True Riches by T.S. Arthur

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TRUE RICHES;

OR,

WEALTH WITHOUT WINGS.

BY T.S. ARTHUR.

BOSTON:
L.P. CROWN & CO., 61 CORNHILL.

1852.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by

J.W. BRADLEY,

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States in
and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

STEREOTYPED BY L. JOHNSON AND CO.

PHILADELPHIA.

INTRODUCTION.

The original title chosen for this book was "Riches without Wings;"
but the author becoming aware, before giving it a permanent form, that
a volume bearing a similar title had appeared some years ago, of which
a new edition was about to be issued, thought it best to substitute
therefor, "True Riches; or, Wealth without Wings," which, in fact,
expresses more accurately the character and scope of his story.

The lessons herein taught are such as cannot be learned too early, nor
dwelt on too long or too often, by those who are engaged in the
active and all-absorbing duties of life. In the struggle for natural
riches--the wealth that meets the eye and charms the imagination--how
many forget that _true_ riches can _only_ be laid up in the heart; and
that, without these true riches, which have no wings, gold, the god
of this world, cannot bestow a single blessing! To give this truth
a varied charm for young and old, the author has made of it a new
presentation, and, in so doing, sought to invest it with all the
winning attractions in his power to bestow.

To parents who regard the best interests of their children, and to
young men and women just stepping upon the world's broad stage of
action, we offer our book, in the confident belief that it contains
vital principles, which, if laid up in the mind, will, like good seed
in good ground, produce an after-harvest, in the garnering of which
there will be great joy.

TRUE RICHES.

CHAPTER I.

"A fair day's business. A _very_ fair day's business," said Leonard
Jasper, as he closed a small account-book, over which he had been
poring, pencil in hand, for some ten minutes. The tone in which he
spoke expressed more than ordinary gratification.

"To what do the sales amount?" asked a young man, clerk to the dealer,
approaching his principal as he spoke.

"To just two hundred dollars, Edward. It's the best day we've had for
a month."

"The best, in more than one sense," remarked the young man, with a
meaning expression.

"You're right there, too," said Jasper, with animation, rubbing his
hands together as he spoke, in the manner of one who is particularly
well pleased with himself. "I made two or three trades that told
largely on the sunny side of profit and loss account."

"True enough. Though I've been afraid, ever since you sold that piece
of velvet to Harland's wife, that you cut rather deeper than was
prudent."

"Not a bit of it--not a bit of it! Had I asked her three dollars a
yard, she would have wanted it for two. So I said six, to begin with,
expecting to fall extensively; and, to put a good face on the matter,
told her that it cost within a fraction of what I asked to make the
importation--remarking, at the same time, that the goods were too
rich in quality to bear a profit, and were only kept as a matter of
accommodation to certain customers."

"And she bought at five?"

"Yes; thinking she had obtained the velvet at seventy-five cents a
yard less than its cost. Generous customer, truly!"

"While you, in reality, made two dollars and a half on every yard she
bought."

"Precisely that sum."

"She had six yards."

"Yes; out of which we made a clear profit of fifteen dollars. That
will do, I'm thinking. Operations like this count up fast."

"Very fast. But, Mr. Jasper"--

"But what, Edward?"

"Is it altogether prudent to multiply operations of this character?
Won't it make for you a bad reputation, and thus diminish, instead of
increasing, your custom?"

"I fear nothing of the kind. One-half the people are not satisfied
unless you cheat them. I've handled the yardstick, off and on, for the
last fifteen or twenty years, and I think my observation during that
time is worth something. It tells me this--that a bold face, a smooth
tongue, and an easy conscience are worth more in our business than
any other qualities. With these you may do as you list. They tell far
better than all the 'one-price' and fair-dealing professions, in which
people have little faith. In fact, the mass will overreach if they
can, and therefore regard these 'honest' assumptions with suspicion."

The young man, Edward Claire, did not make a reply for nearly a
minute. Something in the words of Mr. Jasper had fixed his thought,
and left him, for a brief space of time, absorbed in his own
reflections.

Lifting, at length, his eyes, which had been resting on the floor, he
said--

"Our profit on to-day's sales must reach very nearly fifty dollars."

"Just that sum, if I have made a right estimate," replied Jasper; "and
that is what I call a fair day's business."

