For The Fun Of It
"JUST look at them young lovers," said Harry Mears, glancing from
his companion to a young man and maiden, who, for the moment
unconscious that they were in the midst of a large company, were
leaning towards each other, and looking into each other's faces in
rather a remarkable manner. "Isn't it ridiculous? I thought Fisher
had more sense than to do so. As to Clara Grant, she always was a
little weak."
The friend looked at the couple an smiled. "It is ridiculous,
certainly," he remarked. "Why havn't they sense enough to keep these
little love-passages for private occasions?"
"Clara, with all her silliness used to be a right pleasant
companion," said Mears. "But since this love affair between her and
Fisher, she has become intolerably dull and uninteresting. She
doesn't care a fig for anybody but him, and really appears to think
it a task to be even polite to an old acquaintance. I don't think
she has cause to be quite so elated with her conquest as this comes
to; nor to feel that, in possessing the love of a man like Fisher,
she is independent of the world, and may show off the indifference
she feels to every one. Fisher is clever enough, but he is neither a
Socrates nor a saint."
"He will suit her very well, I imagine."
"Yes; they will make a passable Darby and Joan, no doubt. Still, it
always vexes me to see people, who pretend to any sense, acting in
this way."
"I think it is more her fault than his."
"So do I. She has shown a disposition to bill and coo from the
first. At Mangum's party, last week, she made me sick. I tried to
get her hand for a dance, but no. Close to the side of Fisher she
adhered, like a fixture, and could hardly force her lips into a
smile for any one else. The gipsy! I'd punish her for all this, if I
could just hit upon a good plan for doing it."
"Let me see," remarked the friend, dropping his head into a
thoughtful position, "can't we devise a scheme for worrying her a
little? She is certainly a fair subject. It would be fine sport."
"Yes, it would."
"She evidently thinks Fisher perfection."
"Oh, yes! There never was such a man before! She actually said to
Caroline Lee, who was trying to jest with her a little, that Fisher
was one of the most pure-minded, honourable young men living."
"Oh, dear."
"It is a fact."
"Was she serious?"
"Yes, indeed! Serious as the grave. Caroline was laughing to me
about it. Nearly every one notices the silliness of her conduct, and
the weakness she displays in forever talking about and praising
him."
"I would like to run him down a little when she could overhear me,
just for the fun of the thing."
"So would I. Capital! That will do, exactly. We must watch an
opportunity, and if we can get within earshot of her, any time that
she is by herself, we must abuse Fisher right and left, without
appearing to notice that she is listening to what we say, or,
indeed, anywhere near us."
"Right! That's the very thing. It will be capital fun."
Thus, the thoughtless young men, meddling themselves in a matter
that did not concern them, determined upon a very questionable piece
of folly. All that they said of the lovers was exaggeration. It was
true that they did show rather more preference for each other in
company than just accorded with good taste; but this, while it
provoked a smile from the many, irritated only the few.
Clara Grant, notwithstanding the light manner in which the two young
men had spoken of her, was a girl of good sense, good principles,
and deep feeling, She had been several times addressed by young men
before Fisher offered his hand; but, with all their attractions,
there were defects about them, which her habits of close observation
enabled her to see, that caused her to repel their advances, and in
two instances to decline apparently very advantageous offers of
marriage. In the integrity of Fisher's character, she had the most
unbounded confidence; and she really believed, as she had said to
Caroline Lee and others, that he was one of the purest-minded, most
honourable young men living.
Judge, then, with what feelings she overheard, about half an hour
after the plan to disturb her peace had been formed, the following
conversation between Mears and his companion, carried on in low
tones and in a confidential manner. She was sitting close to one
side of the folding-doors that communicated between the parlours,
and they were in the adjoining room, concealed from her by the
half-partition, yet so close that every word they uttered was
distinctly heard. Her attention was first arrested by hearing one of
them say--
"If she knew Fisher as well as I do."
