Married Life; Its Shadows and Sunshine

by S. T. Arthur

“Dear husband!” she exclaimed, “do you know me?”

  “Yes, Mary. But how came you here?” he said, in a feeble voice.

  “We will speak of that at some other time,” she replied. “Enough that I am here, where I ought to have been ten days ago. But that was not my fault.”

  Fletcher was about to make some farther remark, when his wife placed her finger upon his lips, and said—

  “You must not talk, dear; your disease has just made a favourable change, and your life depends upon your being perfectly quiet. Enough for me to say that I know all, and love you just as well, perhaps better. You are a weak, foolish man, Joseph,” she added, with a smile, “or else thought me a weak and foolish woman. But all that we can settle hereafter. Thank God that I have found you; and that you are, to all appearances, out of danger.”

  Aunt Prudence looked into Kate’s face, and saw that tears were on her cheeks.

  “Would you have loved him less, Kate,” she asked, “if he had been your husband?”

  “He would have been the same to me whatever might have been his calling. That could not have changed him.”

  “No, certainly not. But I have a word or two more to add. As soon as Fletcher was well enough to go to work, he took his place again upon the shop-board, his wife feeling happier than she had felt for a long time. In about six months he rose to be foreman of the shop, and a year after that became a partner in the business At the end of ten years he sold out his interest in the business, and returned to the East with thirty thousand dollars in cash. This handsome capital enabled him to get into an old and well-established mercantile house as partner, where he remained until his death. About the time of his return to the East, you, Kate, were born.”

  “I!” ejaculated the astonished girl.

  “Yes. Their two older children died while they were in Louisville, and you, their third child, were born about six months before they left.”

  “I!” repeat Kate, in the same surprised tone of voice.

  “Yes, dear, you! I have given you a history of your own father and mother. So, as you’re the daughter of a tailor, you must not object to a tailor for a husband, if he be the right kind of a man.”

  It may very naturally be supposed that Kate had but little to say against tailors after that, although we are by no means sure that she had any intention of becoming the bride of one.

  THE MAIDEN’S CHOICE.

  “TWO offers at once! You are truly a favoured maiden, Rose,” said Annette Lewis to her young friend Rose Lilton, in a gay tone. “It is husband or no husband with most of us; but you have a choice between two.”

  “And happy shall I be if I have the wisdom to choose rightly,” was the reply of Rose.

  “If it were my case, I don’t think that I should have much difficulty in making a choice.”

  “Don’t you? Suppose, then, you give me the benefit of your preference.”

  “Oh, no, not for the world!” replied Annette, laughing. “I’m afraid you might be jealous of me afterwards.”

  “Never fear. I am not of a jealous disposition.”

  “No, I won’t commit myself in regard to your lovers. But, if they were mine, I would soon let it be known where my preference lay.”

  “Then you won’t assist me in coming to a decision? Surely I am entitled to this act of friendship.”

  “If you put it upon that ground, Rose, I do not see how I can refuse.”

  “I do put it upon that ground, Annette. And now I ask you, as a friend, to give me your opinion of the two young men, James Hambleton and Marcus Gray, who have seen such wonderful attractions in my humble self as to become suitors for my hand at the same time.”

  “Decidedly, then, Rose, I should prefer Marcus Gray.”

  “There is about him, certainly, Annette, much to attract a maiden’s eye and to captivate her heart but it has occurred to me that the most glittering surface does not always indicate the purest gold beneath. I remember once to have seen a massive chain, wrought from pure ounces, placed beside another that was far inferior in quality, but with a surface of ten times richer hue. Had I not been told the difference, I would have chosen the latter as in every way more valuable; but when it was explained that one bore the hue of genuine gold, while the other had been coloured by a process known to jewellers, I was struck with the lesson it taught.”

  “What lesson, Rose?”

  “That the richest substance has not always the most glittering exterior. That real worth, satisfied with the consciousness of interior soundness of principle, assumes few imposing exterior aspects and forms.”

