"How long have you been in Paris, dear?" he asked.
"A good many weeks," she replied.
"Are you going to stay much longer?"
"I don't know. But mother wants to go home."
"Do you like to live in Paris?"
"No, sir. I would rather live at home with mother and Aunt Hannah."
"You live with Aunt Hannah, then?"
"Yes, sir. Do you know Aunt Hannah?" and the child looked up wonderingly into the man's face.
"I used to know her," he replied.
Just then Lilly heard her mother calling her, and she started and ran away in the direction from which the voice came. The man's face grew slightly pale, and he was evidently much agitated. As he had done on the evening previous, he rose up hastily and walked away. But in a short time he returned, and appeared to be carefully looking about for some one. At length he caught sight of Lilly's mother. She was sitting with her eyes upon the ground, the child leaning upon her, and looking into her face, which he saw was thin and pale, and overspread with a hue of sadness. Only for a few moments did he thus gaze upon her, and then he turned and walked hurriedly from the garden.
Mrs. Canning sat alone with her child that evening, in the handsomely-furnished apartments she had hired on arriving in Paris.
"He told you that he knew Aunt Hannah?" she said, rousing up from a state of deep thought.
"Yes, ma. He said he used to know her."
"I wonder"—
A servant opened the door, and said that a gentleman wished to seeMrs. Canning.
"Tell him to walk in," the mother of Lilly had just power to say. In breathless suspense she waited for the space of a few seconds, when the man who had spoken to Lilly in the Gardens of the Tuileries entered and closed the door after him.
Mrs. Canning raised her eyes to his face. It was her husband! She did not cry out nor spring forward. She had not the power to do either.
"That's him now, mother!" exclaimed Lilly.
"It's your father!" said Mrs. Canning, in a deeply breathed whisper.
The child sprung toward him with a quick bound and was instantly clasped in his arms.
"Lilly, dear Lilly!" he sobbed, pressing his lips upon her brow and cheeks. "Yes! I am your father!"
The wife and mother sat motionless and tearless with her eyes fixed upon the face of her husband. After a few passionate embraces, Canning drew the child's arms from about his neck, and setting her down upon the floor, advanced slowly toward his wife. Her eyes were still tearless, but large drops were rolling over his face.
"Margaret!" he said, uttering her name with great tenderness.
He was by her side in time to receive her upon his bosom, as she sunk forward in a wild passion of tears.
All was reconciled. The desolate hearts were again peopled with living affections. The arid waste smiled in greenness and beauty.
In their old home, bound by threefold cords of love, they now think only of the past as a severe lesson by which they have been taught the heavenly virtue of forbearance. Five years of intense suffering changed them both, and left marks that after years can never efface. But selfish impatience and pride were all subdued, and their hearts melted into each other, until they became almost like one heart. Those who meet them now, and observe the deep, but unobtrusive affection with which they regard each other, would never imagine, did they not know their previous history, that love, during one period of that married life, had been so long and so totally eclipsed.
A LADY, whom we will call Mrs. Harding, touched with the destitute condition of a poor, sick widow, who had three small children, determined, from an impulse of true humanity, to awaken, if possible, in the minds of some friends and neighbours, an interest in her favour. She made a few calls, one morning, with this end in view, and was gratified to find that her appeal made a favourable impression. The first lady whom she saw, a Mrs. Miller, promised to select from her own and children's wardrobe a number of cast-off garments for the widow, and to aid her in other respects, at the same time asking Mrs. Harding to call in on the next day, when she would be able to let her know what she could do.
Pleased with her reception, and encouraged to seek further aid for the widow, Mrs. Harding withdrew and took her way to the house of another acquaintance. Scarcely had she left, when a lady, named Little, dropped in to see Mrs. Miller. To her the latter said, soon after her entrance:
"I've been very much interested in the case of a poor widow this morning. She is sick, with three little children dependent on her, and destitute of almost every thing. Mrs. Harding was telling me about it."
"Mrs. Harding!" The visitor's countenance changed, and she looked unutterable things. "I wonder!" she added, in well assumed surprise, and then was silent.
"What's the matter with Mrs. Harding?" asked Mrs. Miller.
"I should think," said Mrs. Little, "that she was in nice business, running around, gossiping about indigent widows, when some of her own relatives are so poor they can hardly keep soul and body together."
"Is this really so?" asked Mrs. Miller.
"Certainly it is. I had it from my chambermaid, whose sister is cook next door to where a cousin of Mrs. Harding's lives, and she says they are, one half of their time, she really believes, in a starving condition."
"But does Mrs. Harding know this?"
"She ought to know it, for she goes there sometimes, I hear."
"She didn't come merely to gossip about the poor widow," said Mrs. Miller. "Her errand was to obtain something to relieve her necessities."
"Did you give her any thing?" asked Mrs. Little.
"No; but I told her to call and see me to-morrow, when I would have something for her."
"Do you want to know my opinion of this matter?" said Mrs. Little, drawing herself up, and assuming a very important air.
"What is your opinion?"
"Why, that there is no poor widow in the case at all."
"Mrs. Little!"
"You needn't look surprised. I'm in earnest. I never had much faith in Mrs. Harding, at the best."
"Iamsurprised. If there was no poor widow in the case, what did she want with charity?"
"She has poor relations of her own, for whom, I suppose, she's ashamed to beg. So you see my meaning now."
"You surely wrong her."
"Don't believe a word of it. At any rate, take my advice, and be the almoner of your own bounty. When Mrs. Harding comes again, ask her the name of this poor widow, and where she resides. If she gives you a name and residence, go and see for yourself."
"I will act on your suggestion," said Mrs. Miller. "Though I can hardly make up my mind to think so meanly of Mrs. Harding; still, from the impression your words produce, I deem it only prudent to be, as you term it, the almoner of my own bounty."
The next lady upon whom Mrs. Harding called, was a Mrs. Johns, and in her mind she succeeded in also awakening an interest for the poor widow.
"Call and see me to-morrow," said Mrs. Johns, "and I'll have something for you."
Not long after Mrs. Harding's departure, Mrs. Little called, in her round of gossipping visits, and to her Mrs. Johns mentioned the case of the poor widow, that matter being, for the time, uppermost in her thoughts.
"Mrs. Harding's poor widow, I suppose," said Mrs. Little, in a half-sneering, half-malicious tone of voice.
