She and I Volume II Part 19

We next went to see the office--our office--in Broadway, afterwards.

Just the thing--possibly a trifle small; but then we could enlarge in time, eh? Not the slightest doubt. Brown of Philadelphia and I excellent friends. He dined with me at an hotel that day--at my expense on this occasion.

After dinner, arranged business matters as partners should do, drawing up a deed of a.s.sociationship, and so on. Brown of Philadelphia produced roll of dollars in "greenbacks"--his share of the capital of our embryo firm. I produced roll of "greenbacks"--my share of capital of embryo firm. Both parcels sealed up; and given into Brown of Philadelphia's custody, as senior partner, to deposit same in our joint names at a bank on the morrow.

Brown of Philadelphia and I then parted with words and signs of mutual respect and admiration; and I hied me to my Brooklyn lodgings in high delight at the fortunate turn in my affairs.

Why, I would be rich in a few months; and then:--

What delightful dreams I had that night!

We were to meet again the next morning punctually at "ten sharp" at "the office."

_I_ was there to the minute, but Brown of Philadelphia wasn't; and, although I waited for him many subsequent minutes after the appointed time, he never came--nor have I clapped eyes on him from that day to this.

Faithless Brown! He robbed me of my belief in human nature, in addition to my h.o.a.rded "greenbacks."

The office, I found, had been taken by the keen philanthropist for a week, a few dollars of the rent being advanced by him as security on account. On asking at the bank, which had in the first instance satisfied me of his integrity, the cashier told me that Brown of Philadelphia had drawn out all of his available balance the very afternoon on which I had made my inquiries respecting him; and where he was gone, no one knew!

"Skedaddled," evidently. As for shoddy celebrity, "up town," to whom Brown of Philadelphia had also referred me, said that my friend had swindled _him_ a short period before. Good joke, his being given as a reference!

I put the affair in the hands of the police; but they gave me about as much comfort as our guardians in blue would have done.

They said he had gone south. I went to Baltimore after him; but I could not meet him, although I was full of determination and had taken a revolver with me in case Brown might have his "shooting irons" handy!-- The blunderbuss that had belonged to the deceased Earl Planetree, and which Lady Dasher had given me as a useful parting present, I had left behind in England, thinking that such a valuable object of antiquity should not be recklessly risked.

The police then telegraphed for me to come north--while I was enjoying the canvas-backed ducks of "Maryland, my Maryland," and nursing my vengeance. I came "up north;" but it was of no use. I never saw Brown of Philadelphia again, or recovered my lost capital.

It had gone where the good, or bad, n.i.g.g.e.rs go; and I only hope "Brown"

has gone there too!

This misfortune filled up the measure of my troubles, though they were numerous enough already.

To get employment of a regular character, which became more necessary to me now than ever--was as impossible as it had been all along!

n.o.body seemed to want anybody like me, in spite of my being not unskilled in foreign languages, and up to clerk's work--having not yet forgotten the book-keeping which my crammer had crammed into me for the benefit of the "Polite Letter Writer Commissioners."

I was not actually in necessity, as I had still sufficient funds left to defray my bare living expenses for some months, with strict economy; but I had not come to America merely to exist! I had left home to make my fortune, I tell you; and, how could I be satisfied at this state of things? I was losing time, day by day; and not approaching one whit nearer to the object of my life!

In addition to these reflections, I had found out the truth of the time- honoured maxim, "coelum non animam mutant qui trans mare currunt."--I might go from the old world to the new; but I could not leave my old memories, my old thoughts behind me!

At first, the novelty of things about me distracted my attention.

I was in a strange country amongst fresh faces, all connected only with the present, so that, I had little time to look back on the past.

Besides, I was hopeful of carving out a new career for myself; and hope is a sworn antagonist to retrospection.

But, as I began to get used to the place and people, never-forgotten scenes and a.s.sociations came back to mind, which I felt were more difficult to banish now, three thousand miles away, than when I was on the spot with which they had been connected.

Oh! how, bustled about amidst a crowd of unsympathising strangers, to whom our domestic life is only an ideality, I longed for the quiet and charm and love of an English home!

I think that your wanderers and prodigals and black sheep, little though you may believe it, appreciate family union and social ties much more than your steady-going respectables who never stray without the routine circle of upright existence; never err; are never banned as outcasts!

The former look upon "home"--what a world does the very name convey to one who has never known what it is!--much as Moore's "Peri" regarded Paradise, and as the lost angels may wistfully think of the heaven from which they were expelled. Perhaps they overrate its attributes, imagining, as they do, that it is a blissful state of being, for ever debarred to them; but they _do_ have such feelings--the dregs, probably, of their bitter nature!

I can speak to the point, for, I was one of this cla.s.s.

_I_ was a prodigal, a black sheep, a wanderer. One on whom Fate had written on his forehead at his birth, "unstable as water, thou shalt not excel," and yet, I had the madness, (you may call it so,) to dream of regeneration and happiness!

How many a time had I not pictured to myself the home of my longing.

Nothing grand or great occurred to me--my old ambitions were dead.

I only wished for a little domain of my own, where some _one_ would look up to me, at all events, watching for my coming, and receiving me with gladness "in sorrow or in rest." A kingdom of affection, where no angry word should be ever spoken or heard; where peace and love would reign, no matter what befell!

It was a dream:--you are right. I thought so, now, often enough, far away from England and all that I held dear; and, unsuccessful as I always had been, as I always seemed doomed to be!

