CHAPTER 1.
"I wish Dora Enfield were not so lovely,
or that
she did not cross my path so often. I shall get so deeply in love
with the
girl before long, that there will be no hope for me!"
This was said, half in jest, half in earnest, by
Milford Lane, a young attorney, to his intimate friend and
companion,
Henry Trueman.
"You could not love one more worthy your best
affections," the friend replied. "Dora is — "
"Oh, as to that," Lane said, interrupting him,
"the girl
would do well enough, no doubt. But, like the apostle Paul, I am of
opinion
that to marry is well enough, but to remain single is
better."
"Paul wrote many things hard to be understood,
which the
ignorant and unlearned sometimes twist to their own condemnation.
This is no
doubt one of them."
"A fair retort; but no very strong argument in
the case.
If a man wants to make himself miserable for life — if he
wants a
millstone about his neck — let him get married. Look at poor
Baker.
Small income — sick wife — seven children — bad health, and in debt
into the
bargain. Ugh! It makes me shudder to think of it. I'm afraid,
Harry."
"Look at old Pettigrew, creeping about like a
shadow. I
haven't seen a smile on his face for a year. He has no friend, no
companion,
no pleasant home. A sour, fretful old bachelor; life has for him but
few
charms, and they linger faintly about his head. I can imagine no
state so
lamentable as his. Are you not more afraid of being one day like
him?"
"Not half so much afraid as I would be of dying
in the
almshouse, or starving in jail for debt. A man needn't be sour and
crusty
because he happens to be old and a bachelor. I can show you a much
fairer
specimen than Pettigrew. There is Leslie — sixty-five, and still
single. I
needn't draw his picture; you know him as well as I do."
"Leslie is a remarkable exception,"
replied Henry
Trueman. "His natural disposition must have been extremely
amiable,
and his mind calm and evenly balanced, or he never could have
attained his
present age without his temper becoming soured. But do you suppose,
for a
moment, that he is as happy as his neighbor Glanding, with his house
full of
children and grandchildren?"
"As happy as Glanding? Oh dear! yes. But you
don't really
mean what you say. Glanding is not, and cannot be a happy man."
"Relatively speaking, he is."
"You forget the trouble he has had to get along
financially. It has been as much as he could do to keep his head
above water
for the last ten years. Such a family as he has to support is enough
to
swamp anyone."
"He still floats safely along, Milford."
"And may go under tomorrow! If I were in his
situation, I
would go crazy."
"Oh no; you would find that it had in it pleasures
of which you had never dreamed. When that old man goes home at the
close of
each day — there are sweet voices full of affectionate words for his
ear,
and gentle hands whose delight it is to minister to his needs. It
was only
last evening that I passed his house, and saw him sitting near the
window of
his parlor. His fine face was in repose, his eye calm, his lips half
unclosed, and his head gently inclined in a listening attitude. A
low voice
was warbling a strain of the olden time — a strain that he had,
doubtless,
loved in days long since passed away — a strain that first greeted
his ears,
perchance, from the lips of a dear sister; or, it may be, from her
who bore
him the lovely daughter whose voice was then sinking sweetly into
his soul.
Was not that old man happy — happy beyond comparison with the
solitary
bachelor, whose condition you seem to think so enviable? Surely he
was!"
"Henry!" said Milford Lane, speaking with some
energy of
expression, "can you suppose that old Mr. Glanding could, even at
that
moment, forget his daughter Mary's unhappy condition? No, that were
impossible. Mary was his favorite child. She wedded against his
will, and
unwisely. I saw her this very day as I passed the house of her
brutal
husband. Ah! one glance at her pale, sad face, gave me the
heartache. Her
father sees her, perhaps, daily. Does not his heart ache for her all
the
while? It must, Henry, it must!"
Lane spoke with much warmth. It was some moments
before
Trueman replied. When he did, his voice indicated the effect of his
friend's
words upon his feelings.
"Your hand jars a discordant string," he
said,
"nevertheless, it is only one defective cord among many
harmonious
ones. To look upon a suffering child must be deeply painful to a
father's
heart; but mingled with this very pain, is an internal sweetness of
feeling,
which springs from the tender, yearning love that blesses the heart
of every
right-minded parent. It is not in the nature of anyone to fix his
eyes
always upon the dark side of a picture. Neither the death
of a
child, nor the unhappiness of one can make a parent's heart
permanently
wretched while other happy children remain, and he can still gather
them to
his side. Nay, even if they are all separated from their early home,
with
heart and pen he may still hold communion with them."
"But if dead?"
"They will still live in his affections, and
bless him. I
remember a case in point; a case, too, that bears particularly upon
the
whole subject of our conversation. You know Martin?"
"Yes, a lonely old man. Wife and children all
dead; in
the short space of five years, five beautiful daughters followed
each other
to the grave, cut down in the flower of their age by consumption.
But what
of him?"
"It is scarcely a week since I was present at a
brief
conversation that passed between Leslie and Martin. They had been
young men
together; one had married, and the other not. After the passage of
forty
years, they stood again side by side, each alone in the world as
before.
'I am the happiest man,' Leslie said, towards the
conclusion of their conversation. 'I have lived a calm, quiet life;
and here
I stand, in the autumn of my days, without a branch seared by the
lightning
or broken by the wind!"
'But where is the fruit? Every tree bears
fruit,
the end of its existence, friend Leslie.'
'Fruit!' returned Leslie. 'Ah, Martin! fruit may
bless
the branch if allowed to remain until ripe; but, if torn too early
away,
only a bleeding stem will remain. Rich fruit once hung upon your
branches,
my friend; but where is it now? Rather let me fill up my days in
barrenness,
than thus be shorn of my pride and joy!'
"I could see the lip of Martin quiver for a
moment. But
when he replied, his voice was clear and elevated, yet full of
power.
'You ask,' he said, 'where that fruit is now? the
fruit
of this poor body. It is yonder!' pointing a trembling finger
upward. 'Is
there not a joy,' he added, laying his hand eloquently upon his
bosom, 'in
the thought that I have given to the blessed company in Heaven five
happy
angels? Tears were in his eyes as he said this, but they were not
the tears
of sorrow. His children had been godly, and he knew that they were,
as he
had said, happy. He was too unselfish to wish them back
again, and
too wise to grieve vainly for their absence. Can you not see
that, in
his case, it was more blessed to have had children born to him, even
if they
were taken away — than to have passed an unfruitful life?"
"I will not say no," He friend replied gravely.
"But the
case of Martin is an exception; he is a man of great firmness of
spirit,
rectitude, and deep religious feeling."
"Just what we all should strive to be;
without
this, we need not hope to find peace in any condition. It is a great
mistake
to set out with the sole end of securing the highest degree of personal
happiness; let us rather ask ourselves what are our duties in
life, and what is the true goal of our existence? If we do this, and
leave
the event to Him who governs all things for us, we shall act a wise
part.
The close of life will then be sweet, for in that hour we can look
back and
see that it has been spent for good."
If Lane felt convinced that there was force in
what his
friend said, it was against his will. His opinion of marriage was
therefore
unchanged; his silence, which seemed to Trueman the effect of a
half-formed
conviction of the truth, caused the latter to say still farther,
"That you will be happier as a married than as a
single
man, I have no doubt; but this is not the only view you should take
of the
subject. By marriage will you not make another happy?"
"I cannot say. Only time could tell."
"You have already confessed a preference for Dora
Enfield?"
"Why, yes, a kind of preference. The fact is,
Dora is a
charming creature; no one can meet her often without feeling drawn
towards
her. If I could make up my mind to marry — then Dora would be the
girl of my
choice."
"Suppose you had made up your mind to marry, and
to offer
your hand to Dora Enfield; and suppose that Dora reciprocated your
feelings,
but deemed it more prudent not to assume the duties and
responsibilities of
marriage, preferring the ease and quiet of single life to the
cares and anxieties that ever attend the marital and maternal
relations
— would you not think the selfishness that caused her to act
from
such views and feelings, wrong?"
"I do not think that I would; she would show more
wisdom
than weakness. I, for one, will never blame a woman for refusing to
marry; a
man's lot has in it little that is enviable, a woman's must be
wretched."
"If all acted from such views, what would
be the
consequence?"
"There is no danger of that. The great mass glide
into
the meshes of matrimony like fish into a net, dreaming not of
the
consequences, until repentance is too late. But what consequences
are to be
feared?"
"The human race would perish!"
"Well?"
"Can you see no evil in that?"
"What would be the evil?"
"Do you look upon life as a blessing or a curse?"
"As a blessing, if well improved; as a curse, if
otherwise."
"If offered the alternative, would you retain
life, or
pass forever into a state of non-existence?"
The idea of being blown out like a candle — of
sinking
into eternal unconsciousness — presented itself vividly to the mind
of Lane,
causing a slight involuntary shudder as he replied,
"Give me life at any cost."
"It is, then, good to be born?"
"I suppose so."
"But had your father acted upon the
principle you
are seeking to confirm — you would never have been born; he would
never have
given life to one more being, destined to be happy and useful
forever."
"That, you think, is my destiny."
"All may be happy in Heaven."
"But all are not happy — all do not find Heaven
— all are not useful."
"The reason is plain. All will not go there — all
will
not be useful. Too many, like yourself, look more to their individual
ease, than to the effect their conduct will have upon others.
Too much
to self — and too little to the uses of life."
"Then you think that I will never get to Heaven
unless I
marry?"
"I did not say so. Heaven is a state of order and
happiness — the latter dependant upon the former. Marriage is an
orderly
state; for it was instituted by the Creator, and is essential to the
continuance of the human race. If I refuse, from mere ends of
personal ease,
to enter into this orderly state, I cannot be happy. Besides, the
love which
makes Heaven, must be a love of doing good to others outside
of
ourselves; for that would make us likenesses and images of Him who
is the
center of Heaven. In what way can we do more good, than in raising
up and
educating children, who will be useful members in society — men and
women
who will strive as we have, or ought to have striven, to elevate the
world
into an appreciation and love of what is good and true, and who
shall at
last be raised to a heavenly and higher sphere of uses, to love good
and do
good forever. Who can estimate the use to mankind that a
single
individual may perform? Who can tell the good that your child may
do? And
good continues in its operations through generations and generations
yet
unborn. Look at a Washington, look at a Franklin, look at a Howard.
The
mother who bore with pain, and nourished with tender solicitude, the
great
and good Washington — did not see to the end of her labors. She was
not
buoyed up in her duty by the elevating consciousness that her babe
would
become the savior of his country; that for ages his name would be
synonymous
with all that was great and good. But as a mother she performed,
lovingly,
her duty. Was she not right? Does not your heart become chilled at
the
soul-revolting idea, that all the noble deeds and good influences of
a
Washington would have been lost to this nation and to the world, if
his
father had acted the strange, unnatural, criminal part you propose
to
yourself?"
"Do you expect your children to be Washingtons,
or
Franklins, or Howards?"
"I expect them to be godly men, and useful
to their fellows in whatever stations they may be called to fill."
"What guarantee have you for this?"
"Solomon has said, 'Train up a child in the way
he should
go — and when he is old he will not depart from it.'"
"Solomon was a wise man; but he could not have
looked
very closely into this matter. Every day's experience contradicts
the
assertion."
"I do not think so."
"Strange that you should not. Isn't it a thing of
constant occurrence, to see the children of the best men, children
who have
been raised with the most judicious care — often turning out the
worst?"
"Seemingly with the most judicious care, I would
say,"
Trueman replied. "For me, no matter what the appearance is, I have
settled
it in my mind, that where children turn out badly — it is in
consequence of
some defect in their early education. We know well enough, that such
as are
exposed to disorderly and wicked influences in childhood, make, as a
general
thing, the worst men; while, in tracing back to early years the life
of the
upright man, some particular germ of the good that time has
developed and
matured, may be found planted in the tender soil of his infantile
mind. If
the exposure of a child to evil and disorderly influences endangers
his
moral well-being — then to surround him with orderly and good
influences
must have an opposite effect. Of this I am so well satisfied, that I
should
have no fears for my children if I rightly educated, from the
earliest
moment of existence, their infantile minds."
"If — ! But who has the wisdom and the
self-denial to do
this?"
"True. There is the drawback. We are weak and
imperfect
beings, and often our best efforts are not guided by the requisite
wisdom.
But, my friend, if we will look earnestly to Him who gives us
children, and
whose they are — then He will enable us to educate them for Heaven.
This is
my trust. In conscious weakness at this point, lies, my heart tells
me, the
power to do my duties aright."
CHAPTER 2.
At the very time the conversation given in the
last
chapter was transpiring, Dora Enfield, to whom allusion had
been
made, was sitting alone in her chamber, pensive and thoughtful. Her
years
were only twenty. These had matured into more than ordinary
loveliness a
sweet young face, and given strength to a mind of unusual
brilliancy. Those
who were attracted to her side by the beauty of her countenance,
lingered
there — charmed with the order, strength, and beauty of her mind.
For some time she had remained near an open
window that
looked out upon a flower-garden, which her own hands had tended,
lost in
thought or dreamy musings that cast a shadow over her fair face. At
length,
with an effort to throw off this state of mind, she arose and went
to a
table on which lay several volumes. After taking up first one and
then
another, and laying all down in turn, she went back to her place by
the
window, where she seated herself on an ottoman, and resting her
cheek upon
her hand, gave herself up fully to the thoughts and feelings that
were
pressing with more than an ordinary weight upon her spirits.
Half an hour had thus passed, when a young friend
came in
— one with whom she was on terms of close intimacy. Her name was
Edith
May. She had been betrothed to Henry Trueman for some
months.
Their wedding day was fast approaching.
Dora roused herself up when Edith entered, but
she could
not entirely shake off her pensive feelings. They were too deeply
seated.
"You do not look well this morning, Dora," her
young
friend said, with some concern in her voice.
"I am well enough in body," was Dora's reply,
forcing a
smile, "but not so well in mind; though why I should droop just now,
I can
hardly tell. It is strange, is it not? how our feelings will
sometimes
become overshadowed without our being able clearly to define the
cause. Is
it not so with you?"
"I cannot say that it is, Dora. My spirits do not
sink. I
have, in fact, too much to make me happy. A few short months, and my
dearest
hopes on earth will be realized. Why should not my heart be light?"
Dora replied to this by a sigh, that came up from
her
bosom unconsciously to herself; a gentle sigh, scarcely perceived by
the ear
of her friend.
"If anyone has reason to be happy, it is you,
Edith," she
said, rallying herself after a moment of abstraction. "Soon to be
wedded to
a man worthy of your hand — how can your spirits be other than
buoyant? And
yet, marriage is a solemn thing. When I think of it
seriously, the
idea of taking up its deep responsibilities makes me tremble. But I,
perhaps, shall never be called upon to assume them."
"You? And why not?"
"I doubt very much whether my hand will ever be
sought by
one to whom I can yield it."
"But I have no doubts on that subject. It will
not be
long, I am sure, before I shall see you a happy bride."
Dora shook her head. The subject seemed to give
her pain,
and Edith, perceiving this, made no farther allusion to it.
The mood exhibited by Dora was altogether new to
her
friend. Its cause she could not clearly define. Her first and
natural
conclusion was, that some matter of the heart produced this
new state
of mind. But, as Dora did not seem at liberty to confide
anything to
her on the subject, delicacy caused her to refrain from making to it
any
very pointed allusion. They parted, after having spent a couple of
hours
together, when Dora relapsed into the pensive state from which the
visit of
her friend had aroused her.
The cause of this, a word will explain. She had
been
thrown of late much into company with the young man who had
expressed to
Trueman his preference for her. The first time she met him, her
heart was
interested. Each subsequent interview confirmed the favorable
impression.
All this was unacknowledged to herself fully. The pleasure she felt
in his
society had not yet been contrasted in her thoughts with the lonely,
pensive
feeling that followed. Still, something of the truth was coming into
manifest perception. This disturbed more deeply, instead of having a
tranquillizing effect — for Milford Lane had not shown
towards her
any of those attentions which could warrant her in cherishing for
him any
very particular regard.
For two years she had gone into company, and been
quite a
belle for a large portion of that time. Twice offers of
marriage had
been made to her; but her views of the marriage relation were such
as to
prevent her forming that sacred connection, except upon the highest
and
purest grounds. She was a believer in the doctrine that love, and
love alone
— should unite in marriage. A union based upon any other ground, she
looked
upon as only an effigy of marriage; a mere external association —
while
there existed an internal disjunction of hearts. Rather than
be thus
wedded to anyone, she would have a thousand times preferred to live
on
through time's brief period in singleness and integrity.
Until she had been thrown, by circumstances,
frequently
into the society of Milford Lane, the pure waters of affection that
were
hidden in her heart, had never smiled beneath a sunbeam, or been
rippled by
a breeze. But his voice caused their surface to tremble, and awoke
emotions
which were new and painfully sweet. There was a constant
sense of
oppression about her heart, as if a hand were laid upon it. Many
times in an
hour she would inspire deeply, in order to relieve the oppression.
But she
could not throw it off. Her mind fell away from its usual cheerful
tone,
leaving her pensive and thoughtful. But she did not understand the
nature of
her own feelings. She knew not that the germ of love was in
her
heart, nor that the strange sensations she experienced, were but the
effect
of a conspiring of all that was in the heart towards the quickening
of this
germ into life. It was even so. He, of all other men, was the one
who could
rule in her affection. Him she could love deeply, purely, devotedly —
him,
and no other living man.
What were his views and feelings, has
already been
seen. No other woman had ever interested him as much as Dora
Enfield. He
thought of her almost hourly — dreamed of her at nights — and never
felt so
happy as when, forgetting his false views in relation to marriage,
he sat
entranced by her side. Beautiful and intelligent, possessing a
highly
cultivated taste, and governed in all things by correct principles —
she was
just the companion he would have sought, if he had determined to
seek one at
all. But his ideas in regard to life had suffered a strange and
unnatural
perversion; looking upon society in its most external form, and,
therefore,
seeing but appearances, and not realities — he imbibed the
most
erroneous views of marriage. He saw the struggles and anxieties
of the poor man in his efforts to procure things needful for his
family;
but he did not see how amply he was rewarded for all this at
home, in
the loving care and devoted tenderness of his wife, and in the
innocent
prattle of his children, for whom God had given him a love that none
but a
parent can feel or understand. He saw the defects and vices
of
children, but he knew not how these can be borne with, nor how the
duty of
gradually elevating and perfecting their characters is attended, as
all good
uses are attended, with a pure inner delight. And more than this, he
did not
see how, in such a devotion, the parent became a co-worker with God
in
promoting the end of all creation. He saw children die, and turned
away sick
from witnessing the intense agony of the parent's stricken heart;
but, like
him who turns from the trampled flower, grieving that its leaves
should be
soiled and broken — he knew nothing of the sweeter perfume which
breathed forth from a wounded spirit; he saw not that a treasure had
been removed, nor thought upon those significant words of our
blessed
Savior, "Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." He
had
never dreamed of the high uses of afflictions; he knew not
how they
withdraw the affections from mere sensual things, and open up in the
soul
deep and quiet places, the very existence of which was undreamed of
before.
He knew not their elevating and purifying power. And
farther,
as a short-sighted philosopher, he did not reflect that the
affection in him
for companionship, intimate inner companionship with a loving and
lovely
woman, was, and must continue to be, an unfailing fountain of
happiness; and
that the waters which ever gushed from this spring would, if pent
up,
overflow and destroy much good ground that would have brought forth
its own
harvest in season, while all along the true channel where the waters
had
been destined to run, the grass would be withered, the flowers
fading, and
the fruitless trees droop their almost sapless branches.
Could happiness result from such a desolation of
the
mental earth? How vain the thought? And yet Milford Lane seriously
entertained the notion that, by avoiding the cares, troubles,
and
afflictions of the married life — he would secure to himself a
peaceful
journey, and a calm, contented old age. In getting away from the evils,
as he supposed them — he had not the most distant conception of the
blessings he would lose — blessings cheaply won at almost any
sacrifice.
Lane was a selfish man — and from this
selfishness
flowed his views of marriage. He thought only of how marriage would
affect
him externally. He looked only to the means of securing to himself
the
highest degree of personal happiness. Such an end always
defeats
itself. Formed for the marriage union, no man can act with an end to
individual good alone, and secure the good he seeks. It is
incompatible with
the very nature of things. In the beginning God made the male and
female,
and made them for each other. This simple fact should at once settle
the
matter in any mind that for a moment entertains a question of the
expediency of marriage. Man is not man, nor woman woman, simply
because
of some peculiar difference in bodily conformation. The difference
is far
more radical. It is a difference in spiritual organization — a
difference
that makes each complete only when conjoined to the other.
The false views of Milford Lane were not
entertained
without much reasoning, and constant struggles with himself. Nature
pleaded
strongly within him, and with double power when aided by a
suddenly-awakening affection for Dora Enfield. Before he was well
aware of
the nature of the ground upon which he was standing, the maiden's
voice had
begun to echo in his heart, her image to haunt his dreams,
and
her form to present itself in his mind very many times in a
day. With
this, came the desire of being conjoined to her; of having her ever
by his
side as a second self; with the reluctant acknowledgment that
he
loved her, and must do painful violence to his feelings if he stood
firmly
by the principles he had laid down for the government of his
conduct.
While this struggle was going on, Lane, sometimes
by
accident and sometimes from choice, was thrown much into the company
of
Dora. The approaching nuptials of Henry Trueman and Edith May, in
which both
himself and Dora were to act as attendants, brought them much and
familiarly
together, fixing the regard which Dora had begun to entertain for
him, into
a deep and unalterable affection — and drawing out his feelings
towards her
so fully as to startle him when he became conscious of their true
nature.
Dora's state of mind soon showed itself so
plainly, that
Edith could no longer misunderstand the nature of the change that
had at
first been perceived, but not comprehended. Sometime before her own
marriage
took place, she had drawn from her friend a confession of the nature
of her
feelings towards Lane. Enough of this was communicated by her to
Trueman, to
make him understand exactly how the matter stood in Dora's mind.
A few days before that on which his marriage took
place,
he called in to see his friend Lane. He found him more than usually
thoughtful, and ventured to allude, playfully, to the supposed
cause, which
was rightly conjectured to be the impression made upon his heart by
Dora
Enfield.
"There is no doubt, Trueman," was the serious
reply,
"that I love the girl better than I have ever loved anyone before.
So much
the worse for me. I cannot marry."
"Do give up that folly, and think and act like a
reasonable man," was Trueman's half-impatient response.
"It is like a reasonable man, that I am trying to
act,
against the almost irresistible power of a blind impulse, or
shall I
call it destiny?"
"Like a madman, rather say, against the true
order of
human existence, without the maintenance of which happiness itself,
nay, all
mankind, would perish."
"As to happiness, Trueman, I have never yet seen a
man
who, in a few years after his marriage, did not become sadly
changed."
"How?"
"From a pleasant, cheerful companion — into a
thoughtful,
sober, care-worn father of a family, whose ideas seemed never to
rise above
the prices of provisions, or some other matter connected with
domestic
affairs. Wouldn't I look pretty, now, to be seen with a basket on my
arm, or
a servant carrying one after me, threading my way through a
market-house in
search of beef, butter, and potatoes? Ugh! Don't talk about it!"
"You certainly are not serious."
"I certainly never was more so. I cannot conceal
from
myself that I have, somehow or other, gotten desperately in love with
Dora. But, at the same time, the pains and penalties of marriage are
too distinctly seen to allow me for one moment to think of entailing
upon
myself a lifetime of toil and trouble."
"But think of Dora. Are you not prepared
to make
some sacrifices for one whom you love?
"Not that sacrifice. At any rate, I am not
sure
that my love is returned."
