Books: The Home Mission
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T.S. Arthur >> The Home Mission
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It was, perhaps, a week later, that Mrs. Little called again upon
Mrs. Miller.
"What of Mrs. Harding's poor widow?" said the former, after some
ill-natured gossip about a mutual friend.
"Oh, I declare! I've never thought of the woman since," replied Mrs.
Miller, in a tone of self-condemnation. "And I promised Mrs. Harding
that I would see her. I really blame myself."
"No great harm done, I presume," said Mrs. Little.
"I don't know about that. I'm hardly prepared to think so meanly of
Mrs. Harding as you do. At any rate, I'm going this day to redeem my
promise."
"What promise?"
"The promise I made Mrs. Harding, that I would see the woman she
spoke of, and relieve her, if in need."
"You'll have all your trouble for nothing."
"No matter, I'll clear my conscience, and that is something. Come,
wont you go with me?"
Mrs. Little declined the invitation at first; but, strongly urged by
Mrs. Miller, she finally consented. So the two ladies forthwith took
their way toward the neighbourhood in which Mrs. Harding had said
the needy woman lived. They were within a few doors of the house,
which had been very minutely described by Mrs. Harding, when they
met Mrs. Johns.
"Ah!" said the latter, with animation, "just the person, of all
others, I most wished to see. How could you, Mrs. Miller, so greatly
wrong Mrs. Harding?"
"Me wrong her, Mrs. Johns? I don't understand you." And Mrs. Miller
looked considerably astonished.
"Mrs. Little informed me that you had good reasons for believing all
this story about a poor widow to be a mere subterfuge, got up to
cover some doings of her own that Mrs. Harding was ashamed to bring
to the light."
"Mrs. Little!" There was profound astonishment in the tones of Mrs.
Miller, and her eyes had in them such an indignant light, as she
fixed them upon her companion, that the latter quailed under her
gaze.
"Acting from this impression," resumed Mrs. Johns, "I declined
placing at her disposal the means of relief promised; but, instead,
told her that I would myself see the needy person for whom she asked
aid. This I have, until now, neglected to do; and this neglect, or
indifference I might rather call it, has arisen from a belief that
there was no poor widow in the case. Wrong has been done, Mrs.
Miller, great wrong! How could you have imagined such baseness of
Mrs. Harding?"
"And there _is_ a poor, sick widow, in great need?" said Mrs.
Miller, now speaking calmly, and with regained self-possession.
"There is a sick widow," replied Mrs. Johns, "but not at present in
great need. Mrs. Harding has supplied immediate wants."
"Well, Mrs. Little!" Mrs. Miller again turned her eyes, searchingly,
upon her companion.
"I--I--thought so. It was my impression--I had good reason
for--I--I" stammered Mrs. Little.
"It should have been enough for you to check a benevolent impulse in
my case by your unfounded suggestions. Not content with this,
however, you must use my name in still further spreading your unjust
suspicions, and actually make me the author of charges against a
noble-minded woman, which had their origin in your own evil
thoughts."
"I will not bear such language!" said the offended Mrs. Little,
indignantly; and turning with an angry toss of the head, she left
the ladies to their own reflections.
"I am taught one good lesson from this circumstance," said Mrs.
Miller, as they walked away; "and that is, never to even seem to
have my good opinion of another affected by the allegations and
surmises of a social gossip. Such people always suppose the worst,
and readily pervert the most unselfish actions into moral offences.
The harm they do is incalculable."
"And, as in the present case," remarked Mrs. Johns, "they make
others responsible for their base suggestions. Had Mrs. Little not
coupled your name with the implied charges against Mrs. Harding, my
mind would not have been poisoned against her."
"While not a breath of suspicion had ever crossed mine until Mrs.
Little came in, and wantonly intercepted the stream of benevolence
about to flow forth to a needy, and, I doubt not, most worthy
object."
"We have made of her an enemy. At least you have; for you spoke to
her with smarting plainness," said Mrs. Johns.
"Better the enmity of such than their friendship," replied Mrs.
Miller. "Their words of detraction cannot harm so much as the poison
of evil thoughts toward others, which they ever seek to infuse. Your
dearest friend is not safe from them, if she be pure as an angel.
Let her name but pass your lips, and instantly it is breathed upon,
and the spotless surface grows dim."
THE YOUNG MOTHER.
