Books: Married Life; Its Shadows and Sunshine
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T.S. Arthur >> Married Life; Its Shadows and Sunshine
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"Mr. Smith is late in coming home to his dinner," the aunt said,
looking at the timepiece.
The young wife lifted her head from her hand, with a sigh, and
merely responded,
"Yes, he is rather late."
"I wonder what keeps him so!" the old lady remarked, about five
minutes after, breaking the oppressive silence.
"I'm sure I cannot tell. I gave him my certificates of stock to sell
this morning."
"You did? I am afraid that was wrong, Margaretta."
"I'm sure I cannot tell whether it is or not, aunt. But I've had no
peace about them, night nor day, since the bank failed."
There was bitterness in the tone of Margaretta's voice, that touched
the feelings of her aunt, and tended to confirm her worst fears. But
she could not, now, speak out plainly, as she had felt constrained
to do before marriage, and therefore did not reply.
For more than an hour did the two women wait for the return of Mr.
Smith, and then they went through the form of sitting down to the
dinner-table. But few mouthfuls of food passed the lips of either of
them.
Hour after hour moved slowly by, but still the husband of Margaretta
appeared not; and when the twilight fell, it came with a strange
uncertain fear to the heart of the young wife.
"What _can_ keep him so late, aunt?" she said, anxiously, as the
lights were brought in.
"Indeed, my child, I cannot tell. I hope that nothing is wrong."
"Wrong, aunt? What can be wrong?" and Margaretta looked her aunt
eagerly and inquiringly in the face.
"I am sure, my child, I do not know. Something unusual must detain
him, and I only hope that something may be evil neither to him nor
yourself."
Again there was a deep and painful silence--painful at least to one
heart, trembling with an undefinable sensation of fear.
"There he is!" ejaculated Margaretta springing to her feet, as the
bell rang, and hurrying to the door before the servant had time to
open it.
"Here is a letter for Mrs. Smith," said a stranger, handing her a
sealed note, and then withdrawing quickly.
It was with difficulty that the young wife could totter back to the
parlour, where she seated herself by the table, and with trembling
hands broke the seal of the letter that had been given her. Her eyes
soon took in the brief words it contained. They were as follow:--
"Farewell, Margaretta! We shall, perhaps, never meet again! Think of
me as one altogether unworthy of you. I have wronged you--sadly
wronged you, I know--but I have been driven on by a kind of evil
necessity to do what I have done. Forget me! Farewell!"
This note bore neither date nor signature, but the characters in
which it was written were too well known to be mistaken.
Mrs. Riston saw the fearful change that passed over the face of her
niece as she read the note, and went quickly up to her. She was in
time to save her from falling to the floor. All through the night
she lay in a state of insensibility, and it was weeks before she
seemed to take even the slightest interest in any thing that was
going on around her.
It was about three o'clock of the day that Mr. Smith got possession
of the certificates of deposit, that he entered the room of his
friend, Perkins. He looked agitated and irresolute.
"Well, Smith, how are you?" his friend said. "Have you sold that
stock yet?"
"Yes."
"Indeed! So you have triumphed over your wife's scruples. Well--what
did you get for it?"
"Only eight thousand dollars."
"That was a shameful sacrifice!"
"Indeed it was. And it puts me into a terrible difficulty."
"What is that?"
"Why, I owe at least that sum; and I cannot stay here unless it is
paid."
"That is bad."
"Out of the fifty thousand I could have squared up, and it would not
have been felt. But I cannot use the whole eight thousand, and look
Margaretta and her aunt in the face again. And if I don't pay my
debts, you see, to prison I must go."
"You are in a narrow place, truly. Well, what are you going to do?"
"A question more easily asked than answered. Among my debts are
about, four thousand dollars that must be paid whether or no."
"Why?"
"They are _debts of honour!_"
"Ah, indeed! that is bad. You will have to settle them."
"Of course!" Then, in a loud and emphatic whisper, he said--
"And I _have_ settled them!"
"Indeed! Well, what next? How will you account to your wife for the
deficiency?"
"Account to my wife!" and as he said this, he ground his teeth
together, while his lip curled. "Don't talk to me in that way,
Perkins, and cause me to hate the woman I have deceived and
injured!"
"But what _are_ you going to do, Smith?"
"I am going to clear out with the balance of the money in my pocket.
