"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 mirthful 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 mirthful damsel,
laughing
aloud at the curious 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 frequently 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.
"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 — do you think these
would
satisfy you?"
"Oh, yes; I would 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 was quiet, thoughtful,
and observant;
while Harriet Wieland, who had great personal attractions,
never
appeared to look beneath the surface. She believed everything 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 mirthful 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 neighboring
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 everything 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
anything 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
lack 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 lacking
in
virtuous principles and a high sense of honor.
"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 anything 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 anything 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 are 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 honor 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 favorable regard. His exterior was by no means
elegant; his
literary attainments were not great; nor was he in the enjoyment of
anything
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 lack of reflection and
insight
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 everything 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
forever.
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, before 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 somber
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 tomorrow. 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
color
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
believe
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.
"After the mind of Harriet had grown calmer, she
commenced restoring to order the few articles in her chamber that
had been
disarranged in the hurried preparation made by her husband for his
departure. As she was about placing the coat he had worn in the
morning, and
which he had changed for another on going away, in the wardrobe, her
hand
pressed against a letter in one of the pockets, which a
sudden
curiosity tempted her to read. The writing was in a small, delicate
hand,
and the post-mark New York. Hurriedly opening it, when she saw this,
she
read its brief contents, which were as follow:
"DEAR HENRY,
I heard, indirectly, within the last hour, that
you were
married. I cannot believe it, yet the thought has maddened me! If
you do not
come to me by tomorrow night, I will go to you on the following day —
for
the truth or falsity of what I have heard must be verified to me at
once. If
it be true — God help the innocent heart you have betrayed, and most
cruelly
wronged. It can only break!
ADELAIDE."
"The trembling hands of the horror-stricken wife
could
hold the fatal epistle no longer than to permit her eyes to rest
upon the
signature. It then fell rustling to the floor, and she sat pale,
quivering
in every nerve, and unconscious of anything but a wild whirling of
all her
senses.
"It was my fortune, or misfortune, to call upon
my young
friend just at this time. I was told that she was in her chamber;
and, as
our intimacy was very great, I took a liberty we were in the habit
of taking
with each other, and went up to her, unannounced. My gentle tap at
her door
not being answered, I opened it and went in. As I have just
described her,
thus I found her. My entrance but partially restored her
self-command. She
stared wildly at me, stretched out her hands, and made an effort to
speak. I
sprang toward her, and she fell forward against my bosom, with a
deep groan
that made me shudder. Thus she lay for nearly five minutes as still
as a
statue. Then a slight quiver ran through her frame, which was
followed by a
gush of tears. For a long time she continued weeping and sobbing,
but at
length grew calmer.
"All this time I could see an open letter lying
upon the
floor, which I doubted not was the caused of this distressing scene.
When
the self-command of Harriet was at last restored, and she began to
reflect
upon the consequences likely to flow from another's witnessing the
wild
agitation she had displayed, a shade of anxious confusion passed
over her
face. At this moment her eye rested upon the fatal letter, which she
caught
up eagerly and concealed. I asked no question, nor made any remarks.
She
looked at me steadily for a moment, and then let her eyes fall
thoughtfully
to the floor.
"'You are surprised and confounded, no doubt,'
she at
length said, mournfully, 'at what you have seen. Pardon me if I
refrain from
mentioning the cause. It is one of which I cannot speak.'
"I begged her not to reveal the cause of her
affliction,
if to do so were at all in violation of what she deemed right; but
to accept
my deepest sympathies, and to put it in my power, if that were
possible, to
mitigate, in some degree, the pain of mind she was suffering.
"'That you cannot do,' said she. 'It is beyond
the reach
of human aid.'
"'May Heaven, then, give you strength to bear
it,' I
returned, with emotion.
"'Heaven only can,' she replied in a subdued
voice.
"I could say no more, for my ignorance of the
cause of
her distress put it out of my power to offer consolation, more
particularly
as it was her expressed wish, that I should remain in ignorance. I
stayed an
hour with her, during which time I learned that her husband had been
suddenly called to New York on business. It was one of the
unhappiest hours
I ever spent in my life.
