The anniversary of Fannie's bridal was the counterpart of the original. Sunny and genial, with here and there a white cloud floating near the horizon, denoting a long and happy married life, with but threatening troubles. How was the prophecy realized? Like all riddles of earthly solution, to the contrary?
The eight brothers, with faces of stern grief in the same old corner, side by side; the five sisters sobbing, tearful and quite overwhelmed with sorrow, sat opposite, Their eyes were fixed upon the same pair. Harwood knelt beside a couch in the middle of the room, and there lay Fannie; but how changed! They had all been summoned there, to see that new sister depart for another world; to see the young breath grow fainter and fainter; the bright eyes close for ever on them and their love. Oh! mystery of Life! thee we can know and understand; but, mystery of Death, dark and fearful, only thy chosen ones can comprehend thee. We walk to the verge of the valley of the shadow of death with those we love; but there our steps are stayed, and we look into the black void with wonder and despair. Oh! faith! if ye come not then to the rescue, that death is eternal.
Thus felt the thirteen; all older, care-worn, world-weary, standing beside the mere child-sister of the family, whose star of life was setting from their view behind an impassable mountain.
The sweet face was calm, but a hectic flush lay upon the cheek, as though some life-chord still bound her to earth.
"My child," said the old white-haired physician, "if you have aught to say, speak now; when you will awaken from the sleep this draught will produce, it may then be too late."
"My darling Fannie," said the kneeling Harwood, "for my sake let no thoughts of earth disturb you; all will be well if—"
His voice was broken. He bowed his head upon the wasted hand he held, and wept.
"Allwillbe well," she said, smiling faintly. "I feel it now. Jessie, and you, elder brother, come near; nearer yet. I love you both, love you all. Having no relatives of my own, my husband's are doubly mine. My heart, since our marriage-day, has been living in the hope of your reconciliation. I was too young; I undertook too much. I wept when my health began to fail; I did not then know that God was giving me my wish. I would have died to have seen you all happy.Hehas heard my prayer; the sacrifice is made; I go happy. Jessie, my dying wish is to see you once more the forgiving girl you were, when you knelt with your brothers at your mother's knee. Oh! the chain of family love is never so rudely broken but it can be renewed. Jessie, the young lover, who died in his youth, would counsel you to forgive. The beloved parent would whisper, 'love thy brother as thyself;' He who bore the cross said 'Father forgive them—.' Jessie, a weak, dying girl begs you, for her sake, to be true to yourself."
Jessie fell upon her brother's neck, and wept. One universal sob arose from lip to lip. Brothers and sisters so long estranged, rushed into each other's arms. Some cried aloud, others' tears flowed silently: some there were, whose calm joys betrayed the disquietude of long years of disunion. They were all recalled by Harwood's voice.
"Fannie! Fannie! This excitement will kill her."
Half raised in the bed, her cheeks scarlet and eyes glowing with perfect delight, the sunlight making a halo around her head, was the young wife. She drank the draught the old physician gave her, with her eyes fixed on her husband. She murmured,
"'Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.'"
With a sigh she dropped back upon the pillow; the eyes closed, the face became waxen white. Soon, those who watched could not tell her slumber from the sleep of death. Silence stole on tiptoe through the room, with her finger on her lip—
While the sunset kept shining and shining betweenThe old hawthorn blossoms and branches so green.
Day was dawning in the watch room; the lamp was dying away, the thirteen with pale expectant faces, now shadowed by fear, now lighted with hope, were motionless. With his face bowed upon his arms, Harwood had neither looked up nor spoken since Fannie slept. The old clock had struck each hour from the dial of time into the abyss of the past. Never before had time seemed to them so precious, worth so much.
The physician with his fingers upon the patient's pulse had sat all night; once he placed his hand over her mouth, and rising with a puzzled look, walked to the window and thrust his head into the vines; then drawing his hand over his eyes, he resumed his place, and all was silent again, save the clock with its monotonous tick, tick, beating as calmly as, though human passions were trifles, and the passing away of a soul from earth, only the falling of the niches of eternity.
The sun arose, and a little bird alighting on a spray near the window, poured a flood of melody into the room. The sleeper smiled; the doctor could have sworn it was so. Her breath comes more quickly, you could see it now, fluttering between her lips; she opened her eyes and fixed them on Harwood; he took her hand and gave her the cordial prepared by the physician.
"She is saved," was telegraphed through the apartment. The brothers prepared to go to their duties. The sisters divided, part to go home, the rest to stay and watch Fannie. Harwood, with a radiant yet anxious face, could not be persuaded to lie down, but still held the little hand and counted the life beats of her heart.
"Ah! well!" said the old doctor to the elder brother, as he buttoned his coat and pressed his hat down upon his head. "Well; there was one great doubt upon my mind—in spite of all favourable symptoms—she was too good for earth;—it says somewhere—and it kept coming into my mind all the night long—'Blessed are the peace-makers, for they shall be called the children of God.'"
IN his "Dream Life," Ik Marvel thus pleasantly sketches the lover and the husband:—
You grow unusually amiable and kind; you are earnest in your search of friends; you shake hands with your office boy, as if he were your second cousin. You joke cheerfully with the stout washerwoman; and give her a shilling overchange, and insist upon her keeping it; and grow quite merry at the recollection of it. You tap your hackman on the shoulder very familiarly, and tell him he is a capital fellow; and don't allow him to whip his horses, except when driving to the post-office. You even ask him to take a glass of beer with you upon some chilly evening. You drink to the health of his wife. He says he has no wife—whereupon you think him a very miserable man; and give him a dollar, by way of consolation.
You think all the editorials in the morning papers are remarkably well-written,—whether upon your side or upon another. You think the stock-market has a very cheerful look,—with Erie—of which you are a large holder—down to seventy-five. You wonder why you never admired Mrs. Hemans before, or Stoddart, or any of the rest.
You give a pleasant twirl to your fingers, as you saunter along the street; and say—but not so loud as to be overheard—"She is mine—she is mine!"
You wonder if Frank ever loved Nelly one-half as well as you love Madge? You feel quite sure he never did. You can hardly conceive how it is, that Madge has not been seized before now by scores of enamoured men, and borne off, like the Sabine women in Romish history. You chuckle over your future, like a boy who has found a guinea in groping for sixpences. You read over the marriage service,—thinking of the time when you will takeherhand, and slip the ring upon her finger; and repeat after the clergyman—"for richer—for poorer, for better—for worse!" A great deal of "worse" there will be about it, you think!
Through all, your heart cleaves to that sweet image of the beloved Madge, as light cleaves to day. The weeks leap with a bound; and the months only grow long when you approach that day which is to make her yours. There are no flowers rare enough to make bouquets for her; diamonds are too dim for her to wear; pearls are tame.—And after marriage, the weeks are even shorter than before; you wonder why on earth all the single men in the world do not rush tumultuously to the altar; you look upon them all, as a travelled man will look upon some conceited Dutch boor, who has never been beyond the limits of his cabbage-garden. Married men, on the contrary, you regard as fellow-voyagers; and look upon their wives—ugly as they may be—as better than none.
