Books: The Home Mission
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T.S. Arthur >> The Home Mission
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I saw, from the first, that if Douglass pressed his suit, Cora's
heart would be an easy conquest, and so it proved.
"How admirably they are fitted for each other!" I remarked to my
husband, on the night of their wedding. "Their tastes are similar,
and their habits so much alike, that no violence will be done to the
feelings of either in the more intimate associations that marriage
brings. Both are neat in person and orderly by instinct, and both
have good principles."
"From all present appearances, the match will be a good one,"
replied my husband. There was, I thought, something like reservation
in his tone.
"Do you really think so?" I said, a little ironically, for Mr.
Smith's approval of the marriage was hardly warm enough to suit my
fancy.
"Oh, certainly! Why not?" he replied.
I felt a little fretted at my husband's mode of speaking, but made
no further remark on the subject. He is never very enthusiastic nor
sanguine, and did not mean, in this instance, to doubt the fitness
of the parties for happiness in the marriage state--as I half
imagined. For myself, I warmly approved of my friend's choice, and
called her husband a lucky man to secure, for his companion through
life, a woman so admirably fitted to make one like him happy. But a
visit which I paid to Cora one day about six weeks after the
honeymoon had expired, lessened my enthusiasm on the subject, and
awoke some unpleasant doubts. It happened that I called soon after
breakfast. Cora met me in the parlour, looking like a very fright.
She wore a soiled and rumpled morning wrapper; her hair was in
papers; and she had on dirty stockings, and a pair of old slippers
down at the heels.
"Bless me, Cora!" said I. "What is the matter? Have you been sick?"
"No. Why do you ask? Is my dishabille rather on the extreme?"
"Candidly, I think it is, Cora," was my frank answer.
"Oh, well! No matter," she carelessly replied, "my fortune's made."
"I don't clearly understand you," said I.
"I'm married, you know."
"Yes; I am aware of that fact."
"No need of being so particular in dress now."
"Why not?"
"Didn't I just say?" replied Cora. "My fortune's made. I've got a
husband."
Beneath an air of jesting, was apparent the real earnestness of my
friend.
"You dressed with a careful regard to taste and neatness, in order
to win Edward's love?" said I.
"Certainly I did."
"And should you not do the same in order to retain it?"
"Why, Mrs. Smith! Do you think my husband's affection goes no deeper
than my dress? I should be very sorry indeed to think that. He loves
me for myself."
"No doubt of that in the world, Cora. But remember that he cannot
see what is in your mind except by what you do or say. If he admires
your taste, for instance, it is not from any abstract appreciation
thereof, but because the taste manifests itself in what you do. And,
depend upon it, he will find it a very hard matter to approve and
admire your correct taste in dress, for instance, when you appear
before him, day after day, in your present unattractive attire. If
you do not dress well for your husband's eyes, for whose eyes, pray,
do you dress? You are as neat when abroad as you were before your
marriage."
"As to that, Mrs. Smith, common decency requires me to dress well
when I go upon the street or into company, to say nothing of the
pride one naturally feels in looking well."
"And does not the same common decency and natural pride argue as
strongly in favour of your dressing well at home, and for the eye of
your husband, whose approval and whose admiration must be dearer to
you than the approval and admiration of the whole world?"
"But he doesn't want to see me rigged out in silks and satins all
the time. A pretty bill my dressmaker would have against him! Edward
has more sense than that, I flatter myself."
"Street or ball-room attire is one thing, Cora, and becoming home
apparel another. We look for both in their places."
Thus I argued with the thoughtless young wife, but my words made no
impression. When abroad, she dressed with exquisite taste, and was
lovely to look upon; but at home, she was careless and slovenly, and
made it almost impossible for those who saw her to realize that she
was the brilliant beauty they had met in company but a short time
before. But even this did not last long. I noticed, after a few
months, that the habits of home were confirming themselves, and
becoming apparent abroad. Her "fortune was made," and why should she
now waste time or employ her thoughts about matters of personal
appearance?
The habits of Mr. Douglass, on the contrary, did not change. He was
as orderly as before, and dressed with the same regard to neatness.
