The Prodigal Daughter CHAPTER 5.
Back to The Prodigal Daughter
It was five years from the period at which occurred the scenes detailed in the last chapter, that Alice sat, sewing, near the hour of midnight, in a meagerly furnished room of a small house in Washington. In one corner, sleeping soundly on an old quilt, with a bundle of rags for a pillow, lay a little boy, about four years old. An infant slept in an old cradle, that had been bought second hand somewhere, to which ever and always, the young mother gave a slight motion with her foot.
And Alice, what of her? A sad, sad change had, alas! passed over her sweet young face — that was now pale and thin, and wore an expression of sorrowful endurance. The quality of the garment upon which she wrought with hurried industry, indicated, in comparison with her own apparent condition, that she was working for money. And such was really the case.
Through many heart-searching and heart-aching changes, the years had worn away, until the present time years, whose history was engraved in lines of suffering and sorrowwhich were too visible upon her brow and cheeks, and looked mournfully from her still bright eyes, shadowed ever, except at brief intervals, by their drooping lids. The records of those years, as indicating her awakening to the realities of a changed and almost hopeless life, would occupy us too long, and only add emotions of pain to the painful ones which must be excited in tracing onward her checkered course.
It is sufficient to say, that her young heart's ardent promises proved altogether fallacious. That soon her husband's true character of unfeeling selfishness stood revealed to her in a light that destroyed even a lingering hope that the estimation might be a false one. His humble condition in life would have given her little cause of unhappiness; for the young affections of her heart, luxuriant in their growth, had already entwined themselves about him. All she would have asked would have been a tender and constant return for the pure and fervent love she gave. But this he could not give. The end which he had in view, was not realized; and he was too selfish to fall back and be satisfied with the wealth of affection that was ready to be poured out upon him — when gross, material riches, were all he had sought after, or really cared for.
And here let us pause, and drop a word or two, in the form of general principles, which may not be without a good effect upon such as have minds evenly balanced, and thus capable of acting, in some degree, from the promptings of rational thought. The end which anyone has in view, will, of course, influence, modify, and enter into all his actions. It will govern him not only in the pursuit of an object, but in his enjoyment of it in possession.
This principle, we shall apply to the subject of marriage, as one of the first importance, and as naturally growing out of our story. Happiness in the married state results, and results only, from mutual affection. Just so far as this affection is not perfectly reciprocal — just so far will unhappiness result from the union. This is an immutable law, founded in the very nature of things. Whatever then, in the motives which induce marriage, is foreign to this, is so much of an alloy to true felicity, and will always be felt as such. No matter in which party the base motive exists, (we call it base in contradistinction to the purer principle,) whether in the woman or the man — the result will be equally fatal to the happiness of both.
The real motives of anyone lie quite interior, and are not always apparent to the individual himself; to ascertain them, requires some degree of self-exploration. Thus, a man or a woman, in deciding to marry, may think that the love which is felt, is the strongest motive for the union — whereas one, or even both, may have a motive so concealed, as hardly to be self-acknowledged — that leads all other motives. This may be a love of wealth — a simple admiration of the beautiful — a desire for elevation and distinction in society — the anticipated pleasures of a high intellectual fellowship, without reference to moral perfections — or some motive of a kindred spirit.
If any of these govern, the marriage cannot be perfectly happy, because they are base in comparison with the high and holy affection which should rule in marriage unions, and make these subordinate. How necessary is it then, for each one to determine, for himself, what his own ends are; and also endeavor to ascertain, as far as possible, the end of the one he proposes to unite with.
The end which William Anderson proposed to himself, was the gaining possession of a portion of Mr. Melleville's property, for selfish gratification. Disappointed in this, the feeble flame of affection which had been kindled for Alice, soon expired. Had he obtained the money he sought, its possession would have been as fatal to the incipient love that was germinating in his mind, as had been his disappointment. Thoroughly selfish, he would have pursued the broader field of gratification which wealth afforded him, with but little consideration for the woman to whom he owed his elevation.
And so it will be in all the varieties of false principles that govern in marriages. If the real end which a woman has in view in deciding to marry a man, is to obtain a position in society, and enjoy the luxuries and refinements that wealth affords — it is hardly to be expected that, in case of reverses, she will share her husband's changed lot with contentment and increased affection. Nor will she, influenced by such a base and selfish principle, be satisfied to see others occupying a rank far above her. Envy on the one hand, anddisappointment on the other — would both be fatal to marital love.
And again, but we need not amplify. The hints we have given are enough for the wise. We now return to our story.
