The Continental Monthly, Vol 2, No 6, December 1862

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Every one lives it—to not many is it known; and, seize it where you will, it is interesting.'

    —Goethe.

'Successful.—Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or intended.'

    —Webster's Dictionary.

CHAPTER XIII

'Love descends.' To be filial is a virtue. But who calls parental affection a virtue? 'Honor thy father and they mother.' It is commanded from Sinai. 'Love and cherish they children.'

The idea is a melancholy one, that as we grow old, and more than ever require sympathy, our children, in the inevitable course of nature, become interested in their own surroundings, and less able to sympathize with us.

Joel Burns was not, in the ordinary sense, growing old. He was in the very flush and prime of his manhood. I have explained with what feeling and affection he regarded his daughter, and how his daughter regarded him. But for Joel Burns is coming the hour of agony and trial. Reader, if perchance you begin to take some interest in this narrative, do not blame Sarah Burns. Could she oppose the vis naturæ? Could she, if she would, battle against that subtle and irresistible leaven which now began to pervade her being? Indeed, she could not. And how unconscious she was! How much more than ever she loved her father!—as she thought. Perhaps she did. For when a young girl first feels her soul charged with this mysterious influence, how kindly and joyously and lovingly all are embraced!—father, mother, brothers, sisters, friends.

Sarah had only her father; and when her heart began to fructify and expand, all her affections expanded with it. Not that her heart had, as yet, any object to rest on. By no means. But the time had come. There was no resisting it, any more than resistance may be predicated of the green leaf, which must put forth in the spring, bringing bud and flower and fruit after it. Yet, I repeat, Sarah Burns was unconscious, actually and absolutely unconscious. Do not suppose she cared specially about Hiram Meeker. She did not. Her nature only was on the alert, not she. Hiram, all things considered, was the most agreeable man she had met, and why should she not be attracted by him—to an extent? I say attracted: I do not mean anything else. Why should she not be?

Joel Burns, I cannot help pitying you. With no living being with whom you can intimately sympathize, except your daughter—her child, on whom the affluence of your heart had all been shed! You feel instinctively the real state of things. And you quite understand it. You knew it was to be. But you hoped, not quite so soon—not quite so soon.

Perhaps, reader, I may not echo your own sentiments, when I speak of Joel Burns. But I love a genuine nature, as his. I admire beyond expression honesty of soul—that honesty which will not think of itself nor seek to have others think of it different from what it really is.

Yes, I feel sorry for Joel Burns.

Mr. Burns, as I have already observed, took the papers which Hiram put in his hands, in the belief they contained little to satisfy or encourage him. While his confidential clerk was absent, he had permitted his mind to dwell on the 'unfortunate affair' more than was his habit in relation to any matter of business. This, however, was assuming such ugly proportions, that he could not avoid it. Sarah also could not help talking about it. So that Hiram's arrival served to terminate a suspense which had become painful.

Sarah Burns, after receiving Hiram's response to her question (she thought and cared only for the single word 'won'), ran joyfully into the room to congratulate her father and get full particulars. She was surprised to find him seated at the breakfast table, the bundle of papers laid aside untouched, while his countenance certainly gave no indication that he had just received agreeable intelligence.

'Why, father, how grave you look! What is the matter?'

'I did not know I looked specially grave. I suppose I am a little disappointed at Meeker's returning so soon. I find that, without knowing it, I had calculated too much on his efforts.'

'Has he told you what he has done?'

'No. He merely handed me those papers, and said they explained all. I saw by his countenance, however, he had accomplished nothing of consequence. [The fact is, Hiram, desiring to make the surprise as complete as possible, did exhibit the air of one returning from an unsuccessful mission.] 'So let us enjoy our breakfast before I go again into this miserable business.'

'Now, to please me, father, just take a peep at the papers; perhaps it is better than you fear.'

Mr. Burns shook his head.

'Oh, please do,' and she put the bundle in his hand.

Mr. Burns untied the string. 'What have we here? Joel Burns vs. Elihu Joslin. The fellow has involved me in a lawsuit to begin with. I had much better have agreed to his account—much better,' he added, almost pettishly. 'I ought to have gone myself at any sacrifice.'

Sarah had unconsiously taken the papers from her father's hand, and was turning them over. Hiram's assurance still rang in her ears.