"Very sure of it, I am. If ever a maiden's heart
reflected perfectly the image of another — that maiden's heart is
Dora's,
and your image the one that is reflected."
"You speak knowingly."
"I have cause."
A deep pause followed, broken at length by Lane,
who
said, breathing heavily as he spoke,
"I will not be so unkind to her as to entail upon
her the
cares, the privations, the pains attendant upon
marriage. I love her too well. Ah, my friend! I could never bear to
see that
sweet young face in shadow, nor those bright eyes lustreless from
sickness,
sorrow, or disappointment. Yet these are the inevitable attendants
on the
matrimonial state. Look at Mary Glenroy! It is not three years since
you and
I saw her stand at the altar, a happy bride. I met her not
two hours
ago, riding out in her husband's carriage alone. Her face was pale
and
sunken, her eyes far back in their sockets, and the whole expression
of her
countenance deeply melancholy. Oh! you cannot tell how sad this
sight made
me feel. I looked at her, and thought of Dora. My weak heart had
almost
given up; my love for the maiden had well-nigh conquered; but this vision
came just in time to save me!"
"And you conclude that Mary Glenroy, or, rather,
Mrs.
Malcolm, is unhappy."
"Unhappy! Can anyone mistake the signs of an
unhappy
heart?"
"It seems that you have. Mrs. Malcolm is
happy in
her marriage relation. Poor health has robbed her cheek of its
bloom, and
her eye of its brightness — but not her heart of its genial
warmth.
For what she has lost, more than sevenfold has been given. She now
lives a
true life, the life of a loving wife in that of her husband. The
children
that have blessed her union are dearer to her than any conceivable
gifts
that Heaven could bestow. Though her mind has concern and care for
them —
though giving them birth has shattered her feeble constitution — the
immeasurable love, so pure, so unselfish, and therefore so sweet,
which God
has given her for them, is a reward not to be estimated. Believe me,
that
the mere external repose, or pleasure, if you so choose to call it,
that an
exemption from duty and the care which attends it gives — is as
nothing in
comparison with the inner delight which pervades the soul when duty
is done,
even if, in the performance of it, there is labor and pain. If we
would
truly live — then we must leave the smooth plain of indolent
ease,
clamber up the mountains, and penetrate the deep, silent valleys; or
else we
will have no knowledge of the height and depth which are in the
soul, nor of
the sweeter joys which lie farthest concealed from transient vision.
If we
fear the prickly burr which covers the chestnut, and shrink from a
few
slight wounds — we cannot taste the pleasant kernel that lies
garnered
within. Think of this, my friend."
"I have thought of it, and am still of opinion
that, as a
wise man, I ought to let well enough alone. I am quite comfortable
as I am,
and think it more than probable that I shall deem discretion, in
this
matter, the better part of valor."
"By your own deeds you must stand or fall,"
Trueman said,
gravely. "Every man makes or mars his own fortune."
"By them, I am willing to stand. A few years will
bring
both of us to the end of our journey. Time will prove who is right."
"Yes; but it will then be too late to repair
the error,
whoever shall have made it."
"And are you not as likely to be in error as I
am?"
"I think not. I take the course pointed out by
Nature and
Scriptural Revelation — you take another road. I go the way in which
all
have walked since the beginning — you strike out for yourself a new
path, or
take one in which only a few venture to tread."
"Well! be it so. I cannot do worse than to marry,
that is
certain."
Seeing that no good was likely to grow out of a
continuance of the argument, Trueman introduced a new subject.
CHAPTER 3.
Before the arrival of the time at which her
friend was to
become the wife of Henry Trueman, Dora, as has been seen, had
discovered the
nature of her feelings towards Lane. She could not conceal from
herself the
fact that she loved him, but maiden delicacy caused her to
struggle
against the appearance of this, for the reason that he had made no
advances
which she could construe into a preference for her above every one
else. To
Edith, she had betrayed her secret, and would sometimes commune with
her on
the subject, driven to do so in the hope of relieving her burdened
heart.
Her friend always encouraged her to hope, and stimulated the love
she felt
by eloquent allusions to the warmth and joy of her own bosom.
A few months had greatly altered Dora Enfield.
Her cheek
was, perhaps, not quite so full and glowing — but the new affection
awakened
in her soul had given to that cheek a loveliness not before seen;
her eye
had lost some of its sparkling gaiety, but had gained in its stead, a
look
that caused in everyone upon whom it rested, a momentary change in
the
heart's even pulsations. Over her whole countenance, in fact, had
passed a
change. She was born to love, and when that tender feeling
awoke into
activity — she was lovelier to every eye than before.
Lane was not insensible to this change. He felt
drawn
towards her every day, more and more strongly. But he resisted with
increased determination, the pleadings of Dora's earnest eyes, and
the
stronger pleadings of his own heart. The approaching marriage of his
friend
Trueman, as has been seen, brought him frequently into her company.
While
with her, he too often so far forgot his resolution as to permit his
voice,
his eye, and his whole countenance to express what he really felt.
This
would, as a natural consequence, strengthen the affection that had
been
formed in her heart, and nourish the hope of a full return that she
could
not but entertain. As day after day, however, passed, and no act or
word of
Lane was sufficiently defined to enable her to predicate upon it a
rational
hope — her spirits, in spite of herself, began to fail.
At length the wedding day of Trueman and the
gentle Edith
May arrived. Dora was alone with her friend for several hours
previous to
the time on which the marriage ceremony was to take place. They
talked much
together of the hopes, the fears, the cares, and joys of wedded
life.
"I cannot but feel," Edith said, "now that the
time has
approached so near — an inward tremulousness at the idea of this
holy union
upon which so much depends. I am about entering upon a new life,
about
coming into a new and more elevated sphere of action, about assuming
the
highest and most sacred duties. I am about to become a wife. Shall
I, Dora,
be able to perform truly a wife's part? Can I fill that place in the
mind of
him who has chosen me from all other women, that a woman ought to
fill in
the mind of her husband? I fear not; and it is this fear which makes
me
tremble. The nearer this event approaches, and the more I think of
it — the
more painful is my consciousness that I am not truly fitted for the
place I
am about to fill."
"But, as you enter, with an earnest affection,
upon your
duties, Edith," was the reply of her friend, "you will find the
power to do
them."
"Thank you for that encouraging word," returned
Edith.
"What you say is, doubtless, true. If I sincerely strive to do a
wife's duty
— then I shall have a wife's perceptions."
"Do not doubt it. It is wonderful how, when our
affection prompts us to do a right thing — the mind opens with
perceptions of true ways for doing it. There must be for every good
affection — true thoughts, by which it has power to act. There must
be, for
every condition in which we are placed by Divine Providence — a way
by
which, in that condition, we may be able fully to do our duty. The
more
ardent the affection — the more clearly will be truth by which that
affection acts, be seen. This being true, is there not everything to
encourage the heart of one who is just about taking upon herself the
most
holy vows of marriage? She has the sweet assurance that, in loving
right — she will be fully aided in doing right."
"Thank you, over and over again, my dear Dora,
for words
that sink into my mind, giving it assurance and comfort," Edith
said,
warmly. "I feel that if I earnestly strive to fill up my measure in
life, be
my position what it may — that I shall have the true knowledge and
the
requisite power."
"Yes, and more than that — the sweet peace,
passing all
understanding, which ever accompanies the performance of duty done
from
right affections."
"But, Dora, marriage has its cares, its sorrows,
its deep
anxieties, as well as its duties. In these, like all others, I shall
be
tried as in a furnace."
"The fire shall not hurt you;
'Tis only designed
Your dross to consume,
And your gold to refine."
Dora replied, with, a smile that beamed through
dim eyes.
"Ah, but the dross, my friend, the dross,"
returned Edith. "Who shall say how much gold will be left after all
my
dross is consumed? Little, very little, I fear!"
"Much, much bright gold, upon which no fire but
the pure
heavenly fire of unselfish love can act — and which will only melt
it in
affliction's crucible, to prepare it for newer and more beautiful
forms. I
hope much for you, Edith. In the new life you are about to lead. I
see you
rising higher and higher, and becoming more and more perfected —
perfected
in a degree in which no woman, who is not a wife and mother, can
ever be
perfected. You will have your crosses to bear, your griefs, and
pains, and
anxious cares; but all will be blessed to you."
"May He who ordained marriage as a holy thing —
grant
that it be so!" Edith said, in a solemn voice.
"He will grant it. He is the All-powerful. Look
to him
for help in every trial, for strength in every duty — and they will
assuredly be given."
"Humbly I will trust Him," was Edith's steady
response.
That was the true spirit in which to give the
marriage
vow. To such as thus make it, will come all the genuine delights and
all the
true benefits of marriage, both spiritual and natural.
Few, very few, enter into this holy relation with
any
views beyond natural life. They think that it will add to
their
happiness, and, therefore, enter upon it. Better is it to marry with
even
these mere natural ends — than not to marry at all. But far above,
or
anterior to these, lie the true uses of marriage. Its life is the
one by
which higher or more inner principles in the mind are enabled to
flow down
into ultimate activity, and become purified from hereditary sins and
stains.
Thus purified, they minister to higher and more inner capacities to
happiness. In other words, they enable us to perform higher uses
in life,
and, as a consequence, render us happier.
In the gradual declension of mankind from the
state of
holiness and order to which they were created, down to the lowest
depths of
evil — every good principle implanted by the Creator has been
successively
perverted, until not a single good principle remains in its
integrity. Man
had reached his lowest point in that "fullness of time." At that
time, when
the Lord himself came into the world in order to redeem the human
race, man
was wholly perverted, and, had not a strong arm been outstretched to
save
him, must have inevitably perished. From that time, a return towards
true
order was commenced. The way was opened by which every one could be
restored
to his lost inheritance of good affections. But this return to every
one is
a slow process. It is only effected by letting each perverted
principle come
into activity, and there meeting resistance from truth. A combat then
takes place in the mind. The evil love struggles against truth in
the
understanding. If truth conquers, then the orderly and good
affections,
opposed to the evil and disorderly ones, take their place; and so
far man is
restored to his integrity, so far he has a capacity for being really
happy.
This is the process by which every evil affection in the mind is
renewed.
Now it is plain, that unless a principle of evil,
latent
in the mind, be awakened, made active and then opposed and conquered
by
truth — the good opposite to that evil cannot be implanted; and just
so far
as this is not the case, just so far will man fail in his effort to
rise
into all the perfection of his original creation.
Marriage being a state essential to the
preservation of
the human race, being a state for which every one is created, there
must be
perverted affections, and they of a very interior and vital
character, which
never can become active, and, therefore, never resisted and
regenerated —
unless the marriage relations are formed. How important, then, to
every one,
is this union! It may, and will, have its trials, its pains, and its
temptations; but, without them, its uses would never be fully
complete. No
spiritual good is born without labor and pain. It must be so in the
very
nature of things; for it is only by the resistance to, and putting
under our
feet of mere natural affections — that we rise into the life and
delight of
pure, unselfish, spiritual affections.
This was the view entertained by both Edith and
her
friend Dora. They had often spoken together on the subject, and had,
both of
them, a willingness to become wives — as well from principle, as
from
the unerring instincts of their nature.
Trueman also saw the subject in the same light.
But his
friend Lane was too fond a lover of self, too prone to seek
delights
in what was merely natural and visible — to care about spiritual
views of
things. Indeed, to show to him a philosophy so significative of
man's true
nature and true power, would only have provoked a smile. To his
mind, it had
no signification.
This defect, Dora did not see; but even if she
had seen
it, with a woman's expectant and loving heart, she would have felt
certain
of inspiring him with the truth as it was presented so clearly to
her own
mind. She loved him with a deep emotion; and, to have made him
happy, would
have sacrificed much. But the return he made was not of a kind to
inspire
her with hope; had it been so, her cheek would not have grown pale,
nor her
eye worn a look of such deep abstraction. She loved, but loved
without a
well-founded hope of return.
CHAPTER 4.
With very different emotions did Milford Lane and
Dora
Enfield stand beside the young couple about being joined in wedlock,
while
the minister was repeating the marriage ceremony. He could not but
feel, in
spite of his perverted reasonings, that Trueman and his fair young
bride
were entering a way in which they would find true happiness. Dora's
bosom
yearned to enter the same way. He struggled against the influences
of the
scene — but into her heart they sunk with a sweet sadness.
"There is no retreat now, Henry. You have fairly
passed
the Rubicon," was Lane's remark to Trueman, after the
congratulations
following the ceremony were over, and he had an opportunity to get a
word to
his ear.
"Retreat! Why should he retreat?" spoke up Dora,
who sat
beside Edith.
"There is no reason now," returned Lane. "He has
passed,
as I said, the Rubicon, and cannot go back. But, before such a step
is
taken, I think there is good reason to look well to what we are
doing. This
marrying is a serious affair."
"It is, doubtless," Dora said, with more than her
usual
seriousness. "It involves much — it includes a whole lifetime."
"And the most serious part of life. For my
part, I
think people are fools to get married."
"Why, Mr. Lane! what can you mean by saying so?"
the
young bride remarked, in surprise. Neither she nor her friend had
ever heard
him speak against marriage, and knew nothing of his peculiar
views in
relation to it.
"I mean just what I say. If the most happiness is
to be
found in the married life, as everybody will try to make you
believe; in it,
too, are to be found causes of the greatest unhappiness. It seems to
me
that, under this view, to get married is to risk rather too
much."
The circumstances under which they were placed
would not
permit a conversion of any kind to take more than the form of a few
passing
remarks. This was about all that was then said on this subject. But
the
words, and the manner in which they were said, produced in the mind
of Dora
a sensation of uneasiness — caused her heart to labor heavily in her
bosom.
Although thus affected, the atmosphere in which
Dora was
moving, and with which her lungs were expanding, was one so mirthful
and
glad-hearted, that she could not but feel the general delight. Her
pulse
quickened, her cheek grew warmer, and her eye brighter. Never before
had she
seemed to Milford Lane so beautiful, so love-inspiring; his heart
was drawn
towards her as by a strong hand. Often he would find his eye resting
upon
her face with a look so earnest, that it required a strong effort
for him to
withdraw it.
"If I could be happy with any woman," he said to
himself
that night, as he lay sleepless upon his bed, "I could be happy with
Dora.
She was born to be loved. Why is it that marriage has so many
drawbacks? Why
is it that side by side with joy — stalk gloomily onward, pain and
sorrow?
That with the highest blessing life has to give, is
associated the
deepest misery? Accursed union! Yes accursed say I, in
very
bitterness of spirit! Were it not for this, I might take to my arms
this
lovely being, and both of us glide sweetly and tranquilly down
life's
pleasant stream. But to be dashed over cataracts, hurried along amid
rapids,
and only for moments at a time to see glimpses of a sun-bright sky,
is a
condition of things that I, for one, shrink from. Give me a smooth
stream,
meandering through fruitful meadows — even if I have no companion
in
my journey. I shall be far happier."
With this conclusion, he turned upon his pillow
and
sought the favor of gentle sleep. But the goddess came
not at
his call. Another being visited him. It was the image of her towards
whom
his heart had yielded involuntary homage. She stood before him, and
wooed
him with smiles that were irresistible.
"Oh, that I had never seen the girl — or that she
were
not half so lovely!" he exclaimed, rising up and seating himself
near a
window. It was the hour of midnight; all was hushed into a deep
stillness;
the moon was bathing spire, and roof, and tree in a soft light; the
stars
looked down from their places in Heaven, some with a sparkling
luster, some
with gentle radiance, and some with beams of intelligence like eyes
of
angel-watchers.
The scene and the hour reflected itself on the
mind of
Lane. It was voiceless, but eloquent nature. It spoke
to his
heart, but in a strange language. And yet he felt that this language
was
full of meaning. He desired an interpreter. He yearned for a companion
— for one who could look with him upon this loveliness, and speak of
its
deep mysteries. Like the needle to the pole — turned his thoughts to
Dora.
She was the companion his heart desired. Through her eyes, he
felt
that he could see beyond the sky, the moon, the stars, the whole
face of
nature — into the world from which they were born; could see how and
why
these natural things caused his heart to heave beneath them like the
uprising waters of the great ocean. He felt that he was but half a
being,
that his perceptions of things were all imperfect; that he needed
his
counterpart in order to see aright, learn aright, feel
aright, and truly live aright.
"Ah! sweet being!" he murmured, as with these
thoughts
rose before his mind the image of Dora, "how can I turn away from
your
lovely form? How can I put you away from me?"
Rising, and turning from the window, in the
effort to
shut out mental images — he commenced walking the floor of his
chamber. But
change of place, did not make with him change of state.
He
could not put from before his mental eyes, the sweet face of the
maiden —
nor from his mental ears the love-inspiring tones of her voice.
At the same hour, looking out upon a similar
scene — sat
by the window of her chamber, Dora Enfield. The manner of Lane
towards her
during the evening had been of a mixed character, inconsistent, and
difficult to interpret. Sometimes, in speaking to her, his voice
would seem
full of tenderness; at another time it was cold, and, to her ear,
repulsive.
Sometimes he would be all life, and sometimes quiet and thoughtful.
At times
he would linger by her side, and hang upon her words; and then,
again, he
would appear to avoid her. All this troubled her spirit; but, more
than all,
did she feel troubled at the strange words he had uttered in
regard
to marriage. They had fallen upon her ears harshly. They
seemed like
the words of an insane man.
These things had left her mind in a painful
state. When
all was over, and she retired, with a lonely feeling, to her
chamber, she
turned from the bed that invited her to repose, and sat down by an
open
window, leaning her head upon her hand and looking up into the sky,
with a
heart pensive, even to sadness. All the thoughts that passed through
her
mind, we will not attempt to imagine. They kept her head from its
pillow and
her eyes from sleep, until near on to the morning hour.
Nor did Lane find quiet for body or mind much
before this
late period; and then, not until he had silenced the earnest
pleadings of
his heart, by picturing in long array before his mind — the thousand
miseries attendant upon marriage. These he exaggerated to the
utmost,
and then turned from the revolting scene he had created, saying, as
he did
so,
"No, no, no! Tempter, begone! While reason
and
resolution remain, I will be true to myself and to you, sweet girl!
Both of
us will be happier in single life."
CHAPTER 5.
Milford Lane continued firm in his resolution.
Soon after
the marriage of his friend, he found it necessary to be less
frequent in his
visits, and less marked in his attentions to Dora Enfield. It would
not be
good, he saw, for either her or himself. He loved her society, and
was never
so really happy as when with her. The necessity for withdrawing
himself from
it, he felt to be a very painful necessity; but, in his view, this
was a
lesser evil than marriage, and so he bore it as well as he could.
The
solitude to which he was frequently self-doomed — for, in giving
up the
society of Dora, he had no relish for other society — chafed him a
good
deal, and soured him with life, which was, at best, he would
sometimes say,
a delusive, troubled dream.
In this way passed a whole year, the most unhappy
year
the young man had ever spent. On Dora it wrought a serious change.
Through
Edith she had learned the views of marriage that were entertained by
Lane.
They differed so from her own, and involved, as she could clearly
see, so
much of a selfish spirit, that she strove to dismiss from her
mind
all hope of ever becoming his wife. But this was not a thing to be
easily
done. It cost her many a long and painful struggle. Clearly seeing
the cause
of his manner towards her, and understanding fully how much it
involved, she
did not wish to become his wife while his present views remained.
But she
had heard of this declaration that he had made, "If ever a man loved
a woman
— I love Dora Enfield. If I were ever to marry — it would be her,"
and this
awakened a hope that he might think differently. Were such to be the
case,
the indication of which would be the offer of his hand, she felt
that she
could not say no.
Instead of this fond hope being realized, Lane
gradually
withdrew from her the attentions he had at first bestowed. When with
her, he
was not so free and cheerful as formerly. He frequently visited
Trueman and
his wife, and saw that they were happy in each other. Sometimes his
friend
would allude playfully to the fact.
"Oh yes," he would reply, "it is all springtime
yet. But the scorching heats of summer are yet to come — and
the
dreariness and desolation of winter."
"True. But do you not know that there will be in
this
summer-time, the shadow of a great rock in our weary land? Do you
not know
that we shall have in the winter season a warm fireside around which
to
gather? You think only of the scorching heat, the desolating blasts,
and the
icy coldness — you forget that there are cool places, and coverts
from the
storm. Do not these more than compensate for all the discomforts the
change
of seasons brings? Would you give up the blessings of harvest — the
year's
fruit-time — in order to have only the bright skies, green fields,
and buds
and blossoms of spring? These will all fail to bless the soul. But
in the
ripe fruits of autumn are contained the year's best gifts. All else
are as
nothing compared to these."
"Very pretty and very poetic. But I think a bird
in the
hand, is worth two in the bush. I know the good I have. I can
calculate the
sum of life's blessings as a bachelor. But if I once launch my bark
in the
stream of matrimony — there is no telling where its troubled
waters
will carry me! There will be scorching heats enough, and storms
enough — but I cannot be so sure of the great rock, and the
covert. The
winter will come as certain as fate. But whether there will be heat
enough
in the house to warm the cold air that rushes in through many a
chink in the
walls, is not so certain."
"I have never yet seen in the house of those who
have
married from true affection, anything approaching a preponderance of
evil
over good, but always the reverse."
"I have, then, often and often."
"We see with different eyes, friend Lane."
"So I would think, if we see such different
things in the
same place."
"You see appearances — and I realities."
"No, the fact is just the reverse."
"No doubt you think so."
"I am sure of it. But time will prove
which is
right. You are married, and can't help yourself. I am still single,
thank
Heaven! and intend remaining so. A few years will test the
question."
"I have no fears in regard to the solution of
that
question," Edith said, looking into her husband's face with
love-beaming
eyes, after Lane had departed.
"You need have none," returned the husband. "Every
condition of life has its trials — and marriage those
peculiar to
itself. But, in all orderly conditions, the trials are only for the
development of good. They prepare the way for more inner delights
to
come forth into activity. But in disorderly states, such as
celibacy,
especially where it is voluntary and selfish — pain is
usually the
result of the effort of inner things to find an ultimate place of
action;
but no such place being found in the life, they never come forth to
bless,
but remain struggling in perpetual imprisonment, and wounding,
like
fluttering birds, their wings against the iron bars that restrain
them."
When Lane returned home, he sighed involuntarily
as he
sat down in his silent, lonely chamber. He had not failed to see
that
between Trueman and his wife, existed a communion of thought and
feeling,
just such as his heart longed to have with one of the gentler gender
— with,
in fact, one towards whom his thoughts often turned — Dora Enfield.
"If life
would remain ever in its spring-time — if cares would not thicken as
years
went by, the married life would be full of blessedness," he said,
half
aloud. "Yes, yes, you have, doubtless, the advantage of me now. But
wait a
few years, and then see. The change will come — it must come. Grief,
pain,
care, sorrow, disappointment, bereavement — yes, these, all these,
accompany
such as enter this toilsome road. Ill-favored crew! I cannot make
you
fellow-passengers."
Not long after. Edith gave to her husband, a
babe.
Before, they had been happy, up, it seemed to them, to their
capacity for
enjoying happiness. Now a warmer ray of light streamed into their
dwelling.
"Come and see me, Lane; I want to show you my
boy," said
the delighted father, a few weeks after he had received the precious
gift of
a child.
"He is something wonderful, no doubt," returned
Lane,
smiling to see the earnestness with which Trueman spoke.
"He is the dearest little fellow I ever saw!"
"No doubt of it."
"You must come and see us."
"See your boy, you mean."
"Yes, see him, if you will have it so. I'm sure
you never
saw a sweeter babe."
"They're all alike to me, Trueman; and, as to
their being
so very interesting, I have not yet been able to see in what it
lies."