While he was yet speaking, a lad entered the store, and laid upon the
counter a small sealed package, bearing the superscription, "Leonard
Jasper, Esq." The merchant cut the red tape with which it was tied,
broke the seal, and opening the package, took therefrom several
papers, over which he ran his eyes hurriedly; his clerk, as he did so,
turning away.

"What's this?" muttered Jasper to himself, not at first clearly
comprehending the nature of the business to which the communication
related. "Executor! To what? Oh! ah! Estate of Ruben Elder. Humph!
What possessed him to trouble me with this business? I've no time to
play executor to an estate, the whole proceeds of which would hardly
fill my trousers' pocket. He was a thriftless fellow at best, and
never could more than keep his head out of water. His debts will
swallow up every thing, of course, saving my commissions, which I
would gladly throw in to be rid of this business."

With this, Jasper tossed the papers into his desk, and, taking up his
hat, said to his clerk--"You may shut the store, Edward. Before you
leave, see that every thing is made safe."

The merchant than retired, and wended his way homeward.

Edward Claire seemed in no hurry to follow this example. His first
act was to close the window-shutters and door--turning the key in the
latter, and remaining inside.

Entirely alone, and hidden from observation, the young man seated
himself, and let his thoughts, which seemed to be active on some
subject, take their own way. He was soon entirely absorbed.
Whatever were his thoughts, one thing would have been apparent to
an observer--they did not run in a quiet stream. Something disturbed
their current, for his brow was knit, his compressed lips had a
disturbed motion, and his hands moved about at times uneasily. At
length he arose, not hurriedly, but with a deliberate motion, threw
his arms behind him, and, bending forward, with his eyes cast down,
paced the length of the store two or three times, backward and
forward, slowly.

"Fifty dollars profit in one day," he at length said, half audibly.
"That will do, certainly. I'd be contented with a tenth part of the
sum. He's bound to get rich; that's plain. Fifty dollars in a single
day! Leonard Jasper, you're a shrewd one. I shall have to lay aside
some of my old-fashioned squeamishness, and take a few lessons from so
accomplished a teacher. But, he's a downright cheat!"

Some better thought had swept suddenly, in a gleam of light, across
the young man's mind, showing him the true nature of the principles
from which the merchant acted, and, for the moment, causing his whole
nature to revolt against them. But the light faded slowly; a state of
darkness and confusion followed, and then the old current of thought
moved on as before.

Slowly, and now with an attitude of deeper abstraction, moved the
young man backward and forward the entire length of the room, of which
he was the sole occupant. He _felt_ that he was alone, that no human
eye could note a single movement. Of the all-seeing Eye he thought
not--his spirit's evil counsellors, drawn intimately nigh to him
through inclinations to evil, kept that consciousness from his mind.

At length Claire turned to the desk upon which were the account-books
that had been used during the day, and commenced turning the leaves of
one of them in a way that showed only a half-formed purpose. There was
an impulse to something in his mind; an impulse not yet expressed in
any form of thought, though in the progress toward something definite.

"Fifty dollars a day!" he murmurs. Ah, that shows the direction of his
mind. He is still struggling in temptation, and with all his inherited
cupidities bearing him downward.

Suddenly he starts, turns his head, and listens eagerly, and with a
strange agitation. Some one had tried the door. For a few moments he
stood in an attitude of the most profound attention. But the trial was
not repeated. How audibly, to his own ears, throbbed his heart! How
oppressed was his bosom! How, in a current of fire, rushed the blood
to his over-excited brain!

The hand upon the door was but an ordinary occurrence. It might now
be only a customer, who, seeing a light within, hoped to supply some
neglected want, or a friend passing by, who wished for a few words of
pleasant gossip. At any other time Claire would have stepped quickly
and with undisturbed expectation to receive the applicant for
admission. But guilty thoughts awakened their nervous attendants,
suspicion and fear, and these had sounded an instant alarm.

Still, very still, sat Edward Claire, even to the occasional
suppression of his breathing, which, to him, seemed strangely loud.

