# Orange Grove (Wall)/Chapter 13

"We endow Those whom we love, in our fond, passionate blindness, With power upon our souls too absolute To be a mortal's trust."
Among the many admirers of Grace Blanche was Mr. Carleton, a man of middle age, and a Southerner by birth and education. His residence for the last ten years in different parts of the North had obliterated every trace of his southern breeding. An accomplished gentleman in the popular sense of the term, his shrewdness of wit and unaffected gallantry won his way to the most select circles, and few ladies could resist the peculiar charm of his conversation.
He had a soul, tender, refined and affectionate, and also strong animal passions which gained the ascendency when beyond the restraints which female society throw around him. His real character could not escape detection from such a practised student of human nature as Ernest Livingston, who felt a brother's interest in Miss Blanche, her wealth in addition to rare charms of mind and person being a source of temptation to others, and he volunteered many words of counsel and caution which were always accepted in the spirit in which they were given.
She was the youngest child of her father who doted upon her, and made her an heiress to most of his ​wealth, to the exclusion of his other children, which alienated their affections and left her comparatively alone. She had a step-mother, a very inefficient woman, who never exerted an influence anywhere, and whose experience in the world was of little worth to any one.
Mr. Carleton's eye was ever on the alert, and no sooner did he perceive the fascinations, riches and beauty had in store, than he began to devise some measure which should chime in with the drift of her feelings, to secure his grasp to such a treasure, and adroitly commenced his work. Without appearing to manifest any particular interest in her he assumed a mock spirit of philanthrophy, and not only gave freely of his means, but discussed the causes and prevention of pauperism with an ability and zeal that could not fail to gain the sympathy and approbation of his hearers, and finally succeeded in winning the public confidence to such a degree that he filled some of the highest offices of trust and honor in the city.
He could allude to the victims of misfortune in terms of charity that would draw tears to all eyes, and plead for the innocence of childhood and the chastity of woman in strains of eloquence that would send the burning tinge of shame to the most gloating sensualist, or the most hardened trafficker in that which robs a man of his reason and affections. His praise was in every mouth and his smile courted in every corner. No uninterested observer of hie rising fame was Grace Blanche, the more interested because of his indifference, showing no sign of vanity at his ​sudden elevation, nor ambition to seek higher honors. What she deemed most noble he appeared to be.
Mr. Livingston could not overcome his natural aversion to the man, neither did Mr. Carleton feel quite easy at the intimacy existing between him and Miss Blanche, but he was wary of his opportunities and in the moat nonchalant manner discussed with her, when they met, plans that he knew would meet her approbation.
He watched her kindling eye and repressed enthusiasm with suppressed emotion, never for a moment betraying the concealed purpose of his soul. Imperceptibly her life glided into a fairy dream where all sense of beauty and promptings of duty were so magically blended that the roses which bloomed in her pathway were divested of their thorns, ever winning the purest homage given to girlish innocence and true womanly charms. A May day Festival was held on the Scripture plan of inviting the poor and the unfortunate, which originated with these devoted ladies who, during the previous six months, had labored so assiduously in their behalf. Speeches were made of the usual complimentary character, but foremost among them all for its disinterestedness and graphic flights of eloquence was that of Mr. Carleton. It was an ambrosial treat to Grace Blanche whose artistic taste for all that was beautiful lent her a keen appreciation of the divine gift of oratory. She had yet to learn that it, no less than music, may be bestowed upon the voluptuary as well as the saint.
He watched the rapture with which she hung upon his lips, and measured the probabilities of the present ​moment for future success. He knew well the evanescent nature of such sudden popularity, and his own inability to sustain the character he had won, when his fame should be trumpeted to other places where better known. Besides, the mask assumed was beginning to be burdensome and he longed for his old freedom from restraint. Only the evening before he had been traced to a place of doubtful fame by one who had long been suspicious of his real character, and the information was communicated to Mr. Livingston. Being one of the assembly, it was with ill concealed grace the latter listened to his hypocritical dashes of rhetoric. The two measured each other's glances as they met in the neighborhood of Miss Blanche. They read each other's souls, and she read their antagonism.
