The Young Lady CHAPTER 8.
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The single practical lesson enforced by sound precepts, which Cecilia had been willing to receive from Uncle Peter, opened her eyes to an entirely new view of life. Still, she saw but imperfectly; nevertheless the strong desire awakened to see life in its true relations, and to see and perform aright her duties, revealed, even under that imperfect vision — enough to inspire her with a degree of cheerfulness and confidence.
"It really warms my heart to see a smile on your lip, and light in your eye again, Cecilia," her husband said, as he sat by her side that evening, and played with the laughing babe in her lap.
"How thoughtless and selfish I have been, dear Theodore," Mrs. Merlin replied tenderly, looking him in the face, while her eye grew dim with the rising moisture. "But I will try for your sake, to be more cheerful and contented."
"How glad I shall be, my dear Cecilia! to see you again, even if circumstances are changed with us, less sorrowful than you have been for the last few weeks. Surely, we may be happy, even in our present altered condition! Our little ones are still left to us, and we have a comfortable home, although not surrounded with elegancies." And he kissed, tenderly, the cheek of his young wife.
Although, when married, Theodore Merlin was but a mere boy, with his rational mind just beginning its development — yet, in the few years that had passed since that event, he had become a man, and one of independent thought. Long before his business shared the fate of that of hundreds around him, he had ceased to feel interested in the hollow pretensions of fashionable life, and was fully sensible of their enervating and blinding influence. To him, then, the necessity which compelled them to retire into obscurity, was deeply painful only on account of his wife.
The true expression of pleasure that gave life to the tone, and animation to the countenance of her husband, was reflected back from the heart of Mrs. Merlin, and she felt lighter and happier than she had been since the day of her banishment from her luxurious home.
"I know," she said, after the tears of pleasure that her husband's affectionate words and act had called forth, had been dried, "that even here we may be happy. Uncle Peter has, in times past, often spoken to me of the delights to be found in the daily performance of duty — but it seemed to me a strange language. Now I understand something of his meaning. Though compelled to take upon myself many domestic duties — yet even while acting under the force of circumstances, I have felt something of the delight to which he has alluded. Still, when I find myself surrounded by circumstances so new and unexpected, and painfully conscious at the time, that I know really nothing of the way in which rightly to act in them, I feel discouraged."
As she said this her voice trembled, and she laid her head upon her husband's shoulder. Tears once more came to her eyes, and stole out upon her cheeks. These were kissed away tenderly, and a few soothing and encouraging words spoken, that soon restored Cecilia to calmness and peace.
When tea was ready, and the servant had withdrawn, Mr. and Mrs. Merlin drew up to the table, each experiencing a feeling of quiet enjoyment to which they had before been strangers. There was now no waiter, as before, to hand the tea from a side-table, and perform even the most trifling offices, for his apparently almost helpless master and mistress. Mrs. Merlin poured out the tea, and each noted and endeavored to supply the little needs of the other.
"We may be happy even here," Mr. Merlin said, while a smile lit up his countenance.
"I feel now that we may," his wife replied, her heart warming with an emotion of real pleasure. "And, perhaps, much happier. But, before this can take place, I shall have a great deal to learn. Hitherto I have thought only of pleasure and show. Now, when I begin to feel desirous of discharging my duties as a wife and mother, I find myself altogether unfitted for the station."
"But you will learn all in good time," Mr. Merlin said, encouragingly.
"I hope so. And yet even to hope seems vain. What do I know? Really nothing of household affairs — and yet neither my husband nor children can be rendered comfortable — unless through my knowledge of and active participation in these."
"We will be very indulgent," Mr. Merlin returned, smiling. "Not one of your shortcomings shall be noticed by me. All I will ask is, that you try to be cheerful."
"As that is the least I can do for so kind a husband, I will try," Cecilia said in a trembling voice.
A pause of a few minutes ensued, when she resumed in a livelier, but earnest tone, while a smile played about her lips —
"I want you to buy me a cooking-book, and one on domestic economy, Theodore."
"Indeed! Then you are going to work in real earnest?"
"I am. To finish the education that I had vainly imagined was completed years ago."
"You have changed suddenly, Cecilia," her husband remarked in some surprise.
"Not before a change was required, you will say. Well, perhaps not. I had a visit from Uncle Peter today, and for the first time in my life, I perceived that what I had always been disposed to call singularities of thought, and old-fashioned notions — to be only good common sense. Suddenly, the scales seemed to fall from my eyes, and I saw everything around me under a new aspect, and with new relations. And I felt that it was possible to be happy even in this, our fallen condition. But, not unless I entered into, and performed cheerfully, the duties that this condition required of me. To enter into these, however irksome they may at first be, I am now resolved, trusting to find my reward in them."
