professional duties. There was
a sphere of goodness as well as intelligence about him distinctly
perceived by all who came in contact with him.

From that time he began steadily to the externally, as he had been
rising internally since the period when, in freedom and reason, he took
charge of himself as a man.

The heartless abandonment of Mary Lee by Dunbar, involving a shameless
violation of the marriage contract, was a fact well-known to Doctor
Hudson, and was in his mind when, on his last meeting with the rising
attorney, he intimated his wish that their friendship should cease.
Notwithstanding he found the heart of Mary in the keeping of another
when he applied for her hand, Hudson could never cease to feel towards
her as he felt to no others. All hope of her ever becoming his wife had
been abandoned; but still her image remained, and in dreams she came to
him with her loving voice and gentle smile.

Moro than a year passed after the abandonment of Mary by her false
lover, and in that time Hudson had not once met her, as she went into
company very rarely. He heard her sometimes spoken of as much changed.

The rising reputation of Doctor Hudson extended his circle of friends,
and gained for him introductions into a grade of society rather above
what he had been used to. To say that he felt altogether at home here
would be an error, for he met with many things new to him, and felt,
for a time, a degree of restraint that took away the pleasure of social
intercourse. In the society of ladies, especially young ladies, Dunbar
had been free almost to rudeness; Hudson was chargeable rather with
the opposite extreme. Wherever he went, however, he made the most
favorable impression, for it was only necessary to be in conversation
with him for a short time to recognise a mind of superior order
tempered and subdued by the nicest sense of honor—honor in its truest
acceptation—and humble views of himself.

We do not mean that the refinements and elegancies of life that he met
with in this higher grade were repugnant to him. But they were what he
had not been used to; and therefore, he felt, for a time, an unpleasant
restraint, and a fear lest he should ignorantly violate some mode or
form deemed essential to polite intercourse. It did not take him very
long, however, to feel at ease, for he was a gentleman from principle,
and soon understood that there was little danger of his going wrong.

Many bright eyes looked upon the young physician, and many sweet lips
wreathed in smiles for him. But no eyes appeared so bright as those of
Mary Lee—no face so full of innocent loveliness as the remembered face
of the sweet maiden who had captivated his young affections.

As time went on, and success, at first so far in the distance, and
seeming as if it would never approach, was no longer a matter of doubt,
Doctor Hudson, instead of withdrawing himself from his family, was more
drawn into it.

His oldest sister was married to a very estimable man, a clerk
in Market-street, and his youngest sister still continued giving
instruction in music. He made it a point to go with Ella into company,
whenever it was practicable to do so, and to attend her to places of
public amusement.

One night a concert was given at the Musical Fund Hall, by a celebrated
violinist, and Hudson mentioned to a young physician during the day his
great desire to hear the performance.

"Suppose we get tickets and go," was replied.

"That is what I have thought of doing," returned Hudson.

"I propose that we invite the Misses Harling to go with us. They are
charming girls, and extravagantly fond of music. I can take Kate, and
you Flora. It's just the opportunity for improving our acquaintance,
and making it more familiar. You know their attractions are of a most
substantial kind."

"I intend going with my sister," replied Hudson. "She is quite as fond
of music as they are, and will enjoy this concert exceedingly."

"Your sister! Indeed!" The young man thought a moment, and then said—

"I believe you are right, doctor; and I will profit by so good an
example, and take my sister. The fact is, we young men are too
indifferent about our sisters. I stand reproved, and thank you for the
reproof."

"It gives me pleasure to hear you speak so, doctor," said Hudson,
warmly. "As you say, sisters are too much neglected by young men, who,
instead of making them their companions, seek companions anywhere else,
and leave them at home, or to go with young men of whose characters
very often they know nothing."

"It is too true, and I confess myself guilty of the fault. But I will
mend it from this time, and go to see the Misses Harling on some other
occasion."

The young physician rose much higher than he had stood before in the
estimation of Hudson. His name was Baldwin. He had a fair practice
for so young a man, and was generally well-esteemed. Hudson's love of
anatomy and surgery attracted Baldwin, and his good qualities made him
seek his friendship. While he admired his talents he highly esteemed
him as a man.

The tickets for the concert were bought, and Ella gladly accompanied
her brother, for whom she had the tenderest and most confiding
affection. They had not been seated long in the concert-room, before
Hudson noticed Doctor Baldwin enter unaccompanied by any one. He came
down the aisle, and seeing Hudson, near whom was a vacant seat, came
and sat down in the bench just before him, turning round and bowing as
he did so. His eyes rested on the face of Ella for a moment or two, and
were then withdrawn. In a little while he leaned over towards Hudson,
and said—

"I am not so fortunate as you. My sister happened to have an
engagement."

He then looked at Ella, and again at Hudson, as much as to say, "Why
don't you introduce me?"

But Hudson, although prepossessed in his favor, did not yet know
him well enough to be willing to make him acquainted with Ella, and
therefore gave him no introduction. Many times during the evening did
Doctor Baldwin turn round to speak to Hudson, and on such occasions he
made it a point to obtain a good look at Ella. When she made any remark
to her brother on the performance, his ear was bent towards her, and
strove to take in every word.

"She's a sweet girl," he said to himself. "I had no idea that Doctor
Hudson had a sister like that. No wonder he takes her to concerts.
Confound it! Why don't he introduce me? I'm sure I've asked him to do
so as plain as looks can ask."

Not long after the performance commenced, Hudson happened to turn his
eyes to the side of the room, when they rested upon a young, somewhat
pensive face, and a pair of dark blue eyes, fixed earnestly upon him.
The face was as familiar as that of his own sister yet not until he
had withdrawn his eyes from something fascinating in the gaze of this
person, did he remember who the lovely stranger was. No, we will not
say stranger either, for it would not do to call Mary Lee a stranger.

The eyes of Hudson again turned towards the maiden who had captivated
his young affections. She was still looking at him, but beneath his
earnest gaze her eyes drooped slowly, until their brightness was veiled
by her long dark lashes. She did not lift them again for some moments;
when she did so, Hudson withdrew his gaze, and forced himself to look
at the performer, although he scarcely distinguished a note of his
music for full five minutes at least. Then he could not refrain from
a glance at Mary. She, too, was looking at the performer, but in a
little while she turned her head, and their eyes again met. Hudson
noticed what he thought a slight flush upon the maiden's face; but he
was not sure. Many times during the evening their eyes met in the same
way, although Hudson tried to prevent it, and she evidently did the
same. But somehow or other they were not successful. How it was with
Mary the young physician did not know, but to him the concert was an
unintelligible jumble of musical sounds.

Doctor Hudson slept but little that night for thinking of Mary Lee.
He recalled the fact of his having applied for her hand, and tried
to remember her exact look, tone, and words, when she informed him
that her affections were pledged, with her hand, to another. Nothing
of personal dislike had been manifested, but rather kindness and
respect. As for his own feelings, they had never changed. On the next
evening, after having thought about little else during the day, Hudson
determined upon a visit to Mary, and if his reception were such as to
encourage him to do so, to renew the offer he had made her some two
years before.

Slight embarrassment was exhibited at the meeting on both sides. But
both soon recovered their self-possession, and entered into a pleasant
conversation. More than ever was Hudson charmed with the sweet girl. He
asked her to sing and play for him, and she played airs that she had
often played for him, and sung favorite songs that she had sung for him
in other but well-remembered days. All the warmth of the young man's
old passion returned. Before he left the maiden that night he had, a
second time, made the offer of his love, with a much more favorable
result.



CHAPTER XIV.

RISING TO A TRUE LEVEL.

IN two years from the time Doctor Hudson was appointed to the
demonstrator's chair his income from practice and the school had risen
to twenty-five hundred dollars per annum. This was amply sufficient
to make the step of marriage a prudent one. Already had his family
received Mary Lee as his future bride, and already was she loved by
his mother with a tenderness nearly equal to that felt for her own
daughters. All were happy in anticipation of the joyous event, which
was celebrated at the house of Mary's aunt, in the presence of a small
company whose warm hearts were full of the sincerest wishes for the
future happiness of Doctor Hudson and his lovely bride.

A few medical friends, for whom he entertained a high respect, were
invited by Hudson to be present. Among these was Doctor Baldwin, who
made it the occasion of getting better acquainted with Ella, to whom, a
short time before, he had gained an introduction. He was charmed with
her intelligence, good taste, good sense, and right modes of thinking
and expression.

"With your permission, doctor," he said to Hudson a few days
afterwards, "I must follow up my acquaintance with your sister. I was
really charmed with her. Pardon me for making so free as to say so."

"Ella is a very good girl," replied Hudson; "but whether you would find
her society as attractive as you suppose is more than I can tell. You
are aware, I presume, or perhaps you are not, that she is engaged in
teaching music, and has been for some years?"

