Married and Single CHAPTER 2.
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At the very time the conversation given in the last chapter was transpiring, Dora Enfield, to whom allusion had been made, was sitting alone in her chamber, pensive and thoughtful. Her years were only twenty. These had matured into more than ordinary loveliness a sweet young face, and given strength to a mind of unusual brilliancy. Those who were attracted to her side by the beauty of her countenance, lingered there — charmed with the order, strength, and beauty of her mind.
For some time she had remained near an open window that looked out upon a flower-garden, which her own hands had tended, lost in thought or dreamy musings that cast a shadow over her fair face. At length, with an effort to throw off this state of mind, she arose and went to a table on which lay several volumes. After taking up first one and then another, and laying all down in turn, she went back to her place by the window, where she seated herself on an ottoman, and resting her cheek upon her hand, gave herself up fully to the thoughts and feelings that were pressing with more than an ordinary weight upon her spirits.
Half an hour had thus passed, when a young friend came in — one with whom she was on terms of close intimacy. Her name was Edith May. She had been betrothed to Henry Trueman for some months. Their wedding day was fast approaching.
Dora roused herself up when Edith entered, but she could not entirely shake off her pensive feelings. They were too deeply seated.
"You do not look well this morning, Dora," her young friend said, with some concern in her voice.
"I am well enough in body," was Dora's reply, forcing a smile, "but not so well in mind; though why I should droop just now, I can hardly tell. It is strange, is it not? how our feelings will sometimes become overshadowed without our being able clearly to define the cause. Is it not so with you?"
"I cannot say that it is, Dora. My spirits do not sink. I have, in fact, too much to make me happy. A few short months, and my dearest hopes on earth will be realized. Why should not my heart be light?"
Dora replied to this by a sigh, that came up from her bosom unconsciously to herself; a gentle sigh, scarcely perceived by the ear of her friend.
"If anyone has reason to be happy, it is you, Edith," she said, rallying herself after a moment of abstraction. "Soon to be wedded to a man worthy of your hand — how can your spirits be other than buoyant? And yet, marriage is a solemn thing. When I think of it seriously, the idea of taking up its deep responsibilities makes me tremble. But I, perhaps, shall never be called upon to assume them."
"You? And why not?"
"I doubt very much whether my hand will ever be sought by one to whom I can yield it."
"But I have no doubts on that subject. It will not be long, I am sure, before I shall see you a happy bride."
Dora shook her head. The subject seemed to give her pain, and Edith, perceiving this, made no farther allusion to it.
The mood exhibited by Dora was altogether new to her friend. Its cause she could not clearly define. Her first and natural conclusion was, that some matter of the heart produced this new state of mind. But, as Dora did not seem at liberty to confide anything to her on the subject, delicacy caused her to refrain from making to it any very pointed allusion. They parted, after having spent a couple of hours together, when Dora relapsed into the pensive state from which the visit of her friend had aroused her.
The cause of this, a word will explain. She had been thrown of late much into company with the young man who had expressed to Trueman his preference for her. The first time she met him, her heart was interested. Each subsequent interview confirmed the favorable impression. All this was unacknowledged to herself fully. The pleasure she felt in his society had not yet been contrasted in her thoughts with the lonely, pensive feeling that followed. Still, something of the truth was coming into manifest perception. This disturbed more deeply, instead of having a tranquillizing effect — for Milford Lane had not shown towards her any of those attentions which could warrant her in cherishing for him any very particular regard.
For two years she had gone into company, and been quite a belle for a large portion of that time. Twice offers of marriage had been made to her; but her views of the marriage relation were such as to prevent her forming that sacred connection, except upon the highest and purest grounds. She was a believer in the doctrine that love, and love alone — should unite in marriage. A union based upon any other ground, she looked upon as only an effigy of marriage; a mere external association — while there existed an internal disjunction of hearts. Rather than be thus wedded to anyone, she would have a thousand times preferred to live on through time's brief period in singleness and integrity.
Until she had been thrown, by circumstances, frequently into the society of Milford Lane, the pure waters of affection that were hidden in her heart, had never smiled beneath a sunbeam, or been rippled by a breeze. But his voice caused their surface to tremble, and awoke emotions which were new and painfully sweet. There was a constant sense of oppression about her heart, as if a hand were laid upon it. Many times in an hour she would inspire deeply, in order to relieve the oppression. But she could not throw it off. Her mind fell away from its usual cheerful tone, leaving her pensive and thoughtful. But she did not understand the nature of her own feelings. She knew not that the germ of love was in her heart, nor that the strange sensations she experienced, were but the effect of a conspiring of all that was in the heart towards the quickening of this germ into life. It was even so. He, of all other men, was the one who could rule in her affection. Him she could love deeply, purely, devotedly — him, and no other living man.
