Home Scenes and Home Influence; a series of tales and sketches. Arthur Timothy Shay
the same light," said I.
"Nothing but painful experience will open his eyes," remarked Tyler.
And he was correct in this. Brainard continued to take his comfort for a few months, although there was a gradual sinking in the thermometer of his feelings as the time approached when the notes given for a part of his furniture would fall due. The amount of these notes was six hundred dollars, but he had not saved fifty towards meeting the payments. The whole of his income had been used in taking his comfort.
"Why, Brainard!" said I, in a tone of surprise, on meeting him one day, nearly six months after his marriage. "What has happened?"
"Happened? Nothing. Why do you ask?" replied the young man.
"You look troubled."
"Do I?" He made an effort to smile.
"Yes, you certainly do. What has gone wrong with you?"
"Oh, nothing." And he tried to assume an air of indifference; but, seeing me look incredulous, he added—
"Nothing particularly wrong. I'm only a little worried about money matters. The fact is, I've got two or three notes to pay next week."
"You have?"
"Yes; and what is more, I haven't the means to lift them."
"That is trouble," said I, shaking my head.
"It's trouble for me. Oh, dear! I wish my income were larger. A thousand dollars a year is too little."
"Two persons ought to live on that sum very comfortably," I remarked.
"We can't, then; and I'm sure we are not extravagant. Ah, me!"
"I spent the evening with our friend Tyler last week," said I. "His salary is the same as yours, and he told me that he found it not only sufficient for all his wants, but that he could lay by a couple of hundred dollars yearly."
"I couldn't live as he does," said Brainard, a little impatiently.
"Why not?"
"Do you think I would be cooped up in such a pigeon-box of a place?"
"The house he lives in has six rooms, and he has but three in family—your own number, I presume"—
"I have four," said Brainard, interrupting me.
"Four?"
"Yes. We have a cook and chambermaid."
"Oh! Mrs. Tyler has but one domestic."
"My wife wasn't brought up to be a household drudge," said Brainard, contemptuously.
"Your house has ten rooms in it, I believe?" said I, avoiding a reply to his last remark.
"It has."
"But why should you pay rent for ten rooms, when you have use for only five or six? Is not that a waste of money that might be applied to a better purpose?"
"Oh, I like a large house," said my friend, tossing his head, and putting on an air of dignity and consequence. "A hundred dollars difference in rent is a small matter compared with the increase of comfort it brings."
"But the expense doesn't stop with the additional rent," said I.
"Why not?"
"The larger the house, the more expensive the furniture. It cost you a thousand dollars to fit up your handsome parlour?" said I.
"Yes, I presume it did."
"For what amount did you give your notes?"
"For six hundred dollars."
"On account of furniture?"
"Yes."
"Tyler furnished his parlour for three hundred."
There was another gesture of impatience on the part of my young friend, as he said—
"And such furnishing!"
"Every thing looks neat and comfortable," I replied.
"It may do for them, but it wouldn't suit us."
"Whatever is accordant with our means should be made to suit us," said I, seriously. "You are no better off than Tyler."
"Do you think I could content myself in such a place?" he replied.
"Contentment is only found in the external circumstances that correspond to a man's pecuniary ability," was my answer to this. "Which, think you, is best contented? Tyler, in a small house, neatly furnished, and with a hundred dollars in his pocket; or you, in your large house, with a debt of six hundred dollars hanging over you?"
There was an instant change in my friend's countenance. The question seemed to startle him. He sighed, involuntarily.
"But all this won't lift my notes," said he, after the silence of a few minutes. "Good morning!"
Poor fellow! I felt sorry for him. He had been buying comfort at rather too large a price.
The more Brainard cast about in his mind for the means of lifting his notes, the more troubled did he become.
"I might borrow," said he to himself; "but how am I to pay back the sum?"
To borrow, however, was better than to let his notes be dishonoured. So Brainard, as the time of payment drew nearer and nearer, made an effort to get from his friends the amount of money needed.
But the effort was not successful. Some looked surprised when he spoke of having notes to meet; others ventured a little good advice on the subject of prudence in young men who are beginning the world, and hinted that he was living rather too fast. None were prepared to give him what he wanted.
Troubled, mortified, and humbled, Brainard retired to his comfortable home on the evening before the day on which his note given for the piano was to fall due. Nearly his last effort to raise money had been made, and he saw nothing but discredit, and what he feared even worse than that before him. Involved as he was in debt, there was no safety from the sharp talons of the law. They might strike him at any moment, and involve all in ruin.
Poor Brainard! How little pleasure did the sight of his large and pleasant house give him as it came in view on his return home. It stood, rather as a monument of extravagance and folly, than the abode of sweet contentment.
"Three hundred dollars rent!" he murmured. "Too much for me to pay." And sighed deeply.
He entered his beautiful parlour, and gazed around upon the elegant furniture which he had provided as a means of comfort. All had lost its power to communicate pleasure. There stood the costly piano, once coveted and afterwards admired. But it possessed no charm to lay the troubled spirit within him. He had bought it as a marriage present for his wife, who had little taste for music, and preferred reading or sewing to the blandishment of sweet sounds. And for this toy—it was little more in his family—a debt of four hundred dollars had been created. Had it brought him an equivalent in comfort? Far, very far from it.
As Brainard stood in his elegant parlour, with troubled heart and troubled face, his wife came in with a light step.
"George!" she exclaimed on seeing him, her countenance falling and her voice expressing anxious concern. "What is the matter? Are you sick?"
"Oh, no!" he replied, affecting a lightness of tone.
"But something is the matter, George," said the young wife, as she laid her hand upon him and looked earnestly into his face. "Something troubles you."
"Nothing of any consequence. A mere trifle," returned Brainard, evasively.
"A mere trifle would not cloud your brow as it was clouded a moment since, George."
"Trifles sometimes affect us, more seriously than graver matters." As Brainard said this, the shadows again deepened on his face.
"If you have any troubles, dear, let me share them, and they will be lighter." Anna spoke with much tenderness.
"I hardly think your sharing my present trouble will lighten it," said Brainard, forcing a smile, "unless, in so doing, you can put some four hundred dollars into my empty pockets."
Anna withdrew a pace from her husband, and looked