He never appeared at the breakfast-table in the morning without
being shaved; nor did he lounge about in the evening in his
shirt-sleeves. The slovenly habits into which Cora had fallen
annoyed him seriously; and still more so, when her carelessness
about her appearance began to manifest itself abroad as well as at
home. When he hinted any thing on the subject, she did not hesitate
to reply, in a jesting manner, that her fortune was made, and she
need not trouble herself any longer about how she looked.
Douglass did not feel very much complimented; but as he had his
share of good sense, he saw that to assume a cold and offended
manner would do no good.
"If your fortune is made, so is mine," he replied on one occasion,
quite coolly and indifferently. Next morning he made his appearance
at the breakfast table with a beard of twenty-four hours' growth.
"You haven't shaved this morning, dear," said Cora, to whose eyes
the dirty-looking face of her husband was particularly unpleasant.
"No," he replied, carelessly. "It's a serious trouble to shave every
day."
"But you look so much better with a cleanly-shaved face."
"Looks are nothing--ease and comfort every thing," said Douglass.
"But common decency, Edward."
"I see nothing indecent in a long beard," replied the husband.
Still Cora argued, but in vain. Her husband went off to his business
with his unshaven face.
"I don't know whether to shave or not," said Douglass next morning,
running his hand over his rough face, upon which was a beard of
forty-eight hours' growth. His wife had hastily thrown on a wrapper,
and, with slip-shod feet and head like a mop, was lounging in a
large rocking-chair, awaiting the breakfast-bell.
"For mercy's sake, Edward, don't go any longer with that shockingly
dirty face," spoke up Cora. "If you knew how dreadfully you look!"
"Looks are nothing," replied Edward, stroking his beard.
"Why, what's come over you all at once?"
"Nothing; only it's such a trouble to shave every day."
"But you didn't shave yesterday."
"I know; I am just as well off to-day as if I had. So much saved, at
any rate."
But Cora urged the matter, and her husband finally yielded, and
mowed down the luxuriant growth of beard.
"How much better you do look!" said the young wife. "Now don't go
another day without shaving."
"But why should I take so much trouble about mere looks? I'm just as
good with a long beard as with a short one. It's a great deal of
trouble to shave every day. You can love me just as well; and why
need I care about what others say or think?"
On the following morning, Douglass appeared not only with a long
beard, but with a bosom and collar that were both soiled and
rumpled.
"Why, Edward! How you do look!" said Cora. "You've neither shaved
nor put on a clean shirt."
Edward stroked his face and run his fingers along the edge of his
collar, remarking, indifferently, as he did so--
"It's no matter. I look well enough. This being so very particular
in dress is waste of time, and I'm getting tired of it."
And in this trim Douglass went off to his business, much to the
annoyance of his wife, who could not bear to see her husband looking
so slovenly.
Gradually the declension from neatness went on, until Edward was
quite a match for his wife; and yet, strange to say, Cora had not
taken the hint, broad as it was. In her own person she was as untidy
as ever.
About six months after their marriage, we invited a few friends to
spend a social evening with us, Cora and her husband among the
number. Cora came alone, quite early, and said that her husband was
very much engaged, and could not come until after tea. My young
friend had not taken much pains with her attire. Indeed, her
appearance mortified me, as it contrasted so decidedly with that of
the other ladies who were present; and I could not help suggesting
to her that she was wrong in being so indifferent about her dress.
But she laughingly replied to me--
"You know my fortune's made now, Mrs. Smith. I can afford to be
negligent in these matters. It's a great waste of time to dress so
much."
I tried to argue against this, but could make no impression upon
her.
About an hour after tea, and while we were all engaged in pleasant
conversation, the door of the parlour opened, and in walked Mr.
Douglass. At first glance I thought I must be mistaken. But no, it
was Edward himself. But what a figure he did cut! His uncombed hair
was standing up, in stiff spikes, in a hundred different directions;
his face could not have felt the touch of a razor for two or three
days; and he was guiltless of clean linen for at least the same
length of time. His vest was soiled; his boots unblacked; and there
was an unmistakable hole in one of his elbows.
"Why, Edward!" exclaimed his wife, with a look of mortification and
distress, as her husband came across the room, with a face in which
no consciousness of the figure he cut could be detected.
"Why, my dear fellow! What is the matter?" said my husband, frankly;
for he perceived that the ladies were beginning to titter, and that
the gentlemen were looking at each other, and trying to repress
their risible tendencies; and therefore deemed it best to throw off
all reserve on the subject.