"No, I was not aware of that," said Dr. Baldwin, evincing a slight
degree of surprise.

"Yes," said Hudson, calmly. "She considers it right to support herself,
and does so."

"Then it is more a matter of principle than necessity?"

"It is now, though it was hardly so at first. But as I have spoken of
it, I might as well tell the whole story. You have asked to become
better acquainted with Ella, and I will afford you the opportunity. My
father, who is, as you are already aware, a watchmaker, understood well
enough the advantages of education to give me every opportunity in his
power. He sent me to college until I was twenty years of age, and then
supported me while I studied medicine, which was for two years longer.
As soon as I got my diploma I proposed going South, knowing but too
well, that if I remained here, in the effort to get a practice, I would
have still to burden my father, who could ill bear it. But to this not
a single member of the family would listen. My father said no—my mother
said no—my sisters said no. But I was firm. I could not believe it just
any longer to depend upon my father, who was getting old."

"Seeing that I was unmoved by all that could be urged, my good sisters
proposed teaching music as a means of adding to the income of the
family, and thus enabling me to remain without its bearing so heavily
upon my father."

"Noble girls!" ejaculated Dr. Baldwin.

"But I rejected the proposal instantly. Pride, or something else in
me, took fire at the idea of my sisters teaching music to support me.
I would not hear of it. They said that it would make no difference
whether I remained in Philadelphia or went away—that their minds were
made up to take music scholars and support themselves; and affirmed
that music teaching, so far from being disgraceful, was quite as
honorable as practising medicine. Upon this, my father, who had only
reasoned with me before, approached me on the subject with such a
moving appeal, and such exhibition of feeling, that I could no longer
resist. I remained. The girls commenced giving lessons, and, no matter
how much they affirmed to the contrary to save my feelings, supported
me for a year, when I received my present appointment. Since then my
oldest sister has married, and Ella continues her professional duties,
and has scholars in some families where I have patients. I have long
urged her to give them up; but she says that she is usefully employed,
and is happier than if she were idle."

"You're proud of her, doctor, ain't you?" said Baldwin with enthusiasm.

"I love her," was Hudson's feeling reply.

"And well you may. The earth bears but few like her upon its surface. I
must know her better, doctor, with your permission, as I said before."

"We shall all be happy to receive your visits, doctor," replied Hudson.
"You will find us plain people, but with hearts, I trust, in the right
place."

"I believe you. The fact is, doctor, you have taught me a good many
lessons, from which I have profited; and you teach me still. That
expression of yours, 'hearts in the right place,' is full of meaning.
We are too apt to look at the exterior, and to judge mainly from that.
But our first effort should be to find out whether the heart is in the
right place or not."

Doctor Baldwin did not make it long before he formally visited Ella
at her father's house. The more intimately he knew her, the more was
he charmed with her loveliness of character, and captivated by the
natural grace of her manners. There was a time, and that not very long
before, when he would have smiled at the idea of visiting the daughter
of a mechanic. His father had been a merchant, and, in dying, had left
his family with a moderate income, that was found, with the exercise
of some prudence, to be fully sufficient for their support. Baldwin
had two sisters—one married, and the other, about the age of Ella,
unmarried. They had been well educated, and used to the elegancies
of refined society. Nearly all who are thus raised have certain
false views of social life, something more or less artificial and
conventional about them; and this was the case with the sisters of Dr.
Baldwin, as well as with most of the young ladies he had happened to
meet. Ella Hudson, with equal refinement of feeling, intelligence, and
true accomplishments, was so independent in matters of right, so free
from everything false, affected, or merely conventional, that he almost
wondered at, while he admired her.

"The best specimen of a woman I have yet seen," he said to himself,
after a few familiar visits, "and if she and I don't know each other
better, it shall not be my fault."

And they did know each other better, and were better pleased with the
acquaintance the more intimate it became. The result was an offer of
marriage, which the maiden, well pleased, accepted.

Doctor Baldwin was by no means sure that his family would approve his
choice. In fact, he looked for objections when he announced the fact
of his engagement to the daughter of a watchmaker, unless he could
manage, by some means, to get them acquainted with her before they
understood the relationship existing between them. This, however, was
a matter not likely to occur, as their spheres of association were
altogether different. As the sister of Doctor Hudson, she would stand a
little higher; but then Doctor Hudson himself had not yet emerged far
enough from obscurity to reflect much respectability upon his sister,
especially while she, pursuing her own independent course, continued
the exercise of her profession as a music teacher.

One day Doctor Baldwin called with his sister to see a young lady
acquaintance, who moved in fashionable circles, and who had rather more
false pride, false notions, and contempt for what she was pleased to
call vulgar, than usually falls to the lot of even fashionable people.
While they sat chatting with her in the parlor, the street door bell
rang, and the young lady said—

"My music teacher, I presume."

Baldwin and his sister arose.

"Oh, sit still—sit still. She can wait," said the young lady. "It
doesn't matter at all."

"Who is your teacher?" asked Miss Baldwin.

"Miss Hudson. Do you know her?"

"No, I never heard of her."

"She's the daughter of old Hudson, the watchmaker."

"Is she a good teacher?"

"Yes, one of the best lady-teachers in the city."

Just then the door opened, and the subject of remark entered the
parlor. Doctor Baldwin bowed to her familiarly as their eyes met; and
she, smiling brightly, bowed also, and then passed quickly into the
back parlor, where she seated herself near the window, and taking up
a book, bent her head over it with her face so turned away from the
company in the other room that they could not see it. For a moment
or two Baldwin, who was taken all by surprise, debated the question
whether he should introduce his sister to Ella or not; but he wisely
decided that it was not a fitting opportunity, and could be only
attended with unpleasant consequences.

The familiar way in which Baldwin and her music teacher had greeted
each other, rather surprised the young lady, and caused her to look
wonderingly at the doctor for an instant. The sister, too, thought it
strange.

"Do you know that Miss Hudson?" she asked, as they walked homewards.

"Yes, very well," he said.

"Indeed! How came you to know her?"

"She is the sister of Dr. Hudson, whom you have seen once or twice at
our house."

"And he's a son of the old watchmaker, is he? I did not know that."
There was a slight expression of contempt in the young girl's voice.

"He's the son of as honest and honorable a man as ever lived, and is
himself an honor to the profession, and will one day be among its
brightest lights."

The brother spoke warmly.

"And through him, I suppose, you got acquainted with the sister."

"Rather say, in spite of him, for he was in no haste to introduce me."

"Why did you wish to be introduced?"

"Because I thought her a charming girl."

"A music teacher, and the daughter of an old watchmaker! Why, brother!
What has come over you?" There was marked contempt in the sister's
voice. "What would Miss Elbert think of this?"

"What difference to me would her thoughts make? None, I assure you.
Ella Hudson is far superior to Miss Elbert in everything. There is no
comparison between them!"

"Edward, are you crazed?" exclaimed the sister.

"Far from it, Clara. I was never more in my right mind than I am now;
and never more in earnest. I have for some time wanted to talk to you
on this very subject, but no fitting opportunity before occurred."

"About what subject, brother? I am all amazement!"

"About my preference for Miss Hudson."

"Preference! Edward!"

"No, not preference—regard."

"Regard?"

"No.—Love."

Astonishment kept the sister mute for some moments. Then she said,
appealingly—

"Surely, Edward, you do not think of subjecting your family to a deep
humiliation."

"No, sister, certainly not. The old watchmaker's daughter will reflect
honor upon any family whose name she bears; for she is one among a
thousand."

"Oh Edward! What will our mother say? How will our mother feel?"

"Clara," said the brother, speaking seriously, "is there anything
wrong, abstractly, in being a watchmaker?"

"I did not say there was."

"Or in teaching music?"

"No; not wrong."

"May not a watchmaker be as much a gentleman as a physician?"

"I suppose so."

"Then, in the fact of being a watchmaker there is nothing that should
make one man less esteemed than another man, no better than he is,
who follows a profession. Both are useful employments, and so far as
they are concerned, he who most faithfully and honestly discharges the
duties of his calling, and his social and domestic obligations, is the
best man, let the world think and say what it pleases. And not only
the best man, but the best friend a man who wants one can choose. So
much for the watchmaker. And the same may be said of the music teacher.
I don't know that there is any greater honor in receiving musical
instruction than there is in imparting it. The general impression is,
that the preceptor is superior to the scholar, just in the degree that
knowledge is considered superior to ignorance."

"But that doesn't show that you ought to go below your own sphere in
society and marry a music teacher, Edward."

"In marrying, sister," replied Baldwin, "a man takes a companion for
life, and, therefore, he should select one whose qualities are of a
substantial kind, and promise to last through life. Don't you think so?"