Mrs. Johns looked surprised, as a matter of course.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Oh, nothing, much. Only I've heard of this destitute widow before."
"You have?"
"Yes, and between ourselves,"—the voice of Mrs. Little became low and confidential—"it's the opinion of Mrs. Miller and myself, that there is no poor widow in the case."
"Mrs. Little! You astonish me! No poor widow in the case! I can't understand this. Mrs. Harding was very clear in her statement. She described the widow's condition, and very much excited my sympathies. What object can she have in view?"
"Mrs. Miller and I think," said the visitor, "and with good reason, that this poor widow is only put forward as a cover."
"As a cover to what?"
"To some charities that she has reasons of her own for not wishing to make public."
"Still in the dark. Speak out more plainly."
"Plainly, then, Mrs. Johns, we have good reasons for believing, Mrs. Miller and I, that she is begging for some of her own poor relations. Mrs. Miller is going to see if she can find the widow."
"Indeed! That's another matter altogether. I promised to do something in the case, but shall now decline. I couldn't have believed such a thing of Mrs. Harding! But so it is; you never know people until you find them out."
"No, indeed, Mrs. Johns. You never spoke a truer word in your life," replied Mrs. Little, emphatically.
On the day following, after seeing the poor widow, ministering to some of her immediate wants, and encouraging her to expect more substantial relief, Mrs. Harding called, as she had promised to do, on Mrs. Miller. A little to her surprise, that lady received her with unusual coldness; and yet, plainly, with an effort to seem friendly.
"You have called about the poor widow you spoke of yesterday?" saidMrs. Miller.
"Such is the object of my present visit."
"What is her name?"
"Mrs. Aitken."
"Where did you say she lived?"
The residence was promptly given.
"I've been thinking," said Mrs. Miller, slightly colouring, and with some embarrassment, "that I would call in and see this poor woman myself."
"I wish you would," was the earnest reply of Mrs. Harding. "I am sure, if you do so, all your sympathies will be excited in her favour."
As Mrs. Harding said this, she arose, and with a manner that showed her feelings to be hurt, as well as mortified, bade Mrs. Miller a formal good-morning, and retired. Her next call was upon Mrs. Johns. Much to her surprise, her reception here was quite as cold; in fact, so cold, that she did not even refer to the object of her visit, and Mrs. Johns let her go away without calling attention to it herself. So affected was she by the singular, and to her unaccountable change in the manner of these ladies, that Mrs. Harding had no heart to call upon two others, who had promised to do something for the widow, but went home disappointed, and suffering from a troubled and depressed state of feeling.
So far as worldly goods were concerned, Mrs. Harding could not boast very large possessions. She was herself a widow; and her income, while it sufficed, with economy, to supply the moderate wants of her family, left her but little for luxuries, the gratification of taste, or the pleasures of benevolence. Quick to feel the wants of the needy, no instance of destitution came under her observation that she did not make some effort toward procuring relief.
What now was to be done? She had excited the sick woman's hopes—had promised that her immediate wants, and those of her children, should be supplied. From her own means, without great self-denial, this could not be effected. True, Mrs. Miller and Mrs. Johns had both promised to call upon the poor widow, and, in person, administer relief. But Mrs. Harding did not place much reliance on this; for something in the manner of both ladies impressed her with the idea that their promise merely covered a wish to recede from their first benevolent intentions.
"Something must be done" said she, musingly. And then she set herself earnestly to the work of devising ways and means. Where there is a will there is a way. No saying was ever truer than this.
It was, perhaps, a week later, that Mrs. Little called again uponMrs. Miller.
"What of Mrs. Harding's poor widow?" said the former, after some ill-natured gossip about a mutual friend.
"Oh, I declare! I've never thought of the woman since," replied Mrs. Miller, in a tone of self-condemnation. "And I promised Mrs. Harding that I would see her. I really blame myself."
"No great harm done, I presume," said Mrs. Little.
"I don't know about that. I'm hardly prepared to think so meanly of Mrs. Harding as you do. At any rate, I'm going this day to redeem my promise."
"What promise?"
"The promise I made Mrs. Harding, that I would see the woman she spoke of, and relieve her, if in need."
"You'll have all your trouble for nothing."
"No matter, I'll clear my conscience, and that is something. Come, wont you go with me?"
Mrs. Little declined the invitation at first; but, strongly urged by Mrs. Miller, she finally consented. So the two ladies forthwith took their way toward the neighbourhood in which Mrs. Harding had said the needy woman lived. They were within a few doors of the house, which had been very minutely described by Mrs. Harding, when they met Mrs. Johns.
"Ah!" said the latter, with animation, "just the person, of all others, I most wished to see. How could you, Mrs. Miller, so greatly wrong Mrs. Harding?"
"Me wrong her, Mrs. Johns? I don't understand you." And Mrs. Miller looked considerably astonished.
"Mrs. Little informed me that you had good reasons for believing all this story about a poor widow to be a mere subterfuge, got up to cover some doings of her own that Mrs. Harding was ashamed to bring to the light."
"Mrs. Little!" There was profound astonishment in the tones of Mrs. Miller, and her eyes had in them such an indignant light, as she fixed them upon her companion, that the latter quailed under her gaze.
"Acting from this impression," resumed Mrs. Johns, "I declined placing at her disposal the means of relief promised; but, instead, told her that I would myself see the needy person for whom she asked aid. This I have, until now, neglected to do; and this neglect, or indifference I might rather call it, has arisen from a belief that there was no poor widow in the case. Wrong has been done, Mrs. Miller, great wrong! How could you have imagined such baseness of Mrs. Harding?"
"And thereisa poor, sick widow, in great need?" said Mrs.Miller, now speaking calmly, and with regained self-possession.
"There is a sick widow," replied Mrs. Johns, "but not at present in great need. Mrs. Harding has supplied immediate wants."
"Well, Mrs. Little!" Mrs. Miller again turned her eyes, searchingly, upon her companion.
"I—I—thought so. It was my impression—I had good reason for—I—I" stammered Mrs. Little.
"It should have been enough for you to check a benevolent impulse in my case by your unfounded suggestions. Not content with this, however, you must use my name in still further spreading your unjust suspicions, and actually make me the author of charges against a noble-minded woman, which had their origin in your own evil thoughts."
"I will not bear such language!" said the offended Mrs. Little, indignantly; and turning with an angry toss of the head, she left the ladies to their own reflections.