You blush a little at first telling your butcher what "your wife" would like; you bargain with the grocer for sugars and teas, and wonder if heknowsthat you are a married man? You practise your new way of talk upon your office boy: you tell him that "your wife" expects you home to dinner; and are astonished that he does not stare to hear you say it!
You wonder if the people in the omnibus know that Madge and you are just married; and if the driver knows that the shilling you hand to him is for "self and wife?" You wonder if anybody was ever so happy before, or ever will be so happy again?
You enter your name upon the hotel books as "Clarence—and Lady;" and come back to look at it,—wondering if anybody else has noticed it,—and thinking that it looks remarkably well. You cannot help thinking that every third man you meet in the hall, wishes he possessed your wife; nor do you think it very sinful in him to wish it. You fear it is placing temptation in the way of covetous men, to put Madge's little gaiters outside the chamber-door at night.
Your home, when it is entered, is just what it should be—quiet, small,—with everything she wishes, and nothing more than she wishes. The sun strikes it in the happiest possible way; the piano is the sweetest toned in the world; the library is stocked to a charm; and Madge, that blessed wife, is there—adorning and giving life to it all. To think, even, of her possible death, is a suffering you class with the infernal tortures of the Inquisition. You grow twain of heart and of purpose. Smiles seem made for marriage; and you wonder how you ever wore them before!
THERE she sat, with both little hands covering her face. It was twilight, and beyond the little finger glanced a watchful eye towards the door, to see if Theodorewouldgo. She didn't think he would. He came back.
"Is the little child crying?" he asked, relentingly, as he took the pretty fingers, one by one, away from the youthful face, hard as she tried to keep them there. At last she gave up, and broke into a merry laugh.
"You little hypocrite!" said her husband, in rather an incensed tone of voice—mendohate to be gulled into soothing a laughing wife.
"Well! can't I go?" pleaded the enchanting little creature, looking up into his eyessobeseechingly.
"Why, Nellie, it isn't becoming for you to go without me."
"Yes, it is!" she answered, in a very low way, as if she hardly dared say it, and at the same time running her forefinger through the hem of her silk apron. "May I go?" and she lifted up her eyes in the same beseeching way again.
"Why are you so anxious to go, to-night?"
"O, because!"
"But that is not a good reason!"
"Well, I want to dance a little!"
"Nellie, I can't possibly go with you, to-night. You are very young—you know nothing of the world and its malice—"
"But I can go with Mr. and Mrs. Williams, next door."
"I can't consent to your going without me, little pet."
Nellie put her apron up to her face, and actually did succeed in squeezing two tears into her eyes. She instantly dropped her apron after this was accomplished, and looked reproachfully into her husband's face. Suddenly a thought darted into her head. "When will you come home?" she asked, with quiet melancholy of manner.
"I fear not before ten or eleven, dear. Good-bye! I am late, now!"He went away, and Nellie sat down and soliloquized.
"Business! old business! If there is anything I hate, beyond all human expression, it is this business. I know it was never intended there should be such a thing. Adam and Eve were put right in a garden, and that shows that it was meant we should play around, and have fun, and live in the country, and cultivate flowers and vegetables to live on. I have always felt so, and I always shall. I don't know that I'd be so particular about living in the country; but the playing part, that's what I'm particular about. If we lived on a farm, I suppose Theodore would wear cowhide boots, and pants too tight and short for him, and a swallow-tailed coat. I declare! I'm afraid I never should have loved him, if I had seen him—in such gear, although I have said forty times that I should have known we were created for each other, if we had met under any circumstances; but I didn't think what a difference clothes make! Isn't he a magnificent-looking man! Wouldn't anybody have been glad to have got him? I think it's the most wonderful thing in the world how he ever thought of such a little giddy thing as I am! Such a great man, and so much older than I am! Thirty-two years old! No wonder he knows so much! Well, I must stop thinking of this! 'To be, or not to be, that is the question!' Shall I go, or shall I not? Would he be very mad about it, or would he not? Let me see! He won't be home before ten or eleven. I can dress and go with Mrs. Williams, and then Fred shall bring me home before ten o'clock; and after a few days, some time when Theodore is in a most delicious humour, and perfectly carried away with my bewitchments, I'll gradually disclose the matter to him, and say I'll never do the like again, and it's among the things of the past, an error which repentance or tears cannot efface; but the painful results will never be forgotten, namely, his look of disapprobation. I wonder if that will do!" Nellie broke into a low, gay laugh. She was a spoilt child; from her cradle she had been idolized, and taught that she could not be blamed for anything. But she buried her face in her hands, and reflected. That day she had received a note from a young gentleman, saying,
"DEAR ELLEN:—Willyou come to the ball to-night? I have not seen Alice yet. I am on the rack, in excruciating torture. Your family and your husband don't fancy me, but you have known me from childhood. You ought to show mercy, rather than cruelty. Will you come?
Nellie had read the letter, drowned in tears. How would she havefelt, if her family had been so unjustly prejudiced againstTheodore? Wouldn't she have expected some help from dear sisterAlice? And shouldn't she help Alice in her extremity, even ifTheodore should be vexed a little about it? Why did Theodore hateFred Orton? He never said so; but she knew he didn't like him.Nellie wrote to Mr. Orton:
"POOR, DEAR FRED:—I'll come to the ball and speak with you, if I can. I'll always be your friend, even if my own flesh and blood don't do you justice. If you only knew how good father and mother really are, and that they have heard wrong stories about you, you wouldn't mind it. Your devoted sister
Nellie, dressed in white, looked like a veritable little angel, and went to the ball with Mr. and Mrs. Williams. She spoke with Fred, danced with him, took a letter for Alice, and told him how her precious sister was almost dying of a broken heart. Then, thinking she had spoken rather strongly, she added: "You know she feels so some of the time." When Fred came the second time to ask Nellie to dance, she thought his motion was slightly wavering. She attributed it to the agitation of his heart on hearing about Alice, and he led her out on the floor. His breath was tinctured with brandy. Nellie grew white, and begged him to take her back to her seat. He laughingly, but positively refused. "Good gracious!" she mentally ejaculated, "I shall die with shame to be dancing with a drunken man, and Theodore not here! I never should have believed the stories about Fred, if I hadn't been convinced with my own eyes and nose. Oh! whatwillTheodore say to me? Oh! if I had only done as he advised. If I had stayed at home—oh! I am so sorry I came!ShallI ever be able to tell Theodore? Suppose it should make trouble between us. Oh! I know now that I amsucha miserable, wilful, perverse mortal. I was born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward!" Nellie besought Mr. Williams to convey her home, the instant her agonizing dance was over. He did so. She entered the parlour with beating heart, with green veil on her head, with crape shawl thrown around her pretty figure. Theodore sat there.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands with a start, and then standing as motionless as if she had been shot. Theodore glared at her with a pale face, set lips, and flashing eyes. She said, with quivering lip, "I shall die, if you are going to look at me that way long! Oh, dear! I'm so miserable! I'm always getting my own head snapt off to accommodate other people."