To which the other responded--
"Yes; or as well as I do. But, poor girl! it isn't expected that she
is to know every thing about young men who visit her. It is better
that she should not."
"Still, I am rather surprised that common report should not have
given her more information about Fisher than she seems to possess."
"So am I. But she'll know him better one of these days."
"I'll warrant you that! Perhaps to her sorrow; though I hope things
will turn out differently from what they now promise. Don't you
think he is pretty well done with his wild oats?"
"Possibly. But time will tell."
"Yes, time proves all things."
Some one joining the young men at this point of their conversation,
the subject was changed. Greatly amused at what they had done, they
little thought how sad the effects of their unguarded words would
be.
Five minutes afterwards, the young man named Mears, curious to see
how Clara had been affected by what he knew she must have heard,
moved to another part of the room, in order to observe her without
attracting her attention. But she had left the place where she was
sitting. His eye ranged around the room, but she was nowhere to be
seen.
"I'm afraid we've hurt Clara more than we intended," he said,
rejoining his friend. "She has vanished."
"Ah! Where's Fisher?"
"He's at the other end of the room."
"We didn't say any thing against the young man."
"Not in particular. We made no specifications. There was nothing
that she could take hold of."
"No, of course not. But I wonder what is going to be the upshot of
the matter?"
"Nothing very serious, I apprehend."
"No. I suppose she will go home and cry her eyes half out, and then
conclude that, whatever Fisher may have been, he's perfection now.
It's a first-rate joke, isn't it?"
Clara Grant had not only left the parlours, but soon after quietly
left the house, and alone returned to her home. When her lover,
shortly afterwards, searched through the rooms for her, she was
nowhere to be seen.
"Where is Clara?" he asked of one and another. The answer was--
"I saw her here a moment since."
But it was soon very apparent that she was nowhere in the rooms now.
Fisher moved about uneasy for half an hour. Still, not seeing her,
he became anxious lest a sudden illness had caused her to retire
from the company. More particular inquiries were made of the lady
who had given the entertainment. She immediately ascertained for him
that Clara was not in the house. One of the servants reported that a
lady had gone away alone half an hour before. Fisher did not remain
a single moment after receiving this intelligence, but went direct
to the house of Clara's aunt, with whom she lived, and there
ascertained that she had come home and retired to her room without
seeing any of the family.
His inquiry whether she were ill, the servant could not answer.
"Have you seen anything of Clara yet?" asked the friend of Mears,
with a smile, as they met about an hour after they had disturbed the
peace of a trusting, innocent-minded girl, "just for the fun of it."
"I have not," replied Mears.
"Where's Fisher?"
"He is gone also."
"Ah, indeed! I'm sorry the matter was taken so seriously by the
young lady. It was only a joke."
"Yes. That was all; and she ought to have known it."
On the next day, Fisher, who had spent a restless night, called to
ask for Clara as early as he could do so with propriety.
"She wishes you to excuse her," said the servant, who had taken up
his name to the young lady.
"Is she not well?" asked Fisher.
"She has not been out of her room this morning. I don't think she is
very well."
The young man retired with a troubled feeling at his heart. In the
evening he called again; but Clara sent him word, as she had done in
the morning, that she wished to be excused.
In the mean time, the young lady was a prey to the most distressing
doubts. What she had heard, vague as it was, fell like ice upon her
heart. She had no reason to question what had been said, for it was,
as far as appeared to her, the mere expression of a fact made in
confidence by friend to friend without there being an object in
view. If any one had come to her and talked to her after that
manner, she would have rejected the allegations indignantly, and
confidently pronounced them false. But they had met her in a shape
so unexpected, and with so much seeming truth, that she was left no
alternative but to believe.