"The matter? Nothing's the matter, I believe. Why do you ask?"
Douglass looked grave.
"Well may he ask, what's the, matter?" broke in Cora, energetically.
"How could you come here in such a plight?"
"In such a plight?" And Edward looked down at himself, felt his
beard, and ran his fingers through his hair. "What's the matter? Is
any thing wrong?"
"You look as if you'd just waked up from a nap of a week with your
clothes on, and come off without washing your face or combing your
hair," said my husband.
"Oh!" And Edward's countenance brightened a little. Then he said
with much gravity of manner--
"I've been extremely hurried of late; and only left my store a few
minutes ago. I hardly thought it worth while to go home to dress up.
I knew we were all friends here. Besides, _as my fortune is
made_"--and he glanced with a look not to be mistaken toward his
wife--"I don't feel called upon to give as much attention to mere
dress as formerly. Before I was married, it was necessary to be
particular in these matters, but now it's of no consequence."
I turned toward Cora. Her face was like crimson. In a few moments
she arose and went quickly from the room. I followed her, and Edward
came after us pretty soon. He found his wife in tears, and sobbing
almost hysterically.
"I've got a carriage at the door," said he to me, aside, half
laughing, half serious. "So help her on with her things, and we'll
retire in disorder."
"But it's too bad in you, Mr. Douglass," replied I.
"Forgive me for making your house the scene of this lesson to Cora,"
he whispered. "It had to be given, and I thought I could venture to
trespass upon your forbearance."
"I'll think about that," said I, in return.
In a few minutes Cora and her husband retired, and in spite of good
breeding and every thing else, we all had a hearty laugh over the
matter, on my return to the parlour, where I explained the curious
little scene that had just occurred.
How Cora and her husband settled the affair between themselves, I
never inquired. But one thing is certain, I never saw her in a
slovenly dress afterward, at home or abroad. She was cured.
THE GOOD MATCH.
"MY heart is now at rest," remarked Mrs. Presstman to her sister,
Mrs. Markland. "Florence has done so well. The match is such a good
one."
Mrs. Presstman spoke with animation, but her sister's countenance
remained rather grave.
"Mr. Barker is worth at least eighty thousand dollars," resumed Mrs.
Presstman. "And my husband says, that if he prospers in business as
he has done for the last ten years, he will be the richest merchant
in the city. Don't you think we have been fortunate in marrying
Florence so well?"
"So far as the securing of wealth goes, Florence has certainly done
very well," returned Mrs. Markland. "But, surely, sister, you have a
higher idea of marriage than to suppose that wealth in a husband is
the primary thing. The quality of his mind is of much more
importance."
"Oh, certainly, that is not to be lost sight of. Mr. Barker is an
excellent man. Every one speaks well of him. No one stands higher in
the community than he does."
"That may be. But the general estimation in which a man is held does
not, by any means, determine his fitness to become the husband of
one like Florence. I think that when I was here last spring, there
was some talk of her preference for a young physician. Was such
really the case?"
"There was something of that kind," replied Mrs. Presstman, the
colour becoming a very little deeper on her cheek--"a foolish notion
of the girl's. But that was broken off long ago. It would not do. We
could not afford to let her marry a young doctor with a poor
practice. We knew her to be worthy something much higher, as the
result has shown."
"Doctor Estill, I believe, was his name?"
"Yes."
"I remember him very well--and liked him much. Was Mr. Barker
preferred by Florence to Doctor Estill?"
"Why, yes--no--not at first," half-stammered Mrs. Presstman. "That
is, you know, she was foolish, like all young girls, and thought she
loved him. But that passed away. She is now as happy as she can be."
Mrs. Markland felt that it was not exactly right to press this
matter now that the mischief, if any there were, had been done, and
so remarked no further upon the subject. But the admission made in
her sister's reply to her last question pained her. It corroborated
a suspicion that crossed her mind, when she saw her niece, that all
was not right within--that the good match which had been made was
only good in appearance. She had loved Florence for the innocence,
purity, and elevation of soul that so sweetly characterized her. She
knew her to be susceptible of tender impressions, and capable of
loving deeply an object really worthy of her love. This plant had
been, she feared, removed from the warm green-house of home, where
the earth had touched tenderly its delicate roots, while its leaves
put forth in a genial air, and placed in a hard soil and a chilling
atmosphere, still to live on, but with its beauty and fragrance
gone. She might be mistaken. But appearances troubled her.