"Certainly. Everybody admits that."

"Very well. Suppose I, for instance, see two ladies, for each of whom I
feel a preference above others, and wish to select one of them for my
wife. One, I find, has been raised in what is called the best society;
the other in what is called an inferior grade. Both are equally well
educated; or, if there be any difference, it is in favor of the latter.
The former has many conventional ideas of right and wrong, and is
governed more by them than she is by her own clear sense of propriety:
she is very apt to hesitate before doing a thing, and ask the question,
What will people say? or, What will be thought of this? The other is
free from mere conventional trammels, and is governed in all her acts
by her own clear intuitions. She does not hesitate before she acts,
except to ask, Is this right? Will this injure another? Now, admitting
each to possess equal personal attractions, which of the two ought I to
choose? Which would make me the most faithful and sustaining companion
in the journey of life?"

"The latter, of course," replied the sister without hesitation.

"Undoubtedly."

"But, Edward, you draw a case that has no counterpart," urged Clara.

"There you are in error. It has its counterpart. Ella Hudson is as far
superior to any young lady that I ever met in fashionable circles, as
is one of the supposed individuals I have introduced, to the other. As
for Miss Elbert, she is far less refined, lady-like, and accomplished
then Ella Hudson, and far less worthy the love of any man."

"You speak strongly, Edward."

"I do; I mean all I say. Come, sister! lay aside a weak prejudice that
is unworthy of you, and consent to go with me and be introduced to this
excellent young lady. You must know each other, and the sooner it takes
place the better. I shall need your aid in breaking down our mother's
prejudices, that have no better foundation than yours."

Clara was silent. The last appeal of her brother had bewildered her
mind. If what he said of Miss Hudson were really true, her natural good
sense told her that Edward was right. But the prejudices of education
were strong in her mind, and caused it to turn with unconquerable
repugnance from the idea of intimate companionship with a music
teacher, who was the daughter of a poor watchmaker.

"Will you go with me to see her, Clara?" asked Baldwin.

"Why should I do so?" she replied.

"Have I not said?"

"Surely, brother, you do not mean what, you say."

"I surely do, Clara. Already there exists a marriage contract between
this charming woman and myself. Ere long she will hold to you the
relationship of sister. Know her, then, that you may love her as a
sister. Know her for yourself, that you may rightly appreciate her
worth, and aid me in introducing her to our mother's regard."

Clara was too much surprised, and, in fact, confounded, to know what
to do or think. As to calling upon Ella, she was not yet prepared for
that. She wanted time for reflection. Her natural repugnance to doing
so was very strong.

As soon as Doctor Baldwin and his sister had retired, the young lady
upon whom they had called to make a morning visit, went into the back
parlor and said to Ella, who was still bending over the book—

"I'm ready for my lesson now, Miss Hudson."

Ella laid aside her bonnet, and went to the piano with her pupil.

"You are acquainted with Dr. Baldwin," said the latter.

Ella replied by a simple affirmative. "Where did you meet him?"

"At my brother's wedding." Ella's manner expressed her wish that no
further questions on that subject might be asked. But her superior and
better bred pupil paid no regard to that.

"Your brother, Dr. Hudson? Ah, yes! Whom did he marry?"

"A Miss Lee."

"Lee! To what family did she belong? One of any note in the city?"

"I never felt interest enough in the subject to ask," replied Ella,
rather coldly. "She was an orphan."

"Then you don't like her very much."

"Don't like her!" Ella's bright eyes were instantly in the face of her
questioner. "I could not love my own sister better!"

The young lady felt the rebuke. She would have been as passive to all
impressions as marble had she not.

"I suppose you have never met Miss Baldwin?" she said, after a pause.

"No."

"She was with him this morning."

Ella made no answer; but there was a warmer place upon her cheek. No
more was said upon the subject.

When Ella Hudson went home that afternoon, after having given the
various lessons required of her for the day, she had some different
thoughts in regard to what she ought to do, than had before obtained
a place in her mind. It occurred to her, that the position in which
she now stood to Dr. Baldwin, made it incumbent upon her to have
some regard to his feelings, as well as to the prejudices of his
family, with whom she was soon to come into intimate relationship,
and with whom she could not but desire to be united in affection. The
prejudice existing in certain grades of society against all females
who are engaged in useful employments, she well knew; and as this
was a prejudice arising from a false education, and as she was to be
introduced by marriage among those with whom this prejudice existed,
she rightly concluded, after looking at the subject in this light, that
it was best for her, as no real necessity existed for her continuing
her duties as a music teacher, to give them up at once. For Doctor
Baldwin to meet her, as he had done that morning, could not, she felt,
but be unpleasant to him. And for his sister to meet her in the same
way, could not fail to strengthen, rather than remove, prejudices in
regard to her.

Perhaps, for the first time in her life, Ella saw that the prejudices
of others are, under certain circumstances, to be regarded, and that
expediency is not always a departure from right.

When her lover called upon her that evening, he said—

"I mentioned you to my sister to-day. She was with me at Miss Elbert's."

Ella looked at him without replying.

"As I expected, she was greatly astonished. The idea of my marrying a
music teacher, seemed at first dreadful to her. But I made some little
impression on her false ideas, though not as much as I could wish. If
she could only once meet you and know you, all would be right. But the
force of prejudice is very strong at present. Do you not think that it
would be right for you to make some effort, even some sacrifice, to
remove this prejudice?"

"I do, certainly."

"Your present calling is one that you must soon lay aside; and,
besides, there exists no necessity for your following it. Occurrences
like that of to-day are likely to happen frequently, and will hinder
what I so much desire—the affectionate reception of you by my family.
My mother and sister have true hearts, and when they know you will love
you tenderly. But they have prejudices, the result of education, which
stand in the way of their knowing you. Now, ought you not, who see so
clearly, to respect their prejudices, and do what you can to remove
them?"

"Without doubt. I have already been reflecting on the subject, and have
come to the determination to give up all my scholars immediately."

"You have?"

"Yes. In justice to you and to your family, I think this ought to be
done."

"Glad indeed, am I, Ella, that you have come to this conclusion! What
you have been doing ennobles rather than depresses you in my eyes, and
will in theirs when they come to know you as I do."

In a few weeks the prejudices of Miss Baldwin, under the constant
assaults of her brother, were so far broken down, that she consented to
call with him and see Ella. As the doctor had expected, she was more
than pleased with her, although the meeting was necessarily attended
with a good deal of formality and reserve. A second visit enabled the
young ladies to approach nearer, and understand each other better.

Clara Baldwin, from being pleased, soon became charmed with the lovely
girl, and no longer wondered that her beauty, grace, intelligence, and
worth, had captivated her brother. She could not but acknowledge in
her own heart that, for her sister, she would far prefer Ella to any
one of the gay, fashionable girls with whom she was acquainted. There
was so much goodness about her—so much regard for others and giving up
of self. The old watchmaker likewise rose in her estimation, after a
few meetings with him; and the mother of Ella proved to be something
more than the vulgar woman she had set her down in her imagination. She
could not help observing and being charmed with the natural politeness
that distinguished the intercourse of one member of the family with
another. It was not ostentatious—not assumed—but came as the just
expression of the good will each bore to the other. Of the wife of
Doctor Hudson, she could never get done talking to her brother.

"She will grace any circle," she said.

"She will be called to grace the most intelligent and accomplished
circle in the city, or I am mistaken," returned her brother.

"Why so?"

"Because her husband will undoubtedly rise as high as any man of
talents ever rose in this city. He is as sure to go up as the sun is to
rise in the morning."

"You think so?"

"I know so. I should not be surprised to see him in the chair of
professor of anatomy and surgery before five years. It may take place
in less than that time. If the present incumbent in the school where he
now is were to be removed from any cause to-morrow, I believe he would
be chosen to succeed him."

"Is he so highly appreciated as that?"

"Yes, and by the very men who will have the power to elevate him when
the right time comes."



CHAPTER XV.

PREJUDICES REMOVED.

THE mother of Doctor Baldwin was connected with a family of some note
in the State, upon which fact she built up a pretty high estimate of
her own consequence. For everything low and vulgar she had a most
decided contempt, and would almost as soon be guilty of a crime as a
breach of etiquette. Her son had good reason to fear that there would
be some difficulty in the way of reconciling her to his marriage with
a poor music teacher, when she had more than once expressed, in his
hearing, the hope that he would not forget the advantages which his
professional standing, as well as his family connexions, gave him in a
matter of this kind. It was, in fact, the mother's wish that her son,
in marriage, should, above all things, seek to better his fortune. He
had himself entertained that idea; but, in a conversation he one day
held with Doctor Hudson, was led to see that a man could not commit a
greater folly than to make any consideration predominate over personal
qualities in marriage.