Fisher called a third time; but still Clara declined seeing him. On
the day after this last attempt, he received a note from her in
these, to him, strange words:--
"DEAR SIR:--Since I last met you, I have become satisfied that a
marriage between us cannot prove a happy one. This conclusion is far
more painful to me than it can possibly be to you. You, I trust,
will soon be able to feel coldly towards her whose fickleness, as
you will call it, so soon led her to change her mind; but a
life-shadow is upon my heart. If you can forget me, do so, in
justice to yourself. As for me, I feel that--but why should say
this? Charles, do not seek to change the resolution I have taken,
for you cannot; do not ask for explanations, for I can give none.
May you be happier than I can ever be! Farewell.
"CLARA."
"Madness!" exclaimed Charles Fisher, as he crumpled this letter in
his hand. "Is there no faith in woman?"
He sought no explanation; he made no effort to change her
resolution; he merely returned this brief answer--
"Clara, you are free."
It was quickly known among the circle of their friends that the
engagement between Fisher and Clara had been broken off. Mears and
his friend, it may be supposed, did not feel very comfortable when
they heard this.
"I didn't think the silly girl would take it so seriously," remarked
one to the other.
"No; it was a mere joke."
"But has turned out a very serious one."
"I guess they'll make it up again before long."
"I hope so. Who would have believed it was in her to take the matter
so much at heart, or to act with so much decision and firmness? I
really think better of the girl than I did before, although I pity
her from my heart."
"Hadn't we better make an effort to undo the wrong we have done?"
"And expose ourselves? Oh, no! We must be as still as death on the
subject. It is too serious an affair. We might get ourselves into
trouble."
"True. But I cannot bear to think that others are suffering from an
act of mine."
"It is not a pleasant consciousness, certainly. But still, to
confess what we have done would place us in a very awkward position.
In fact, not for the world would I have an exposure of this little
act of folly take place. It would affect me in a certain
quarter--where, I need not mention to you--in a way that might be
exceedingly disagreeable."
"I didn't think of that. Yes, I agree with you that we had best keep
quiet about it. I'm sorry; but it can't be helped now."
And so the matter was dismissed.
No one saw Clara Grant in company for the space of twelve months.
When she did appear, all her old friends were struck with the great
change in her appearance. As for Fisher, he had left the city some
months before, and gone off to a Southern town, where, it was said,
he was in good business.
The cause of estrangement between the lovers remained a mystery to
every one. To all questions on the subject, Clara was silent. But
that she was a sufferer every one could see.
"I wish that girl would fall in love with somebody and get married,"
Mears remarked to his friend, about two years after they had passed
off upon Clara their good joke. "Her pale, quiet, suffering face
haunts me wherever I go."
"So do I. Who could have believed that a mere joke would turn out so
seriously?"
"I wonder if he is married yet?"
"It's doubtful. He appeared to take the matter quite as hard as she
does."
"Well, it's a lesson to me."
"And to me, also."
And, with this not very satisfactory conclusion, the two friends
dropped the subject. Both, since destroying, by a few words spoken
in jest, the happiness of a loving couple, had wooed and won the
maidens of their choice, and were now married. Both, up to this
time, had carefully concealed from their wives the act of which they
had been guilty.
After returning home from a pleasant company, one evening, at which
Clara was present, the wife of Mears said to him--
"You did not seem to enjoy yourself to-night. Are you not well?"
"Oh, yes; I feel quite well," returned Mears.
"Why, then, did you look so sober?"
"I was not aware that I looked more so than usual."
"You did, then. And you look sober now. There must be some cause for
this. What is it, dear?"
Mears was by no means ignorant of the fact that he felt sober. The
presence of Clara distressed him more, instead of less, the oftener
he met her. The question of his wife made him feel half inclined to
tell her the truth. After thinking for a moment, he said--
"I have felt rather graver than usual to-night. Something brought to
my recollection, too vividly, a little act of folly that has been
attended with serious consequences."
His wife looked slightly alarmed.
"It was only a joke--just done for the fun of the thing; but it was
taken, much to my surprise, seriously. I was innocent of any desire
to wound; but a few light words have made two hearts wretched."
