True Riches; Or, Wealth Without Wings

"Thank God for such a treasure, Edward! She is worth more than the wealth of the Indies. With such an angel to walk by your side, you need feel no evil."

"You will give me a situation, then, Mr. Melleville?"

"Yes, Edward," replied the old man.

"Then I will notify Mr. Jasper this afternoon, and enter your service on the first of the coming month. My heart is lighter already. Good day."

And Edward hurried off home.

During the afternoon he found no opportunity to speak to Mr. Jasper on the subject first in his thoughts, as that individual wished him to attend Mrs. Elder's funeral, and gather for him all possible information about the child. It was late when he came back from the burial-ground—so late that he concluded not to return, on that evening, to the store. In the carriage in which he rode, was the clergyman who officiated, and the orphan child who, though but half comprehending her loss, was yet overwhelmed with sorrow. On their way back, the clergyman asked to be left at his own dwelling; and this was done. Claire was then alone with the child, who shrank close to him in the carriage. He did not speak to her; nor did she do more than lift, now and then, her large, soft, tear-suffused eyes to his face.

Arrived, at length, at the dwelling from which they had just borne forth the dead, Claire gently lifted out the child, and entered the house with her. Two persons only were within, the domestic and the woman who, on the day previous, had spoken of taking to her own home the little orphaned one. The former had on her shawl and bonnet, and said that she was about going away.

"You will not leave this child here alone," said Edward.

"I will take her for the present," spoke up the other. "Would you like to go home with me, Fanny?" addressing the child. "Come,"—and she held out her hands.

But the child shrank closer to the side of Edward, and looked up into his face with a silent appeal that his heart could not resist.

"Thank you, ma'am," he returned politely. "But we won't trouble you to do that. I will take her to my own home for the present. Would you like to go with me, dear?"

Fanny answered with a grateful look, as she lifted her beautiful eyes again to his face.

And so, after the woman and the domestic had departed, Edward Claire locked up the house, and taking the willing child by the hand, led her away to his own humble dwelling.

Having turned himself resolutely away from evil, already were the better impulses of his nature quickened into active life. A beautiful humanity was rising up to fill the place so recently about to be consecrated to the worship of a hideous selfishness.

CHAPTER VI

Edward Claire was in no doubt as to the reception the motherless child would receive from his kind-hearted wife. A word or two of explanation enabled her to comprehend the feeling from which he had acted.

"You were right, Edward," said she in hearty approval. "I am glad you brought her home. Come, dear," speaking to the wondering, partly shrinking orphan, "let me take off your bonnet."

She kissed the child's sweet lips and then gazed for some moments into her face, pleased, yet half surprised, at her remarkable beauty.

Little Fanny felt that she was among friends. The sad expression of her face soon wore off, light came back to her eyes, and her prattling tongue released itself from a long silence. An hour afterward, when she was laid to sleep in a temporary bed, made for her on the floor, her heavy eyelids fell quickly, with their long lashes upon her cheeks, and she was soon in the world of dreams.

Then followed a long and serious conference between Edward and his wife.

"I saw Mr. Melleville to-day," said the former.

"Did you? I am glad of that," was answered.

"He will give me a place."

"Glad again."

"But, Edith, as I supposed, he can only pay me a salary of four hundred dollars."

"No matter," was the prompt reply; "it is better than five hundred where you are."

"Can we live on it, Edith?" Edward spoke in a troubled voice.

"Why not? It is but to use a little more economy in our expenses—to live on two dollars a week less than we now spend; and that will not be very hard to do. Trust it to me, dear. I will bring the account out even. And we will be just as happy. As happy? Oh, a thousand times happier! A hundred dollars! How poorly will that compensate for broken peace and a disquieted conscience. Edward, is it possible for you to remain where you are, and be innocent?"

"I fear not, Edith," was the unhesitating reply. "And yet, dear, I should be man enough, should have integrity enough, to resist the temptations that might come in my way."

"Do not think of remaining where you are," said the young wife earnestly. "If Mr. Melleville will pay you four hundred dollars a year, take his offer and leave Mr. Jasper. It will be a gain rather than a loss to us."

"A gain, Edith?"

"Yes, a gain in all that is worth having in life—peace of mind flowing from a consciousness of right action. Will money buy this? No, Edward. Highly as riches are esteemed—the one great good in life as they are regarded—they never have given and never will give this best of all blessings. How little, how very little of the world's happiness, after all, flows from the possession of money. Did you ever think of that, Edward?"

"Perhaps not."

"And yet, is it not worth a passing thought? Mr. and Mrs. Casswell are rich—we are poor. Which do you think the happiest?"

"Oh, we are happiest, a thousand times," said Edward warmly. "I would not exchange places with him, were he worth a million for every thousand."

"Nor I with his wife," returned Edith. "So money, in their case, does not give happiness. Now look at William Everhart and his wife. When we were married they occupied two rooms, at a low rent, as we now do. Their income was just what ours has been. Well, they enjoyed life. We visited them frequently, and they often called to see us. But for a little ambition on the part of both to make some show, they would have possessed a large share of that inestimable blessing, contentment. After a while, William's salary was raised to one thousand dollars. Then they must have a whole house to themselves, as if their two nice rooms were not as large and comfortable, and as well suited to their real wants as before. They must, also, have showy furniture for their friends to look at. Were they any happier for this change?—for this marked improvement in their external condition? We have talked this over before, Edward. No, they were not. In fact, they were not so comfortable. With added means had come a whole train of clamorous wants, that even the doubled salary could not supply."

"Everhart gets fifteen hundred a year, now," remarked Claire.

"That will account, then," said Edith, smiling, "for Emma's unsettled state of mind when I last saw her. New wants have been created; and they have disturbed the former tranquillity."

"All are not so foolish as they have been. I think we might bear an increased income without the drawbacks that have attended theirs."

"If it had been best for us, my husband, God would have provided it. It is in his loving-kindness that he has opened the way so opportunely for you to leave the path of doubt and danger for one of confidence and safety; and, in doing it, he has really increased your salary."

"Increased it, Edith! Why do you say that?"

"Will we not be happier for the change?" asked Edith, smiling.

"I believe so."

"Then, surely, the salary is increased by so much of heartfelt pleasure. Why do you desire an increase rather than a diminution of income?"

"In order to procure more of the comforts of life," was answered.

"Comfort for the body, and satisfaction for the mind?"

"Yes."

"Could our bodies really enjoy more than they now enjoy? They are warmly clothed, fully fed, and are in good health. Is it not so?"

"It is."

"Then, if by taking Mr. Melleville's offer, you lose nothing for the body, and gain largely for the mind, is not your income increased?"