"So most of you unmarried men say. But come and
see my
boy, and I'll show you something that will interest even you."
"Very well, I'll come. But you mustn't be
disappointed if
I shouldn't happen to perceive all the attractions that are
so plain
to your eyes. Every crow loves its own!"
"Oh yes, I understand. But I do not see why, if a
canary
bird thinks her young ones beautiful, that should make them crows —
do you?"
"But the crow thinks her young most beautiful of
any. It
is not the parents' biased estimation which gives loveliness to
offspring.
It is all right, no doubt, that parents should love their own
children best;
but they must not expect everybody else to see all the beauties that
are
exhibited before their partial eyes."
"No, of course not," returned Trueman, his words
half
choking him.
"Mr. Lane will be here tonight," Henry said, as
he sat at
the tea-table with his wife, about ten days after this little
interview. "I
saw him this after noon, and he says he will make us a call."
"He has never seen the baby yet."
"No."
"I hope the little dear will be good."
"He is always good."
"Yes, when he is well. But today he has not
seemed quite
well. He has fretted a good deal. He cried for nearly an hour before
you
came in."
"What can be the matter with him?" This was asked
with a
look of concern.
"I do not know. But he seems better now, and is
sleeping
sounder than he has slept all day."
"Dear little thing! I hope it's nothing serious."
"I hope not."
At that moment the babe cried out as if in pain,
and
Edith instantly arose, and lifting him from his cradle, drew him
tenderly to
her bosom. The soothing murmur of her voice soon hushed him again
into
repose. Although Henry had not eaten more than half what was usually
taken
by him at the evening meal, he felt no farther inclination for food.
He had
arisen at the same time with Edith, and stood beside her when she
lifted the
babe from his cradle. He now drew a chair close to where she was
sitting,
and bent over, and looked fondly down into the face of the child, as
it lay
nestling upon its mother's bosom.
"You haven't finished your supper yet," Edith
said, after
a little while, turning her eyes from her babe to her husband's
face.
"Me? Oh yes! I hadn't much appetite. You don't
think
anything serious ails him?"
"No, dear. He may have taken a little cold; but
he will
be well enough by tomorrow, I hope."
Henry laid his hand upon the child's head, but
removed it
quickly, with a look of alarm.
"Just feel, Edith, how hot it is! And his
hand too
— he has a high fever!"
"It doesn't feel very hot to me," Edith said,
after
placing her hand upon his head. "Feel my hand — is it hot."
"Yes, almost as hot as the baby's."
"I don't think I have any fever. I have felt as
well as
usual all day. Your skin is cold, and that's the reason why both
mine and
little Henry's feel so hot."
"Perhaps so," returned Trueman, in a less anxious
voice.
In about half an hour, Mr. Lane called in,
according to
promise, to spend the evening. He was not seated long before the
little
stranger, who had been disturbed from his quiet repose on his
mother's
bosom, that he might be exhibited to the visitor, who did not care a
fig
about seeing him, began to fret and cry.
"Poor little thing! he is not at all well," Henry
said.
"I am really afraid something serious is the matter with him."
"I hope not," returned the mother, holding the
child
close to her bosom, and endeavoring to soothe it with a low,
murmuring
sound. But it cried out continually, and seemed to be in much pain.
"What can be the matter with him, Edith?" Henry
said, his
anxiety causing him almost to forget the presence of his friend.
"Nothing of consequence, I hope," was the wife's
reply,
who seemed least anxious of the two.
"Thank Heaven!" was Lane's silent ejaculation, "I
have
nothing like that to worry my mind."
The babe continued fretful. Very soon after Lane
came in,
Edith took it out of the sitting-room, and left her husband and
their
visitor alone. But Henry entertained his friend badly. He could
think of
little else, and, therefore, talked of little else, besides his
child.
"I never could bear in the world," he remarked
during the
evening, "to lose that child. I believe it would put me, for a time,
beside
myself."
"I don't think there is anything like danger to
be
apprehended," Lane replied. "All children are sick more or less. You
will
have to get used to these things."
"But that child is very ill, I am sure.
His skin
is hot; fevers are always dangerous, and, in children, apt to go to
the
head."
Thus an hour was passed, when Lane, who saw that
his
friend was anxious to be with his child, and who felt desirous of
getting
away from such uncongenial company, retired.
"There comes trouble," he said to himself,
as he
walked thoughtfully homeward. "Poor Trueman! I pity him. He loves
that child
with his whole heart. He can think of little else, and talk of
little else.
It is sick — suppose it should die? It will almost kill him. No, no,
you
don't catch me in that hard spot! A wise man foresees the evil and
hides
himself — but the simple pass on and are punished."
CHAPTER 6.
As soon as Henry had parted with his friend at
the door,
he hurried up to the chamber where Edith had retired, his heart
trembling
with anxiety. Their child was asleep upon her bosom.
"How is he?" was asked with eagerness.
"He is not well," the mother replied, in a low,
sad
voice. "Just feel his little head — it is very hot."
"I will go for the doctor this moment," Trueman
said, as
soon as he had ascertained for himself the fact just stated by his
wife.
"Perhaps there is no necessity for doing so
tonight,"
returned Edith. "Suppose we wait until morning; he may be much
better by
that time."
"But if he should be worse — how much time would
be lost!
I will go at once. Delays are dangerous!"
And so the doctor was brought. He treated the
matter
lightly; said it was often the case that infants were feverish for a
few
hours, and then as well again as ever. A prescription, however, was
left, to
satisfy the parents. It did not call for a very powerful dose. On
the next
morning the child's skin was cool and moist, and he, to all
appearance, as
well as ever. The parents breathed more freely, but still remained
anxious.
During the day, Trueman and Lane met.
"How is your child?" asked the latter.
"He is better, thank you. But I still feel very
uneasy
about him."
"It's nothing serious, I hope."
"I hope not. But still, I can't help being
troubled."
The friends parted.
"Can't help being troubled. Humph!" said
Lane to
himself, as he walked away. "Is that to be wondered at? Was there
ever a
married man who didn't feel troubled? This is only a little
beginning. You'll have your heart full by-and-by. I told you so, but
you
wouldn't believe me."
At dinner-time, Trueman hurried home, feeling
still
anxious. Happily, no more unfavorable symptoms had shown themselves.
The
babe slept peacefully in his cradle, over which the father bent with
a
thankful heart. When evening came, the young parents felt relieved
from all
concern about their child. Its pulse was as calm and its skin as
cool as
ever. But the suddenly-awakened fear of losing it had caused a
tenderer
feeling to pervade their bosoms. They loved it with increased
affection.
"Dear, innocent creature!" Trueman would say,
over and
over again, as he turned from the page he was reading, or paused in
some
conversation with Edith to look at it long and earnestly as it lay
in its
cradle. "Heaven grant that our treasure may be spared to us!"
Time passed. Days, weeks, and months were added
to the
babe. From a mere passive emblem of innocence — a bud of beautiful
promise,
its young mind began gradually to open, as its bodily powers were
developed.
The smiles that wreathed about its lips had in them more of
intelligent
affection — the light of its eye was kindled by thought. Twelve
moons had
waxed and waned since it saw the light of this beautiful world, when
it
became dangerously ill. A well-developed brain, while it gave
quicker
perceptions of external things, and made the child doubly
interesting to
those who were with it constantly — involved a dangerous
predisposition
towards problems of the head. The slightest bodily derangement was
almost
always attended with a disturbance of the cerebral region. The
parents had
often noticed this, but did not know the real cause. Had the
physician given
them a hint to this effect, they would never have had a moment's
peace. As
far as they were concerned, it might well be said, "Where ignorance
is
bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."
But mere ignorance of a danger does not ward
it off. Their child was now dangerously ill with an illness so
resembling dropsy of the brain, that the doctor seriously feared for
his
life. The parents were, of course, in terrible alarm. Little Henry
had
grown, in a year, to a beautiful boy. There was everything about him
to
interest their hearts. To see him in great suffering, and to have,
at the
same time, the dreadful fear of losing him — took from them nearly
all
rational control over themselves. It seemed to them that they could
not bear
to have him taken away — that it would kill them. But death does
not
pause, when his bow is bent, to let the fatal arrow fly,
because
hearts may bleed. The most tenderly loved, as well as those for whom
no
tears will fall — are alike his victims.
After a week of great suffering, the disease
terminated
in convulsions of a most distressing character. These
continued for
hours, until the father's heart so bled at witnessing the anguish of
his
boy, that he prayed wildly for God to give him rest, even if it were
in
death.
Into that sleep which knows no waking in this
life, the
child at last sunk. Heart-sick at witnessing its painful writhings
and
bodily contortions, and in listening to its unnatural cries when a
convulsion seized it, Trueman had left the chamber for a few
moments and
lain himself upon a bed in an adjoining room. He had been there
about ten
minutes when Edith came rushing in, half frantically.
"He is gone, Henry!" she sobbed, throwing
herself
beside him upon the bed and burying her tearful face in his bosom.
"Thank God!" murmured Trueman fervently. "No more
anguish, no more suffering. Our loss is his great gain. I would not
now
recall the angel-child."
The father's voice was firm when he ejaculated,
"thank
God!" After the first few words it began to tremble. The last
sentence was
sobbed, rather than spoken. For a long time, the tears of the
bereaved parents flowed freely. Then they grew calmer. It was night.
They
had not slept for many hours. A quiet stole over their spirits; they
sunk
into a deep slumber, and remained unconscious of all external things
for
many hours. When they awoke, a bright sun was pouring his beams into
their
chamber. All in the house was hushed into a stillness that was only
broken
occasionally by a softly-gliding footstep, a whispered word, or the
faint
sound of a door closed gently by some careful hand. There was death
in the dwelling!
"Such a dream as I have had, Edith!" Trueman
said, as he
arose from the bed, and half turning, looked earnestly into the face
of his
wife, which had never worn so sad a look as now.
"What was it, dear?" murmured Edith, scarcely
daring to
trust herself to speak.
"I saw our sweet one with the angels."
"Oh, Henry!" and Edith clasped her hands
together. Tears
were slowly falling from her eyes.
"Yes, we know that he is with them. And I saw him
as
plainly as I ever saw him with my bodily eyes. At first there were
two
angels alone, who seemed of the female gender. I looked into their
faces,
that beamed with the tenderest affection. They were evidently
waiting with
delighted eagerness for the arrival of someone. In a little while
one of
them drew her hands tenderly to her bosom, as if receiving and
infolding an
infant. In the next moment my heart thrilled with joy. Our dear
child lay
upon her bosom. Oh, the sweet, holy, tender, loving smile that
beamed from
her beautiful face as she clasped the cherub in her arms! Not less
delighted
seemed her companion-angel. She, too, bent over our little one, and
smiled a
smile of heavenly affection. Then it seemed as if we were all rising
up, up,
up, for a long time, I still at a distance and unobserved by them,
yet
seeing all most distinctly. At last they came to a beautiful green
lawn,
surrounded by flower-beds, where bloomed flowers of brighter hues
and
sweeter perfume than are ever seen upon the earth. There were trees
also
around this lawn, amid the branches of which birds sung the most
enchanting
strains. On the grass were resting snow-white lambs, many of their
necks
adorned with flower-wreaths. But the loveliest sight of all was a
company of
little children with their attendant angels, beautiful beings, that
looked
like forms of heavenly love. As the angels who had first received
our little
Henry entered the happy company, one of the attendant angels
separated
herself from the little group and came forward to meet them. In no
mortal
face did I ever see pictured a mother's tender, joyful love, so
perfectly as
upon hers. The child was resigned to her care, and those who brought
it
turned and passed gradually far off, until I could see them no more.
Then
was sung a song of welcome, in which innumerable voices seemed to
blend,
each expressive of some modification of filial or maternal love. The
song
ceased. Little groups of children gathered around their
angel-mothers, all
happier than I ever saw children upon the earth. Among these I saw
our dear
little boy. But, while many sported in circles around their
attendants, he
clung to the side of the angel who had received him, ever and always
gazing
up into her love-beaming face with a happy smile. While I stood
looking on,
one came to me and said,
"These are those who, when they lived upon earth,
most
tenderly loved infants and children. Rejoice, then, rather than
mourn, that
your child has been removed to this happy company. It is beyond the
reach of
danger — beyond the reach of sin, and pain, and sorrow. It is
guarded, and
guided, and loved as no earthly parent can guard, and guide, and
love their
offspring. Mourn not its loss. Lift rather your heart up to that
Heaven
where your treasure has been removed. This will sustain you; this
will make
what seems grievous and hard — to be borne a blessing."
"Just then the angel-mother, to whose care our
dear one
had been consigned, approached me with looks of the tenderest
maternal
affection. She bore our loved child in her arms. He smiled sweetly
as he saw
me, but leaned closer to his new-found friend. My heart was touched
at this.
It seemed that I could not bear to have him love a stranger better
than he had loved me. The feeling caused all to become dark as
midnight
around me. Then I awoke, and found that it was a dream!"
Who could chide the tears that mingled freely as
the
bereaved father closed his narration? But who will say that in their
grief,
there was not a sweet compensation? There was! Far down in their
heart of
hearts a hidden fountain had been revealed by the light of a star
never
before seen in their firmament, that mirrored itself in the gushing
waters.
Were they less happy, even then, than the childless? Go ask them if
they
regret that ever a child was born to them, and hear their eloquent,
half-indignant reply.
Not they who move quietly along on the cold,
passionless
surface — are the happiest. No! There are regions of the mind opened
by
painful trials, griefs, sorrows, bereavements, from whence flow down
into
manifest perception delights that, to those in whom such regions
remain
closed, are inconceivable. Ah! while that young mother's heart was
bleeding
at every pore for the loss of her child — she was sustained by a
deep inner
joy, springing from the consciousness that she had given one to the
company
of angelic hosts; one who, rising higher and higher in the reception
of
intelligence and wisdom, would be growing wiser, and better, and
happier
forever. In such a delight — unselfish as it must be — the soul is
strengthened, and in a degree perfected. It receives a positive
good; it is
inspired with the Godlike love of seeing others outside of itself
happy; of
rejoicing at another's good — even though it suffers as the means of
the
other's exaltation.
While their treasure still remained in
their
clinging grasp, while there was still hope of retaining it,
they knew
no other feeling than one of bitter anguish. But now the struggle
was
over. Hope had plumed her wings and flown away. Their child was
dead. The
sun had gone down, and all was darkness and gloom. Over this
darkness,
another heavenly expanse was extended; a morning-star arose — then
came a
mild auroral precursor of day, and finally the sun came up from the
chambers
of light. It was a new day. There had been a tempest of feeling, and
its
ravages were yet fresh, and its wounds painful. But the air was
clearer and
brighter — the sun shone with an intenser light, even though it lit
up many
a sparkling tear-drop which hung from rifled flower and fallen leaf.
Friends who had witnessed the anguish which tore
the
parents' hearts while death stood over their little one with his
poised
weapon — wondered when they came forth in the morning, with calm,
elevated
countenances. Wild and passionate grief had been looked for when the
mother
should bend for the first time over the pale, sweet image of her
child, and
touch with her lips its cold, marble cheek. But it was not so. She
held
tightly the hand of her husband, while she looked down upon the
lovely form,
and smiled through blinding tears — while her poor mother's heart
was
trembling and fluttering, and almost gushing over with anguish — at
the
thought that her babe was now far beyond the reach of disease and
pain, in
company with the blessed angels.
When Milford Lane returned to his lodgings on the
evening
of that day, he found in his room an invitation to attend the
funeral of his
friend's child. It was the first intimation he had received of its death.
"Good God!" was his painfully-surprised
exclamation, as
he threw down the note and commenced pacing his room with agitated
steps.
"Poor Trueman! It will drive him beside himself."
So affected was Lane by the news of the sad
event, that
he did not descend to the tea-table when the bell was rung — he had
no
appetite for food. He had intended making a visit that evening to
some
pleasant friends, but he had not the heart to go. He could not get
out of
his mind the sad affliction that had befallen his friend.
Lane came with the rest who were invited to the
funeral.
He had been in the habit of frequently calling in to see Trueman and
his
wife, and had so often met their little boy, who was a very
interesting and
intelligent child, that he had become quite attached to him.
Death
always makes tender, our feelings towards the departed one. Lane
felt this
tenderness when he thought of the bright boy now no more in this
world. As
he stood looking down upon his face, sweet still, though the beauty
of his
countenance had been marred, his eyes grew dim with tears.
"If I feel it thus," he said to himself,
as he
pensively retired from the open coffin, "what must they suffer?
What
must be the anguish of their hearts! Ah! children are
precious gifts.
But who could desire them on such an uncertain tenure? Surely not I.
If that
were my child, I believe it would kill me!"
While such thoughts were passing through his
mind, there
was a movement near the door. He turned his head; the mourners were
entering, clad in sable attire. He scarcely dared lift his eyes to
the faces
of the bereaved parents. When he did so, he saw that they were very
pale;
but he missed that expression of abandoned grief that, it seemed to
him,
must accompany this painful dispensation. He saw that, while
suffering
deeply, they were yet sustained.
The solemn services preceding the removal of the
body
from the house were repeated by the minister, and then Trueman and
his wife
were led forward to look their last, long, lingering look upon the
face of
their beloved treasure. It was a moment of absorbing interest to
all. A
deathlike stillness pervaded the room. Everyone felt his heart
beating
heavily in his bosom. Everyone waited in painful suspense for the
loud,
long, frantic wail of grief from the mother, and half shuddered in
anticipation. But no such wail of sorrow arose upon the still
air.
For nearly a minute, Edith stood gazing down upon
the
face of her dead boy, until the tears blinded her, and began
to fall
fast into the coffin. Then a tremor passed through her frame,
which,
in a moment after, shook with convulsive sobs, as she bent down and
laid her
cheek upon the icy cheek of the child. Those who looked at Trueman
could see
that he was struggling with emotions that well-near overmastered
him. But he
bore up with a manful spirit. Gently drawing away his almost
paralyzed wife,
who yielded passively, he left the spot where he had gazed his last
upon his
boy, and retired with her from the room.
They did not accompany the body to the grave.
Trueman
felt that his wife had already suffered as much as she could bear;
and as
for himself, he did not wish to be present when the clods of the
valley
sounded upon the coffin-lid of his first-born.
Lane went to the grave, and looked down into it.
He heard
the dreary rattling of the earth on the child's narrow house,
and
turned away sick at heart. He went home, and sat down in his
chamber,
feeling gloomy and wretched.
"If I am so miserable — what must be their
feelings!" he said to himself. "Poor souls! I wonder how they bore
it as
they did. I wonder that Edith's heart did not break."
While he mused thus, the father and mother, who
had been
rendered childless, sat alone in their chamber, where every object
reminded
them of their loss. But their grief, though deep and
heart-searching,
did not paralyze them. They saw, in the painful dispensation of
Providence,
already the hand of mercy. They saw that, in looking into the
future
for their child, they had thought only of natural life — only
of the
good things the world had in store. They had forgotten that
the child
had been born to be in Heaven. In beginning its education, this had
not once
occurred to them. Natural good was their highest consideration. They
not
only thought thus, but they talked together of their fault, and
acknowledged
the mercy that tempered while it gave the blow.
"Had our dear Henry been left in our hands, with
our
views in regard to him unchanged," Trueman said, "it would doubtless
have
been worse for both parents and child. Now he is safe, and we can
see our
error. Let us, then, bless the hand that smote us — the deed
was done
in mercy."
"I feel and I acknowledge that," Edith murmured,
leaning
her head against her husband's bosom. Tears gushed from her eyes as
she
spoke. "But it is a hard affliction to bear."
"Yet, He who sends the storm, will temper
the wind
to the shorn lamb."
"I know it — I feel it. He has already tempered
the keen
blast."
"He has, Edith, mercifully tempered it. And He
will
temper it more and more, if we acknowledge fully, from the heart,
His
divine goodness in this visitation."
"May He help me thus to acknowledge it," Edith
said,
fervently.
"May He help us both to do so daily, hourly,
momently.
Then shall this loss prove to us a great gain, as it has already
proved to
our child."
CHAPTER 7.
Thus closed the first important period of
Trueman's
married life. It had changed him perceptibly; but to none was this
change
more apparent than to the eyes of his friend Lane. To him, he seemed
sad and
gloomy. He was certainly more thoughtful and serious,
and had
often a look of quiet abstraction that was not natural to
him. This
was no cause of wonder, when the events of that period were
considered. The
loss of a first-born and only child, never leaves the heart
altogether
unscathed. It did not do so in Trueman's case. However willingly
he
might bow to the mandate of bereavement, however merciful
might
appear the dispensation which took his child from him — acute pain
had
attended the affliction, and there was still an aching void in his
heart. No
one but himself and the tender being who clung now more closely and
fondly
to his side, understood fully the nature and value of the
compensating
thoughts and feelings that sustained him. But he was sustained,
and
by a strong internal power.
What of Lane during this period? He has
chosen his
lot of single blessedness; let us see how far his end has
been
attained even in this first stage of life's journey. He has not been
altogether happy. He has had many hours of pain, of severe struggles
of
nature against arbitrary restraints, of loneliness, and weariness
of self.
Shortly after the marriage of Trueman, he became fully aware of the
state
both of his own and Dora Enfield's mind. Before, he had felt and
confessed
an admiration of and preference for Dora. He did not, however, dream
that he
had for her the deep-seated love which afterward became apparent to
his
mind; nor had he ever thought about the danger there was of her
affections
being called out. The whole truth was opened up to him by Trueman,
whose
wife had made him acquainted with the state of Dora's mind, and who,
knowing
his views of marriage, felt it to be his duty to represent to him,
the
effect of his continued attentions towards Dora.
"You, of course, intend marrying Dora Enfield,"
Trueman
said to him, abruptly, one day, in a serious voice.
"I, of course, intend no such thing — and
you know
it," was promptly answered.
"But you have kept her company, and paid her
marked
attentions, until the girl's affections are all poured out for you
like
water."
"Impossible!"
"It is true, Milford, as I have said it."
"But it cannot be so. Why should the girl think
of
loving me?"
"I speak only of what I know. As to the cause
—
that may or may not be fully seen. She loves you with a pure heart,
tenderly
and fervently. Of that, there is no doubt. And there is, farther, no
doubt
of the fact that she will make just the companion you need to walk
by your
side through life!"
Lane compressed his lips tightly and shook his
head.
"You have already confessed to me a strong liking
for
Dora."
"I confessed only the truth. I feel a deep regard
for
her; but that is one thing — and marrying another. You know
that I do
not intend on marrying."
"I know you have often said so. But I have never
really
believed that you would finally adhere to a resolution to which
every law of
God and man is in opposition."
"As you think."
"As I think justly."
"But we will not discuss over again, this moot
point,"
Lane said. "I think I have fully settled the question of marriage,
as far as
I am concerned. If Dora is in the state of mind you describe her, I
can only
deeply regret it for her sake. I like her as a companion; I could
love her
as a wife; but the latter is out of the question. I have associated
with her
as a friend who admires both her person and character. I still wish
to meet
her often and familiarly. Such a privilege I would highly prize;
but, if the
effect upon her mind is so unfortunate — then I must cut myself off
from the
pleasure of looking upon her lovely face and listening to her
admirable
conversation. To me, this will be a great privation. Still, I must
submit;
there is no other alternative."
"I tell you there is another alternative,"
Trueman said,
half impatiently. "Marry her, and make both yourself and one
every
way worthy to be your wife, happy."
"It is no use for you to urge that matter," the
young man
replied, in a voice that Trueman thought had in it a sad sound. "It
can do
no good. My determination is unalterable."
"Even though its consequences are wretchedness
to
both yourself and one who deeply loves you."