Mrs. Markland lived in a neighbouring city, and was on a visit to
her sister. During the two weeks that elapsed, while paying this
visit, she heard a great deal about the excellent match that
Florence had made. No one of the acquaintances of the family had any
thing to say that was not congratulatory. More than one mother of an
unmarried daughter, she had good cause for concluding, envied her
sister the happiness of having the rich Mr. Barker for a son-in-law.
When she parted with her niece, on the eve of her return home, there
were tears in her mild blue eyes. It was natural--for Florence loved
her aunt, and to part with her was painful. Still, those tears
troubled Mrs. Markland. She ought of them hours, and days, and
months after, as a token that all was not right in her gentle
breast.
Briefly let us now sketch a scene that passed twenty years from this
period. Twenty years! That is a long time. Yes--but it is a period
that tests the truth or falsity of the leading principles with which
we set out in life. Twenty years! Ah! how many, even long before
that time elapses, prove the fallaciousness of their hopes! discover
the sandy foundation upon which they have built!
Let us introduce Mrs. Barker. Her husband has realized even more
than he had hoped for, in the item of wealth. He is worth a million.
Rather a small sum in his eye, it is true, now that he possesses it.
And from this very fact, its smallness, he is not happy--for is not
Mr. T--worth three millions of dollars? Mr. T--, who is no
better, if as good as he is? But what of Mrs. Barker? Ah, yes. Let
us see how time has passed with her. Let us see if the hours have
danced along with her to measures of glad music, or in cadence with
a pensive strain. Has hers indeed been a _good match_? We shall see.
Is that sedate-looking woman, with such a cold expression upon her
face, who sits in that elaborately furnished saloon, or parlour,
dreamily looking into the glowing grate, Mrs. Barker? Yes, that is
the woman who made a _good match_. Can this indeed be so? I see, in
imagination, a gentle, loving creature, whose eyes and ears are open
to all things beautiful in creation, and whose heart is moved by all
that is good and true. Impelled by the very nature into which she
has been born--woman's nature--her spirit yearns for high, holy,
interior companionship. She enters into that highest, holiest, most
interior relationship--marriage. She must be purely happy. Is this
so? Can the woman we have introduced at the end of twenty years be
the same being with this gentle girl? Alas! that we should have it
to say that it is so. There has been no affliction to produce this
change--no misfortune. The children she has borne are all about her,
and wealth has been poured liberally into her lap. No external wish
has been ungratified. Why, then, should her face wear habitually so
strange an expression as it does?
She had been seated for more than half an hour in an abstract mood,
when some one came in. She knew the step. It was that of her
husband. But she did not turn to him, nor seem conscious of his
presence. He merely glanced toward his wife, and then sat down at
some distance from her, and took up a newspaper. Thus they remained
until a bell announced the evening meal, when both arose and passed
in silence to the tea-room. There they were joined by their four
children, the eldest at that lovely age when the girl has blushed
into young womanhood. All arranged themselves about the table, the
younger children conversing together in an under tone, but the
father, and mother, and Florence, the oldest child, remaining
silent, abstracted, and evidently unhappy from some cause.
The mother and daughter eat but little, and that compulsorily. After
the meal was finished, the latter retired to her own apartment, the
other children remained with their books in the family sitting-room,
and Mr. and Mrs. Barker returned to the parlour.
"I am really out of all patience with you and Florence!" the former
said, angrily, as he seated himself beside his wife, in front of the
grate. "One would think some terrible calamity were about to
happen."
Mrs. Barker made no reply to this. In a moment or two her husband
went on, in a dogmatical tone.
"It's the very best match the city affords. Show me another in any
way comparable. Is not Lorimer worth at least two millions?--and is
not Harman his only son and heir? Surely you and the girl must both
be beside yourselves to think of objecting for a single moment."
"A good match is not always made so by wealth," Mrs. Barker
returned, in a firm voice, compressing her lips tightly, as she
closed the brief sentence.
"You are beside yourself," said the husband, half sneeringly.
