Married and Single CHAPTER 3.
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Before the arrival of the time at which her friend was to become the wife of Henry Trueman, Dora, as has been seen, had discovered the nature of her feelings towards Lane. She could not conceal from herself the fact that she loved him, but maiden delicacy caused her to struggle against the appearance of this, for the reason that he had made no advances which she could construe into a preference for her above every one else. To Edith, she had betrayed her secret, and would sometimes commune with her on the subject, driven to do so in the hope of relieving her burdened heart. Her friend always encouraged her to hope, and stimulated the love she felt by eloquent allusions to the warmth and joy of her own bosom.
A few months had greatly altered Dora Enfield. Her cheek was, perhaps, not quite so full and glowing — but the new affection awakened in her soul had given to that cheek a loveliness not before seen; her eye had lost some of its sparkling gaiety, but had gained in its stead, a look that caused in everyone upon whom it rested, a momentary change in the heart's even pulsations. Over her whole countenance, in fact, had passed a change. She was born to love, and when that tender feeling awoke into activity — she was lovelier to every eye than before.
Lane was not insensible to this change. He felt drawn towards her every day, more and more strongly. But he resisted with increased determination, the pleadings of Dora's earnest eyes, and the stronger pleadings of his own heart. The approaching marriage of his friend Trueman, as has been seen, brought him frequently into her company. While with her, he too often so far forgot his resolution as to permit his voice, his eye, and his whole countenance to express what he really felt. This would, as a natural consequence, strengthen the affection that had been formed in her heart, and nourish the hope of a full return that she could not but entertain. As day after day, however, passed, and no act or word of Lane was sufficiently defined to enable her to predicate upon it a rational hope — her spirits, in spite of herself, began to fail.
At length the wedding day of Trueman and the gentle Edith May arrived. Dora was alone with her friend for several hours previous to the time on which the marriage ceremony was to take place. They talked much together of the hopes, the fears, the cares, and joys of wedded life.
"I cannot but feel," Edith said, "now that the time has approached so near — an inward tremulousness at the idea of this holy union upon which so much depends. I am about entering upon a new life, about coming into a new and more elevated sphere of action, about assuming the highest and most sacred duties. I am about to become a wife. Shall I, Dora, be able to perform truly a wife's part? Can I fill that place in the mind of him who has chosen me from all other women, that a woman ought to fill in the mind of her husband? I fear not; and it is this fear which makes me tremble. The nearer this event approaches, and the more I think of it — the more painful is my consciousness that I am not truly fitted for the place I am about to fill."
"But, as you enter, with an earnest affection, upon your duties, Edith," was the reply of her friend, "you will find the power to do them."
"Thank you for that encouraging word," returned Edith. "What you say is, doubtless, true. If I sincerely strive to do a wife's duty — then I shall have a wife's perceptions."
"Do not doubt it. It is wonderful how, when our affection prompts us to do a right thing — the mind opens with perceptions of true ways for doing it. There must be for every good affection — true thoughts, by which it has power to act. There must be, for every condition in which we are placed by Divine Providence — a way by which, in that condition, we may be able fully to do our duty. The more ardent the affection — the more clearly will be truth by which that affection acts, be seen. This being true, is there not everything to encourage the heart of one who is just about taking upon herself the most holy vows of marriage? She has the sweet assurance that, in loving right — she will be fully aided in doing right."
"Thank you, over and over again, my dear Dora, for words that sink into my mind, giving it assurance and comfort," Edith said, warmly. "I feel that if I earnestly strive to fill up my measure in life, be my position what it may — that I shall have the true knowledge and the requisite power."
"Yes, and more than that — the sweet peace, passing all understanding, which ever accompanies the performance of duty done from right affections."
"But, Dora, marriage has its cares, its sorrows, its deep anxieties, as well as its duties. In these, like all others, I shall be tried as in a furnace."
"The fire shall not hurt you;
'Tis only designed
Your dross to consume,
And your gold to refine."
Dora replied, with, a smile that beamed through dim eyes.
