Married and Single CHAPTER 8.
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Fifteen years from the time in which happened the events detailed in the last chapter, we again introduce the personages of our story; and, first, we will look in upon our friend Trueman and his wife Edith.
It is an evening in summer. Near the suburbs of the city stands a moderate-sized, but very neat house, to which is attached a small garden, mainly used for the cultivation of flowers. A grape-vine, loaded with ripening clusters, rises upon a tastefully-formed arbor, and thence clambers up the side of the house, where it wreathes itself about the windows, presenting its fruit with tempting show. Everything around evinces the hand of taste and cultivation. In front of the house is a small yard, or enclosure, filled with shrubbery and flowers. From each side of the door rises a honeysuckle, whose leaves and blossoms almost hide the single window that looks upon the street. At this window, in the cool and quiet of the sunset time, may be seen Henry Trueman. Fifteen years have made some change in his appearance: he looks twenty years older than when his first child died. His dark hair glistens with many white lines, and here and there gray masses seem to bear a preponderance. His face has become thinner, and shows many marks of care.
He is alone and thoughtful. A book lies on a table near him which has been laid aside after a vain attempt to read. Something weighs upon his mind so heavily as to press out all interest in other subjects. Just then, a second person enters the room; it is Edith. She, too, is changed. Her face is thin, and shows too plainly that she has had her share of suffering, both of body and mind; her eye, still soft and mild, moves languidly; but over all, and softening beautifully the whole tone of her face, is an expression of tender maternal love, blended with sweet marital affection. At a glance, it can be seen that more children have blessed her, and that they are her jewels — that years have only tended to unite her more and more to her husband.
"You look serious this evening, Henry," she said, in a voice of tender interest, as she came up and stood by her husband, laying her hand upon him as she spoke.
"Do I?" he replied, half evasively, and with a smile that he meant to be an indifferent one. But Edith knew her husband's face too well to be deceived in its expression.
"You certainly do," she replied; "and more than that, I don't think you have been as cheerful for several days,as you are usually."
Trueman's eyes fell to the floor, and he remained silent. He continued so only for a short time; then he looked up steadily into his wife's face, and said,
"Edith, I do feel serious, and have felt so for several days. Our family is large. Five children to provide for and to educate, taxes me heavily. Business is dull — for the last three weeks I haven't cleared the rent of my store. If there is not some change for the better, I do not see what will be the consequence."
"It is a dull season," Edith remarked.
"True."
"Are any of your neighbors doing much better?"
"Very few, I believe."
"Of course, business will revive again."
"Yes."
"Then why feel dispirited, Henry?"
"I can't help it, somehow or other. The fact is, I don't seem to be getting along financially. It has been hand to mouth, as they say, ever since we were married."
"And the hand has always had a full supply for the mouth," was the smiling reply.
"I know it; but suppose I were to be taken down sick — suppose anything should happen to me — the family could not possibly hold together."
"But you are not sick: nothing has happened to you yet. Why take on trouble in advance? Have you forgotten to put your trust in Him who feeds the ravens?"
"I forget Him too often, Edith," Trueman replied, looking into his wife's face steadily. "Thankful am I, that He has given me one who can recall my thoughts back to their stay in trouble. He will not forsake us — I know that He will not, even though we are called upon to pass through the fire; but weak nature shrinks away; it fears to encounter every purifying ordeal, even while conscious that it is for good."
"Why anticipate, at this particular time, any new ordeal?"
"A dark cloud gathering in the sky, portends a storm."
"Many a cloud comes up from the horizon with threatening aspect, in whose bosom no lightning lies concealed, from which descends no rain. Have not many such clouds swept harmlessly over our sky?"
"Many, very many; and from some, have fallen upon us fierce tempests."
"Purifying our atmosphere, and giving us, on the morrow, a brighter sun."
"Yet sometimes marking their way with desolation. Our hearts bear some scars."
Edith was silent. Life had not been to them all sunshine — it had not passed on smoothly as a boat upon a summer sea. Her own duties had been arduous, and her trials severe. She had borne eight children — and three of them slept in the grave. These afflictions were, to her, very grievous, for she loved her children; it was touching the very apple of her eye, to touch them. But in each dark night of sorrow, her glance had been steadily upward. She had suffered, and she had likewise been blessed — doubly blessed, it sometimes seemed to her. Her voice was slightly tremulous, as after a long pause, she said,
"They are deep scars, Henry; but can either of us say now, from the heart, as we look back upon life, that we would rather not have been wounded as we were?"
It was some moments before Trueman replied, his eyes were inwardly turned during the time. At length, speaking with a sudden warmth of manner, he said,
"No, Edith, no! I do not regret a single care or sorrow that is past. All have been for our good. We are really happier in consequence of them."
"And will be, in consequence of all that may come."
"Yes, I believe it,"
"Then let us not be troubled in our minds. Let us not distrust His goodness whose love is unbounded. He will bring all out right in the end."