"Perhaps I am," somewhat meekly replied Mrs. Barker. Then becoming
suddenly excited from the quick glancing of certain thoughts through
her mind, she retorted angrily. Her husband did not hesitate to
reply in a like spirit. Then ensued a war of words, which ended in a
positive declaration that Florence should marry Harman Lorimer. At
this the mother burst into tears and left the room.
After that declaration was made, Mrs. Barker knew that further
opposition on her part was useless. Florence was gradually brought
over by the force of angry threats, persuasions, and arguments, so
as finally to consent to become the wife of a man from whom her
heart turned with instinctive aversion. But every one called it such
a good match, and congratulated the father and mother upon the
fortunate issue.
What Mrs. Barker suffered before, during, and after the brilliant
festivities that accompanied her tenderly-loved daughter's
sacrifice, cannot all be known. Her own heart's history for twenty
long years came up before her, and every page of that history she
read over, with a weeping spirit, as the history of her sweet child
for the dreary future. How many a leaf in her heart had been touched
by the frost; had withered, shrunk, and dropped from affection's
stem--how many a bud had failed to show its promised petals--how
many a blossom had drooped and died ere the tender germ in its bosom
could come forth into hardy existence. Inanimate golden leaves, and
buds, and blossoms--nay, even fruits were a poor substitute for
these. A woman's heart cannot be satisfied with them.
In her own mind, obduracy and coldness had supervened to the first
states of disappointed affection. But her heart had rebelled through
long, long years against the violence to which it had been
subjected--and the calmness, or rather indifference, that at last
followed was only like ice upon the surface of a stream--the water
still flowing on beneath. Death to the mother would have been a
willing sacrifice, could it have saved her child from the living
death that she had suffered. But it would not. The father was a
resolute tyrant. Money was his god, and to that god he offered up
even his child in sacrifice.
Need the rambling hints contained in this brief sketch--this dim
outline--be followed by any enforcing reflections? An opposite
picture, full of light and warmth, might be drawn, but would it tend
to bring the truth to clearer perception, where mothers--true
mothers--mothers in spirit as well as in name--are those to whom we
hold up the first picture? We think not.
Wealth, reputation, honours, high intelligence in a man--all or
either of these--do not constitute him a good match for your child.
Marriage is of the heart--the blending of affection with affection,
and thought with thought. How, then, can one who loves all that is
innocent, and pure, and holy, become interiorly conjoined with a man
who is a gross, selfish sensualist? a man who finds happiness only
in the external possession of wealth, or honours, or in the
indulgence of luxuries? It is impossible! Take away these, and give
her, in their stead, one with whom her affections can blend in
perfect harmony--one with whom she can become united as one--and
earth will be to her a little heaven.
In the opposite course, alas! the evil does not always stop with
your own child. The curse is too often continued unto the third and
fourth generation--yea, even through long succeeding ages--to
eternity itself! Who can calculate the evil that may flow from a
single perversion of the marriage union--that is, a marriage entered
into from other than the true motives? None but God himself!
THE BROTHER'S TEMPTATION.
"COME, Henry," said Blanche Armour to her brother, who had seemed
unusually silent and thoughtful since tea time,--"I want you to read
while I make this cap for ma."
"Excuse me, Blanche, if you please, I don't feel like reading
to-night," the brother replied, shading his face both from the light
and the penetrating glance of his sister, as he spoke.
Blanche did not repeat the request, for it was a habit with her
never to urge her brother; nor, indeed, any one, to do a thing for
which he seemed disinclined. She, therefore, took her work-basket,
and sat down by the centre-table, without saying any thing farther,
and commenced sewing. But she did not feel quite easy, for it was
too apparent that Henry was disturbed about something. For several
days he had seemed more than usually reserved and thoughtful. Now he
was gloomy as well as thoughtful. Of course, there was a cause for
this. And as this cause was hidden from Blanche, she could not but
feel troubled. Several times during the evening she attempted to
draw him out into conversation, but he would reply to her in
monosyllables, and then fall back into his state of silent
abstraction of mind. Once or twice he got up and walked across the
floor, and then again resumed his seat, as if he had compelled
himself to sit down by a strong effort of the will. Thus the time
passed away, until the usual hour of retiring for the night came,
when Blanche put up her work, and rising from her chair by the
centre-table, went to Henry, and stooping down over him, as he lay
half reclined upon the sofa, kissed him tenderly, and murmured an
affectionate "good night."
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