Married and Single CHAPTER 12.
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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 mighthave 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."
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