Books: Married Life; Its Shadows and Sunshine
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T.S. Arthur >> Married Life; Its Shadows and Sunshine
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"After the mind of Harriet had grown calmer, she commenced restoring
to order the few articles in her chamber that had been disarranged
in the hurried preparation made by her husband for his departure. As
she was about placing the coat he had worn in the morning, and which
he had changed for another on going away, in the wardrobe, her hand
pressed against a letter in one of the pockets, which a sudden
curiosity tempted her to read. The direction was in a small,
delicate hand, and the post-mark New York. Hurriedly opening it,
when she saw this, she read its brief contents, which were as
follow:
"DEAR HENRY--I heard, indirectly, within the last hour, that you
were married. I cannot believe it, yet the thought has maddened me!
If you do not come to me by to-morrow night, I will go to you on the
following day--for the truth or falsity of what I have heard must be
verified to me at once. If it be true--God help the innocent heart
you have betrayed, and most cruelly wronged. It can only break!
"ADELAIDE."
"The trembling hands of the horror-stricken wife could hold the
fatal epistle no longer than to permit her eyes to rest upon the
signature. It then fell rustling to the floor, and she sat pale,
quivering in every nerve, and unconscious of any thing but a wild
whirling of all her senses.
"It was my fortune, or misfortune, to call upon my young friend just at
this time. I was told that she was in her chamber; and, as our intimacy
was very great, I took a liberty we were in the habit of taking with
each other, and went up to her, unannounced. My gentle tap at her door
not being answered, I opened it and went in. As I have just described
her, thus I found her. My entrance but partially restored her
self-command. She stared wildly at me, stretched out her hands, and made
an effort to speak. I sprang toward her, and she fell forward against my
bosom, with a deep groan that made me shudder. Thus she lay for nearly
five minutes as still as a statue. Then a slight quiver ran through her
frame, which was followed by a gush of tears. For a long time she
continued weeping and sobbing, but at length grew calmer. All this time
I could see an open letter lying upon the floor, which I doubted not was
the caused of this distressing scene. When the self-command of Harriet
was at last restored, and she began to reflect upon the consequences
likely to flow from another's witnessing the wild agitation she had
displayed, a shade of anxious confusion passed over her face. At this
moment her eye rested upon the fatal letter, which she caught up eagerly
and concealed. I asked no question, nor made any remarks. She looked at
me steadily for a moment, and then let her eyes fall thoughtfully to the
floor.
"'You are surprised and confounded, no doubt,' she at length said,
mournfully, 'at what you have seen. Pardon me if I refrain from
mentioning the cause. It is one of which I cannot speak.'
"I begged her not to reveal the cause of her affliction, if to do so
were at all in violation of what she deemed right; but to accept my
deepest sympathies, and to put it in my power, if that were
possible, to mitigate, in some degree, the pain of mind she was
suffering.
"'That you cannot do,' said she. 'It is beyond the reach of human
aid.'
"'May Heaven, then, give you strength to bear it,' I returned, with
emotion.
"'Heaven only can,' she replied in a subdued voice.
"I could say no more, for my ignorance of the cause of her distress
put it out of my power to offer consolation, more particularly as it
was her expressed wish that I should remain in ignorance. I staid an
hour with her, during which time I learned that her husband had been
suddenly called to New York on business. It was one of the
unhappiest hours I ever spent in my life. On going away, I could not
help recalling the conversation I had once held with Sarah Corbin
about Mr. Eaverson, nor help feeling that there might be too much
truth in her declarations that she believed him to be a man without
honour or virtue. There was no doubt in my mind that Harriet's
distress was in some way connected with her husband's absence, and
it occurred to me that the letter I had seen upon the floor, and
which she concealed so eagerly, might not have been intended for her
eyes, and might contain things which for her to know would be fatal
to her peace through life. In this, my conjectures were of course
true.
"I called in to see Mrs. Eaverson on the next day, reluctantly, but
from a sense of duty. I found her calm, but pale, and with a look of
distress. She said but little. No allusion whatever was made to the
condition in which I had found her on the previous afternoon. I sat
only half an hour, and then went away. I could not stay longer, for
my presence seemed oppressive to her, and hers was equally so to me.