"And you will most certainly find your reward, dear Cecilia!" her husband replied, with emotion.
"I trust that I shall — I know that I shall," the wife replied, with animation.
"And yet, my dear Cecilia, you must not, under the warming and encouraging influence of this new impulse, forget that old habits are not to be laid aside all at once, and new duties assumed without, like a new garment, their pressing somewhere, and perhaps with much pain. I say this, in order to prepare your mind for the states that must inevitably return, and under which you cannot but experience feelings of discouragement. Do not be cast down in spirits when these come upon you. Do not sit down and indulge in feelings of despondency, but at once enter into some known duty, and fix your mind upon its faithful performance."
"I will try to act right, and I will try to feel right."
"The trial will be a successful one, though it be accompanied with much wearisomeness and much reluctance."
"It is strange how a little thing will sometimes alter our whole train of thought, and fill our minds with new motives to action," Mrs. Merlin said, after a brief silence. "When Uncle Peter came in this morning, I never felt so outdone and heart-sick in my life. But a few words from him, and a little instruction in a plain duty that I almost despaired of performing, coming as they did just at the right time, awoke my mind to new activity. It seemed as if a light had suddenly broken in upon my mind. I saw everything around me, and my own position, with other eyes than those I had hitherto observed with. What an idle and useless life I have led!"
"Both of us, my dear Cecilia, will, I trust, prove the words of a sweet poet to be true —
"The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower."
We were living a false life. Hereafter may we see more clearly, and live with better ends."
After the tea-things were cleared away, Mr. and Mrs. Merlin passed the evening in pleasant conversation, mutually strengthening each other in good resolutions. From that time, a new era was begun in the life of Cecilia. The books she had desired were brought; and as one of them discussed, at length, the practical duties of the wife and mother, she read it, and studied it with the most careful attention, consenting to, and imbuing her mind with its principles. Now, her rational mind, that had for years been covered up and rendered inactive by artificial habits, and artificial modes of thought — found a healthy development. She was not by nature weak, effeminate, and helpless — a sound mental constitution had been warped and twisted into a conventional shape, the stays once fully removed, and thrown aside — a healthy action supervened, and the artificial lady of fashionbecame the Woman.
But it must not be supposed that this healthy action was at once full and perfect, or that the change caused no pain. Habit had rendered old customs and modes of thought almost necessary — violence to these could not be otherwise than painful. But as new customs and modes of thought took the place of older ones, the machinery of the mind moved on again, and gradually harmony of motion was acquired by the whole. Still, the process was slow, and marked by many seasons of discouragement, reluctance, and painful despondency. Unused to any kind of fatiguing labor, that which now devolved upon her, in the care of her children, and a general supervision of her household, was, for a time, so severe as almost to make her sink under it.
"I really feel, sometimes, as if I must give up," she said one day to Uncle Peter, who had called in, as he frequently did, to drop a word of encouragement. "No one knows how exceedingly tired I become, almost every day, with the care of my three children, all of whom need constant attention."
"Still, with this constant attention to your children and family concerns, do you not feel that such employment is equally as reputable as a constant round of idle visitings, in which no real good is given or received?"
"O, yes — and that it is far more so. I have often thought lately how utterly wasted my time has been since I left school. I did no real good to anyone, and retrograded, instead of advancing. I vainly thought that there was nothing more for me to do or to learn."
"And there, my child, lies the fatal error of thousands. How glad I am that you see it so clearly! Young ladies go to school to learn — that is the end which is had in view, not the means to an end. When they have finished their education, as it is called, there the matter rests. They have nothing more to do but to get married, and spend their time in idleness."
"A true picture. I do not now remember a single young lady who was in the same class with me at school, who seemed to have an idea of turning to any useful purpose, the rudiments of an education which she was acquiring. She expected to be valued because she was educated; and that was the impulse which caused her to study."
"All these, for active life, when they enter into its walks, are literally good for nothing," Uncle Peter said with some warmth.
"As, for instance, your niece Cecilia, with her finished education," Mrs. Merlin remarked, with a smile.
"We will except her now," Uncle Peter said, smiling in return, "although she was well near spoiled. But you complained a few minutes ago, of feeling exceedingly fatigued, and almost discouraged, sometimes."
"Indeed I do."
"A nurse or chambermaid will often go through much more than now falls to your lot, and all the while seem cheerful, and rarely fatigued."