"I am taught one good lesson from this circumstance," said Mrs. Miller, as they walked away; "and that is, never to even seem to have my good opinion of another affected by the allegations and surmises of a social gossip. Such people always suppose the worst, and readily pervert the most unselfish actions into moral offences. The harm they do is incalculable."
"And, as in the present case," remarked Mrs. Johns, "they make others responsible for their base suggestions. Had Mrs. Little not coupled your name with the implied charges against Mrs. Harding, my mind would not have been poisoned against her."
"While not a breath of suspicion had ever crossed mine until Mrs. Little came in, and wantonly intercepted the stream of benevolence about to flow forth to a needy, and, I doubt not, most worthy object."
"We have made of her an enemy. At least you have; for you spoke to her with smarting plainness," said Mrs. Johns.
"Better the enmity of such than their friendship," replied Mrs. Miller. "Their words of detraction cannot harm so much as the poison of evil thoughts toward others, which they ever seek to infuse. Your dearest friend is not safe from them, if she be pure as an angel. Let her name but pass your lips, and instantly it is breathed upon, and the spotless surface grows dim."
[The following brief passage is from our story, "The Wife," in the series "Maiden," "Wife," and "Mother."]
A NEW chord vibrated in Anna's heart, and the music was sweeter far in her spirit's ear, than any before heard. She was changed. Suddenly she felt that she was a new creature. Her breast was filled with deeper, purer, and tenderer emotions. She was a mother! A babe had been born to her! A sweet pledge of love lay nestling by her side, and drawing its life from her bosom. She was happy—how happy cannot be told. A mother only canfeelhow happy she was on first realizing the new emotions that thrill in a young mother's heart.
As health gradually returned to her exhausted frame, and friends gathered around her with warm congratulations, Anna felt that she was indeed beginning a new life. Every hour her soul seemed to enlarge, and her mind to be filled with higher and purer thoughts. Before the birth of her babe, she suffered much more than even her husband had supposed, both in body and mind. Her spirits were often so depressed that it required her utmost effort to receive him with her accustomed cheerfulness at each period of his loved return. But, living as she did in the ever active endeavour to bless others, she strove daily and hourly to rise above every infirmity. Now, all was peace within—holy peace. There came a Sabbath rest of deep, interior joy, that was sweet, unutterably sweet. Body and spirit entered into this rest. No wind ruffled the still, bright waters of her life. She was the same, and yet not the same.
"I cannot tell you, dear husband! how happy I am," she said, a few weeks after her babe was born. "Nor can I describe the different emotions that pervade my heart. When our babe is in my arms, and especially when it lies at my bosom, it seems as if angels were near me."
"And angels are near you," replied her husband. "Angels love innocence, and especially infants, that are forms of innocence. They are present with them, and the mother shares the blessed company, for she loves her babe with an unselfish love, and this the angels can perceive, and, through it, affect her with a measure of their own happiness.
"How delightful the thought! Above all, is the mother blessed. She suffers much—her burden is hard to bear—the night is dark—but the morning that opens upon her is the brightest a human soul knows during its earthly pilgrimage. And no wonder. She has performed the highest and holiest of offices—she has given birth to an immortal being—and her reward is with her."
Hartley had loved his wife truly, deeply, tenderly. Every day, he saw more and more in her to admire. There was an order, consistency, and harmony in her character as a wife, that won his admiration. In the few months they had passed since their marriage, she had filled her place to him, perfectly. Without seeming to reflect how she should regulate her conduct toward her husband, in every act of her wedded life she had displayed true wisdom, united with unvarying love. All this caused his heart to unite itself more and more closely with hers. But now, that she held to him the twofold relation of a wife and mother, his love was increased fourfold. He thought of her, and looked upon her, with increased tenderness.
"Mine, by a double tie," he said, with a full realization of his words, when he first pressed his lips upon the brow of his child, and then, with a fervour unfelt before, upon the lips of his wife. "As you have been a good wife, you will be a good mother," he added, with emotion.
"Do not accept the offer, Florence," said her friend Carlotti.
A shade of disappointment went over the face of the fair girl, who had just communicated the pleasing fact that she had received an offer of marriage.
"You cannot be happy as the wife of Herman Leland," added Carlotti.
"How little do you know this heart," returned the fond girl.
"It is because I know it so well that I say what I do. If your love be poured out for Herman Leland, Florence, it will be as water on the desert sand."
"Why do you affirm this, Carlotti?"
"A woman can truly love only the moral virtue of her husband."
"I do not clearly understand you."
"It is only genuine goodness of heart that conjoins in marriage."
"Well?"
"Just so far as selfish and evil affections find a place in the mind of either the husband or wife, will be the ratio of unhappiness in the marriage state. If there be any truth in morals, or in the doctrine of affinities, be assured that this is so. It is neither intellectual attainments nor personal attractions that make happiness in marriage. Far, very far from it. All depends upon the quality of the affections. If these be good, happiness will come as a natural consequence; but if they be evil, misery will inevitably follow so close a union."
"Then you affirm that Mr. Leland is an evil-minded man?"
"Neither of us know him well enough to say this positively, Florence. Judging from what little I have seen, I should call him a selfish man; and no selfish man can be a good man, for selfishness is the basis of all evil."
"I am afraid you are prejudiced against him, Carlotti."
"If I have had any prejudices in the matter, Florence, they have been in his favour. Well-educated, refined in his manners, and variously accomplished, he creates, on nearly all minds, a favourable impression. Such an impression did I at first feel. But the closer I drew near to him, the less satisfied did I feel with my first judgment. On at least two occasions, I have heard him speak lightly of religion."
"Of mere cant and sectarianism, perhaps."
"No; he once spoke lightly of a mother for making it a point to require all her children to repeat their prayers before going to bed. On another occasion, he alluded to one of the sacraments of the church in a way that produced an inward shudder. From that time, I have looked at him with eyes from which the scales have been removed; and the more I seek to penetrate beneath the surface of his character, the more do I see what repels me. Florence, dear, let me urge you, as one who tenderly loves you and earnestly desires to see you happy, to weigh the matter well ere you assent to this proposal."
"I'm afraid, Carlotti," said Florence in reply to this, "that you have let small causes influence your feelings toward Mr. Leland. We all speak lightly, at times, even on subjects regarded as sacred—not because we despise them, but from casual thoughtlessness. It was, no doubt, so with Mr. Leland on the occasion to which you refer."
