Married and Single CHAPTER 4.
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With very different emotions did Milford Lane and Dora Enfield stand beside the young couple about being joined in wedlock, while the minister was repeating the marriage ceremony. He could not but feel, in spite of his perverted reasonings, that Trueman and his fair young bride were entering a way in which they would find true happiness. Dora's bosom yearned to enter the same way. He struggled against the influences of the scene — but into her heart they sunk with a sweet sadness.
"There is no retreat now, Henry. You have fairly passed the Rubicon," was Lane's remark to Trueman, after the congratulations following the ceremony were over, and he had an opportunity to get a word to his ear.
"Retreat! Why should he retreat?" spoke up Dora, who sat beside Edith.
"There is no reason now," returned Lane. "He has passed, as I said, the Rubicon, and cannot go back. But, before such a step is taken, I think there is good reason to look well to what we are doing. This marrying is a serious affair."
"It is, doubtless," Dora said, with more than her usual seriousness. "It involves much — it includes a whole lifetime."
"And the most serious part of life. For my part, I think people are fools to get married."
"Why, Mr. Lane! what can you mean by saying so?" the young bride remarked, in surprise. Neither she nor her friend had ever heard him speak against marriage, and knew nothing of his peculiar views in relation to it.
"I mean just what I say. If the most happiness is to be found in the married life, as everybody will try to make you believe; in it, too, are to be found causes of the greatest unhappiness. It seems to me that, under this view, to get married is to risk rather too much."
The circumstances under which they were placed would not permit a conversion of any kind to take more than the form of a few passing remarks. This was about all that was then said on this subject. But the words, and the manner in which they were said, produced in the mind of Dora a sensation of uneasiness — caused her heart to labor heavily in her bosom.
Although thus affected, the atmosphere in which Dora was moving, and with which her lungs were expanding, was one so mirthful and glad-hearted, that she could not but feel the general delight. Her pulse quickened, her cheek grew warmer, and her eye brighter. Never before had she seemed to Milford Lane so beautiful, so love-inspiring; his heart was drawn towards her as by a strong hand. Often he would find his eye resting upon her face with a look so earnest, that it required a strong effort for him to withdraw it.
"If I could be happy with any woman," he said to himself that night, as he lay sleepless upon his bed, "I could be happy with Dora. She was born to be loved. Why is it that marriage has so many drawbacks? Why is it that side by side with joy — stalk gloomily onward, pain and sorrow? That with the highest blessing life has to give, is associated thedeepest misery? Accursed union! Yes accursed say I, in very bitterness of spirit! Were it not for this, I might take to my arms this lovely being, and both of us glide sweetly and tranquilly down life's pleasant stream. But to be dashed over cataracts, hurried along amid rapids, and only for moments at a time to see glimpses of a sun-bright sky, is a condition of things that I, for one, shrink from. Give me a smooth stream, meandering through fruitful meadows — even if I have no companion in my journey. I shall be far happier."
With this conclusion, he turned upon his pillow and sought the favor of gentle sleep. But the goddess came not at his call. Another being visited him. It was the image of her towards whom his heart had yielded involuntary homage. She stood before him, and wooed him with smiles that were irresistible.
"Oh, that I had never seen the girl — or that she were not half so lovely!" he exclaimed, rising up and seating himself near a window. It was the hour of midnight; all was hushed into a deep stillness; the moon was bathing spire, and roof, and tree in a soft light; the stars looked down from their places in Heaven, some with a sparkling luster, some with gentle radiance, and some with beams of intelligence like eyes of angel-watchers.
The scene and the hour reflected itself on the mind of Lane. It was voiceless, but eloquent nature. It spoke to his heart, but in a strange language. And yet he felt that this language was full of meaning. He desired an interpreter. He yearned for a companion — for one who could look with him upon this loveliness, and speak of its deep mysteries. Like the needle to the pole — turned his thoughts to Dora. She was the companion his heart desired. Through her eyes, he felt that he could see beyond the sky, the moon, the stars, the whole face of nature — into the world from which they were born; could see how and why these natural things caused his heart to heave beneath them like the uprising waters of the great ocean. He felt that he was but half a being, that his perceptions of things were all imperfect; that he needed his counterpart in order to see aright, learn aright,feel aright, and truly live aright.
"Ah! sweet being!" he murmured, as with these thoughts rose before his mind the image of Dora, "how can I turn away from your lovely form? How can I put you away from me?"
Rising, and turning from the window, in the effort to shut out mental images — he commenced walking the floor of his chamber. But change of place, did not make with him change of state. He could not put from before his mental eyes, the sweet face of the maiden — nor from his mental ears the love-inspiring tones of her voice.
At the same hour, looking out upon a similar scene — sat by the window of her chamber, Dora Enfield. The manner of Lane towards her during the evening had been of a mixed character, inconsistent, and difficult to interpret. Sometimes, in speaking to her, his voice would seem full of tenderness; at another time it was cold, and, to her ear, repulsive. Sometimes he would be all life, and sometimes quiet and thoughtful. At times he would linger by her side, and hang upon her words; and then, again, he would appear to avoid her. All this troubled her spirit; but, more than all, did she feel troubled at the strange words he had uttered in regard to marriage. They had fallen upon her ears harshly. They seemed like the words of an insane man.
These things had left her mind in a painful state. When all was over, and she retired, with a lonely feeling, to her chamber, she turned from the bed that invited her to repose, and sat down by an open window, leaning her head upon her hand and looking up into the sky, with a heart pensive, even to sadness. All the thoughts that passed through her mind, we will not attempt to imagine. They kept her head from its pillow and her eyes from sleep, until near on to the morning hour.
Nor did Lane find quiet for body or mind much before this late period; and then, not until he had silenced the earnest pleadings of his heart, by picturing in long array before his mind — the thousand miseries attendant upon marriage. These he exaggerated to the utmost, and then turned from the revolting scene he had created, saying, as he did so,
"No, no, no! Tempter, begone! While reason and resolution remain, I will be true to myself and to you, sweet girl! Both of us will be happier in single life."
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