[The following brief passage is from our story, "The Wife," in the
series "Maiden," "Wife," and "Mother."]
A NEW chord vibrated in Anna's heart, and the music was sweeter far
in her spirit's ear, than any before heard. She was changed.
Suddenly she felt that she was a new creature. Her breast was filled
with deeper, purer, and tenderer emotions. She was a mother! A babe
had been born to her! A sweet pledge of love lay nestling by her
side, and drawing its life from her bosom. She was happy--how happy
cannot be told. A mother only can _feel_ how happy she was on first
realizing the new emotions that thrill in a young mother's heart.
As health gradually returned to her exhausted frame, and friends
gathered around her with warm congratulations, Anna felt that she
was indeed beginning a new life. Every hour her soul seemed to
enlarge, and her mind to be filled with higher and purer thoughts.
Before the birth of her babe, she suffered much more than even her
husband had supposed, both in body and mind. Her spirits were often
so depressed that it required her utmost effort to receive him with
her accustomed cheerfulness at each period of his loved return. But,
living as she did in the ever active endeavour to bless others, she
strove daily and hourly to rise above every infirmity. Now, all was
peace within--holy peace. There came a Sabbath rest of deep,
interior joy, that was sweet, unutterably sweet. Body and spirit
entered into this rest. No wind ruffled the still, bright waters of
her life. She was the same, and yet not the same.
"I cannot tell you, dear husband! how happy I am," she said, a few
weeks after her babe was born. "Nor can I describe the different
emotions that pervade my heart. When our babe is in my arms, and
especially when it lies at my bosom, it seems as if angels were near
me."
"And angels are near you," replied her husband. "Angels love
innocence, and especially infants, that are forms of innocence. They
are present with them, and the mother shares the blessed company,
for she loves her babe with an unselfish love, and this the angels
can perceive, and, through it, affect her with a measure of their
own happiness.
"How delightful the thought! Above all, is the mother blessed. She
suffers much--her burden is hard to bear--the night is dark--but the
morning that opens upon her is the brightest a human soul knows
during its earthly pilgrimage. And no wonder. She has performed the
highest and holiest of offices--she has given birth to an immortal
being--and her reward is with her."
Hartley had loved his wife truly, deeply, tenderly. Every day, he
saw more and more in her to admire. There was an order, consistency,
and harmony in her character as a wife, that won his admiration. In
the few months they had passed since their marriage, she had filled
her place to him, perfectly. Without seeming to reflect how she
should regulate her conduct toward her husband, in every act of her
wedded life she had displayed true wisdom, united with unvarying
love. All this caused his heart to unite itself more and more
closely with hers. But now, that she held to him the twofold
relation of a wife and mother, his love was increased fourfold. He
thought of her, and looked upon her, with increased tenderness.
"Mine, by a double tie," he said, with a full realization of his
words, when he first pressed his lips upon the brow of his child,
and then, with a fervour unfelt before, upon the lips of his wife.
"As you have been a good wife, you will be a good mother," he added,
with emotion.
THE GENTLE WARNING.
"Do not accept the offer, Florence," said her friend Carlotti.
A shade of disappointment went over the face of the fair girl, who
had just communicated the pleasing fact that she had received an
offer of marriage.
"You cannot be happy as the wife of Herman Leland," added Carlotti.
"How little do you know this heart," returned the fond girl.
"It is because I know it so well that I say what I do. If your love
be poured out for Herman Leland, Florence, it will be as water on
the desert sand."
"Why do you affirm this, Carlotti?"
"A woman can truly love only the moral virtue of her husband."
"I do not clearly understand you."
"It is only genuine goodness of heart that conjoins in marriage."
"Well?"
"Just so far as selfish and evil affections find a place in the mind
of either the husband or wife, will be the ratio of unhappiness in
the marriage state. If there be any truth in morals, or in the
doctrine of affinities, be assured that this is so. It is neither
intellectual attainments nor personal attractions that make
happiness in marriage. Far, very far from it. All depends upon the
quality of the affections. If these be good, happiness will come as
a natural consequence; but if they be evil, misery will inevitably
follow so close a union."
"Then you affirm that Mr. Leland is an evil-minded man?"
"Neither of us know him well enough to say this positively,
Florence. Judging from what little I have seen, I should call him a
selfish man; and no selfish man can be a good man, for selfishness
is the basis of all evil."