"Why will you speak thus, Trueman? You know that
it is to
escape this very penalty, that I force upon myself a state of
celibacy —
while all my inclinations lead me to marriage."
"But you are in an error — an error fatal to your
happiness — fatal to the happiness of one who would lay her life
down at
your feet."
"Why do you use such strong language when
speaking of
Dora's state of mind towards me?" Lane asked, looking sternly into
the face
of his friend.
"Because strong feelings require strong
language for their expression."
"You really think her love so strong, that life
itself
would be sacrificed for me?"
"I do."
"I can only say, then, that I am sorry for it. I
must see
her no more. Time will soon efface all impression that I have made
upon
her."
"Hope not that. A woman's heart loses not easily,
so deep
an impression."
"Then she will go down through life in quiet
maidenhood. Far better this, than the terrible trials through
which every wife is called to pass."
"You speak wildly. You are arguing against a fiction
of your own imagination."
"The time will come when even you will think me
right."
"No, Milford Lane, no; that day will never come."
"We will see."
"True, we will see."
A long pause followed, broken, at last, by this
remark
from Lane:
"Hereafter, as much as I may regret doing so — as
much as
it may cost me — I will carefully avoid Dora Enfield. It is better
for both
of us, that we meet as little as possible."
"In this you are decided?"
"I am, fully and firmly."
"Then I have nothing more to say," Trueman
briefly
replied.
In thus fixing so positively his rule of action,
Lane
suffered a most painful conflict. The declaration made by Trueman of
Dora's
strong attachment, met with an instantaneous response in his own
heart. He
did not know until then, how deeply-rooted was the regard he felt
for her;
but with this knowledge, came a fixed resolution to struggle against
and
conquer the weakness. To effect this was found, however, not so easy
a task
as he had supposed. In the effort, he found that reason was
powerless in
opposition to love. He was free to determine a course of action; but
that
course of action would produce happiness or pain, as it favored or
opposed
affection.
Often, in the strong conflict that followed the
communication to him of Dora's state of mind, he felt like yielding
in the
struggle; but reason would come quickly, with fallacious
reasonings, to his aid.
About a week after the interview with Trueman,
just
mentioned, as he was walking slowly along the street, thinking of
Dora, he
lifted his eyes from the pavement, where they had been resting, and
looked
up involuntarily. Only a few paces distant from, and approaching
him, was
the object of his thoughts. Each became conscious of the other's
proximity,
only when their eyes met. The hearts of both beat with a
suddenly-quickened
motion, the color rose to their faces, and their eyes betrayed what
each of
them wished to conceal. If Lane could have had time for reflection,
he would
merely have bowed and passed on; but both paused as they approached —
stopped — shook hands. It was a moment of trial and embarrassment to
the
young man. His whole mind was in too much confusion to see anything
very
clearly: it is no wonder that he was unable to determine whether he
should
leave Dora abruptly, or, as he had done many times before, walk with
her
home. The promptings of inclination and habit prevailed.
He
turned and accompanied her to her house, and then, bowing formally,
retired.
During the walk he said but little, and that was of a mere general
and
commonplace character.
To Dora, he seemed strangely cold, abstracted in
manner,
and distant. When she parted from him, she went directly to her
chamber and
sat down near a window, without laying aside either bonnet or shawl.
There
she remained, almost motionless, for nearly an hour. With a
heavily-drawn
sigh, she at length arose, quietly laid aside her bonnet and shawl,
and
commenced busying herself in various little matters about the room.
It
seemed as if, in doing this, she were seeking, without scarcely
knowing it,
a mechanical mode of relief from feelings which had
disquieted her.
Her face looked pale, and the expression of her eyes, and, indeed,
of her
whole countenance, showed that her mind was deeply indrawn, and
fixed upon
images of thought alone.
As for Lane, on parting with Dora — he turned and
walked
away with rapid steps. His mind became agitated, and his thoughts
more than
ever confused.
"I am a fool!" he at length said, with
an emphatic
gesture. "And ten chances to one if I don't run my head into a net
before
I'm done, like the rest of mankind. Plague take the girl! I wish I
had never
seen her! Why did she ever cross my quiet path? All was pleasant and
bright
as a May-day morning — until she must needs be thrust in my way!"
But all this was not going to efface from his
mind, the
image of Dora Enfield. It remained so distinct, that he felt it to
be a real
presence.
For that day, at least, Milford Lane was unfitted
for
everything. He went to his office, and attempted to examine the
merits of a
case which had been given into his hands. But in the documents
spread out
before him, he could see words, but no ideas. He read
over
page after page without finding even a clew by which to unravel the
cause.
In despair, he threw all the papers into his desk, and himself upon a
sofa,
where, with his eyes closed, he lay for more than half an hour.
Rising then
as a refuge from haunting images and disturbing thoughts, he took up
an
unfinished novel in which he had become much interested. But this
interest
was not reawakened. The book was thrown aside in despair, and the
young
attorney sought relief in walking outside. That even this did not
quiet his
feelings, need hardly be said.
It took Lane nearly a week to get over the effect
of this
meeting; that is, its exciting effects. After that, he laid down for
himself, a rule of action. It was, to pass Dora with merely a polite
salutation whenever and wherever he might in future meet her. This
rule soon
after came into force. He met her on the day after it was made, and
passed
her just as he had determined to do. It was not done without cost
to
him, nor without exquisite pain to her.
In this course, Lane persevered. When thrown into
Dora's
company, he was coldly polite to her. As to visiting her
specially —
that was no more done. The effect of this marked conduct on the part
of
Lane, was clearly understood by Dora. She knew that he did not
object to
her personally, but to marriage; and that he avoided her
intentionally. This was no antidote to the love she bore him. It
only made
its fire hotter in her bosom, because it could not blaze out. It was
an
altar-fire, consuming the altar itself, instead of rising in
holy
sacrifice. There were few of her friends who had not marked the
change which
the whole face and air of Dora manifested by the end of a year from
the date
of Trueman's marriage. She went into company but rarely, and then
took
little pleasure in social fellowship.
When the child of Trueman died, she was with it;
in fact,
its last breath was given forth upon her bosom. She loved little
Henry
tenderly. Much with her friend Edith — she had been also much with
the
child. Daily interaction had inspired her with a tender affection
for it.
She could, therefore, sympathize deeply with them. When both looked
upon the
face of their lost one for the last time — Dora stood by Edith's
side. As
she retired with them from the room, never again to see their dear
child,
she passed close to Lane, and was conscious, as she did so, of his
presence.
Even the afflictive scene in which she was an actor, in which she
felt
acutely, had not power to hush into passiveness, a heart that had
been
sorely tried. As she sat down in Edith's chamber alone with the
mourners,
but a little apart from them, her own bosom had in it such an aching
void
that she could hardly restrain herself from uttering an audible
moan. In
very bitterness of spirit, she envied the bereaved parents. They
would love
each other more purely, more tenderly, more fervently than ever; and
this
would compensate for their loss, or take from the affliction its
acutest
pang — while Dora had nothing that in any way filled the void in her
bosom.
And was Lane happy? It is hardly necessary to
tell the
reader — no. He could not be. In his bosom there was, likewise, an aching
void which nothing would fill. He sought pleasure in many ways,
and, at
times, believed he had found it. But the weariness that accompanied
his
lonely hours, told too plainly that something was yet lacking to
make his
happiness complete.
CHAPTER 8.
Fifteen years from the time in which
happened the
events detailed in the last chapter, we again introduce the
personages of
our story; and, first, we will look in upon our friend Trueman and
his wife
Edith.
It is an evening in summer. Near the suburbs of
the city
stands a moderate-sized, but very neat house, to which is attached a
small
garden, mainly used for the cultivation of flowers. A grape-vine,
loaded
with ripening clusters, rises upon a tastefully-formed arbor, and
thence
clambers up the side of the house, where it wreathes itself about
the
windows, presenting its fruit with tempting show. Everything around
evinces
the hand of taste and cultivation. In front of the house is a small
yard, or
enclosure, filled with shrubbery and flowers. From each side of the
door
rises a honeysuckle, whose leaves and blossoms almost hide the
single window
that looks upon the street. At this window, in the cool and quiet of
the
sunset time, may be seen Henry Trueman. Fifteen years have
made some
change in his appearance: he looks twenty years older than when his
first
child died. His dark hair glistens with many white lines, and here
and there
gray masses seem to bear a preponderance. His face has become
thinner, and
shows many marks of care.
He is alone and thoughtful. A book lies on a
table near
him which has been laid aside after a vain attempt to read.
Something weighs
upon his mind so heavily as to press out all interest in other
subjects.
Just then, a second person enters the room; it is Edith. She,
too, is
changed. Her face is thin, and shows too plainly that she has had
her share
of suffering, both of body and mind; her eye, still soft and mild,
moves
languidly; but over all, and softening beautifully the whole tone of
her
face, is an expression of tender maternal love, blended with
sweet
marital affection. At a glance, it can be seen that more
children have
blessed her, and that they are her jewels — that years have
only
tended to unite her more and more to her husband.
"You look serious this evening, Henry," she said,
in a
voice of tender interest, as she came up and stood by her husband,
laying
her hand upon him as she spoke.
"Do I?" he replied, half evasively, and with a
smile that
he meant to be an indifferent one. But Edith knew her husband's face
too
well to be deceived in its expression.
"You certainly do," she replied; "and more than
that, I
don't think you have been as cheerful for several days, as
you
are usually."
Trueman's eyes fell to the floor, and he remained
silent.
He continued so only for a short time; then he looked up steadily
into his
wife's face, and said,
"Edith, I do feel serious, and have felt so for
several
days. Our family is large. Five children to provide for and to
educate,
taxes me heavily. Business is dull — for the last three weeks I
haven't
cleared the rent of my store. If there is not some change for the
better, I
do not see what will be the consequence."
"It is a dull season," Edith remarked.
"True."
"Are any of your neighbors doing much better?"
"Very few, I believe."
"Of course, business will revive again."
"Yes."
"Then why feel dispirited, Henry?"
"I can't help it, somehow or other. The fact is, I
don't
seem to be getting along financially. It has been hand to mouth,
as
they say, ever since we were married."
"And the hand has always had a full supply for
the
mouth," was the smiling reply.
"I know it; but suppose I were to be taken down
sick —
suppose anything should happen to me — the family could not possibly
hold
together."
"But you are not sick: nothing has happened to
you yet.
Why take on trouble in advance? Have you forgotten to put your trust
in Him
who feeds the ravens?"
"I forget Him too often, Edith," Trueman replied,
looking
into his wife's face steadily. "Thankful am I, that He has given me
one who
can recall my thoughts back to their stay in trouble. He will
not
forsake us — I know that He will not, even though we are called upon
to pass
through the fire; but weak nature shrinks away; it fears to
encounter every
purifying ordeal, even while conscious that it is for good."
"Why anticipate, at this particular time, any new
ordeal?"
"A dark cloud gathering in the sky,
portends a
storm."
"Many a cloud comes up from the horizon with
threatening
aspect, in whose bosom no lightning lies concealed, from which
descends no
rain. Have not many such clouds swept harmlessly over our
sky?"
"Many, very many; and from some, have fallen upon
us
fierce tempests."
"Purifying our atmosphere, and giving us,
on the
morrow, a brighter sun."
"Yet sometimes marking their way with desolation.
Our
hearts bear some scars."
Edith was silent. Life had not been to them all
sunshine — it had not passed on smoothly as a boat upon a summer
sea.
Her own duties had been arduous, and her trials severe. She had
borne
eight children — and three of them slept in the grave. These
afflictions were, to her, very grievous, for she loved her
children; it
was touching the very apple of her eye, to touch them. But in each
dark
night of sorrow, her glance had been steadily upward. She had
suffered, and
she had likewise been blessed — doubly blessed, it sometimes seemed
to her.
Her voice was slightly tremulous, as after a long pause, she said,
"They are deep scars, Henry; but can
either of us
say now, from the heart, as we look back upon life, that we would
rather not
have been wounded as we were?"
It was some moments before Trueman replied, his
eyes were
inwardly turned during the time. At length, speaking with a sudden
warmth of
manner, he said,
"No, Edith, no! I do not regret a single care or
sorrow that is past. All have been for our good. We are
really
happier in consequence of them."
"And will be, in consequence of all that may
come."
"Yes, I believe it,"
"Then let us not be troubled in our minds. Let us
not
distrust His goodness whose love is unbounded. He will bring all out
right in the end."
Just at that moment, the keys of a piano in the
adjoining
room were touched lightly and skillfully. Then a soft sweet voice
sung Mrs.
Hemans' beautiful, "Evening Song of the Tyrolese Peasants."
It was the voice of their own child that warbled
low and
distinctly the sweet air and soothing words of this song — their Edith
— now just at the tender age of fourteen. She was more beautiful
than her
mother had been, whose virtues were reproduced in her child,
with
added luster. Towards her parents, she had ever exhibited the most
devoted
love. Gentle, wise above her years, discreet, and firm — she had
truly been
an elder sister to her younger brothers and sisters, all of whom
loved her,
and were ever willing to submit to her their little difficulties,
and abide
her arbitration. To tell how much her father loved her, would be
impossible.
She was his idol. No sound was to him as sweet as the sound
of her
voice, singing some simple ballad, or lingering on some soothing
melody.
Like oil poured upon troubled waters were words,
voice,
and melody to his feelings. He listened with enrapt attention to
every word,
every peculiar grace in the air, every variation of affection in her
voice.
When the last sound died upon his ear, he looked up, and smiling in
the face
of his wife, said,
"Did you ever hear anything sweeter than that?"
"It was the very soul of music which breathed
from her
lips."
"It's very sweet," returned the mother. "Edith is
a
treasure that cannot be valued. If ever parents were blessed in a
child
— we are blessed in her."
The door opened, and Edith entered. She was tall,
slender, and graceful, yet simple in her manner. She walked up to
where her
mother stood, with her hand still resting upon her husband, and,
crowding in
between them and the window, half reclined against her father, with
an air
of childlike affection. Trueman laid his hand fondly upon her head,
and
gently smoothed her hair, at the same time that he pressed his lips
to her
cheek.
No word was spoken for many minutes. The group
remained
as motionless during the time as if under the eye of a painter; but
each
heart was beating high with pure and happy feelings. From the
father's mind,
all anxious care had fled. He loved his family. Each member had a
place in
his heart, and that place was kept sacred.
"You sang that evening song just at the right
moment,
Edith." This was said by her father, after she had stood by his side
for
several minutes. "You knew I was sitting here?"
"Yes."
"And sang for me my favorite song?"
"Yes, it was for your ears, father."
"Thank you, dear. My mind was not as calm as
usual; but
that song, and your voice, have tranquillized my spirits. I am Saul,
and you
are to me as David."
"No, no, father; I cannot admit that comparison
to be
true," Edith replied, taking hold of his hand and gently pressing
it. The
twilight had deepened into obscurity, and hidden each face from the
other's
eyes. "You are not Saul, possessed of an evil spirit. Oh no, no!"
"Distrust of Providence is an evil spirit, my
child."
"But you cannot distrust a kind Providence. You
know Who
it is that governs all things in wisdom." This was said with
something of
surprise, that her father, who had so carefully taught her to
believe in the
unfailing goodness and wisdom of God, should himself feel
distrust.
"It is not always, my child," he replied, "that
we can
keep, while subjected to this world's trials and disappointments,
our minds
evenly balanced, our confidence unwavering. But He who sees, loves,
and pities us — ever provides antidotes for these
states. We
are not allowed to remain long under the cloud. To me, your voice
alone, as
you sang some favorite song, has many a time dispelled the gloom
that has
settled on my mind — has chased away the evil spirit."
"How glad I am that the voice given me is
pleasant to my
father's ear. But hark! little Charley is crying; I must run and see
what
ails him."
And away she sprang from the room. The sound of
little
Charley's voice — he was the youngest child — had suddenly arisen
from a
chamber above. It was still, almost in a moment after Edith's step
was heard
at the door of his room. Her father's troubled spirit was not the
only one
which grew tranquil under the sound of her voice. There was not one
in the
house who did not feel its magical influence.
"If we had no other blessing, we would still be
richly
endowed," the father remarked, as soon as the voice of little
Charley was
hushed.
"Yes; but we have, besides her, many good things.
If ever
disposed to repine or murmur — we are much to blame."
"To that I freely assent. But sometimes, Edith,
weak,
ignorant, short-sighted human nature, cannot see beyond a very
narrow
circle. We look ahead, and our pathway bends suddenly out of sight.
There is
a high mountain before us, with black clouds mantling its summit. Is
it any
wonder that sometimes the heart will fail?"
"Perhaps not. But let us not fix our minds too
steadily
upon the mountain barrier and its mysterious threatening clouds —
but think
of the many quiet paths that have opened to us, and wound pleasantly
along
by cooling stream and smiling meadow, when we had trembled at the
sight of a
rugged acclivity, and shrunk from attempting the ascent. As our day
is — so shall our strength be. While that blessed promise
remains —
what have we to fear? Nothing, certainly, which this world can
threaten. If
we have to climb a steep ascent — the strength to do so will be
given; if
called to pass through a dark, gloomy valley — a light from some
star will
fall upon our path, and show us clearly the way in which it is safe
to
tread."
Thus, whenever Trueman too much inclined to
despond, gave
way to distrustful fears — Edith always sought to encourage him. Her
own
example of patient resignation in suffering and in bereavement, had
in it equal power with her words. Both united had many and many a
time
proved all-sufficient to lift his head, that he had allowed to fall
despondingly upon his bosom.
CHAPTER 9.
Trueman was in business as a retail trader. From
the
first, the profits of his store had not been large. But they had,
for
sixteen years, owing to the prudent management of his wife, sufficed
for the
needs of his family. As his family increased, his business
had
increased likewise — never beyond his needs, but ever up to what was
deemed
right for him to procure. This close relation between demand and
supply had
always been a source of great uneasiness to him. He was anxious to
get ahead
— anxious to see safely invested the means upon which he could fall
back in
case of failing health or the decline of business. One of his
fondest wishes
was the possession of a house. He wanted a place for his family that
could
really be called home.
Three years before his introduction to the
reader, in
middle age, he had been tempted to purchase the pleasant little
house and
garden in which he is found residing. Its cost was four thousand
dollars;
one thousand dollars to be paid in cash, and one thousand dollars a
year for
three years; a clear title to be given after the last note should be
taken
up. Three thousand dollars of this money had been paid; but, in
doing this,
Trueman had so far crippled his business as to be compelled to
borrow money
to meet his regular payments. Indeed, for two years, he had been
compelled
to do what is known among business men by the term "financiering,"
which
very frequently means, borrowing today to meet a note, and on the
next day
to meet the borrowed money, and so on until it is almost impossible
for a
man to tell whether he is really making a profit in his business, or
going
behindhand. The growing despondency evinced by Trueman arose from
this
cause. Frequently, when he closed his store in the evening and came
home, he
did so with his mind occupied by only one idea: how it was possible
for him
to meet the obligations that would fall due on the next day. He
would, in
consequence, be absent and thoughtful, as he appeared when last
introduced
to the reader.
His true position, after the lapse of nearly
three years
from the date of his purchase, was this: In the effort to make the
different
payments required, he had been compelled to borrow up to nearly
their full
amount, thus greatly embarrassing his business, and causing him to
neglect
giving it the attention it required, in order that he might think
about and
devise means for raising money. A note of a thousand dollars, the
last of
those given, would fall due in about three weeks. Already he was
burdened in
his payments far beyond what he felt able to bear. He might well
fear the
consequence of attempting to take up an additional weight.
It can hardly be a matter of wonder that the
music of his
daughter's voice, and the encouraging words of his wife, alike
failed to
restore permanently a quiet mind. When he retired for the night — he
found
that he could not sleep. Far more vividly than in the daytime, and
while he
engaged voluntarily in thinking about his affairs, were they
presented, in
all their startling relations, to his mind. He saw, as a unit, the
whole. It
was as plain to him as the plainest object he had ever seen — that ruin
must inevitably come; or, rather, that the home he had struggled
so long
to make sure of for his family would have to pass out of his hands,
perhaps
at a heavy sacrifice, and thus leave him worse off than he was
before he
purchased it. Sad thoughts haunted him until long after midnight.
The morning came at last. Trueman had
slept but
little, and arose unrefreshed, and more dispirited than he had been
on the
night before. Edith saw this, and it troubled her. Usually, sleep
had been
to her husband a tranquillizer. The morning generally found his
countenance
in repose and his voice placid. The morning meal was usually one
pleasant to
all. But on this occasion, his brow showed a slight contraction; his
eye was
fixed in thought, and his lips more compressed than usual. He did
not
converse at the table, but ate quickly and very sparingly, and then
arose
and went away. His wife sighed as he did so, and Edith looked
thoughtfully
after him as he left the room.
Trueman's steps were turned directly to his
store, where
he proceeded at a quick pace. The newspaper was opened, and a few
articles
glanced at under the head of "Commercial Record." Nothing else in it
had for
him, at that time, any interest. A whole hour was then spent in
examining
the state of affairs for the day, and in devising means for meeting
two or
three business notes, and various items of borrowed money. At first,
it
seemed to him that it would be impossible to get through; but, as he
thought
longer and more intently, light began to appear. He could see a way
here and
a way there, which, entered into, would lead to good results. At ten
o'clock
he went out of his store, leaving his two clerks to attend to the
business,
and was occupied in "financiering" until twelve. By that time he had
succeeded in raising all the funds required for the day's payments.
His mind was easier when he returned home at
dinner-time,
and, as a consequence, his countenance was more cheerful. This was
noticed
by the mother and daughter the moment he came in. It was to them a
great
relief. Light payments for a week left his mind in a quieter state.
During
that period, his home feelings were permitted again to come fully
into
activity. He saw and appreciated the many blessings that were
bestowed upon
him — a tender, devoted wife and loving children, with all the
external
comforts necessary for their happiness.
But, as the time drew nearer and nearer for the
payment
of the last note given in the purchase of his house, and he saw the
utter
impossibility of being able to meet it, or even much longer to
sustain
himself in business. With nearly three thousand dollars in borrowed
money to
provide for weekly, his spirits sank again, and still lower. His
wife strove
to cheer him, but her efforts were less successful than before. She
knew not
the real nature of the disease, and could not, therefore, administer
an
antidote. Trueman could not bear to tell her the real state of
affairs. He
knew how much she loved the pleasant spot they occupied. Her own
hands had
beautified it much in the culture of flowers and vines, and other
tasteful
arrangements both within and without. How could he tell her of the
danger
that threatened their lovely home? He shrunk from the thought. And
Edith,
too, his sweet child, there were few places within doors or without,
where
traces of her hands might not be seen. How could he break to her,
his too
justly-grounded fears?
Time hurried rapidly on, and the crisis he so
much feared
was only two days off. Still all was dark. There was not a single
opening in
the heavy clouds which descended low over his head, showing that
there was a
clear, bright sky beyond. The difficulties of his business had
increased,
independently of this extra payment; there was not, therefore, the
most
remote possibility of his being able to lift the note, the
possession of
which would give him a clear title to his little homestead.
"All, all must go to ruin!" he exclaimed, in an
impassioned tone, after having sat pondering for a long time on the
prospect
before him. "What can I do? I feel like a man chained hand and foot,
whose
spirit is struggling and panting for liberty. How can I give up that
pleasant spot, which Edith and the children love so well? For
myself, I care
little; any other place with them would be to me beautiful. Their
faces,
their tones, their smiles, their dear affections — these are all I
ask,
these would cause the desert to rejoice and blossom like the
rose."