Just at that moment, the keys of a piano in the adjoining room were touched lightly and skillfully. Then a soft sweet voice sung Mrs. Hemans' beautiful, "Evening Song of the Tyrolese Peasants."
It was the voice of their own child that warbled low and distinctly the sweet air and soothing words of this song — their Edith — now just at the tender age of fourteen. She was more beautiful than her mother had been, whose virtues were reproduced in her child, with added luster. Towards her parents, she had ever exhibited the most devoted love. Gentle, wise above her years, discreet, and firm — she had truly been an elder sister to her younger brothers and sisters, all of whom loved her, and were ever willing to submit to her their little difficulties, and abide her arbitration. To tell how much her father loved her, would be impossible. She was his idol. No sound was to him as sweet as the sound of her voice, singing some simple ballad, or lingering on some soothing melody.
Like oil poured upon troubled waters were words, voice, and melody to his feelings. He listened with enrapt attention to every word, every peculiar grace in the air, every variation of affection in her voice. When the last sound died upon his ear, he looked up, and smiling in the face of his wife, said,
"Did you ever hear anything sweeter than that?"
"It was the very soul of music which breathed from her lips."
"It's very sweet," returned the mother. "Edith is a treasure that cannot be valued. If ever parents were blessed in a child — we are blessed in her."
The door opened, and Edith entered. She was tall, slender, and graceful, yet simple in her manner. She walked up to where her mother stood, with her hand still resting upon her husband, and, crowding in between them and the window, half reclined against her father, with an air of childlike affection. Trueman laid his hand fondly upon her head, and gently smoothed her hair, at the same time that he pressed his lips to her cheek.
No word was spoken for many minutes. The group remained as motionless during the time as if under the eye of a painter; but each heart was beating high with pure and happy feelings. From the father's mind, all anxious care had fled. He loved his family. Each member had a place in his heart, and that place was kept sacred.
"You sang that evening song just at the right moment, Edith." This was said by her father, after she had stood by his side for several minutes. "You knew I was sitting here?"
"Yes."
"And sang for me my favorite song?"
"Yes, it was for your ears, father."
"Thank you, dear. My mind was not as calm as usual; but that song, and your voice, have tranquillized my spirits. I am Saul, and you are to me as David."
"No, no, father; I cannot admit that comparison to be true," Edith replied, taking hold of his hand and gently pressing it. The twilight had deepened into obscurity, and hidden each face from the other's eyes. "You are not Saul, possessed of an evil spirit. Oh no, no!"
"Distrust of Providence is an evil spirit, my child."
"But you cannot distrust a kind Providence. You know Who it is that governs all things in wisdom." This was said with something of surprise, that her father, who had so carefully taught her to believe in the unfailing goodness and wisdom of God, should himself feel distrust.
"It is not always, my child," he replied, "that we can keep, while subjected to this world's trials and disappointments, our minds evenly balanced, our confidence unwavering. But He who sees, loves, and pities us — ever provides antidotes for these states. We are not allowed to remain long under the cloud. To me, your voice alone, as you sang some favorite song, has many a time dispelled the gloom that has settled on my mind — has chased away the evil spirit."
"How glad I am that the voice given me is pleasant to my father's ear. But hark! little Charley is crying; I must run and see what ails him."
And away she sprang from the room. The sound of little Charley's voice — he was the youngest child — had suddenly arisen from a chamber above. It was still, almost in a moment after Edith's step was heard at the door of his room. Her father's troubled spirit was not the only one which grew tranquil under the sound of her voice. There was not one in the house who did not feel its magical influence.
"If we had no other blessing, we would still be richly endowed," the father remarked, as soon as the voice of little Charley was hushed.
"Yes; but we have, besides her, many good things. If ever disposed to repine or murmur — we are much to blame."
"To that I freely assent. But sometimes, Edith, weak, ignorant, short-sighted human nature, cannot see beyond a very narrow circle. We look ahead, and our pathway bends suddenly out of sight. There is a high mountain before us, with black clouds mantling its summit. Is it any wonder that sometimes the heart will fail?"
"Perhaps not. But let us not fix our minds too steadily upon the mountain barrier and its mysterious threatening clouds — but think of the many quiet paths that have opened to us, and wound pleasantly along by cooling stream and smiling meadow, when we had trembled at the sight of a rugged acclivity, and shrunk from attempting the ascent. As our day is — so shall our strength be. While that blessed promise remains — what have we to fear? Nothing, certainly, which this world can threaten. If we have to climb a steep ascent — the strength to do so will be given; if called to pass through a dark, gloomy valley — a light from some star will fall upon our path, and show us clearly the way in which it is safe to tread."
Thus, whenever Trueman too much inclined to despond, gave way to distrustful fears — Edith always sought to encourage him. Her own example of patient resignation in suffering and in bereavement, had in it equal power with her words. Both united had many and many a time proved all-sufficient to lift his head, that he had allowed to fall despondingly upon his bosom.
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