'Here is something, father,' handing him a document marked account current; 'and here something else,' exhibiting another, indorsed Elihu Joslin with Joel Burns—Agreement to sell Paper Mill.

Mr. Burns took both, and was instantly engaged in ascertaining their contents.

Sarah stood by, waiting—and I must say, confidently waiting—the result.

Mr. Burns's mind was, as the reader knows, rapid in its movements. He comprehended the account at a glance; then he looked at Joslin's agreement to sell. That was brief and to the point. Mr. Burns read every word of it.

'It is not possible!' he exclaimed, as he finished the perusal. 'I declare I can't think it possible.'

'What is it, father? Do tell me. What is it?'

'Why. Meeker has gone to New York, and in forty-eight hours has not only brought Joslin to a just settlement, but got from him a contract to sell me his half of the paper mill at a most reasonable price.'

'Good, good. Oh, how rejoiced I am!' and she threw her arms around her father's neck, and kissed him ever so many times. 'Oh, how glad I am. I never saw anything worry you before, father, and it's all over now.'

'A most extraordinary young man,' continued Mr. Burns, taking up the law papers. 'I see what he wanted the power of attorney for, now. A most extraordinary young man. It don't seem possible. Why, he brings Joslin in debt to me several thousand dollars!'

It would not be easy to describe the sensations of Sarah Burns while her father was giving expression to his own feelings. Joy that all cause of annoyance and trouble was removed from him; pleasure that this young man in particular had been the instrument; some slight fluttering at the recollection of her promise, and of the triumphant boldness with which Hiram had said 'Won,' as if he meant—as he did mean—that something more than her father's case had been won—something much more; admiration, too, of Hiram's cleverness, capacity, tact—such admiration as the sex always bestow on real ability. All these, commingled served to produce in Sarah Burns a state of feeling—I should rather say of being—different from what she ever before experienced.

'Come! now for some breakfast,' said Mr. Burns. 'Everything will be cold. Never mind, we can afford a cold breakfast on such news as this. I am sorry I had not pressed Meeker to stay, but I thought he was anxious to get away. He is an odd fellow.'

'Why, he had been to breakfast, father.'

'Yes, but one would suppose he would have run directly here, and said, in a word, how successful he was. He is very odd.

'I think, father, we may excuse his oddity for once.'

'Indeed we may.'

Mr. Burns rapidly finished, and hastened to the office.

He found Hiram at work at his desk on the ordinary business, which had accumulated in his absence, apparently as calm and unconcerned as if he had not been absent.

Mr. Burns seized his hand, and thanked him for his admirable achievement, with all the ardor and sincerity of his enthusiastic and honest nature. Hiram was undisturbed by it. His cold, clammy palm rested in the vigorous, cordial grasp of his employer unresponsive and unsympathizing. But Mr. Burns was in too happy and active a mood himself to be affected by that of his clerk. For the time, his was the ruling influence; and Hiram was the one insensibly to yield.

Mr. Burns asked so many questions that at last he got the particulars from Hiram, which naturally he very much enjoyed. These particulars were recounted with modesty, without the slightest exhibition of egotism or conceit.

'I cannot sufficiently thank you, Meeker,' said Mr. Burns, 'and I hope to show you some time how much I appreciate what you have done for me.'

'To have done my duty,' replied Hiram, 'is my chief satisfaction; but to merit your approbation is, I confess, a very great happiness.'

Hiram was invited to tea that evening. It happened Mr. Burns was obliged to go out shortly after. I do not suppose, on this particular occasion, that Sarah regretted it. I am sure Hiram did not. For no sooner were they alone together, than Miss Burns, almost with the air and tone of close intimacy, so much was she carried away with the subject (women are such enthusiasts, you know), exclaimed, while she unconsciously moved her chair near Hiram:

'Now, Mr. Meeker, I want you to tell me all about your journey to New York. I insist on having every particular. I so anxious to know how it was you compelled that dishonest wretch to do just what you asked of him. Father says you dictated your own terms. Now for the secret of your power.'

'It was my persuasive manner of showing how much better an honest course is than a knavish one,' said Hiram, smiling.

'Oh yes, I dare say; but tell me what I want to know. You think, perhaps, I don't understand business sufficiently to comprehend you; but you are quite mistaken.'

We have all read how, by her own account, Desdemona was won. And her history gives proof, if we had no other, of the great dramatist's wonderful knowledge of the springs of human action and affection.