  “And that rule you apply to these two young men?”

  “By that rule I wish to be guided, in some degree, in my choice, Annette. I wish to keep my mind so balanced, that it may not be swayed from a sound discrimination by any thing of imposing exterior.”

  “But is not the exterior—that which meets the eye—all that we can judge from? Is not the exterior a true expression of what is within?”

  “Not by any means, Annette. I grant that it should be, but it is not. Look at the fact I have just named respecting the gold chains.”

  “But they were inanimate substances. They were not faces, where thoughts, feelings, and principles find expression.”

  “Do you suppose, Annette, that bad gold would ever have been coloured so as to look even more beautiful than that which is genuine, if there had not been men who assumed exterior graces and virtues that were not in their minds? No. The very fact you adduce strengthens my position. The time was, in the earlier and purer ages—the golden ages of the world’s existence—when the countenance was the true index to the mind. Then it was a well-tuned instrument, and the mind within a skilful player; to whose touch every muscle, and chord, and minute fibre gave answering melody. That time has passed. Men now school their faces to deception; it is an art which nearly all practise—I and you too often. We study to hide our real feelings; to appear, in a certain sense, what we are not. Look at some men whom we meet every day, with faces whose calmness, I should rather say rigidity, gives no evidence that a single emotion ever crosses the waveless ocean of their minds. But it is not so; the mind within is active with thought and feelings; but the instrument formed for it to play upon has lost its tune, or bears only relaxed or broken chords.”

  “You have a strange, visionary way of talking sometimes, Rose,” replied Annette, as her friend ceased speaking. “All that may do for your transcendentalists, or whatever you call them; but it won’t do when you come down to the practical matter-of-fact business of life.”

  “To me, it seems eminently a practical principle, Annette. We must act, in all important matters in life, with a just discrimination; and how can we truly discriminate, if we are not versed in those principles upon which, and only upon which, right discriminations can be made?”

  “I must confess, Rose,” replied her young friend, “that I do not see much bearing that all this has upon the matter under discussion; or, at least, I cannot see the truth of its application. Gold never assumes a leaden exterior.”

  “Well?”

  “We need not be very eminent philosophers to tell one from the other.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Very well. Here is Marcus Gray, with a genuine golden exterior, and James Hambleton with a leaden one.”

  “I do not grant the position, Annette. It is true that Mr. Hambleton is not so brilliant and showy; but I have found in him one quality that I have not yet discovered in the other.”

  “What is that?”

  “Depth of feeling, and high moral principle.”

  “You certainly do not pretend to affirm that Mr. Gray has neither feeling nor principle?”

  “Of course I do not. I only say that I have never yet perceived any very strong indications of their existence.”

  “Why, Rose!”

  “I am in earnest, Annette. I doubt not that he possesses both, and, I trust, in a high degree. But he seems to be so constantly acti
ng a brilliant and effective part, that nature, unadorned and simple, has no chance to speak out. It is not so with Mr. Hambleton. Every word he utters shows that he is speaking what he really feels; and often, though not so highly polished in speech as Mr. Gray, have I heard him utter sentiments of genuine truth and humanity, in a tone that made my heart bound with pleasure at recognising the simple eloquence of nature. His character, Annette, I find it no way difficult to read; that of Marcus Gray puzzles my closest scrutiny.”

  “I certainly cannot sympathize with you in your singular notions, Rose,” her friend replied. “I have never discovered either of the peculiarities in these young men that you seem to make of so much importance. As for Mr. Gray, he is a man of whom any woman might feel proud; for he combines intelligence with courteous manners and a fine person: while this Hambleton is, to me, insufferably stupid. And no one, I am sure, can call his address and manners any thing like polished. Indeed, I should pronounce him downright boorish and awkward. Who would want a man for a husband of whom she would be ashamed? Not I, certainly.”