"We are rarely mistaken, Florence," replied Carlotti, "as to the real sentiment involved in the words used by those with whom we converse. Words are the expressions of thoughts, and these the form of affections. What a man really feels in reference to any subject, will generally appear in the tones of his voice, no matter whether he speak lightly or seriously. Depend upon it, this is so. It was the manner in which Leland spoke that satisfied me as to his real feelings, more than the language he used. Judging him in this way, I am well convinced that, in his heart, he despises religion; and no man who does this, can possibly make a right-minded woman happy."
The gentle warning of Carlotti was not wholly lost on Florence. She had great confidence in the judgment of her friend, and did not feel that it would be right to wholly disregard her admonitions.
"What answer can I make?" said she, drawing a long sigh. "He urges an early response to his suit."
"Duty to yourself, Florence, demands a time for consideration. Marriage is a thing of too vital moment to be decided upon hurriedly. Say to him in reply, that his offer is unexpected, and that you cannot give an immediate answer, but will do so at the earliest possible moment."
"So cold a response may offend him."
"If it does, then he will exhibit a weakness of character unfitting him to become the husband of a sensible woman. If he be really attracted by your good qualities, he will esteem you the more for this act of prudence. He will understand that you set a high regard upon the marriage relation, and do not mean to enter into it unless you know well the person to whom you commit your happiness in this world, and, in all probability, the next."
"A coldly calculating spirit, Carlotti, that nicely weighs and balances the merits and defects of one beloved, is, in my view, hardly consonant with true happiness in marriage. All have defects of character. All are born with evil inclinations of one kind or another. Love seeks only for good in the object of affection. Affinities of this kind are almost spontaneous in their birth. We love more from impulse than from any clear appreciation of character—perceiving good qualities by a kind of instinct rather than searching for them."
"A doctrine, Florence," said Carlotti, "that has produced untold misery in the married life. As I said at first, it is only the moral virtue of her husband that a woman can love—it is only this, as a uniting principle, that can make two married partners one. The qualities of all minds express themselves in words and actions, and, by a close observance of these latter, we may determine the nature of the former. We cannot perceive them with sufficient clearness to arrive at a sound judgment: the only safe method is to determine the character of the tree by its fruits. Take sufficient time to arrive at a knowledge of Mr. Leland's character by observation, and then you can accept or reject him under the fullest assurance that you are acting wisely."
"Perhaps you are right," murmured Florence. "I will weigh carefully what you have said."
And she did so. Much to the disappointment of Mr. Leland, he received a reply from Florence asking a short time for reflection.
When Florence next met the young man, there was, as a natural consequence, some slight embarrassment on both sides. On separating, Florence experienced a certain unfavourable impression toward him, although she could not trace it to any thing he had said or done. At their next meeting, Leland's reserve had disappeared, and he exhibited a better flow of spirits. He was more off his guard than usual, and said a good many things that rather surprised Florence.
Impatient of delay, Leland again pressed his suit; but Florence was further than ever from being ready to give an answer. She was not prepared to reject him, and as little prepared to give a favourable answer. Her request to be allowed further time for consideration, wounded his pride; and, acting under its influence, he determined to have his revenge on her by suing for the hand of another maiden, and bearing her to the altar while she was hesitating over the offer he had made. With this purpose in view, he penned a kind and polite note, approving her deliberation, and desiring her to take the fullest time for reflection. "Marriage," said he, in this note, "is too serious a matter to be decided upon hastily. It is a life-union, and the parties who make it should be well satisfied that there exists a mutual fitness for each other."
Two days passed after Florence received this note before seeing her friend Carlotti. She then called upon her in order to have further conversation on the subject of the proposal she had received. The tenor of this note had produced a favourable change in her feelings, and she felt strongly disposed to make a speedy termination of the debate in her mind by accepting her attractive suitor.
"Are you not well?" was her first remark on seeing Carlotti, for her friend looked pale and troubled.
"Not very well, dear," replied Carlotti, making an effort to assume a cheerful aspect.
The mind of Florence was too intent on the one interesting subject that occupied it to linger long on any other theme. But a short time elapsed before she said, with a warmer glow on her cheeks—
"I believe I have made up my mind, Carlotti."
"About what?"
"The offer of Mr. Leland."
"Well, what is your decision?" Carlotti held her breath for an answer.
"I will accept him."
Without replying, Carlotti arose, and going to a drawer, took therefrom a letter addressed to herself and handing it to Florence, said—
"Read that."
There was something ominous in the manner of Carlotti, which caused Florence to become agitated. Her hands trembled as she unfolded the letter. It bore the date of the day previous, and read thus:—
"MY DEAR CARLOTTI: From the first moment I saw you, I felt that you were the one destined to make me happy or miserable. Your image has been present to me, sleeping or waking, ever since. I can turn in no way that it is not before me. The oftener I have met you, the more have I been charmed by the gentleness, the sweetness, the purity, and excellence of your character. With you to walk through life by my side, I feel that my feet would tread a flowery way; but if heaven have not this blessing in store for me, I shall be, of all men, most miserable. My heart is too full to write more. And have I not said enough? Love speaks in brief but eloquent language. Dear young lady, let me hear from you speedily. I shall be wretched until I know your decision. Heaven give my suit a favourable issue!
Yours, devotedly,
A deadly paleness overspread the countenance of Florence as the letter dropped from her hands; and she leaned back against her friend to prevent falling to the floor. But, in a little while, she recovered herself.
"And this toyou?" said she, with a quivering lip, as she gazed earnestly into the face of her friend.
"Yes, Florence, that tome."
"Can I trust my own senses? Is there not some illusion? Let me look at it again."
And Florence stooped for the letter, and fixed her eyes upon it once more. The language was plain, and the handwriting she knew too well.
"False-hearted!" she murmured, in a low and mournful voice, covering her face and sobbing.
"Yes, Florence," said her friend, "he is false-hearted. How thankful am I that you have escaped! Evidently in revenge for your prudent deliberation, he has sought an alliance with another. Had that other one accepted his heartless proposal, he would have met your favourable answer to his suit with insult."
For a long time, Florence wept on the bosom of her friend. Then her feelings grew calmer, and her mind became clear.
"What an escape!" fell from her lips as she raised her head and turned her still pale face toward Carlotti. "Thanks, my wiser friend, for your timely, yet gentle warning! Your eyes saw deeper than mine."