Mrs. Mears looked at her husband with surprise. He continued--
"You remember the strange misunderstanding that took place between
Clara Grant and young Fisher, about two years ago?"
"Very well. Poor Clara has never been like herself since that time."
"I was the cause of it."
"You!" said the wife, in astonishment.
"Yes. Clara used to make herself quite conspicuous by the way she
acted towards Fisher, with whom she was under an engagement of
marriage. She hardly saw anybody in company but him. And, besides,
she made bold to declare that he was about as near to perfection as
it was possible for a young man to come. She was always talking
about him to her young female friends, and praising him to the
skies. Her silly speeches were every now and then reported, much to
the amusement of young men to whose ears they happened to find their
way. One evening, at a large party, she was, as usual, anchored by
the side of her lover, and showing off her fondness for him in
rather a ridiculous manner. A young friend and myself, who were
rather amused at this, determined, in a thoughtless moment, that we
would, just for the fun of the thing, run Fisher down in a
confidential undertone to each other, yet loud enough for her to
hear us, if a good opportunity for doing so offered. Before long, we
noticed her sitting alone in a corner near one of the folding-doors.
We managed to get near, yet so as not to appear to notice her, and
then indulged in some light remarks about her lover, mainly to the
effect that if his sweetheart knew him as well as we did, she might
not think him quite so near perfection as she appeared to do.
Shortly afterwards, I searched through the rooms for her in vain.
From that night, the lovers never again met. Clara refused to see
Fisher when he called on her the next day, and shortly afterwards
requested him, in writing, to release her from her
marriage-contract, without giving any reason for her change of
mind."
"Henry," exclaimed Mrs. Mears, her voice and countenance expressing
the painful surprise she felt, "why did you not immediately repair
the wrong you had done?"
"How could I, without exposing myself, and causing perhaps a serious
collision between me and Fisher?"
"You should have braved every consequence," replied Mrs. Mears,
firmly, "rather than permitted two loving hearts to remain severed,
when a word from you would have reunited them. How could you have
hesitated a moment as to what was right to do? But it may not be too
late yet. Clara must know the truth."
"Think what may be the consequence," said Nears.
"Think, rather, what _have been_ the consequences," was the wife's
reply.
It was in vain that Mears argued with his wife about the policy of
letting the matter rest where it was. She was a woman, and could
only feel how deeply Clara had been wronged, as well as the
necessity for an immediate reparation of that wrong. For more than
an hour, she argued the matter with her husband who finally
consented that she should see Clara, and correct the serious error
under which she had been labouring. Early on the next day, Mrs.
Mears called upon the unhappy girl. A closer observation of her face
than she had before made revealed deep marks of suffering.
"And all this 'for the fun of it!'" she could not help saying to
herself with a feeling of sorrow. After conversing a short time with
Clara, Mrs. Mears said--
"I heard something, last night, so nearly affecting your peace, that
I have lost no time in seeing you."
"What is that?" asked Clara, a flush passing over her face.
"Two years ago, you were engaged in marriage to Mr. Fisher?"
Clara made no reply, but the flush faded from her face and her lips
quivered slightly for a moment.
"From hearing two persons who were conversing about him make
disparaging remarks, you were led to break off that engagement."
The face of Clara grew still paler, but she continued silent.
"By one of them, I am authorized to tell you that all they said was
in mere jest. They knew you could hear what they said, and made the
remarks purposely for your ear, in order to have a little sport.
They never dreamed of your taking it so seriously."
A deep groan heaved the bosom of Clara; her head fell back, and her
body drooped nervelessly. Mrs. Mears extended her hands quickly and
saved her from falling to the floor.
"This, too, 'for the fun of it!'" she said to herself, bitterly, as
she lifted the inanimate body of the poor girl in her arms, and laid
it upon the sofa.
