Married Life; Its Shadows and Sunshine

by S. T. Arthur

  But both the wife and aunt objected; and so soon after marriage he felt that positive opposition would come with a bad grace.

  Steadily day after day, the stock went down, down, down—and day after day Mr. Smith persisted in having it sold. The fact was, duns now met him at every turn, and it was with the utmost difficulty that he could prevent his wife and her aunt from guessing at the nature of the many calls of his “particular friends.” Money he must have, or he could not keep out of prison long, and the only chance for his obtaining money was in the sale of his wife’s stock. But at the rates for which it was now selling, the whole proceeds would not cover the claims against him. At last, when the stock had fallen to twenty dollars, Mrs. Smith yielded to her husband’s earnest persuasions, and handed him over the certificates of her stock, that he might dispose of them to the best possible advantage.

  “Mr. Smith is late in coming home to his dinner,” the aunt said, looking at the timepiece.

  The young wife lifted her head from her hand, with a sigh, and merely responded,

  “Yes, he is rather late.”

  “I wonder what keeps him so!” the old lady remarked, about five minutes after, breaking the oppressive silence.

  “I’m sure I cannot tell. I gave him my certificates of stock to sell this morning.”

  “You did? I am afraid that was wrong, Margaretta.”

  “I’m sure I cannot tell whether it is or not, aunt. But I’ve had no peace about them, night nor day, since the bank failed.”

  There was bitterness in the tone of Margaretta’s voice, that touched the feelings of her aunt, and tended to confirm her worst fears. But she could not, now, speak out plainly, as she had felt constrained to do before marriage, and therefore did not reply.

  For more than an hour did the two women wait for the return of Mr. Smith, and then they went through the form of sitting down to the dinner-table. But few mouthfuls of food passed the lips of either of them.

  Hour after hour moved slowly by, but still the husband of Margaretta appeared not; and when the twilight fell, it came with a strange uncertain fear to the heart of the young wife.

  “What can keep him so late, aunt?” she said, anxiously, as the lights were brought in.

  “Indeed, my child, I cannot tell. I hope that nothing is wrong.”

  “Wrong, aunt? What can be wrong?” and Margaretta looked her aunt eagerly and inquiringly in the face.

  “I am sure, my child, I do not know. Something unusual must detain him, and I only hope that something may be evil neither to him nor yourself.”

  Again there was a deep and painful silence—painful at least to one heart, trembling with an undefinable sensation of fear.

  “There he is!” ejaculated Margaretta springing to her feet, as the bell rang, and hurrying to the door before the servant had time to open it.

  “Here is a letter for Mrs. Smith,” said a stranger, handing her a sealed note, and then withdrawing quickly.

  It was with difficulty that the young wife could totter back to the parlour, where she seated herself by the table, and with trembling hands broke the seal of the letter that had been given her. Her eyes soon took in the brief words it contained. They were as follow:—

  “Farewell, Margaretta! We shall, perhaps, never meet again! Think of me as one altogether unworthy of you. I have wronged you—sadly wronged you, I know—but I have been driven on by a kind of evil necessity to do what I have done. Forget me! Farewell!”

  This note bore neither date nor signature, but the characters in which it was written were too well known to be mistaken.

  Mrs. Riston saw the fearful change that passed over the face of her niece as she read the note, and went quickly up to her. She was in time to save her from falling to the floor. All through the night she lay in a state of insensibility, and it was weeks before she seemed to take even the slightest interest in any thing that was going on around her.

  It was about three o’clock of the day that Mr. Smith got possession of the certificates of deposit, that he entered the room of his friend, Perkins. He looked agitated and irresolute.

  “Well, Smith, how are you?” his friend said. “Have you sold that stock yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Indeed! So you have triumphed over your wife’s scruples. Well—what did you get for it?”

  “Only eight thousand dollars.”

  “That was a shameful sacrifice!”

  “Indeed it was. And it puts me into a terrible difficulty.”

  “What is that?”

  “Why, I owe at least that sum; and I cannot stay here unless it is paid.”

  “That is bad.”

  “Out of the fifty thousand I could have squared up, and it would not have been felt. But I cannot use the whole eight thousand, and look Margaretta and her aunt in the face again. And if I don’t pay my debts, you see, to prison I must go.”

  “You are in a narrow place, truly. Well, what are you going to do?”

  “A question more easily asked than answered. Among my debts are about, four thousand dollars that must be paid whether or no.”

  “Why?”

  “They are debts of honour!”

  “Ah, indeed! that is bad. You will have to settle them.”

  “Of course!” Then, in a loud and emphatic whisper, he said—

  “And I have settled them!”

  “Indeed! Well, what next? How will you account to your wife for the deficiency?”

  “Account to my wife!” and as he said this, he ground his teeth together, while his lip curled. “Don’t talk to me in that way, Perkins, and cause me to hate the woman I have deceived and injured!”

  “But what are you going to do, Smith?”

  “I am going to clear out with the balance of the money in my pocket. I can’t stay here, that’s settled; and I’m not going away penniless, that’s certain. Margaretta’s old aunt has money enough, and can take care of her—so she’s provided for. And I’ve no doubt but that she’ll be happier without me than with me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Somewhere down South.”

