Joshua Marvel

"The pleasure your society has given to all those dearest to my heart, sir, is recompense a thousand-fold."

"Those dearest to your heart!" repeated Basil Kindred musingly. "Who are they?"

"You ought to know, sir," replied Joshua, surprised at the question.

"It is but a whim-a sick man's whim-but tell me: of all those dearest to your heart, whom would you place first? Do not hesitate to answer me. We are in the dark, and I cannot see your face."

"In the dark or in the light, before all the world, if it were necessary, I could name but one, whom you know well."

"Still, to satisfy me name her."

"Ellen, sir. You know that she is to be my wife."

"I have heard so. Take my hand. I wish you the happiness that faithful love deserves. No worldly happiness can be greater. It makes a heaven of earth, in whatever sphere of life it comes. And if, as it was with me, the partner of your faithful love is called away before you, the remembrance of her goodness and purity will dwell forever in your heart, like a divine star." His voice had grown so solemn, that Joshua could only press his hand in reply. Presently Basil Kindred spoke again. "Your past life should be a guarantee for the future. You have been faithful in your friendship; you should be faithful in your love."

"You do not doubt it, sir?"

"I cannot doubt it; your conduct gives doubt the lie. The shadows seem to be clearing away. I have much to say yet, if you will sit with me a little while."

"I am glad to do so, and happy to hear you speaking to me again in your old kind manner."

"It is so hard to reconcile," mused Basil speaking as much to himself as to Joshua. "From whom can the accusation have come? And the motive-what can be the motive? Joshua, answer me-have you an enemy?"

"No, sir, not one that I know of."

"Reflect a little. Can you bring to mind any circumstance that occurred during the years that you have been away to induce you to suppose that some one is conspiring to do you injury?"

"I am more than surprised at your question, sir; I am grieved that you should ask it, and apparently with reason. To my knowledge I have not a bad friend in the world."

"Your surprise is natural," said Basil; "but though you may think my remarks strange, do not think they are prompted by unkindness. I have good reasons for what I say. I hold this conversation sacred, Joshua. As it may be the last we shall ever have, let what is said between us be said in perfect confidence."

"Agreed as to that, sir; but you must not say that this is the last conversation we shall ever have."

"When do you go to sea again?" asked Basil Kindred, taking no heed of Joshua's remonstrance.

"In less than a fortnight. We set sail first for Sydney, New South Wales, then for China, then for home. A short trip. We shall not be away long this time."

"Before you return, I shall have gone on a longer voyage than you are about to take. Nay, do not interrupt me. I have received warning-bodily, not spiritual, and therefore not open to doubt. It is impossible that I can live much longer. And with this conviction strong within me, I am tortured by an anxiety that racks me with a mightier pain than that which even as I speak pierces me to the marrow."

Joshua was profoundly shocked at the disclosure; he had not thought it was so bad as that. Instinctively he knew what the anxiety was by which Basil was tortured, and Basil answered his thought.

"You guess what my anxiety springs from. What will become of Minnie when I am gone?"

If he had seen! If in that darkened room a vision had appeared to answer him, could he have believed that it would come to pass? But silence was his only answer for a time; for Joshua was revolving in his mind whether it would be wise and merciful-whether he had any right to speak to Basil Kindred about Dan's love for Minnie. The conversation between them was sacred and confidential, and the sick man's tone when he spoke of the bodily warnings he had received was so impressive, that it carried conviction with it. It would be like speaking to a dying man, and it would be serving his friend.

"That is my great anxiety," continued Basil; "were my mind relieved upon that point, I should fear nothing, for death is my smallest terror. I suffer deserved misery when I say that even I, her father, do not know her nature thoroughly, and that I fear to think to what extent her impulse might carry her. But I know that she needs guidance, and that she cannot control herself. I have taught her ill, or rather have not taught her at all. I have been remiss in my fatherly duty-not intentionally, God knows! But I see it now-I see it now." Even in the dark he turned his face from Joshua, the more completely to hide his tribulation. "There is but one duty she can understand-the duty of love. She knows no higher. She comprehends that, because it is instinctive. She has her mother's devoted nature, and would sacrifice herself for the only duty she can comprehend, as her mother sacrificed herself for me. But she could not be made to understand that under certain circumstances love may be sinful."

