CHAPTER VII.

What should she say to her?

She had decided in the brief period of reflection before entering the room.

Amputation, sudden and quick—then treatment, as a surgeon would express it.

'Emma, it is all over with us. Mr. Meeker has been here and has broken off his engagement with you. The reason is, because your father has lost his property. I shall never regret our misfortunes, since it has saved you from becoming the wife of a selfish, heartless wretch.'

Emma did not faint, or scream, or burst into tears; but she turned very pale indeed, and sat without speaking, as if expecting her mother to say something more.

Mrs. Tenant looked at her anxiously. She would have much preferred a demonstration of some sort to silence—silence and pallor. She continued:

'Emma, you are our only child, our all. We think of your happiness more than of anything else in this world. Your mother is with you now; she will help you and sustain you until you have recovered, as you soon will, from the effect of this sudden shock.'

'And he said it was because papa had failed?' inquired Emma, without appearing to notice what her mother was saying.

'Exactly.'

'Then it was because he thought I was rich that he wanted to marry me?'

'For nothing else in the world,' replied Mrs. Tenant, impatiently.

Emma was again silent, but she was no longer pale; on the contrary, the color was fast filling her cheeks, and she blushed as she said, in a low tone, 'I shall feel so mortified to go into church.'

Mrs. Tenant was delighted. A great point was gained. Emma was already brought back to ordinary considerations; her pride would rally now.

'Never mind, my darling, never mind; for once it may be a little awkward, but, after all, what do we care?'

Very commonplace, to be sure, but it was all she could say.

'Everybody knows that the wedding day was fixed. Then, you know, I had to explain why it was put off to Ellen Stanley and Julia Petit, for they were to be my bridesmaids. This morning I met Ellen, and she asked me when it was to be, and I told her Hi—Mr. Meeker had not yet returned. She declared she saw him on the corner of Bond street and Broadway day before yesterday morning. She said she could not be mistaken. I told her she was mistaken. Now I dare say she did see him. What shall I do? Everybody will have the story, and how they will laugh at me!'

'We will see about that, we will see,' said Mrs. Tenant.

The fact is, she did not know exactly what to reply.

'I shall be ashamed to show myself in the street.'

'Nonsense, my darling.'

Kissing her daughter cheerfully, Mrs. Tenant went down stairs to meet her husband, whom she heard at the door.

The moment her mother left, Emma's heart sank, and she began to cry.

Mrs. Tenant was not long in putting her husband in possession of the situation of things. He was astonished, of course. He asked a great many questions, and at last seemed to comprehend how matters stood. He appeared to be very deeply affected, though he said but little. He did not speak on the subject to Emma, but soon after dinner took his hat and walked out.

In a short time he was standing on the steps of Dr. Chellis's house, and had rung the bell. He was presently seated in the Doctor's 'study' (he declined to go into the drawing room), waiting for him to come in.

Now it so happened that Dr. Chellis and Mr. Tenant were schoolmates at Exeter Academy, and afterward classmates at Yale. More than this, for two years they roomed together. Young Tenant did not have much taste for study, but his father, a man of competence, desired his son to be 'educated,' even if it should afterward be decided to make a merchant of him. It was perhaps because the young men were so unlike that they took to each other from the first and became intimate. There was something in Tenant's honest, genuine, and amiable nature, which was exceedingly attractive to the hardy, earnest, uncompromising Chellis. Their intimacy was a matter of surprise and marvel to all, yet I think is easily accounted for on the hypothesis just mentioned. That Tenant maintained a respectable standing in his class he owed to Chellis, for it was their habit to go over their lessons together after Chellis had 'dug out' his, and thus fortified, Tenant's recitations were very fair.

The young men never lost sight of each other. With them it continued always to be 'Aleck' and 'Harry.' Whenever the young clergyman came to New York he was received at the house of the young merchant with open arms. After some years, opportunity was presented for 'Harry,' to wit, Mr. Henry Tenant, of the leading house of Allwise, Tenant & Co., to use his influence in his church, where the pulpit had become vacant, to have 'Aleck,' to wit, the Rev. Alexander Chellis, called to fill it. The latter received the invitation with pleasure, for it opened a field to him he longed to enter. There was one drawback. He had not sufficient means to properly furnish a city house, where matters are on a scale so much more expensive than in the country. But he came down to consult his friend. After a full discussion they retired, the clergyman still not persuaded he could accept, and really most unwilling to decline. The next morning the merchant was up very early, and bolting into his friend's room, he woke him from a sound slumber, exclaiming, 'Aleck, I have got to be absent to-day—shall not be in till evening; but I have thought your affair all over, and decided that you must come, and that forthwith. As to the little objection which troubles you, here is what will obviate it; and mind you, Aleck, if you ever allude to this circumstance, either to me or to any living being, I swear, by Jupiter Ammon, your favorite old heathen, that I will never again recognize you as friend.'