I can't stay here, that's settled; and I'm not going away penniless,
that's certain. Margaretta's old aunt has money enough, and can take
care of her--so she's provided for. And I've no doubt but that
she'll be happier without me than with me."
"Where are you going?"
"Somewhere down South."
"When?"
"At four o'clock this afternoon."
"Well, success to you. There are some rich widows in the Southern
country, you know."
"I understand; but I'm rather sick of these operations. They are a
little uncertain. But good-bye, and may you have better luck than
your friend Smith."
"Good-bye." And the two young men shook hands cordially and parted.
At four o'clock Mr. Smith left for Baltimore--not the happiest man
in the cars by a great deal.
Since that day the confiding young creature who had thrown all into
the scale for him has neither seen him nor heard from him. To her
the light of life seems fled for ever. Her face is very pale, and
wears an expression of heart-touching misery. She is rarely seen
abroad. Poor creature! In her one sad error, what a lifetime of
sorrow has been involved!
Of all conditions in life, that of the young heiress, with her money
in her own right, is peculiarly dangerous. The truly worthy shrink
often from a tender of their affection, for fear their motives may
be thought interested; while the mercenary push forward, and by
well-directed flattery, that does not seem like flattery, win the
prize they cannot appreciate.
There are such base wretches in society. Let those who most need to
fear them be on their guard.
It is now but a few weeks since Thomas Fielding, who was despised
and rejected by Margaretta, married a sweet girl in every way worthy
of him. She is not rich in worldly goods, but she is rich in
virtuous principles. The former Fielding does not need; but the
latter he can cherish "as a holy prize."
IS MARRIAGE A LOTTERY?
"I AM afraid to marry," said a young lady, half jesting and half in
earnest, replying to something a friend had said.
"Why so, Ella?" asked one of the company, who had thus far chosen
rather to listen than join in the conversation of half a dozen gay
young girls. She was a quiet, matronly-looking individual, some few
years past the prime of life.
"For fear of being unhappy, Mrs. Harding," replied the first
speaker.
"What an idea!" exclaimed a gay damsel, laughing aloud at the
singular fear expressed by Ella. "For my part, I never expect to be
happy until I am married."
"If marriage should make you any happier than you are now, Caroline,
the result will be very fortunate. Your case will form an exception
to the rule."
"Oh, no, Ella, don't say that," spoke up the one who had replied to
her first remark. "Happiness is the rule, and unhappiness the
exception."
"Then it happens strangely enough," returned Ella, smiling, "that we
are more familiar with the exceptions than the rule."
"No, my dear, that cannot for a moment be admitted. Far more of
happiness than misery results from marriage."
"Look at Ellen Mallory," was answered promptly, "and Mrs. Cummings,
and half a dozen others I could name."
"The two you have mentioned are painful instances, I must admit, and
form the exceptions of which I spoke; but the result is by no means
one that should excite our surprise, for it is a natural consequence
flowing from an adequate cause. If you marry as unwisely as did the
persons you mention, I have no doubt but you will be quite as
wretched as they are--it may be more so."
"I am sure Mr. Mallory is an elegant-looking man," said one of the
company, "and might have had his pick among a dozen more attractive
girls than ever Ellen Martine was."
"All as thoughtless and undiscriminating as she," remarked Mrs.
Harding, quietly.
"Ellen is no fool," returned the last speaker.
"In the most important act of her whole life, she has certainly not
shown herself to be a wise woman," said Mrs. Harding.
"But how in the world was she to know that Mr. Mallory was going to
turn out so badly?" spoke up Ella.
"By opening her eyes, and using the ability that God has given her
to see," was answered by Mrs. Harding.
"Those eyes are wondrous wise, I ween,
That see what is not to be seen,"
the maiden replied.
"Do you then really think, Ella," said Mrs. Harding, "that a young
lady cannot make herself as thoroughly acquainted with a man's real
qualities as to put any serious mistake in marriage entirely out of
the question?"
"To me, I must confess that marriage seems very much like a
lottery," answered Ella. "We may get a prize, but there are ten
chances to one of our getting a blank."
"If you choose to make it a lottery, it will no doubt become so; but
if entered into from right motives, there is no danger of this being
the case."
"I don't know what you call right motives," said one; "but I'll tell
you a necessary pre-requisite in the man who is to make me a
husband."