  “I will readily grant you, Annette,” said Rose, as her friend ceased speaking, “that Mr. Hambleton’s exterior attractions are not to be compared with those of Mr. Gray; but, as I said before, in a matter like this, where it is the quality of the mind, and not the external appearance of the man alone, that is to give happiness, it behooves a maiden to look beneath the surface, as I am trying to do now.”

  “But I could not love a man like Mr. Hambleton, unless, indeed, there were no possibility of getting any one else. In that case, I would make a choice of evils between single blessedness and such a husband. But to have two such offers as these, Rose, and hesitate to make a choice, strikes me as singular indeed!”

  “I do not hesitate, Annette,” was the quiet reply.

  “Have you, then, indeed decided, Rose?”

  “I have—and this conversation has caused me to decide; for, as it has progressed, my mind has been enabled to see truly the real difference in the characters of my suitors.”

  “You have, then, decided in favor of Mr. Gray?”

  “Indeed I have not, Annette. Though I admire his fine talents and his polished exterior, yet I have never been able to perceive in him those qualities upon which my heart can rest in confidence. He may possess these in even a higher degree than Mr. Hambleton, but I am afraid to run so great a risk. In the latter, I know there are moral qualities that I can love, and that I can repose upon.”

  “But he is so dull, Rose.”

  “I really do not think so, Annette. There is not so much flash about him, if I may use the word, as about Mr. Gray. But as to his being dull, I must beg to differ with you. To me, his conversation is always interesting.”

  “It never is so to me. And, besides all that, his tastes and mine are as widely different as the poles. Why, Rose, if you become his wife, you will sink into obscurity at once. He never can make any impression on society. It is not in him.”

  “Rather make no impression on society at all, than a false or disgraceful one, say I,” was the firm reply of Rose.

  “You cannot, certainly, mean to say,” returned her friend, “that the impression made upon society by Mr. Gray is either a false or disgraceful one.”

  “I should be sorry to make that assertion, for I do not believe such to be the case,” Rose replied. “What I mean is, that I can read Mr. Hambleton’s true character, and I know it to be based upon fixed and high-toned principles. These can never make the woman who truly loves him unhappy. They give place to no moral contingencies, by which hopes are so often wrecked, and hearts broken. Now, in regard to Mr. Gray, there is nothing in his character, so far as I can, read it, upon which to predicate safe calculations of this kind. He is intelligent, and highly interesting as a companion. His personal appearance and his address are attractive. But all below the exterior is hidden. The moral qualities of the man never show themselves. I feel that to give my heart to such a one would be risking too much. Of course, I must decline his offer.”

  “Indeed, indeed, Rose, I think you are very foolish!”

  “Time will show, Annette.”

  “Yes, time will show,” was the prophetic response. And time did show that Rose made a right choice, when she accepted the offer of James Hambleton, and gave him, with her hand, a warm, true heart.

  THE FORTUNE-HUNTER.

  “I KNOW a young lady who will suit you exactly.”

  “Indeed!”

  “It’s a fact. She is just the thing.”

  “Is she rich?”

  “Of course.”

  “How rich?”

  “Worth some fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Certainly. Her father died about a year ago, and she was his only child. Her mother has been dead many years. The old man was well off, and his daughter received all of his property, and, as she is of age, she has it all under her own control.”

  “Is she handsome?”

  “Just so-so. But that don’t matter a great deal. Gold is beautiful.”

  “Exactly. And intelligent?”

  “I’ve seen smarter girls. But that’s all the better, you know.”

  “Yes. Well now, who is she? That’s the next question.”

  “Her name is Margaretta Riston, and she is now living with an old aunt in Sycamore street.”

  “Are you acquainted?”

  “Intimately.”

  “Then be kind enough to introduce me forthwith. I must make a conquest of some rich heiress soon, or I shall have to run away, or petition for the benefit of the Insolvent Law.”