Joshua, following his train of thought, heard Basil's words, but scarcely understood their sense. Still he said, -

"She loves you, sir."

"Yes, she loves me as a father, and by that love I have unconsciously controlled her. But that power has gone from me. Our minds are strangers; they used not to be so. Once she hid nothing from me; now as I watch her I see in her eyes the attempt to hide her thoughts, and I cannot express to you my agony in knowing that her heart and mind are not open to me, as they have hitherto been. If I knew-if I only knew, I should be satisfied; for then I might protect her. Sometimes I think that another kind of love has come to her, and has shadowed the love she bore for me. But for whom? Do you know?"

He asked the question in a singular tone of fierceness and entreaty; but Joshua was thinking of Dan, and did not reply. Have I the right to speak? he thought; and an affirmative answer did not come clearly to his mind.

"You are silent," continued Basil in a quieter tone. "Are you concealing any thing from me?"

"What should I conceal from you, sir?" asked Joshua in reply, after a pause.

Basil Kindred sighed, as the words so hesitatingly spoken came from Joshua's lips.

"Young men are often thoughtless in their actions," he said mildly, as if wishful to rob the remark of direct significance; "they do not know the depth and earnestness of some womanly natures. Listen, I will tell you my story; it may be a lesson and a warning to you."

CHAPTER XXI

LOVE'S SACRIFICE

When I was a young man, I was an enthusiast. My mother had died when I was a child. My father was a clergyman, and wished to educate me for the church. But my heart was not in my studies, and I did not satisfy his expectations. I was too fond of poetry and plays, my tutors told him; sterner studies were distasteful to me, and they met with nothing but disappointment from so unwilling a pupil. I was also difficult to control; would indeed submit to no control. On several occasions when a company of players came to the place in which I was being educated, I had stolen away to the theatre, remaining there until nearly midnight. My tutors spoke the truth. From the first night that I stepped inside the walls of a theatre and saw a tragedy, my fate was fixed. I was fascinated, entranced. I had never conceived any thing so grand, so noble, so heroic. Mine was a pure passion; glitter possibly had its effect upon my mind, but no base ingredient was mixed with my determination to become an actor. What nobler calling could there be than that which clothed the noblest of all the arts with living fire, which made dead heroes speak and move and live again? My father received the report with displeasure. He looked upon a theatre as the abode of all the vices. He spoke to me and expostulated with me, and I argued with him until I angered him. Then he took me from school, and kept me at home, so that he might wean me from my wicked notions. I had not been home a month before a company of players paid our town a visit. I was aglow with excitement. My father warned me not to go; I told him frankly that I would. He locked me in my bedroom; and I made a rope of the sheets, and let myself out of the window. I came home late, and my father opened the door for me. He was so strict a disciplinarian, that my disobedience was a crime in his eyes. He told me so sternly, and told me also that unless I complied with the rules of his house, and with his commands as a father, I must find a home elsewhere. He had other children, and he declared that I should not contaminate them by my example. When I ventured to expostulate with him, he stopped me peremptorily. There was no sign of tenderness in his manner. He was harsh and hard. He forgot that I inherited some share of his own determination, and that I was as likely to be immovable in my ideas as he was in his. I felt that I could have answered him by arguments as forcible as his, and, with the not uncommon egotism of youth, I believed that I could have convinced him. But he would not listen to me, and I was compelled to sit silent and inwardly rebellious while he laid down the hard rules by which my life was to be guided. The glittering splendor of the play I had witnessed that night was vivid to my mind while his cold words fell upon my ears. The tragedian upon whose musical impassioned utterances I had hung entranced, was one of the greatest that ever trod the stage; the play I had seen was one of the grandest of England's grandest poet. What! was it a crime to come within the influence of such a teacher? I could not believe it; I would not believe it. My father said my inclinations were sinful, impious, misbegotten, and preached to me sternly, uncompromisingly, until my heart-beating with indignation at his injustice-was as hard to him as his was to me. Then he left the room with a cold goodnight, and I went to bed. But before I went to sleep, I took from my box the volume of Shakspeare containing the play that I had seen, and as I read the noble verse, the men and women who took part therein came and inspired me with the nobility of their speech.