"You have not injured yourself by accommodating me!" responded a deep, ferocious voice.
"It wasn't for my own gratification that I went, Theodore."
"For whose gratification was it, madam?"—There was a shade less of ferocity in the tone.
"For my sister's!"
"Why didn't you tell mewhyyou wanted to go, madam?"
"It was a secret between Alice and me; and I rather thought you liked me, and I might impose on you, as I used to do on the girls at school that liked me. I don't meanimpose,"—(Mr. Grenly fairly banged at the fire,)—"I mean—"
"What do you mean, Ellen Grenly?"
"I thought I could do just as I wished, and you'd make up just as the girls used to do."
"You thought your husband was like a girl, did you—didyou?"
"Yes! I hoped so!"
"Well, madam, you will soon find out that you are married to a man who is not to be trifled with in this way."
"Oh, gracious Peter! what'll you do with me?"
"I'll send you back to your father's—to your pinafores—to your nursery—and I'll leave the country for two or three years, until a divorce can be obtained for separation. You may obtain the divorce, madam. I shall never want to hold one of your perfidious sex in my arms again. Women are one vast bundle of folly."
"I am a vast bundle of folly," sobbed Nellie, spasmodically, "but all of them are not—they're not—I can prove it."
"I desire no proof from a woman of your—of your—of your calibre."
"I never was so sorry for anything in my life, Theodore. If you'll forgive me this time, I'll try and make you such a good wife. I won't disregard your advice, nor anything—nor—"
Mrs. Grenly wiped her tears on the corner of her shawl, and took occasion to look at her husband as she did so.
"You may come here, madam!"
Madam went, knowing the victory was won; her tears were dry in a moment.
"Nellie Grenly, look me right in the eyes!"
"Yes! there!"
And she concentrated her glorious laughing eyes upon him, trying very hard not to make a display of rebellious dimples. He began to doubt whether he had made a judicious request.
"Now, promise me," he said, "that as long as you live, you never will do anything I disapprove of; because it's clear you are a perfect baby."
"Oh! I can see myself in your eyes, just as plain as day!"
"Promise me."
"Did you know that your eyes were not all blue, but streaked—and streaked. What's the nature of the eye, tell me? What are its functions? You are always talking about duty, and functions, and all that."
"Ellen!" sternly.
"What?" very sweetly. "Oh! I guess I'll go and get a drink."
"No! you won't stir a step, until you solemnly assure me that you never will go to any place that I advise you against."
"Oh! I hate to make such a promise."
"The reason I ask it, is because thousands of innocent women have been misjudged for innocent actions; and I would not have my little Nellie misjudged, when she is pure as an angel."
"I promise!"
"How did you feel, Nellie, when I threatened a separation?"
"I felt as if you couldn't be coaxed into it."
"Get down, this instant!",
And down went Nellie, with a little delicious peal of laughter. A profound silence of four minutes continuance.
"I don't know that I care if you come back."
And back went Nellie, keeping her bewitching little mouth closed, until she could drop her face upon her husband's shoulder, and laugh to her heart's content.
"Do you know, Nellie, that some men would have sulked a month over your conduct to-night? Haven't you got an indulgent husband?"
"That I have. You don't thrust wrong constructions on my folly; and that is the very reason I am going to try and be as good and innocent as you think me. I feel as if I have been actingsowrongly."
OH! ask not a home in the mansions of pride,Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls;Though the roof be of gold, it is brilliantly cold,And joy may not be found in its torch-lighted halls.But seek for a bosom all honest and true,Where love once awakened will never depart;Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its nest,And you'll find there's no home like a home in the heart.
Oh! link but one spirit that's warmly sincere,That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care;Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just,And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare.Then the frowns of misfortune may shadow our lot,The cheek-searing tear-drops, of sorrow may start,But a star never dim sheds a halo for himWho can turn for repose to a home in the heart.
OUR married life had commenced, and this was HOME. As I opened my eyes in our new abode, the rays of the morning sun were penetrating the muslin curtains, the air was, fill with the fragrance of mignionette, and in the adjoining room I heard a loved voice warbling my favourite air.
On the different articles of furniture lay a hundred things to remind me the change which had taken place in mode of life. There lay the bouquet of orange flowers worn by Micelle on our wedding day; here stood her work basket; a little further on, and my eye fell on her small bookcase, ornamented with her school prizes and several other volumes, recent offerings from myself. Thus all my surroundings indicated that I was no longer alone. Till then in my independence I had merely skirted the great army of humanity, measuring all things with regard to my own strength only. I had now entered its ranks; accompanied by a fellow traveller, whose powers and feelings must be consulted, and whose tenderness must be equalled by the protecting love shed around her. A few weeks ago I should have fallen unnoticed and left no void, henceforward my lot lay bound in that of others. I had taken root in life, and for the future must fortify and strengthen myself for the protection of the nests which would in time be formed beneath my shade.
Sweet sense of responsibility, which elevated without alarming me! What had Marcelle and I to fear? Was not our departure on the voyage of life like that of Athenian Theori for the island of Delos, sailing to the sound of harps and songs while crowned with flowers? Did not our hearts beat responsive to the chorus of youth's protecting genii?
Strengthsaid, "What matters the task? Feel you not that to you it will all be easy? It is the weak alone who weigh the burden. Atlas smiled, though he bore the world on his shoulders."
Faithadded, "Have confidence, and the mountains which obstruct your path shall vanish like clouds; the sea shall bear you up, and the rainbow shall become a bridge for your feet."
Hopewhispered, "Behold, before lies repose after fatigue; plenty will follow after scarcity. On, on, for the desert leads to the promised land."
And lastly, a voice more fascinating than any, added, "Love one another; there is not on earth a surer talisman; it is the 'Open Sesame' which will put you in the possession of all the treasures of creation."
Why not listen to these sweet assurances? "Cherished companions of our opening career, my faith in you is strong; you, who, like unto the military music which animates the soldier's courage, lead us, intoxicated by your melody, on to the battle field of life." What can I fear from a life through which I shall pass with Marcelle's arm entwined in mine? The sun shines on the commencement of our journey; forward over flowery fields, by hedges alive with song, through ever-verdant forests! Let one horizon succeed another! The day is so lovely, and the night yet so distant!
While thus occupied with my newborn happiness, I had risen and joined Marcelle, who had already taken possession of her domestic kingdom.
