Married and Single CHAPTER 13.
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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
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