  “To-night, if you choose.”

  “Very well—let it be to-night. There is no time to be lost.”

  “Suppose she won’t accept you?”

  “She must. I’m as good-looking a fellow as you’ll find in a dozen; and I flatter myself that I have a smooth tongue in my head.”

  “Well, success to you, I say! But look here, Smith: if you succeed, I shall expect a premium.”

  “There’ll be no difficulty about that, Perkins. But let me secure the prize first; and then say how much you’ll want. You’ll not find me the man to forget a friend.”

  “I’m sure of that,” responded the other, laughing.

  And then the friends shook each other’s hands heartily, promising, as they parted, to meet early in the evening, preparatory to visiting the heiress.

  “You would not have me suspicious of every young man who visits me!” said Margaretta Riston, in reply to a remark made by her aunt, on the same evening that the two young men had proposed calling on her.

  “I would rather have you suspicious, or, rather, exceedingly watchful, than to be altogether off of your guard. Many dangers beset the path of a rich young girl like you. There are, and I am sorry to say it, too many young men in society, who are mere money-hunters—young men who would marry an heiress during the first hour of their acquaintance, and marry her, of course, only for her money.”

  “I can hardly credit it, aunt. And I am sure that no young men of my acquaintance are so selfish and mercenary!”

  “In that assumption lies a fatal error, believe me, my dear niece! Too many, alas! too many young girls have vainly imagined, as you do now, that, though there might be men of base characters in society, none such were of their acquaintances. These have awakened from their fatal error with the sad consciousness that they had become victims to their fond infidelity. Rather suspect all until you have convincing evidence to the contrary, than remain unguarded until it is too late.”

  “But don’t you see, aunt, how in this case I would do wrong to sincere and honest minds? And I cannot bear the thought of doing wrong to any one.”

  “You do no wrong to any one, my niece, in withholding full confidence until there is evidence that full confidence may be safely bestowed. In the present evil state of the world, involving, as it does, so much of false appearance, hypocrisy, and selfish motive, it is absolutely necessar
y, especially with one in your situation, to withhold all confidence, until there is unquestionable proof of virtuous principle.”

  “There is at least one young man, who visits here, that I think is above such mean suspicions,” Margaretta said.

  “So I think,” the aunt replied.

  “Whom do you mean, aunt?”

  “I mean Thomas Fielding.”

  “Thomas Fielding! Well, he may be; but—”

  “But what, Margaretta?”

  “Oh, nothing, aunt. But I do not like Mr. Fielding so very much.”

  “Why not, child?”

  “I can hardly tell. But there is no character about him.”

  “No character! Really, Margaretta, you surprise me. There is more character and principle about him than about any young man who comes to this house.”

  “I cannot think so, aunt. He is too tame, prosy, and old-fashioned for me.”

  “Whom then did you mean?” the aunt asked, with an expression of concern in her tones.

  “Why, Mr. Perkins, to be sure.”

  The aunt shook her head.

  “I am afraid, Margaretta, that Mr. Perkins is a man of few principles, but thoroughly selfish ones.”

  “How strangely you talk, aunt! Why, he is any thing but a selfish man. I am sure he is the most gentlemanly, thoughtful, and polite man that visits here. He is much more attentive to others, in company, than Mr. Fielding; and that, I am sure, indicates a kinder regard for others.”

  “Not always, Margaretta. It may sometimes indicate a cold-hearted, calm assurance, assumed for selfish ends; while its opposite may be from a natural reserve or timidity of character.”

  “But you don’t mean to say, surely, that Mr. Perkins is such a one as you intimate?”

  “If I am correct in my observation, he is all that I have insinuated. In a word, he is, in my opinion, a mere money-hunter.”

  “I am sure, aunt, he is not so constant in his attentions as he was some time, ago; and, if he were merely a money-hunter, he would not, of course, abate those attentions.”

  “No—not unless he had discovered a richer prize.”