Books: Married Life; Its Shadows and Sunshine

T >> T.S. Arthur >> Married Life; Its Shadows and Sunshine

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But these were unpleasant images, and Mr. Bain thrust them from his
mind.

While Mr. Bain took his morning walk to his store, his lungs freely
and pleasurably expanding in the pure, invigorating air, his wife,
to whose throbbing temples the anguish had returned, and whose
relaxed muscles had scarcely enough tension to support the weight of
her slender frame, slowly and painfully began the work of getting
her two oldest children ready for school. This done, the baby had to
be washed and dressed. It screamed during the whole operation, and
when, at last, it fell asleep upon her bosom, she was so completely
exhausted, that she had to lie down. Tears wet her pillow as she lay
with her babe upon her arm. He, to whom alone she had a right to
look for sympathy, for support, and for strength in her many trials,
did not appear to sympathize with her in the least. If she looked
sober from the pressure of pain, fatigue, or domestic trials, he
became impatient, and sometimes said, with cruel thoughtlessness,
that he was tired of clouds and rain, and would give the world for a
wife who could smile now and then. If, amid her many household cares
and duties, she happened to neglect some little matter that affected
his comfort, he failed not to express his annoyance, and not always
in carefully chosen words. No wonder that her woman's heart
melted--no wonder that hot tears were on her cheeks.

Mr. Bain had, as we have said, an excellent appetite; and he took
especial pleasure in its gratification. He liked his dinner
particularly, and his dinners were always good dinners. He went to
market himself. On his way to his store he passed through the
market, and his butcher sent home what he purchased.

"The marketing has come home," said the cook to Mrs. Bain, about ten
o'clock, arousing her from a brief slumber into which she had
fallen--a slumber that exhausted nature demanded, and which would
have done far more than medicine for the restoration of something
like a healthy tone to her system.

"Very well. I will come down in a little while," returned Mrs. Bain,
raising herself on her elbow, and see about dinner. What has Mr.
Bain sent home?"

"A calf's head."

"What!"

"A calf's head."

"Very well. I will be down to see about it." Mrs. Bain repressed any
further remark.

Sick and exhausted as she felt, she must spend at least two hours in
the kitchen in making soup and dressing the calf's head for her
husband's dinner. Nothing of this could be trusted to the cook, for
to trust any part of its preparation to her was to have it spoiled.

With a sigh, Mrs. Bain arose from the bed. At first she staggered
across the room like one intoxicated, and the pain, which had
subsided during her brief slumber, returned again with added
violence. But, really sick as she felt, she went down to the kitchen
and passed full two hours there in the preparation of delicacies for
her husband's dinner. And what was her reward?

"This is the worst calf's head soup you ever made. What have you
done to it?" said Mr. Bain, pushing the plate of soup from before
him, with an expression of disgust on his face.

There were tears in the eyes of the suffering wife, and she lifted
them to her husband's countenance. Steadily she looked at him for a
few moments; then her lips quivered, and the tears fell over her
cheeks. Hastily rising, she left the dining room.

"It is rather hard that I can't speak without having a scene,"
muttered Mr. Bain, as he tried his soup once more. It did not suit
his taste at all; so he pushed it from him, and made his dinner of
something else.

As his wife had been pleased to go off up-stairs in a huff, just at
a word, Mr. Bain did not feel inclined to humour her. So, after
finishing his dinner, he took his hat and left the house, without so
much as seeking to offer a soothing word.

Does the reader wonder that, when Mr. Bain returned in the evening,
he found his wife so seriously ill as to make it necessary to send
for their family physician? No, the reader will not wonder at this.

But Mr. Bain felt a little surprised. He had not anticipated any
thing of the kind.

Mrs. Bain was not only ill, but delirious. Her feeble frame,
exhausted by maternal duties, and ever-beginning, never-ending
household cares, had yielded under the accumulation of burdens too
heavy to bear.

For a while after Mr. Bain's return, his wife talked much, but
incoherently; then she became quiet. But her fever remained high,
and inflammation tended strongly towards the brain. He was sitting
by the bedside about ten o'clock, alone with her, when she began to
talk in her wandering way again; but her words were distinct and
coherent.

