Our Life Romance'.
Back to Main Index Timothy Shay Arthur
"Yes! yes! Everything is as beautiful as I could desire it! Every precious object takes a hue from the rose glow of my life!" and very gently was the foot-fall of Ada Ward pressed into the velvet carpets of her bridal home; very soft were the glances that rested upon the rich and graceful furniture, as though it were capable of making a part in her strange and wonderful happiness! — for the mysteries wrought in the quiet soul by love, are ever new, and more than strange and wonderful to the possessor of the enchanted life. And so the light figure of Mrs. Graham Ward, for the twentieth time, had been flitting from room to room, beginning at the top of the great house; her heart pronounced a benediction on everything, and when she stood within her magnificent parlors, her lips spoke the thoughts sleeping within.
"Yes!" she murmured, smilingly, "I believe if I did not look every day at all these things, and almost touch them — that I would think myself in some delirious, blissful dream. But I am awake, and Graham is my husband, and this beautiful home is as fresh to me as the love-lighted world I have come to dwell in. Ah! many dreams I have had, but no wandering in delicious dream-land ever equaled this: dim prophecies haunted me — a faint idea I had of the love that was to illuminate my soul — and I must be to Graham all that he is to me — sunshine! life! breath! Ah! I dare not tell him all my thoughts; he is so much older than I; and yet for all the world, I would not have him a day younger, for I could not feel that repose, that blessed assurance in looking up to him.
"And this is my boudoir!" she continued, entering a charming little room where the softened light fell through embroidered curtains, and lighted up with more brilliant touches the flowers her own hand had placed on the broad window-sill — then the same magic light struck out a richer crimson on her little favorite rocking-chair, and sought its rest upon warm crimson roses in the carpet. A dainty work-basket stood upon a zephyr table filled with pretty pretenses to industry, and two or three delicate notes of congratulation and love from "the girls;" intimate friends to whom her heart clung, and for whom she wished a happiness equal to her own.
Ada took her seat, and still looked around her; she did not care to sew, she was too happy to need the ministry of the choice authors in the book-case before her — but a new thought struck her — she would talk with her own soul, she would begin a journal, and keep imperishable the burning thoughts which rose, wave upon wave, within her — this unparalleled romance that came with such a glory to her young, girlish spirit, should be impressed upon paper, where in future years she could go to it, and live it over again, and know that it really happened. And so she drew pens and paper from the secretary, and in the afternoon shadows and the golden lights she wrote, and wrote, and poured forth the eloquence that welled up from her heart. While her pen was busy, and her cheek glowing, a timid hand rapped at her door.
"Oh, Betsy!" she exclaimed, a little impatiently, "what have you come here for?"
"But, mistress, dear!" said the girl, "if I only could get you to write a little word to my brother for me, I would be so thankful."
"I will; but not now, Betsy. I am busy now!"
"Oh, but Miss Ward, I need to send it for him."
"Well, Betsy, haven't I said that I am busy now?" And Ada closed the door, but her heart smote her for a moment before she went on weaving together her life romance. Poor Ada! she was too happy to lend a listening ear to others' hopes and wishes. Graham came home and entered the boudoir, where his wife, lovelier than ever, met him with outstretched hands, and eyes that half sought to hide their love-shining; he pressed the sweet mouth uplifted for his evening kiss, and passed his arm around her waist.
"Is tea ready, my dear?" he asked. "I will see! Must you go out tonight, Graham?"
"Yes! a man of business must be at his post, my dear!" and he pushed back the curls from her brow, and kissed it.
Ada left the room, and her husband stood musing alone. He was a man of thirty-five, with a handsome, haughty face, where a something reckless and imperative, not to say selfish, could be traced.
"A very pretty little creature she is, and she loves me so devotedly! A very pleasant thing it is to have such a pretty little wife to welcome me, and such a handsome fortune with her!" and the glances Graham cast around were very different from Ada's. "I intend to make the little thing happy — but then it must be done in a reasonable way. I can't think of giving up my evenings to be spent here alone. I'll do it sometimes, though."
Here Ada appeared, and laying her hand on her husband's arm, went with him to tea.
When he had gone, she sought her favorite room again, and from the window watched the twilight shadows.
A familiar carriage stopped at the door, and her mother's face looked from it, and smiled a mother's love. Ada hastened to the front door, and received the beloved visitor with kisses and embraces.
"Come into my sanctum, mother; this is such a dear, precious room, the very quintessence of my Eden home!" and her sweet, happy laugh, went like music to the fond mother's heart.
"Let me take off your bonnet, mother darling, and here, sit in my own little chair, and let me sit on this cushion — isn't it pretty? and lay my head on your lap, and tell you, oh! so much! I never can tell you how happy I am. Do you know, mother," — and she raised her head and looked into the beautiful, soft eyes above her, "do you know, mother, sometimes I think I shall not, cannot live very long, for this wild intense love must burn my heart out — but I don't care; I care for nothing, nothing but this happiness — it is enough; it swallows up my being. I could not love Graham more, and yet every hour I love him better. Mother, do you think that other people do, can love as I do? is it as beautiful to them?"
"Yes, my darling; there are thousands of hearts telling the same story today!"
"Oh, bless them! blessings on them in their happiness!"
"And blessings, all holy blessings on those who are walking in dark and dreadful paths, without any joy to help them through their lot! The happy-hearted should send their sunshine to these."
"Oh, yes!" murmured Ada; "but who can turn from their Heaven, to look on such burdensome pictures? Oh! mother, I am very, very selfish. I cannot bear that anything should break in upon this enchantment. I have almost forgotten that a day of reckoning will come. I am wicked, I know, but I want no better Heaven than I have!"
"My poor child! my poor child!" and a gentle hand stroked Ada's hair, while glistening tears fell upon it.
"Why do you say 'poor child,' mother?" asked Ada, raising her eyes, where unquenchable love and hope seemed to dwell. "Say instead — your rich and happy child!" and with smiles she drew down the beloved face and kissed away the drops. "Mother, dear, I feel within me the assurance that this happiness must be immortal. Oh! if Heaven is as blessed as my own Heaven, I shall ask no more!"
"But, dear child, it will not be as beautiful — unless you learn to be an angel here, and look with a true and tender love on others, besides those whom your own happiness is bound up in."
"Ah, true!" answered the young wife, and poor Betsy's imploring face came before her. "Mother, will you excuse me a few moments?" she asked, rising hastily.
"I must go myself, dear. I have stayed longer than I intended. Try tomorrow to call on poor Kate Suthington, and comfort her. You heard that Henry Williams had married in Europe?"
"No. Oh! Kate, dear Kate!"
"Well, good-bye, darling. Come and see us very soon."
"Yes, yes. Good-bye."
Ada bent her steps to the kitchen, and there she found Betsy sitting by the table, with her apron over her face, crying.
"What is the matter, Betsy?" she asked, very kindly.
"I am afraid the vessel will sail in the morning, and my brother cannot come over in it, unless I send the money to him in a letter."
"Is it too late, do you think?" and a great pang of self-reproach went through the heart of the young mistress.
"Perhaps not," answered the girl, with a look of hope.
Ada ran to her room, and brought utensils for writing, which she rapidly used. Then, after enclosing the money, she sealed the letter, saying,
"Now hurry, Betsy. Here is sixpence to get into the omnibus. You will reach the place in time."
But Betsy did not reach the place in time. She was half an hour too late, and her young brother, as well as herself, suffered from the sickness of hope deferred many long weeks, because the fair young bride, amid her joys, had not yet learned the beautiful life-lesson of serving others.
Back to Main Index Timothy Shay Arthur