Alice had not seen her husband for several months, and all the burden of providing for the needs of her children, devolved upon herself. He had become idle and debauched, and had gone off to Baltimore under the pretense of obtaining a situation, and she had not since heard of him. On the night in which she is again presented to the reader, her thoughts were more than usually occupied about her husband. Many of the first emotions of tenderness which she had felt for him, returned upon her, and pity for his wretched abandonment of himself, mingled with her kindling affection. As the time wore on, she would sometimes pause, involuntarily, and listen, as if for the sound of his approaching footsteps. Then she would become conscious that she was listening in vain, and resume her wearisome duties.
At last, the impression that he was near became so strong, that she could sew but a few minutes without pausing to listen. All at once, her heart gave a sudden bound, as her quick ear detected in the sound of hurrying footsteps, her husband's familiar tread. The sound was distant, but it neared rapidly, and soon it became apparent that others were in quick pursuit. Nearer and nearer came the sounds, and more and more agitated did the lone wife become. She laid down her work quietly, went to the door, drew back the bolt, lifted the latch, and stood with the door in her hand, her heart answering with a quick bound to every hurried footfall. The sounds came nearer and nearer still, were at the very door, which she swung open, when in bounded her husband, pale, bloody, and frightened.
"Shut the door, Alice, for Heaven's sake!" he cried.
It was closed, bolted and locked in a moment, but not an instant sooner than were his pursuers on the spot, who, finding him safely housed, vented a few loud threats and curses, and then went away.
"O, William, what is the matter?" asked his wife, in a tone of tender anxiety.
"A minute later and I would have been murdered!" he ejaculated. "How fortunate it was, that you opened the door for me when you did."
"It was Heaven's mercy, not mine," she said, meekly.
"But you are bloody, William," she continued, her pale face blanching, "are you much hurt?"
"O, no. It's only a scratch. I'm safe and sound enough. I came to the city tonight, and dropped into a tavern on the avenue for a little while. Some men were playing cards, and I took a hand just for amusement. I won at every game, until I broke them all, and then they tried to pick a quarrel with me. One of them called me a cheat, when I knocked him down. Then they all fell on me, and I barely escaped being murdered. They were so angry, that if they had got their hands on me, I am sure they would have killed me. But I've won fifty dollars," he added, exultingly, throwing the money upon the table, near which he had seated himself.
"And a gambler, too!" were the words that formed themselves in Alice's thoughts — but she uttered no reproof. Her heart sank within her at the idea, (although she had experienced enough already to know that her husband possessed little, if any true affection for her,) that, after an absence of months, during which he had not once heard from his family, he could return to the city, and seek first to mingle with old, corrupt associates, rather than search out the wife and little ones he had left to suffering and poverty. But she did not chide him, or in any way allude to his selfish neglect.
"How have you been, William?" she asked, kindly, after the first silence that followed the hurried interest of his return.
"I've not been well, Alice," he said. "I went to Baltimore in hopes of getting a good situation there in a store, but was disappointed. I didn't write to you, for I had nothing to write, and nothing to send to you. And then I was taken sick, and it was several weeks before I could get about again. At last I got a place in a store, and now I have come for you and the children. I hope we shall have better times. But how is James and little Alice? And how have you gotten along?"
"The children are not very well, William," his wife said, while her voice trembled, and the moisture gathered in her eye. "Poor little things! James has missed you so much! He asks every day, 'when will father come home?'"
"Well, I won't leave you any more, Alice," he said, with pretended feeling. But the disguise was too thin to deceive a woman's heart, yearning for a true affection. "Tomorrow we will get ready and go to Baltimore," he added.
"But have you a good situation there, William?" inquired his wife, anxiously. I am just beginning to get known here by a few kind people, who give me now as much sewing as I can do. If we go to Baltimore, and your situation should not prove a permanent one — I shall be in a strange place, and not able to get any work to do. I could not bear to hear little James begging and crying again for something to eat — and not a mouthful in the house!"
This touching allusion to former sufferings, seemed to irritate rather than soften William Anderson.
"O, that's all past!" he replied, impatiently waving his hand. "And let the past go! I know what I am about; and I tell you that my situation is a good one, and permanent too, and will yield us plentifully."
"You know best," Alice said, with a meek, patient look of endurance. "If you say so, I am ready to go there."
"Very well. We will pack up our things tomorrow, and put them on board ship, and then go off in the coach."
"But what will we do when we get there, William?"
"Board, of course, until our things arrive," was the dogmatic answer.
On the next morning, sure enough, Anderson commenced packing up his things for the purpose of removing to Baltimore. Alice assisted with an air of patient resignation. Her manner, and the expression of her eyes and face, showed plainly that she was looking up for sustaining power. Earthly hope and promised happiness had failed; and now, desiring to live for her children, she turned, in her feebleness of spirit, to the Strong One to sustain her in her duties.
In two days they were on their way to Baltimore, where Alice met again, the suffering stranger's lonely heart, as her portion.
Back to The Prodigal Daughter