Thus delivering himself, he thrust a check for a thousand dollars into the hands of the astonished clergyman, who lay listening to his harangue, fully convinced his friend was actually out of his wits. The next instant the door was closed; and rubbing his eyes to satisfy himself he was not dreaming, he examined the piece of paper in his hand, and read it forward and backward, upside down, and right side up, until he actually began to comprehend what it meant. More than this, he fully appreciated the act, and accepted it; and further, he never did allude to the circumstance, not even so much as to thank his friend. It is true, when the latter came back that evening and the two shook hands, that Harry felt a peculiar pressure, and observed a peculiar expression in Aleck's eyes, which he fancied for the moment were moist.

So Mr. Chellis was ordained over the church in New York. Years ran away. He became a famous divine, justly celebrated through town and country. We know the position Mr. Tenant enjoyed. The two always maintained their old intimacy. When alone together, it was still 'Aleck' and 'Harry.' College jokes were repeated, college days lived over, and, while together, it would seem that neither was a day the older for the years that had rolled over them. It is not to be wondered at then that on receiving the unlooked-for intelligence of Hiram Meeker's conduct he should desire to consult his old friend and lay the case before him.

Apologizing for keeping the reader so long on the threshold of Dr. Chellis's study, we will now enter with him, and report the conference.

'Aleck, I am in trouble.' That was the first remark after the greeting.

Never before had Mr. Tenant made such an observation to his friend. The old merchant had borne his failure like a man, accepting it as a part of the 'fortune of war.' He neither whimpered nor made wry faces. So, when Dr. Chellis heard the words, 'Aleck, I am in trouble,' he knew they meant a great deal. He took his seat, not in his accustomed place, but on the sofa close to his friend, and turning on him an anxious, sympathizing look, he said, in a tone gentler than a woman's, 'What is it, Harry?'

'Harry' told him the whole. The burden of all his thoughts was his daughter, and his lip quivered when he spoke of her love for the man who had proved to be so base, and of the effect the disappointment might have on her.

When he had concluded, Dr. Chellis started to his feet and began to pace up and down the room with great energy, exclaiming, 'God be praised! God be praised! God be praised!'

'For what, Aleck, for what?' inquired Mr. Tenant, rising anxiously from his seat and attempting to place himself before his friend, and thus intercept a response; 'do tell me for what?'

This time they met in the middle of the room; the Doctor no longer avoided his companion, but responded, with emphasis, 'For the escape! I tell you, Harry, it should be the happiest day of your life! yes, the happiest day of your life! Do you hear me?'

For Mr. Tenant did not appear to comprehend what the other was saying.

'I tell you,' continued the Doctor, 'Emma's engagement has been a perpetual source of sorrow to me. Yet I had nothing definite to urge against it, nothing, in fact, but what might be called a prejudice, which it would have been unjust to speak of—and—but—the fact is, I knew,' burst forth the now fairly enraged Doctor, interrupting himself and marching off again at double quick, 'I knew the fellow was a scamp, ever since he came whimpering to me about his conviction and God's providence, wonderful conversion, and so on. Conversion! I'll convert him!'

The Doctor's right hand opened and shut as if enclosing in its grasp the collar of Hiram's coat.

Mr. Tenant meantime kept standing in the middle of the room, trying in vain to bring the Doctor again to a halt. Whether he would have succeeded will not be known, for a knock at the door served to effect the purpose, while his sharp, angry 'Come in' so terrified the servant girl that she opened it barely wide enough to enable her to announce, in a faint tone, Mr. Meeker.'

'Ask him into the parlor,' said the Doctor, in his natural voice, 'I will see him presently.'

Then he turned, and in his usual manner bade his friend sit. Both resumed their places on the sofa, and the Doctor proceeded:

'Harry, it is all settled. The whole thing is clear. It comes just in the right time. You know Maria is to sail for Europe next week. You know how fond she is of Emma. It was but yesterday she was saying how pleasant it would be if Emma could go with her. Then she supposed it impossible. Now it is all right. The young people are to be absent six or eight months. This will put Emma quite right. Now, then, we have decided this, you must let me have my session with that knave yonder.'

