The Broken Heart CHAPTER 2.
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In the years of light-hearted maidenhood, Mary Ellis was one of the happiest of the happy. The present was to her all brightness and bloom — and the future filled with glad anticipations. But like too many others, she reposed little confidence in the experience of the aged. Innocent as a child, she had never suspected anything but rectitude in the heart of another. Sadly, through many years of sorrow and disappointment, did she repent her early thoughtlessness.
Her parents, poor, but sensible people, looked with much concern upon their only child, just entering a world in which are thickly planted the seeds of sorrow, and where temptation is ready to meet the unwary at every step. Especially did they feel a lively anxiety for Mary, when she would attend any of the "parties" which were then so frequent among the young people; for she was lovely, and full of spirits — and they dreaded lest someone, unworthy of her in every way, should win her young and happy heart. The evenings when she would be thus absent, were evenings of little enjoyment to them; for always on such occasions, would their minds revert to the many instances of unhappy marriages which had fallen under their notice.
Let me introduce the old couple for a few minutes to the reader. Mary had gone to a party, and what was very unusual, instead of coming before nightfall, had waited until after dark, when she was called for by a mirthful looking young man, whom she introduced as Mr. Morrison.
The old couple sat for some time in silence after they were gone; at last the father remarked, in a slow, serious tone:
"I can't say that I feel altogether right about our Mary, tonight. To tell the truth, I never was, and am less now than ever, a friend of these parties."
"Those are just my own thoughts," replied Mrs. Ellis. "I do wish our Mary would stay at home. But, you know, Thomas, that we can't expect young folks to feel as we do."
"True, true. But then, we old folks can see danger — when they only know delight. I know Mary is a good girl; but she is thoughtless, and knows nothing of the world. But who is this Mr. Morrison? I cannot say that I like his looks. There is too much of the fop about him, and too little of the man." (Editor's note: A fop is a vain man whose ambition is to gain admiration by showy dress and much ostentation; a mirthful, trifling man.)
"In truth, Thomas, I cannot say. But when I think of poor Sarah Jones, and of her marriage with the mirthful but graceless Wilkins, who broke her heart in a year — I tremble for our own dear child. I want to know all about the man who steps beyond our door with Mary, and I not by their side. No stranger can ever gain my willing consent to her hand, unless innocence is written upon his face in characters that none can mistake.
"I agree with you there, my wife. But the young heart is wayward in its loves. We must not expect to find Mary with a judgment as matured as our own, or even willing to profit by our experience."
"That is the thing that troubles me," replied Mrs. Ellis. "The time may not be far off, when we may, perhaps, see her standing on the very edge, as it were, of a dreadful precipice, and yet be unable to open her eyes to her perilous situation; and have the agony to see her take the fatal leap, even while we are imploring her, by all the love that is in our hearts, to start back from her danger."
Tear after tear stole down from the eyes of Mrs. Ellis, as her feelings overcame her in view of so sorrowful a reality.
"I wonder," continued Mrs. Ellis, recovering herself, "that Mr. and Mrs. Jameson are willing to have promiscuous assemblages of young people at their house, when they have three daughters, each of whom is in danger of forming an unhappy intimacy with someone unsuited to her in every way."
"The three daughters, you may be sure, is the only reason for these parties. They are to be married off; and Mrs. Jameson is the very woman to plan schemes for getting them mated!"
"Strange, and unnatural!"
"Truly, it is so. But there are too many who have families, and yet do not understand how to take the right care of them. And the worst of it is, their own children are not alone, the sufferers."
"It seems to me, Thomas, that we are not discharging our duty to our child, when we allow her to mingle in such company, as we have too much reason to believe is to be found at Mrs. Jameson's."
"I have thought so myself, often," replied Mr. Ellis. "But have not yet found it in my heart to deny her a participation in the parties of young people, in which she seems to take so much pleasure."
From the anxious father and mother at home, waiting, lonely and troubled in spirits, for the return of the light of their countenances, even until the hour of midnight — let us turn to the mirthful assemblage of thoughtless young people, amid whom Mary Ellis is the center of attraction. Let us mingle with them, and see and hear what it is, which makes the time pass so pleasantly and so swiftly away.
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