How best to break the matter to Mrs. Baldwin was a subject of a good
deal of reflection. At last, as time was pressing, Doctor Baldwin
ventured upon the bold and above-board measure of telling his mother
the whole story of his acquaintanceship with Miss Hudson, and of the
engagement of marriage that had followed. The mother was overcome with
astonishment and indignation. The noble independence and affectionate
self-denial which Ella had practised, though portrayed by Baldwin in
the warmest colors, made no favorable impression upon the proud woman's
feelings, while the fact that she was the daughter of a poor mechanic,
and obliged to teach music for a living, was magnified almost into a
crime. Nothing that her son could urge in the least reconciled her.

"Don't talk to me about her, Edward!" she exclaimed passionately. "The
low-born creature shall never darken my door!" This was more than
Baldwin could bear; and to keep from making some retort that he would
afterwards regret having uttered, he turned quickly away and left her
presence. When they next met, both were cold and silent. Clara remained
altogether neutral for the present, deeming it best to keep silence
while her mother's mind continued in a state of over excitement.

On the next day, invitations were received by the family to attend
a party that was to be given by a physician who was much esteemed
in the community for his character, standing, and high professional
attainments. Doctor Baldwin, who happened to be one of his intimate
personal friends, immediately called upon him, and asked if he had
included Doctor Hudson and his lady in the number of his guests.

"I have not," he said. "Our families have never met under any
circumstances. But I highly esteem the doctor, and shall be happy to
send him and his lady an invitation. Do you know his lady?"

"Very well. She is a beautiful and accomplished woman."

Doctor Baldwin then gave this physician a full history of Dr. Hudson's
family, and of the fact of his having been so charmed with Ella as to
fall in love with her and make her an offer of his hand.

"I hardly think your mother will approve of that," said the physician.

"No," replied Baldwin. "So far from approving, she is incensed beyond
measure, calls her a low-born creature, and says she shall never cross
her door."

"Then I should say that you are in rather an unpleasant dilemma."

"I am. And I want you to help me out of it, if possible."

"A thing that I shall be very ready to do, if you will point out the
way. I have seen this Miss Hudson several times in families where I
visit professionally, and have heard her spoken of as a girl of no
ordinary character. You wish her invited, of course?"

"Yes, that is what I was coming to. I want her not only invited, but I
want you to show her particular, even marked attentions."

"Very well. I understand what you are after. All shall be done as you
wish. I think we shall make your mother change her opinion a shade or
two."

And the physician smiled.

Before evening Doctor Hudson received a note requesting the pleasure of
Doctor and Mrs. Hudson's and Miss Ella Hudson's company at the house
of Doctor B—. The compliments of Doctor and Mrs. B— were expressed,
of course. Though a little surprised, all the parties invited made
preparations to go to the party.

When the evening came, Dr. Baldwin went with his mother and sisters.
Since the first mention of the subject that had caused such an
expression of indignation by Mrs. Baldwin not a word of reference had
been made to it. There was, of course, coldness and reserve between the
mother and the son.

The party proved to be a large one; and at least one half of those
present were strangers to Mrs. Baldwin.

"Who is that on Dr. B—'s arm?" she asked of her daughter, about an hour
after her arrival at the scene of pleasure. The doctor was conducting
to the piano a plain, but tastefully attired young lady, in whose sweet
young face there was something that to Mrs. Baldwin seemed particularly
attractive.

Clara turned her eyes towards the lady, but instead of answering her
mother's question, said—

"She's a stranger to most persons here, I rather think."

"Some relative of the doctor's, perhaps," remarked the mother.

By this time the young lady was at the piano, around which a small
circle immediately gathered. She touched the keys delicately, yet with
ease and confidence, and after running her fingers over them for a few
moments, struck the air of a popular and favorite song, which she sang
with fine effect.

"Beautiful! beautiful!" said Mrs. Baldwin, speaking to Clara. "I think
I never heard a sweeter voice. I wonder who she can be? Do you know?"
and she turned to a lady at her side.

"I do not, madam," replied the lady. "I don't remember ever to have
seen her before."

The young lady sang one or two more songs, and then rose from the
piano, and was received upon the arm of Doctor B—, who treated her with
marked politeness. After conducting her to a seat, he introduced two or
three gentlemen who came forward, and leaving them to entertain her,
went to look after other guests who required his attentions.

"She sings exquisitely, doctor," remarked a gentleman who encountered
Doctor B— as he was moving away from the lady.

"Delightfully," was replied.

"But, doctor, my daughter tells me that she is her music teacher."

"That's one side of the case," returned Doctor B—. "The other is, that
she is the sister of Doctor Hudson, who is destined to be one of the
most eminent surgeons in the country; and is, so far as herself is
concerned, a lady in every sense of the word, and one that I feel proud
to number among my guests. The world would be better, my friend, if
there were more in it like Miss Hudson."

"Is she a woman of education?"

"She is highly educated, I am told by Doctor Baldwin, to whom she is
engaged in marriage—"

"Engaged to Doctor Baldwin!" exclaimed the friend.

"Yes; I have it from his own lips. She has given up her music
teaching—a calling that she followed more from her love of independence
and usefulness, than from any necessity to do so—in view of her
marriage with the doctor."

"Well, I'm astonished! I must own, however, that he is a man of taste
and good sense."

"In which I perfectly agree with you."

The two men separated, and Doctor B— passed on to another part of the
room. When cotillions were formed, Doctor B— led out Ella, and danced
the first set with her.

"How gracefully she moves," remarked Mrs. Baldwin to Clara, who had
declined dancing, she having her own reasons for wishing to keep beside
her mother. "I wonder who she is? Nobody that I have asked knows her."

"What makes you notice her so particularly, mother?" asked Clara.
"There are many other young ladies in the room whom you have never seen
before. And some quite as beautiful as she is."

"But none with just such a face. It is so youthful and innocent,
yet so womanlike in its tone. Several times I have found her eyes
fixed intently upon me, with an expression that I felt, but could
not understand. There are others as handsome, and few who do not
make a more brilliant appearance; but none who have such a natural,
unconscious grace."

"Really, mother," said Clara, smiling, "you have grown an enthusiast.
If you were a young man, I think this would be a case of love at first
sight."

"If I were a young man, and about to fall in love at first sight with
any one in this room, it would be with her," said the mother, smiling
in return.

"I saw Edward sitting by her side a little while ago, and looking into
her face as if he had forgotten that there was anybody else in the
room."

"Edward! Is it possible? Does he know her?"

"He was conversing with her. It would be no matter of wonder, if he
feels as you do, if he were to fall in love with her."

"Pray Heaven he may!" said the mother warmly.

Just then the cotillion dissolved, and Mrs. Baldwin saw her son receive
the young lady from Dr. B—, conduct her to a seat, and take his place
beside her. She looked into his face with a familiar expression, and he
seemed to be perfectly at home with her. At the same moment, Doctor B—
came up to Mrs. Baldwin and her daughter, and the former said to him—

"What charming young lady is that you were dancing with just now? She
is an entire stranger to me."

"She is a charming girl, sure enough," returned the doctor. "Shall I
introduce her to you?"

"If you please, doctor. I will take it as a favor."

Doctor B— went over to where Ella was sitting, and said to her that
Mrs. Baldwin would be happy to make her acquaintance. Ella arose and
took the doctor's arm, while her lover, with some few tremors about his
heart moved to another part of the room from which he could carefully
observe them.

"Let me introduce to you my excellent young friend, Miss Hudson," said
Doctor B—, presenting Ella. He purposely spoke the name so indistinctly
that Mrs. Baldwin did not clearly make it out, and she was too
well-bred to ask to have it repeated. Clara and Ella exchanged a look
of intelligence that the mother did not observe.

"My daughter," she said, as the doctor, after seating Ella by her side,
turned away. The young ladies bowed to each other, and smiled cordially.

For half an hour Mrs. Baldwin conversed with her future daughter-in-law
on many subjects, and found her quite as interesting in reality as she
was in appearance; and when some one claimed her hand for the dance,
she let her go with reluctance. By this time there were a good many
in the room who knew that Ella was engaged to be married to Doctor
Baldwin, for the information volunteered by Doctor B— had spread with
considerable rapidity.

"I really must congratulate you on your future daughter-in-law," said
a gentleman to Mrs. Baldwin, whose standing in society was altogether
as high as her own. "She is decidedly the most charming girl in the
room. Edward has shown uncommon good taste and good sense. There are
not a few who would have been fools enough to pass her by because she
had once taught music, but Edward's independence has stamped him, in my
estimation, as a man. May both be as happy as they deserve to be."