"Yes, yes; you have made an escape!" said Carlotti. "With such a man, your life could only have been wretched."
"Have you answered his letter?" asked Florence.
"Not yet. But if you are inclined to do so, we will, on the same sheet of paper and under the same envelope, each decline the honour of an alliance. Such a rebuke he deserves, and we ought to give it."
And such a rebuke they gave.
A few months later, and Leland led to the altar a young lady reputed to be an heiress.
A year afterward, just on the eve of Florence's marriage to a gentleman in every way worthy to take her happiness in his keeping, she sat alone with her fast friend Carlotti. They were conversing of the bright future.
"And for all this joy, in store for me, Carlotti," said Florence, leaning toward her friend and laying her hand affectionately on her cheek, "I am indebted to you."
"To me? How to me, dear?" asked Carlotti.
"You saved me from an alliance with Leland. Oh, into what an abyss of wretchedness would I have fallen! I heard to-day that, after cruelly abusing poor Agnes in Charleston, where they removed, he finally abandoned her. Can it be true?"
"It is, I believe, too true. Agnes came back to her friends last week, bringing with her a babe. I have not seen her; but those who have tell me that her story of suffering makes the heart ache. She looks ten years older."
"Ah me!" sighed Florence. "Marriage—how much it involves! Even now, as I stand at its threshold, with so much that looks bright in the future, I tremble. Of Edward's excellent character and goodness of heart, all bear testimony. He is every thing I could wish; but will I make him happy?"
"Not all you could wish," said Carlotti, seriously. "None are perfection here; and you must not expect this. You will find, in your husband's character, faults. Anticipate this; but let the anticipation prepare you to bear with rather than be hurt when they appear, and do not seek too soon to correct them. It is said by a certain deeply-seeing writer on spiritual themes, that when the angels come to try one, they explore his mind only to find the good therein, that they may excite it to activity. Be, then, your husband's angel; explore his mind for the good it contains, and seek to develop and strengthen it. Looking intently at what is good in him, you will not be likely to see faults looming up and assuming a magnitude beyond their real dimensions. But when faults appear, as they assuredly will, compare them with your own; and, as you would have him exercise forbearance toward you, do you exercise forbearance toward him. Be wise in your love, my friend. Wisdom and love are married partners. If you separate them, neither is a safe guide. But if you keep them united, like a rower who pulls both oars, you will glide swiftly forward in a smooth sea."
Florence bent her head as she listened, and every word of her friend made its impression. Long after were they remembered and acted upon, and they saved her from hours of pain. Florence is a happy wife; but how near did she come to making shipwreck of her love-freighted heart? There are times when, in thinking of it, she trembles.
KATE HARBELL, a high-spirited girl, who had a pretty strong will of her own, was about being married. Like a great many others of her age and sex who approach the matrimonial altar, Kate's notions of the marriage relation were not the clearest in the world.
Ferdinand Lee, the betrothed of Kate, a quiet, sensitive young man, had, perhaps, as strong a will as the young lady herself, though it was more under the control of reason. He was naturally impatient of dictation or force, and a strong love of approbation made him feel keenly any thing like satire, ridicule or censure. To point him to a fault was to wound if not offend him. Here lay the weakness of his character. All this, on the other side, was counterbalanced by kind feelings, good sense, and manly principles. He was above all meanness or dishonour.
Of course, Kate did not fully understand his character. Such a thing as a young girl's accurate knowledge of the character of the man she is about to marry, is of very rare occurrence. She saw enough of good qualities to make her love him with tenderness and devotion; but she also saw personal defects that were disagreeable in the object of her affections. But she did not in the least doubt that all these she could easily correct in him after she became his wife.
From a defect of education, or from a natural want of neatness and order, Ferdinand Lee was inclined to carelessness in his attire; and also exhibited a certain want of polish in his manners and address that was, at times, particularly annoying to Kate.
"I'll break him of that when I get him," said the young lady to a married friend, alluding to some little peculiarity both had noticed.
"Don't be too certain," returned the lady, smiling.
"You'll see."
Kate tossed her head in a resolute way.
"I'll see you disappointed."
"Wait a little while. Before I'm his wife six months, you'll hardly know the man, there'll be such a change."
"The change is far more likely to take place in you."
"Why do you say that, Mrs. Morton?" inquired Kate, looking grave.
"Because I think so. Men are not so easily brought into order, and the attempt at reformation and correction by a young wife generally ends in painful disappointment. If you begin this work you will, in all probability, find yourself tasked beyond your ability. I speak from some experience, having been married for about ten years, and having seen a good many young girls come up into our ranks from the walks of single blessedness. Take my advice, and look away from Frederick's faults and disagreeable peculiarities as much as possible, and think more of his manly traits of character—his fine sentiments, and honourable principles."
"I do look at them and love them," replied Kate, with animation. "These won my heart at first, and now unite me to him in bonds that cannot be broken. But if on a precious gem there be a slight blemish that mars its beauty, shall we not seek to remove the defect, and thus give the jewel a higher lustre? Will you say, no?"
"I will, if in the act there be danger of injuring the gem."
"I don't understand you, Mrs. Morton?"
"Reflect for a moment, and see if my meaning is not apparent."
"You think I will offend him if I point out a fault, or seek to correct it?"
"A result most likely to follow."
"I will not think so poorly of his good sense," answered Kate, with some gravity of manner. The suggestion half offended her.
"None are perfect, my young friend; don't forget that," said Mrs. Morton, with equal seriousness. "To think differently is a common mistake of persons circumstanced as you are."
"It's no mistake of mine, let me assure you," replied Kate. "I can see faults as quickly as any one. Love can't blind me. It is because I see defects in Frederick that I wish to correct them."
"And you trust to his good sense to take the work of correction kindly?"
"Certainly I do."
"Then you most probably think him more perfect than he really is. Very few people can bear to be told of their faults, and fewer still to be told of them by those they love. Love is expected to be blind to defects; therefore, when it is seen looking at and pointing them out, the feeling produced is, in the very nature of things, a disagreeable one. Take my advice, and let Frederick's faults alone, at least for a year after you are married; and even then put your hand on them very lightly, and as if by accident."
"Do you think I could see him lounge, or, rather, slide down in his chair in that ungraceful way, and not speak to him about it? Not I. It makes me nervous now; and, if I wasn't afraid he might take it unkindly, would call his attention to it."