"I tried to do it right," said she, sadly; "but my head ached so
that I did not know what I was doing. Ah me! I never please him now
in any thing. I wish I could always look pleasant--cheerful. But I
can't. Well! well! it won't last for ever. I never feel
well--never--never--never! And I'm so faint and weak in the morning!
But he has no patience with me. _He_ doesn't know what it is to feel
sick. Ah me!"

And her voice sighed itself away into silence.

With what a rebuking force did these words fall upon the ears of Mr.
Bain! He saw himself in a new light. He was the domestic tyrant, and
not the kind and thoughtful husband.

A few days, and Mrs. Bain was moving about her house and among her
children once more, pale as a shadow, and with lines of pain upon
her fore-head. How differently was she now treated by her husband!
With what considerate tenderness he regarded her! But, alas! he saw
his error too late! The gentle, loving creature, who had come to his
side ten years before, was not much longer to remain with him. A few
brief summers came and went, and then her frail body was laid amid
the clods of the valley.

Alas! how many, like Mrs. Bain, have thus passed away, who, if truly
loved and cared for, would have been the light of now darkened
hearths, and the blessing and joy of now motherless children and
bereaved husbands!

THE FIRST AND LAST QUARREL.

"IF I am his wife, I am not his slave!" said young Mrs. Huntley,
indignantly. "It was more than he dared do a month ago."

"If you love me, Esther, don't talk in this way," said Mrs.
Carlisle.

"Am I his slave aunt?" and the young bride drew herself up, while
her eyes flashed.

"No, Esther, you are his wife."

"To be loved, and not commanded! That is the difference, and he has
got to learn it."

"Were Edward to see and hear you now, do you think your words,
manner, and expression would inspire him with any new affection for
you?"

"I have nothing to do with that. I only express a just indignation,
and that is a right I did not alienate when I consented to become
his wife."

"You are a silly girl, Esther," said Mrs. Carlisle, "and I am afraid
will pay dear for your folly. Edward has faults, and so have you. If
you understood the duties and responsibilities of your position, and
felt the true force of your marriage vows, you would seek to bend
into better forms the crooked branches of your husband's hereditary
temper, rather than commit an irreparable injury by roughly breaking
them. I was not pleased with Edward's manner of speaking; but I must
admit that he had provocation: that you were first, and, therefore,
most to blame."

"I objected to going with him to the opera, because I particularly
wanted to call and see Anna Lewis to-night. I had made up my mind to
this, and when I make up my mind to any thing I do not like to be
turned from my purpose."

"Edward resembles you rather too much in that respect. Therefore,
there must be a disposition to yielding and self-denial on one side
or the other, or unhappiness will follow. Hitherto, as far as I have
been able to see, the yielding has all been on the part of Edward,
who has given up to you in everything. And now, when he shows that
he has a will of his own, you become very indignant, and talk bout
not being his slave."

"It is too bad for you to speak so, aunt! You never think I do any
thing right." And Esther burst into tears.

Meantime, Edward Huntley, the husband, was at the opera, listening
to, but not enjoying, the beauties Norma. It was only a month since
he had led to the altar his beautiful bride, and felt himself the
happiest man in the world. Before marriage, he thought only of how
he should please Esther. The preference of his own wishes to hers
was felt as no sacrifice. But, after the hymeneal contract had been
gratified, his feelings began gradually to change. What he had
yielded in kindness was virtually demanded as a right, and against
this, the moment it was perceived, his spirit rose in rebellion. In
several instances, he gave way to what savoured, much more than he
liked, of imperiousness.

Norma had just been brought out, and received with unprecedented
favour. The newspapers were filled with its praises, and the
beauties of the opera were spoken of by every one. A friend lauded
it with more than usual enthusiasm, on the day it was advertised for
a third performance.

"You haven't heard it yet!" said he, with surprise, on learning that
Huntley had yet to enjoy that pleasure.

"No, but I think I will buy tickets for to-night."

"Do by all means! And get them at once, or you will not be able to
secure a seat."

It was in the afternoon, and Huntley could not ask his young wife
about it, unless he made a special errand home, which, as he lived
some distance away from his office, would be inconvenient. Not in
the least doubting, however, that Esther would be pleased to go to
the opera, as she had more than once expressed a wish to see and
hear Norma, he secured tickets and considered the matter settled.

Now that the gratification of hearing the opera was so near at hand,
Huntley kept thinking of the enjoyment he was to have, and wishing
for the time to pass more rapidly. He pictured, too, the pleasure
that Esther would feel and express when she found that he had
procured tickets. Half an hour earlier than usual he was at home. He
found Esther and her aunt, Mrs. Carlisle, with whom they were
living, in the parlour.

