Married and Single CHAPTER 10.
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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 atenderness 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.
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