What were his views and feelings, has already been seen. No other woman had ever interested him as much as Dora Enfield. He thought of her almost hourly — dreamed of her at nights — and never felt so happy as when, forgetting his false views in relation to marriage, he sat entranced by her side. Beautiful and intelligent, possessing a highly cultivated taste, and governed in all things by correct principles — she was just the companion he would have sought, if he had determined to seek one at all. But his ideas in regard to life had suffered a strange and unnatural perversion; looking upon society in its most external form, and, therefore, seeing but appearances, and not realities — he imbibed the most erroneous views of marriage. He saw the struggles and anxieties of the poor man in his efforts to procure things needful for his family; but he did not see how amply he wasrewarded for all this at home, in the loving care and devoted tenderness of his wife, and in the innocent prattle of his children, for whom God had given him a love that none but a parent can feel or understand. He saw the defects and vices of children, but he knew not how these can be borne with, nor how the duty of gradually elevating and perfecting their characters is attended, as all good uses are attended, with a pure inner delight. And more than this, he did not see how, in such a devotion, the parent became a co-worker with God in promoting the end of all creation. He saw children die, and turned away sick from witnessing the intense agony of the parent's stricken heart; but, like him who turns from the trampled flower, grieving that its leaves should be soiled and broken — he knew nothing of the sweeter perfume which breathed forth from a wounded spirit; he saw not that a treasure had been removed, nor thought upon those significant words of our blessed Savior, "Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." He had never dreamed of the high uses of afflictions; he knew not how they withdraw the affections from mere sensual things, and open up in the soul deep and quiet places, the very existence of which was undreamed of before. He knew not their elevating and purifying power. And farther, as a short-sighted philosopher, he did not reflect that the affection in him for companionship, intimate inner companionship with a loving and lovely woman, was, and must continue to be, an unfailing fountain of happiness; and that the waters which ever gushed from this spring would, if pent up, overflow and destroy much good ground that would have brought forth its own harvest in season, while all along the true channel where the waters had been destined to run, the grass would be withered, the flowers fading, and the fruitless trees droop their almost sapless branches.
Could happiness result from such a desolation of the mental earth? How vain the thought? And yet Milford Lane seriously entertained the notion that, by avoiding the cares, troubles, and afflictions of the married life — he would secure to himself a peaceful journey, and a calm, contented old age. In getting away from the evils, as he supposed them — he had not the most distant conception of the blessings he would lose — blessings cheaply won at almost any sacrifice.
Lane was a selfish man — and from this selfishness flowed his views of marriage. He thought only of how marriage would affect him externally. He looked only to the means of securing to himself the highest degree of personal happiness. Such an end always defeats itself. Formed for the marriage union, no man can act with an end to individual good alone, and secure the good he seeks. It is incompatible with the very nature of things. In the beginning God made the male and female, and made them for each other. This simple fact should at once settle the matter in any mind that for a moment entertains a question of the expediency of marriage. Man is not man, nor woman woman, simply because of some peculiar difference in bodily conformation. The difference is far more radical. It is a difference in spiritual organization — a difference that makes each complete only when conjoined to the other.
The false views of Milford Lane were not entertained without much reasoning, and constant struggles with himself. Nature pleaded strongly within him, and with double power when aided by a suddenly-awakening affection for Dora Enfield. Before he was well aware of the nature of the ground upon which he was standing, the maiden's voice had begun to echo in his heart, her image to haunt his dreams, and her form to present itself in his mind very many times in a day. With this, came the desire of being conjoined to her; of having her ever by his side as a second self; with the reluctant acknowledgment that he loved her, and must do painful violence to his feelings if he stood firmly by the principles he had laid down for the government of his conduct.
While this struggle was going on, Lane, sometimes by accident and sometimes from choice, was thrown much into the company of Dora. The approaching nuptials of Henry Trueman and Edith May, in which both himself and Dora were to act as attendants, brought them much and familiarly together, fixing the regard which Dora had begun to entertain for him, into a deep and unalterable affection — and drawing out his feelings towards her so fully as to startle him when he became conscious of their true nature.
Dora's state of mind soon showed itself so plainly, that Edith could no longer misunderstand the nature of the change that had at first been perceived, but not comprehended. Sometime before her own marriage took place, she had drawn from her friend a confession of the nature of her feelings towards Lane. Enough of this was communicated by her to Trueman, to make him understand exactly how the matter stood in Dora's mind.
A few days before that on which his marriage took place, he called in to see his friend Lane. He found him more than usually thoughtful, and ventured to allude, playfully, to the supposed cause, which was rightly conjectured to be the impression made upon his heart by Dora Enfield.
