The Broken Heart CHAPTER 5.
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It is painful to record any instance of filial disobedience, but such disobedience did Mary Ellis practice towards her parents. Stolen interviews were frequently had, and the two finally resolved upon a clandestine marriage, which was entered into but two months after the rejection of Morrison's suit by Mr. and Mrs. Ellis.
Mary had gone out, professedly, to spend an afternoon with a friend. She was to have been home before evening. But at night-fall she had not made her appearance. When her father came in, concern was expressed by the mother in consequence of Mary's not having returned from her visit. Night closed darkly in — but she was still absent. An hour passed, and yet she came not. Still, they could only suppose that she was detained by some good cause. But, when hour after hour passed away, and the time stole on even to the hour of midnight, a chilling fear, unwhispered by either, gathered around their hearts; a fear that took no form, but was even the more painful from its uncertainty.
The weary hours passed on, and at last the dim morning twilight came coldly in upon them, while they were yet anxious watchers. She will now soon come, they thought; for they fed their hopes with the idea, that she had been over-persuaded to stay all night with a friend. Two hours had passed since the sun had risen, and as Mary was still absent, her father, with a heavy heart, prepared to go out in search of her. He was met at the door by a stranger, who placed a letter in his hand, and instantly retired. Tremblingly, he broke the seal and read a confirmation of his worst fears. Mary had risked all on a union with Morrison.
In silent anguish of spirit, Mr. Ellis handed the letter to his wife, and bitter were the tears they wept together over this token of Mary's sad infatuation. She was their only child. In her, were centered their fondest hopes. In one fearful moment, all these garnered hopes were scattered to the winds. Filial disobedience was no cause of the profound sorrow that settled like a dark shadow over their spirits. It lay in their yearning affection for the child who was, in their minds, willfully sowing the seeds that would produce, in after years, a fruitful harvest of inexpressible anguish. Unlike too many in their situation, who feel more of offended pride, and mortified ambition, than real concern — they lost no time in repairing to the residence of a Mrs. Lawson, where Mary said she was with her husband.
It was but an hour from the time that Mary dispatched her letter, until she was weeping on the bosom of her mother. And did that mother chide her for an act that could not be recalled? It never entered her heart to utter a word of reproach. But the shadow of unusual seriousness that rested on her face, and the fixed glance of her eye, which seemed with her inward perceptions scanning the future, troubled the heart of Mary.
"You have taken my child without my consent, Mr. Morrison!" were the father's first words. "But let that pass! Cherish her as a tender plant, and a father's heart shall bless you!" Then folding his daughter in his arms, in a long embrace, he could only say, "God bless you!" while a tear stole down his pale, time-furrowed cheek.
I will not mock the unutterable grief, which throbbed with a strong pulsation from heart to heart of the parents, by any attempt to picture it to the mind. It was such as cannot be imagined, and is never described when felt. The disobedient child had no conception of its real character. Relieved beyond measure at finding kindness and apparent oblivion, where she had expected reproach, and perhaps abandonment — she fondly hoped that there was less of real objection in her parents' minds, and less of sorrow in their hearts, than she had anticipated. Fond delusion! Not long to last. For, even she soon noted a change in her parents, which a closer observer would have known to be the failing spirit, where the cherished hope was blighted. One hope, the future welfare of their child, had been the life-spring of their existence for years; that had failed, and now they drooped in spirit, and none had the power to comfort them.
Mary and her husband were at once invited to come home, and live there. But Morrison preferred going to house-keeping immediately, and Mary readily acquiesced, not considering for a moment, how lonely her parents would be, and how much it would have gratified them if they had spent a few months under the paternal roof, before starting fairly out into the world.
Morrison, I will merely say, in passing, was at this time a junior partner in a retail dry goods store. His interest was but small, however, and his income limited. He had been for some years a clerk in this store, and had recently been offered an interest, which he accepted. He was an expert salesman, and a ready man of business, though fond of worldly pleasure. His partners were of the same stamp of character, so that there were in the firm, no checks or balances. They could make money in good times — and well they knew how to spend it!
A house was taken at a high rent, and filled with showy and expensive furniture. Little taste or neatness was displayed in its selection or arrangement; but as there was the fashionable quantity of fancy tables, sofas and looking glasses, astral lamps and mantle ornaments, brussels carpets, etc., etc., it was all right. Into this, Mary was introduced, and installed as mistress. How fondly did she look around upon all these things, and congratulate herself upon having made so good a choice, notwithstanding the mistaken notions of her parents!
But they saw all with different eyes. Too many like beginnings they had witnessed — and too many sad endings. They feared that her husband's means could not sustain an outlay of several thousand dollars for furniture, and the cost of maintaining a style of living such as his commencement indicated. But they said nothing. Admonition, they knew would be vain.
Mrs. Morrison was soon lost in the giddy whirlpool of fashionable visiting, and fashionable ambition. There were many to court her society, and to flatter her vanity; and too soon the simple-minded, pure-hearted maiden — had become the flippant, pleasure-seeking woman of fashion — a follower of the frivolities of the thoughtless and giddy.
Nor had she gained this position, without paying its penalty of domestic infelicity. Not that her husband disapproved of any display or pleasure — but because, in the very nature of things, the minds that can take an ardent delight in these, cannot understand nor practice the gentle and reciprocal virtues which make the marriage life a happy one. Often did she weep in the silence of her own chamber, at the indifference of her husband, or at his unfeeling remarks, indulged in at times — without reflecting, that in the life they led, the domestic virtues had no time to spring up and grow.
The unhappy parents saw all this, and it added but another weight to those already too heavy for them to bear. The stamina of their minds was completely gone, and with it was fast going their physical health. They tried hard, for the sake of their child, to keep up, but in vain. Scarcely two years had passed since her marriage, when, yielding to the touch of the pale messenger — they closed their eyes upon a world of disappointment and sorrow.
Roused from her dream of mirthful delusion, at so unexpected an event — Mrs. Morrison had time to pause and call back her scattered senses. The period of seclusion and mourning, gave leisure for reflection, and she began to have a faint perception of the ultimate tendency of her present vain course of action. The more she thought about it — the more did she see her error; and the clearer she saw her error — the more distinctly was her heart made sensible that she could not fall back upon the real affection of her husband. This was a startling discovery, and one that when made to a woman's heart, awakens it to dream no more.
The very necessity for excitement, after the mourning season had passed, threw her again into fashionable life. She was gayer than ever, and as insincere and heartless in her fashionable professions — as the gayest and most heartless. The neglect and indifference of her husband, had nearly extinguished in her bosom all affection for him — they merelytolerated each other. Each pursued the course of action, and followed the pleasure that each thought best. But, though Mr. Morrison could thus pursue a course of pleasure, thoughtless of his wife — it was in vain for her to attempt to be happy in the mere excitements of fashionable visitings and mirthful assemblies. She was still a woman — and a woman's sphere is one of affection. She must love — or be miserable.
About this time, Mrs. Morrison became a mother. A new feeling took possession of her heart as she looked upon the dear emblem of innocence which rested in sweet unconsciousness upon her bosom; but she needed one who could share with her, the love she bore her child. Her husband would come to the bedside and look upon it, but he was too selfish even to care much for his own child!
When Mrs. Morrison was again able to mingle in society, she felt the same desire to court admiration, and share excitements, with the gayest of her fashionable acquaintances. Herlittle Emeline was too often left for hours in the care of a hired nurse, who felt but little real affection for the tender infant entrusted to her charge.
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