Everything must be visited with her; her precocious housewifery must be admired; her arrangements must be applauded. First she showed me the little 'salle à manger,' dedicated to the meals which would unite us in the intervals of business: to this cause it owed the air of opulence and brightness which Marcelle had carefully striven to impart to it. China, silver, and glass, sparkled on the shelves. Here lay rich fruits half hidden in moss; there, stood freshly-gathered flowers—everything spoke of the reign of grace and plenty. From thence we passed into the salon, the closed curtains of which admitted only a soft and subdued light, which fell on statuettes ornamenting the consoles, and the gilt frames on the walls: on the tables lay scattered in graceful negligence, albums, elegancies of papier mache, and carved ivory; precious nothings which had constituted the young girl's treasures. At the farther end, the folds of a heavy curtain concealed the bower, sacred to the lady of the castle. Here admittance was at first denied me, and I was obliged to have recourse to entreaty before the drapery was raised for our entrance.
The cabinet was lighted by a small window, over which hung a blind, representing a gothic casement of painted glass, the bright colours of which were now rendered more brilliant by the sunlight which streamed through. The principal furniture consisted of a pretty lounging chair and the work table, near which I had so often seen Marcelle seated with her embroidery when I passed under her aunt's window. Her pretty flower-stand, gay with her favourite flowers, occupied the window in which hung a gilt-wire cage, the melodious prison-house of her pet bird; and lastly, there stood fronting the window, the bureau, consecrated since her school-days, to her intimate correspondence.
She showed it to me with an almost tearful gravity. Everything it contained was a relic, or souvenir. That agate inkstand had belonged to her elder sister, who died just when Marcelle was old enough to know and love her; this mother-of-pearl paper-cutter was a present to her from her aunt, before she became her adopted child; this seal had belonged to her father! She half-opened the different drawers, for me to peep at the treasures they contained. In one were the letters of her dearest school-friend, now married, gone abroad, and therefore lost to her; in another, were family papers; lower down, her certificates for the performance of religious obligations, prizes obtained, and examinations passed—the young girl's humble patent of nobility!—and last of all, in the most secret corner, lay some faded flowers, and the correspondence which, with the consent of her Aunt Roubert, we had interchanged when absent from each other.
In the contents of this bureau, were united all the touching and pleasing reminiscences of her former life; they formed Marcelle's poetic archives, whither she often retired in her hours of solitude. Often, on my return from business, I found her here, smiling, and seemingly perfumed by memories of the past.
Ah! thought I, why have not men also some spot thus consecrated to like holy and sweet remembrances, a sanctuary replete with tokens of family affection, and relics of youth's enthusiasm? Our ancestors, in their pride, cut out of the granite rock safe depositories for the proofs of their empty titles and long pedigrees; is it impossible for us to devote some obscure corner to the annals of the heart, to all that recalls to us our former noble aspirations, and generous hopes?
Time has torn from the walls the genealogical trees of noble families, but he has left space for those of the soul. Let us seek the origin of our decisions, our sympathies, our repugnances, and our hopes, and we shall ever find that they spring from some circumstance of by-gone days. The present is rooted in the past. Who has met by chance with some relic of earlier years, and has not been touched by the remembrances called forth? It is by looking back to the starting-point, that we can best calculate the distance traversed; it is in so doing that we feel either pleasure or alarm. Truly happy is the man who, after gazing on the portrait of his youth, can turn towards the original and find it unimpaired by age!
These reflections were interrupted by the sound of my father's voice, which brought us out of Marcelle's retreat to welcome him. He came to see our new abode, and add his satisfaction to our happiness. He was a gentle stoic, whose courage had ever served as a bulwark to the weak, and whose inflexibility was but another name for entire self-abnegation; he was indulgent to all, because he never forgave himself, and ever veiled severity in gentleness. His wisdom partook neither of arrogance nor passion; it descended to the level of your comprehension, and while pointing upwards, led you by the hand, and guided the ascent. It was a mother who instructed, never a judge who condemned.
Though pleased with my choice, and happy at seeing us united, he had nevertheless refused a place at our fireside. "These first hours of youth are especially your own," he had said to me with a paternal embrace; "an old man would throw a shadow over the meridian sunshine of your joy. It is better that you should regret my absence, than for one moment feel my presence a restraint. Besides, solitude is necessary to you, as well as to me—foryouto talk of your hopes for the future, formeto recall remembrances of the past. Some time hence, when my strength is failing, I will come to you, and close my eyes in the shadow of your prosperity."
And all my entreaties had been unavailing: the separation was unavoidable. Now, however, Marcelle sprang forward to meet him, and led him triumphantly across the room, to begin a re-examination of its treasures. My father listened to all, replied to all, and smiled at all. He lent himself to our dreams of happiness, pausing before each new phase, to point out a hope overlooked before, or a joy forgotten. While thus pleasantly occupied, time slipped away unnoticed, until Marcelle's aunt arrived.
Who was there in our native town who did not know Aunt Roubert? The very mention of her name was sufficient to make one gay. Left a widow in early life, and in involved circumstances, she had, by dint of activity, order, and economy, entirely extricated herself from pecuniary difficulty. Ofhermight be said with truth, that "sa part d'esprit lui avait été donnee en bon sens." Taking reality for her guide, she had followed in the beaten track of life, carefully avoiding the many sharp flints which caprice scatters in the way. Always on the move, alternately setting people to rights, and grumbling at either them or herself, she yet found time to manage well her own affairs, and to improve those of others—a faculty which had obtained for her the name of "La Femme de menage de la Providence." Vulgar in appearance, she was practical in the extreme, and results generally proved her in the right. Her nature was made up of the prose of life, but prose so clear, so consistent, that, but for its simplicity, it would have been profound.
Aunt Roubert arrived, according to custom, a large umbrella in hand, while her arm was loaded with an immense horsehair bag. She entered the little cabinet, where we were seated, like a shower of hail:—"Here you are at last," she exclaimed, "I have been into every room, in search of you, Do you know, my dear, that the chests of linen have arrived?"
"Very well, I will go and see after it," said Marcelle, who, with one hand in my father's, and the other in mine, seemed in no hurry to stir.
"You will go and see after it," repeated Aunt Roubert, "that will be very useless, for you will find no place to put it in; I have been over your abode, my poor child, and instead of a home I find a 'salon de theatre.'"
"Why, aunt," exclaimed Marcelle, "how can you say so? Remi and his father have just been through the rooms, and are delighted with them!"
"Don't talk of men and housekeeping in the same breath," replied Madame, in her most peremptory tone; "see that they are provided with a pair of snuffers and a bootjack, and they will not discover the want of anything else; but I, dear friend, know what a house should be. In entering the lobby just now, I looked about for a hook, on which to hang my cloak, and could find nothing, but flowering stocks! My dear, flowers form the principal part of your furniture!"