"There is no doubt, Trueman," was the serious reply, "that I love the girl better than I have ever loved anyone before. So much the worse for me. I cannot marry."
"Do give up that folly, and think and act like a reasonable man," was Trueman's half-impatient response.
"It is like a reasonable man, that I am trying to act, against the almost irresistible power of a blind impulse, or shall I call it destiny?"
"Like a madman, rather say, against the true order of human existence, without the maintenance of which happiness itself, nay, all mankind, would perish."
"As to happiness, Trueman, I have never yet seen a man who, in a few years after his marriage, did not become sadly changed."
"How?"
"From a pleasant, cheerful companion — into a thoughtful, sober, care-worn father of a family, whose ideas seemed never to rise above the prices of provisions, or some other matter connected with domestic affairs. Wouldn't I look pretty, now, to be seen with a basket on my arm, or a servant carrying one after me, threading my way through a market-house in search of beef, butter, and potatoes? Ugh! Don't talk about it!"
"You certainly are not serious."
"I certainly never was more so. I cannot conceal from myself that I have, somehow or other, gotten desperately in love with Dora. But, at the same time, the pains and penalties of marriage are too distinctly seen to allow me for one moment to think of entailing upon myself a lifetime of toil and trouble."
"But think of Dora. Are you not prepared to make some sacrifices for one whom you love?
"Not that sacrifice. At any rate, I am not sure that my love is returned."
"Very sure of it, I am. If ever a maiden's heart reflected perfectly the image of another — that maiden's heart is Dora's, and your image the one that is reflected."
"You speak knowingly."
"I have cause."
A deep pause followed, broken at length by Lane, who said, breathing heavily as he spoke,
"I will not be so unkind to her as to entail upon her the cares, the privations, the pains attendant upon marriage. I love her too well. Ah, my friend! I could never bear to see that sweet young face in shadow, nor those bright eyes lustreless from sickness, sorrow, or disappointment. Yet these are the inevitable attendants on the matrimonial state. Look at Mary Glenroy! It is not three years since you and I saw her stand at the altar, a happy bride. I met her not two hours ago, riding out in her husband's carriage alone. Her face was pale and sunken, her eyes far back in their sockets, and the whole expression of her countenance deeply melancholy. Oh! you cannot tell how sad this sight made me feel. I looked at her, and thought of Dora. My weak heart had almost given up; my love for the maiden had well-nigh conquered; but this vision came just in time to save me!"
"And you conclude that Mary Glenroy, or, rather, Mrs. Malcolm, is unhappy."
"Unhappy! Can anyone mistake the signs of an unhappy heart?"
"It seems that you have. Mrs. Malcolm is happy in her marriage relation. Poor health has robbed her cheek of its bloom, and her eye of its brightness — but not her heart of its genial warmth. For what she has lost, more than sevenfold has been given. She now lives a true life, the life of a loving wife in that of her husband. The children that have blessed her union are dearer to her than any conceivable gifts that Heaven could bestow. Though her mind has concern and care for them — though giving them birth has shattered her feeble constitution — the immeasurable love, so pure, so unselfish, and therefore so sweet, which God has given her for them, is a reward not to be estimated. Believe me, that the mere external repose, or pleasure, if you so choose to call it, that an exemption from duty and the care which attends it gives — is as nothing in comparison with the inner delight which pervades the soul when duty is done, even if, in the performance of it, there is labor and pain. If we would truly live — then we must leave the smooth plain of indolent ease, clamber up the mountains, and penetrate the deep, silent valleys; or else we will have no knowledge of the height and depth which are in the soul, nor of the sweeter joys which lie farthest concealed from transient vision. If we fear the prickly burr which covers the chestnut, and shrink from a few slight wounds — we cannot taste the pleasant kernel that lies garnered within. Think of this, my friend."
"I have thought of it, and am still of opinion that, as a wise man, I ought to let well enough alone. I am quite comfortable as I am, and think it more than probable that I shall deem discretion, in this matter, the better part of valor."
"By your own deeds you must stand or fall," Trueman said, gravely. "Every man makes or mars his own fortune."
"By them, I am willing to stand. A few years will bring both of us to the end of our journey. Time will prove who is right."
"Yes; but it will then be too late to repair the error, whoever shall have made it."
"And are you not as likely to be in error as I am?"
"I think not. I take the course pointed out by Nature and Scriptural Revelation — you take another road. I go the way in which all have walked since the beginning — you strike out for yourself a new path, or take one in which only a few venture to tread."
"Well! be it so. I cannot do worse than to marry, that is certain."
Seeing that no good was likely to grow out of a continuance of the argument, Trueman introduced a new subject.
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