Some one touched the speaker on the arm, and he turned away without
observing the blank look of astonishment that settled upon the face of
her he addressed.

"What does he mean, Clara?" asked the mother, in a low, earnest
whisper, turning to her daughter with a bewildered air.

"He means," replied the daughter, calmly, "that this lovely young girl,
with whom every one is so charmed, is none other than Ella Hudson, and
the betrothed of Edward."

"It cannot be!" returned the mother.

"It can be, and is, mother. And as the fact seems to be well-known in
the room—it has just been alluded to as a matter of course—I think
it will be much the wiser course if you show no surprise and no
disapprobation at the discovery you have made, but rather resolve to
receive this sweet, accomplished, lovely-minded young girl into your
affections, as you would receive your own child. That she is worthy
thus to be received, even you cannot now for an instant doubt."

"No, Ella, I cannot doubt it," returned the mother, after a pause
of some moments for hurried reflection. "I did not dream that the
humble music teacher and daughter of a poor watchmaker could be so
love-inspiring a creature as this. That Edward was attracted by her is
no longer a matter of surprise. I forgive him from my heart."

Not many minutes passed before Clara had found out her brother, and
communicated the entire success of his plan for breaking down their
mother's prejudice. He was the happiest man in the room.



CHAPTER XVI.

AN UPWARD MOVEMENT.

MUCH sooner than even his warmest friends anticipated, did
Doctor Hudson rise to the professorship of anatomy and surgery;
his predecessor having vacated the chair in consequence of some
misunderstanding among the faculty, in which an implied censure was
permitted to rest upon him.

Shortly after rising into this position, which greatly increased his
income, Doctor Hudson, who had since his marriage continued to reside
in his father's family, took a handsome house in Walnut street, and
commenced housekeeping in a style appropriate to his condition and
standing in the profession. At the same time, he proposed to his father
to give up his business, and live at ease for the rest of his life. But
to this old Mr. Hudson positively objected.

"Let me remain independent, my son," he replied, "while I have in me
the ability to be independent; and let me serve my appropriate use in
the community, as you are serving yours, while I am able to do so.
I shall have a clearer conscience and be happier. When my ability
fails, then it will be time enough for me to give up, and I will do it
cheerfully."

The doctor tried to argue the matter with his father, but it was of no
use. Mr. Hudson was not to be moved. He knew that he would be happier
going on in the old way. It was too late in life to enter into a new
occupation, or to learn the art of doing nothing—a wearisome employment
at best.

Much as Doctor Hudson wished to see his father give up all business,
and live for the remainder of his life at ease, his judgment could not
but approve the decision he made.

The elevation of our young doctor to the chair of anatomy and surgery,
was received by the profession and the public with marked approbation.
The newspapers and medical journals spoke of the appointment as
honorable both to the school and the individual who had been elected to
fill the professorship.

In the city, Doctor Hudson was at this time well-known to the public by
his eminent skill as a surgeon, and to the profession abroad by reports
of successful and difficult operations which he had performed, but
much more through the many able communications from his pen, which had
appeared from time to time in the medical journals.

Some time before the occurrence just referred to, Ella had become the
wife of Dr. Baldwin, and already the fact of her having been only a
music teacher was nearly forgotten, or, if remembered, was thought of
as honorable to her independent spirit, rather than as an exception to
her standing in society.

It was rather a severe trial to the pride of Mrs. Baldwin to come into
such near relationship with a poor old watchmaker and his wife as the
marriage of her son with Ella necessarily brought her, and at her
first meeting with them, it required the exercise of a good deal of
self-denial to treat them with anything more than cold politeness. It
did not take her long, however, to understand that she was not in the
company of an ignorant, vulgar-minded woman, when she sat by the side
of Mrs. Hudson; but with one of her sex whose mind, if not fashionably
educated, had delicate perceptions of right and wrong, great
penetration, and sound sense. It would not do, she felt, to assume
any importance with her, from having moved in a different sphere, for
this would not elevate but rather lower her in the estimation of Mrs.
Hudson, for whom, in spite of herself, she felt a rising sentiment of
respect. The father of Ella was a man of a character much more strongly
marked than she had expected to find, and she noticed that men of
education and known attainments, when they engaged in conversation with
him, paid great deference to his remarks, and treated him with as much
respect as they did any one.

"If he would only give up that old shop of his," Mrs. Baldwin said
to her son, shortly after his marriage, "he could come into genteel
society, and no one would ever suspect that he had been a mechanic. I
wonder Doctor Hudson doesn't go to housekeeping in a handsome way, and
take the old folks to live with him."

"It is his intention to do so as soon as he thinks his income
sufficient for the purpose," replied Baldwin.

"Isn't it sufficient now?" asked the mother.

"He thinks not; and I suppose he ought to be the best judge in the
case. But if I am not mistaken in the character of his father, he will
find the old gentleman altogether opposed to such an arrangement. I
have heard him say, that he considered every man in duty bound to
pursue some useful employment so long as he had a sound mind and a hale
body; both of which he possesses. Mr. Hudson is too independent in his
habits of thinking and feeling, to consent to give up his business,
while he can work at it; at least such is my opinion."

Mrs. Baldwin could not understand this; and when the fact proved the
truth of the son's prediction, she was outraged at the old gentleman's
"perverseness" as she called it.

But as time went on, and Mrs. Baldwin saw that her family had suffered
no real disgrace, as far as she could distinguish, by the marriage of
her son into that of the watchmaker, she became more reconciled and
indifferent. Mrs. Hudson did not, as she at first feared would be the
case, thrust herself at all unsuitable times, and on all unsuitable
occasions, into her company. The fact was very different. Mrs. Hudson
gave her no trouble in this respect; for she was by no means strongly
prepossessed in her favor, and did not enjoy her society well enough to
seek it very often.



CHAPTER XVII.

BITTER FRUITS.

SCARCELY had the honey-moon passed after the wedding of Lawrence
Dunbar—which took place a few months after the elevation of Doctor
Hudson to the chair of anatomy and surgery in the school—before the
young lawyer's restless desire to know something in, regard to his
wife's fortune, led him to ask her some questions on the subject. He
was informed that Mr. Harrison, her guardian, had the entire charge of
her property, and would give him all information on the subject.

"Of course the guardianship will now cease," said the husband; "since
the law places in my hands all the powers that were conferred upon him."

"I presume it will," returned the wife, speaking indifferently.

"Shall I see him?" asked Dunbar.

"If you please." Still in a tone of indifference.

"What is the amount of your property; do you know?"

In spite of his effort to ask this question without evincing any
particular interest in the answer, he could not help betraying, to some
extent, what he really did feel; but whether his wife perceived it or
not, was hard to tell.

"I never knew exactly," she replied, "but I think it was originally
twenty-five thousand dollars. I suppose it has increased a little, as I
have never drawn as much as the interest."

"Twenty-five thousand dollars!" exclaimed Dunbar, thrown off his guard.
"Only twenty-five thousand dollars!"

"And pray, how much did you suppose it was?" asked the startled wife,
through whose whole frame the words of her husband thrilled. She was
instantly aware that he had been attracted by the hope of securing a
large fortune, and as instantly she felt a strong sense of indignation.
Her pride was aroused, and that with her was an overmastering passion.

Dunbar saw that he had betrayed himself, and he also saw, by the
expression of his wife's face, that he had committed an offence not
likely to be soon forgiven.

"I was informed that it was more," he said, speaking with forced
calmness.

"By whom, pray?" Mrs. Dunbar's eyes flashed, and her voice was angry in
its expression.

"Not by you, certainly."

"If you had inquired of me, there would have been less likelihood of
your being led into error," said his wife, with an ill-concealed sneer,
that made the very blood boil in the veins of Dunbar.

"Twenty-five thousand dollars!" he muttered to himself a few moments
after, as he hastily left the presence of his excited and angry bride.
"And is it for such a paltry sum that I have sold myself to this she
dev—?"

He checked himself suddenly, in very shame, and repeated with much
bitterness—

"Twenty-five thousand dollars! I can make that any year by cutting my
cards aright."

It was many hours before the lawyer could think with any calmness
upon the new aspect his affairs had suddenly assumed. For his wife,
dislike and disgust assumed the place of a forced regard which he had
entertained for her, as the representative of a handsome fortune. When
he met her, on returning to his elegant home, she was cold, haughty,
and reserved, in her manner towards him. Her head was not bowed in
bitterness of spirit at the discovery she had made, but was held erect;
and she looked at him with a stern, rebuking, imperious gaze, that
aroused the worst passions within him. Neither of them referred to the
morning's interview.

On the next day, Dunbar's mind was made up to go to old Mr. Harrison,
and know the truth. He could bear the suspense no longer. Accordingly,
he called to see him the first thing in the morning.