"I am afraid you are prejudiced against him, Carlotti."
"If I have had any prejudices in the matter, Florence, they have
been in his favour. Well-educated, refined in his manners, and
variously accomplished, he creates, on nearly all minds, a
favourable impression. Such an impression did I at first feel. But
the closer I drew near to him, the less satisfied did I feel with my
first judgment. On at least two occasions, I have heard him speak
lightly of religion."
"Of mere cant and sectarianism, perhaps."
"No; he once spoke lightly of a mother for making it a point to
require all her children to repeat their prayers before going to
bed. On another occasion, he alluded to one of the sacraments of the
church in a way that produced an inward shudder. From that time, I
have looked at him with eyes from which the scales have been
removed; and the more I seek to penetrate beneath the surface of his
character, the more do I see what repels me. Florence, dear, let me
urge you, as one who tenderly loves you and earnestly desires to see
you happy, to weigh the matter well ere you assent to this
proposal."
"I'm afraid, Carlotti," said Florence in reply to this, "that you
have let small causes influence your feelings toward Mr. Leland. We
all speak lightly, at times, even on subjects regarded as
sacred--not because we despise them, but from casual
thoughtlessness. It was, no doubt, so with Mr. Leland on the
occasion to which you refer."
"We are rarely mistaken, Florence," replied Carlotti, "as to the
real sentiment involved in the words used by those with whom we
converse. Words are the expressions of thoughts, and these the form
of affections. What a man really feels in reference to any subject,
will generally appear in the tones of his voice, no matter whether
he speak lightly or seriously. Depend upon it, this is so. It was
the manner in which Leland spoke that satisfied me as to his real
feelings, more than the language he used. Judging him in this way, I
am well convinced that, in his heart, he despises religion; and no
man who does this, can possibly make a right-minded woman happy."
The gentle warning of Carlotti was not wholly lost on Florence. She
had great confidence in the judgment of her friend, and did not feel
that it would be right to wholly disregard her admonitions.
"What answer can I make?" said she, drawing a long sigh. "He urges
an early response to his suit."
"Duty to yourself, Florence, demands a time for consideration.
Marriage is a thing of too vital moment to be decided upon
hurriedly. Say to him in reply, that his offer is unexpected, and
that you cannot give an immediate answer, but will do so at the
earliest possible moment."
"So cold a response may offend him."
"If it does, then he will exhibit a weakness of character unfitting
him to become the husband of a sensible woman. If he be really
attracted by your good qualities, he will esteem you the more for
this act of prudence. He will understand that you set a high regard
upon the marriage relation, and do not mean to enter into it unless
you know well the person to whom you commit your happiness in this
world, and, in all probability, the next."
"A coldly calculating spirit, Carlotti, that nicely weighs and
balances the merits and defects of one beloved, is, in my view,
hardly consonant with true happiness in marriage. All have defects
of character. All are born with evil inclinations of one kind or
another. Love seeks only for good in the object of affection.
Affinities of this kind are almost spontaneous in their birth. We
love more from impulse than from any clear appreciation of
character--perceiving good qualities by a kind of instinct rather
than searching for them."
"A doctrine, Florence," said Carlotti, "that has produced untold
misery in the married life. As I said at first, it is only the moral
virtue of her husband that a woman can love--it is only this, as a
uniting principle, that can make two married partners one. The
qualities of all minds express themselves in words and actions, and,
by a close observance of these latter, we may determine the nature
of the former. We cannot perceive them with sufficient clearness to
arrive at a sound judgment: the only safe method is to determine the
character of the tree by its fruits. Take sufficient time to arrive
at a knowledge of Mr. Leland's character by observation, and then
you can accept or reject him under the fullest assurance that you
are acting wisely."
"Perhaps you are right," murmured Florence. "I will weigh carefully
what you have said."
And she did so. Much to the disappointment of Mr. Leland, he
received a reply from Florence asking a short time for reflection.
When Florence next met the young man, there was, as a natural
consequence, some slight embarrassment on both sides. On separating,
Florence experienced a certain unfavourable impression toward him,
although she could not trace it to any thing he had said or done. At
their next meeting, Leland's reserve had disappeared, and he
exhibited a better flow of spirits. He was more off his guard than
usual, and said a good many things that rather surprised Florence.