Several minutes elapsed, and then the young man commenced silently to
remove the various account-books to their nightly safe deposite in
the fire-proof. The cash-box, over the contents of which he lingered,
counting note by note and coin by coin, several times repeated, next
took its place with the books. The heavy iron door swung to, the key
traversed noiselessly the delicate and complicated wards, was removed
and deposited in a place of safety; and, yet unrecovered from his mood
of abstraction, the clerk left the store, and took his way homeward.
From that hour Edward Claire was to be the subject of a fierce
temptation. He had admitted an evil suggestion, and had warmed it in
the earth of his mind, even to germination. Already a delicate root
had penetrated the soil, and was extracting food therefrom. Oh! why
did he not instantly pluck it out, when the hand of an infant would
have sufficed in strength for the task? Why did he let it remain,
shielding it from the cold winds of rational truth and the hot sun of
good affections, until it could live, sustained by its own organs of
appropriation and nutrition? Why did he let it remain until its lusty
growth gave sad promise of an evil tree, in which birds of night find
shelter and build nests for their young?

Let us introduce another scene and another personage, who will claim,
to some extent, the reader's attention.

There were two small but neatly, though plainly, furnished rooms, in
the second story of a house located in a retired street. In one of
these rooms tea was prepared, and near the tea-table sat a young
woman, with a sleeping babe nestled to-her bosom. She was fair-faced
and sunny-haired; and in her blue eyes lay, in calm beauty, sweet
tokens of a pure and loving heart. How tenderly she looked down, now
and then, upon the slumbering cherub whose winning ways and murmurs of
affection had blessed her through the day! Happy young wife! these are
thy halcyon days. Care has not thrown upon thee a single shadow from
his gloomy wing, and hope pictures the smiling future with a sky of
sunny brightness.

"How long he stays away!" had just passed her lips, when the sound of
well-known footsteps was heard in the passage below. A brief time, and
then the room-door opened, and Edward Claire came in. What a depth of
tenderness was in his voice as he bent his lips to those of his young
wife, murmuring--

"My Edith!" and then touching, with a gentler pressure, the white
forehead of his sleeping babe.

"You were late this evening, dear," said Edith, looking into the face
of her husband, whose eyes drooped under her earnest gaze.

"Yes," he replied, with a slight evasion in his tone and manner; "we
have been busier than usual to-day."

As he spoke the young wife arose, and taking her slumbering child into
the adjoining chamber, laid it gently in its crib. Then returning, she
made the tea--the kettle stood boiling by the grate--and in a little
while they sat down to their evening meal.

Edith soon observed that her husband was more thoughtful and less
talkative than usual. She asked, however, no direct question touching
this change; but regarded what he did say with closer attention,
hoping to draw a correct inference, without seeming to notice his
altered mood.

"Mr. Jasper's business is increasing?" she said, somewhat
interrogatively, while they still sat at the table, an expression of
her husband's leading to this remark.

"Yes, increasing very rapidly," replied Claire, with animation. "The
fact is, he is going to get rich. Do you know that his profit on
to-day's sales amounted to fifty dollars?"

"So much?" said Edith, yet in a tone that showed no surprise or
particular interest in the matter.

"Fifty dollars a day," resumed Claire, "counting three hundred
week-days in the year, gives the handsome sum of fifteen thousand
dollars in the year. I'd be satisfied with as much in five years."

There was more feeling in the tone of his voice than he had meant to
betray. His young wife lifted her eyes to his face, and looked at him
with a wonder she could not conceal.

"Contentment, dear," said she, in a gentle, subdued, yet tender voice,
"is great gain. We have enough, and more than enough, to make us
happy. Natural riches have no power to fill the heart's most yearning
affections; and how often do they take to themselves wings and fly
away."

"Enough, dear!" replied Edward Claire, smiling. "O no, not enough, by
any means. Five hundred dollars a year is but a meagre sum. What does
it procure for us? Only these two rooms and the commonest necessaries
of life. We cannot even afford the constant service of a domestic."

"Why, Edward! what has come over you? Have I complained?"

"No, dear, no. But think you I have no ambition to see my wife take a
higher place than this?"

"Ambition! Do not again use that word," said Edith, very earnestly.
"What has love to do with ambition? What have we to do with the world
and its higher places? Will a more elegant home secure for us a
purer joy than we have known and still know in this our Eden? Oh,
my husband! do not let such thoughts come into your mind. Let us be
content with what God in his wisdom provides, assured that it is best
for us. In envying the good of another, we destroy our own good. There
is a higher wealth than gold, Edward; and it supplies higher wants.
There are riches without wings; they lie scattered about our feet;
we may fill our coffers, if we will. Treasures of good affections and
true thoughts are worth more than all earthly riches, and will bear
us far more safely and happily through the world; such treasures are
given to all who will receive them, and given in lavish abundance. Let
us secure of this wealth, Edward, a liberal share."