"We are going to see Norma to-night," said Huntley, in a gay voice,
and with a broad smile upon his face, as he sat down beside Esther
and took her hand.

"_We_ are?"

The tone and look with which this was said chilled the warm feelings
of the young man.

"_I_ am, at least," said he, in a changed voice.

"And _I_ am not," as promptly, and much more decidedly, replied
Esther.

"Oh, yes you are." This was said with a suddenly assumed, half
playful, yet earnest manner. "I have bought tickets, and we will go
to-night."

"The least you could have done was to have asked me before you
bought tickets," returned Esther. "I wish to go somewhere else
to-night."

"But, as I have the tickets now, you will go, of course. To-morrow
night will do as well for a visit."

"I wish to make it to-night."

"Esther, you are unreasonable." Huntley knit his brows and
compressed his lips.

"We are quite even then." The pretty lip of the bride curled.

"Esther!" said Huntley, assuming a calm but cold exterior, and
speaking in a firm voice. "I have bought tickets for the opera
to-night, thinking that to go would give you pleasure, and now my
wish is that you accompany me."

"A wish that you will certainly not have gratified. I believe I am
your wife, not your slave to command."

There was something so cutting in the way this was said, that
Huntley could not bear it. Without a word he arose, and, taking his
hat, left the house. In a fever of excitement he walked the street
for an hour and a half, and then, scarcely reflecting upon what he
did, went to the opera. But the music was discord in his ears, and
he left before the performance was half over.

The moment Esther heard the street-door close upon her husband, she
arose and went from the room where she was sitting with her aunt,
moving erect and with a firm step. Mrs. Carlisle did not see her for
two hours. The tea bell rang, but she did not come down from her
chamber, where, as the aunt supposed, she was bitterly repenting
what she had done. In this, however, she was mistaken, as was
proved, when, on joining her in her room for the purpose of striving
to console her, the conversation with which our story opens took
place.

When the fit of weeping with which Esther received the reproof her
aunt felt called upon to give, had subsided, Mrs. Carlisle said, in
a most solemn and impressive manner,

"What has occurred this evening may prove the saddest event of your
whole life. There is no calculating the result. No matter whose the
fault, the consequences that follow may be alike disastrous to the
happiness of both. Are you prepared, thus early, for a sundering of
the sacred bonds that have united you? And yet, even this may
follow. It has followed with others, and may follow with you. Oh!
the consequences of a first quarrel! Who can anticipate them?"

The voice of Mrs. Carlisle trembled, and then sank almost into a
sob. Her manner more than her words startled Esther.

"What do you mean, aunt?" said she.

But her aunt was too much disturbed to speak for some minutes.

"Esther," she at length said, speaking in a voice that still
trembled, "I knew a girl, who, at your age, married an excellent,
but proud-spirited young man. Like Edward, the lover yielded too
much when, as the husband, he began to be a little less considerate,
and to act as if he had a will of his own, his wife set herself
against him just as you set yourself against Edward. This chafed
him, although he strove to conceal his feelings. But, in an un-
guarded moment, when his young wife was unusually self-willed, a
quarrel of no more serious character than the one that has occurred
this evening, between you and Edward, took place. They parted in
anger as you parted, and--"

The aunt was unable for some time to control her voice sufficiently
to finish the sentence--

"And never met again," she at length said, with such visible emotion
as betrayed more than she had wished to reveal.

"Never met again!" ejaculated Esther, a sudden fear trembling
through her heart, and causing her cheeks to grow pale.

"Never!" was the solemn response.

"Why, dear aunt? Why?" eagerly inquired Esther.

"Pride caused him," said Mrs. Carlisle, recovering her
self-possession, "after a breach had been made, to leave not only
his home, but the city in which he lived. Repenting of her
ungenerous contact, his bride waited anxiously for his return at
evening, but waited it vain. Sadly enough passed the lonely hours of
that dreadful night, and morning found her a sleepless watcher. Days
passed, but no word came from the unhappy wanderer from home and
love. A week, and still all was silence and mystery. At the end of
that time a letter was received from a neighbouring city, which
brought intelligence to his friends that he was there, and lying
dangerously ill. By the next conveyance his almost frantic wife
started for the purpose of joining him. Alas! she was too late. When
she stood beside the bed upon which he lay, she looked only upon the
inanimate form of her husband. Death had been there before her.
Esther! thirty years have passed since then, but the anguish I felt
when I stood and looked upon the cold, dead, face of my husband, in
that terrible hour, time has not altogether obliterated!"