  “When?”

  “At four o’clock this afternoon.”

  “Well, success to you. There are some rich widows in the Southern country, you know.”

  “I understand; but I’m rather sick of these operations. They are a little uncertain. But good-bye, and may you have better luck than your friend Smith.”

  “Good-bye.” And the two young men shook hands cordially and parted.

  At four o’clock Mr. Smith left for Baltimore—not the happiest man in the cars by a great deal.

  Since that day the confiding young creature who had thrown all into the scale for him has neither seen him nor heard from him. To her the light of life seems fled for ever. Her face is very pale, and wears an expression of heart-touching misery. She is rarely seen abroad. Poor creature! In her one sad error, what a lifetime of sorrow has been involved!

  Of all conditions in life, that of the young heiress, with her money in her own right, is peculiarly dangerous. The truly worthy shrink often from a tender of their affection, for fear their motives may be thought interested; while the mercenary push forward, and by well-directed flattery, that does not seem like flattery, win the prize they cannot appreciate.

  There are such base wretches in society. Let those who most need to fear them be on their guard.

  It is now but a few weeks since Thomas Fielding, who was despised and rejected by Margaretta, married a sweet girl in every way worthy of him. She is not rich in worldly goods, but she is rich in virtuous principles. The former Fielding does not need; but the latter he can cherish “as a holy prize.”

  IS MARRIAGE A LOTTERY?

  “I AM afraid to marry,” said a young lady, half jesting and half in earnest, replying to something a friend had said.

  “Why so, Ella?” asked one of the company, who had thus far chosen rather to listen than join in the conversation of half a dozen gay yo
ung girls. She was a quiet, matronly-looking individual, some few years past the prime of life.

  “For fear of being unhappy, Mrs. Harding,” replied the first speaker.

  “What an idea!” exclaimed a gay damsel, laughing aloud at the singular fear expressed by Ella. “For my part, I never expect to be happy until I am married.”

  “If marriage should make you any happier than you are now, Caroline, the result will be very fortunate. Your case will form an exception to the rule.”

  “Oh, no, Ella, don’t say that,” spoke up the one who had replied to her first remark. “Happiness is the rule, and unhappiness the exception.”

  “Then it happens strangely enough,” returned Ella, smiling, “that we are more familiar with the exceptions than the rule.”

  “No, my dear, that cannot for a moment be admitted. Far more of happiness than misery results from marriage.”

  “Look at Ellen Mallory,” was answered promptly, “and Mrs. Cummings, and half a dozen others I could name.”

  “The two you have mentioned are painful instances, I must admit, and form the exceptions of which I spoke; but the result is by no means one that should excite our surprise, for it is a natural consequence flowing from an adequate cause. If you marry as unwisely as did the persons you mention, I have no doubt but you will be quite as wretched as they are—it may be more so.”

  “I am sure Mr. Mallory is an elegant-looking man,” said one of the company, “and might have had his pick among a dozen more attractive girls than ever Ellen Martine was.”

  “All as thoughtless and undiscriminating as she,” remarked Mrs. Harding, quietly.

  “Ellen is no fool,” returned the last speaker.

  “In the most important act of her whole life, she has certainly not shown herself to be a wise woman,” said Mrs. Harding.

  “But how in the world was she to know that Mr. Mallory was going to turn out so badly?” spoke up Ella.

  “By opening her eyes, and using the ability that God has given her to see,” was answered by Mrs. Harding.

  “Those eyes are wondrous wise, I ween, That see what is not to be seen,”

  the maiden replied.

  “Do you then really think, Ella,” said Mrs. Harding, “that a young lady cannot make herself as thoroughly acquainted with a man’s real qualities as to put any serious mistake in marriage entirely out of the question?”

  “To me, I must confess that marriage seems very much like a lottery,” answered Ella. “We may get a prize, but there are ten chances to one of our getting a blank.”

  “If you choose to make it a lottery, it will no doubt become so; but if entered into from right motives, there is no danger of this being the case.”

  “I don’t know what you call right motives,” said one; “but I’ll tell you a necessary pre-requisite in the man who is to make me a husband.”

  “Well, child, what is it?”

  “Plenty of money. I’m not going to be a poor man’s wife, and work myself to death, all for love—no, not I!”

  “I’ll have a handsome man for a husband, or none,” remarked another.

  “Give me splendid talents,” said a third.

  “And what must you have, Ella?” asked Mrs. Harding, turning to the one she addressed.

  “All three, if I can get them,” replied Ella.

  “Beauty, wealth, and talents. These you think would satisfy you?”

  “Oh, yes; I should be rather hard to please if they did not.”

  “Let me relate to you the histories of two friends of mine who married young,” said Mrs. Harding, without remarking upon what had just been declared. “Perhaps they may contain lessons that it will be of use for you all to get by heart.”

  “Oh, yes, do!” said the young ladies, gathering around Mrs. Harding, who, after a short pause, related what follows.