Without summoning any of the family, Mrs. Mears made use of every
effort in her power to restore the circle of life. In this she was
at last successful. When the mind of Clara had become again active,
and measurably calm, she said to her--
"It was a cruel jest, and the consequences have been most painful.
But I trust it is not yet too late to repair the wrong thus done,
although no compensation can be made for the suffering to which you
have been subjected."
"It is too late, Mrs. Mears--too late!" replied Clara, in a mournful
voice.
"Say not so, my dear young friend."
But Clara shook her head.
It was in vain that Mrs. Mears strove earnestly to lift up her
drooping heart. The calmness with which she had been able to bear
the destruction of all her hopes, because there had seemed an
adequate cause for the sacrifice she had made, was all gone now.
There had been no adequate cause for the sacrifice. Her lover was as
excellent and honourable as she at first believed him to be, and she
had cast him off on the authority of a heartless jest. To all that
her friend could say, she had but one reply to make--
"It is too late now!"
"Not too late, I trust," said Mr. Mears, a good deal disturbed by
his wife's relation of her interview with Clara. "I must ascertain
where Fisher is, and write to him on the subject. Did she say any
thing that led you to believe that she recognised the voices of the
persons whom she heard conversing? Do you think she suspects me in
the matter?"
"I do not think she does."
"So much the better."
The effect upon Clara of the information she had received was very
serious. Deeply as she had been afflicted, the consciousness of
having done right in refusing to marry a man who was destitute, as
she had accidentally discovered, of virtuous principles, sustained
her. But now it was revealed to her that he was as excellent as she
had at first believed him, and that she had been made the victim of
a pleasant joke! There was no longer any thing to hold her up, and
accordingly her spirits completely forsook her, and in less than two
weeks she was seriously ill.
The news of this deeply disturbed Mr. Mears, who had written to
Fisher, and was waiting impatiently for an answer.
"I am afraid we have made the matter worse," he said to his wife,
who, on returning from a visit to Clara, reported that, so far from
improving, she was too evidently sinking, daily. "If Fisher should
have entered into another engagement, or, if his pride has taken
fire at being thrown off on what may appear to him such slight
grounds, I really tremble for the consequences."
"Let us hope for the best," returned Mrs. Mears, "as we have acted
for the best. It was plainly our duty to do as we have done. On that
subject I have no doubt."
Two more weeks of painful suspense and anxiety passed. Clara did not
improve in the least. Mrs. Mears called to see her every few days,
but dared not venture to tell her that her husband had written to
Fisher. She was afraid to fill her mind with this hope, lest it
should fail, and the shock prove too severe. But, even as it was,
life seemed to be rapidly ebbing away.
At length there came a change. Nature rallied, and life, flowed,
though feebly still, in healthier currents through the veins of
Clara Grant. In a week from the time this change took place, she was
able to leave her bed and set up for a few hours each day. But all
who looked into her young face were grieved at the sight. There were
no deep lines of distress there, but the marks of patient, yet
hopeless suffering.
One day, she sat alone, in a dreamy, musing state, with a book lying
upon her lap. She had been trying to read, but found it impossible
to take any interest in the pages over which her eyes passed, while
her mind scarcely apprehended the sense. Some one opened the door;
but she did not look around. The person, whoever it was, remained
only for a moment or two, and then withdrew. In a little while the
door opened again, and some one entered and came towards her with
the tread of a man. She started to her feet, while her heart gave a
sudden bound. As she turned, her eyes fell upon the form of her long
absent lover. For an instant, perhaps longer, she looked into his
face to read it as the index of his heart, and then she lay
quivering on his bosom.
A few weeks later, Clara became the bride of Charles Fisher, and
left with him for the South. Neither of them ever knew the authors
of the wrong they had suffered. It was better, perhaps, that in this
they should remain ignorant.
So much "_for the fun of it_."
-THE END-
T S Arthur's short story: For The Fun Of It
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