Esther had risen to her feet, and now stood with her pale lips
parted, and her cheeks blanched to an ashy whiteness.

"Dear aunt is all this true?" she asked huskily, while she grasped
the arm of her relative.

"Heaven knows it is too true, my child! It was the first and, the
last quarrel I had with my husband. And now, as you value your own
and Edward's peace of mind, be warned by my sad example, and let the
present unhappy difference that has occurred be quickly reconciled.
Acknowledge your error the moment you see him, and make a firm
resolution that you will, under no circumstances, permit the
slightest misunderstanding again to take place. Yield to him, and
you will find him ready as before to yield to you. What he was not
ready to give under the force of a demand, love will prompt him
cheerfully to render."

"Oh! if Edward should never return!" Esther said, clasping her hands
together. She had scarcely heard the last sentence of her aunt.

"You need not fear on that account, my child," replied Mrs.
Carlisle, in a voice meant to inspire confidence. "Edward will no
doubt return. Few men act so rashly as to separate themselves at the
first misunderstanding, although, too often, the first quarrel is
but the prelude to others of a more violent kind, that end in
severing the most sacred of all bonds, or rendering the life that
might have been one of the purest felicity, an existence of misery.
When Edward comes home to-night, forget every thing but your own
error, and freely confess that. Then, all will be sunshine in a
moment, although the light will fall and sparkle upon dewy
tear-drops."

"I was mad to treat him so!" was Esther's response to this, as she
paced the floor, with uneasy step. "Oh! if he should never return."

Once possessed with the idea that he would not return, the poor wife
was in an agony of fear. No suggestion made by her aunt in the least
relieved her mind. One thought--one fear--absorbed every thing else.
Thus passed the evening, until ten o'clock came. From that time
Esther began to listen anxiously for her husband's return, but hour
after hour went by, and she was still a tearful watcher.

"I shall go mad if I sit here any longer!" murmured Huntley to
himself, as the music came rushing upon his agitated soul, in a wild
tempest, toward the middle of the opera, and, rising abruptly, he
retired from the theatre. How still appeared the half deserted
streets! Coldly the night air fell upon him, but the fever in his
veins was unabated. He walked first up one street and then down
another, with rapid steps, and this was continued for hours. Then
the thought of going home crossed his mind. But he set his teeth
firmly, and murmured audibly,

"Oh! to be defied, and charged with being a tyrant? And has it come
to this so soon?"

The more Huntley brooded, in this unhappy mood, over his wife's
words and conduct, the denser and more widely refracting became the
medium through which he saw. His pride continually excited his mind,
and threw a thick veil over all the gentler emotions of his heart.
He was beside himself.

At one o'clock he found himself standing in front of the United
States Hotel, his mind made up to desert the affectionate young
creature, who, in a moment of thoughtlessness, had set her will in
opposition to his,--to leave the city, under an assumed name, by the
earliest lines, and go, he knew not nor cared not where. Blind
passion was his prompter and guide. In this feverish state he
entered the hotel and called for a bed.

Eleven, twelve, one o'clock came, and found Mrs. Huntley in a state
of wild agitation. Edward had not yet returned. The silence and
evident distress of Mrs. Carlisle struck down the heart of Esther,
almost as much as her own fears. The too vivid recollection of one
terrible event in her own life completely unbalanced the aunt's
mind, and took away all power to sustain her niece.

"I will go in search of him, aunt!" exclaimed Esther, as the clock
struck two. "He cannot leave the city before daylight. I will find
him, and confess all my folly before it is too late."

"But where will you go, my child?" Mrs. Carlisle asked in a sad
voice.

"Where--where shall I go?" eagerly inquired Mrs. Huntley.

"It is midnight, Esther. You cannot find him now."

"But I must see him before he leaves me, perhaps for ever! It will
kill me. If I wait until morning, it will be too late."