Marcelle endeavoured to protest against the assertion by enumerating our stock of valuables, but she was interrupted by her aunt.
"I am not talking of what you have, but of what you have not," she said; "I certainly saw in your salon some little bronze marmozettes."
"Marmozettes!" I cried, "you mean statuettes of Schiller andRousseau."
"Possibly," Aunt Roubert quietly replied, "they may at a push serve as match holders; but, dear friend, in the fire-place of your office below, I could see neither tongs nor shovel. On opening the sideboard, I found a charming little silver-gilt service, but no soup ladle, so one can only suppose that you mean to live on sweetmeats; and lastly, though the 'salle à mangeris ornamented with beautifully gilt porcelain, the kitchen unfortunately is minus both roasting-jack and frying-pan! Good heavens, these are most unromantic details, are they not?" added she, noticing the gesture of annoyance which we were unable altogether to repress; "but as you will be obliged to descend to them whenever you want a roast or an omelette, it would perhaps be as well to provide for them."
"You are right!" I replied, a little out of humour, for I had noticed Marcelle's confusion, "but such omissions are easily rectified when their need is felt."
"That is to say, you will wait until bed-time to order the mattrass," replied Aunt Roubert; "well, well, my children, as you will, but now your attendance is required on your linen, which awaits you in the lobby; I suppose my niece does not propose to arrange it in her birdcage, or flower-stand; can she show me the place destined for it?"
Marcelle had coloured to the roots of her hair, and stood twisting and untwisting her apron-string.
"Ah well! I see you have not thought of that," said the old aunt; "but never mind, we will find some place to put it in after breakfast; you know we are to breakfast together."
This was a point Marcelle had not forgotten, and she forthwith led the way to her breakfast-table.
At the sight of it my father gave a start of pleased surprise. In the centre stood a basket of fruit, flowers, and moss, round which were arranged all our favourite dainties; each could recognize the dish prepared to suit his taste. After having given a rapid glance round, Madame Roubert cried out,
"And the bread, my child?"
Marcelle uttered a cry of consternation.
"You have none," said her aunt, quietly; "send your servant for some." Then lowering her voice, she added, "As she will pass by my door, she can at the same time tell Baptiste to bring the large easy-chair for your father, and I hope you will keep it. Your gothic chairs are very pretty to look at but when one is old or invalided, what one likes best in a chair, is a comfortable seat."
While awaiting the servant's return, Madame Roubert accompanied Marcelle in a tour round our abode. She pointed out what had been forgotten, remedied the inconvenience of several arrangements, or superseded them with better, doing it all with the utmost cheerful simplicity. Her hints never bordered on criticisms; she showed the error without astonishment at its having been committed, and without priding herself on its discovery.
When she had completed her examination, she took her niece aside with her accounts. Marcelle fetched the little rosewood case which served her as a cash box, and sat down to calculate the expenses of the past week. But her efforts to produce a satisfactory balance, seemed useless. It was in vain that she added and subtracted, and counted piece by piece her remaining money, the deficit never varied. Astounded at such a result, and at the amount spent, she began to examine the lock of her box, and to ask herself how its contents could have so rapidly disappeared, when Aunt Roubert interrupted her.
"Take care," she said in one of her most serious tones. "See, how from want of careful account-keeping you already suspect others; before this evening is here you will be ready to accuse them. It always is so. The want of order engenders suspicion, and it is easier to doubt the probity of others than one's own memory. No lock can prevent that, my child, because none can shelter you from the results of your own miscalculations. There is no safeguard for the woman at the head of a household, like a housekeeping-book which serves to warn her day by day, and bears faithful witness at the end of the month. I have brought you such a one as your uncle used to give me."
She drew it from her bag, and presented it to Marcelle.
It was an account-book bound in parchment, the cover of which was separated like a portfolio into three pockets, destined for receipts, bills, and memoranda. The book itself was divided into several parts, distinguished one from the other by markers corresponding to the different species of expenditure, so that a glance was sufficient to form an estimate, not only of the sum total, but also of the amount of expenditure, in each separate branch.
The whole formed a domestic budget as clear as it was complete, in which each portion of the government service had its open account regulated by the supreme comptroller.
M. Roubert, who had been during his life a species of unknown Franklin, solely occupied in the endeavour to make business and, opinions agree with good sense, had written above, each chapter a borrowed or unpublished maxim to serve as warning to its possessor. At the beginning of the book the following words were traced in red ink:—
"Economy is the true source of independence and liberality."
Farther on, at the head of the division destined to expenses of the table:—
"A Wise man has always three cooks, who season the simplest food: Sobriety, Exercise, and Content."
Above the chapter devoted to benevolence:—
"Give as thou hast received"
And lastly, on the page destined to receive the amount of each month's savings, he had copied this saying of a Chinese philosopher:—
"Time and patience convert the mulberry leaf into satin."
After having given us time to look over the book, and read its wise counsels, Aunt Roubert explained to Marcelle the particulars of its use, and endeavoured to initiate her in domestic book-keeping.
TRULY hath the poet said that, "Trifles swell the sum of human happiness and woe." Our highest and holiest aspirations, our purest and warmest affections, are frequently called forth by what in itself may be deemed of trivial importance. The fragrant breath of a flower, the passing song of the merry milk-maid, a soothing word from one we love, will often change the whole current of our thoughts and feelings, and, by carrying us back to the days of childhood, or bringing to our remembrance some innocent and happy state which steals over us like a long-forgotten dream, will dissipate the clouds of sorrow, and even the still deeper shades of falsity and evil.
How many of the great events of life have their origin in trifles; how many deep, heart-felt sorrows spring from neglect of what seemed to us a duty of little or no account—something that could be done or left undone as we pleased!
Alas! this is a dangerous doctrine. Let us endeavour to impress upon the minds of our children that no duty is trifling; that nothing which can in any way affect the comfort and happiness of others is unimportant.
The happiness of domestic life, particularly of married life, depends almost wholly upon strict attention to trifles. Between those who are united by the sacred tie of marriage, nothing should be deemed trivial. A word, a glance, a smile, a gentle touch, all speak volumes; and the human heart is so constituted that there is no joy so great, no sorrow so intense, that it may not be increased or mitigated by these trifling acts of sympathy from one we love.