On the ensuing Sabbath my father preached against play-houses and players. It is not necessary for me here to dilate upon his arguments; they were the common arguments generally used against actors and their abominations. Players were creatures of the devil, working in his service for the damnation of souls. There was no heaven for them; by their lives they earned damnation, and they received their wages in another life. It was a strong sermon-"a beautiful sermon," as I heard many men and women say to each other as they walked from the place of worship; but it filled me with indignation. It was a challenge thrown out to me, and I accepted it. I do not attempt to justify what I did; but it seemed to me as if I should be false to myself if I did not do it. On the following evening I went to the theatre early, and secured a seat in the most conspicuous position, and sitting there the whole night through, I applauded with more than my usual enthusiasm, and even-perhaps I should be ashamed to say it-with purposed demonstrativeness. It was like giving the lie to my father's teaching; but I did not think of it then in that light. I was bound in honor to a certain course of action, and I pursued it. When the play was over, I walked about the town for an hour, filled with fervent passionate admiration for what I had witnessed. It was past midnight when I knocked at my father's door. No answer came. I knocked again. Still no answer. I was standing in perplexity as to what I should do, when a piece of paper fluttered on to the pavement from a window above. I picked it up, and saw that it was addressed to me. It was in my father's handwriting, and it told me in a few simple words that, as I had chosen to commit a sinful outrage upon his cloth, and upon his sermon of the previous day, he disowned me as a son and cast me off. A postscript was added, to the effect that, upon my calling at or sending to a certain place every week, I could receive a small sum of money sufficient to keep me from want, but that if I adopted the stage as a calling, the money would be withheld. In the event of my adopting the stage, my father asked me as a favor to change my name. I never received a farthing of the money; I would have died rather than have taken it. I started that night from my native town, and I have never seen one of my family since.

I need not dwell upon the details of the next few years. The recollection is too painful to me. When I walked away from my father's house, I solemnly resolved never to set foot in it again; I renounced all claims of kindred, and said to myself proudly and confidently, "I am alone in the world, without friends, without family. I am free to adopt what course in life I think best. I will show my father, by my career, that I am right, and he is wrong." I changed my name to the name by which you know me. Speaking to you as I am speaking now, with the solemn darkness around us, with something like a sense of death upon me, I cannot hide from you any thing that comes to my recollection. The simple reason for my changing my name was, that it laid my father under an obligation to me. The motive was unworthy; but it is hard to reconcile the lofty aspirations and the despicable sentiment that in the same moment may animate a single mind. Well, I marched into the world friendless and unknown, filled with an arrogant courage, almost with defiance. I had a watch and a little money; I sold my watch to increase my wealth, and before I had spent my last shilling, I gained admission to a company of players, and commenced life as an actor. I had seen these actors on the stage, and had been inspired by them; but my amazement was great when their private lives were open to me. The men and women who had inspired me were poor struggling creatures, living almost begging lives, and suffering almost incredible hardships. The salaries they were supposed to receive were barely sufficient to pay for food and lodging; but the money that was taken at the doors of the theatre was often of such trifling amount, that at the end of the week the players were compelled to be content with half, ay, with a fourth the sum due to them. They all shared alike; there was none among them who took the lion's share while the others starved. The leading tragedian received a guinea a week, and was thankful when he got it. I have seen him play Macbeth, knowing that he had not tasted food since breakfast; and have seen him come off the stage at the end of the play and faint, not from enthusiasm and excitement, but from sheer hunger. From this you can form some idea of my sufferings; but I never wavered. I was indomitable in my resolve. Disenchanted as I was to some extent, I saw fame and glory before me, and I followed the beckoning shadows that lured me on. And then I saw so much to admire in the lives of my poor companions-so much self-sacrifice, so much devotion, so much virtue-that I was proud to suffer with them. "Children of the devil," I had heard my father call them. A strong resentment against him possessed me when I became a witness of their privations patiently borne, of their self-sacrifices cheerfully made. All this while-though I endured hunger and every species of worldly misery; though I had to walk, many and many a time, forty, fifty, and sixty miles, through wet and mud, in boots and shoes that scarcely held together; though I often slept in the open air, by the side of hay-stacks and under hedges-all this while I was advancing in my profession, and enthusiastically believed that the day would come when I should be famous and prosperous. So I grew to be a man, more firmly hoping, more firmly believing. I was what is called leading man; I was at the head of my profession, and was only waiting for the tide-being prepared for it-that was to lead me to fame and fortune. But young as I was, the life I had led had already destroyed my constitution. Rheumatism had planted itself firmly in my bones, and want of nourishing food had so weakened me, that I felt like an old man. It was only the fire of enthusiasm that sustained me. I believed myself to be what I represented at night; I lost all consciousness of my poor self while I was acting; and would often come from the theatre with the dream strong upon me, and in my sleep weave fancies sufficiently bright and beautiful to recompense me for the material hardships of my working life.