  “In my younger days,” began Mrs. Harding, “I had two intimate friends, to whom I was warmly attached. I loved them for their many good qualities, and particularly for their unselfishness. To make others happy, always appeared to give them a double pleasure. They were nearly of the same age, and possessed equal external advantages; but their characters were very different. Sarah Corbin, who was a few months older than her friend and almost constant companion, Harriet Wieland, was quiet, thoughtful, and observant; while Harriet, who had great personal attractions, never appeared to look beneath the surface. She believed every thing to be true that bore the semblance of truth, to her all that glittered was gold. Like you, and most other young ladies, we sometimes talked of marriage, and the qualifications desirable in a good husband. Harriet, whether in a gay or sober mood, always declared, like Ella here, that he who won her heart must have riches, manly beauty, and brilliant talents. These she called man’s cardinal virtues. Sarah never had much to say on these matters, and, when we asked her opinion, she generally replied evasively.

  “A young man named Eaverson, answering pretty nearly to the beau ideal of Harriet Wieland, came from a neighbouring city to reside in this. He was connected with a wealthy and highly respectable family, was really a handsome man, and possessed very fine abilities. He had studied law, and opened his office here for the purpose of pursuing it as a regular profession; but, not meeting with much practice at first, he occupied a large portion of his time in literary pursuits, writing for the magazines and reviews. He also published a small volume of poetry, which contained many really brilliant specimens of verse.

  “Circumstances threw Eaverson into the circle of which we formed a part, and we were consequently introduced to him. In the course of time, he began to pay rather marked attentions to Sarah Corbin, at which I felt a little surprised, as he had met Harriet Wieland quite as often, and she was far more beautiful and showy, and more likely, it seemed to me, to attract one like him than the other. Either Sarah was unconscious that his attentions were more marked in her case, or she did not wish her observation of the fact to be known, for all our allusions to the subject were evaded with a seeming indifference that left our minds in doubt. Such were our impressions at first; but the sequel showed that she had marked his first advances with lively interest, and understood their meaning quite as well as we did.

  “About Eaverson there was every thing to attract the heart of a maiden not well guarded; and Sarah found that it required the fullest exercise of her reason to prevent her from letting every affection of her mind go out and attach itself to an object that seemed, at first sight, so worthy of her love. But by nature and from education she was thoughtful and observant; and a wise mother had taught her that in marriage external accomplishments and possessions were nothing, unless united with virtuous principles and well-regulated passions. The brilliant attractions of Eaverson strongly tempted her to take his moral fitness for granted; but wiser counsels prevailed in her mind; and with a vigorous hand laid upon her heart to keep down its errant impulses, she exercised, with coolness and a well-balanced mind, the powers of discrimination which God had given for her guidance through life.”

  All the time that this process was going on in her mind, we remained in ignorance of the fact that she ever thought of the young man, except when he was present, or his name introduced by others. To her, all that related to marriage was too serious to form the theme of ordinary conversation, light jests, or idle chit-chat. Rarely indeed would she have any thing to say, when others spoke lightly or jested on the subject. This being the case, now that her own mind had become deeply interested in a matter of most vital importance to her future welfare, she had no one to disturb the even balance of her reflections by a thoughtless word, an untimely jest, or a false opinion flowing from inexperience or a want of ability to read human nature aright. Silently, freely, and with no biassing influence, in the unapproachable chambers of her own thoughts did she weigh the real character of Eaverson, as far as she could understand it, against what was merely external and personal. The more marked the attentions of the young man became, the more earnestly did she seek to compre
hend his real character. Every word he uttered in her presence, every sentiment he expressed, every action and every look were closely scanned, and their meaning, as having reference to principles in the mind, sought to be understood. Such careful scrutiny did not go unrewarded. When Eaverson, soon after her mind was made up in regard to him, made an offer of his hand, the offer was unhesitatingly declined. Sarah had seen enough to satisfy her, that with all his talents, beauty, and wealth, he was wanting in virtuous principles and a high sense of honour.

  “I confess, that, with others, I was greatly surprised when the fact of Sarah’s having declined the hand of Eaverson became known. The selection of her by one like him seemed so high a preference, and such a marked tribute to her worth and virtue, that it was scarcely credible that she could have remained indifferent to his love. But she saw deeper than we did.”

  “‘I cannot understand the reason of your refusal to accept Mr. Eaverson’s offer?’ I said to Sarah, one day, when the conversation took a turn that gave me an opportunity of alluding to the subject. ‘Do you know any thing against him?’

  “‘Nothing further than the conclusions of my own mind, arising from a careful observation of his sentiments, manners, and unguarded expressions,’ she replied.

  “‘Was it from such conclusions that you declined his offer?’

  “‘From these alone, for I know nothing of his history before he came to this city, and nothing of his life since he has been here.’

  “‘May you not possibly be mistaken?’

  “‘No. From the moment he seemed in the least pleased with me, I commenced observing him closely. It was not long before I heard him utter a sentiment, while speaking to another, that showed him to possess very false views of life in at least one particular. This I noted, and laid it by in my memory for comparison with any thing else I might see or hear.’

  “‘But you would not condemn a man for having erroneous views of life?’ said I.