"Well, child, what is it?"
"Plenty of money. I'm not going to be a poor man's wife, and work
myself to death, all for love--no, not I!"
"I'll have a handsome man for a husband, or none," remarked another.
"Give me splendid talents," said a third.
"And what must you have, Ella?" asked Mrs. Harding, turning to the
one she addressed.
"All three, if I can get them," replied Ella.
"Beauty, wealth, and talents. These you think would satisfy you?"
"Oh, yes; I should be rather hard to please if they did not."
"Let me relate to you the histories of two friends of mine who
married young," said Mrs. Harding, without remarking upon what had
just been declared. "Perhaps they may contain lessons that it will
be of use for you all to get by heart."
"Oh, yes, do!" said the young ladies, gathering around Mrs. Harding,
who, after a short pause, related what follows.
"In my younger days," began Mrs. Harding, "I had two intimate
friends, to whom I was warmly attached. I loved them for their many
good qualities, and particularly for their unselfishness. To make
others happy, always appeared to give them a double pleasure. They
were nearly of the same age, and possessed equal external
advantages; but their characters were very different. Sarah Corbin,
who was a few months older than her friend and almost constant
companion, Harriet Wieland, was quiet, thoughtful, and observant;
while Harriet, who had great personal attractions, never appeared to
look beneath the surface. She believed every thing to be true that
bore the semblance of truth, to her all that glittered was gold.
Like you, and most other young ladies, we sometimes talked of
marriage, and the qualifications desirable in a good husband.
Harriet, whether in a gay or sober mood, always declared, like Ella
here, that he who won her heart must have riches, manly beauty, and
brilliant talents. These she called man's cardinal virtues. Sarah
never had much to say on these matters, and, when we asked her
opinion, she generally replied evasively.
"A young man named Eaverson, answering pretty nearly to the beau
ideal of Harriet Wieland, came from a neighbouring city to reside in
this. He was connected with a wealthy and highly respectable family,
was really a handsome man, and possessed very fine abilities. He had
studied law, and opened his office here for the purpose of pursuing
it as a regular profession; but, not meeting with much practice at
first, he occupied a large portion of his time in literary pursuits,
writing for the magazines and reviews. He also published a small
volume of poetry, which contained many really brilliant specimens of
verse.
"Circumstances threw Eaverson into the circle of which we formed a
part, and we were consequently introduced to him. In the course of
time, he began to pay rather marked attentions to Sarah Corbin, at
which I felt a little surprised, as he had met Harriet Wieland quite
as often, and she was far more beautiful and showy, and more likely,
it seemed to me, to attract one like him than the other. Either
Sarah was unconscious that his attentions were more marked in her
case, or she did not wish her observation of the fact to be known,
for all our allusions to the subject were evaded with a seeming
indifference that left our minds in doubt. Such were our impressions
at first; but the sequel showed that she had marked his first
advances with lively interest, and understood their meaning quite as
well as we did.
"About Eaverson there was every thing to attract the heart of a
maiden not well guarded; and Sarah found that it required the
fullest exercise of her reason to prevent her from letting every
affection of her mind go out and attach itself to an object that
seemed, at first sight, so worthy of her love. But by nature and
from education she was thoughtful and observant; and a wise mother
had taught her that in marriage external accomplishments and
possessions were nothing, unless united with virtuous principles and
well-regulated passions. The brilliant attractions of Eaverson
strongly tempted her to take his moral fitness for granted; but
wiser counsels prevailed in her mind; and with a vigorous hand laid
upon her heart to keep down its errant impulses, she exercised, with
coolness and a well-balanced mind, the powers of discrimination
which God had given for her guidance through life."