While in this frame of mind, a calm-faced,
contented-looking middle-aged man entered his store, and came up to
where he
was sitting. Evidently, no great trial or affliction had ever
contracted a
muscle, and yet he did not bear in his countenance a happy look.
There was
something in it that marked him as a lover of self — and a
lover of
self is never happy. He was scrupulously neat in his attire,
and had
that "just-out-of-a-box look" which few married men exhibit, even if
they
have good wives to take care of them.
"Good-morning, Lane," said Trueman, rising
and
extending his hand as the visitor came towards him.
"Good-morning, old friend," returned Lane,
smiling with
real pleasure. "It's so long since I have had the pleasure of laying
my eyes
upon you, that I thought I would drop in and see how you looked. How
are
you? and how are all in your little nest at home?"
"Well, I thank you! How do you get along
nowadays?"
"O, bravely enough. Life goes on with me in the
old way,
calm and evenly. But I think you begin to fail, Trueman, isn't it
so?" This
was said in a serious tone. "Your hair is changing fast. Why, how gray
you are getting! And your face is thinner, and the lines upon it
far too
deeply sunken for a man of your age."
"Your head would become sprinkled, and your face
lined —
if you had us much care and anxiety as I have. A family of five
children
taxes a man's utmost ability to provide all that is needful."
"So I would think. Thank fortune, I have no such
encumbrance! But you appear really troubled Trueman. Is anything
more than
usual the matter? or has your face got really fixed into a
look of
painfully anxious care?"
"I am, just at this time, suffering more than
usual
anxiety."
"From what cause? Nothing that is serious, I
hope?"
"To me and mine it is very serious. You know our
beautiful little cottage and garden?"
"Yes."
"I bought it, as you are aware, about three years
ago.
All the payments have been met but one. That is about falling due,
and I see
no possible way of meeting it. Of course, I cannot get a clear title
to the
property, which will have to be sold to pay off this encumbrance
upon it."
"How much is the amount of this last payment?"
"One thousand dollars."
"Can't you borrow that sum?"
"I have already been borrowing for at least two
years,
and now am in debt, on this account, just about what I have paid on
the
purchase of my house."
"That is bad. You were, then, really not able to
buy this
property?"
"It seems so. I was anxious to possess a house
that my
wife and children might call their own, if I were taken away from
them. I
believed that in three years I could certainly pay for it; but
business has
fallen off instead of increasing in that time, and now the attempt
to secure
such a home for them has brought me into serious trouble. I am in a
great
strait, and it worries me almost to death. I really do not know what
to do,
or which way to turn."
"Won't the holder of your note extend the time of
payment? He is fully secured."
"He might; but I do not know. I have not asked
him."
"Has the note been discounted?"
"I will see in a moment."
Trueman referred to the bank notice, and found
that his
note was held by the bank as discounted paper.
"The original holder has either passed it away,
or had it
discounted," he said. "There is, therefore, but little hope of
getting it
renewed; and, as a matter of business prudence, I had rather not ask
a
renewal of my paper — it might impair my credit. Were that done,
ruin would
be inevitable."
Lane sat and mused some time before he replied.
At length
he remarked,
"I do not see any other prudent course for you to
pursue
but to sell your house, and relieve yourself of your difficulties."
"But how can I give up that pleasant place, so
dear to my
wife and children? Their hands have beautified it in every spot.
There is
not a tree, or shrub, or vine, or flower that does not show their
taste and
care. Every nook and corner brings up a home feeling. Lane, you
cannot
imagine how the thought distresses me."
"You were not able really to make the purchase?"
"True."
"Then are you right in so eagerly desiring to
possess
it?"
Trueman was silent. There was point in the
question.
After musing for some time, he said, as if thinking aloud,
"You shall not covet your neighbor's house."
Then he was silent again, while thought was still
active.
He went away back in his mind, and reviewed the whole transaction
involving
the purchase. The more steadily he looked at it — the less was he
satisfied
with what he had done, and the more apparent was it that Lane's
suggestion
about selling the property was the best that could be followed.
"Perhaps you are right," he at length said. "This
knot
must be cut; it cannot be untied. Unquestionably I shall never
be able,
with present prospects, to bear up under the purchase of the house."
"Then to attempt to do so is not the act of a
prudent
man."
"I see that clearly; but it is to me a very
painful
conclusion to come to, that I must part with this little property —
it is so
much to my taste, and so much to the taste of my family. They feel
it to be
their permanent abiding-place, and are hourly letting their home
feelings
entwine more and more around every object. They dream nothing of all
this.
How can I break it to them? I would lay down life itself to secure
their
happiness, and yet I cannot serve them even in so apparently small a
matter."
Trueman's voice trembled with struggling emotion,
and
Lane was deeply touched.
"There is a way," the latter said, after a
thoughtful
pause, and speaking with some hesitation, "by which I could
help you
to stave off this crisis for at least a year, in order to give you
more
time."
"Would it be just to the holder of my bond?"
"He might not think it so."
"Would it violate the spirit of the original
contract?"
Trueman spoke in a firm voice.
"It would," was the reply.
"Enough! If I die, yet will I maintain my
integrity. Only
right courses of action bring peace of mind. That house would cost
me too
dear at the price of a troubled conscience."
"Doubtless it would. As a wise man, your best
course is
one that is plain and straightforward. Sacrifices which come in this
orderly
way prove, as a general thing, benefits instead of calamities."
"I believe you. Be the pain ever so acute, this
gangrenous limb must be cut off, and it shall be cut off!"
CHAPTER 10.
After Lane had left Trueman, he turned his
thoughts
resolutely to the consideration of the subject proposed — the sale
of his
house. The more closely he looked at the matter, viewing it in all
its
lights and shadows — the more clearly did he see that there was no
other
alternative for him. To struggle on in the attempt to keep it, would
be to
destroy his peace of mind; and he well knew that none could be happy
at
home, while he was wretched.
But the thought of breaking the matter to his
wife, and
to Edith, his oldest child — caused a chill to pass from his head to
his
feet.
He went home at dinner-time, but could eat only
what he
forced himself to take. His troubled air did not escape the eye of
his wife
and daughter; and even the younger children wondered where the smile
that ever beamed for them, had fled. The evening found him in no
more
tranquil state. The whole afternoon had been spent in a rigid
examination of
his affairs, and a rational decision of his course for the future.
He saw
only one right way, and that was to sell the house. The settling of
this
gave quiet to his mind so far as himself was concerned, but
disturbed him
deeply when he thought of his loved ones at home.
When he at last closed up his business for the
day, and
directed his steps homeward, his head seemed dizzy and his heart
was faint. The truth must be told at once; it would be wrong to
delay a
moment longer. When he entered his house, the first sound that met
his ear
was Edith's voice, singing an evening hymn, while a few light
touches of her
fingers brought from the piano a fine accompaniment. This soothed
and
quieted his disturbed feelings. He seated himself by the window
where the
reader has before seen him, and gave himself up to the spell which
her voice and song threw over him. Two or three other pieces were
sung, and
then Edith left the instrument, and came into the room where he was
sitting.
"Why, father," she said, pressing up to his side,
"I
didn't know you were here. How long have you been home?"
"Only a few minutes. You were singing when I came
in, and
I sat down to listen. I was troubled. But the evil spirit is gone;
your
voice has expelled him."
"Do not talk so, dear father! You know not how
strangely
it makes me feel," Edith replied, with a serious face.
"I will not, if it disturbs you. But there is the
tea-bell. Come, let us join your mother and the children."
At the tea-table, Trueman made a strong effort to
appear
cheerful; but it was hard work. When they all arose, he passed into
their
little parlor and sat again alone at the window, while the mother
and
daughter put the younger children to bed. This done, first Edith,
and then
her mother, came in, and sat down close by his side. They felt
towards him a
tenderness that was unusual. He had not been able to conceal
for many
weeks the uneasiness he felt, and they had seen that something more
than
common disturbed him. His wife knew that anxiety for the future had
much to do with his state of mind, but she had no idea of the real
position
of affairs. He had never yet spoken out on the subject.
For some time all were silent. Trueman felt that
the time
had come for him to speak freely; still, he had a most unconquerable
reluctance to doing so. After thinking over various ways to
begin, he at
length said, laying his hand upon that of his wife,
"Do you remember, about five years ago, the
pleasant
walks we used sometimes to take past this cottage and garden, and
how often
we paused to admire it?"
"Oh yes, I remember it well," the wife returned.
"And how often we used to wish that the cottage
and
garden were ours?"
"Yes. And we had our wish granted; it soon became
ours;
and we still abide on the same sweet spot."
Trueman sighed, was silent, and then resumed:
"Many a
time, as I then passed this place, and saw children playing before
the door,
and a happy father and mother looking out and smiling upon them from
the
window, I envied them the possession of their quiet nook. I
coveted my neighbor's house."
"Henry!"
"It is true. You know how much I talked about it?
How I
set my heart upon having it for months before I made the purchase?"
"Yes."
"And how indifferent, I told you, the owner was
about
selling?"
"Yes."
"He said to me, over and over again, that he had
no
particular wish to part with the property, and that he felt
especially
reluctant to compel the excellent family then his tenants to remove.
They
had been in it ever since it was built, and had taken much pains to
beautify
and improve its appearance. But I wanted the house so badly, that I
constantly importuned him to sell; at last he consented. He did not
care
about money, and gave me my own terms."
"And the family had to move," Edith, the
daughter, said,
with something of regret in her voice.
"Yes, dear; they had to move, and it went hard
with them,
the owner told me. He said that he was half sorry he had consented
to let me
have the house, when he found they were so attached to it."
"Didn't we do wrong," asked Mrs. Trueman, "in
depriving
them of a house they loved? Were we not moved by a covetous spirit?"
"That is one point I wished to make appear. That
is what
I have just alleged. There is a commandment which says, You shall
not
covet your neighbor's house. I see clearly now that, in
regard to
this property, I coveted my neighbor's house. Would it be any matter
of
surprise if He who sees and knows all things, were to disturb us in
our
quiet possession?"
The room was dark. Trueman could not see the
effect of
this question upon his wife — and she only understood what lay
deeper than
the words, by the peculiar tones of his voice. His hand closed upon
that of
his wife's with a gentle pressure as he spoke.
"Speak plainer, Henry," she returned, after a
short
silence; "Am I not your wife?"
This unexpected reply opened the way for Trueman
to say
what he desired. He saw that Edith was beginning to understand him.
"God is about disturbing us in our possession,"
he said,
his voice partaking slightly of the agitation within.
"Plainer still, Henry." The tones of his wife
were
perfectly calm.
There was another hesitating pause. Then he
looked the
whole matter resolutely in the face.
"I will tell you all, Edith," he began; "I can
trust you.
I know all the love, all the patience, all the firmness that dwells
in your
bosom; but I did not wish to put these virtues to the trial."
There was another pause.
"Say on, Henry."
"I will. When I bought this property, my business
was in
a healthy condition. Proceeds of sales bore a just relation to
maturing
payments and expenses. It was but rarely that I was compelled to
borrow when
a note fell due. But the thousand dollars that I paid down in cash
crippled
me. In the course of a short time thereafter, I owed just one
thousand
dollars borrowed money. All through the next year I was compelled to
remain
on the borrowing list. At its termination, a thousand dollars more
had to be
paid. It cost me a great effort to borrow that sum. The next was a
still
harder year. The constant necessity there was for raising money kept
me all
the time busy in devising ways and means, to the serious neglect of
my
business. Another thousand dollar note, with two years' interest
added, fell
due at the expiration of this year. It had to be paid. How I managed
to get
the money, I can hardly tell. It was borrowed. The whole
amount paid
for the house up to this time, had all been borrowed. I owed,
therefore,
three thousand dollars, independent of my business, and that yielded
only a
profit about equal to our expenses. Still, I lived in the vain hope
of being
able to get through. I could never allow myself for a moment to
entertain
the idea of giving up our house. But all would not do. Amid hard
struggles,
I have passed another year; my business seriously diminished, in
consequence, I suppose, mainly, of my lack of proper attention to
it. The
day after tomorrow, the last payment is to be made; I cannot meet
it; it
would be vain to try."
"Why attempt to do so?" Mrs. Trueman asked, in a
firm
voice.
"If it is not met, you can guess the
consequence."
"We shall lose this house?"
"Yes."
"And would you regret it?"
"Not on my own account."
"You need not on mine. I shall never feel contented
until it is sold, and we are out of it."
"Nor on mine, father," Edith said, drawing closer
to him,
and taking his hand affectionately. "To know that it has cost you so
much,
robs it of all beauty. Why have you concealed all this from us so
long? Did
you doubt our love for you? Did you think we would weigh any mere
external
good for a moment against your peace of mind?"
"No, my child; I doubted not, for an instant,
your true
hearts. But the pleasure I found in seeing you all so happy here,
more than
compensated for all the anxiety I felt."
"You were wrong, my husband," Mrs. Trueman said;
"that is
not the way to make those we love, truly happy. We should weep
together, as
well as rejoice. We should mutually take up every burden. What would
bear
one to the earth — two may carry with ease. Had you made me
acquainted with
the real nature of the tenure by which we held this house, I would
long ago
have urged you to give it up. Now we cannot do it too quickly."
"You can leave here, then, without a regret?"
"Father, how can you doubt it?" The daughter
spoke in a
quick voice. Its tones expressed surprise and pain.
"I do not doubt it, my child," he returned; "my
words
were meant as an affirmation. I know you will stand by me bravely. I
know
that, beyond my ability to provide, you have no needs."
"No, no, none," returned both wife and daughter,
with
feeling.
A mountain seemed to have been suddenly
removed
from Trueman's feelings. When he began to speak, his mind was so
oppressed
that, acting upon his body, it caused his heart to labor heavily,
and
constricted his chest so that his breathing was audible. Now the
motion of
his heart was even, and his respiration free. To give up the cottage
did not
seem so painful a thing. The tried affection of his wife and child,
was more
to him than could have been the palace of a prince. Without it, the
stateliest mansion would have had no attractions; with it, the
lowliest
dwelling-place would have-possessed an inexpressible charm.
That night Trueman slept sounder than he had done
for
many months.
CHAPTER 11.
It was with a feeling of anxiety which he could
not
subdue that Trueman looked into the face of his wife and daughter on
the
next morning. He had no cause for fear or distrust. The only change
his eye
could detect was a look of tenderer interest. They were both more
cheerful
than he had seen them for some time, and seemed to vie with each
other in
their attentions to him. This strengthened his mind.
On the following day, the long-dreaded note would
fall
due. He could not meet it; that was a settled point in his mind, and
he made
no effort to do so. But something must be done. If it were suffered
to lie
over and be protested, there was no telling how it might affect his
credit,
and thus tend to the destruction of his business. The true course to
pursue
he found it very hard to determine. At length, with a feeling of
reluctance
that was almost unconquerable, he called upon the holder of the
note, or,
rather, upon the individual from whom he had purchased the property
for
which the note had been given.
After sitting with him for a little while, and
conversing
about ordinary topics, he said,
"I have called today upon rather unpleasant
business."
"What is it?" asked the man, looking grave.
"The last note given on the purchase of that
little piece
of property I bought from you, falls due tomorrow."
"Does it? I did not know. I passed it away some
months
since."
"Have you no control over it?"
"None at all."
"I am sorry for that. I am reluctantly compelled
to say
that it will be utterly out of my power to meet it."
"It will? Why, how comes that, Mr. Trueman? I
thought you
were getting along about as pleasantly as anybody. You lifted the
other
notes."
"Yes, but it was hard work. The fact is, I was
not able
to make that purchase. It has cramped me in my business, and given
me more
trouble than it is worth."
"You were very anxious to get it."
"So I was; but I didn't really know what I was
about. I
liked the place so well that I persuaded myself I could easily pay
for it.
But the result proves that I was mistaken. I have paid three
thousand
dollars on it, and crippled my business just that sum; and now it is
altogether out of the question for me to attempt to lift the last
note. I am
thus frank with you, because it is right that you should understand
exactly
how I am situated."
"What is to be done?"
"It is for you to say."
"Oh no."
"I cannot complete my payments on the purchase."
"And cannot, therefore, secure your title to the
property?"
"No."
"What then?"
"Yes, that is the question — What then? Who is to
answer
it?"
"You or I?"
"You, doubtless," said Trueman.
"The note will not be lifted?"
"It is impossible for me to do it. I wish it were
not."
"Do you want to retain the cottage?"
"No, not for an hour."
"Oh, well, that puts a new face on the matter.
Suppose I
buy it back again?"
"From my heart I wish you would."
"On what terms?"
"Such as will best suit yourself."
"But, if I take it again, I cannot rent it to
you; its
old tenant will want again to come into possession. It was only
yesterday that he was scolding me for having sold a place that I had
no need
of selling, just to gratify your desire to have it. His wife has
never been
contented since their removal."
"Let him have it. I am sorry the desire to
possess what
another was enjoying, became so active in my mind as to utterly
blind me."
"But how will such a change affect your family?"
"As it does me. We are never divided in opinion
or
feeling. They will give it up without a sigh."
"If I repurchase on the same terms that I sold,
you will
not object?"
"Oh no. How could I?"
"Then I must lift that note of yours tomorrow as
the cash
payment; and, on the relinquishment by you of the provisional title,
give
you three notes for a thousand dollars each, payable in one, two,
and three
years."
Trueman grasped the hand of the individual who
had so
generously released him from his obligation, and said, "You know not
what a
mountain has been removed from my heart. All will be well
with me
again. If ever am betrayed into another action so indiscreet, may I
suffer a
tenfold penalty."
When all this was related at home, both wife and
daughter
were overjoyed at the happy termination of an affair that had, all
unsuspected by them, caused Trueman so much trouble. There were no
selfish
regrets at the prospect of leaving the pleasant spot — no looking
back and
lingering — but rather an eagerness to get away from a place, the
possession
of which had been held at so dear a cost. In the course of a week, a
recession of the property into the hands of its original owner took
place,
and Trueman received three notes of one thousand dollars each,
payable in
one, two, and three years. These notes, as the drawer was a man of
wealth
and known integrity, he found no difficulty in getting discounted at
the
regular rate of interest. At once he was enabled to restore his
business to
a much more healthy basis, by putting back into it the funds he had
used in
paying for his house. His borrowed money account was balanced, an
account
that had given him more trouble than everything else put together.
A comfortable house in the city was rented, and
there he
moved with his family. A week after their departure from the
cottage, and
when they had become something like settled, Trueman found himself,
one
evening after tea, sitting, with a quiet mind, between his wife and
daughter. Up to that time, since their removal, the fatigues
attendant upon
rearranging their furniture and putting their house in order, had
left them
in no spirits for social fellowship.
"My heart is at ease again," he said, with a tone
and
smile that could not be mistaken.
"And so is mine," replied Mrs. Trueman.
"Notwithstanding
our external condition has been, for three years, all my heart could
wish —
yet never, during that time, have I been without a concern of mind
unfelt
before. I now understand the reason. You were troubled, and I felt
the
disturbance, though I knew not certainly whence it came. In
something I
perceived that you were changed, but wherein that change lay, I
could not
tell. For months past you have been desponding, and have frequently
spoken
in a desponding manner. I tried to encourage you to look up and
trust in Him
whose promises are sure; but my words had little, or only temporary
effect.
The certain knowledge I now possess, and the changes which that
knowledge
has produced, are nothing compared to the internal disquiet I daily
suffered."
"I would not be back again in that cottage, for
all the
world could offer," Edith said, warmly. "Whenever I think about our
having
displaced a family anxious to remain, it gives me much pain. I am
truly
thankful that they have already returned to the so-much-desired
spot. We can
be happy anywhere."
"Truly said, Edith. This is a lesson that will do
us all
good, and me especially. It has taught us practically this
fundamental
truth, that we are not to seek happiness in mere external good
things. Whatever natural blessings we are prepared to enjoy, will
come in an
orderly way; to receive more than these is like possessing goodly
vessels,
without the wine which they were made to contain. They may please
the eye
for a time, but can never satisfy the spirit. How wise
that law
of spiritual life which says, 'You shall not covet.' If obeyed, it
protects
not only others in the possession of what they have received, as
suited to
their state and condition — but it prevents each individual who
makes it a
rule of action, from grasping at that which, if gained, would only
make him
miserable. Going still farther in its action, it restrains one of
those
direful forms of selfishness which, if allowed to become active,
destroys
the soul. For my part, I am satisfied that in this disappointment,
resides a
merciful Providence."
"I am sure of it," Mrs. Trueman returned. "Every
providence is a merciful one which leads us to see and correct our
errors."
"Truly said. And the pain we experienced during
these
severe conflicts is beneficial. It leaves our minds calmer,
our
perceptions clearer, and our affections less bound down
to things
of earth with the cords of self-love; at least, this is my
experience.
Before I bought that cottage, it seemed to me, that if I were only
able to
own it, I would be perfectly happy. The mere possession of a
dwelling suited
to my taste, was to satisfy all the aspirations of a heaven-born
spirit. In
that quiet spot, with those I loved around me, I was to find
perpetual peace
— springs of water in which to slake immortal thirst — rest for a
soul
wandering far from its congenial home. But this could not be. And is
it not
strange that I needed all the severe trials which I have
experienced,
before I could see this truth clearly? How deeply seated are our
false views
of life! With what a strange folly do we turn our eyes downward,
when bright
and beautiful worlds are glittering in the sky above us!"
CHAPTER 12.
A few days after Trueman had resold his cottage
and moved
to his new residence, Milford Lane was stopped by a friend, as he
was
walking along the street thoughtfully, or, rather, in a pensive
mood. He had
just passed Dora Enfield, his old love, and was contrasting
in his
mind her appearance fifteen years before with what it was
now. The
change made him feel sad. How had the bright flower faded — the
spring run
dry — the leaf withered! Like himself, she had never married.
"Is it true, Lane," said the friend, with some
concern,
as he took the hand of the lawyer, "that Trueman is going broke? I
heard
this morning that he had been compelled to part with that little gem
of a
cottage in which he has been so snugly quartered for some years."
"It is too true, poor fellow!" replied Lane. "He
has sold
it back to the old owner, and left it."
"How in the world has that come to pass?"
"Wife and five children! that accounts for any
disaster
to which a man may be subjected." This was said in rather a carping
tone,
and with a slight curl of the lip.
"But I know many men with as large families as
Trueman's,
who get along very comfortably."
"No doubt; but they have their heartaches in
some
other way. They can't escape that. Poor Trueman! I saw him a little
while
before the crisis of his affairs arrived which compelled him to sell
his
house. I declare the wretched state he was in, made me feel
miserable for a
week, whenever I thought of him. He loves his family with an intense
affection. They were all so happy in their little Paradise.
The
thought of seeing them driven forth almost maddened him."
"It is a hard case, truly. But will he now be
able to
keep his head above water?"
"I doubt it. When a man, with a wife and five
children
clinging to him, gets into deep places — he generally goes down.
There is
not much hope for him, I fear."
"I am really sorry to hear it. Trueman is a
worthy
fellow, and deserves a better fate. How it must crush the spirits of
a man
of right feelings to find himself, after years of hard struggling,
and at a
time when he has most reason to desire success — going down, and the
dread
prospect staring him in the face of a dismemberment of his family,
or
poverty and privation if they cling together."
"Ugh! Horrible! It would kill me outright. Thank
Heaven!
I am not a married man."
"No, you have escaped thus far."
"I have, and thankful enough am I for it."
"By the way, I met an old flame of yours a
few
evenings since, in company."
"Indeed! Who was she?"
"Miss Enfield."
"Ah!"
"Yes, and had an hour's chat with her."
"Well, how does the old girl do?"
"She is not what she used to be. I think her mind
has
become a little warped. Still, she is an intelligent, and quite an
interesting woman, though somewhat depressed."