I was at the height of my powers, when it was both my happiness and my misery to come to a town where we had arranged to stop for a fortnight, and where I gained such honors in the shape of applause as had never before fallen to my lot. It was a prosperous town, and our two weeks' stay was so remunerative, that we thought it advisable to lengthen our visit. We staid for six weeks-for six happy weeks. The place rang with my praises. I was a wonder, a genius; such acting had never been seen. Throughout the whole of my career I had preserved my self-respect; what I suffered, I suffered in silence. I complained to no one, and I never forgot my determination to prove, what perhaps my father might one day be forced to own, that an actor may be as good a man as a clergyman. Being therefore, in my habits of life, somewhat above my companions, and having been so successful in the town, I was courted by some of the towns-people, and received invitations to their houses. I was what is termed, I believe, a social success; and I was proud of it. Here was I, an actor, moving in as good society as was my father, a clergyman. Who was right now, he or I. During the second week of our stay, I was invited to an evening party; and as my part in the performance for that night would be finished by nine o'clock, I was enabled to accept the invitation. Fatal night-happy night! That night was the real commencement of my life; it shaped my career in this world, and it makes me look forward with joy unspeakable to the world beyond, where I shall rejoin the mother of my darling child. Her family were well born, ad occupied a high position in the town. They were looked upon as leaders of fashion; and I learned that night that they were among the principal patrons of the theatre, and that her father had passed the highest encomiums upon me. They were not present at the party, and their daughter was accompanied by her aunt, an eccentric wealthy lady, with whom she resided during the greater part of the year. I had the good fortune to find favor in the eyes of this lady, who had a passion for celebrities, and she invited me to her house. The invitation arose in this way; she had been to the theatre on the previous evening, and a gentleman in her company had taken exception to one of my readings. She mentioned it to me, telling me that she had insisted that I was right, and at the same time confessed to me, that she had not the slightest idea upon the subject, and had been prompted to side with me only for the reason that the gentleman was the most insufferably-conceited person on the face of the earth.

"He is not satisfied unless he is master in every thing," said the old lady with wonderful warmth; "he is dictatorial, self-willed, ungenerous, and supercilious-so much so, that he will scarcely condescend to argue a point upon which he has expressed an opinion. Nothing would please me more than to be able to bring evidence against him respecting your reading."

It so happened that my reading was the correct one, and that the emendation made by the gentleman was unsupported by authority. I told her so, and she was delighted.

"But it will be of no use my telling him what you say," she said; "and it would not be proper to bring you together for the purpose of quarrelling about it."

