Married and Single CHAPTER 7.
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Thus closed the first important period of Trueman's married life. It had changed him perceptibly; but to none was this change more apparent than to the eyes of his friend Lane. To him, he seemed sad and gloomy. He was certainly more thoughtful and serious, and had often a look of quiet abstraction that was not natural to him. This was no cause of wonder, when the events of that period were considered. The loss of a first-born and only child, never leaves the heart altogether unscathed. It did not do so in Trueman's case. However willingly he might bow to the mandate of bereavement, however merciful might appear the dispensation which took his child from him — acute pain had attended the affliction, and there was still an aching void in his heart. No one but himself and the tender being who clung now more closely and fondly to his side, understood fully the nature and value of the compensating thoughts and feelings that sustained him. But he was sustained, and by a strong internal power.
What of Lane during this period? He has chosen his lot of single blessedness; let us see how far his end has been attained even in this first stage of life's journey. He has not been altogether happy. He has had many hours of pain, of severe struggles of nature against arbitrary restraints, of loneliness, and weariness of self. Shortly after the marriage of Trueman, he became fully aware of the state both of his own and Dora Enfield's mind. Before, he had felt and confessed an admiration of and preference for Dora. He did not, however, dream that he had for her the deep-seated love which afterward became apparent to his mind; nor had he ever thought about the danger there was of her affections being called out. The whole truth was opened up to him by Trueman, whose wife had made him acquainted with the state of Dora's mind, and who, knowing his views of marriage, felt it to be his duty to represent to him, the effect of his continued attentions towards Dora.
"You, of course, intend marrying Dora Enfield," Trueman said to him, abruptly, one day, in a serious voice.
"I, of course, intend no such thing — and you know it," was promptly answered.
"But you have kept her company, and paid her marked attentions, until the girl's affections are all poured out for you like water."
"Impossible!"
"It is true, Milford, as I have said it."
"But it cannot be so. Why should the girl think of loving me?"
"I speak only of what I know. As to the cause — that may or may not be fully seen. She loves you with a pure heart, tenderly and fervently. Of that, there is no doubt. And there is, farther, no doubt of the fact that she will make just the companion you need to walk by your side through life!"
Lane compressed his lips tightly and shook his head.
"You have already confessed to me a strong liking for Dora."
"I confessed only the truth. I feel a deep regard for her; but that is one thing — and marrying another. You know that I do not intend on marrying."
"I know you have often said so. But I have never really believed that you would finally adhere to a resolution to which every law of God and man is in opposition."
"As you think."
"As I think justly."
"But we will not discuss over again, this moot point," Lane said. "I think I have fully settled the question of marriage, as far as I am concerned. If Dora is in the state of mind you describe her, I can only deeply regret it for her sake. I like her as a companion; I could love her as a wife; but the latter is out of the question. I have associated with her as a friend who admires both her person and character. I still wish to meet her often and familiarly. Such a privilege I would highly prize; but, if the effect upon her mind is so unfortunate — then I must cut myself off from the pleasure of looking upon her lovely face and listening to her admirable conversation. To me, this will be a great privation. Still, I must submit; there is no other alternative."
"I tell you there is another alternative," Trueman said, half impatiently. "Marry her, and make both yourself and one every way worthy to be your wife, happy."
"It is no use for you to urge that matter," the young man replied, in a voice that Trueman thought had in it a sad sound. "It can do no good. My determination is unalterable."
"Even though its consequences are wretchedness to both yourself and one who deeply loves you."
"Why will you speak thus, Trueman? You know that it is to escape this very penalty, that I force upon myself a state of celibacy — while all my inclinations lead me to marriage."
"But you are in an error — an error fatal to your happiness — fatal to the happiness of one who would lay her life down at your feet."
"Why do you use such strong language when speaking of Dora's state of mind towards me?" Lane asked, looking sternly into the face of his friend.
"Because strong feelings require strong language for their expression."
"You really think her love so strong, that life itself would be sacrificed for me?"
"I do."
"I can only say, then, that I am sorry for it. I must see her no more. Time will soon efface all impression that I have made upon her."
"Hope not that. A woman's heart loses not easily, so deep an impression."
"Then she will go down through life in quiet maidenhood. Far better this, than the terrible trials through which every wife is called to pass."
"You speak wildly. You are arguing against a fiction of your own imagination."
"The time will come when even you will think me right."
"No, Milford Lane, no; that day will never come."
"We will see."
"True, we will see."
A long pause followed, broken, at last, by this remark from Lane:
"Hereafter, as much as I may regret doing so — as much as it may cost me — I will carefully avoid Dora Enfield. It is better for both of us, that we meet as little as possible."
"In this you are decided?"
"I am, fully and firmly."
"Then I have nothing more to say," Trueman briefly replied.
In thus fixing so positively his rule of action, Lane suffered a most painful conflict. The declaration made by Trueman of Dora's strong attachment, met with an instantaneous response in his own heart. He did not know until then, how deeply-rooted was the regard he felt for her; but with this knowledge, came a fixed resolution to struggle against and conquer the weakness. To effect this was found, however, not so easy a task as he had supposed. In the effort, he found that reason was powerless in opposition to love. He was free to determine a course of action; but that course of action would produce happiness or pain, as it favored or opposed affection.