"Do you think he will be less likely to take it unkindly after marriage?"
"Certainly. Then I will have a right to speak to him about it."
"Then marriage will give you certain rights over your husband?"
"It will give him rights over me, and a very poor rule that is which doesn't work both ways. Marriage will make him my husband; and, surely, a wife may tell her husband that he is not perfect, without offending him."
"Kate, Kate; you don't know what you are talking about, child!"
"I think I do."
"And I know you don't."
"Oh, well, Mrs. Morton, we won't quarrel about it," said Kate, laughing. "I mean to make one of the best of wives, and have one of the best of husbands to be found. He will require a little fixing up to make him just to my mind, but don't you fear but what I'll do it in the gentlest possible manner. Women have more taste than men, you know, and a man never looks and acts just right until he gets a woman to take charge of him."
A happy bride Kate became a few months after this little conversation took place, and Lee thought himself the most fortunate of men in obtaining such a lovely, accomplished, and right-minded woman for a wife. Swiftly glided away the sweet honey-moon, without a jar of discord, though, during the time, Kate saw a good many things not exactly to her mind, and which she set down as needing correction.
One evening, it was just five weeks after the marriage, and when they were snugly settled in their own house, Frederick Lee was seated before the grate, in a handsome rocking-chair, his body in a position that it would have required a stretch of language to pronounce graceful or becoming. He had drawn off one of his boots, that was lying on the floor, and the leg from which it had been taken was hanging over an arm of his chair. He had slipped forward in the chair—his ordinary mode of sitting, or, rather, lying—so far that his head, which, if he had been upright, would have been even with the top of the back, was at least twelve inches below it. To add to the effect of his position, he was swinging the bootless leg that hung across the arm of the chair with a rapid, circling motion. He had been reclining in this inelegant attitude for about ten minutes, when Kate, who had permitted herself to become a good deal annoyed by it, said to him, rather earnestly—
"Do, Frederick, sit up straight, and try and be a little more graceful in your positions."
"What's that?" inquired the young man, as if he had not heard distinctly.
"Can't you sit up straight?"
Kate smiled; but Lee saw that it was a forced smile.
"Oh, yes," he answered, indifferently. "I can sit up straight as an arrow, but I find this attitude most agreeable."
"If you knew how you looked," said Kate.
"How do I look?" asked the young man, playfully.
"Oh! you look—you look more like a country clod-hopper than any thing else."
There was a sharpness in Kate's tones that fell unpleasantly on the ears of the young man.
"Do I, indeed!" was his rather cold remark. Yet he did not change his position.
"Indeed, you do," said the wife, who was, by this time, beginning to feel a good deal of irritation; for she saw that Frederick was not inclined to respond in the way she had hoped, to her very reasonable desire that he would assume a more graceful attitude. "The fact is," she continued, impelled to further utterance by the excited state of her feelings, although she was conscious of having already said more than was agreeable to her husband, "you ought to correct yourself of these ungraceful and undignified habits. It shows a want of"—
Kate stopped suddenly. She felt that she was about using words that would inevitably give offence.
"A want of what?" inquired Lee, in a low, firm voice, while he continued to look his young wife steadily in the face.
Kate's eyes fell to the floor and she remained silent.
"Ungraceful and undignified. Humph!"
Lee was evidently hurt at this allegation, as the tone in which he repeated the words clearly showed.
"Do you call your present attitude graceful?" Kate asked, rallying herself under the reflection that she was right.
"It is comfortable for me; and, therefore, ought to be graceful in your eyes," was the young man's perverse answer. Not the slightest change had yet taken place in his position.
This was beyond what the high spirited lady could bear, and she retorted with more feeling than discretion:
"Love is not blind in my case, I can assure you, Frederick, and never will be. You are very ungraceful and untidy, and annoy me, sometimes, excessively. I wish you would try to correct these things."
"You do?"
There was something cool and provoking in the way Lee said this.
"I do, Frederick, and I'm in earnest."
The cheeks of Kate were in a glow, and her eyes lit up, and her lips quivering.
"How long since you made the discovery that I was only a country clod-hopper?" said Lee, who was particularly annoyed by Kate's unexpected charges against his good-breeding.
"I didn't say you were only a country clod-hopper," replied Kate.
"I believe you used the words. My ears rarely deceive me. I must own to feeling highly complimented."
"Do sit up straight, Frederick! Do take your leg from over the arm of that chair! You make me so nervous that I can hardly contain myself."
"Really! I thought a man was privileged to sit in any position he pleased in his own house."
The excitement of Kate's mind had, by this time, reached a crisis. Bursting into tears, she hurried from the room, and went sobbing up to her chamber.
Here was a fine state of affairs, indeed! Was ever a man so perverse and unreasonable?
Did Frederick Lee follow, quickly, his weeping wife? No; his pride was too deeply wounded for that.
"A country clod-hopper! Undignified and ungraceful! Upon my word!" Such were some of his mental ejaculations. And then, as his feelings grew excited, he started up from his chair and began pacing the floor, muttering, as he did so—
"It is rather late in the day to make this discovery! Why didn't she find it out before? Humph!"
Meanwhile, Kate had thrown herself across her bed, where she lay, weeping bitterly.
What a storm had suddenly been blown about their ears!
It was fully an hour before Frederick Lee's disturbed feelings began to run at all clear. He was both surprised and offended. What could all this mean? What had all at once come over his young wife?
"A country clod-hopper!" he muttered to himself over and over again."Ungraceful—ungenteel, and all that! Very complimentary, indeed!"
When Lee joined his wife in their chamber, two hours after she had left him, he found that she had retired to bed and was sleeping.
On the next morning both looked very sober, and both were cold and distant. A few words only passed between them. It was the same when they met at dinner-time, and the same when Lee came home in the evening. During the whole of this day, the thought of each was upon the other; but it was not a forgiving thought. Kate cherished angry feelings toward her husband; and Lee continued to be offended at the freedom of expression which his young wife had ventured to use toward him. Of course, both were very unhappy.
The formal intercourse of the tea-table having ended, Lee, feeling little inclined to pass the evening with his reserved and sober-looking partner, put on his hat, and merely remarking that he would not return until bed-time, left the house. This act startled Kate. With the jar of the closing door came a gush of tears. The evening was passed alone. How wretched she felt as the hours moved slowly on!