"On going away, I could not help recalling the
conversation I had once held with Sarah Corbin about Mr.
Eaverson,
nor help feeling that there might be too much truth in her
declarations that
she believed him to be a man without honor or virtue. There
was no
doubt in my mind that Harriet's distress was in some way connected
with her
husband's absence, and it occurred to me that the letter I had seen
upon the
floor, and which she concealed so eagerly, might not have been
intended for
her eyes, and might contain things which for her to know would be
fatal to
her peace through life. In this, my conjectures were of course true.
"I called in to see Mrs. Eaverson on the next
day,
reluctantly, but from a sense of duty. I found her calm, but pale,
and with
a look of distress. She said but little. No allusion whatever was
made to
the condition in which I had found her on the previous afternoon. I
sat only
half an hour, and then went away. I could not stay longer, for my
presence
seemed oppressive to her, and hers was equally so to me.
"On the third day following that on which Mr.
Eaverson
went to New York, I saw a newspaper paragraph headed, 'Melancholy
Circumstances.' It related, briefly, that the daughter of
respectable
and wealthy parents in New York had been deeply wronged about a year
previous by an unprincipled cousin, whom she passionately loved. The
consequence was, that the young man had to leave the city, under the
promise
of never returning to it, unless he consented to marry his cousin.
This
penalty was imposed by the father of the girl, who declared his
intention to
shoot him if he ever saw him in New York. The result of this
baseness
on the part of the young man, was the utter estrangement of his
family. They
threw him off entirely. But, as he had a handsome fortune in his own
right,
and the cause of his removal from New York did not become generally
known,
he soon found his way into the best society in a neighboring city.
Some
months afterwards he married a lovely girl, who was all unconscious
of the
base wretch into whose keeping, she had given the inestimable jewel
of her
love. A few days since, the narration proceeded, the cousin, by some
means
or other, obtained a knowledge of this fact. She wrote to him
demanding an
interview, and threatening that if she did not obtain one in
twenty-four
hours, she would immediately come to him and ascertain for herself,
if what
she had heard were true. Alarmed for the peace of his bride, the
young man
hurried on to New York, and, at the risk of his life, gained an
interview
with the lovely girl he had so deeply injured. He did not attempt to
conceal
the fact of his marriage, but only urged the almost broken-hearted
victim of
his base dishonor, not to do anything that could bring to his wife a
knowledge of his conduct, as it must forever destroy her peace. This
confession blasted at once and forever, all the poor girl's hopes.
She gave
her betrayer one long, fixed, intense look of blended agony,
reproach, and
shame — and then, without uttering a word, retired slowly from his
presence.
She sought her mother, who, from the first, had rather drawn her
into her
very bosom than thrown her off harshly, and related what she had
just heard.
She shed no tear, she uttered no reproach, but simply told what her
mother
had known for months too well. That night her spirit left its
earthly
habitation. Whether she died of a broken heart, or by her own hands,
is not
known. The family sought not to investigate the cause — to them it
was
enough to know that she was dead and at peace.
"Whether this statement ever met the eye of Mrs.
Eaverson
is more than I can tell. I did not venture to call upon her after I
had seen
it. A few weeks later, I met her in the street on the arm of her
husband.
She was sadly changed, and had the appearance of one just recovering
from a
long and severe illness. Mr. Eaverson himself had a look of
suffering.
"The notoriety given by the publication of the
acts of
his base conduct in New York, caused Mr. Eaverson to feel little at
ease in
this city. Some months afterwards he removed to the South with his
wife,
much against the wishes of her friends. Harriet did not want to go,
but she
could do no less than accompany her husband.
"Some three years afterwards, it was whispered
about,
that Harriet had left her husband and returned home to her father;
but that
the matter was kept very quiet, and that she had not been seen by
any of her
old friends. It was said, that after living some time at the South,
Mr.
Eaverson grew indifferent towards his wife. A virtuous woman, she
could not
but be deeply shocked on discovering her husband's lack of virtue.
This she
could not conceal; and its appearance was a standing reproof and
condemnation of his principles and conduct. No bad man could endure
this.