At this juncture Mrs. Frizzlewit fortunately made her appearance and relieved all parties from their embarrassment. Mr. Carleton was about to turn away somewhat disconcerted at the moment he hoped to win, but not in the least disheartened. Miss Blanche could not doubt the real, confiding friendship of the one and she dared not insult it by bestowing on the other those approving smiles prompted by the occasion and the lingering breath of his own words, which, with that delicate tact a woman so readily understands, she knew he would appreciate more than popular applause. He read her soul, being as quick an adept in the science of human nature as Mr. Livingston.
"Mr. Carleton," said the little black-eyed woman whose hair suggested the appropriateness of her ​name, "will you give me ten dollars for a poor widow whose husband was killed at the great fire last winter? She wishes to build a house for herself and children, towards which I have already obtained a large sum, and here is a list of the donors if you wish to see them; Mr. Perriwinkle, Mr. Guzthorp."
"Oh, never mind the names, here is your money, and may God bless you for all the good deeds you are doing, as he certainly will. Such disinterested beneficence never goes unrewarded," blandly replied Mr. Carleton, fixing his eyes on Miss Blanche with their most fascinating expression. The little black eyes sparkled as they turned towards Mr. Livingston, only to, meet a courteous refusal. Mr. Carleton observing it walked away with her to a neighboring group where some half dozen ladies and gentlemen were discussing a dandy frolic that took place the evening before, which resulted in the conflagration of one of the finest buildings in the city. One of the company passing through a hall where repairs were being made, heedlessly tossed his lighted segar among the shavings scattered on the floor, which was observed by others following, but whose inordinate exhilaration prevented them from noting the consequences, until they saw the flames bursting from the roof a few hours after.
"You are just the ones I want to see," said Mrs. Frizzlewit, her curls shaking with enthusiasm. "Mr. Carleton here has just given me ten dollars for some sufferers by fire, and I am sure that you will give me as much more."
There was no need now to adduce the other names, ​the one just mentioned being sufficient to carry all the weight influence could produce. One of the group stepped back thinking to avoid a direct collision, but the piercing black eyes were upon him.
"I am sure you will not refuse me," she said, "if you cannot give so much, every little helps you know," laying her hand on his arm. He gave her a dollar, thinking himself well off to escape so. From the whole group she collected the ten dollars asked for, and straightway sallied to another circle seated near the speaker's stand.
They would gladly have made their egress, not from lack of sympathy or avaricious motives, but from the disagreeable sensation of being continually importuned for money, and a secret desire to be for once present at any place secure, from the intrusion of the bustling Mrs. Frizzlewit.
"It is well for the world there are people in it like Mrs. Frizzlewit, but begging may become a passion like any other pursuit," observed Mr. Livingston to Miss Blanche, as soon as the subject of his remark was beyond hearing.
"True," replied she, "but you cannot say of it what you can of most any other pursuit, that it will ever incite to rivalry for the sake of its monopoly."
"Not much danger of that certainly, and pity 'tis, 'tis true."
"I often think so. The raising of money for any object is generally the most disagreeable as well as the hardest part of the work. I have the highest regard for Mrs. Frizzlewit on that account, and appreciate her services accordingly. No one ever excited ​less enmity in proportion to her activity and zeal, for you probably know how prone the world is to attribute selfish motives to a person who displays the perseverance really essential for the prosecution of a disinterested act. She does not seem to care for it if they do, and goes from one to another with as much ease as if she were their agent."
"Doubtless she considers herself so. It probably does not occur to her that others may lack her feeling of interest, or that there is just as much reason why her family should have a house of their own as the woman she is begging for. I think she has earned one for her disinterested efforts in helping others, and I would gladly give ten dollars for that purpose."
"Probably she would object to that She does not appear to think of herself or her own comfort at all, unless this business is so agreeable to her that it is her greatest comfort."
"I think it is so. It does not prove because she is so forward that her sympathies are really quicker than those of many others, only a remarkable gift in that direction, and I am glad to see her improve it. At the same time I do not feel any more obligation to give, perhaps less, when I know how large a proportion of the money thus given does not proceed from pure benevolence, but from a desire to please and be thought public-spirited and generous-hearted. I admire that passage of scripture, 'Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth.' Do not understand me as casting any reflections on Mrs. Frizzlewit. Doubtless she would give you the same ​opinion if at liberty to express her honest sentiments, but the money does just as much good given from whatever motive it may be, although not equally blessed to the donor."