"I saw her myself only a few minutes ago."
"Don't you think her much changed since you knew
her some
fifteen years ago?"
"Oh yes. She does not look like the same person.
There is
no feminine softness about her face; it is hard and cold; and, worse
than
all, there are deep lines running down her forehead. These always mar,
to me, most sadly, a woman's face. I cannot bear to see them."
"There are no such lines on the forehead of
Trueman's
wife," the friend remarked.
"No, there certainly are not," Lane said,
thoughtfully,
"and there is a warmth and sweet feminine softness in her face,
notwithstanding she has borne much and suffered much. As pale and
thin as
she looks, you do not turn away your eyes in pain from her
countenance."
"Can you tell the reason?" asked the friend.
There was a pause.
"No," was at length uttered. "Can you?"
"The face of a woman who is a wife and mother,"
replied
the friend, "I mean a woman of good principles, whose husband does
not
neglect her — has always about it something that we can look upon
with
pleasure. It is rarely so, with the face of one who has never
married. In it
there is something always lacking — something which repels rather
than
attracts you. Is not this your own experience?"
"I think it is. Certainly, Edith Trueman's face
has not
changed so much for the worse as has Dora Enfield's; and yet, to my
eye, the
latter had, fifteen years ago, more real feminine beauty than the
former."
"It is more than she has now."
"I will not gainsay your words, for I
cannot,"
Lane said, half abstractedly.
"Nor will you my conclusion, I think."
"What is it?"
"That marriage makes the difference in favor of
Mrs.
Trueman."
"I shall not so readily admit that. There must
have been
some radical difference in their dispositions."
"Isn't it a little curious that this radical
difference
exists to the disparagement of all old maids?" returned the friend,
smiling.
"I don't admit that it does," Lane replied.
"You do not! Oh! I thought you did. Well, refer
me to a
single one of your female acquaintances, who has passed the prime of
life
without marrying, whose face will compare with that of Mrs. Trueman,
or the
face of any other wife and mother."
"Let me see.- There is — hum! There is — I know
there are
plenty, but I can't call them to mind now."
"Nor ever will, let me tell you. There is in the
eye of a
married woman, a light of affection, and generous warmth towards
everyone,
that I have looked for in vain in the eyes of elderly maiden ladies.
The
nearest approach to it is found only in those who have been a great
deal
with children, and have felt almost as much interest in them as if
they were
their own. The maiden aunt, if she is naturally a lover of children,
is
domesticated in the family, and has charge of the bright little
youngsters —
forms the broadest exception to the rule. But even she is not as
happy as
she would have been had the wife and mother's lot been upon
her — as
hard as the burden is, often, to bear. Are not her peculiarities
often the
subject of remark by her friends — even those who love her best and
most
prize her virtues?"
"I am not, by any means, prepared to admit that
the quiet
old maiden aunt, with face so calm and bosom so peaceful, would have
been
happier as a married woman. She might have been, but the
chances
would have stood ten to one against it."
After Lane parted from his friend, he returned to
his
office, where he remained undisturbed for a whole hour. The
conversation had
given a new direction to his thoughts, and they flowed steadily on
in their
particular channel, but not in a very peaceful current. The change
in
Dora disturbed him. He could not put from his mind, the thought
that
his neglect of her, like a worm at the bud — had preyed upon her
damask
cheek. As much as he strove to get away from his friend's
conclusions in
regard to the effect of a single life upon the mind of a woman, he
could not
do so. There was a force about them, because they were drawn from
facts,
which was almost irresistible.
The image of Dora, as she looked that morning
when he
encountered her in the street, and the image of Trueman's wife, were
constantly before his mind, in strong contrast. Involuntarily he
could not
but admit that Edith was far the happiest.
And this conclusion was a just one. She was
incomparably happier. For three years after Dora had become
fully aware
of Lane's views of marriage, and had been made to feel beyond a
doubt that,
in his resolution to act up to them, he was in earnest — she
suffered all
the pangs of hopeless love, whose impulses could not be
subdued. The
thought of him would quicken her pulse, the mention of his name
cause her heart to throb, and the sight of him pale her
cheek and
thrill her whole frame. And yet she struggled hard against her
feelings, and
prayed earnestly that they might subside, even if upon her heart
were to
fall a waveless calm. Thus she lived on, until the surface of her
feelings
began to harden. She could think and speak of Lane, and meet him
without a
quick throb of the heart, or the betrayal of any emotion.
But all noticed that she was less amiable in
disposition
than before, and manifested, on some occasions, an unfitting levity,
while
at other times she was silent, and inclined to moroseness. Then
again she
was cynical, and disposed to find fault with everything around her.
Her
early companions all married, and became absorbed in the duties of
their new
relations, thus robbing her of bosom friends in whose society she
had found
great delight. New friends she could not draw around her, because
she
presented few attractive points.
Thus time, with her, passed on. Occasionally she
would
fall into company with the calm, contented-looking bachelor who had
in early
years won her heart, and whose image was still the only one its
tablet
retained, as perfect as ever, though the dust had accumulated
thickly upon
it. She met him with a quiet, half-reserved courtesy; though he
never felt
perfectly at ease by her side. He could not divest himself of the
feeling
that he had wronged her, argue as he would from his assumed
positions
in regard to marriage.
It was mentioned, in the early part of this
story, that
Dora had a brilliant mind. Not having any domestic cares or
duties to
divert her attention, and being fond of books, which had afforded
her great
relief during the first years of her acute disappointment, her
affections
were turned into literary channels. She read and studied a great
deal, and
thus acquired a knowledge of books and the opinions of the learned,
far more
general and extensive than is usually found in the ordinary walks of
life,
either among men or women. The fact that, in almost any society
where she
was thrown, she found herself superior, at least so far as book
knowledge was concerned — tended to make her vain of her
acquirements. She might have been proud of a brilliantly endowed
husband,
without injury to herself; but to love her own intelligence, or to
love
herself for her intelligence — was to destroy a well-balanced,
highly gifted
mind. Knowledge was gained for the end of display and triumph
alone — not with the end of making it subserve some practical use
in
society. This is never done, without the end defeating itself. It
was so in
the case of Dora. Everyone could see that she aimed only at display
—
and no one either admired her for her intelligence, or was
benefitted by it.
Take her all in all, she presented a sad wreck
of a
loving, gifted woman. Her affections found no channels in which
to flow.
She was formed for a wife and mother. But she had no husband, no
children —
nothing that her heart could truly love — nothing but herself;
and
the more fully she loved herself — the more miserable she became.
But to return to Lane. He sat immersed in
rebuking and
troubled thought for a whole hour. He remembered how sweet a girl
Dora had
been, and how fondly she had loved him. (This fact Trueman had taken
care
that she should know.) And how evident was the effect of his neglect
upon
her! She had gradually changed until she presented a painful
contrast to
what she had been. He tried, but in vain, to remember the elderly
maiden
ladies whose countenances were as full of womanly beauty as that of
Mrs.
Trueman, and several other married women he could think of. All his
most
interesting female friends — and he was fond of the company of the
gentler
gender — he found, when he began to think about it, were married,
and some
of them had passed through trials of a deeply searching character.
In fact,
he could think of no woman for whose society he had any particular
regard,
who was not married.
This was altogether new to him. The fact had
existed, but he had not seen it. What could it mean? Was it
an
accidental thing, or did marriage really perfect a woman's true
character?
Here was a problem, seen to be such in the light of his own mind.
Years
before, when Trueman had declared such to be the fact, he met it
with
opposing declarations at once and boldly. Now he was not able to see
why
there was such a difference in the middle-aged, married, and maiden
ladies
of his acquaintance.
This state of mind continued through the day. On
that
evening, as he sat down in his lonely room, he felt unhappy. Why, he
did not
know. But he was unhappy. He was lonesome, and wearied with himself.
He had
no thoughts that were pleasant. He was living on — but without a
goal in
life. He felt that he was doing good to no one. Such reflections
made him
feel more and more dissatisfied. Then he began to think of Trueman,
and his
late unfortunate affair.
"Poor fellow!" he said, half aloud, "I think I
ought to
call in and see him. He may feel that I am neglectful."
The act quickly followed the thought.
In
half an hour he stood at Trueman's door. He could not help feeling a
kind of
reluctance to meeting the family under the circumstances. He had not
seen
Mrs. Trueman since their removal. Their first meeting after that
event, he
was sure, would awaken unpleasant feelings. It could not, he
thought, be
otherwise.
Most agreeably was he surprised to find the face
of Mrs.
Trueman brighter than he had seen it for a long time. Her husband,
too,
looked like a different man. His countenance was cheerful, and his
flow of
spirits unusually good. He was puzzled. How could all this be? Was
it real?
or were they only acting? No, it was not acting; that was
soon fully
apparent. They looked, and thought, and spoke just as they felt.
They were
happy — and so they appeared.
"It must have been a hard trial for you to leave
your
dear little cottage," Lane remarked to Mrs. Trueman during the
evening, and
after he found that it would excite no very unpleasant feelings to
make such
an allusion.
"Oh no," she replied, with a smile, "I never did
anything
with more pleasure in my life. I didn't wish to stay in the cottage a
day
after I found that we had no right there."
"But how could you leave without regret, a spot
so
congenial to your taste? You cannot surely be thinking of what you
say when
you speak as you do."
"You have yet to learn, Milford," said Trueman,
"one of
the secrets of true happiness."
"Will you impart to me that knowledge?"
"I will. But I am not sure that you will fully
understand
me. Happiness flows from within outward, and not in a reverse
direction. The heart must be right, before the greatest earthly good
can
prove a blessing. With a right heart, the gifts our heavenly Father
sends,
be they ever so small, will be received with thankfulness, and bring
contentment."
The eyes of Mrs. Trueman were turned
affectionately
towards her husband while he was speaking. They sparkled with sweet
assent
to his words. Lane saw the expression of her face. He thought she
had never
looked so beautiful, even though her eyes had receded deeply into
their
sockets, and her cheeks had lost their glow. Just at this moment,
the image
of Dora, as he had last seen her, came up before him.
"Who is happiest?" was the involuntary question
asked in
his mind.
"The wife and mother," was replied.
"Can you understand me?" asked Trueman, breaking
in upon
his abstraction.
"How?" This was said in an absent manner.
"Do you perceive the true secret of happiness to
which I alluded?"
"Oh yes, very clearly."
"There lies the source of Edith's unreluctant
acquiescence in a change that had to be made. Her happiness would
have been
based upon a sandy foundation, had that cottage been its support;
but,
having been built upon a rock, a mere change in external things could
not affect it. The winds blew, and beat upon her house, but it fell
not."
"And you? How do you bear the change?" asked
Lane,
looking Trueman steadily in the face. "When I talked with you last,
the
thought of giving up that property pained you beyond measure. Your
state of
mind made me feel unhappy for a week."
"I was then in doubt and darkness; but the
morning has
broken, and, seeing all things clearly — I perceive that what, as it
approached, I thought to be a great affliction — was only a blessing
in
disguise. I stand on higher ground, and in a clearer atmosphere.
My
vision is far-more extended. I take in, at a glance, a prospect
greatly
enlarged; I see the relation of events to each other; I see now more
clearly
into causes, and can, in consequence, estimate events more
correctly. Now that the pain of parting with my earthly possession
is past,
I would not have it back again. The trial has been good for
us all —
it has bound us more firmly to each other, and caused us to be more
deeply
thankful to the Giver of all good, for his manifold blessings."
When Lane returned home, he felt puzzled. He
could not
doubt the fact that Trueman and his wife were happy, that is,
relatively so
— certainly far happier than either himself or Dora Enfield.
He
called himself a quiet, contented man; but it was a mere external
quiet, and
a cold inner passiveness. In Trueman's happiness, he saw something
vital. It
was not negative, like his own, but a positive quality. This he
could
clearly see, and it made him feel uneasy.
"Wait a while," he at length said to himself,
starting up
from the chair where he had seated himself on returning home; "the
end is
not yet. There are many rugged mountains, and dark, gloomy valleys
for him to pass through. That he loves his wife most tenderly is
easily
seen, and she is worthy of his love. She is, evidently, the prop
upon which
he leans. Wait until that is removed, and see. No matter when it
comes, in
five years, or when he is an old, old man — it will crush him to the
earth —
it will break his heart; and besides this, he has five children.
Edith is a
lovely blossom from a lovely stem. Suppose a sudden frost should
cause that flower to wither, or a blight soil its pure
leaves?
Ugh! it makes me sick to think of it. And his boys. Ah! Boys are
heart-sores, often, to parents. Well, well! time — that
proves all
things, will solve this problem. Thus far, I believe, he has the
advantage
of me; still, I do not think I would willingly go through all he has
encountered for his reward. He deserves all his blessings — he has
earned
them. Let me be content with mine. But Dora, poor Dora! Ah me! I
wish she
were not so changed. Her face haunts and reproaches me continually."
CHAPTER 13.
Ten years more have passed. What is
their history?
Who has now the advantage — Trueman or Lane — the married or
the
single man? They are both past fifty. Fifty years! Depend upon
it, the
problem is solved. But, alas! there is no going back to work it over
again,
should there be an error in the result, as error there must be in
one case
or the other — both cannot be right. Either marriage or celibacy
is the true order of man's existence; and only so far as he
lives in the
true order of his being, can he be happy.
Again we will introduce Trueman and his wife,
for
both still tread the path of human life, and tread it side by side,
hand to
hand, and heart to heart.
Their sky has not been an unclouded one, during
the past
ten years, nor have the clouds only portended storms. The fierce
tempests
have come down upon their heads with desolating wrath. Leaves have
not only
fallen from their branches, but branches themselves have been torn
away.
They have not only seen the lightning, and heard the thunders
— but felt the searing current on their bosoms; still they have
pressed
onward, with eyes steadfastly fixed on the polar star above, for
well they
knew in whom they had trusted.
Their deepest trouble has been on account of
Edith, their
oldest daughter. Before at all conscious of danger, a handsome young
man, of
good family, won her young love — a love of which he was not worthy.
The
gentle girl was only seventeen when her heart softened to the touch
of the
great enchanter's wand.
Alfred Corbin, he who had gained her
affections, was
the son of a merchant of standing and wealth. Many parents would
have
thought him an eligible match for their daughter; but Trueman and
his wife
saw deeper than most people, into character. About
Corbin
there had always been something repulsive to them. A few facts which
came to
their knowledge, bearing upon his conduct in life, satisfied them
that he
was not possessed of a sound moral sense. This was enough for
them.
Edith had bloomed forth into a lovely young
woman, even
exceeding the promise so favorably interpreted by her father and
mother. She
had been well educated. Her mind was stored, and her taste highly
cultivated; nor had any of the true accomplishments, which so
heighten the
loveliness of woman, been neglected. Into whatever society she was
introduced, she formed a kind of central attraction. Young
men vied
with each other for her hand in the dance, and were emulous in their
attentions to her on all occasions. At the same time that Trueman
and his
wife experienced a natural pride in seeing Edith so admired
and
caressed wherever she went — they could not but feel a sensation of
uneasiness. So many had made shipwreck — so many a joy-freighted
bark
had suddenly gone down — so many loving, innocent hearts had been
won by the
unworthy, and sacrificed at the shrine where they ardently
worshiped. They
saw, in the exceeding loveliness of their child — her great
danger.
She was a prize for which many would contend.
And many did seek her favor, but none so much
pleased and
interested her as young Corbin. Of one so handsome and manly
in
exterior — one whose mind had been so well stored, and whose taste
had been so highly cultivated — she could only think with favor.
Innocent herself, and ignorant of the world — she knew nothing of
suspicion;
it was a stranger to her bosom. When, therefore, Corbin showed her
more than
ordinary attentions, and seemed ever so much gratified as when by
her side —
she experienced an inward pleasure that was new to her. Before her
father or
mother had the slightest suspicion of the fact, the young man's
image was
reflected on her heart.
A mother's eye quickly notes any change in
the
state of a daughter's mind, just at that peculiar age when first and
most
susceptible of tender emotions. It was with a feeling of concern,
that Mrs.
Trueman observed Edith growing more quiet and thoughtful. She had
been with
her whenever she went into company, but had seen nothing that led
her to
believe the attentions to her daughter, as flattering though they
were, had
in them anything more than the gentlemanly courtesy that every
intelligent,
agreeable young woman receives in society. It is true that there was
more
familiarity in the manner of Corbin than pleased her; but this she
was
willing to set to the account of her dislike to the young man. Such a
thought as his seriously addressing her, or of the possibility of
his being
able to interest her affections — did not cross her mind.
But a resolution to be more watchful than ever,
was
instantly taken. On the same evening, much to the surprise, and not
at all
to the pleasure of either Mr. or Mrs. Trueman — young Corbin called
and
asked for Edith.
"Who is it, dear?" asked her mother, as Edith
passed her
door to go down into the parlor, after having been told by the
servant that
a visitor was below.
"Alfred Corbin," was the unhesitating answer.
"Alfred Corbin!" returned Mrs. Trueman, with an
expression of surprise which she would have concealed, had she not
been
thrown off her guard.
"Yes, mamma, it is Mr. Corbin," Edith said,
looking up
into her mother's face.
"Oh, very well," the mother remarked, in a tone
of
indifference, having recovered herself, and retired to her chamber.
As Edith walked slowly downstairs, she could not
but
wonder at the strange manner of her mother, nor help feeling
disturbed by
it. It was evident to her mind, that the fact of Alfred Corbin's
calling to
see her was not altogether pleasing to her mother. If it had been
so, her
face would not have worn exactly the expression that it did when she
mentioned his name, nor would her voice have had the peculiar tone
of
surprise that had startled her ear. But why should this be? There
was not a
single male acquaintance on her list, who was as agreeable to her —
not one
that she was more pleased to meet. It seemed to the mind of Edith,
very
strange.
These thoughts, united with the effect produced
on her by
her mother's manner, slightly disturbed her when she entered the
parlor. The
warmer tint that rested on her cheek, and the sweet confusion
apparent in
her whole manner, were perceived by Corbin, and interpreted to favor
his own
wishes. In his mind, it was an evidence that the announcement of his
name
had quickened the pulsations of her heart — a thing that could not
occur,
were she altogether indifferent towards him.
The evening passed very pleasantly to Edith —
indeed, she
could not remember one that had passed more pleasantly. It was
equally so to
her young admirer. But her father and mother were not so happy. They
sat and
talked together of their child, and of all they knew and felt in
regard to
Corbin, with a troubled feeling about their hearts.
From that time, Mrs. Trueman kept her eye closely
upon
her daughter. She saw much more to produce unquiet feelings, than
she had
supposed existed. Sometimes she would purposely make an allusion,
apparently
indifferent in its nature, to the young man, and mark the effect.
Invariably
she could see a change in Edith, and her woman's heart instinctively
perceived its source.
Now the day of doubt, and fear, and trial came to
the
parents. What was to be done? If Corbin were really attached to
Edith, and
intended to act from the sentiment he felt — it would be next to
impossible
for them to prevent his seeing her, and making known his feelings. Bolts
and bars keep not out love. Love enters, no one knows how
or
when. Love laughs at the opposition of parents. The whole extent of
the
difficulty was fully perceived by Trueman and his wife. They were
people of
good sense and clear perceptions, and, therefore, saw the folly of
any
open opposition to the young man on their part, just at that
particular
crisis, unless they could bring strongly to their daughter's mind,
evidence
of conduct clearly wrong. But this they could not do. His habits,
so
far as Mr. Trueman could judge, were not good, nor had he any faith
in his
principles; but he could allege nothing positively against
him.
Everything was progressing quietly. Corbin sought
frequent opportunities of seeing Edith. They met mostly in company,
and then
the mother's eye was upon them. Each new meeting only confirmed her
fears.
"I am sadly afraid," she said to her husband,
about four
weeks after Corbin had called to see Edith for the first time, "that
our
worst fears are in danger of being realized. If I am not much
mistaken,
Edith's feelings are already deeply interested in that young man."
"It cannot, certainly, have gone that far," Mr.
Trueman
said, looking alarmed.
"I believe it has. Every time I have seen Edith
and
Corbin meet for some weeks past, I have watched them with an anxious
eye.
Moreover, I have taken pains to allude to him in her presence
several times.
The effect I could not mistake. She regards him with more than usual
interest."
"Then we must at once prevent their meeting. I
know of no
young man for whom I feel a greater repugnance."
"But what good effect will that have?"
Trueman mused for some time on this question, the
force
of which grew more and more apparent the longer he dwelt upon it.
"There is yet nothing very serious between
them, I
hope," he at length replied. "If kept out of each other's way for a
little
while — may they not grow indifferent towards each other?"
"Not if they have even the most remote suspicion
that we
keep them apart intentionally. Nothing would more certainly
fix the
incipient regard now felt for each other, into a passion that it
would be
folly in us to oppose."
Thus they deliberated in doubt and fear. The
result was a
determination on the part of Trueman to make such an investigation
of the
young man's character, as would enable him to bring before the mind
of Edith
conclusive proofs of his unworthiness. This task he found a
hard one.
Enough came to light to make him more than ever opposed to Corbin as
a
son-in-law, but there was nothing of that positive and conclusive
character
which, when presented to the mind of one inclined to favor him,
might not
easily be differently construed. The attempt to prejudice Edith
against him,
utterly failed
"I know that you have mistaken him. He is not
what you
believe him to be," were the only replies she made.
But Edith loved her parents too well to do
anything that
gave them pain. She saw that their opposition to Alfred Corbin was
of a
serious character; that the fact of her feeling a preference for him
and
keeping his company, gave them pain. She could deny herself the
pleasure of
seeing him, if she could not suppress her feelings; and this, her
pure
filial affection prompted her to do. From the time she became fully
aware of
her father and mother's sentiments, she avoided Corbin's company. If
he met
her abroad, she repulsed him by a rigid coldness of manner; if he
called at
her father's house, she declined seeing him.
For a time, Mr. and Mrs. Trueman's hearts beat
more
lightly. But a few weeks revealed the sad truth that Edith was
sinking into
a state of pensive abstraction, verging on melancholy. She sang no
more as
she went through the house, gayly as a bird; she did not smile as
formerly
whenever she spoke to her mother or father. Her cheek was beginning
to lose
its color, and her eye its luster. The cause of this was no mystery.
Mr. and
Mrs. Trueman did not attempt to conceal the truth from themselves,
but
looked it full in the face.
As hard as Edith struggled to suppress her
feelings, as
hard as she strove, for her parents' sake, to efface the image of
Corbin
from her heart — she found herself unequal to the task. It still
remained
there, undimmed even by the tears that wet her pillow through many,
many
sleepless hours of the lonely nights.
Edith's state of mind produced first in her
parents, most
acute distress. Then they began to look at Corbin with different
eyes, and
to seek for good points in his character. Finally, they consented,
as the
better choice of two evils — to waive all objections to him, and let
him
visit Edith freely.
Six months afterward, they were married. A
sweeter bride
than Edith never murmured her marriage vows. But she was not
altogether
happy. She knew that the consent of her parents was not full and
free. It
grieved her deeply, to think that they should not have entire
confidence in
one so deeply loved and confided in by her — in one whose heart was
so good, and whose principles were so pure.
In the years that had passed since their
marriage, both
Trueman and his wife had suffered much — had been so wrung with
sorrow, that
bitter tears had flowed freely, and that many times. Children had
died and
been buried out of their sight; and, worse than this, their oldest
boy, a
lad of fine promise, had fallen suddenly among evil associates, and
been led
away into evil practices! This was to both of them a terrible trial.
For
years, they had looked forward with pride and pleasure to the time
when
William would enter upon life, as a man of high moral worth and
energy
of character. Alas! their dearest hopes for him were suddenly
blasted.
