Sweethearts and Wives CHAPTER 8.
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It was nearly dark when Milnor arrived in Boston, his mind still in a state of confusion and excitement. Long before he had reached the city, he had learned that the Bank had, as it had been thought would be the case on the day previous, closed its doors. His first step was to call on Mrs. Ellis' agent, a plain, common-sense-looking merchant, whose age was about sixty. From him, he learned that the amount of stock held by his wife's aunt in the two banks, and which had constituted the whole of her little fortune, had been thirty thousand dollars; that immediately on the failure of these institutions, the stock fell to sixty cents in the dollar, at which rates he had sold, securing eighteen thousand dollars. He was engaged in writing to Mrs. Ellis a statement of these facts, when Milnor called upon him.
"Do you know what steps the guardian of her niece has taken in respect to her interests, Mr. Goodlow?" asked Milnor, in a tone of affected indifference.
"None at all. In fact, he left here for the South a week ago, and I very much fear that by the time the news reaches him, and he returns, the stock will be down to ten cents. My own impression now is, that things have been very badly managed in both of these institutions, and that, in fact, not a dollar of the capital stock will be paid."
"There is great danger, then, of her loss being a total one?"'
"There is great danger. She was married but a few weeks ago?"
"Yes."
"And you are her husband, I presume?"
"I am," was Milnor's calm reply.
"You seem to take the matter quite coolly?"
"There is no use in being excited about it. Still, I feel deeply interested; and this I trust, more on my wife's account than my own, as it will not be in my power to retain for her thoseelegances of life to which she has been so long used."
"These she would have to give up, even if she were not married."
"Very true. Still, she cannot give them up without pain."
"Beneficial pain, perhaps," replied the old man, bluntly — "a little of which such a very useful commodity, does us no great harm."
"Pretty cool philosophy that," Milnor returned, with equal bluntness, "and much more easily applied to others than ourselves."
"No doubt of it in the world; but it is true, nevertheless. As I had it on my mind to say, I will add, that to you this event may not be unattended with benefit."
"In what way?"
"You will not, I presume, as I judge you to be a young man of candor, deny that the very pretty fortune of Grace Harvey had some influence over your very decided preference for her?" The calm, steady, penetrating, yet benevolent eye of the merchant, as it rested upon the face of Milnor, prevented any equivocation in his reply.
"It has, doubtless, had its influence; but I must be allowed to say that I was far from being conscious of that influence. I believe, if I know myself, that I would have loved her with equal ardency, had she not possessed a single dollar."
"You must not be offended if I question that. You do not know yourself, young man. If you were drawn towards her in any degree by the attraction of wealth, then, if there had been no wealth, the attraction could not have been so strong. Is not that logically true?"
"Perhaps it is; still, I must repeat that I was totally unconscious of that attraction."
"Very well. This sudden disaster has, no doubt, made you conscious of it?"
"It has, to a certain extent; but who would not have felt a similar weakness?"
"Perhaps no one. Few, probably, in so slight a degree as yourself. Still, its existence at all is an alloy which should never adulterate wedded love; and the circumstance, no matter how painful, that reveals its existence, is a blessing."
"I am not so certain of that," Milnor said, after a deeply-thoughtful pause; "at least, not in my own case. Happy would it have been, if that secret bias had never come to the light, and exhibited its blasting deformity!"
"Now you show painful feelings. Why is this, Mr. Milnor?"
Another and longer pause ensued, during which time the young man's eyes rested abstractedly upon the floor. At length he raised them, and looked the merchant steadily in the face for some moments. The calm, truly benevolent expression of the old man's countenance inspired him with confidence, and he said,
"The reason is soon told. When it did become apparent, brought to the light of day by the intelligence that my wife's wealth had taken to itself wings — the eyes of Grace saw it as well as my own. To me, the discovery produced shame and regret — to her, it proved like the touch of a crude hand to the flower's shrinking petals. Sadly do I fear that the sun, which rose so brightly above our horizon — will never again smile from beneath the black clouds which envelop it."
Milnor's voice trembled, and he exhibited strong emotion.
"She thought you perfect, no doubt," the old man remarked, calmly, after Milnor had regained, in a measure, his self-possession.
"Perhaps that may have been her error."
"And no doubt was, as well as your own in regard to her. It is the common error of lovers, and one the awaking from which, always brings pain. Had not Grace made the discovery now — she would have made it soon. What is in us, will, some time or other, in an unguarded moment — come out. This is an invariable law. Before you had been married a month, something would have occurred to awaken you from your delusive dream — to the painful consciousness that each of you had overrated the other; that in the very bosom where you had fondly dreamed there resided all human perfection — were self-will, pride, suspicion, a predominating love of self, with other evils, in forms too varied and numerous to be known at a single glance."