Nearly three months had elapsed since the papers had duly announced to the public that Mary, daughter of Theodore Melville, had become the bride of Arthur Hartwell; and the young couple had returned from a short bridal tour, and were now quietly settled in a pleasant little spot which was endeared to Arthur by having been the home of his youthful days. He had been left an orphan at an early age, and the property had passed into the hands of strangers, but he continued to cherish a strong attachment for the "old place," as he termed it, and he heard with joy, some few months before his marriage, that it was for sale; and without even waiting to consult his intended bride, he purchased it for their future home. This was a sad disappointment to Mary, for she had fixed her affections upon a pretty romantic little cottage, half hid by trees and shrubbery, which was situated within two minutes' walk of her father's house; and which, owing to the death of the owner, was offered for sale upon very favourable terms. In her eyes it possessed every advantage, and as she mentally compared it with the old-fashioned dwelling of which Arthur had become the possessor, she secretly conceived a strong prejudice against the spot where the duties and pleasures of the new sphere which she was about to enter were to commence; particularly as it was five miles distant from her parents, and not very near to any of her early friends.
Some faint attempts were made to induce Arthur to endeavour to get released from his bargain, and to become the purchaser of the pretty cottage, but in vain. He was delighted to have become the owner of what appeared to him one of the loveliest spots on the earth, and assured Mary that the house was vastly superior to any cottage, advancing so many good reasons for this assertion, and describing in such glowing terms the beauty of the surrounding scenery, and the happiness they should enjoy, that she could not help sympathizing with him, although her dislike to her future home remained unabated.
The first few weeks of her residences there passed pleasantly enough, however. All was new and delightful. The grounds about the house, although little cultivated, were beautiful in the wild luxuriance of nature; the trees were loaded with rich autumnal fruits; and even the old-fashioned mansion, now that it was new painted, and the interior fitted up in modern style, assumed a more favourable aspect. It was a leisure time with Arthur, and he was ever ready to accompany Mary to her father's; so that she became quite reconciled to the distance, and even thought it rather an advantage, as it was such a pleasant little ride.
But as the season advanced, Arthur became more engrossed with business. The rides became less frequent, and Mary, accustomed to the society of her mother and sister, often passed lonely days in her new home, and her dislike to it in some degree returned. Her affection for her husband, however, prevented the expression of these feelings, and she endeavouved to forget her loneliness in attention to household duties; reading, and music; but these resources would sometimes fail.
It was one of those bright afternoons in the latter part of autumn, when the sun shines forth with almost summer-like warmth, and the heart is gladdened with the departing beauty of nature. Mary was seated alone in her pleasant parlour, with her books and her work by her side.
"How I wish Arthur would return early!" she said, aloud, as she gazed from their open window. "It will be such a lovely evening. We could have an early tea, and ride over to father's and return by moonlight; it would be delightful;" and filled with this idea, she really expected her husband, although it still wanted two hours of the usual time of his return; and laying aside her work, began to make some preparations for the evening meal. She was interrupted by a call from an old friend who lived nearly two miles distant, and, intending to pass the afternoon at Mr. Melville's, had called to request Mary to accompany her.
The young wife was in considerable perplexity. She had a great desire to go to her father's, but she was unwilling to have Arthur return home and find her absent; and moreover, she felt a strong impression that he would himself enjoy the ride in the evening, and would, perhaps, be disappointed if she were not at home to go with him. So, with many thanks the invitation was declined, the visiter departed, and Mary returned with a light heart to the employment which the visit had interrupted.
Janet, the assistant in the kitchen, entered into the feelings of her mistress, and hastened to assist her with cheerful alacrity, declaring that she knew "Mr. Hartwell would be home directly,—it was just the evening for a ride," &c.&c.—this ebullition of her feelings being partly caused by sympathy with the wishes of her young mistress, and partly by her own desire to have the house to herself for the reception of some particular friends, who had promised to favour her with their company that evening.
But alas! the hopes of both mistress and maid were destined to be disappointed. The usual time for Arthur's return passed by, and still he did not appear, and it was not until the deepening twilight had almost given place to the deeper shades of evening, that Mary heard his well known step, and springing from the sofa where she had thrown herself after a weary hour of watching, she flew to the door to greet him.
"Oh, Arthur!" she exclaimed, forgetful that he was quite ignorant of all that had been passing in her mind for the last few hours, "how could you stay so late? I have waited for you so long, and watched so anxiously. It is quite too late for us to go now."
"Go where, Mary?" was the surprised reply. "I did not recollect that we were to go anywhere this evening. I know I am rather late home, but business must be attended to. I meant to have told you not to expect me at the usual hour."
This was too bad. To think that she had refused Mrs. Elmore's kind invitation, and had passed the time in gazing anxiously from the window, when she might have enjoyed the society of father, mother, and all the dear ones at home; and now to find that Arthur actually knew that he should not return till late, and might have saved her this disappointment, it was really very hard; and Mary turned away to hide the starting tears, as she replied,
"You might have remembered to have told me that you should not be home till dark, Arthur, and then I could have gone with Mrs. Elmore. She called to ask me to ride over to father's with her, but I would not go, because I felt so sure that you would come home early and take me to ride yourself this pleasant evening."
"You had no reason to expect it," said Arthur, rather shortly, for he felt irritated at the implied reproach of Mary's words and manner, and for the first time since their marriage, the husband and wife seated themselves at the table with unkind feelings busy in their hearts. Mary remained quite silent, while Arthur vented his irritation by giving the table an impatient jerk, exclaiming,
"I really wish Janet could learn to set a table straight! I believe her eyes are crooked."
This was an unfortunate speech, for Mary, in her desire to expedite Janet's preparations for tea, had herself arranged the table; at another time she would have made a laughing reply, but just now she did not feel like joking, and the remark only increased the weight at her heart.
These grievances may seem very trifling, and indeed they are so; but our subject is trifles, and if the reader will examine his own heart, he will find that even little troubles sometimes produce a state which even the addition of a feather's weight renders insupportable.
Thus it was with Mary. She made an ineffectual attempt to eat, but the food seemed to choke her; and rising abruptly, she seated herself at the piano and commenced a lively tune in order to hide her real feelings.
There was nothing strange in this. Arthur frequently asked her to play to him when he felt disposed to remain at the table longer than she did, and he had often said that he liked the ancient custom of having music at meals; but this evening music had lost its charm; the lively tune was not in unison with his state of feeling, and he hastily finished his supper and left the room. This was another trial, and the ready tears gushed from Mary's eyes as she left the piano, and summoning Janet to remove the tea things, she bade her tell Mr. Hartwell when he came in, that she had a bad headache and had gone to her own room.
Arthur returned from his short walk in less than half an hour, quite restored to good humour by the soothing effects of the lovely evening, and somewhat ashamed that he had been disturbed by so trifling a cause.
"Perhaps Mary would like to take a walk," he said, to himself, as he entered the house. "It is not too late for that, and to-morrow I will endeavour to take the wished-for ride."
He was disappointed when Janet delivered the message, and going up stairs opened the door of their sleeping apartment; but Mary's eyes were closed, and fearful of disturbing her, he quietly returned to the parlour and endeavoured to amuse himself with a book until his usual hour of going to rest.
The next morning all seemed as usual; for sleep has a renovating power on the mind as well as the body, and in little troubles as well as in great.