Still, in the death of their babes — they had much to console
them;
and in the aberration of their boy — they had a
dearly-cherished hope
that the scales would one day fall from his eyes.
But in giving Edith to a man in whom,
though they
tried hard, they could have no true confidence — they had nothing to
fall
back upon. There was nothing beyond to hope, and there was no
retracing the
step then taken. The sweet child they had loved so deeply — she who
had been
to them all that a dutiful, affectionate child could be — she who
had been
so tenderly cared for — was going out from under the home-tree and
its
sheltering blanches, to tread a new, and, perhaps, treacherous path,
where,
no matter what the danger and suffering to which she might be
exposed — they
would have little power to defend or comfort her.
Feeling thus about Edith, it is no wonder that,
in seeing
her wedded, they experienced a hopelessness that had never
before
settled coldly about their hearts. All this was the more painful,
from the
fact that it had to be kept out of sight. Their child must not see
it; it
must not become apparent to any eye. Here was their severest trial.
This
disturbed them more than any event that had yet occurred, because it
touched
them in the tenderest part
CHAPTER 14.
For a year or two after the marriage of Edith,
neither
her father nor mother could really tell whether she were happy or
not.
Sometimes they would think her unchanged; but no sooner had this
conclusion
been settled, and their minds allowed to rest upon it, than
something would
occur to agitate again their doubts. As to her husband, there was
something
about him that they never could understand. He was a kind of enigma.
He had
been established in business by his father, but it was easily seen
that
success could not and would not attend him, and for the simple
reason that
he did not devote himself properly to his business. To almost
any
other man bearing to him the relation that Corbin did, Trueman would
have
talked freely. But there was about him something so cold and
distant that he could never speak to him except with formal
courtesy,
and about general topics.
After the second year, both the father and mother
saw the
truth they had long dreaded to know — Edith was not happy.
More than
once had Mrs. Trueman found her in tears, and agitated. But no
persuasion
could induce her to tell the cause; it was steadily evaded. This
mystery
made them wretched at times. There was not an hour in the day that
they did
not think of her, and scarcely an hour through the night that she
did not
stand vividly before them as an actor in some dream.
To add another bitter ingredient to their cup,
just at
this time William, their oldest boy, who had attained his
eighteenth
year, left the store in. which he had been employed, and went off to
the
South with an adventurer, who had seen in him certain mental
qualities that
he was assured he could turn to account. For two years, the boy had
been a
constant source of anxiety. The remonstrances of his father against
his
dissolute course had not been, in any case, kindly received, but
met
with ill-nature, and sometimes downright insolence. When he went
away, he
made known his purpose to no one, and did not even send a verbal
message to
his father or mother, who only gained intelligence of him in an
indirect
way.
The conduct of this boy almost broke his mother's
heart.
It was a cruel recompense for all she had suffered for him, for all
the
unselfish love which burned upon her heart with a never-dying flame.
One
day, when somewhat recovered from the first paralyzing effects of
this
event, Mrs. Trueman called to see Edith. The servant admitted her,
and she
passed upstairs. She went into the back chamber where she usually
found her
daughter, but it was vacant. Just as she was about placing her hand
upon the
closed door that communicated with the two chambers, with the
intention of
seeking Edith in the adjoining room — she was almost petrified at
hearing
Corbin say, loud and sternly, as if replying to something spoken so
low that
she could not hear even the sound of the voice,
"It is true; I do not love you; and the quicker
you know
it, the better. Go home to your father, and tell him to take care of
you! I
shall do it no longer. It's enough for me to take care of myself,
and it's
all that I'm going to do."
"Oh, Alfred!" Mrs. Trueman could hear Edith say,
in a
hoarse, supplicating voice, "do not say so. You love me — I know you
do —
you must love me. I will live anywhere, anyhow, submit to anything —
only
don't say that you do not love me. It will kill me if you repeat it
again!"
"Hush! will you!" was the impatient, angry,
brutal reply
to this. "I am sick to death of your whining. I tell you that
I do
not love you, and don't believe I ever did!"
As Corbin said this, Mrs. Trueman heard him take
two or
three steps across the room, when the door was shut with a loud jar,
and the
incensed husband strode heavily downstairs and left the house. The
moment he
went out of her daughter's chamber, the mother entered. She found
that Edith
had fallen across the foot of her bed, and was already insensible.
Her babe was lying in its cradle, sweetly sleeping, all unconscious
of the
storm that had been raging around it. For a while Mrs.
Trueman stood
bewildered, and in expectation, each moment, of awaking from a
terrible
dream; but the body of her child remained before her — a fearful
confirmation of the truth of all she had just heard. At length her
resolution was taken. She rang for a servant, and directed a
carriage to be
immediately called. Into this, she had the body of Edith lifted, and
removed
to her house, where it was laid upon her own bed. The family
physician, who
had been sent for, and also Mr. Trueman, both entered together, and
both
were informed, in a few words, of the cause of Edith's alarming
condition.
The father staggered back, and sank into a chair with a groan of
anguish,
while the physician calmly proceeded to the adoption of such a
course of
treatment as the case required.
An hour elapsed, and Edith showed signs of life.
Her
father and mother stood over her in breathless anxiety. For a time,
they
feared that her heart would never renew its healthful motion. Now
that it
beat on again, sending its warm currents to every relaxed fibre of
her body,
they trembled lest returning animation would not bring
returning
reason. But in this they were mistaken. At first she moaned
sadly, then
she seemed in a dream.
"I won't speak of it again, Alfred," she said, as
a flush
passed quickly over her face. "You may go in and come just as you
please,
only look at me kindly, and speak to me as you used to do. Oh, it is
so long
since I have heard you say Edith, dear. Why don't you say it
now?
Aren't I your own Edith — the mother of your babe? and don't I love
you
better than all the world beside? What can I do to make you love me
as at
first?"
To this followed sobs and moans. Then, still with
closed
eyes, she went on:
"Hark! two o'clock! and Alfred isn't here yet! I
wish he
would come home. Where can he be? He doesn't love me — or he
wouldn't keep
away from me so long. Oh! oh! oh!" in a sudden, heart-piercing cry,
"don't
do it, Alfred! Don't! don't! don't!"
A violent shudder passed through her frame. Her
face was
disfigured by a look of terror. In the midst of this, she
opened her
eyes, started up in bed, and looked eagerly into the faces of the
three who
stood beside it — father, mother, and physician. Then closing her
eyes, she
sunk back upon her pillow, and lay panting like a deer just escaped
from the
hunters. Her mother took her hand and pressed it within hers, but
the
pressure was not returned. At this time, the physician whispered
some
directions into the ear of Mr. Trueman, and quietly retired, leaving
the
parents alone with their child.
"Edith!" whispered the mother, bending close to
her ear.
Edith looked up into her face. At first there was
an
absence of thought; this was quickly followed by a look of earnest
inquiry,
that passed off and rested upon her father.
"Where is my husband?" she asked.
"He is not here."
"Not here! Where am I?"
"At home — in your own old home."'
She startled up and looked around the room and
then fell
back again with a sigh.
"Where is little Henry? Oh, where is my dear
little
babe?" and again she rose up, and cast her eyes anxiously around.
"Here he lies, sleeping close by you."
Mrs. Trueman lifted the babe from the bed, and
placed it
in Edith's arms. The young mother drew it tightly to her bosom,
kissed it,
and murmuring, "Precious darling!" lay down again, and, closing her
eyes,
seemed striving to collect her scattered senses. Gradually, deep
lines began
to sink in her brow, her lips slowly compressed, and a heavy sigh
struggled
up from her bosom.
"Edith!" whispered her mother.
The sufferer opened her eyes.
"Edith, you are again in your old home. Will you
not
remain here? We love you with an undying love. No time, no change;
no circumstances can affect our love."
Eagerly did Edith look into her mother's face.
There was
in her countenance, a blended expression of inquiry, alarm, and
surprise.
"Why am I here, mother?" she at length asked.
"I brought you here. I found you in a fainting
fit, and
had you removed."
Edith looked earnestly at her while she said
this,
sighed, closed her eyes, and turned her face to the wall.
"Say no more to her on this subject than can be
helped,"
Mr. Trueman whispered in his wife's ear. "Keep her quiet both in
mind and
body."
"I will do the best in my power; but how to act
wisely in
this crisis, I know not. My mind seems like a whirlpool."
"Look up! look up!" returned the father, in the
same low
whisper. "If wisdom to guide aright comes at all, it will come from
no
earthly source."
As Trueman went quietly from the room, his wife's
eyes,
filled with tears, were turned imploringly upward.
CHAPTER 15.
Mr. Trueman, on leaving the house, after the
restoration
of his daughter, walked slowly and thoughtfully in the direction of
Mr.
Corbin (the elder's) store. There he found the old gentleman, and
related to
him what his wife had heard, and described the condition of Edith.
Corbin's
face grew almost black with anger.
"Wretch!" he exclaimed, rising, and
walking the floor
with agitated step, "I disown him! No son of mine could act so base a
part!"
When more composed in mind, he sat down, and,
taking
Trueman's hand, said, in an altered voice,
"My dear sir! what can I do? I love your sweet
child; I
have always loved her, and been proud of her. I would do anything in
my
power to save her even a moment's pain. But here I am helpless. My
unhappy
boy has almost killed me by his conduct. He is throwing himself away
with a
strange kind of madness. As far as I know his habits and
associates — they are of the worst kind. His business has become
thoroughly involved. I shall have to take it out of his hands and
settle it
up, at a loss of, perhaps, twenty thousand dollars. Yesterday he
came to me
for money to lift two or three notes, but I refused him. I thought
the
crisis had better come at once. He obtained the money somewhere, but
he
won't sustain himself for a month. He must go down. Edith is under
your roof
— keep her there. It will be in opposition to my wishes and my
judgment — if
she ever lives with him again. It is a hard case for the dear child,
but it
is the least of two evils."
"So I think," Trueman replied. "She shall never
leave my
house to go to him, unless she does it under my strong
disapprobation."
But such resolutions were never put to the trial.
Edith
asked no explanations, expressed no wish, seemed a great part of the
time
but half conscious of where and what she was. For nearly two weeks
she
remained in bed, mournfully calm. Her mother sat constantly by her
side, for
the moment she rose to leave the room, Edith's eyes would turn to
her with a
slightly-troubled look. After that she sat up, and took charge of
her babe,
in which her mind had not lost its interest for a moment. But no one
could
look into her young face without a sad feeling. It told too plainly
of a
crushed and bleeding heart.
As for Corbin, he never sought his wife. He
learned from
the servants in the house, that she had been taken away by her
mother, and
that sufficed for him. For a few months after his marriage he had
felt much
attached to Edith, but his love for her was not strong enough to
make him
abandon wicked habits of life that she could not for a moment
bear in
her husband. For a short period, his irregularities were hidden from
her —
but a wife cannot be long deceived. Her first mild remonstrance was
met by a
stern annunciation of this law: she must not attempt to interfere
with his
pleasures, or expect him to be governed by any will but his own.
Coldness on his part followed this — a coldness
which
never entirely passed away. Giving himself up now more freely to his
own
evil inclinations, he sought the company that was most agreeable to
him, and
neglected Edith shamefully. Night after night he was away until one,
two,
and three o'clock; and when at home, he was silent and reserved in
his
manner, for he was conscious of having wronged his wife, and could
neither
feel nor act without constraint in her presence.
Home, as the natural result, grew less
and less
agreeable to him, and he stayed at home as little as possible.
Smiles of
welcome greeted him from wicked associates, and these were more
attractive
to him than the sad or tearful face of a loving, virtuous wife.
Feeling and
inclination, instead of principle, being his guide — he sought only
to
gratify himself. No thought of others ever crossed his mind. Self
was, with him, the great center — and self-gratification was
the
great end of his life.
Such a man and such a woman could not be long
happy
together. There was nothing to conjoin them. What she loved — he
despised,
and from what he loved — she shrank with instinctive horror. No
wonder that
the young wife gradually changed; no wonder that they were so soon
driven
asunder.
Enough in detail has now been given to awaken in
the mind
of the reader, an interest for the young wife, so soon cast
aside by
a man utterly unworthy to possess a gem of such priceless
value;
enough to enlist his sympathies in the parents, and to enable him to
appreciate the nature of the trial through which they had to pass.
Of William, their wandering child, they could
hear
nothing. Not a word came from him, and no effort of Mr. Trueman's,
in trying
to search him out, was successful. Years passed, and he was still
dead to
them, and so actually to all the world, as far as they knew. Indeed,
both
father and mother usually thought of him as no longer an inhabitant
of the
visible world. Yet there were times when his image would come up
with more
than usual distinctness — times, when they could not keep the
thought of him
out of their minds. Then awoke, the yearning hope that he was still
alive,
and would some day, as a returning prodigal, come back to the home
he had
forsaken.
A few months after the separation had taken place
between
Edith and her husband, the latter failed in business, throwing his
father
into heavy losses. Immediately following this, certain disclosures
in regard
to his evil conduct came suddenly to light, and were rumored
about in
the newspapers. These passed under the eye of Edith. What she
suffered, no
human eye ever saw. She mentioned not his name, even to her mother,
nor made
even the smallest allusion to the facts that had been published
against him.
It could easily be seen, however, that she more than half believed
the
disgraceful exposition. In a little while, public opinion drove him
from the
city, and no word of him came to disturb the heart of his wife for
five
years. Then his death was announced. Its real effect upon
her, no one
saw; externally, all was calm.
The love that was in the heart of the forsaken
wife for
her child, sustained her in the great trial she had to bear. From
the first
paralyzing effects of the shock she had received, she gradually
revived
under the influence of this maternal feeling, which quickened daily
into
more vigorous life. The duty she owed to the innocent being she had
borne,
and the duty she owed to parents deeply and justly beloved — caused
Edith to
struggle with her feelings, and keep them as much as possible out of
sight,
and from influencing her actions. The earnest struggles of a mind
like hers,
based, as it was, upon true principles — is always more or
less
successful. She was far more successful than her parents supposed
she would
be. They knew, from the first, that she would have a hard struggle,
but they
hoped much for the principles of truth which had been
implanted in
her mind from earliest years, and they did not hope in vain. These
sustained her. These enabled her to lift her head above the
waters which
threatened to overwhelm her.
By the end of the first year of her worse than
widowhood,
although she had not been outside the walls of her father's house,
and had
been seen only by a few, and they very intimate friends — she was so
quiet
and cheerful, when in the presence of her father and mother, that
they felt
no longer afflicted on her account. Her little boy was becoming
every day
more and more the light of the house. In him, the grandfather
and
mother were living over some of the sweetest seasons of their early
life.
Thus time passed on, until the expiration of the
period
mentioned at the opening of a chapter a few pages back. Trueman has
now
reached his fiftieth year, and Lane is an old bachelor, about
the
same age. The question naturally comes up, Who is happiest? the
married man
— with all his care, affliction, and anxiety; or the bachelor — who
has not
taken a single draught from his bitter cup? Two brief scenes, one in
the
life of each, will, probably, set this question in its clearest
light. We
will give them in the next two chapters.
CHAPTER 16
"Thunder and lightning, Tom! why don't you come
when I
ring for you?" This was said impatiently by a portly, middle-aged
man, who
was confined to his room with a gouty foot, to a colored servant who
had
just entered. His face was sensual to a disgusting degree.
"I did come, sir, the moment I heard the bell,"
the
servant replied, in a respectful lone.
"No you didn't. I had to ring three times."
"But I didn't — "
"Silence, Tom! You're getting to be good for
nothing.
You're not worth the powder it would lake to shoot you. Here! take
this note
over to Mercer's, and don't stay till night, if you please."
The servant took the note and went slowly
downstairs,
muttering to himself as he did so.
"Blast the whole tribe of servants! I don't
believe there
is one to be found worth a penny! I never saw one yet for whom I
would give
a sixpence extra."
"Oh! there! I forgot. Tom! Tom!"
But Tom did not or would not hear. The bell was
rung
violently, but with no better effect.
"Confound it all!" ejaculated the invalid,
sinking back
in his chair, with a contracted brow, and an impatient, unhappy
face. "The
rascal heard me, I know. But what does he care for me? Nothing!
Nobody cares
for me, I believe. Here I've been shut up for a week, and not a soul
have I
seen except the doctor, with his nauseous stuff; and Harry Bispham,
who
cares a devilish sight more for my wine, than he does for me. He
comes as
regular as clockwork, drinks my best wine, to which he coolly helps
himself,
and then bores me with his eternal tittle-tattle about dogs and
horses. But
even his face is better than none."
As this was said, the invalid's eyes were lifted
to the
wall involuntarily, and rested upon a fine female head, the work of
an
artist of no ordinary talents. After he had regarded the lovely
face,
evidently without designing to do so, for some moments, he sighed,
and let
his eyes fall to the floor. A lonely, dissatisfied feeling followed
his
impatient spirit. While indulging this, someone knocked at his door,
and
then walked in.
"Why, how are you, Lane? What in the world is the
matter?" asked the visitor, familiarly. "Ah! I see. Been living
rather too
high. Gout?"
"Yes, so the doctor says."
"And, of course, cuts off the supplies; reduces
the feed,
to say nothing of the wine and brandy."
"Exactly it — confound him!"
"Who attends you?"
"Old Doctor Gruel."
"He'll starve you to death!"
"I believe he will."
"Why don't you dismiss him, and send for Doctor
Arbuckle?
He'll cure you, I'll guaranty, and allow you to indulge a little
into the
bargain. But what ails you, man, besides the gout? Your face is as
long as
my arm."
"I sometimes wish myself dead!"
"Nonsense! Don't! don't! Live while you can live,
and be
thankful for good food and drink."
"There's little else worth living for, as I see."
"And aren't they enough?"
"Not if one must pay for them at this rate. Look
at my
foot! Here I've been confined to my room for a week, to say nothing
of the
pain I have suffered. Cut off from society, cared for by nobody, and
shamefully neglected by a lazy rascal who pretends to be my
servant.
Isn't that life for you, with a vengeance? I am now fifty years old,
and am
beginning to go downward on the path of existence. I sometimes ask
myself if
I have lived to any good purpose — and am compelled to say no.
I am neither rich nor happy, that is certain! Is there anything else
in life
worth having? If there is, I don't know of it. But it's now too late
to look
for any other good, if such the world have to offer. I thought once
that I
was going to secure a splendid fortune in a few years. Fool-like, I
risked
in about twenty thousand dollars a wild speculation, that I had made
in my
practice at the bar — and lost it all. Now I have about sufficient
to live
on comfortably with what my practice yields. But when I get too old
to
attend to business I shall, likely enough, be in a bad way. Oh,
dear! I
mustn't think of these things, they worry me to death."
"You should have married, Lane. A kind old
wife
or a gentle daughter would be invaluable now."
"I wonder what they'd live on. I haven't more
than enough
for myself."
"You know the old adage: A hen that can scratch
for one —
can scratch for ten!"
"Yes; but I scratch just as much as I care about
scratching. I don't want any more mouths to provide for, nor any troubles
to bear besides my own. Wives and daughters are, you know, very
troublesome kind of property sometimes."
"Yes, at least some people's wives and daughters.
But I
don't see why you should complain. You have enough to live on, no
one to
care for but yourself, and can lead as quiet a life as you choose. A
week
with the gout now and then is nothing."
"If you had it, perhaps you'd think a little
differently.
And as to a quiet life, why, I have it quiet enough, no doubt. But
so tired
do I often get of this quiet, or, rather, loneliness — that
it would
be a relief to hear the thunder of Niagara — anything, in fact."
"Even the cries of half a dozen children, or the
barking
of ten puppies?"
"No, no, spare me, if you please! If there are
any two
things in the world for which I have a perfect horror, those two are
dogs
and children. The squalling of one, or the yelping of the others,
will
disturb at any time my whole nervous system. A neighbor of mine has a
cur
that barks through half of every night. It almost sets me crazy at
times."
"You don't sleep well, then?"
"No, I lay awake for hours after I go to bed."
"Not as a usual thing?"
"Yes, I don't think I have slept soundly through a
whole
night for five years."
"Indeed! How is that?"
"I get to thinking — and can't sleep."
"You? What have you to think about that's serious
enough
to keep you awake?"
"I can hardly tell myself. But one cursed thing
or
another comes into my mind, and sticks there, in spite of all that I
can
do."
"The spirit of some broken-hearted maiden,
perhaps, who
died twenty or thirty years ago of love. I begin to think you have
some
sin of this kind on your conscience."
This was said jestingly, but it was evidently not
relished by Lane.
"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the visitor, who had not much
delicacy of feeling.
"I have hit the nail on the head, I perceive.
Come, then,
confess, and make clean work of it. I will grant you absolution."
Lane still showed a disrelish for such allusions,
and
they were dropped. After remaining for fifteen or twenty minutes,
and
drinking a glass of wine, the friend departed. For a long time after
he
left, Lane sat deeply absorbed, with his head resting upon his hand.
What
his reflections were, cannot be known, but something of their
character may
be guessed from the fact of his taking from a drawer in the table
near which
he sat, a letter that was unfolded, and reading it over with
evident
madness of spirits. The writer was Dora Enfield — she had
been dead
one year. Lane had almost forgotten her, when he was startled by the
receipt
of her picture and the letter just mentioned.
Dora had grown old rapidly in the ten years which
preceded her death. During the last five years of her life, her
disposition
had become, in a degree, modified. Extorted admiration of
fine
talents and extensive reading, no longer sufficed. It could not
satisfy a
spirit like hers. From a hard, ill-natured, censorious old maid —
she
gradually softened in her character, and became more like a woman.
But she
was not happy. She could not look back with pleasure. It seemed to
her as if
she had led a useless life, as if she had not filled the
place
designed for her, and in which she would have been happier far
than she
had been.
In the perusal of religious books, and in
frequent
attendance upon religious services, united with the performance of
uses in
benevolent associations, she spent several years. Then she sunk into
the
grave. Among her effects was found a letter for Lane, and also
directions to
have it, and her portrait, immediately sent to him. This was done.
The
portrait was hung up after a few weeks in his room. The letter ran
as
follows:
"TO MILFORD LANE, When this is placed in your
hands, the
writer of it will be in the eternal world. After having lived, for
nearly
thirty of the best years in her life, a useless, unhappy creature,
in view
of her approaching change — she finds herself strangely impelled to
open up
to the only one she ever truly loved, the secrets of an over-tried
and
over-burdened heart.
"Milford Lane! think back for some twenty-five
years or
more. Call up vividly, if you can, the days when our hearts were
fresh and
young; when, in the spring-time of existence, we stood side by side
in many
a happy company — side by side in quiet places — side by side in the
calm
morning hour, and in the deep stillness of eventide. Call up those
seasons.
Bring them into all but actual presence, and then question your
heart
closely. See whose image is most deeply impressed there.
"Milford Lane! I know what you will find. I know
whose
image was stamped upon the tablet of your young heart. I know
all your
desperate efforts to obliterate that image. But they were
vain. You
could hide it, for a time, from your own eye, but not efface
it. And now I sweep off the dust that has accumulated upon it, and,
lo! it
stands fully revealed.
"Think! was it not a cruel wrong to the
tender,
loving spirit, whose eyes now look into your own, to turn away from
her as
you did? to cast off the tendrils that were beginning to entwine
around you,
and leave the vine unsupported — to grovel along the earth, with
soiled,
misshapen leaves, and fruitless branches? It was a cruel wrong,
Milford Lane!
"For three years after you had won my heart, and
then
steadily avoided me, on the ground, as I was informed, of a
strange aversion to marriage — I struggled hard to forget you.
But my
effort was vain. I could no more forget you, than I could forget
myself.