"You draw a dark and exaggerated picture, I am sure," Milnor replied to this.
"No doubt it so appears to you — yet the picture is a true one. You and Grace, as well as every other man and woman born into the world, were born into hereditary evils. That you, of course know?"
"Yes."
"And do you not also know, that, until a man or a woman arrives at the age of rationality — that these hereditary evils cannot be put away?"
"I am also aware of that fact."
"And, also, that these cannot be put away, except by a resistance of them when they become active?"
"Yes, I know that also."
"Very well. What, then, do you suppose to be the most universal and deeply-seated evils in the human mind?"
"Self-love, with its kindred evils."
"And these', then, exist both in your mind, and in the mind of Grace, by transmission?"
"Yes, I suppose so, though weakened in the degree, that, since we both came to the age of rationality, we have struggled against them."
"Precisely in that degree. Now, is it reasonable to suppose that one so young as Grace, and surrounded as she has been by everything to minister to her pleasures, could have made much progress in the work of resisting evils?"
"Perhaps not."
"Have you made much progress?"
"Not much."
"Then you have come together, each under the vain idea that the other was free from human imperfections. Is it any wonder that the first dark cloud which shadowed your path — the first shock that disturbed you, has revealed some of the lurking enemies which lay hidden in your bosoms? No, certainly not! To Grace, the discovery which you say she has made, that you really entertained an affection for her money, as well as for herself — is no doubt a deeply painful one. But if she loves you truly, as I doubt not, that genuine affection, especially if you let her see that you have not loved her for her money alone — that you do really love her, and tenderly will bring back her heart with her confidence to bless you.
"Fear not that the cloud which now darkens your sky, will ever remain there. Clouds are not permanent things. But, in order to their rapid dispersion, and in order to prevent their frequent return — be willing to see your faults of character, and to deal honestly with them. Be tender of the weaknesses and faults of your wife — and severe with your own. Nevertheless, ever be in the effort to lead your wife out of her faults and weaknesses — but do it with kindness, forbearance, and gentleness, though with wisdom and firmness."
"Such a duty would require more wisdom, prudence, and forbearance than I probably possess."
"Then you have already receded from your notion of her being an angel — and become impressed with the idea that she is full of faults?"
"Oh no, no! You are running far ahead of me. I am not at all conscious of her being full of faults. Indeed, I am satisfied that she does not possess half so many as I do."
"Very well. If she only has half as many as yourself, you will readily admit that she has half of a pretty good number," Mr. Goodlow said, smiling.
"I suppose I shall have to admit that," Milnor replied, smiling in return.
"Then to these, whenever they become apparent, exercise kindness and forbearance; and yet be wise in all you say or do, lest your actions towards her have the effect to confirm her in her faults — instead of leading her out of them. This talking about your own faults of character and those of your wife, no doubt grates upon your ears a little harshly, coming as it does so soon after your marriage; but it may prove to you a far kinder act, than if I were to pass only compliments, and wish you a thousand years of happiness. I would not, however, have forced these unwelcome words upon you, had not circumstances occurred to make them timely, and, I trust, beneficial. Pardon my freedom; though until now astranger to you, I may in the end prove a real friend."
Milnor thanked the old gentleman warmly, and then the subject passed to one involving business.
"It is your impression, then," the young man said, during the subsequent conversation, "that my wife's property will be totally lost?"
"I fear so. Before her guardian can return, or send on power to dispose of her stock, it will be down very low, and the price only nominal at that. This, at least, is my impression, and founded, I am satisfied, upon good reasons."
The long silence which followed this was broken by Mr. Goodlow, who asked abruptly,
"Under all the circumstances, what course do you think of pursuing, Mr. Milnor?"
"I intend acting as if my wife had never been possessed of a dollar," was the firm reply.
"How is that?"
"I intend devoting myself to my profession with untiring industry."
"The law?"
"Yes, I have some practice already. Not enough to support my wife in a very handsome style, it is true, or, indeed, in any style at all, were it not that I have a little income of five or six hundred dollars a year. With this, however, and what I can make at law, I hope to be able to render her tolerably comfortable. Time will increase my ability. I shall therefore cherish the hope of lifting her once more to the position which she now occupies."
"Some would call all this very laudable and very praiseworthy; but I do not," Mr. Goodlow said, gravely.