Then I suggested a way. I would consult two or three old editions of Shakspeare we had in the company, and have fair copies of the passage made from them, with any notes or annotations that might be attached to it. There was no occasion, I said, to let the gentleman know that I supplied the evidence; it would be sufficient for him to see the quotations and the authorities, and he would be able to test their correctness for himself. She thanked me warmly, and I frankly owned to her that I was almost as much interested in the matter as she was herself.

"Ah! you are a student," she said, tapping me with her fan, "and are not actuated by such small motives as I am."

I told her that it had been my nature, ever since I remembered myself, to be in earnest in what I did. Success could not be attained without earnestness, I said; and such a spirit was not thrown away even when exhibited in the smallest matters. The old lady was pleased with my conversation, and asked me to bring the written quotations to her house the following day. She then introduced me to her niece.

Bear with me for a little while. When I commenced, I intended to be more brief but I have been carried away by a tide of memories. These things that I have spoken of have dwelt in my mind, but mention of them has not passed my tongue; not even my daughter has ever heard from me the story of my life. All the memories that are dearest to me are stirred into life by my speech; and in the midst of the darkness in this room, where nothing human exists but ourselves, I see my wife as I saw her that night for the first time-as I shall see her soon in a better land.

Good and evil, consciously wrought, are not of this world alone; mind you that, Joshua Marvel. They bear their fruit hereafter. In what way or in what shape we do not know-but they bear their fruit. I never loved but one woman in my life, and never was false to her, even in thought. I never harbored an unworthy sentiment towards her. I loved her truly, purely, solely, as she loved me. If I had done her wrong, and, loving her, had played false with another by a single act, by a single word of encouragement, even if it were weakly given in a moment of weakness, I could not look into this darkness as I do now without fear and shuddering.

(What was it that passed into the room? The deep darkness that prevailed, no less than the intense interest with which Joshua followed the course of Basil's story, prevented him from seeing. Yet it was no less certain that the door was gently opened, and that a person with noiseless footfall entered the room, and, wrapped in shade, stood silent in listening attitude.)

She loved me, and sacrificed herself for me. Loving me, she conceived it to be her duty to follow me; she forsook friends and family, and imperilled her good name for me; and in this solemn moment, when all the dearest memories of my life give life to my words, life to my thoughts, I bless her for it! Her devotion, unworldly as it was, was sanctified by love. There is no earthly sacrifice that love will not sanctify!

(A sound, half sigh, half sob, floated on the air, but so light that Joshua doubted if he had heard it. It reached Basil's ears. Rising in bed, he clutched Joshua by the shoulder, and whispered in trembling tones, "Can spirits speak, and make themselves heard? Did you hear any thing?"

"Something like a sigh, I thought," said Joshua; "and yet it is not possible."

Rising, he walked to the door; but whoever it was that had entered so noiselessly had so departed.

"There is no one here; it must have been fancy."

Basil sank down in the bed, exhausted by emotion, and it was long before he resumed his story. During the silence, Joshua thought of Ellen, and was happy. Such love as Basil Kindred had spoken of, Ellen had given to him. "But she will not have to sacrifice herself for me," he thought; "hers and mine will be a happier lot, I hope." Yet Basil's life was grand and noble. "Like a great storm at sea," thought Joshua, "and two small boats, lashed together, contending against it vainly." His thoughts were interrupted by Basil's voice.)

I need not describe her. Minnie is like her; but she was more beautiful even than Minnie. I went to the aunt's house, and was a frequent visitor there. Alice and I loved each other from the first. How I won her pure heart, I do not know. I will not say I was unworthy of her; for I was animated by a true ambition, and I was earnest and conscientious in all I did. I did not deceive her; I told her exactly what I was, what I had suffered, and what I hoped to gain. She paid no heed to worldly matters; she loved me, and that was enough. She sympathized with me in my ambition, and said it was a noble one. Her words were like wine to me; they strengthened and encouraged me. During the last week of our contemplated stay in the town I was stricken down by rheumatic fever, and was confined to my bed for nearly two months. The other members of the dramatic company waited for me for a few days, hoping I would get well; but I grew worse, and they were too poor to remain idle; so they left without me, and I was alone in the place.