"Mere treasures of the mind, Edith, do not sustain natural life, do
not supply natural demands. They build no houses; they provide not
for increasing wants. We cannot always remain in the ideal world; the
sober realities of life will drag us down."

The simple-hearted, true-minded young wife was not understood by her
husband. She felt this, and felt it oppressively.

"Have we not enough, Edward, to meet every real want?" she urged. "Do
we desire better food or better clothing? Would our bodies be more
comfortable because our carpets were of richer material, and our
rooms filled with costlier furniture? O no! If not contented with such
things as Providence gives us to-day, we shall not find contentment in
what he gives us to-morrow; for the same dissatisfied heart will beat
in our bosoms. Let Mr. Jasper get rich, if he can; we will not envy
his possessions."

"I do not envy him, Edith," replied Claire. "But I cannot feel
satisfied with the small salary he pays me. My services are, I know,
of greater value than he estimates them, and I feel that I am dealt by
unjustly."

Edith made no answer. The subject was repugnant to her feelings,
and she did not wish to prolong it. Claire already regretted its
introduction. So there was silence for nearly a minute.

When the conversation flowed on again, it embraced a different theme,
but had in it no warmth of feeling. Not since they had joined hands at
the altar, nearly two years before, had they passed so embarrassed and
really unhappy an evening as this. A tempting spirit had found its way
into their Paradise, burning with a fierce desire to mar its beauty.

CHAPTER II.

"Oh, what a dream I have had!" exclaimed Mrs. Claire, starting
suddenly from sleep, just as the light began to come in dimly through
the windows on the next morning; and, as she spoke, she caught hold of
her husband, and clung to him, frightened and trembling.

"Oh, such a dream!" she added, as her mind grew clearer, and she felt
better assured of the reality that existed. "I thought, love, that
we were sitting in our room, as we sit every evening--baby asleep, I
sewing, and you, as usual, reading aloud. How happy we were! happier,
it seemed, than we had ever been before. A sudden loud knock startled
us both. Then two men entered, one of whom drew a paper from his
pocket, declaring, as he did so, that you were arrested at the
instance of Mr. Jasper, who accused you with having robbed him of a
large amount of money."

"Why, Edith!" ejaculated Edward Claire, in a voice of painful
surprise. He, too, had been dreaming, and in his dream he had done
what his heart prompted him to do on the previous evening--to act
unfaithfully toward his employer.

"Oh, it was dreadful! dreadful!" continued Edith. "Rudely they seized
and bore you away. Then came the trial. Oh, I see it all as plainly
as if it had been real. You, my good, true, noble-hearted husband,
who had never wronged another, even in thought--you were accused
of robbery in the presence of hundreds, and positive witnesses were
brought forward to prove the terrible charge. All they alleged was
believed by those who heard. The judges pronounced you guilty, and
then sentenced you to a gloomy prison. They were bearing you off,
when, in my agony, I awoke. It was terrible, terrible! yet, thank God!
only a dream, a fearful dream!"

Claire drew his arms around his young wife, and clasped her with a
straining embrace to his bosom. He made no answer for some time. The
relation of a dream so singular, under the circumstances, had startled
him, and he almost feared to trust his voice in response. At length,
with a deeply-drawn, sighing breath, nature's spontaneous struggle for
relief, he said--

"Yes, dear, that was a fearful dream. The thought of it makes me
shudder. But, after all, it was only a dream; the whispering of a
malignant spirit in your ear. Happily, his power to harm extends no
further. The fancy may be possessed in sleep, but the reason lies
inactive, and the hands remain idle. No guilt can stain the spirit.
The night passes, and we go abroad in the morning as pure as when we
laid our heads wearily to rest."

"And more," added Edith, her mind fast recovering itself; "with a
clearer perception of what is true and good. The soul's disturbed
balance finds its equilibrium. It is not the body alone that is
refreshed and strengthened. The spirit, plied with temptation after
temptation through the day, and almost ready to yield when the night
cometh, finds rest also, and time to recover its strength. In the
morning it goes forth again, stronger for its season of repose. How
often, as the day dawned, have I lifted my heart and thanked God for
sleep!"