"I learn from my wife," he said, "that you are her guardian."

"I am. I was appointed under her father's will to take charge of her
property, and to pay it over to her husband if she ever married."

"What is the amount of this property?" asked Dunbar.

"Twenty-five thousand dollars were left to her by her father at
his death; the balance of his large property went to some distant
relatives. Harriet's fortune has, in my hands, increased to thirty
thousand dollars."

"Was she his only child?"

"Yes."

"Why did he not leave her more?"

"He had his own reasons, I presume," returned Harrison coldly.

"The thirty thousand you hold is to be paid to me, I understand."

"The will requires me to pay to the husband of Harriet the sum of
twenty-five thousand dollars, with any interest accruing there from not
already paid to the said Harriet. You are her husband, and of course
you are entitled to her fortune."

"Yes, that is plain enough. When will you be prepared to arrange it?"

"That I have already done," replied the guardian, coolly.

"Already done! I do not understand you, Mr. Harrison."

"Did I not pay you thirty thousand dollars a few weeks ago?"

"Yes, but not on this account."

"And did you not then give me a receipt in full of all demands, past,
present, and to come?"

The face of Dunbar became pale, and his lips quivered.

"Was it just in you, sir," he said sternly, "to take that advantage of
my ignorance of your relation to my intended wife?"

"Was it just in you, sir," returned Mr. Harrison, with equal sternness,
"to take a bribe for the betrayal of your client, whose cause you might
have gained?"

"It was as right as for you to offer it," retorted Dunbar.

"You are answered," said the old man, coldly. "I have your receipt, and
mean to hold it against you."

"But do you think I will not cite you before the court to answer in
this matter?" returned the lawyer. "The receipt was fraudulently
obtained and cannot stand. Its very tenor expresses its character. I
will swear that you refused to pay me a sum of money due, unless I
would sign the receipt you have produced."

"Very well, Mr. Dunbar, I will meet you, and require you to show, that
this receipt was not intended to cover an anticipatory payment of this
very legacy belonging to the woman who was to become your wife in a few
days. What other transaction involving so heavy an amount would lie
between us? This will, of course, be asked, and I will leave you to
answer it to the satisfaction of the court; and I will take good care
that the answer be fully reported for publication in the daily press."

Harrison looked the young lawyer in the face steadily, while he slowly
repeated these sentences in a firm voice—

"I don't see that it will place you in any more favorable light than it
will me," said Dunbar, after a moment's reflection. "If you are willing
to brave public opinion, I think I needn't shrink from it."

"As you please," returned the old man, indifferently. "I rather think
that I shall be able to make out a plain case for myself. So, if you
intend going to law about this business, I hope you will begin at once,
and be done with it."

"I am to understand, then, that you will not settle the estate of your
ward according to the provisions of her father's will?"

"No: you are to understand that I have already settled it, and that I
hold your receipt for the full sum thereof."

"A thing that I deny."

"A man may deny anything he pleases, and especially a man like you,
who would betray, for gain, the interests of his client. No doubt your
practice would vastly increase after the beautiful exposé that will be
made when you sue for your wife's estate. You are the young man I heard
it prophesied, some years ago, would rise in the world. Truly, you are
going up with astonishing celerity."

"Mr. Harrison, I will bear insult from no man! not even from one as old
as yourself," said the lawyer, passionately.

"Do I insult you? I presumed that you would take what I said as a
compliment. But if you don't like my plain way of speaking, I think you
had better leave me. I have no wish for a continuance of your company.
I know you too well."

At this retort, the lawyer turned on his heel and left the presence of
the man who knew him too well.

"The biter got bit that time. I thought I would be too sharp for him,"
said Harrison, smiling inwardly.

If ever a man was completely foiled in his purposes and dashed down to
the very earth, that man was Lawrence Dunbar. Of the thirty thousand
dollars received from Harrison, ten thousand had been paid to the
opposing attorney as his accomplice in iniquity, leaving him but twenty
thousand dollars as the entire fortune of his wife. This was a very
different state of affairs from that which his imagination had been
picturing. Seventy thousand with his wife, twenty thousand from old
Harrison as the price of his integrity, and fifteen thousand dollars
already earned and saved, would have made a hundred and five thousand
dollars. Instead, he was worth just thirty thousand dollars, and ten
thousand of that was locked up in costly household furniture that had
already lost its beauty in his eyes. As to entering into a contest with
Mr. Harrison, that he did not for a moment contemplate. It could not be
done without an exposure ruinous alike to his character and prospects.
The very thought of it made him shudder. It was bad enough that a man
who entertained such a hearty contempt for him should be in possession
of such a blasting secret, which, if even a whisper of it got upon the
wind, would wither up his legal reputation and blast his hopes like the
hot breath of a sirocco.

He was in no mood to meet the wife he had insulted by a betrayal of
his base regard for her property, instead of her person. The air of
his richly-furnished parlors, as he entered them, was cold; the house
itself seemed deserted, and oppressed him with a feeling of desolation.
He did not seek his wife; for he had no wish to come into her presence.
He thought of her with something akin to loathing. And this was
scarcely five weeks from the wedding day!

At tea time they met; cold, reserved, and even haughty in their
demeanor towards each other. The wife felt that she had received an
unpardonable insult, and the husband felt that he had been deeply
wronged. All hope of bettering his fortunes by matrimony was now
gone. He was united to one who was, to use his own words, a beggar.
She had no attractions of beauty of which he might be proud; and
no excellences of character to win his esteem or love. But, cold,
repulsive, self-willed, and passionate, she united in her person all
those qualities that repel and estrange a man.

The subject of her fortune was never again alluded to by them. She
asked no questions, and he made no communication touching the matter.
But Mr. Harrison took the pains to call upon her, and inform her that
he had paid to her husband thirty thousand dollars, in accordance with
the provisions of her father's will, and that he was no longer her
guardian.



CHAPTER XVIII.

A NEW ASPECT OF AFFAIRS.

POOR Malcolm, after escaping from the clutches of Dunbar, sold off all
the goods and household furniture which he had removed to the best
possible advantage, and calling together his creditors, gave them a
history of his misfortunes, and divided among them the sum of one
thousand dollars, all that he had received from the sale of what he
had been able to save. It liquidated but thirty-three and one-third
cents on the dollar of his debts. He had previously secured a clerkship
paying a small salary. In consideration of his honesty in doing what
was in his power, in this his last extremity, his creditors voluntarily
signed him a full release from the balance of their claims against him.

One evening, a few days after this had taken place, Mr. Harrison called
upon him at his boarding house. They met alone in the public parlor.
Mr. Harrison was kind in his manner, but Malcolm was smarting yet too
severely from the consequences of the late suit to feel in any mood for
a cordial reception of his relative.

"Malcolm," said the old gentleman, after they were seated, "from my
attorney who defended the late suit that you brought against me, I
learned some facts that I never knew before. I always believed my
title to the property I hold to be clear, and never could imagine
upon what just ground you claimed to contest it. But your attorney
discovered, or you discovered it to him, a matter of which I have
always been ignorant, and which gives color to the opinion you have so
pertinaciously held in regard to your rights in my estate. That you
have some right in it I think may be the case, though certainly not
to the extent you have imagined. I have little doubt that, if you had
not been thrown out of court on a demurrer, the court would have given
you some twenty or thirty thousand dollars. This is my own lawyer's
opinion."

"Then," said Malcolm, "it is clearly my duty to begin again."

"I would advise you to try another lawyer, if you do."

"Why so?" asked Malcolm.

"Because the one you had took a bribe to introduce to the court a
defective bill."

"You are jesting," said Malcolm.

"No," replied Harrison, quietly; "I am entirely in earnest. My lawyer
suggested that Dunbar could be bought over to our interests, and I took
it into my head to see if he really was in earnest. Sure enough, Dunbar
named thirty thousand dollars as the price he would take to introduce a
defect in his bill, that we might throw you out of court, saddled with
costs so great that you could not pay them, without which it would be
impossible to begin again."

"And this was done?"

"Yes."

"You paid him thirty thousand dollars to defraud me?"

"I loaned him that much out of his wife's fortune—or, rather, his wife
to be."

"I don't understand you."

Harrison explained all that matter, and then added—

"From the moment I was satisfied that you had any rights in my estate,
I determined to grant them, let them be what they would. I was only
half satisfied on this head when I offered you the twenty-five thousand
dollars which you declined. I now believe that thirty thousand dollars
are all to which you are entitled, and that I am willing you shall
have, if you will take it and settle the matter forever."

Malcolm could hardly believe that this was said in earnest. When
satisfied that it was, the delight he felt was almost beyond expression.

