Clinton burst into a loud laugh.
"The time will come when you'll know better than to reflect upon sermons here, and will put your Prayer-Book in your pocket, instead of carrying it in your hand. People go to church in this place to see and be seen; to learn the fashions and see new faces-not to remember sermons or read prayers. I heard a minister declare, the other day, that he could preach a sermon over every six weeks, and not one in twenty of his hearers would remember to have heard it before. I've had serious thoughts of turning minister myself; donning a gray wig and white cravat, and 'spounding the Bible, as the blacks say, to my deluded hearers. 'Pon honor, it's the most lucrative situation a poor devil can have. Preaching a short sermon, morning and night, to an inattentive but fashionable congregation, who are sure to make a minister popular among 'em, if he don't touch their peculiar sins too closely, give him an immense salary, let him off on full pay for four months in a year, and pay his debts when he accepts a call in another quarter."
"A comfortable situation, I must confess," said Arthur, with a smile. "When you take a stand in the pulpit count upon me for one of your hearers."
"A thousand thanks for your promised patronage," returned Mr. Clinton, with a bow of mock gravity; "but suppose we discuss the matter moving;" and rising, he led the way into the street.
As much as Guly wished to be rid of Mr. Clinton's society, he saw the thing was impossible, at least at present, and submitted to a farther endurance of it with as much suavity as possible. Still keeping by his brother's side, he walked on in silence, anxiously awaiting the moment when their companion should see fit to leave them.
"Hallo!" cried Clinton, suddenly stopping before an illuminated window, and peering earnestly into it, "the new numbers for the next lottery are up; come on, let's go in, and take one jointly."
Arthur thought of his lost portemonnaie, and felt strongly tempted to run the risk of recovering his money in that way; but he remembered that he had nothing wherewith to buy a ticket, and hesitated.
"Don't," said Guly, earnestly, "don't be led into such folly, Arthur. Come, let's go back to the store."
"Not till you have tried your luck once," said Clinton, persuasively; "come, it is but a trifle if you lose it, and think of the chance you run."
"I've left my purse at home," said Arthur, blushing at the falsehood he stooped to utter; "I would really like to join, but can't to-night, really."
"Pooh! if the money is all, I'll advance that; and you can pay me when you like. Come along."
Arthur entered the shop reluctantly, it is true, yet ashamed to confess to his social, open-hearted companion, the compunction he felt. The ticket was purchased, and half given to Arthur.
"If you are determined to purchase a ticket, Arthur," said Guly, gravely, "I must insist that you do not run in debt to Mr. Clinton for it," and opening his purse, he handed to that gentleman the sum just expended for his brother's half of the ticket.
"You are very particular," remarked Clinton, with something like a sneer, and pocketing the change, while he glanced with a look of impertinent curiosity at Guly's grave but beautiful features.
"Do you go our way?" inquired Arthur, turning toward him as they left the shop.
"No; sorry to say I don't," returned Clinton, lighting a cigar, and offering one to each of the brothers, who refused it. "I am really sorry to part with you; but if you must go, good-night," and with a graceful move of the hand, the young gentleman bade an adieu to his friends, and turning down another street, was soon out of sight.
The brothers walked on for some distance in silence. Guly was the first to speak.
"Have you enjoyed your walk, Arthur, as much as you would have done, had we been left to enjoy ourselves in our own way?"
"Well, I must say, Guly, that I've had a pleasant time. I think young Clinton a charming fellow, and must confess he has enlivened the last hour exceedingly."
"And your heart and conscience are both quite as unburthened as they would have been had you not met him?"
"I'm sure I've done nothing to burden either, Gulian," returned Arthur, somewhat impatiently. "You must remember I am several years older than you are, and am expected to act differently from a mere boy like yourself."
"Did you remember that yesterday was your twenty-first birthday?" inquired Guly, quietly.
"No!" said Arthur, with a slight start; "and your sixteenth birthday was last Monday! How differently have they passed from what they used to do at home, when they were always celebrated together."
"Mother must have remembered us yesterday," remarked Guly. "How she would have loved but to look over here upon us!"