Happiness for me? What a very ridiculous idea! I was a lunatic. I should "laugh with myself," as poor Parole d'Honneur used to say!

I knew what sundry kindly-natured persons would say, in the event of my returning to England empty-handed, were I to lead the steadiest life possible.--"Here is Frank Lorton back again like a bad penny!"--they would sneer.--"Reformed from all his wild ways, eh? Really, Mrs Grundy, you must not expect us to believe _that_! Can the leopard change his spots?"--and so on; or else, kindly hint, that,--"when the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be: when the devil got well, the devil a monk was he."--Oh yes, I had little doubt what _their_ charitable judgment would be!

Still, the thought of these people's opinions did not oppress me much; for I knew equally well that, should some freak of Fate endow me with fame and fortune, they would be the first to receive me with open arms-- ignoring all my former social enormities.--Their tune would be slightly different then!

It would be--"Dear me! how glad we are to see him back! You know, Mrs Grundy, that you always said he would turn out well.--His little fastnesses and Bohemian ways?--Pooh! we won't speak of those now:--only the hot blood of youth, you know--signs of an ardent disposition--we all have our faults;"--and so on.

No, I was not thinking much of "society's" opinion; but, of that of others, whose good esteem I really valued. _They_ believed in me still:--was I worthy of it?

I thought not.

I doubted myself. Understand, I had no fear of making any new false step in the eyes of the world; or of plunging anew into the dissipations and riotous living of so-called "life," in return for which I was now eating the husks of voluntary exile: young as I was, I had already learnt a bitter lesson of the hollowness and deception of all this!

It was another dread which haunted me.

The vicar had, without in any way making light of them, condoned my misdeeds, telling me that there was more joy in heaven over one repentant sinner, than for ninety-and-nine just persons that had never offended: while, my darling--she who had the most cause to turn from me, the greatest right to condemn--had forgiven me; and bidden me to look forward to the future, with the hopeful a.s.surance that she was certain that I would never give her reason again to doubt her faith in me.

But, the fatherly affection of the one, the devoted confidence of the other, merited some greater return on my part than mere "uprightness of life,"--in the worldly sense of the expression! Surely, they did?

A man's words and actions may be above reproach, as far as society is concerned; and yet, he may not have a particle of true religion about him. Both the vicar and Min, however, were earnest Christians. They were deeply religious, without a suspicion of cant or affectation; and they wished me to be so, too. I had promised to pray to please them; but, had I kept my promise? No, I had failed:--my conscience told me so!

As long as things had gone smoothly with me, I believe I _did_ pray-- with the faith that my pet.i.tions were heard above; but, when dark days came, G.o.d seemed to forsake me, and my prayers were cast back into my own bosom. I might repeat a form of words a thousand times over; still, how could I be said to pray when the spirit was wanting?--It was only a jugglery, like the repeating machine in which the Burmese believe, or the beads of irreligious Catholics.

Min had specially pointed out a text of promise to me in the _Psalms_, where it is said, "No good thing shall He withhold from them who lead a G.o.dly life;" and, I had hoped in it; yet now, when I saw all my plans fail, this text took away my faith. Everything was withheld from me, I thought; therefore I could not lead a G.o.dly life, no matter how strenuously I strove to do so. I was outcast and forgotten! I had gone through the "vale of misery;" but I could not "use it as a well;" for my pools were empty! Instead of my Creator directing my "going in the way," He had left me to stumble forward blindly, until I had fallen into the Slough of Despond,--the sink of unbelief!

How hard it is to find that faith which enables us to pray in the confident belief of our supplications being attended to! I remember once reading a pa.s.sage in a sermon preached by the Archdeacon of Saint Albans in Westminster Abbey some thirteen years ago, which was now brought to my mind. It was one of a series specially designed "for the working cla.s.ses," and ent.i.tled _The Prayer of Human Kind_. The pa.s.sage ran as follows:--

"Why do some penitents--penitents really at heart--still groan, and try, by self-infliction and by keeping open their wounds, to appease G.o.d, and find no comfort to their souls? Is it not that they have not really taken to their hearts that G.o.d _is_ their Father in Christ; and that, 'even as a father pitieth his own children, so is the Lord merciful to them that fear him?' Had they, by faith, taken this blessed truth to their souls, they might and would, not in hopelessness and dread, but in trust and penitential love, make their wants known as a child to its parent; they would arise, and in humble compunctions, and not desponding trust, say, 'Father, I have sinned.'

They would carry each trouble to him, and say, 'Lord, thou knowest me to be set in this strait, or under that temptation; Lord, deliver me.'

'Thou seest the longing desire of my heart; Lord, grant it.' 'Thou knowest my weakness; Lord, strengthen me.' They would carry and lay their separate cares before Him, and cast them on Him, knowing that He careth for them. They would ask, knowing that they will receive; knowing that an answer that withholds what is asked for is as real, and frequently a more merciful answer, than one that grants it."

Ah! That was the faith I could not fathom:--that was why my prayers gave me no comfort, I suppose. And yet, it is said that G.o.d, whom rich men find so difficult of approach, manifests Himself to us more in adversity than in prosperity. I could not believe in this myself; for, when I was successful, I really seemed to have faith, and could pray from my heart; while, now, despondent, it appeared hypocrisy on my part to pretend to bend my knees to the Almighty; I felt so despairingly faithless!

La Mennais says, in his _Paroles d'un Croyant_, that--