Mrs. Carlisle bent her eyes to the floor, and for the space of more
than a minute remained in deep thought. She then said, in a calm
voice,

"Esther, I cannot believe that Edward will desert you on so slight a
provocation. For a few hours his mind may be blinded with passion,
and be swayed by false judgment. But morning will find him cooler
and more reflective. He will see his error, and repent of any mad
act he may have contemplated. Still, to guard against the worst of
consequences, should this salutary change not take place, I think it
would be best for you to go early to the boat, and by meeting him
prevent a step that may cost you each a life of wretchedness."

"I will do it! He shall not go away! Oh! if I could once more meet
him! all would be reconciled on the instant."

Confident in her own mind that Edward had determined to go away from
the city in the morning, and fully resolved upon what she would do,
Esther threw herself upon the bed, and in snatches of uneasy slumber
passed the remainder of that dreadful night. At day-dawn she was up,
and making preparations for going to the boat to intercept her
husband.

"Be self-possessed, my dear niece," urged Mrs. Carlisle, in a voice
that trembled so she could scarcely speak.

Esther tried to reply, but, though her lips and tongue moved, there
was no utterance. Turning away, just as the sun threw his first rays
into her chamber window, she went down stairs, and her aunt, no
longer able to restrain herself, covered her face with her hands and
wept.

On the day before, Esther had laid her gloves on one of the parlour
mantels, and she went in to get them. It was so dark that she could
not see, and she, therefore, opened a window and pushed back one of
the shutters. As she did so, a sound between a sigh and a groan fell
upon her ear, and caused her to turn with a start. There lay her
husband, asleep upon one of the sofas! A wild cry that she could not
restrain burst from her lips, and, springing toward him, she threw
her arms about his neck as he arose, startled, from his recumbent
position.

An hour's reflection, alone in the room he had taken at the hotel,
satisfied Huntley that he was wrong in not going home. By the aid of
his night key he entered, silently, at the very time his wife
resolved to seek him in the morning, and, throwing himself upon a
sofa in the parlour to think what he should next do, thought himself
to sleep.

All was, of course, reconciled. With tears of joy and contrition
Esther acknowledged the error she had committed. Huntley had his own
share of blame in his impatient temper, and this he was also ready
to confess He did not, however, own that he had thought of deserting
his wife on such slight provocation, nor did she confess the fearful
suspicion that had crossed her mind.

It was their first and last quarrel.

GUESS WHO IT IS!

"IT will be great deal better for us, Lizzy. America is a country
where all things are in full and plenty; but here we are ground down
to the earth and half-starved by the rich and great in order that
they may become richer and greater. I isn't so there, Lizzy. Don't
you remember what John McClure wrote home, six months after he
crossed the ocean?"

"Yes, I remember all that, Thomas; but John McClure was never a very
truthful body at home and I've always thought that if we knew every
thing, we would find that he wrote with his magnifying glasses on.
John, you know, was very apt to see things through magnifying
glasses."

"But the testimony doesn't come alone from John. We hear it every
day and from every quarter, that America is a perfect paradise for
the poor, compared to England."

"I don't know how that can be, Thomas. They say that it is full of
wild beast poisonous serpents, and savage Indians, and that the
people are in constant fear of their lives. I'm sure England is a
better place than that, even if we do have to work hard and get but
little for it."

"All that used to be, Lizzy," replied Thomas. "But they've killed
the wild beasts and serpents, and tamed the savage Indians. And
there are great cities there, the same as in England."

But Lizzy could not be convinced. From her earliest childhood she
had never had but one idea of America, and that was as a great
wilderness filled with Indians and wild beasts. Of the former, she
had heard tales that made her blood curdle in her veins. It was in
vain, therefore, for Thomas Ward to argue with his wife about going
to America. She was not to be convinced that a waste, howling
wilderness was at all comparable with happy old England, even if the
poor were "ground down."

As a dozen previous discussions on the subject had ended, so ended
this. Thomas Ward was of the same mind as before, and so was his
wife. The one wished to go, and the other to stay.

Ward had only been married a short time, but the period, short as it
was, proved long enough to bring a sad disappointment of his worldly
hopes. He had been employed as a gentleman's gardener for many
years, and had been able, by strict economy, to lay up a little
money. But soon after his, marriage, through some slight
misunderstanding he lost his place, and had not since been able to
obtain any thing more than transient employment, the return from
which had, so far, proved inadequate to the maintenance of himself
and wife, requiring him to draw steadily upon the not very large
fund that was deposited in the Savings' Bank.

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