'But Aleck! Aleck!' exclaimed Mr. Tenant, making an effort to stop his friend, who was about to leave the room, 'you forget—you forget my altered circumstances. Much as I like the plan, the thing is impossible—really quite impossible.'

The Doctor turned on his companion impatiently.

'That's my affair,' he said. 'Mind that Emma is ready.'

'No, no, Aleck—no, no, that must not be. No, no.'

The Doctor looked as if about to make an assault on his friend, and then raising his finger in a menacing manner, 'Who was it,' he exclaimed fiercely, 'that with rude force burst into my room one morning, disturbing my slumbers, and committing various acts of violence, while I was in a defenceless state unable to resist—who was it?'

The Doctor's eyes actually glared with such a genuine expression of rage, that Mr. Tenant lost his self-possession, and, as if afraid to admit the charge, answered faintly:

'I don't know.'

'You lie, you dog—you know you do,' said the Doctor, relaxing his angry tone. 'Ah, Harry, I did not think it of you.'

This last remark was uttered in the old familiar, gentle tone, and was accompanied by a look—just such a look as he had given him on the evening of the memorable affair of the thousand-dollar check.

Tears came into Mr. Tenant's eyes.

'Come, come,' said the Doctor, 'don't be foolish; away with you, and let me attend to my business.'

They shook hands silently, and the Doctor, closing the door after his friend, went back to his study, rang the bell, and directed Hiram to be summoned.

Mrs. Tenant received the account which her husband brought her of his visit to Dr. Chellis, and what had been decided on, with the liveliest satisfaction. She went at once to her daughter's apartment (she had thought best to leave her to herself for the evening), and exclaimed:

'Emma, my child, what do you think your papa has done? He has arranged for you to go with the Chaunceys to Europe next week. You know Maria was telling you Monday that if you were not going to be married, she should insist on your accompanying her. Now tell me, Emma, are you not delighted?'

Emma was delighted, or rather she was greatly relieved. She had more sensitiveness and more pride than one would suppose, judging from her amiable disposition. Her position had always been so well assured, her society so much sought for, and she so much courted, that never, until this occasion, had she experienced any important trial of her temper or emotions.

To appear in society, the daughter of a bankrupt, jilted, and jilted because she was no longer an heiress, exposed to the various remarks and busy gossip so rife on such occasions, was it not trying? And do you wonder that it was a great relief for her to know she was to be freed from this ordeal; that she was to experience not only a complete change of scene, but the change was to be every way agreeable, and what she would, under ordinary circumstances, have most desired?

To visit Europe! In those days the affair was not one of such common occurrence as at present, and of course the trip was the more valued.

Bravo, Emma! Next Thursday you will be on the ocean, away from every disagreeable association. Much as we shall miss you, we must bid you good-by for the present.

Emma did not close her eyes in sleep that night, and if her heart beat with excitement at the thought of the sudden change in her destinies, immediate as well as remote, there were moments when its pulses were deadened, and a thick, brooding, unhappy melancholy took possession of it, as she thought of what she had lost. A pang—it was that of disappointed love—from time to time made itself felt with keenness, and the morning found her restless and ill at ease. Could it be otherwise?

When Hiram received the summons to attend Dr. Chellis in his study, he was in the midst of a calculation as to the profit and loss of a certain operation, which I do not propose to explain to the reader. He had intended to call on the Doctor immediately on his return from Hampton, but was too much occupied. When, however, he came to a sudden break with Mrs. Tenant (he did not intend it should be sudden), he felt the necessity of fortifying himself in the church, for he was well aware of the deservedly high character Mr. Tenant enjoyed in it. He did not know the intimate relations which existed between him and the Doctor.

Although the weather was exceedingly warm, Hiram wore his complete suit of black cloth, and as he came with downcast eyes and mincing steps into the Doctor's room, the latter, who had taken his accustomed seat before his table, looked at him as he would at some strange, extraordinary apparition. He returned Hiram's salutation so gravely that it checked any further advance toward shaking hands. He proceeded, however, to take a seat without waiting to be asked.

'Something wrong,' he said to himself. 'It can't be he has heard of it so soon—only this very afternoon; impossible. Perhaps he is at work on his sermon. I must apologize.'

Thereupon Hiram took courage, and said, in a bland tone:

'I fear I am interrupting you in your valuable labors; shall I not call another time?'