"On the third day succeeding that on which Mr. Eaverson went to New
York, I saw a newspaper paragraph headed, 'Melancholy
Circumstances.' It related, briefly, that the daughter of
respectable and wealthy parents in New York had been deeply wronged
about a year previous by an unprincipled cousin, whom she
passionately loved. The consequence was, that the young man had to
leave the city, under the promise of never returning to it, unless
he consented to marry his cousin. This penalty was imposed by the
father of the girl, who declared his intention to shoot him if he
ever saw him in New York. The result of this baseness on the part of
the young man was the utter estrangement of his family. They threw
him off entirely. But, as he had a handsome fortune in his own
right, and the cause of his removal from New York did not become
generally known, he soon found his way into the best society in a
neighbouring city. Some months afterwards he married a lovely girl,
who was all unconscious of the base retch into whose keeping she had
given the inestimable jewel of her love. A few days since, the
narration proceeded, the cousin, by some means or other, obtained a
knowledge of this fact. She wrote to him demanding an interview, and
threatening that if she did not obtain one in twenty-four hours, she
would immediately come to him and ascertain for herself, if what she
had heard were true. Alarmed for the peace of his bride, the young
man hurried on to New York, and, at the risk of his life, gained an
interview with the lovely girl he had so deeply injured. He did not
attempt to conceal the fact of his marriage, but only urged the
almost broken-hearted victim of his base dishonour not to do any-
thing that could bring to his wife a knowledge of his conduct, as it
must for ever destroy her peace. This confession blasted at once and
for ever all the poor girl's hopes. She gave her betrayer one long,
fixed, intense look of blended agony, reproach, and shame, and then,
without uttering a word, retired slowly from his presence. She
sought her mother, who, from the first, had rather drawn her into
her very bosom than thrown her off harshly, and related what she had
just heard. She shed no tear, she uttered no reproach, but simply
told what her mother had known for months too well. That night her
spirit left its earthly habitation. Whether she died of a broken
heart, or by her own hands, is not known. The family sought not to
investigate the cause,--to them it was enough to know that she was
dead and at peace.
"Whether this statement ever met the eye of Mrs. Eaverson is more
than I can tell. I did not venture to call upon her after I had seen
it. A few weeks subsequently I met her in the street on the arm of
her husband. She was sadly changed, and had the appearance of one
just recovering from a long and severe illness. Eaverson himself had
a look of suffering.
"The notoriety given by the publication of the acts of his base
conduct in New York caused Eaverson to feel little at ease in this
city. Some months afterwards he removed to the South with his wife,
much against the wishes of her friends. Harriet did not want to go,
but she could do no less than accompany her husband.
"Some three years afterwards, it was whispered about that Harriet
had left her husband and returned home to her father; but that the
matter was kept very quiet, and that she had not been seen by any of
her old friends. It was said, that after living some time at the
South, Mr. Eaverson grew indifferent towards his wife. A virtuous
woman, she could not but be deeply shocked on discovering her
husband's want of virtue. This she could not conceal; and its
appearance was a standing reproof and condemnation of his principles
and conduct. No bad man could endure this. Its effect would be
certain estrangement. From dislike towards his wife, his feelings
gradually deepened into hatred. Open abuse soon followed neglect;
when she fled from him, with two young children, and sought the
protection of her father's house.
"It was nearly a year after Harriet's return, before I saw her. I
could hardly believe, when I did meet her and grasp her hand, that
the pale, dejected, care-worn being who stood before me was the same
with the light-hearted, beautiful, gay young girl I had known but a
few years back. Alas! how surely does pain of mind forestall the
work of time!
"A few days after this meeting, which made me sad for weeks, I spent
an afternoon and evening with Mrs. Williamson, formerly Sarah
Corbin. She had two children, a boy and a girl, and was living
somewhat secluded, but with every comfort she could desire. Her
husband was a merchant in a good business. When he came home at
tea-time and met his wife, it was with one of those quiet but
genuine smiles that you know come from the heart. He welcomed me, as
he always did, with great cordiality; and then calling for Sarah,
his eldest child, who ran in from the next room the instant she
heard his vice, he took her upon his lap, and, after kissing her
with great tenderness, asked and answered a dozen little questions
to her great delight. At tea-time Mr. Williamson conversed more
freely than was usual with him when I was present. I noticed, as I
had often done before, that, on whatever subject he spoke, his
remarks, though few, were full of good sense, and indicative of
close observation. The slightest deviation from honour or integrity
met with his decided condemnation, while virtuous actions were as
warmly approved. I could perceive, from the expression of his wife's
face, and the tones of her voice when she spoke, that she not only
held her husband in high estimation, but loved him with a tenderness
that had grown with years. Qualities of mind and heart, not external
attractions, such as brilliant accomplishments, beauty, or wealth,
had drawn her towards him at first: these had won her young
affections, and they had become purer and brighter, and increased in
attractive power as year after year went by.