All the time that this process was going on in her mind, we remained
in ignorance of the fact that she ever thought of the young man,
except when he was present, or his name introduced by others. To
her, all that related to marriage was too serious to form the theme
of ordinary conversation, light jests, or idle chit-chat. Rarely
indeed would she have any thing to say, when others spoke lightly or
jested on the subject. This being the case, now that her own mind
had become deeply interested in a matter of most vital importance to
her future welfare, she had no one to disturb the even balance of
her reflections by a thoughtless word, an untimely jest, or a false
opinion flowing from inexperience or a want of ability to read human
nature aright. Silently, freely, and with no biassing influence, in
the unapproachable chambers of her own thoughts did she weigh the
real character of Eaverson, as far as she could understand it,
against what was merely external and personal. The more marked the
attentions of the young man became, the more earnestly did she seek
to comprehend his real character. Every word he uttered in her
presence, every sentiment he expressed, every action and every look
were closely scanned, and their meaning, as having reference to
principles in the mind, sought to be understood. Such careful
scrutiny did not go unrewarded. When Eaverson, soon after her mind
was made up in regard to him, made an offer of his hand, the offer
was unhesitatingly declined. Sarah had seen enough to satisfy her,
that with all his talents, beauty, and wealth, he was wanting in
virtuous principles and a high sense of honour.
"I confess, that, with others, I was greatly surprised when the fact
of Sarah's having declined the hand of Eaverson became known. The
selection of her by one like him seemed so high a preference, and
such a marked tribute to her worth and virtue, that it was scarcely
credible that she could have remained indifferent to his love. But
she saw deeper than we did."
"'I cannot understand the reason of your refusal to accept Mr.
Eaverson's offer?' I said to Sarah, one day, when the conversation
took a turn that gave me an opportunity of alluding to the subject.
'Do you know any thing against him?'
"'Nothing further than the conclusions of my own mind, arising from
a careful observation of his sentiments, manners, and unguarded
expressions,' she replied.
"'Was it from such conclusions that you declined his offer?'
"'From these alone, for I know nothing of his history before he came
to this city, and nothing of his life since he has been here.'
"'May you not possibly be mistaken?'
"'No. From the moment he seemed in the least pleased with me, I
commenced observing him closely. It was not long before I heard him
utter a sentiment, while speaking to another, that showed him to
possess very false views of life in at least one particular. This I
noted, and laid it by in my memory for comparison with any thing
else I might see or hear.'
"'But you would not condemn a man for having erroneous views of
life?' said I.
"'Oh, no; not if his principles be pure. But if false views arise
from a perverted heart, then I would condemn the man. What I heard,
I noticed in order to determine, if possible, from what source it
came. A very long time did not pass, before I saw something that
told me very plainly that the false view which I have mentioned
depended more upon a perversion of the heart than an error in the
understanding. I likewise discovered, very soon, that when in
conversation with me, he was, evidently, more upon his guard, as to
what sentiments he declared, than he was when in conversation with
others. But I need not state particularly the whole process by which
I arrived at conclusions sufficiently clear to warrant my full and
prompt rejection of his suit.'
"'In what estimation do you hold him?' I asked.
"'As a man without honour or virtue,' she said, decidedly.
"'That is a broad and severe judgment,' I replied.
"'So it is. I have made it for myself. Of course, I cannot expect
others to view him in the same light; nor do I believe many others
would form this conclusion from the evidences that were presented to
my mind. But, as for me, I have no doubt on the subject. Rather than
become his wife, I would suffer death; for a union with him would
be, to me, the depth of misery.'
"The seriousness with which Sarah spoke satisfied me that she
believed all she said, and had, at some cost of feeling, rejected an
offer of marriage that would have been an exceedingly desirable one,
had the character of the man who made it been fully approved.
"A short time after the rejection of his suit by Miss Corbin, I
noticed that Eaverson appeared more inclined to keep company with
Harriet Wieland than before. I could not help feeling regret at
this, for, notwithstanding I thought Sarah had judged the young man
rather severely, I was yet satisfied that there must be some ground
for her conclusions in regard to his character. Slight attentions,
encouraged by Harriet, soon became the bold advances of a lover. A
few months after his suit had been declined by Sarah, he offered
himself to her friend, and was unhesitatingly accepted.
"In the mean time, a young man, whom I will call Williamson, had met
Sarah occasionally, and showed a disposition to win, if possible,
her favourable regard. His exterior was by no means elegant; his
literary attainments were not great; nor was he in the enjoyment of
any thing beyond a moderate income. Place him and Eaverson in almost
any company, and the latter would nearly hide him from view. But,
with the most moderate pretensions, and unattractive exterior,
Williamson's character was formed upon a ground-work of good sense
and virtuous principles. He had little facility of expression, but
he thought clearly, and, in most things, acted from a sound
judgment. He was much pleased with Sarah before Eaverson attempted
to gain her affections; and noticed his advances. For the result he
looked with some interest. When it became clearly apparent that she
had thrown him off, Williamson was satisfied that she was a girl of
discrimination and sound sense, and immediately resolved that he
would know her better. The oftener he met her, and the nearer he
observed her, the more excellent did her character seem in his eyes.