Harrison was perfectly sincere in all this. It was what he intended
doing when he bargained with Dunbar for the admission of a flaw in
his client's bill. He was a man of thoroughly honest principles, but
eccentric in some things. The boldness of the proposition made by his
lawyer was so startling that he told him to go on, merely because he
was curious to see if such bold-faced iniquity could be practised by a
member of the bar. Before he agreed to pay the sum named, he understood
the relationship that existed between Dunbar and his ward, and
conceived the idea of making him pay his own bribe, which he succeeded
so well in doing. He ran some little risk, certainly; but he was a
pretty shrewd man in his calculations, and rarely went very far wrong.

On the day after the interview with Mr. Harrison, Malcolm called at the
office of Mr. Dunbar. The lawyer met him with a scowl upon his brow.

"I have one or two things to say to you, friend Dunbar," said Malcolm,
seating himself. He spoke in a very cool manner. "In the first place, I
believe a pretty large bill of costs accrued in the late suit against
Harrison, and that I stood charged with the same."

"Your memory is certainly accurate in the matter," returned the lawyer,
with insult in his tone and manner.

"That bill I wish you to settle in full," returned Malcolm, in a firm
voice. "There is another matter," he continued, "that I wish also
settled. During the progress of the suit, unnecessarily delayed as
you know, my business became involved, and finally, by your direct
agency, was entirely broken up. I am in debt on that account about two
thousand dollars, which I wish you also to settle for me, and to do it
forthwith."

"Mr. Malcolm, will you leave my office instantly?" said the lawyer,
smothering his excitement under a calmness of tone, and rising to his
feet as he spoke.

"Don't get excited, Mr. Dunbar," replied Malcolm, retaining his seat.
"This is a business of some importance and needs coolness in its
settlement. I have demanded nothing but what is right, and nothing
but what I mean to have. I will give you until to-morrow afternoon at
four o'clock to deliberate upon the matter, and then if you do not
present me with the clerk's receipt for that bill of costs, and with
two thousand dollars to pay off my debts, I will instantly commence a
suit against you and Harrison's lawyer for a conspiracy to defraud me,
in which something about a demurrer will come out that will not be very
pleasant to you or to him, as you both too well know."

Dunbar sank down in his chair as if suddenly deprived of strength,
while the perspiration started upon his forehead.

"For heaven's sake! What do you mean?" he exclaimed, taken so
completely by surprise as to be thrown off his guard.

"Simply what I say," replied Malcolm, as coolly and firmly as at first.
"I have heard from Mr. Harrison all about the bribe you accepted, and
received out of your own pocket. So you needn't imagine that I am
trying to frighten you with a bugbear. Pay the loss you have occasioned
me, and I have done with you for ever; if not, I will obtain damages.
To-morrow at four o'clock I will call, and if you are prepared to make
all right—well; and if not—well; at least so far as I am concerned.
Good morning."

And Malcolm retired from the office of Dunbar, leaving the attorney
more than half stupified, yet in the fullest possession of every word
that had been uttered.

When Malcolm called on the next day at the hour named, he received all
that he had demanded.

The star of Lawrence Dunbar's rising fortunes had already reached
its point of culmination—young as he was, and possessed of brilliant
talents and a mind well stored with professional lore—and was now
beginning its rapid descent. He had erred in supposing that, separated
from Mr. Harker, he could take a high position at the bar. In this
he had overrated himself. Only a few petty cases came into his hands
besides the case of Malcolm, which he managed so badly. The flaw left
in his client's bill in this case was so palpable, that the whole bar
expressed astonishment at the glaring oversight. It hurt his reputation
seriously.

But, when a whisper of the truth began to be heard, first here, then
there, and then everywhere among those who knew him, his star set in
the horizon of Philadelphia. So flagrant a violation of all honest
principles met its just rebuke. He stood alone. No man of honor and
respectability showed him any attentions or passed him the compliment
of an invitation to his house. There was a ban upon him; so much so
that men pointed at him in the streets and related the story of his
affair with old Mr. Harrison. In less than a year there was a public
sale of his elegant furniture in Arch street, and he moved somewhere
South with his wife. Of his domestic felicity nothing need be said.
Enough can be imagined.



CHAPTER XIX.

CONTRASTS.

THE history of this young man, as far as we have traced it, and much
further beyond this point it is not our intention to go, exhibits
the result of mere ambition, acting upon a mind unsustained by sound
principle. To rise in the world was the end with him. Thousands start
with that end, and rise to a certain height; but rarely attain a
distinguished position, for the reason that they are met at almost
every step with temptations to deviate more or less from strict
rectitude, in order to rise faster than would otherwise be the case,
and thus invariably defeat the object they have in view. There is in
the public mind a certain degree of virtue, which will not tolerate
known wrong actions. In fact, the public weal depends upon integrity
in the community, and every man, therefore, instinctively condemns all
departures from just principles in others, because he feels that such
acts done to him would be wrong.

On the other hand, a virtuous man is esteemed by all, both good and
bad, for all feel that their interests are safe in his hands. If he
possess equal ability to serve the community with another man in whose
principles no faith is had, he will, as a natural consequence, rise
above that man. And there is no danger of his falling back from any
eminence he may gain; because it is a real elevation from the force of
internal principles acting upon his external conduct, and the force
that elevated him is all-potent to sustain him in his elevation.

To rise truly in the world, is to rise internally as well as
externally. If a man, while he is rising into eminence in any pursuit,
be really growing corrupt and base—be admitting evil counsellors into
his mind and acting from their suggestions—he is not truly rising, but
is actually in the descending scale, and will, either in this life or
the next, find his right position. No man is truly elevated who is not
truly good. He may occupy an imaginary height; he may think himself
great, and men who do not know what is really in him, may call him
great; but true greatness is inseparable from that benevolence which
regards the common good.

While Dunbar was fixing his mind upon the attainment of wealth and
professional distinctions as ends, Doctor Hudson was seeking with
untiring industry to perfect his knowledge of medical science by
reading, observation, and experiment; not so much as the means of
rising in the world as from a desire to increase his skill and gain a
wider circle of influence. It would not do to say that he was free from
selfish ends; no man is free from them. But he understood that to be
governed by selfish considerations was wrong, and he never permitted
himself, when he was conscious that such considerations were prominent
in his mind, to act from them. Thus instead of coming more and more
under the dominion of purblind selfishness, he was daily rising
superior to its enticements. He was truly rising in the world—rising in
intelligence and usefulness, and rising above the corrupt and debasing
tendencies of our evil nature. And his family rose with him. No one was
depressed that he might be elevated; no one pushed aside that his way
might be clear.

Only three times did Lawrence Dunbar and Doctor Hudson meet, after
they had started on their race for eminence. Once in the office of the
student, as already related. The second time they met was a few weeks
after the marriage of Dunbar with the heiress.

A large party was given by a wealthy family, in which Hudson had
rendered eminent services in his profession. The doctor was highly
esteemed by every member of this family, who knew his worth as a
physician and as a man, and sought every opportunity to express the
estimation in which they held him. His name and that of his lovely wife
were among the first on the list, and the names of Dunbar and his wife
among the last. Dunbar was invited for his wife's sake, who happened
to be known to some members of the family. Doctor Baldwin and his lady
were also in the number of guests.

Not long after Doctor Hudson and his wife had entered, they saw Dunbar
come into the parlors with a lady richly dressed upon his arm, and walk
in some state amid the gay company.

"Can that be his wife?" remarked Mrs. Hudson, when she at last got a
fair view of the lady's face.

"I presume it is," replied her husband. "Did you ever see a more
repulsive countenance?"

"One less prepossessing is rarely met," returned Mrs. Hudson, still
looking intently into the lady's face.

"But she has wealth, and is well connected, as the phrase is. These, no
doubt, cover a multitude of defects."

"They do not seem to have covered them in this case," said Mrs. Hudson,
with a quiet smile, as she drew her arm closer within that of her
husband. "At least they are very apparent this evening."

"She has her good points, no doubt," remarked the doctor. "All persons
have. We may not always determine the whole character from the face.
Very good people sometimes have very homely countenances."

"Yes; that is true," said Mrs. Hudson. "But no woman whose heart was
unselfish—no woman with a gentle, loving spirit—ever had a face like
that."

It took an hour at least for the different individuals of the company
to get familiar with the various parties present, and to know what
strangers and what acquaintances were there. Ere this, Dunbar had
noticed, with some surprise and without any particular increase of
pleasure, that Doctor Hudson and his wife and sister were among the
guests. He had never heard of the marriage of Ella with Doctor Baldwin,
whose social standing he well knew.

"What young lady is that?" he asked of a friend, affecting not to know
who Ella was.

"The charming woman on Doctor Baldwin's arm?"