"On going home that evening, I could not help pausing and looking
back. Vividly, as it were but yesterday, came up before my mind my
two young friends when, as maidens, their hands were sought in
wedlock. I remembered how one, with true wisdom, looked below the
imposing exterior and sought for moral worth as the basis of
character in him who asked her hand; while the other, looking no
deeper than the surface, was dazzled by beauty, wealth, and talents.
The result you all have seen."
Mrs. Harding paused in the narrative. Half a dozen eager voices
instantly inquired the ultimate fate of Mrs. Eaverson. "A few years
after her return home," resumed the narrator, "she died. Her husband
during that period neither wrote to her nor visited her. What has
become of him I don't know. Mrs. Williamson is still living,
surrounded by a lovely family of children. Her oldest daughter has
just been married, and, to all present appearances, has united her
fate with one every way worthy of her hand. Mr. Williamson, or
rather Mr. Rierdon, as I should truly have called him, you all
know."
"Mr. Rierdon!" exclaimed Ella. "It can't be possible you mean him?"
"Not old Mr. Rierdon!" exclaimed another. "Why he is respected and
loved by every one!"
"I know he is," returned Mrs. Harding, "and well deserves to be.
Yet, when a young man, he had nothing very imposing about him, and
was thought of but little account by a set of young and foolish
girls, just such as you are, whose heads were liable to be turned by
any dashing young fellow with more impudence than brains, or more
talent than principle, who happened to thrust himself forward and
push better men aside. I hope the lesson I have endeavoured to teach
you may not be lost entirely; and that when any one of you has an
offer of marriage, she will look rather at the heart than the
head--at the qualities instead of the accomplishments--of him who
makes it. If she does not, she will be in great danger of committing
the sad mistake made by my excellent but thoughtless young friend,
Harriet Wieland, of whom I never can think without pain."
Whether the narrative of Mrs. Harding had any good effect upon her
hearers, we do not know; but we would fain believe that it had; and
we hope our fair young readers will not forget the important lesson
it teaches. Let them be well assured that marriage is no lottery,
except where it is made so. Every one who will look at the moral
qualities of the object of her regard, instead of at what is merely
external, will see deep enough to enable her to come to a right
decision in regard to him. There is no necessity for mistakes in
marriage.
THE UNLOVED ONE.
AN EXTRACT FROM "LOVE IN HIGH LIFE."
......FIXED in his resolution to repel every manifestation of
tenderness on the part of his wife, Percy Edwards maintained towards
her the same cold formality, in spite of all her earnest efforts to
break the icy crust of his feelings. He did not love her, and was
not inclined to affect a passion; nay, she was absolutely repulsive
to him, and the least he could do, under the circumstances, was to
protect himself as he did without overt acts of unkindness.
And thus disjoined, instead of united, Mr. and Mrs. Edwards moved
along their way through life, envied by hundreds, who, in exchanging
with them, would have left an Eden of happiness for a dreary
wilderness.
A few months of such an existence completely broke down the spirits
of Kate. She had no pride to sustain her. Thousands, as unloved as
she, seek refuge in pride, pleasure, and a heartless worship at the
gilded shrine of fashion. They meet coldness with a sharp disdain;
and, finding nothing to love at home, turn to what the world has to
offer, and become mere bubbles on the surface of society--prominent,
brilliant, and useless. Nay, worse than useless; for they reflect
the light of heaven falsely, and create discontent in those who see
only their glittering exterior, and vainly imagine it to be the
correspondent of internal delight.