Thus prompted, an emotion of thankfulness arose in the breast of
Claire, but the utterance was kept back from the lips. He had a
secret, a painful and revolting secret, in his heart, and he feared
lest something should betray its existence to his wife. What would he
not have given at the moment to have blotted out for ever the memory
of thoughts too earnestly cherished on the evening before, when he was
alone with the tempter?

There was a shadow on the heart of Edith Claire. The unusual mood of
her husband on the previous evening, and the dream which had haunted
her through the night, left impressions that could not be shaken off.
She had an instinct of danger--danger lurking in the path of one in
whom her very life was bound up.

When Edward was about leaving her to go forth for the day, she
lingered by his side and clung to him, as if she could not let him
pass from the safe shelter of home.

"Ah! if I could always be with you!" said Edith--"if we could ever
move on, hand in hand and side by side, how full to running over would
be my cup of happiness!"

"Are we not ever side by side, dear?" replied Claire, tenderly. "You
are present to my thought all the day."

"And you to mine. O yes! yes! We _are_ moving side by side; our mutual
thought gives presence. Yet it was the bodily presence I desired. But
that cannot be."

"Good-bye, love! Good-bye, sweet one!" said Claire, kissing his wife,
and gently pressing his lips upon those of the babe she held in her
arms. He then passed forth, and took his way to the store of Leonard
Jasper, in whose service he had been for two years, or since the date
of his marriage.

A scene transpired a few days previous to this, which we will briefly
describe. Three persons were alone in a chamber, the furniture
of which, though neither elegant nor costly, evinced taste and
refinement. Lying upon a bed was a man, evidently near the time of his
departure from earth. By his side, and bending over him, was a woman
almost as pale as himself. A little girl, not above five years of age,
sat on the foot of the bed, with her eyes fixed on the countenance of
her father, for such was the relation borne to her by the sick man.
A lovely creature she was--beautiful even beyond the common beauty of
childhood. For a time a solemn stillness reigned through the chamber.
A few low-spoken words had passed between the parents of the child,
and then, for a brief period, all was deep, oppressive silence. This
was interrupted, at length, by the mother's unrestrained sobs, as she
laid her face upon the bosom of her husband, so soon to be taken from
her, and wept aloud.

No word of remonstrance or comfort came from the sick man's lips. He
only drew his arm about the weeper's neck, and held her closer to his
heart.

The troubled waters soon ran clear: there was calmness in their
depths.

"It is but for a little while, Fanny," said he, in a feeble yet steady
voice; "only for a little while."

"I know; I feel that here," was replied, as a thin, white hand was
laid against the speaker's bosom. "And I could patiently await my
time, but"----

Her eyes glanced yearningly toward the child, who sat gazing upon her
parents, with an instinct of approaching evil at her heart.

Too well did the dying man comprehend the meaning of this glance.

"God will take care of her. He will raise her up friends," said he
quickly; yet, even as he spoke, his heart failed him.

"All that is left to us is our trust in Him," murmured the wife and
mother. Her voice, though so low as to be almost a whisper, was firm.
She realized, as she spoke, how much of bitterness was in the parting
hours of the dying one, and she felt that duty required her to sustain
him, so far as she had the strength to do so. And so she nerved her
woman's heart, almost breaking as it was, to bear and hide her own
sorrows, while she strove to comfort and strengthen the failing spirit
of her husband.

"God is good," said she, after a brief silence, during which she was
striving for the mastery over her weakness. As she spoke, she leaned
over the sick man, and looked at him lovingly, and with the smile of
an angel on her countenance.

"Yes, God is good, Fanny. Have we not proved this, again and again?"
was returned, a feeble light coming into the speaker's pale face.

"A thousand times, dear! a thousand times!" said the wife, earnestly.
"He is infinite in his goodness, and we are his children."

"Yes, his children," was the whispered response. And over and over
again he repeated the words, "His children;" his voice falling lower
and lower each time, until at length his eyes closed, and his in-going
thought found no longer an utterance.

Twilight had come. The deepening shadows were fast obscuring all
objects in the sick-chamber, where silence reigned, profound almost as
death.

"He sleeps," whispered the wife, as she softly raised herself from
her reclining position on the bed. "And dear Fanny sleeps also," was
added, as her eyes rested upon the unconscious form of her child.

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