"Do you not think it was generous in Mr. Carleton to give that ten dollars so freely?"
"That depends on his motive in doing it. Had I more confidence in the man I should be more ready to give him credit for his acts. As it is, I attribute them to the basest hypocrisy."
He said this unconscious of the sting inflicted by his words upon the tenderest emotions of Grace Blanche. Although realizing Mr. Carleton's motives he had not suspected the nature of her feelings towards him, and was glad to throw out these hints as a warning. Neither was she fully conscious before how much she had yielded to the strength of his influence, nor how essential to her happiness his presence had become. Having too much confidence in Mr. Livingston as a friend, and in his judgment as a man, to suspect him of prejudice or envy, these words assumed the character of an oracle, the certainty of which she never thought of questioning, predicting the impending doom of being compelled to witness the disenthronement of her idol from its place in her affections.
At twenty, when youth paints all nature in her roseate hues there is no seeming, lending a pleasant reality, which leaves no disposition to doubt its genuineness. At forty, the gilding is fallen off, shams are detected, and the experience of the intervening ​twenty years has fortified us to bear unnerved the disappointments of the greatest expectations. Then, if our confidence has been misplaced, it only furnishes another example of the fickleness of human integrity to which we have become accustomed, and the world undergoes no especial change in our eyes. But it is not thus when the young imagination finds for the first time that things are not what they seem. When the veneering drops off, the sight is ugly in the extreme, and the sensation a chilling one.
It is almost as if a portion of our own souls is taken from us and the void filled by painful illusions. Then for a time skepticism of all men's motives prevails, and we look around in vain for some one to trust. Sometimes in desperation all faith in human goodness is cast off, and the high resolves with which we had started to make it felt as a power for the accomplishment of some noble purpose are bitterly cast aside as a vain delusion.
When in the solemn and mysterious hour of dissolution immortality claims its own, and we are permitted to look only on what is mortal of a departed friend, whose glazed eyes and rigid lips are forever sealed to the gushings of our sympathies or the loving impulses of our affections, it is little we know of the deepest pathos in life, the most sacred sorrow, when the world closes like a desolate tomb around us, as we waken to the delusion that all the fair visions of joy and happiness, love and devotion, that have risen before us like some enchanted garden are but deceitful shadows, and they to whom we have looked up in reverence,—around whom our affections have ​twined like the tendrils of the vine around the oak for sympathy and support, have suddenly shaken us from their embrace, and stand before us divested of very superhuman virtue with which our fond imagination had invested them. Then comes no seraphic vision of future bliss when those joys that have died to us on earth shall rise again in immortal bloom in the perennial garden of heavenly verdure, but, like blasted copse or blighted heather no trace of life or sign of vegetation appears to revive the drooping spirit. Let such derive consolation from the following words of a celebrated writer, words that go so deep into the inner sanctuary of the soul and reveal so much of the real poetry of the heart-life that they cannot be too often repeated.
"If ever you have had a romantic, uncalculating friendship,—a boundless worship and belief in some hero of your soul,—if ever you have so loved, that all cold prudence, all selfish considerations have gone down like drift-wood before a river flooded with new rain from heaven, so that you even forgot yourself, and .were ready to cast your whole being into the chasm of existence, as an offering before the feet of another, and all for nothing,—if you awoke bitterly betrayed and deceived, still give thanks to God that you have had one glimpse of heaven. The door now shut will open again. Rejoice that the noblest capability of your eternal inheritance has been made known to you; treasure it, as the highest honor of your being, that ever you could so feel,—that so divine a guest ever possessed your soul. By such experiences are we taught the pathos, the sacredness ​of life; and if we use them wisely, our eyes will ever after be animated to see what poems, what romances, what sublime tragedies lie around us in the daily walk of life, 'written not with ink, but in fleshy tables of the heart.' The dullest street of the most prosaic town has matter in it for more smiles, more tears, more intense excitement, than ever were written in story or sung in poem; the reality is there, of which the romancer is the second-hand recorder."