Husband and wife spoke affectionately to each other, and secretly wondered how such trifles could have disturbed them; but no allusion was made to the subject, for the very reason that the unpleasant feeling which had arisen between them had sprung from so trifling a cause. The trouble could scarcely be defined, and therefore they judged it better to say nothing about it. In some cases this is well, but, generally, it is better to speak openly even of little difficulties; especially those which may arise in the first part of married-life, as this frankness enables husband and wife to gain an insight into all those trifling peculiarities of character which each may possess, and on attention to which, much of their future happiness may depend.
Weeks and months passed on, and, apparently, all was going happily with our young friends. Mary had become more accustomed to passing some hours of each day alone, and her solitude was frequently enlivened by a visit from her mother, sister, or some young friend of her school-girl days. Arthur still appeared devotedly attached to her, and she certainly returned his affection most sincerely, and yet both felt that there was a change. It could scarcely be defined, and no cause could be assigned for it. They would have indignantly rejected the idea, that they loved each other less than formerly, but there was certainly less sympathy between them; they were not so closely united in every thought and feeling as they once had been. No unkind words had passed on either side, at least none which could really be regarded as such, for the trifles which had gradually produced this feeling of separation were almost too insignificant to call forth absolute unkindness; yet still they did their work slowly but surely.
Mary was the petted child of indulgent parents. Arthur had early lost both father and mother, and his childhood had passed with but little of the genial effects of female influence. He had spent most of his time at a school for boys, where, although his intellect was well cultivated, and his morals strictly attended to, there was little done to call forth those warm affections of which every young heart is susceptible. And as he grew to manhood, although his principles were excellent, and his feelings warm and tender, there was a want of that kindliness and gentleness of manner, and above all, of that peculiar faculty of adapting himself to the wants of a female heart, which would not have existed had he been blessed with the care of a mother, or the affectionate sympathy of a sister.
His acquaintance with Mary before their marriage had been of short duration, and these traits in his character had passed unobserved during the excitement of feeling which generally marks the days of courtship; but as this state passed away, and his usual habits returned, Mary's sensitive heart was often wounded by trifling inattentions, although never by wilful neglect. Arthur was fond of study, and in his leisure hours he would sometimes become so entirely absorbed in some favourite author, that even Mary's presence was forgotten, and the evening passed away without any effort on his part to cheer her evidently drooping spirits. Not that he was really selfish: it was mere thoughtlessness, and ignorance of those attentions which a woman's heart demands. If Mary had requested him to lay aside his graver studies and read aloud in some work interesting to her, or pass an hour in cheerful conversation, or listening to music, he would have complied without hesitation, and, indeed, with pleasure; but she remained silent, secretly yearning for little acts of kindness, which never entered the mind of her husband. Another peculiarity which gave the young wife much pain, was that Arthur never or very rarely uttered words of commendation or approval. If anything was wrong he noticed it at once, and requested a change; but if right, he never praised. This is a common error, and it is a great one. Approval from those we love is as refreshing to the human heart as the dew to the fading flower; and to at woman's heart it isessential: without it all kindly affections wither away; the softest, most delicate feelings become blunted and hard; the heart no longer beats with warm, generous emotions—it is cold, palsied, and dead.
Even in the most trifling details of domestic life, approval is encouraging and sweet. The weary wife and mother who has passed through a day of innumerable little vexations and difficulties, is cheered by the pleasant smile with which her husband takes his seat at the tea-and feels new life as she listens to his commendations of some favourite dish which she has placed before him.
True, it is but a trifle, but it speaks to the heart.
We will give our readers a short specimen of the habit to which we allude. Breakfast was on the table, and a part of the hot cakes and smoking ham had been duly transferred to Arthur's plate. He ate sparingly, and his looks plainly showed that something was wrong. Presently he said—"Mary, dear, I think you must look a little more strictly after Janet. She grows very careless; this bread is decidedly sour, the ham is half cooked, and worse than all, breakfast is ten minutes too late."
Mary's quiet reply, that she would "endeavour to have it right another time," was quite satisfactory; pleasant remarks followed, and Arthur left home with a cheerful good morning.
Another breakfast time arrived. Mary's own personal attention had secured sweet bread, and she had risen half an hour earlier than usual to insure that all was done properly and in season.
Punctually the well prepared dishes were placed upon the table, again Arthur's plate was well filled, and, to do him justice, its contents were eaten with keen relish; but no look or word of approval was given to show that he understood and appreciated the effort which had been made to meet his wishes.
All was right, and therefore there was nothing to say. To some this might have been satisfactory, but not to Mary. She longed for a word or smile to show that she had given pleasure.
But it is not to be supposed that all these petty causes of complaint were on one side. Arthur often felt grieved and somewhat irritated by Mary's altered manner or moody silence, showing that he had offended in ways unknown to himself; and there were also times when her ridicule of his somewhat uncultivated taste granted harshly on his feelings. Her continued dislike to the "dear old place" was another source of regret; and before the first year of married life had expired, feelings had sometimes been busy in both their hearts which they would have shuddered to have confessed even to themselves.
Winter and spring had passed away, and summer was again present with its birds and flowers. Mary was in her garden one lovely afternoon arranging some favourite plants, when her attention was attracted to a small cart laden with some strange old-fashioned-looking furniture, which had stopped at their gate. She at first supposed that the driver wished to inquire the way, but to her surprise he carefully lifted a large easy-chair, covered with leather and thickly studded with brass nails, from the wagon, and brought it toward the house, bowing respectfully as he approached her, and inquiring where she wished to have it put.
"There is some mistake," said Mary; "these things are not for us."
"Mr. Hartwell sent them here, ma'am," was the reply; "and here is a bit of a note for your leddyship."
Mary received the proffered slip of paper, and hastily read the following lines:—
"You will be pleased, dear Mary, to find that I have at length discovered the purchaser of my mother's easy-chair, and the old clock which formerly stood in our family sitting-room, and have bought them of him for a moderate price. They are valuable to me as mementos of my boyish days, and you will value them for my sake."
But Mary had a great dislike to old clocks, and leather-bottomed chairs, and she was little disposed to value them even for Arthur's sake. She, however, directed the man where to place them, and returned to the employment which he had interrupted. Arthur's business demanded his attention until a late hour that evening, and he had said when he left home that he should take tea in the city. Mary retired to rest before his return, and nothing was said concerning the old furniture until the following morning.
Indeed, it seemed so perfectly worthless to Mary, that the recollection of it had passed from her mind; but it was recalled by the sudden inquiry of her husband as he finished dressing and prepared to go down stairs.
"Oh, Mary, dear, where did you have the old chair and clock placed?Was I not fortunate to find them?"
"Very," replied Mary, with forced interest; "although I hardly know what you will do with them. I had them put in the shed for the present."