It was not so with Kate; for she was sincere, unselfish, and
true-hearted, and could not seek a false pleasure, when the sources
of real delight became dry. A naiad, at a fountain, the waters of
which had failed, she turned not to another, but bent weeping over
the spot, hoping, yet faint with a long desire to hear the murmur of
the coming stream.
There fell, at last, a gleam of light across her path. In her dark
and cloudy sky arched, beautifully, a bow of promise. Hope, faint,
yet sweet to her spirit, revived, and she looked to the future with
a trembling heart. For a long time she locked in her own thoughts
the dear secret she had discovered and pondered over it with a daily
increasing pleasure. Then it was whispered, low and with a blushing
cheek, to her husband. She was to become a mother!
From that moment she felt that there was a change. From that moment
her husband's manner was different. He was still as polite and
formal as, before; but with these was blended a something that her
heart interpreted as tenderness for his wife; and from this her
fainting spirit drew the aliment that sustained it. If, suddenly
coming upon her now, he surprised her weeping, he did not turn away,
silent and cold, as before; but would speak some word of apparent
sympathy, which instantly dried up the fountains of grief. And thus
the time passed, until another being saw the light--until another
voice sounded upon the air. Oh! with what a thrill of delight did
the young mother take her new-born babe into her arms, and hail it
as the bond that was to bind to hers the heart of her husband. How
eagerly did she read the face of that husband--as he bent over and
gazed upon the innocent being to which she had given birth--and
marked its glow of pleasure. But, he did not look into _her_
face--he had eyes _only for his boy!_ The mother sighed faintly; but
he did not hear the sigh. Her long lashes fell slowly upon her
cheeks, and tears stole from beneath them; but he turned away
without observing she wept.
The bow of promise, which had spanned the heaven of her mind, faded
away; and the light that had lain so warmly upon her path grew dim.
There was love in the heart of her husband only for his child, but
none for her. That dreadful truth came with a shock, felt to the
very centre of her being; and, reacting upon her exhausted system,
disturbed all its vital functions. Fever and delirium laid their
hands upon her, and for many days the light of life but flickered in
the wind that seemed every moment about to extinguish it.
When, at last, through the skill of her physician, the disease
abated, and health, though feeble, began to flow once more through
her veins; and when reason came back, and with it the outgushing
tenderness of the young mother, she found that her babe had been
laid upon another breast, and that from another it was to draw the
sustenance which nature had supplied for it in her own bosom.
Against this her heart arose in instant rebellion. But no freedom of
choice was left her. The physician said that her health was too
slender to admit of the exhaustion attendant upon nursing her own
babe. The husband would not hear of such a thing for a moment. And
her husband's mother older-hearted and more worldly-minded than even
he, openly sneered at the idea of one in her position degrading
herself into a mere child's nurse!
It was all in vain that Kate pleaded, tearfully, for the mother's
highest privilege. Those who had the power forced her into a
compliance with their will; and the fountain in her bosom, that
stirred at the voice of her babe, was suffered to become dry.
From that time, the health of Mrs. Edwards visibly declined; or,
rather, was never restored to its previous condition. She became
subject to fainting fits and long periods of depression, from which
nothing could arouse her. The babe, instead of forming a link
between her and her husband, became a rival in his affections. Mr.
Edwards worshipped his boy; but, for his wife, had no feeling other
than indifference, if not absolute dislike. All this Kate saw; and
it extinguished her last and dearest hope.
To those who could only look upon the surface, Mr. Edwards was
regarded as one of the kindest and most attentive of husbands; and
when a rumour of his wife's fits of gloomy depression of spirits
went abroad, the fault was attributed to herself, and laid to the
charge of a naturally capricious and dissatisfied temper.
"If she had fewer of life's blessings," said one, "she would be
happier. The very surplus of every thing makes her appetite pall."
"Any woman, situated as she is," remarked another, "who is not
contented, deserves to be wretched. I have no sympathy for her. Her
husband I know very well, and know him to be one of the kindest and
most indulgent of men."
"He has indulged her too much," alleged another.
These impressions the elder Mrs. Edwards strengthened and confirmed,
whenever she had occasion to say any thing on the subject.
"Percy has rather a gloomy time of it," she would sometimes remark,
when allusion was made to the subject; and then, when the
inquisitive would ask as to the cause of Kate's strange conduct, she
would shake her head gravely, and say--
"Over-indulgence has spoiled her."