Often, in the strong conflict that followed the communication to him of Dora's state of mind, he felt like yielding in the struggle; but reason would come quickly, with fallacious reasonings, to his aid.
About a week after the interview with Trueman, just mentioned, as he was walking slowly along the street, thinking of Dora, he lifted his eyes from the pavement, where they had been resting, and looked up involuntarily. Only a few paces distant from, and approaching him, was the object of his thoughts. Each became conscious of the other's proximity, only when their eyes met. The hearts of both beat with a suddenly-quickened motion, the color rose to their faces, and their eyes betrayed what each of them wished to conceal. If Lane could have had time for reflection, he would merely have bowed and passed on; but both paused as they approached — stopped — shook hands. It was a moment of trial and embarrassment to the young man. His whole mind was in too much confusion to see anything very clearly: it is no wonder that he was unable to determine whether he should leave Dora abruptly, or, as he had done many times before, walk with her home. The promptings of inclination and habit prevailed. He turned and accompanied her to her house, and then, bowing formally, retired. During the walk he said but little, and that was of a mere general and commonplace character.
To Dora, he seemed strangely cold, abstracted in manner, and distant. When she parted from him, she went directly to her chamber and sat down near a window, without laying aside either bonnet or shawl. There she remained, almost motionless, for nearly an hour. With a heavily-drawn sigh, she at length arose, quietly laid aside her bonnet and shawl, and commenced busying herself in various little matters about the room. It seemed as if, in doing this, she were seeking, without scarcely knowing it, a mechanical mode of relieffrom feelings which had disquieted her. Her face looked pale, and the expression of her eyes, and, indeed, of her whole countenance, showed that her mind was deeply indrawn, and fixed upon images of thought alone.
As for Lane, on parting with Dora — he turned and walked away with rapid steps. His mind became agitated, and his thoughts more than ever confused.
"I am a fool!" he at length said, with an emphatic gesture. "And ten chances to one if I don't run my head into a net before I'm done, like the rest of mankind. Plague take the girl! I wish I had never seen her! Why did she ever cross my quiet path? All was pleasant and bright as a May-day morning — until she must needs be thrust in my way!"
But all this was not going to efface from his mind, the image of Dora Enfield. It remained so distinct, that he felt it to be a real presence.
For that day, at least, Milford Lane was unfitted for everything. He went to his office, and attempted to examine the merits of a case which had been given into his hands. But in the documents spread out before him, he could see words, but no ideas. He read over page after page without finding even a clew by which to unravel the cause. In despair, he threw all the papers into his desk, and himself upon a sofa, where, with his eyes closed, he lay for more than half an hour. Rising then as a refuge from haunting images and disturbing thoughts, he took up an unfinished novel in which he had become much interested. But this interest was not reawakened. The book was thrown aside in despair, and the young attorney sought relief in walking outside. That even this did not quiet his feelings, need hardly be said.
It took Lane nearly a week to get over the effect of this meeting; that is, its exciting effects. After that, he laid down for himself, a rule of action. It was, to pass Dora with merely a polite salutation whenever and wherever he might in future meet her. This rule soon after came into force. He met her on the day after it was made, and passed her just as he had determined to do. It was not done without cost to him, nor without exquisite pain to her.
In this course, Lane persevered. When thrown into Dora's company, he was coldly polite to her. As to visiting her specially — that was no more done. The effect of this marked conduct on the part of Lane, was clearly understood by Dora. She knew that he did not object to her personally, but to marriage; and that he avoided her intentionally. This was no antidote to the love she bore him. It only made its fire hotter in her bosom, because it could not blaze out. It was an altar-fire, consuming the altar itself, instead of rising in holy sacrifice. There were few of her friends who had not marked the change which the whole face and air of Dora manifested by the end of a year from the date of Trueman's marriage. She went into company but rarely, and then took little pleasure in social fellowship.
When the child of Trueman died, she was with it; in fact, its last breath was given forth upon her bosom. She loved little Henry tenderly. Much with her friend Edith — she had been also much with the child. Daily interaction had inspired her with a tender affection for it. She could, therefore, sympathize deeply with them. When both looked upon the face of their lost one for the last time — Dora stood by Edith's side. As she retired with them from the room, never again to see their dear child, she passed close to Lane, and was conscious, as she did so, of his presence. Even the afflictive scene in which she was an actor, in which she felt acutely, had not power to hush into passiveness, a heart that had been sorely tried. As she sat down in Edith's chamber alone with the mourners, but a little apart from them, her own bosom had in it such an aching void that she could hardly restrain herself from uttering an audible moan. In very bitterness of spirit, she envied the bereaved parents. They would love each other more purely, more tenderly, more fervently than ever; and this would compensate for their loss, or take from the affliction its acutest pang — while Dora had nothing that in any way filled the void in her bosom.
And was Lane happy? It is hardly necessary to tell the reader — no. He could not be. In his bosom there was, likewise, an aching void which nothing would fill. He sought pleasure in many ways, and, at times, believed he had found it. But the weariness that accompanied his lonely hours, told too plainly that something was yet lacking to make his happiness complete.
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