"I would not have had her seen me yesterday!" exclaimed Arthur, warmly, "for all the wealth this city ever saw. Her heart would have broken."
"Yet you persist in recognizing your yesterday's companions, and in a measure practising yesterday's pursuits. Mother never allowed wine to make its appearance on our birthday-fetes, my brother."
"True, but that was in the North, and our parents were always very strict. What would you have me do when I meet such a social companion as Clinton? He has such a pleasant, happy way with him, that one really can't refuse him; and for my part, a glass of wine, more or less, will hurt nobody, I guess, materially."
"The social glass has been many a man's ruin, dear Arthur; and it is better to resist temptation in the beginning, than to fight the influence of liquor in the end. I wish I could coax you to promise never to taste another drop."
"What folly," said Arthur, laughing. "Why, my little Puritan, as long as it is the custom here, why not indulge a little? I think I can promise you never to be intoxicated. I shall shun that. But when I'm with young men of such habits, it would seem very odd in me to refuse, and I must now and then take a harmless glass."
"Then, Arthur, why not choose companions of different habits? You certainly will admit such a course is wrong for any young man. See the influence even, which Clinton's society has had upon you this evening. He has really induced you to think such practices here are allowable, and even commendable. This morning, without arguing the case, you voluntarily confessed it to be very wrong. Oh, Arthur, I already begin to wish we were out of this dreadful place."
"You are a chicken-hearted little body," returned Arthur, playfully; then speaking more gravely, he continued: "Well, Guly, it is not, after all, so much my fault. I am of an age to wish to enjoy myself. I have been accustomed to having every comfort and happiness around me; the fond love and refined society of a mother, together with the noble presence and good advice of our father. Look at the change! We have come here poor, but with delicate and luxurious tastes. We have no father, no mother, no home. One rough and dingy apartment to sleep in, is the only spot we can look upon and call ours, and that we share in common with the refuse lumber of the store and a colony of spiders and bedbugs. Beyond our washer-woman, we haven't the acquaintance of a single member of the other sex in this city; and, apart from each other, not one to call a friend. It isn't a very pleasant state of affairs to reflect upon, Guly; and this morning, when I lay alone up stairs on the bed, I couldn't keep from thinking that these wealthy merchants who employ so many clerks have much to answer for."
"How so, Arthur? You surely couldn't expect a merchant to direct and govern the private pursuits of every young man in his employ?"
"No, surely not. Those clerks who have their homes and relatives here in the city, are well enough off; but when, like us, they come from the North, without even an acquaintance here, wouldn't it be better, not only for the clerks, but for the merchant himself, if he would show a little kindly interest in them and their welfare? Here, for instance, are ourselves: Mr. Delancey was made acquainted by our first letter with all the train of circumstances which forced us to this course. He is well aware that our family is as good as his own, and why then has he not said to us that we would be welcome visitors at his house, and thus given us one place where we might occasionally spend our leisure hours, and call
it home? Would it not at once have placed us in our own sphere, and kept us from looking for social friends among strangers, of whose character we know nothing? With the firm standing and position that Mr. Delancey has here in society, to have taken this kindly notice of us could not have lowered or affected him one particle in the social scale, and would have placed us in that position which we have ever been accustomed to occupy. It would have bound us more closely to him; and instead of clerks, coldly and rigidly performing our assigned duties for him, it would have rendered us his grateful and sincere friends, happy to do aught in our power, either in or out of business hours, which would oblige him or advance his interests. At least, I know this would be the case with me, and I think that when I speak for one I do for both."
"I must admit, Arthur, that you are right. Though I have not quite as impulsive a heart as yourself, and am not nearly as proud-spirited, I cannot always bear meekly the curtness and harshness with which Mr. Delancey treats us. And with clerks, as a general thing, it is certainly more for an employer's interest to win them as closely as possible to himself; for, of course, if he forces them to seek companionship among whomsoever they may meet, and they fall into low and dissipated habits, which renders them unfit for business, then, of a necessity, that interest suffers; and were I the employer in such a case, I am sure I could not hold myself entirely free from blame."