Impatient of delay, Leland again pressed his suit; but Florence was
further than ever from being ready to give an answer. She was not
prepared to reject him, and as little prepared to give a favourable
answer. Her request to be allowed further time for consideration,
wounded his pride; and, acting under its influence, he determined to
have his revenge on her by suing for the hand of another maiden, and
bearing her to the altar while she was hesitating over the offer he
had made. With this purpose in view, he penned a kind and polite
note, approving her deliberation, and desiring her to take the
fullest time for reflection. "Marriage," said he, in this note, "is
too serious a matter to be decided upon hastily. It is a life-union,
and the parties who make it should be well satisfied that there
exists a mutual fitness for each other."
Two days passed after Florence received this note before seeing her
friend Carlotti. She then called upon her in order to have further
conversation on the subject of the proposal she had received. The
tenor of this note had produced a favourable change in her feelings,
and she felt strongly disposed to make a speedy termination of the
debate in her mind by accepting her attractive suitor.
"Are you not well?" was her first remark on seeing Carlotti, for her
friend looked pale and troubled.
"Not very well, dear," replied Carlotti, making an effort to assume
a cheerful aspect.
The mind of Florence was too intent on the one interesting subject
that occupied it to linger long on any other theme. But a short time
elapsed before she said, with a warmer glow on her cheeks--
"I believe I have made up my mind, Carlotti."
"About what?"
"The offer of Mr. Leland."
"Well, what is your decision?" Carlotti held her breath for an
answer.
"I will accept him."
Without replying, Carlotti arose, and going to a drawer, took
therefrom a letter addressed to herself and handing it to Florence,
said--
"Read that."
There was something ominous in the manner of Carlotti, which caused
Florence to become agitated. Her hands trembled as she unfolded the
letter. It bore the date of the day previous, and read thus:--
"MY DEAR CARLOTTI: From the first moment I saw you, I felt that you
were the one destined to make me happy or miserable. Your image has
been present to me, sleeping or waking, ever since. I can turn in no
way that it is not before me. The oftener I have met you, the more
have I been charmed by the gentleness, the sweetness, the purity,
and excellence of your character. With you to walk through life by
my side, I feel that my feet would tread a flowery way; but if
heaven have not this blessing in store for me, I shall be, of all
men, most miserable. My heart is too full to write more. And have I
not said enough? Love speaks in brief but eloquent language. Dear
young lady, let me hear from you speedily. I shall be wretched until
I know your decision. Heaven give my suit a favourable issue!
Yours, devotedly,
"HERMAN LELAND."
A deadly paleness overspread the countenance of Florence as the
letter dropped from her hands; and she leaned back against her
friend to prevent falling to the floor. But, in a little while, she
recovered herself.
"And this to _you_?" said she, with a quivering lip, as she gazed
earnestly into the face of her friend.
"Yes, Florence, that to _me_."
"Can I trust my own senses? Is there not some illusion? Let me look
at it again."
And Florence stooped for the letter, and fixed her eyes upon it once
more. The language was plain, and the handwriting she knew too well.
"False-hearted!" she murmured, in a low and mournful voice, covering
her face and sobbing.
"Yes, Florence," said her friend, "he is false-hearted. How thankful
am I that you have escaped! Evidently in revenge for your prudent
deliberation, he has sought an alliance with another. Had that other
one accepted his heartless proposal, he would have met your
favourable answer to his suit with insult."
For a long time, Florence wept on the bosom of her friend. Then her
feelings grew calmer, and her mind became clear.
"What an escape!" fell from her lips as she raised her head and
turned her still pale face toward Carlotti. "Thanks, my wiser
friend, for your timely, yet gentle warning! Your eyes saw deeper
than mine."
"Yes, yes; you have made an escape!" said Carlotti. "With such a
man, your life could only have been wretched."
"Have you answered his letter?" asked Florence.
"Not yet. But if you are inclined to do so, we will, on the same
sheet of paper and under the same envelope, each decline the honour
of an alliance. Such a rebuke he deserves, and we ought to give it."
And such a rebuke they gave.
A few months later, and Leland led to the altar a young lady reputed
to be an heiress.
A year afterward, just on the eve of Florence's marriage to a
gentleman in every way worthy to take her happiness in his keeping,
she sat alone with her fast friend Carlotti. They were conversing of
the bright future.