The result was an offer of marriage, which was accepted by Sarah, as
much to our surprise as was her rejection of Eaverson.
"My two young friends were married about the same time. The wedding
of Harriet was a brilliant one, and she was the envy of dozens of
young girls who had hoped and tried to make a conquest of the man
who had chosen to unite his fortunes with hers. Sarah's nuptials
were celebrated in a less imposing manner, and created but little
sensation. Most of her friends thought she had done but poorly.
Whether this were so, will be seen in the sequel.
"Harriet, with all her want of reflection and in-sight into
character, was a young woman of strong feelings, and loved, when she
did love, with something like blind idolatry. Thus she loved her
husband. He was every thing to her, and she believed him as near
perfection as a mortal could well be. The first few months of her
married life passed swiftly away in the enjoyment of as high a
degree of felicity as her mind seemed capable of appreciating. After
that, a shadow fell upon her spirit--dim and almost imperceptible at
first, but gradually becoming denser and more palpable. Harriet had
noticed, from the first, that her husband but rarely spoke of his
family, and always evaded any questions that a natural curiosity
prompted her to make. If he received any letter from home, he
carefully concealed the fact from her. The wealth, respectability,
and high standing of his family made Harriet, as a matter of course,
feel desirous of bearing a more intimate relation to its members
than she now did. The more she thought about this, the less
satisfied did she feel. It was the marked dislike manifested by her
husband to any reference to his family, that first caused a coldness
to pass over the heart of the young wife, and a shadow to dim the
bright sunshine of her spirits; for it induced the thought that
something might be wrong. Once give such a thought birth, and let
mystery and doubt continue to harass the mind, and peace is gone for
ever. A thousand vague suspicions will enter, and words, looks, and
actions will have a signification never apparent before.
"Thus it was with my young friend, ere six months had passed since
her wedding-day. To increase her anxious doubts, her husband seemed
to grow cold towards her. This might all be imagination, but the
idea, once in possession of her mind, found numberless sustaining
evidences. He went out more frequently in the evening and stayed out
later than at first. Sometimes he would sit silent and abstracted,
and only reply in monosyllables to her questions or remarks.
"One day he came home to dinner, looking graver than usual. But,
during the meal, there was an evident desire on his part to appear
cheerful and unconcerned; he talked more freely than usual, and even
made many light and jesting remarks. But the veil assumed was too
thin. Harriet's eyes saw through it, and rested only upon the sombre
reality beneath. As they were rising from the table, he said,
"'Harriet, dear! I must run on to New York this afternoon, on
business. The interest of a client in a large estate there requires
my immediate presence in that city.'
"Eaverson did not look his wife steadily in the face as he said this
although he plainly tried to do so. But this she did not remark at
the time. Her mind only rested upon the fact of his going away.
"'How long will you be gone?' she asked in a choking voice.
"'I will try and be back to-morrow. If not, you will at least see me
home on the day after.'
"'Why can't I--'
"She paused--her eyes fell to the floor, and the colour deepened on
her cheeks.
"'What, dear?'
"'Go with you?'
"It was in New York that the family of Eaverson resided.
"'Not now,' he quickly answered. 'I am compelled to go in too much
hurry; but the next time business takes me there you shall accompany
me.'
"Nothing could be more unsatisfactory than this. Was she not to be
introduced to his family, as his wife, formally? Was she only to go
to the city of their residence at some future time, when business
called her husband there? The thought caused a chill to pass through
her frame. She made no reply. But the paleness that overspread her
face, and the sadness that fell upon her countenance, revealed to
her husband, too plainly, her state of mind. He said nothing,
however, to dispel the gloom she felt. Words, he no doubt felt,
would be fruitless.
"The young wife parted with her husband it tears, and then retired
to her chamber, where she gave way to a paroxysm of grief, that had
its origin more in the accompanying mystery than in the fact of her
husband's absence. I say mystery, for she did not fully credit the
reason he had given for his hurried visit to New York, and felt that
there was a mystery connected with it, that, somehow or other,
deeply affected her happiness.
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