"Oh, in such a case, the employer thinks no farther than to give a clerk his walking papers, and to show him the door. They never pause to remember that they were probably the primal cause of his downfall; neither will they make amends, by even giving him the good name he brought to them, for another situation. When I reflect upon these things, Guly, sometimes there's a great deal of bitterness comes up in my heart, which I cannot keep down, though I try ever so hard."
"Never let it rise there, Arthur. While we both live, dear brother, we are certain of one heart that is as true as life itself. Let us cling close to one another, and try and be happy and contented together, and no harm, save sickness and death, can approach us. In loving one another, we are but being true to ourselves."
They had by this time reached the store door, and as Guly ceased speaking, Arthur stepped upon the step, and placing both hands on his brother's shoulders, held him a little way from him, and looked earnestly into the beautiful eyes raised up to meet his own.
"Guly, whatever happens-though I hope and am sure nothing will that is unfortunate or sad to me or between us-try and love me all the same; forget my faults and remember my virtues-if I have any; I want always to think of your heart as trusting mine, and loving me."
He looked away for a moment, with his eyes bent thoughtfully upon the ground, then parting the hair from his brother's brow, he bent down hastily and kissed it, as if from an impulse which he could not resist.
Guly looked wonderingly up in his face for a moment, then drew him away into the shadow of the archway adjoining, and, laying his head upon his shoulder, wept.
"Love you, Arthur!" he exclaimed, throwing both arms about his brother, and drawing him close to his heart; "Through all and through everything, come what might or may, I can never love or trust you less than now. Your happiness is my prayer and watch-word; all I ask of you, dear, is but to be true to yourself and me."
"Bless you, Guly-there! don't shed any more tears-we shall henceforth, I am sure, be very happy together."
"Then, what prompted you to speak so strangely and forebodingly?"
"I could not define the feeling, if I should try. It was nothing more than a flitting shadow, cast from my restless spirit upon my heart. Come, let's go in."
CHAPTER XIII.
"Our early days! how often back
We turn on life's bewildering track,
To where, o'er hill and valley, plays
The sunlight of our early days!"
D. W. Gallagher.
They went in through the alley-way, and gained their bedroom by the steep back-staircase. Guly, who was fatigued by his day's labor and evening walk, immediately prepared for bed, and sought his pillow eagerly. But Arthur, after rising from their devotion, walked toward one of the windows, and stood for a long time gazing out upon the neighboring wall of brick, as if he found there deep food for reflection. Guly lay looking at him, wondering what he could be thinking of, and even while he wondered his eyes gradually closed, and he fell fast asleep.
As Arthur heard his soft but regular breathing, and felt assured his brother slumbered, he threw off his coat, and seated himself on the bedside, gazing fixedly down upon the innocent and happy brow before him. There was a thoughtful softness upon the watcher's face, that came not often there; and ever and anon he raised his hands, and pressed them tightly upon his eyes, as if to keep back some emotion which would fain force itself thence.
"What can have put these thoughts in my mind to-night?" he murmured, impatiently, rising and walking the floor with bowed head and folded arms. "I could almost believe the wine I drank was drugged with memories of the past, and dark forebodings for the future. What form is this that rises constantly before me, with haggard face and burning eyes, pointing its skinny finger backward, ever backward, like an index turning ever to the days gone by? It haunts me like a ghost; and turn I here or there, 'tis always crouching close before me, pointing that skinny finger backward. Heavens! what does it mean?"
With a sharp shudder, Arthur again sought his brother's side, and sat down upon the bed.
"If I should ever-if I should ever-ever fall so low, I! Oh, impossible! What a horrible picture! Yet, surrounded, as I am, by danger and temptation-the beautiful habiliments in which vice here presents itself-the constant laceration of my haughty pride-would it be, after all, so impossible? Oh, my poor heart, be strong. Still that white figure pointing backward. Can this be the foreshadowing of my own fate? Oh, never, never! the wine I have taken has heated my brain. Guly! Guly! wake up! I cannot bear to be here by myself!"
And, with a moan of anguish, Arthur buried his face in the pillow.
Guly started up quickly, and looked wildly around, like one suddenly aroused from a nightmare; then his eye fell upon the prostrate figure beside him.
"Dear Arthur, tell me what ails you to-night; you seem strangely at variance with yourself. Tell me what troubles you, my brother."