It was nearly eleven o'clock when Lee came home. By that time, the mind of Kate was in an agony of suspense. More than once the thought that he had abandoned her intruded itself, and filled her with fear and anguish. What a relief to her feelings it was when she heard the rattle of his night-key in the lock! But she could not meet him with a smile. She could not throw her arms around his neck, and press her hot cheek to his. No: for she felt that he was angry with her without just cause, and had visited with unjust severity a light offence—if, so far as she was concerned, her act were worthy to be called an offence.
And so they looked coldly upon each other when they met, and then averted their eyes.
The morning broke, but with no fairer promise of a sunny day. Clouds obscured their whole horizon. Coldly they parted after the brief and scarcely tasted meal. How wretched they were!
During the forenoon, Mrs. Morton, the friend of Mrs. Lee, called in to see her young friend.
"Why, Kate! What has happened?" she exclaimed, the moment she saw her.
Mrs. Lee tried to smile and look indifferent, as she answered—
"Happened? Why do you say that?"
"You look as if you hadn't a friend left in the world!"
"And I don't know that I have," said Mrs. Lee, losing, all at once, her self-command, and permitting the ready tears to gush forth.
"Why, Kate, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Morton, drawing her arm around the neck of her young friend. "What is the meaning of all this? Something wrong with Frederick?"
Kate was silent.
Mrs. Morton reflected for a moment, and then said—
"Been trying to correct some of his faults, ha?"
No answer. But the sobbing became less violent.
"Ah, Kate! Kate! I warned you of this."
"Warned me of what?"
Mrs. Lee lifted her head, and tried to assume an air of dignity as she spoke.
"I warned you that Frederick would not bear it, if you attempted to lay your hand upon his faults."
Kate raised her head higher, and compressed her lips. Still she did not answer.
"A young husband, naturally enough, thinks himself faultless—at least in the eyes of his wife."
"Very far from faultless is Frederick in my eyes," said Kate. "My love is not blind, and so I told him."
"You did!"
"Yes, I did, and in so many words," replied Kate, with spirit.
"Ah, silly child!" returned her friend. "Already you have the reward of your folly. I forewarned you how it would be."
"Are my wishes, feelings, and taste to be of no account whatever?" said Kate, warmly. "Frederick is to be and do just what he pleases, and I must say nothing, do nothing, and bear every thing. Was this the contract between us? No, Mrs. Morton!"
The bright eyes of Mrs. Lee flashed with indignant fire.
"Come, come, Katy, dear! Don't let that impulsive heart of thine lead thee too far aside from the path of prudence and safety. I am sure that Frederick Lee is no self-willed, exacting, domestic tyrant. I could not have been so deceived in him. But tell me the particular cause of your trouble. What has been said and done? You have given offence, and he has become offended. Tell me the whole story, Kate, and then I'll know what to say and do for the restoration of your peace."
"You are aware," said Kate, after a brief pause, and with a deepening flush on her cheeks, "how awkward and untidy Frederick is at times,—how he lounges in his chair, and throws his body into all manner of ungraceful attitudes."
"Well?"
"This, as you know, has always annoyed me sadly. Night before last, I felt so worried with him, that I could not help speaking right out."
"Ah! when you were worried?"
"Of course. If I hadn't felt worried, I wouldn't have said any thing."
"Indeed! Well, what did you say? Was your tone of voice low and full of love, and your words as gentle as the falling dew?"
"Mrs. Morton!"
There was a half-angry, indignant expression in the voice of Kate.
"Did you lay your hand lightly, like the touch of a feather, upon the fault you designed to correct, or did you grasp it rudely and angrily?"
Kate's eyes drooped beneath those of her friend.
"You were annoyed and excited," continued Mrs. Morton. "This by your own acknowledgment, and, in such a frame of mind, you charged with faults the one who had vainly thought himself, at least in your eyes, perfect. And he, as a natural consequence, was hurt and offended. But what did you say to him?"
"I hardly know what I said, now," returned Kate. "But I know I used the words ungraceful, undignified, and country clod-hopper."
"Why, Kate! I am surprised at you! And this to so excellent a man as Frederick, who, from all the fair and gentle ones around him, chose you to be his bosom friend and life companion. Kate, Kate! That was unworthy of you. That was unkind to him. I do not wonder that he was hurt and offended."
"Perhaps I was wrong, Mrs. Morton," said Kate, as tears began to flow again. "But Frederick's want of order, grace, and neatness, is dreadful. I cannot tell you how much it annoys me."
"You saw all this before you were married."
"Not all of it."
"You saw enough to enable you to judge of the rest."
"True; but then I always meant to correct these things in him. They were but blemishes on a jewel of surpassing value."
"Ah, Kate, you have proved the truth of what I told you before your marriage. It is not so easy a thing to correct the faults of a husband—faults confirmed by long habit. Whenever a wife attempts this, she puts in jeopardy, for the time being at least, her happiness, as you have done. A man is but little pleased to make the discovery that his wife thinks him no better than a country clod-hopper; and it is no wonder that he should be offended, if she, with strange indiscreetness and want of tact, tells him in plain terms what she thinks. Your husband is sensitive, Kate."
"I know he is."
"And keenly alive to ridicule."
"I am not aware of that."
"Then your reading of his character is less accurate than mine.Moreover, he has a pretty good opinion of himself."
"We all have that."
"And a strong will, quiet as he is in exterior."
"Not stronger, perhaps, than I have."
"Take my advice, Kate," said Mrs. Morton, seriously, "and don't bring your will in direct opposition to his."
"And why not? Am I not his equal? He is no master of mine. I did not sell myself as his slave, that his will should be my law!"
"Silly child! How madly you talk!" said Mrs. Morton. "Not for the world would I have Frederick hear such utterance from your lips. Does he not love you tenderly? Has he not, in every way, sought your happiness thus far in your brief married life? Is he not a man of high moral virtue? Does not your alliance with him rather elevate than depress you in the social rank? And yet, forsooth, because he lounges in his chair, and permits his body, at times, to assume ungraceful attitudes, you must throw the apple of discord into your pleasant home to mar its beautiful harmonies."
"Surely, a wife may be permitted to speak to her husband, and even seek to correct his faults," said Kate.
"Better shut her eyes to his faults, if seeing them is to make them both unhappy. You are in a very strange mood, Kate."