Consciousness was inseparably connected with the thought of you.
Other young
men, in every way worthy, sought my favor — but I had no love for
any but
you. Oh, the remembrance of those hopeless years! I would not live
them over
again for millions of worlds. Yet, in that dark midnight, there was
one
star, and, but for the feeble ray that came from it, I must have
died in
despair. You said to a mutual friend, that you loved me. That
love I
fondly hoped would change, sooner or later, your views of marriage.
But you
did not change. Years went slowly by, leaving deep scars upon
me. I
was conscious that I was changing very fast. When, at last, I gave
up all
hope of gaining my heart's desire, the pure streams of tender
regard
that I had felt for everyone, began to be poisoned. I found pleasure
in
thinking unkindly of your gender. It was my delight to show the lords
of
creation their inferiority. I read extensively, and stored my
mind with
varied knowledge, to the end that I might prove woman's
superiority.
To others, I was pedantic, but to you, whenever we met, I was
reserved and
gentle. In this difference there was no design on my part. I could
not help
acting as I did. Other men I could despise, but not you.
"As time wore on, my feelings hardened. I could
think of
you without emotion, and meet you without a quicker throb of the
heart.
Still, I was conscious that my whole character had been warped;
that
I had not filled my true place as a woman; that I had cumbered
the
ground. This made me, at last, begin to think more humbly of
myself. I
saw that mere brilliancy of intellect was not a woman's true
boast.
By this time, my years had fallen in the 'sere and yellow leaf.' It
was
autumn — to me, a fruitless autumn.
"Vigor of thought and rigidness of determination —
gave
way to a softer, gentler state of mind. Old states of tenderness
came back
upon me. My woman's heart was restored. Again I could think of you,
and sit
for hours with your image before my mental eyes; not, as before,
with
agitation, and an earnest yearning to be conjoined to you as my second
self, but with a quiet and pleasing emotion. This has continued
up to
this time. I am now within a few weeks of my journey's end. A
few
more pulsations — and I shall lay aside this mortal body, and rise
into
another and eternal state of being. I look not with fear beyond the
grave.
"Still, I am deeply conscious of one thing, that,
had I
lived as a wife and mother — as your wife and
the
mother of your children — my character would have been more
perfected — the
inner of my mind more opened. As a consequence, in the new life I am
about
to live, I would rise much higher, be more useful, and far happier.
As the
tree falls — so it lies. Here the spiritual mind is
opened —
there it is perfected. But only what is opened can be perfected. To
open up
and regenerate all the principles of the mind, we must enter into
and live
through all orderly states, and bear the trials and pains attendant
upon
them. This I have not done. I need not tell you why. But I do not
mean to
chide. I am only uttering the truth, and that, something within is
impelling
me to do.
"I have directed my picture to be sent to you. I
ask of
you nothing in regard to it.
"And now, farewell. Think of me as one
whose life
would have been happily spent, could she have walked its winding
paths by
your side; denied that blessed privilege, she has lived uselessly,
and drank daily from a bitter cup. Again I say that I do not
mean to
chide; I write only the truth, and this it may be good for you to
know.
Farewell! From the spirit-land to which I go, I may sometimes return
to you;
but I know not. Farewell! Dora Enfield."
After reading this letter over slowly (perhaps
for the
hundredth time), under the circumstances just mentioned, Lane folded
it,
replaced it in the drawer, and carefully locked it. Then, with a
deeply
drawn sigh, he sank back in his chair, and thought over every
touching
sentiment of this strange epistle. Thus he remained for more than an
hour,
when some want reminded him of his absent servant, who was staying
away from
him much longer than the errand he was on would justify. An
impatient
expression flitted over his face, his body moved with an impatient
gesture,
and an imprecation on the head of Tom, fell from his lips. But it
availed
nothing.
Though advanced in life and helpless from
sickness, there
was no gentle hand, made gentler by affection, to minister to his
needs; no
voice, sweeter than music, to soothe his weariness. All he received
was
reluctant, mercenary service.
But now for the other scene — a brief, quiet, and
unimposing one. Let the reader look at it, and then decide which, at
fifty,
is happiest — the married or the single man.
CHAPTER 17.
On the evening of the same day on which Lane has
been
introduced to the reader, Mr. Trueman came home from his store,
feeling
rather more care weighing upon his mind than usual. All his life, it
had
required close attention to business and strict economy at home, to
make, as
it is said, "both ends meet." For the past ten years, his expenses
had
increased rather than diminished. In that period it had cost him
most, for
the education of his children, in which he had spared no expense
that could
possibly be afforded. The two youngest — Ellen, just sixteen, and
Mary, but
ten years old — were still at school. John, a fine young man of
twenty, was
clerk in a wholesale store. William, the reader knows, has left home
and
hearth-fire to wander in the world; whether dead or alive, those who
loved
him most could not tell. Edith, and her little boy, now six years
old, with
the quiet-faced mother of his household treasures, make up the
family of
Trueman.
On that day he had been making some estimates in
regard
to his business, and found that, for three years, his profits had
been
gradually diminishing. New stores had sprung into existence, and new
modes
of conducting business prevailed. He had become too old to change
his quiet,
methodical habits — into the dashing, boasting, go-ahead fashion of
the day.
His sign, too, had become old and dimmed, his fixtures worn, and the
whole
appearance of his store quite unattractive when put in contrast with
the
newer establishments that were flourishing all around him. It is no
matter
of surprise, that he was gradually losing business. He did not see
the
cause; or, if it were presented to his mind, he felt that he was too
old to
change; he could not do business upon the new plan.
A knowledge of the fact that he was gradually
losing his
business, and that it was even now barely productive enough to meet
the
expenses of his family, naturally caused his mind to fall into a
sober mood.
In this state he came home.
During the time passed at the tea-table but
little was
said. The father usually led the conversation, or participated in it
freely;
but as he did neither, it was plain to all that something weighed
upon his
mind. This made each one feel disinclined to talk. After tea,
Trueman
retired to the family sitting-room, and, taking his usual place in a
large,
old-fashioned chair, gave himself up to unpleasing thoughts
connected with
the declension of his business. No one came into the sitting-room
but John.
Edith and her mother had duties to perform, and the two younger
daughters
left the tea-table to study their lessons.
The young man, who had noticed, with the rest,
his
father's thoughtful mood, and half guessed the reason (for, engaged
in a
somewhat similar branch of trade, though on a larger scale, he saw
the
defects in his father's mode of doing business), sat down near him,
hoping
that some remark would be made by which he could lead his father to
talk of
his affairs; but he showed no inclination to do so.
"How is business now?" the young man at length
asked.
"Not very good," was replied. "There are too many
going
into the same branch. It is all cut up."
There was something desponding in the tone of
Trueman's
voice. John was silent for some time.
"I had a talk with the head of our firm today,"
he broke
this silence by saying, "about my future position. You know I have
been with
them for five years, and, up to this time, have received but four
hundred
dollars a year."
"Yes. Well, what was the result?"
"All that I could wish. I have one year more to
stay; for
that I am to get eight hundred dollars."
"You are?"
"Yes, sir. And I shall claim the privilege of
devoting
just four hundred dollars as my proportion of the expenses of the
family for
the coming year. After I become of age, a farther advance is
promised.
Beyond that, plain hints were given that I would be cared for. The
principal
partner in the firm has a brother, a few years older than myself,
who has a
capital of forty thousand dollars. He has been in the store for
several
months, gaining a knowledge of the business. In about two years he
expects
to commence for himself and it has been intimated to me that I shall
be
needed to join with him as the business partner. Of course I shall
not
object."
"No," returned the father, with an animated
smile, all
his anxieties scattered to the winds, "I presume not. Really, you
have
cheering news to set off against my despondency."
"I hope you will never permit yourself again to
despond,
father," John said, with affectionate seriousness. "I believe you
have
confidence in me. I know you would have. I am now twenty years of
age, with
a salary from which I can easily and most cheerfully spare four or
five
hundred dollars, to make up any deficit in your business; and I
claim the
right of doing this. I claim the right of aiding in the support and
education of my sisters. After this year I shall stand on firmer
ground, and
be able to do more, should more be required."
After saying this, the noble-spirited young man
dexterously sought to change the subject of conversation, in which
he
succeeded. Not long after, his mother and three sisters came in, and
gathered around a table, some with needlework, and others with
books. All
perceived instantly that the father was in a more cheerful frame of
mind.
The cause, they did not know; but that was a matter of indifference;
it was
to the effect they looked. As for Mr. Trueman, the news given him by
his
son, had brought up his mind to a cheerful tone. He did not think of
the aid
offered him — the lightening of his burdens in the support of a
large family
— he only thought of the good fortune and bright prospect opening
before his
boy, whose manly character, intelligence, and moral worth had long
afforded
him a pleasure that only a parent's heart can estimate.
As his children gathered together, engaging in
agreeable
conversation for a time, and then becoming occupied with book or
work, as
taste, duty, or inclination prompted — the father's eye glistened as
it
rested upon them.
"For these, my household treasures, Father, I
thank you!"
he said, in silent gratitude, lifting his heart upward. "May no beast
of
prey enter this peaceful fold; no evil thing harm its
gentle
inhabitants; no tempter betray them to wrong."
Edith sat sewing just opposite to her father. The
light
fell strongly upon her face. Since the news of her husband's death,
she was
gradually gaining a more cheerful tone of mind, although she had not
yet
gone abroad into society. Her unhappy condition had been a source of
much
pain of mind to Trueman. Now, as he looked steadily into her calm
face, he
saw little that indicated a troubled heart. The marks of suffering
were
indeed there, but they were evidences of what had been, not of
anything
existing in the present.
"Dear child! over whom the wild winds have swept
with
desolating fury," he added, in silent speech, "how thankful am I
that the
storm is past. May not even the shadow of a portending cloud
again
darken on your path of life!"
As he said this, Edith, as if conscious of what
was
passing in the mind of her father, lifted her head, and looked him
in the
face for a moment or two with a glance of pure affection. Then she
resumed
her work. The mother, too, turned her eyes towards him, and then
Ellen,
closing her book as she spoke, said, "Really, this is selfish. We
are all
either reading or sewing, and not caring for father, who sits there
with no
one to say a word to him."
"No, no, don't think of me. Read on and sew on,
just as
you were. I am not lonely. Pleasant thoughts are my companions."
But Ellen's remark caused John to say,
"True enough, sister; and it isn't just right.
Suppose I
read aloud for an hour — I have a very entertaining book — and then
you can
give us some music."
This met the approbation of all. John read for an
hour.
But whether the father thought more of the contents of the book than
of his
loving, dutiful children — we cannot say. The evening was closed by
some
fine music by Ellen, who had already attained great proficiency, and
then
all separated for the night. It was a happy family, and Trueman was
happiest
of all; happiest, because in him were becoming manifest the results
of a
life spent in the faithful performance of all known duties. He
had no
great errors to look back upon when too late to correct them. He had
chosen
wisely his lot in life, and his reward was sweet.
Two scenes more, and our history is complete. We
shall
pass over fifteen additional years, and see what they have
done for
the married man and the bachelor. At sixty-five, the account
of life
is pretty well made up, and the result certain. First, then, Milford
Lane
will appear before us. It will not require long to decide whether he
has
realized all his selfish hopes in life — whether he has found the
calm and
peaceful old age he anticipated.
CHAPTER 18.
Reader, be our companion in a visit to the old
man
Lane. You consent. Come, then. We shall not find all, I fear,
even as
comfortable as when last we saw him. On the way, let us open to you a
little
more of his history. After the death of Dora, and the reception of
her
picture and accompanying letter, the old gentleman showed less of
that
cheerfulness of manner with which he had ever met his friends. He
was more
absent and thoughtful, even in company. The loss of nearly
everything he had
accumulated, in the failure of a single speculation, joined with
moral
causes to bring on a permanent depression of spirits.
To this state he had but one antidote, convivial
companions and sensual gratification. He indulged freely in good
eating and
drinking, and from an epicure became something of a gourmand.
Thus, at that mature age, when every man who has lived right begins
to rise
into the innocence of wisdom — Lane commenced sinking into the sensuality
of the brute. Whenever thought and feeling resumed their empire
in his
mind, they ruled with no mild and soothing sway. Gladly did he seek
to
dethrone them.
As he grew older, and became less and less
companionable
in his habits, he was left more and more alone. The few friends with
whom he
had been conjoined by the associations of earlier years, were all
separated
from him by death or distance. Even parasites, he had none;
for, with
increase of years and a diminution of monetary resources, he had
grown
penurious, and this divided him and even false friends. None sought
his
company from a fellow feeling, and none from interest. Left to
himself, the
old man felt his life to be a heavy burden.
But, while life lasts, every man will be urged on
by some
predominating love, good or evil. There is no such thing as sitting
down in
absolute listlessness. The fear of final poverty caused Lane to
become
miserly in his feelings. His practice was very light, and
yielded but a
small return. The great business of his life resolved itself into a
provision for physical existence. This gave a new energy to his
mind, and
endowed it with quick perceptions wherever the making or saving of a
penny
was concerned. At sixty, he dispensed with what had before been
considered
indispensable — his servant. His meals were taken at a refectory,
and the
room in which he slept, kept in order by his own hands. To preserve
appearances, a man was employed to open his office every morning,
and make
the fire in winter. But even stronger than his penuriousness, was
his love
of eating and drinking; with a quick, restless eye —
were
therefore united a full, sensual face, and obesity of person.
Five years more were passed, the old man
gradually
declining, and losing each day more and more of those noble
qualities that
distinguish an intellectual and moral being. At this period we are
about to
visit him. Come, then, let us see him for the last time. We shall
not find
him pleasantly domiciled in the house of a friend, nor yet, a step
lower in
the scale of comfort, at a good hotel, nor even at one a fourth or
fifth
remove from the best; no, but occupying the only habitable room in
an old
house, long ago deserted. It is up this alley, so choked with dirt
that a
vehicle rarely ventures through it; a pedestrian never, unless
specially
called upon to do so.
Come! the old man is sick, so do not hesitate.
Here we
are at last. How cheerless a place! You doubt if a living soul can
dwell
here; we shall see. This is the entrance. The old door turns harshly
upon
its single rusty hinge. We are within. No sound, no trace of a human
being.
How drearily our footsteps come echoed back to us, as we ascend the
creaking
stairs, which have not been swept for years! The air is close and
suffocating.
We are on the second floor. Not here! These rooms
are
only inhabited by vermin. Here the worm gnaws steadily on through
its brief
existence; and here the mildew, and dry-rot, and the various fungi
that are
brought into existence in damp, close apartments, join in destroying
the
handiwork of man. He builds up with hurried skill; they slowly, but
surely,
return all again to the earth.
But we must not stop to moralize. Up still
farther. How
very still! The air is oppressed with silence. Now we are at his
door.
Listen! No sound. Can the old man be away? Surely not, for he has
been sick
and in bed for a week. Let us knock. No answer! Strange! He cannot,
surely,
be out. We will try the latch. The door opens, but all is still.
There is no
one here.
Yes! there he lies on that miserable bed. Does he
yet
breathe? No — yes! he moves. Hark! that groan! How unearthly it
sounds.
Lane! Lane! No answer. Raise him up; he is suffocating! There!
now he
breathes more freely. Hark! what does he say?
"Good wine — good dinner — and all that — plenty
of
friends. Don't let him go near that trunk — he'll take it, and then —
ugh!
the poor-house. I wish I were dead. Hush! Look! Don't you see him
now after
that trunk? He'll rob me. Aha! did I catch you?"
It is but a momentary struggle of the mind to
come into
outward perception. Now he sinks down exhausted. Evidently his time
has
come. He has filled up the measure of his days, and here, alone, in
this
wretched place — the last sands of his existence are falling. No
wife — no
child — no friend. For him, no one feels a movement of sympathy. He
has
lived for himself — and dies without being thought
of or
cared for by anyone.
A groan — a long, deep, shuddering groan — a
quivering of
the limbs — a convulsive twitching of the muscles about his neck and
face —
a gasp, and all is over. The writing in his book of life is
ended,
and the volume sealed! When opened in that world to which we all are
tending
— will its record show a general current of good or of evil? Not for
us is
it to say. Enough that we shall strive to live to better purpose.
In this chamber of death, we will not
remain,
reader. Its atmosphere is too oppressive. It has no object to
attract. Yes,
one; there, upon the discolored wall, hangs the portrait of Dora
Enfield, as
she looked in early womanhood. What a lovely face! How it must have
haunted
that miserable old man, even to the last. We gaze on it for a
moment, and
then go forth, leaving Milford Lane with his God.
And now, what of Henry Trueman?
CHAPTER 19.
Late in the afternoon of an autumn day, a
passenger on
board of a steamboat which was rapidly approaching one of our
Atlantic
cities, stood gazing eagerly upon the spires and clustering houses
that were
coming nearer and nearer every moment. He was in the prime of life.
His face
wore the dark hue given by a southern sun, and had upon it some
lines that
strong passions, too freely indulged, had impressed. But over the
whole was
cast a softened shadow, showing that there were gentler feelings
ruling in
his heart. As he leaned upon the railing of the boat, his eye upon
the
distant city, a man came near and leaned likewise against the
railing. At
first the stranger felt inclined to look upon the new comer as an
intruder;
but, in a little while after, he said to him,
"Do you live in this city?"
"Yes. I have lived here all my life."
A pause.
"You are well acquainted with its business-men?"
"I am."
Another pause.
"Do you know Henry Trueman?"
"The old man? Oh yes, very well."
The face of the stranger flushed.
"Is he still in business?" was next asked.
"Oh no. He has been out of business for at least
five
years."
"Did he retire with a comfortable support?"
"He paid off all his debts, and then came out
even with
the world, for which he was, no doubt, thankful, as he ought to have
been,
after having raised and educated a large family."
"But how has he since lived?" inquired the
stranger, with
an interest he could scarcely conceal.
"With his son John, one of our most prosperous
merchants
and most estimable citizens."
"He had a daughter, Edith, who married badly, I
believe?"
"Yes. She is with her brother John, and devotes
all her
time to her father, who has grown old and feeble."
"But his wife — Mrs. Trueman? What of her?"
"She has been dead for two years."
"Dead!" ejaculated the stranger, half to himself,
in a
tone that caused the individual he had been questioning to look into
his
face with surprise.
"Yes, she died, and left the old man quite
lonely. He has
seemed to droop ever since, although from his children he receives
the
kindest attentions. Edith, in fact, lives only for her father."
"You seem well-acquainted with the family," was
remarked,
after some thoughtful moments.
"I ought to be," replied the citizen. "I married
one of
his daughters."
"Which one?"
"Ellen."
"And Mary? What of her?"
"She was married two years ago to a physician."
"Happily married?"
"You would think so if you were to see her. But,
in turn,
I must remark that you seem well acquainted with the family."
No reply was made to this. After a little, as if
to
change the subject, the stranger said,
"Have you been absent long?"
"For about three weeks," was replied.
He then sunk into a deep revery, and showing a
disinclination for farther conversation, the individual who had
answered his
interrogatories walked away to another part of the boat. Just as
they were
about touching the shore, he felt a hand upon his arm; turning, he
saw the
stranger by his side.
"May I trouble you for the address of John
Trueman?" he
said.
It was given verbally. The crowd separated them,
and
although the husband of Ellen Trueman sought with curious interest
the
individual who had inquired so particularly after the family into
which he
had married — he could not find him.
At the time the above conversation was passing,
old Mr.
Trueman was on his death-bed, surrounded by his children. A sudden
illness
had prostrated him. When the disease abated, it was found that his
feeble
frame would not survive the shock. He was declining rapidly. None
expected
him to live over a few hours. But his mind was calm and clear, and
he shrunk
not from the trial that awaited him. None felt the approaching
separation so
keenly as Edith. Since her mother's removal, she had given herself
up to her
father, and ministered to all his needs with the tenderest care. In
thus
living for him, he had become almost necessary to her life. The
prospect of
his sudden departure, made her heart tremble and sink in her bosom.
She felt
as if she could not bear to lose the old man who had leaned so
confidingly
on her for two years. Anxiously did she bend over him, and watch
every
change in his time-worn face. But there was little to inspire her
with hope.
"Edith, child," he said, as his end drew near,
and he saw
the tears glistening on her cheek, "I want my children to give me up
willingly. Let there be no weeping and mourning for the weary old
man
who gladly lays down his burdens. Life has passed with me as with
other men:
there has been storm and sunshine, doubt and fear, hope and
disappointment.
But, as the day has drawn near its close, the clouds have separated,
and all
passed from the sky, except one dark spot. A bright sunset, the fair
promise
of a clear day-dawning in the world beyond the tomb — now smiles on
me."
"What dark spot — "
But, before Edith had finished the sentence, the
door was
quietly opened, and a stranger entered. He was tall, of a
dark
complexion, and apparently about forty years of age. He walked
slowly up to
the bed on which lay the dying man, supported by pillows, and
seeming not to
notice the little group that surrounded him. For a moment he looked
steadily
into the old man's face, then leaning forward, and clasping, with a
sudden
emotion, the thin hand which lay upon the coverlet, and carrying it
to his
lips, he said, in a tremulous voice,
"My father!"
The dying man rose up in bed, and gazed eagerly
into the
face of him who had called him by so dear a name.
"Is it — can it be — my William? my long
lost,
long mourned child?" he at length said.
"It is — it is — your long absent, erring child,"
sobbed
the stranger.
"The Lord be praised for this last best token of
his
goodness!" was fervently uttered by the dying man, as he lifted his
almost
sightless eyes upward, while he grasped tightly the hand of William.
"All is
bright now. The dark spot in my sunset sky has disappeared. I
can lay
me down in peace and sleep sweetly."
Closing his eyes and sinking back upon his
pillow, old
Mr. Trueman fell off into what seemed a quiet slumber; but it was
nature's final repose. When the voice of Edith, which first
broke the
deep stillness of the death-chamber, called his name, he heard it
not.
What more need be said? Can anything further be
written
in elucidation of our subject? Nothing, we believe. Some may feel an
interest in the wandering son, unsatisfied by the brief
notice of his
return. Suffice it to say of him, that he had led, for far too long a
period, a life of evil. Two years previous to the time of his
return, on the
very day and at the very hour of his mother's death, as he learned
afterward, he was sitting alone, just about sunset, when, on lifting
his
head, without thinking why, he perceived her standing before him,
and
regarding him with a look of the most tender solicitude. The vision
was so
perfect that, with an exclamation, he rose to his feet. But all
vanished
instantly. He was alone. The impression then made upon his mind,
could not
be obliterated. That sad, earnest, tender face was ever before him.
The constant thought of his mother, brought back
states
of childhood. He was affected by the innocent thoughts that then
ruled in
his mind. The prayers he then said at his mother's knee were
remembered, and
sometimes repeated without his being aware of what he was doing.
Then came a
struggle against these good impressions; a strong, determined
struggle of
the evil principles he had made his own, by actual life. This
went on
month after month, good gradually gaining the predominance, until
finally he
returned, as has been seen, to those he had so long a time before,
forsaken.
To do this, and thus bend his haughty spirit, was a hard struggle.
He came
just at the right moment. The death of his father, fixed all his
good
impressions. It was the great turning point in his life, when the current
that had been evil, changed its course and became good.
After the burial of his father, he remained a
short time
with his brother and sisters, and then went back to the South, where
business, and ties nearer and dearer than even fraternal bonds,
claimed him.
He went back with a heart lighter than when he came, for good
principles
had been confirmed, and he felt more strength, and a more
confident
assurance of being able to overcome every evil thing which strove to
hinder
him from walking in right paths; and he did overcome, even to the
end of
life.
THE END.
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