"In the shed!" exclaimed Arthur; "but you are right, Mary, they need a little rubbing off; please to let Janet attend to them this morning, and I will show you the very places where they used to stand in the parlour. How delighted I shall be to see the old clock in its accustomed corner, and to seat myself in the very chair where I have so often sat with my dear mother!"
Mary uttered an involuntary, exclamation of horror.
"Why, Arthur, you do not really intend to place those hideous old things in our parlour?"
"Certainly I do. I see nothing hideous in them. They are worth all our fashionable furniture put together. What is your objection to them, Mary?"
"I have every objection to them," was her almost indignant reply. "They would form the most ludicrous contrast to the rest of our furniture."
"I see nothing ludicrous or improper in putting them in their old places," said Arthur, warmly. "They are dear to me as having belonged to my parents and I cannot see why you should wish to deny me the pleasure of having them where I can enjoy the recollections which they recall."
"Put them in the garret, or in your own little room where you keep your books, if you like," answered Mary; "but if you have any regard to my feelings, you will keep them out of my sight. I think the sacrifice which I make in living in this old-fashioned place is enough, without requiring me to ornament my parlour with furniture which was in use before I was born. However, I do not expect much consideration for my opinions and tastes;" and, overpowered with a mixed feeling of indignation and regret for the warmth with which she had spoken, Mary burst into tears.
"You have certainly showed little regard for my feelings," was Arthur's irritated reply; "and perhaps, I may also say with truth, what your words imply; I have little reason to expect regard and consideration;" and hastily leaving the room, he was on his way to his office before Mary had composed herself sufficiently to descend to the breakfast room.
"Has Mr. Hartwell breakfasted?" she inquired, with surprise, as she saw the solitary cup and plate which Janet had placed for her.
"He took no breakfast, ma'am. I think he was in great haste to reach the office."
"He has a great deal to attend to, just now," replied her mistress, unwilling that Janet should suspect the truth; but as soon as the girl left the room, her excited feelings again found vent in tears.
Bitterly did she regret what had passed. It was the first time that harsh words had been uttered by either and they seemed to have lifted the veil which had long been drawn over thoughts and feelings which had tended to dissimilarity and separation.
The year passed in rapid review before her, and she felt that there was a great and fearful change, the cause of which she could not define, for she had no distinct charges to bring against Arthur, and as yet, she attached little blame to herself. The unkind manner in which she had spoken that morning, was indeed regretted; but this seemed the only error. It was certainly unreasonable in Arthur to expect her to yield willingly to such strange whim.
But he no longer loved her, she was sure of this; and proof after proof of his inattention to her wishes, and neglect of her feelings, came to her mind until she was almost overwhelmed with the view of her own misery, which imagination thus placed before her.
And this was the anniversary of their marriage! One short year before and they had exchanged those mutual vows which then appeared unchangeable. How soon happiness had fled! And to think that this climax of their troubles should happen upon this very day, which ought to have been consecrated to tender remembrances!—this was the hardest thought of all; but probably, Arthur did not even remember the day. As these and similar thoughts passed through Mary's mind, her tears redoubled, and fearful that Janet would surprise her in this situation, she rose hastily to go to her own room. In doing this her eye suddenly rested upon a small parcel addressed to herself, which lay upon her little work-table, and taking it in her hand she passed quickly up the stairs, just in time to avoid the scrutinizing eye of Janet, who, shrewdly suspecting that something was wrong, had resolved to be uncommonly attentive to her young mistress, in the hope of discovering the cause of the trouble.
Mary locked the door of her own apartment, and observing that the address on the package was in Arthur's handwriting, she hastily tore off the envelope, discovering a beautiful edition of a volume of poems for which she had expressed a wish—unheeded and unheard, as she deemed it—some days before. Her own name and that of her husband were written upon the blank leaf, and the date showed that it was designed as a gift for this very day; a proof that he remembered the anniversary which she had supposed so entirely forgotten.
It was but a trifling attention—one of those pleasant little patches of blue sky which we sometimes see when the remainder of the heavens is covered with clouds—but it produced an entire revulsion of feeling. A flood of gentle and tender emotions filled the heart of the young wife; the faults of her husband now appeared to her as nothing, while his many virtues stood out in bold relief; she, alone, had been to blame in the little difficulties which had sprung up between them, for a playful remonstrance on her part would, no doubt, have dispelled the coldness of manner which had sometimes troubled her, and induced him to pay those little attentions which her heart craved. He had always, in every important matter, been very, very kind to her, and how often she had opposed his wishes and laughed at his opinions!
But it was not yet too late; she would regain the place in his affections which she still feared she had forfeited; and with the childish, impulsive eagerness which marked her character, Mary hastened to the shed, and summoning Janet to her assistance, was soon busily at work on the old furniture, which, an hour ago, she had so much despised. The old clock-case soon shone with an unequalled polish, and the chair (sic) seeemed to have renewed its youth. But where should they be placed? for Arthur had left the house without designating the spot where they had formerly stood.
"It would be so delightful to have them just where he wished, before he comes home!" thought Mary, and it was with real joy that she turned to receive the greeting of a worthy old lady, who was one of the nearest neighbours, and having lived on the same place for the last forty years, had undoubtedly been well acquainted with the old chair and clock, and could tell the very place where they ought to stand.
This proved to be the case. The lady was quite delighted to meet such old friends, and assisted Mary in arranging them with the utmost pleasure.
"There, dear," she exclaimed, when all was completed, "that is exactly right. It seems to me I can almost see my old friend, Mrs. Hartwell, in her favourite chair, with her pretty little boy, your husband that is now, by her side. Poor child! it was such a sad loss to him when she died; I am glad he has found such a good wife; it is not every one who thinks so much of their husband's feelings as you do, my dear."
Mary blushed a little at this somewhat ill-deserved praise, but thanked her worthy visiter, for her kindness, and exerted herself so successfully to make her long call agreeable, that the good lady went home with the firm impression that "'Arthur Hartwell had got one of the best wives in the country."
The hours seemed long until the usual time for Arthur's arrival; and with almost trembling eagerness Mary heard his step in the entry. Her tremulous but Pleasant "good evening," met with rather a cold return, but she was prepared for this, and was not discouraged. Tea was on the table, and they sat down. Arthur's taste had been scrupulously consulted, and the effort to please did not, as was too often the case, pass unnoticed.
From a desire to break the somewhat awkward silence, or from some other motive, he praised each favourite dish, and declared he had seldom eaten so good a supper.
Rising from table, they proceeded as usual to the parlour; and now Mary was amply rewarded for the sacrifice of her own taste, if sacrifice it could be called, by the surprise and pleasure visible in her husband's countenance as he looked around, and by the affectionate kiss which he imprinted upon her cheek.
"And you will forgive my hasty words, will you not?" Mary whispered softly as he bent his head to hers.