"Am I?" returned Mrs. Lee, querulously.
"You are; and the quicker it passes away, the better for both yourself and husband."
"I don't know how soon it will pass away," sighed Kate, moodily.
"Good-morning," said Mrs. Morton, rising and making a motion to depart.
"You are not going?"
Kate glanced up with a look of surprise.
"Yes; I am afraid to stay here any longer," was the affected serious reply. "I might catch something of your spirit, and then my husband would find a change in his pleasant home. Good-morning. May I see you in a better state of mind when we meet again."
And saying this, Mrs. Morton passed from the room so quickly that Kate could not arrest the movement; so she remained seated, though a little disturbed by her friend and monitor's sudden departure.
What Mrs. Morton had said, although it seemed not to impress the mind of her young friend, yet lingered there, and now began gradually to do its work.
As for Frederick Lee, he was unhappy enough. The words of Kate had stung him severely.
"And so, in her eyes, I am no better than a country clod-hopper!"
Almost every hour was this repeated—sometimes mentally and sometimes aloud; and at each repetition it disturbed his feelings and awakened an unforgiving spirit.
"A clod-hopper, indeed! Wonder she never made this discovery before!"
This was the thought of Lee as he left his place of business to return home, on the evening of the day on which Mrs. Morton called upon Kate. Why would he not look away from this? Why would he ponder over and magnify the offence of Kate? Why would he keep this ever before his eyes? His self-love had been wounded. His pride had been touched. The weapon of ridicule had been used against him, and to ridicule he was morbidly sensitive. Kate should have read his character more closely, and should have understood it better. But she was ignorant of his weaknesses, and bore heavily upon them ere aware of their existence.
It was in this brooding, clouded, and unforgiving state of mind that Frederick Lee took his way homeward. On entering his dwelling, which he did almost noiselessly, he went into the parlour and seated himself in the very place where he was sitting when Kate began, so unexpectedly to him, her unsuccessful work of reformation. Every thing around reminded him of that unfortunate evening—even the lounging position he so naturally assumed, sliding down, as he did, in the chair, and throwing one of his legs over the arm.
"It is comfortable for me," said he, moodily to himself; "and it's my own house. If she don't like it, let her—"
He did not finish the sentence, for he felt that his state of mind was not what it should be, and that to speak thus of his wife was neither just nor kind.
Unhappy young man! Is it thus you visit the light offence—for it was light, in reality—of the loving and gentle young creature who has given her happiness, her very life into your keeping? Could you not bear a word from her? Are you so perfect, that her eyes must see no defect? Is she never to dare, on penalty of your stern displeasure, to correct a fault—to seek to lift you, by her purer and better taste, above the ungraceful and unmanly habits consequent upon a neglected boyhood? What if her hand was laid rather heavily upon you? What if her feelings did prompt her to use words that had better been left unsaid? It was the young wife's pride in her husband that warmed her into undue excitement, and this you should have at once comprehended.
If Frederick Lee did not think precisely as we have written, his thoughts gradually inclined in that direction. Still he felt moody, and his feelings warmed but little toward Kate.
Thus he sat for some ten or fifteen minutes. At the end of this time, he heard light footsteps coming down the stairs. He knew them to be those of his wife. He did not move nor make a sound, but rather crouched lower in his chair, the back of which was turned toward the door. But his thought was on his wife. He saw her with the eyes of his mind—saw her with her clouded countenance. His heart throbbed heavily against his side, and he partially held his breath.
Now her footsteps moved along the passage, and now he was conscious that she had entered the room where he sat. Not the slightest movement did he make—not a sign did he give of his presence. There he sat, shrinking down in his chair, moody, gloomy, and angry with Kate in his heart.
Was she aware of his presence? Had she heard him enter the house?Such were the questioning thoughts that were in his mind.
Footsteps moved across the room. Now Kate was at the mantel-piece, a few feet from the chair he occupied, for he heard her lay a book thereon. Now she passed to the back window, and throwing it up, pushed open the shutters, giving freer entrance to the waning light.
A deep silence followed. Now the stillness is broken by a gentle sigh that floats faintly through the room. How rebukingly smote that sigh upon the ears of Lee! How it softened his heart toward Kate, the young and loving wife of his bosom! A slower movement in the current of his angry feelings succeeds to this. Then it becomes still. There is a pause.
But where is Kate? Has she left the room? He listens for some movement, but not the slightest sound meets his ear.
"Kate!" No, he did not utter the word aloud, in tender accents, though it was in his heart and on his tongue. Nor did he start up or move. No, as if spell-bound, he remained crouching down in his chair.
All at once he is conscious that some one is bending above him, and, in the next moment, warm lips touch his forehead, gently, hesitatingly, yet with a lingering pressure.
"Kate! Dear Kate!"
He has sprung to his feet, and his arms are flung around his wife.
"Forgive me, Frederick, if I seemed unkind to you," sobbed Kate, as soon as she could command her voice. "There was no unkindness in my heart—only love."
"It is I who most need to ask forgiveness," replied Lee. "I who have—"
"Hush! Not a word of that now," quickly returned Kate, placing her hand upon his mouth. "Let the past be forgotten."
"And forgiven, too," said Lee, as he pressed his lips eagerly to those of his wife.
How happy they were at this moment of reconciliation! How light seemed the causes which had risen up to mar the beautiful harmony of their lives! Haw weak and foolish both had been, as their acts now appeared in eyes from which had fallen the scales of passion!
Both were wiser than in the aforetime. Kate tried to look away, as much as possible, from the little faults which at first so much annoyed her; while her husband turned his thoughts more narrowly upon himself, at the same time that he made observation of other men, and was soon well convinced that sundry changes in his habits and manners might be made with great advantage. The more his eyes were opened to these little personal defects, the more fully did he forgive Kate for having in the beginning laid her hand upon them, though not in the gentlest manner.
"Six months have passed since you were married," said Mrs. Morton one day to Kate.
"Yes, six months have flown on wings of perfume," replied the happy wife.
"I saw Frederick yesterday."
"Did you?"
"Yes; and I knew him the moment my eyes rested upon him."
"Knew him! Why shouldn't you know him?"
Kate looked a little surprised.
"I thought he was to be so changed under your hands in six months, that I would hardly recognise him."
There was an arch look in Mrs. Morton's eyes, and a merry flutter in her voice.
"Mrs. Morton! Now that is too bad!"