"And for all this joy, in store for me, Carlotti," said Florence,
leaning toward her friend and laying her hand affectionately on her
cheek, "I am indebted to you."
"To me? How to me, dear?" asked Carlotti.
"You saved me from an alliance with Leland. Oh, into what an abyss
of wretchedness would I have fallen! I heard to-day that, after
cruelly abusing poor Agnes in Charleston, where they removed, he
finally abandoned her. Can it be true?"
"It is, I believe, too true. Agnes came back to her friends last
week, bringing with her a babe. I have not seen her; but those who
have tell me that her story of suffering makes the heart ache. She
looks ten years older."
"Ah me!" sighed Florence. "Marriage--how much it involves! Even now,
as I stand at its threshold, with so much that looks bright in the
future, I tremble. Of Edward's excellent character and goodness of
heart, all bear testimony. He is every thing I could wish; but will
I make him happy?"
"Not all you could wish," said Carlotti, seriously. "None are
perfection here; and you must not expect this. You will find, in
your husband's character, faults. Anticipate this; but let the
anticipation prepare you to bear with rather than be hurt when they
appear, and do not seek too soon to correct them. It is said by a
certain deeply-seeing writer on spiritual themes, that when the
angels come to try one, they explore his mind only to find the good
therein, that they may excite it to activity. Be, then, your
husband's angel; explore his mind for the good it contains, and seek
to develop and strengthen it. Looking intently at what is good in
him, you will not be likely to see faults looming up and assuming a
magnitude beyond their real dimensions. But when faults appear, as
they assuredly will, compare them with your own; and, as you would
have him exercise forbearance toward you, do you exercise
forbearance toward him. Be wise in your love, my friend. Wisdom and
love are married partners. If you separate them, neither is a safe
guide. But if you keep them united, like a rower who pulls both
oars, you will glide swiftly forward in a smooth sea."
Florence bent her head as she listened, and every word of her friend
made its impression. Long after were they remembered and acted upon,
and they saved her from hours of pain. Florence is a happy wife; but
how near did she come to making shipwreck of her love-freighted
heart? There are times when, in thinking of it, she trembles.
KATE'S EXPERIMENT.
KATE HARBELL, a high-spirited girl, who had a pretty strong will of
her own, was about being married. Like a great many others of her
age and sex who approach the matrimonial altar, Kate's notions of
the marriage relation were not the clearest in the world.
Ferdinand Lee, the betrothed of Kate, a quiet, sensitive young man,
had, perhaps, as strong a will as the young lady herself, though it
was more under the control of reason. He was naturally impatient of
dictation or force, and a strong love of approbation made him feel
keenly any thing like satire, ridicule or censure. To point him to a
fault was to wound if not offend him. Here lay the weakness of his
character. All this, on the other side, was counterbalanced by kind
feelings, good sense, and manly principles. He was above all
meanness or dishonour.
Of course, Kate did not fully understand his character. Such a thing
as a young girl's accurate knowledge of the character of the man she
is about to marry, is of very rare occurrence. She saw enough of
good qualities to make her love him with tenderness and devotion;
but she also saw personal defects that were disagreeable in the
object of her affections. But she did not in the least doubt that
all these she could easily correct in him after she became his wife.
From a defect of education, or from a natural want of neatness and
order, Ferdinand Lee was inclined to (sic) carelessnes in his
attire; and also exhibited a certain want of polish in his manners
and address that was, at times, particularly annoying to Kate.
"I'll break him of that when I get him," said the young lady to a
married friend, alluding to some little peculiarity both had
noticed.
"Don't be too certain," returned the lady, smiling.
"You'll see."
Kate tossed her head in a resolute way.
"I'll see you disappointed."
"Wait a little while. Before I'm his wife six months, you'll hardly
know the man, there'll be such a change."
"The change is far more likely to take place in you."
"Why do you say that, Mrs. Morton?" inquired Kate, looking grave.
"Because I think so. Men are not so easily brought into order, and
the attempt at reformation and correction by a young wife generally
ends in painful disappointment. If you begin this work you will, in
all probability, find yourself tasked beyond your ability. I speak
from some experience, having been married for about ten years, and
having seen a good many young girls come up into our ranks from the
walks of single blessedness. Take my advice, and look away from
Frederick's faults and disagreeable peculiarities as much as
possible, and think more of his manly traits of character--his fine
sentiments, and honourable principles."
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