"I mean the lady on the doctor's arm."

"That's his wife."

"Oh, no; you are in error. That cannot be his wife If I mistake not,
she is the daughter of old Hudson, the watchmaker. But how she found
admission here, passes my comprehension."

"You are right as to her being the daughter of Hudson," replied the
friend.

"Then she is not the wife of Doctor Baldwin."

"Yes, she is his wife; and he is as proud of her as if she were a
queen; and, from all I can learn, justly so. She is a charming woman.
I have met her several times during the year in large companies, and
find that she is a favorite with all who know her. The doctor has shown
himself to be a man of good taste."

"Incredible," returned Dunbar. "I remember Ella Hudson well enough, but
never saw in her anything so charming."

"I don't know about what she was," said the friend; "but I do
know, that she is at this present time as lovely, intelligent, and
accomplished a woman as there is in this room, and as general a
favorite. See! half a dozen gentlemen, whose taste even you will not
dispute, have gathered around her and her husband, and you may observe
that more than half their attention is directed to her."

"What is thought of Dr. Hudson's lady?" asked Dunbar. "I presume you
know her."

"Oh yes. And if she were my sister, I could not more highly esteem her.
She is not so generally attractive as Mrs. Baldwin; but all who come
near to her are won by the sweetness of her character, and charmed by
the half-retiring grace of her manner. She is one in a thousand, and is
so considered by all who know her. As for her husband, I consider him
one of the most fortunate of men in having secured so loving and lovely
a companion for his journey through life."

The eyes of Dunbar turned, involuntarily, towards that part of the
room where his wife sat, alone. One glance was sufficient. His gaze
was quickly withdrawn. A sigh, but half repressed, struggled up from
his bosom, and he turned away from the individual with whom he was
conversing. He had already heard too much. What his thoughts were, it
would be hard to tell. As he moved across the room, he encountered Dr.
Hudson and his wife. The two men looked at each other for an instant,
but did not speak. They had not met before for years.

"If he has risen above his old condition," said Mrs. Hudson, leaning,
towards her husband, "he has certainly not risen into happiness."

"No man does, who acts from an utter disregard of others," replied the
doctor. "Dunbar started in life with the avowed determination to rise;
and to rise on the most thorough selfish principles. What his exact
elevation, as regards external things, may be, I do not know; but I
have heard it whispered that he has at least been sadly disappointed in
the amount of his wife's fortune. As to her character and disposition,
I presume they were scarcely taken into the account; although he will,
without doubt, find them of more serious importance than he at first
imagined."

It seemed to Dunbar that he could turn no way during that unhappy
evening without seeing either the wife or sister of Doctor Hudson; and
he never saw them without an involuntary assent to their loveliness as
contrasted with the woman to whom he had united himself for life. They
were led to the dance by men of character, standing, and education, and
were ever receiving attentions which any woman present would have felt
to be complimentary in a high degree, while, with all her wealth and
high connexions, his wife sat neglected, except by those who felt for
her some personal interest.

Dunbar likewise observed that Doctor Hudson was noticed by almost
every one; and, for the first time, learned that he had recently been
elevated to the chair of anatomy and surgery in one of the medical
schools. There was something positive about this—a real elevation that
could not well be called in question—while he perceived that his own
position was as yet equivocal, and that, think as highly of himself as
he might, he could not force others to do honor to his greatness.

The young attorney went home that night with feelings of humiliation
deeper than he had ever known.



CHAPTER XX.

CONCLUSION.

ONCE again did the two men meet. It was late in life, yet not many
years later.

Doctor Hudson was just preparing to leave his office one afternoon
about five o'clock, when a grey-headed man, plainly dressed, came in.
He immediately recognised him as old Mr. Dunbar.

"Doctor," he said, with a good deal of agitation in his manner, "I want
you to come to my house immediately."

"Is anything serious the matter?" asked Dr. Hudson.

"Yes, sir, very serious. My son arrived in the cars from Baltimore
this afternoon, in a terrible condition. He has been shot, and stabbed
in two places. How, why, or when, I have not yet been able to learn.
He was brought on by two men, to whose account I did not half listen,
before hurrying off for surgical aid. The ball is still in his breast.
Oh, Doctor! come with as little delay as possible."

Doctor Hudson inquired the direction, and promised to be at his house
in half an hour. Soon after the unhappy father left, he took a case of
instruments, and stepping into his carriage, drove to the residence of
Mr. Dunbar. The old man still kept a small grocery, through which the
doctor passed into a poorly furnished room, and then up a dark stairway
to a chamber over the store. Everything bore the stamp of poverty.
At the door of the chamber he met the father and mother, the latter
weeping bitterly, and the former with a face of deep distress.

"Doctor," whispered the old man, "I'm afraid all is hopeless. But we
will trust in your skill for all that human aid can do."

Doctor Hudson entered the room, and stood beside the bed where lay his
patient, feeling sadder than he had felt for a long time. There was the
well-known face of his old friend and school companion; but white, and
thin, and painful in its expression. The breath came feebly through his
lips, and the motions of his chest were scarcely perceptible. He laid
his finger upon his wrist, but the pulse was so low in the artery, if
it beat at all at so great a distance from the heart, that he could not
find it.

A slight examination of his injuries was now made. There were two deep
wounds between the ribs on the right side, inflicted with a knife or
dirk, and a shot wound on the left breast. The ball had struck the
sternum, glanced upwards at an angle, and entered among the muscles of
the left axilla or armpit, where it still remained, deeply imbedded.
There was already considerable inflammation of all the wounds, which
had received but temporary dressings. As for the patient, his mind was
completely obscured. He noticed no one, and uttered nothing more than
an occasional groan.

Any attempt to remove the ball, at present, was considered too
hazardous to be made. Slight dressings were applied to the wounds, and
the best means used for allaying the inflammation.

Before Doctor Dunbar left the house, one of the men who had brought the
wounded man to Philadelphia came in, and from him were obtained the
following facts:—

About a month previous to the sad catastrophe from which Dunbar was
suffering, he received an anonymous letter, charging upon his wife
improprieties of conduct, and naming the individual with whom she was
said to be too familiar. Long before this, all vestiges of regard for
his wife, if there had ever been any in his mind, were extinguished
And it was the same with her. They had ceased to treat each other
with anything more than the coldest politeness. Notwithstanding this,
Dunbar was all on fire at the intelligence of his wife's infidelity. He
did not go immediately to the man who was accused of doing him a deep
injury, but waited until he was satisfied, by personal observation,
that the accusation was just. The mode of retaliation then sought, was
to go to the office of this individual with a pistol and a cowhide, and
under the muzzle of a loaded pistol to cowhide him as long as he had
strength to lift his hand. This was his intention, but he failed in
carrying it out.

On entering the office of the man who had injured him, he locked the
door, and throwing the key from the window, drew his pistol and his
cowhide, and with a bitter oath struck the betrayer of his wife a
severe blow. But he had miscalculated his opponent when he supposed
that he would tamely submit to blows even under the muzzle of a pistol.
He happened to be himself armed, and instantly drew a pistol. Both
fired at the same instant. The ball of Dunbar did not take effect; but
he received that of his adversary in his left armpit. Still furious,
he struck three or four blows with his cowhide, when he fell from two
stabs with a dirk knife in the right side. When those who had been
alarmed by the noise of the affray burst open the door, Dunbar was
lying on the floor weltering in his blood. The other had escaped from
the window and fled. On removing the wounded man to his rooms at the
hotel where he boarded, his wife was nowhere to be found. When this was
mentioned to him, he cursed her through his clenched teeth, and asked
to be immediately removed to Philadelphia to the house of his father,
which was done.

Some time before this, he had fallen in with a company of gentlemen
gamblers, and been stripped of every dollar he was worth. As a lawyer,
he had sunk into a mere pettifogger, and his practice was chiefly
confined to magistrate's and prison cases.

"Fallen! hopelessly fallen!" said Doctor Hudson, as he rode
thoughtfully homeward. When he next saw his patient, the change that
had taken place told him but too plainly the sad truth that life was
rapidly waning. Science and skill were of no avail in his hands. He
could not hold back the grim monster when he came with his fatal
message.

The young man died—died a violent death in the very prime of life—with
blighted hopes, corrupt principles, and a ruined character. And he came
home to die. He breathed out his last breath in the presence of those
he had wronged, despised, and insulted—himself fallen and degraded. It
was a sad ending of all his bright anticipations.

It is almost needless to say that Doctor Hudson's upward movement was
steadily continued. That it would be so, was in the nature of things.
There are few more distinguished and useful men in the country than he
is at the present time. And he is beloved as well as honored by all who
know him. He is truly great and truly good, for his elevation has been
internal as well as external.





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