"Ah, but the dross, my friend, the dross," returned Edith. "Who shall say how much gold will be left after all my dross is consumed? Little, very little, I fear!"
"Much, much bright gold, upon which no fire but the pure heavenly fire of unselfish love can act — and which will only melt it in affliction's crucible, to prepare it for newer and more beautiful forms. I hope much for you, Edith. In the new life you are about to lead. I see you rising higher and higher, and becoming more and more perfected — perfected in a degree in which no woman, who is not a wife and mother, can ever be perfected. You will have your crosses to bear, your griefs, and pains, and anxious cares; but all will be blessed to you."
"May He who ordained marriage as a holy thing — grant that it be so!" Edith said, in a solemn voice.
"He will grant it. He is the All-powerful. Look to him for help in every trial, for strength in every duty — and they will assuredly be given."
"Humbly I will trust Him," was Edith's steady response.
That was the true spirit in which to give the marriage vow. To such as thus make it, will come all the genuine delights and all the true benefits of marriage, both spiritual and natural.
Few, very few, enter into this holy relation with any views beyond natural life. They think that it will add to their happiness, and, therefore, enter upon it. Better is it to marry with even these mere natural ends — than not to marry at all. But far above, or anterior to these, lie the true uses of marriage. Its life is the one by which higher or more inner principles in the mind are enabled to flow down into ultimate activity, and become purified from hereditary sins and stains. Thus purified, they minister to higher and more inner capacities to happiness. In other words, they enable us to perform higher uses in life, and, as a consequence, render us happier.
In the gradual declension of mankind from the state of holiness and order to which they were created, down to the lowest depths of evil — every good principle implanted by the Creator has been successively perverted, until not a single good principle remains in its integrity. Man had reached his lowest point in that "fullness of time." At that time, when the Lord himself came into the world in order to redeem the human race, man was wholly perverted, and, had not a strong arm been outstretched to save him, must have inevitably perished. From that time, a return towards true order was commenced. The way was opened by which every one could be restored to his lost inheritance of good affections. But this return to every one is a slow process. It is only effected by letting each perverted principle come into activity, and there meeting resistance from truth. A combat then takes place in the mind. The evil love struggles against truth in the understanding. If truth conquers, then the orderly and good affections, opposed to the evil and disorderly ones, take their place; and so far man is restored to his integrity, so far he has a capacity for being really happy. This is the process by which every evil affection in the mind is renewed.
Now it is plain, that unless a principle of evil, latent in the mind, be awakened, made active and then opposed and conquered by truth — the good opposite to that evil cannot be implanted; and just so far as this is not the case, just so far will man fail in his effort to rise into all the perfection of his original creation.
Marriage being a state essential to the preservation of the human race, being a state for which every one is created, there must be perverted affections, and they of a very interior and vital character, which never can become active, and, therefore, never resisted and regenerated — unless the marriage relations are formed. How important, then, to every one, is this union! It may, and will, have its trials, its pains, and its temptations; but, without them, its uses would never be fully complete. No spiritual good is born without labor and pain. It must be so in the very nature of things; for it is only by the resistance to, and putting under our feet of mere natural affections — that we rise into the life and delight of pure, unselfish, spiritual affections.
This was the view entertained by both Edith and her friend Dora. They had often spoken together on the subject, and had, both of them, a willingness to become wives — as well from principle, as from the unerring instincts of their nature.
Trueman also saw the subject in the same light. But his friend Lane was too fond a lover of self, too prone to seek delights in what was merely natural and visible — to care about spiritual views of things. Indeed, to show to him a philosophy so significative of man's true nature and true power, would only have provoked a smile. To his mind, it had no signification.
This defect, Dora did not see; but even if she had seen it, with a woman's expectant and loving heart, she would have felt certain of inspiring him with the truth as it was presented so clearly to her own mind. She loved him with a deep emotion; and, to have made him happy, would have sacrificed much. But the return he made was not of a kind to inspire her with hope; had it been so, her cheek would not have grown pale, nor her eye worn a look of such deep abstraction. She loved, but loved without a well-founded hope of return.
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