"O yes. I have often seen women, who were really far more delicate than I am, attending to three or four children, and bearing with the confinement of a nursery — and yet always cheerful, and never worn down, as I sometimes am."
"And why was this?"
"Because they were used to it. I must get used to it, I suppose."
"But they were cheerful?"
"I do not know that I could explain to you the reason of that, unless it be to say, that they had no ideas above their condition."
"That will not fully explain the matter, Cecilia. Many of these people have others dependent upon them — an aged mother, perhaps, or an invalid sister. All have some end in view. And it is in the effort to attain this end, that they give their services to others for wages. The consciousness that in their labor resides the means to the end they desire, makes them perform that labor with ease and cheerfulness. And to increase this cheerfulness is the affection which, as nurses, they feel for the children committed to their care, or as servants to the families in which they reside."
"And what end should I have in view, to make me cheerful? Sometimes I feel as if in this regular routine of care, I was wasting my time. And then I can see no end to it. No resting-place ahead."
"No time is wasted in which we perform some use to others," Uncle Peter replied. "You ask what end you should have in view? The good of your children, and the comfort and health of your husband. What nobler or more inspiring motives could anyone have to action? Are you not willing to devote your every effort to them? Surely such an end is a worthy one!"
"I see it, I feel," Mrs. Merlin replied, after a thoughtful pause.
"Try then, Cecilia, to keep such thoughts ever before your mind. When you feel disposed to flag in your exertions, think of your children, and how they demand your every care and exertion. Think, too, of your husband, how he is ever toiling both for you and them, and resolve to share and, if possible, lighten his labors. In such a work of love, how rich will be the reward your heart will reap."
Thus did Uncle Peter endeavor to impart new motives and new power, and his effort was not in vain. Necessity is an excellent teacher — and so Mrs. Merlin found. Even when disposed to relax her efforts and give way to disheartening thoughts, necessity prompted to action. And so by a power that she could not resist, was she kept walking in the right path, until her feet became used to the new and uneven way. At the end of the first year that passed after the change in her husband's circumstances, Mrs. Merlin had become tolerably well versed in household affairs; and what was still better, was able to perceive that her duty lay in an attention to them. Her constant cheerful performance was a much harder lesson to learn. But in this, too, was she making some progress, slow, to be sure, but steady.
A year's experience, with her thoughts and affections running in new currents during that period, had done much for the young wife and mother. Yet had she suffered deeply, at times, from the loneliness consequent upon a separation from those with whom she had long held pleasant fellowship. Mrs. Melrose had been thrown in her way three or four times during the year — but had recognized her only once, and then in a very cold, indifferent manner. This disturbed her mind, in spite of all her reasonings and indignant contempt of such hollow-heartedness.
"I could not have believed that there was so much around me that was really false — so many professions of regard that were no better than sounding brass," she remarked to Uncle Peter, in allusion to the conduct of Mrs. Melrose.
"Mrs. Melrose is not a fair sample of the social circle in which you moved."
"Still, not more than one or two of my old acquaintances have seemed to remember the fact of my existence."
"This may not arise altogether from the fact that they were false in their former professions of regard."
"If they had been true, would any change in my circumstances have affected them?"
"Perhaps you will better understand this matter, if I call your attention to a fact or two. You remember how intimate you and Sarah Minturn were at one time?"
"Yes."
"You were much attached to her I believe."
"I was truly. I don't know any friend for whom I had a more sincere regard, than I had for her."
"Very well. You remember the brilliant but brief career of her husband? How he flashed before our eyes for a little while, attracting the notice of everyone, and then sunk down into obscurity and insignificance."
"O yes. And sadly grieved was I for poor Sarah. My heart ached for her for months afterwards."
"Still, if I am not mistaken, you never visited her once in her obscure, condition?"
Cecilia's face reddened at this allegation, and she was so confused for some moments that she could not reply. At length she said — "What you say is true, Uncle. And yet I do not think my reason for not continuing to visit her was grounded in the respect I had entertained for her station, instead of her character. Indeed, I am sure it was not; for I remember that so much was I affected with sympathy for her, that I was troubled whenever a thought of her crossed my mind. Many and many an hour have I lain awake, thinking of her humbled and deeply trying condition. And yet I never saw her after her husband's failure. The false views I entertained in regard to social fellowship, no doubt had their influence with me; but the principal reason why I never sought her out in her humble and secluded state, was the instinctive consciousness I felt, that to see her under all the circumstances would only add to her mortification and distress. It would have been impossible for me truly to have sympathized with her. My presence therefore, would have been more oppressive than consoling. And more than all that — those who sink down from a high place are sensitive. Pride may be wounded — when only kindness is meant."