"A ghost in my heart, Guly. I can't tell what brought it there-I feel it, I see it constantly-a pale, haggard figure, pointing with its bony finger backward."
"You have been asleep, and dreaming, Arthur; undress and come by me here, and we will talk of something else."
"No, no, Guly, not asleep, but wide, wide awake-in my heart, in my soul, everywhere!" exclaimed Arthur, flinging his clothes hastily off, and creeping to his brother's side, as if flying from some horrid phantom.
Guly threw an arm about him, and with the other hand stroked the dark locks soothingly back from the excited brow.
"There, Arthur! brother! hush! don't sigh and shudder so, don't; it's all fancy, all mere idle fancy. Do you remember, Arthur, how, on such a night as this, the moon used to shine down upon the tall trees and green lawn at home? And when all those merry friends used to visit us, how their figures would flit in and out so brightly through the long green avenues, and the shadows falling at their sides-do you not remember, Arthur?"
"The shadows falling at their side? Yes, Guly, I remember."
"And how, when on such bright nights we sailed upon the Hudson, the diamond foam broke away from the prow of our little boat, like a peal of jewelled laughter, if such a thing could be? When we get the old home back, Arthur, we will find that old boat out, and have it, too-eh, brother?"
"Dear Guly, yes."
"Everything will be so like its old self, we shall almost think all our troubles and separation one long dream. When that time comes we can have no more of earthly happiness to ask for-our old home and our old joys."
"And our old friends, Guly, gliding through the green avenues, with their shadows under their feet. Our old
friends, with their old shadows-"
Arthur was asleep; soothed to slumber by the gentle words and fond tones breathed upon his ear, and he lay quietly, with his face calm, and his cheek upon his hand.
Dreams came to him in the hours of that long night, and he was happy. Time and distance were annihilated, and he was back upon the shores of old Hudson, sporting with its waves, and gliding on its waters. There was the old boat, with the sparkling foam parting from the rushing prow, and the music of the dipping oars was falling gently on his ear.
Again he was on the green lawn, and the moon was looking down upon the tall trees, and the soft green grass which lay before the broad door of the olden home. There were the gayly-robed figures, flitting in and out along the shaded avenues, their shadows falling by them always, and he was in their midst-a child, merry-hearted, but fretted and proud-toyed with by this one, caressed by that, and the favorite of all, commanding but to be obeyed, frowning but to be more attended, angered but to be coaxed to good-nature, first in his parents' hearts, and high in the proffered love of every guest, reigning, like a boy-king, over all he surveyed.
Then his dream for a moment grew clouded, and a tiny form, with snowy robes and gentle blue eyes, rose up before him, and took his place upon his mother's bosom, and he knew he had a brother. The form expanded, and grew in height, and the hair hung in golden ringlets down to shadow the beautiful eyes. And a tiny hand sought his, and tottering steps fell lightly at his side. Still the form grew, till in his dream it seemed to rise above him-not grown above him; but the feet stood upon a silver cloud, which kept rising higher and higher, till the tiny hand he clasped in his was drawn perforce from his grasp, and still standing on the silver cloud, the light form, the golden hair, and blue eyes, passed from his sight; and looking up, he learned to believe it was an angel, not a brother, which had been sent to him. And while he looked yearningly after it, a mother's hand fell upon his shoulder, and her sweet voice trembled as she pointed upward, and bade him follow. Then he showed her his empty hand, from which the tiny hand had been drawn, and stepping quickly backward, he plunged headlong over an unseen precipice, and fell, fell far down, where all was darkness; but finding no bottom, and shuddering with the thought that so he must go dizzily rushing through that blackened space to all eternity! But, looking up, a glorious light broke through the surrounding gloom, and the light form, with the golden hair, was coming down-down with a smile of thrilling happiness, and outstretched arms to save him. It reached him, it clasped him to its warm bosom, and he felt a quick heart throbbing there, and knew again it was his brother, with the sunny curls and radiant smile, who had saved him from that bottomless pit, and mounted, holding him upon his heart, to purer and to brighter realms.
The Brother Clerks; A Tale of New-Orleans. Page 8