Or--
"It's hard to tell what ails her, unless it be the desire for some
impossible thing. Some minds are never content. To multiply their
blessings is but to multiply their misery."
Or--
"Heaven knows what ails her! Percy would give worlds for that
knowledge, if with it came also the remedy."
The rapid decline in his wife's health, or rather its failure, after
the birth of her child, to come back its old standard united to her
lowness of spirits--naturally gave her husband some concern, and he
consulted her physician as to the cause. He, as the profession
generally do, assigned a physical cause, and recommended change of
air.
"Let her go to the sea-shore, or among the Mountains," said he.
And this change was proposed to Kate.
"I saw Doctor R--to-day," said her husband, after the interview,
"and he recommends a few weeks on the sea-shore, or somewhere among
the mountains."
"I don't wish to go," replied Kate, in a low, sad voice.
"But your health, Kate," said Mr. Edwards.
"I shall be just as well at home," she replied.
"No, I will not admit that. Doctor R--is sure that a change of air
will do you good; and what he says is reasonable."
Kate made no answer. Mr. Edwards continued to urge the matter upon
her; but she had no more to say.
On the same evening Percy called to see his mother.
"How is Kate?" inquired the latter.
"No better. I saw Doctor R--about her to-day, and he says a change
of air is absolutely necessary, and recommends a few weeks at the
Bedford Springs, or at Newport, or Cape May."
"No doubt it would do her much good."
"No doubt in the world. But, as in every thing else of late, she is
opposed to just what her friends recommend to her as best."
"She doesn't want to go?"
"No, of course not."
"Did you tell that the doctor recommended the change?"
"Yes. But she insists upon it that she will be just as well at
home."
"A compliment to the medical opinion of Doctor R--!
"Isn't it? I wish you would see her, and urge her to go somewhere."
"Very well; though I don't know that what I say will be of much use.
I am not one of her favourites."
"See her, at any rate. It won't do to let her sink down and die, as
she certainly will if something cannot be done to arouse her."
"I will call upon Mrs. Harrison and tell her what the doctor says.
She has great influence over her; and can persuade her to go if any
one can."
The mother of Kate heard what the doctor had said, and approved of
his recommendation. She knew, better than any one else, the true
nature of the disease from which her daughter was suffering; and,
although she did not hope for much from a change of scene, yet she
believed the effect would be salutary rather than otherwise. So she
went to see her immediately. She found her, as usual, alone in her
chamber, with a sad countenance, and a drooping, listless air. After
inquiring, tenderly, about her health, she said--
"I understand that Doctor R--recommends a change of air."
"What all doctors recommend when they do not know the cause and
nature of a disease," replied Kate, with a faint smile.
"But I think, with Doctor R--, that a few weeks at the sea-shore
will be of great benefit. The change will interest your mind as well
as invigorate your body."
"A temporary benefit may be derived from such a change," said Kate;
"but it cannot be permanent. When I return, I will sink again; and,
perhaps, lower, from the unnatural excitement to which I have been
subjected."
"Kate, my child, it is wrong for you to give up in this way. Your
disease is more of the mind than of the body; and you have the power
to arouse yourself and throw it off, if you will."
"The power, mother! I, the power!" exclaimed Kate, in a voice that
made her mother start.
"Have you not?" inquired Mrs. Harrison calmly.
"Has the bird, whose wing is broken, the power to fly?" asked Kate.
"Unless you make an effort to throw off your present state of mind,
you cannot live. And are you willing to die, and leave this dear
child in the hands of those who cannot love it as you do?"
"Has it not already been taken from me? Does it not draw its
existence from another breast?"
"But your health required--"
"My health! mother! My very life depended upon the privilege you
have all denied me. Do you want the proof? Look at that shadowy
hand"--and she held up the thin white member against the light,
which almost shone through it--"and at this shrunken face," and she
laid her hand upon her colourless cheek. "Restore the fountain that
has been dried, and let my babe drink at it, and there is some hope.
None without."
"That is impossible, Kate"--
"And just as impossible is my return to health through the means
proposed."
"But, for the sake of your friends, you ought to be willing to try
the means of restoration prescribed by a physician in whom we all
have confidence."
"Friends?" said Kate, half to herself. "Friends? Have I any
friends?"
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