'No; I am quite at liberty;' and the Doctor looked as if he would ask, 'What do you want?'

'You have without doubt heard of my affliction,' groaned Hiram, producing his pocket handkerchief.

'Your mother died lately, I understand.'

Hiram's answer was inaudible; his face was buried in his handkerchief.

The Doctor was becoming impatient.

'What is the object of your visit?' he asked.

The handkerchief was instantly removed from Hiram's face. He cast his eyes reproachfully on the Doctor, and exclaimed, quite in a natural tone:

'Object! are you not my pastor; am I not suffering? Have I not been watching for weeks at my mother's dying bed? And now she has gone, I feel unhappy, very unhappy. I want your advice and sympathy, and spiritual direction.'

The Doctor was staggered—I say staggered, not convinced, not persuaded, not in any sense inclined to change his opinion of the young man before him. But a blow had been well put in, and he felt it.

For Hiram, not imagining the Doctor could have heard of the affair with Miss Tenant, thought his treatment owing to some sort of caprice, and he seized the opportunity to act on the offensive, and dealt so genuine a retort that the former was taken by surprise. For a moment he seemed to be in a revery.

'You have lost your mother,' he said dreamily, while his large features worked with an involuntary movement, betraying strong inward emotion—'your mother; an irreparable loss. Tell me, Meeker,' he continued, after a pause, while he turned his large, searching gray eyes on the young man, 'tell me, did you really love your mother?'

It would have been, one would suppose, the easiest thing in the world for the glib-tongued Hiram to reply to such an interrogatory; but there was something awful in that gaze—not severe, nor stern, nor condemnatory, but awful in its earnest, truthful, not to be escaped penetration.

He hesitated, he stammered, he changed color. Still those eyes regarded him—still Hiram continued to hesitate, and stammer, till some sort of response came out, by piecemeal, incoherently.

Meantime the Doctor had recovered from his revery.

'You have been very unhappy?' he asked, in a dry tone.

'Oh yes, very.'

'What have you to say about your relations with Miss Tenant?'

'He has heard all about it,' thought Hiram, 'and I must do the best I can.' 'Why, sir, in my present afflicted state, how could I form so important a tie as that of matrimony? So it was thought best by Mrs. Tenant that the engagement should be considered at an end, at least for the present. This was her own suggestion, I assure you.'

'Look you, Meeker,' said Dr. Chellis, endeavoring to restrain his anger, 'I have heard the other side of this story, and had you not called on me, I should have sent for you. I cannot permit such a course as you are charged with to go without the action of the church.'

'By what right does the church undertake to supervise my domestic affairs?' retorted Hiram, now fully roused, and at bay.

'The church will always take official notice of misconduct on the part of any of its members.'

'With what am I charged?' demanded Hiram, defiantly.

'With violation of the most sacred of promises, with prevarication, dissimulation, and moral fraud.'

'Since it is determined to prejudge me, I shall ask for a letter of dismission, and worship elsewhere.'

'I cannot grant you a letter while you are under charges.'

'And do you call it fair to persecute, in this way, at the instigation of a proud aristocrat (he had already learned this slang sophistry), a young man, who is almost a stranger among you?'

'Meeker,' said the Doctor, once more relaxing into a meditative tone, 'Meeker, you have asked for my advice and spiritual direction: Answer me, answer me truly; have you really no idea, at least to some extent, what sort of person you are?'

'Dr. Chellis, I will no longer sit here to be insulted by you, sir. I have borne quite too much already. I will endure it no longer. Good evening, sir.'

Hiram flung himself out of the room. He was not at all angry, though he affected to be. Things were working heavily against him, and he saw no way to retreat except to fly in a passion or appear to do so. Once out of the house, he breathed more freely, and hastening home, he without delay set about the labor of reconstruction. He had uphill work, but difficulties brought out his resources.

His first step was to make a written request for a letter of dismissal, on the ground that he was about to remove to the church of the Rev. Dr.——.

The request for a letter was refused, and Hiram's course thereon is of a character so important that it deserves to be treated of in a separate chapter.

Meanwhile Emma Tenant is safely across the Atlantic, and, amid new and interesting and romantic scenes, which she is already beginning to enjoy, she tries to forget her heart's first grief.

She will succeed. To aid her, she has her woman's pride against her woman's weakness; a constant succession of fresh and novel incidents, agreeable society, absence from old associations, the natural buoyancy of youth, and a hopeful nature.

Over this host of fortunate circumstances presides that unconquered and always successful leader—Time.