Its effect would be certain estrangement. From dislike towards
his
wife, his feelings gradually deepened into hatred. Open abuse
soon followed neglect; when she fled from him, with two young
children, and
sought the protection of her father's house.
"It was nearly a year after Harriet's return,
before I
saw her. I could hardly believe, when I did meet her and grasp her
hand,
that the pale, dejected, care-worn being who stood before me — was
the same
with the light-hearted, beautiful, mirthful young girl I had known
but a few
years back. Alas! how surely does pain of mind, increase the work of
time!
"A few days after this meeting, which made me sad
for
weeks, I spent an afternoon and evening with Mrs. Williamson,
formerly Sarah
Corbin. She had two children, a boy and a girl, and was living
somewhat
secluded, but with every comfort she could desire. Her husband was a
merchant in a good business. When he came home at tea-time and met
his wife,
it was with one of those quiet but genuine smiles that you know come
from
the heart. He welcomed me, as he always did, with great cordiality;
and then
calling for Sarah, his eldest child, who ran in from the next room
the
instant she heard his vice, he took her upon his lap, and, after
kissing her
with great tenderness, asked and answered a dozen little questions,
to her
great delight. At tea-time I noticed, as I had often done before,
that, on
whatever subject Mr. Williamson spoke, his remarks, though few, were
full of
good sense, and indicative of close observation. The slightest
deviation
from honor or integrity met with his decided condemnation, while
virtuous
actions were as warmly approved. I could perceive, from the
expression of
his wife's face, and the tones of her voice when she spoke, that she
not
only held her husband in high estimation, but loved him with a
tenderness
that had grown with years. Qualities of mind and heart
— not
external attractions, such as brilliant accomplishments,
beauty, or
wealth — had drawn her towards him at first: these had won her young
affections, and they had become purer and brighter, and increased in
attractive power, as year after year went by.
"On going home that evening, I could not help
pausing and
looking back. Vividly, as it were but yesterday, came up before my
mind my
two young friends when, as maidens, their hands were sought in
wedlock. I
remembered how one, with true wisdom, looked below the imposing
exterior —
and sought for moral worth as the basis of character in him who
asked her
hand; while the other, looking no deeper than the surface — was
dazzled by
beauty, wealth, and talents. The result, you all have seen."
Mrs. Harding paused in the narrative. Half a
dozen eager
voices instantly inquired the ultimate fate of Mrs. Eaverson. "A few
years
after her return home," resumed the narrator, "she died. Her husband
during
that period neither wrote to her nor visited her. What has become of
him, I
don't know. Mrs. Williamson is still living, surrounded by a lovely
family
of children. Her oldest daughter has just been married, and, to all
present
appearances, has united her fate with one in every way worthy of her
hand.
"Mr. Williamson, or rather Mr. Rierdon,
as
I should truly have called him — you all know."
"Mr. Rierdon!" exclaimed Ella. "It can't be
possible you
mean him?"
"Not old Mr. Rierdon!" exclaimed another. "Why he
is
respected and loved by everyone!"
"I know he is," returned Mrs. Harding, "and well
deserves
to be. Yet, when a young man, he had nothing very imposing about
him, and
was thought of but little account by a set of young and foolish
girls, just
such as you are, whose heads were liable to be turned by any dashing
young
fellow with more impudence than brains, or more talent than principle
— who happened to thrust himself forward and push better men aside. I
hope
the lesson I have endeavored to teach you, may not be lost entirely;
and
that when any one of you has an offer of marriage, she will look
rather at
the heart than the head — at the qualities instead of
the
accomplishments — of him who makes it. If she does not, she will be
in great
danger of committing the sad mistake made by my excellent but
thoughtless
young friend, Harriet Wieland, of whom I never can think of without
pain."
Whether the narrative of Mrs. Harding had any
good effect
upon her hearers, we do not know; but we would gladly believe that
it had;
and we hope our young readers will not forget the important lesson
it
teaches. Let them be well assured that marriage is no lottery,
except
where it is made so. Everyone who will look at the moral qualities
of the
object of her regard, instead of at what is merely external, will
see deep
enough to enable her to come to a right decision in regard to him.
There is
no necessity for mistakes in marriage.
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