"Are you not willing to suppose," Uncle Peter said, as Cecilia paused, "that among many of those with whom you were once intimate, similar feelings may exist in regard to you?"
"Perhaps your inference is just."
"I know that it is."
"How do you know that it is?" Cecilia asked, in a tone of surprise.
"I know so from the best of reasons. You are frequently inquired after."
"Me! — by whom?"
"Certainly, you! And by many of your former friends, some of whom frequently express a desire to see you, but hesitate to call upon you, lest their visit be fraught with much more pain than pleasure."
"How do you know all this, Uncle Peter?" was asked with a still stronger expression of surprise.
"In the plainest way. Such inquiries are often made to me."
"To you! Who among my old friends do you meet?"
O, a good many of them. There is Mrs. Hartley. I call in every week or two, to see her. She always inquires after you. And there is your old particular friend and school-mate, Mrs. Craven, who never was quite so silly as the majority of those who are polished off at your finishing shop. I see her frequently, and also a good many others whom I could name."
"But you never mentioned this to me before, Uncle?"
"I never had occasion to do so. Besides, I did not suppose my continuing to visit among my old friends and acquaintances would be a matter of surprise to you, or any one else. Why should it?"
"I don't know — but — but — "
"But you thought, because your position in society had depended upon your husband's and your father's wealth, that mine rested upon no surer foundation. Or perhaps something had induced you to believe that I was received into society and tolerated for your sakes. If such were your ideas — know, now, that they were erroneous. Your downfall has made no difference with me. It has not cost me a friend that I valued."
Mrs. Merlin was surprised, and silent.
"Mrs. Hartley," continued the old man, "often asks after you, and is really as familiar with your history since what you sometimes erroneously call your misfortunes, as I am myself. She has often desired to call upon you, but I have never encouraged her to do so."
"Uncle Peter!"
"It is true, my dear girl! But I had my reasons, as you may suppose."
"Your reasons? But, what possible reasons could you have for not wishing Mrs. Hartley to call upon me?"
"Reasons which even now I am afraid you are not fully prepared to understand, and so I shall not give them."
"But, Uncle — "
At this moment the servant threw open the door of Mrs. Merlin's single, small parlor, where she sat with Uncle Peter, and announced the subject of their conversation, who stood just behind her, and advanced into the room the instant her name was mentioned.
'"Mrs. Hartley!" ejaculated Cecilia, starting to her feet, with a face that had become instantly flushed.
"My dear Cecilia!" returned her old friend, quickly approaching and embracing her. "Let me twice crave your pardon — once, for having so long delayed this visit; and then for having, even at this period, forced myself into your quiet seclusion."
The tears came into Mrs. Hartley's eyes as she said this, while her voice trembled so that she could scarcely finish the sentence.
"I have never ceased to think of you, my dear friend," she at length resumed, "since your sudden and distressing removal from that circle in which we had so long enjoyed pleasant fellowship. You may have thought yourself forgotten; but your kind old Uncle here knows better, and I hope has often told you better. From him I have learned all about your trials, and the heroic courage with which you have met them. And to him I have never failed to express a wish to see you. But (and I must blame him for it) I never could get him to say that he thought that you would be glad to see me. And I have come at last in spite of him."
"Why, Uncle Peter!" exclaimed Cecilia, reproachfully, "this is, indeed, too bad!"
"Scold away, child!" the old man rejoined, laughing with delight Until the tears streamed down his face — "I can bear it all."
"But, indeed, I think you were not kind," Mrs. Hartley now said, as she seated herself with Mrs. Merlin's hand within her's. "Cecilia has had a year of sore trial, during which the counsel and affectionate sympathy of a friend would have been everything to her. To deny her even this consolation and support in her trouble, was hardly right in you."
"All's well that ends well,"returned the old man, half-gravely.
"And so even Cecilia will think before she dies, I hope. She needed some severe discipline, and I was perfectly willing that she should receive it. It has done her good. It has taken the scales from her eyes. It has brought out the woman. Uncle Peter knows what he's about. And whether everybody thinks it right or not, he will have his own way. But as you have come, even before I advised you to do so, but still at the best time, I will leave you alone with Celia. Women are women, and like a little closet gossip now and then. So good bye. But, mind, Mrs. Hartley," added the old man, laughing, as he held the door in his hand — " Don't mar all that a year has done for my little niece with your tittle-tattle."
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