"You are a strange man! Wherein is it wrong? Ought I not thus to devote myself to my profession?"
"Certainly."
"And for the sake of my family?"
"Certainly. He who provides not for his own household, is worse than an infidel."
"Then what do you mean?"
"I mean that to do all this simply with the end of elevating your wife to the same style of living that she has been used to, is wrong."
"It does not seem so to me."
"Perhaps not. And yet, if you could examine yourself closely enough, you would doubtless find that a feeling of pride was really more active, than a desire to see your wife, for her own sake, surrounded by everything she could think desirable."
"You probe closely," Milnor said, after a thoughtful pause.
"I design to do so. If we begin life aright — that is, with the right ends — we shall have less to unlearn, and fewer painful awakenings from error."
"No doubt of that."
"It is for this reason that I wish to show you, that to make the end of simply elevating your wife to the style of living that she has been used to heretofore — would be a wrong end. Such a condition in life, may be the worst for her — and He who rules all things from infinite love and wisdom, seeing this, may have caused this change to take place, and may so overrule every future event, that, in spite of all your efforts, you will not be able to accomplish your dearly-cherished wishes. Your end of life being thus defeated — your happiness, as well as that of your wife, would be destroyed."
"What end, then, should I have in view?"
"The end of faithfully discharging your duty, while you left the result to the disposal of a wise and good Providence."
"That is not so easily done."
"I know it well, Mr. Milnor; but is the end right? Is confidence in divine Providence right?"
"Doubtless."
"Then should we not strive for that end, and also strive to put away all distrust in that Divine Goodness and Wisdom, which will inevitably, whether we confide or not, work out for us a far better and happier result than we could possibly work out for ourselves?"
"I feel that we should; but 'duty' is a hard word, Mr. Goodlow."
"It has that sound to many ears, I know. It has sounded harshly to my own ears, and often does even now; but I have lived long enough to prove this truth, that only in the path of duty is to be found true delight; that all other paths lead away from real happiness. Now, in consequence of the loss of your wife's property, new duties have devolved upon you. It is now necessary that you should devote yourself with more earnest application to the duties of your profession, in order to provide things comfortable for your family. But do not let your mind be disturbed while thus engaged, because you cannot provide, at first, the elegances, as well as the comforts of life. Your wife is to be the sharer of yoursorrows — as well as your joys. If there are not true reciprocity in the one, there cannot be in the other. If she is to be the royally-attended queen, and you the laboring serf, and minister to all this state — how can there be any mutual love? You have not squandered her property; she has, therefore, no claim upon you for a condition in life above your own, and must come down to your condition. And if she loves you truly — she will come down without a sigh.
"Resolve, then, before you take the first step, to begin right; to enter upon your duties with a firm determination to prosecute them vigorously, with an end to your mutual well-being; and in the prosecution of them, to keep in view, in every transaction, the just rights of all around you. A right end never desires wrong means. This is not so with a wrong end. An eager and all-engrossing desire to place your wife in a high style of living, simply to gratify her pride — for no other motive could she have that would permit her to see you toil early and late to accomplish such an end — would bring you into many temptations. High fees would be almost irresistible inducements, for you to undertake causes against the oppressed and innocent, and to use in these cases, sophistical reasonings, and unfair means to confuse witnesses. But higher ends would protect you against suchallurements.
"Be wise, then, young man! Now is the most critical period in your life. A false step now, a wrong end now — may involve you in years of unhappiness; while truth, firmness, and decision as governing principles, will certainly elevate you into a serene, sun-bright atmosphere — an atmosphere in which your wife will breathe as freely as yourself; and, like yourself, feel a happy pulse bounding healthily through every vein."
"You are doubtless right, Mr. Goodlow," Milnor said, as soon as the merchant had ceased speaking. "The effort to act as you direct, will cost me a severe trial. It will require a struggle to keep down pride, and to strengthen weak points in my character — but I must make the effort."
"Do so, and success will crown your effort." Then, after a pause, "You will not, I suppose, think of remaining in Westbrook?"
"I have not thought much about that; but I suppose it will be better for me, in the end, to re-locate to Boston, as a wider field of operations."
<p align="justify">"If you possess talents, a fair knowledge of your profession, and habits of industry — Boston will be your best place. But, in the event of the disastrous results that I now apprehend in regard to your wife's property — you will have to live very plainly and frugally. This will try you both, but it will do you good."
"I hope so," replied Milnor, somewhat gloomily; and then rising, bade the merchant good-evening, and withdrew.
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