Sweethearts and Wives CHAPTER 9.
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The mail on the next morning brought two letters for Mrs. Ellis, one from her agent, and one from Milnor. Grace also received a letter from her husband. Mr. Goodlow's letter was brief, explaining the condition of the banks as developed at their failure, the immediate disposal of her stocks, and the prices he had obtained for them. It was perfectly satisfactory to her mind as regarded the just action of her agent, and gave her much relief, as it contained the gratifying intelligence that she was not left penniless. Her letter from Milnor was mainly as follows:
"Mr. Goodlow has written the exact condition of your property. It is bad enough, but I am thankful that it is no worse! As far as Grace is concerned, there is a prospect of her interests being totally wrecked. Her guardian left for the South a week ago, and Mr. Goodlow seriously apprehends that, by the time he can return, or send a person to dispose of the stock, it will have fallen to eight or ten cents in the dollar; perhaps to nothing. For her sake, I deeply regret this; for my own, I care little. I possess health, education, talents, energy, and a thorough knowledge of my profession; and by these I can rise — and I will rise. While she had wealth, circumstances might have occurred to make her think that I had loved her for her gold; now it will be in my power to make her conscious that I have loved her for herself alone.
"As Westbrook is but a narrow sphere for action, I am strongly inclined to think that I ought to re-locate to Boston. What do you think? But I shall be home tomorrow afternoon, and then we will talk the matter over freely. I write to Grace by the same mail which takes this letter."
When Grace received her letter, she retired to her own room with a fluttering heart. It was the first she had ever received from Milnor, and it had come under trying and peculiar circumstances. A night, passed alone and almost sleeplessly, and crowded with far too many troubled thoughts, had caused the genuine affection which she entertained for her husband, to go out towards him with yearning tenderness. She even began to question the justice of her inference in regard to his love of her money, and had gone so far as to blame herself severely for her ungenerous suspicions, and still more ungenerous conduct towards him. In this state of mind, she broke the seal of her letter.
"My dear Grace." How refreshing to her spirit was the sight of these words, which she seemed to hear uttered in his own peculiar tones, and with touching pathos!
"My dear Grace," it began. "My letter to your aunt will explain the present state of her own, as well as your affairs. Half of her property has been saved; yours will probably be nearly all lost, on account of the absence of your guardian. To you, this cannot but be painful intelligence; to me, it is only painful on your account. I trust the effect will be to draw us closer, and unite us more firmly. It will cause you, I hope, to lean more confidingly upon me, and me to regard and cherish you with a tenderer interest. Externally, things will have to be changed. We shall have to sink into comparative obscurity, instead of moving in the highest circle. This may bring to you its trials, but the change will, in the end, be blessed, I am sure. It will bring to view, both in you and in myself, the very foundation of our characters. It will show us what we really are, and give us the power of struggling against all that may not be good and true.
"Since I left you this morning, I have thought much in regard to the future. I have confidence in myself, and feel that I possess the internal power, with the knowledge of my profession, to enable me to rise into eminence in a few years. But Westbrook is not the place for this. My true sphere is Boston; this I feel. When I return, which will be tomorrow afternoon, I will converse with you more freely upon this subject. I am sure you will see with me, and fully approve of our re-locating here at once, and this without regard to what may be the result of your guardian's action, when the news of these disastrous failures reaches him. But keep a cheerful heart. All will yet be well."
"Go to Boston to live!" exclaimed Grace, as she tossed the letter upon a table with a gesture of impatience. "Never! at least under circumstances as they now exist! I have lived in Boston as the daughter of Silas Harvey; I shall not go back there again as the obscure wife of a poor, fortune-seeking attorney!"
As she said this, she arose, much agitated, and commenced walking the floor uneasily. While thus engaged, her aunt opened her chamber door quietly, and came in.
"My dear child! what has Lewis written to agitate you so greatly?" she said, as soon as she observed the state of her niece.
"Did he write anything to you about re-locating to Boston?" asked Grace, looking steadily in her aunt's face.
"He did."
"Well, I will never go there! He may depend upon that! At least, not if I am reduced to beggary!"
"Do not talk so, Grace. If, upon mature deliberation, your husband thinks it best to re-locate to Boston, you ought to acquiesce cheerfully."
"I will not go there, aunt, if I am to go merely as the obscure wife of a humble attorney!" Grace replied, firmly. "What! go to Boston, where I have lived nearly all my life, and mingled with the best society there, and sink down into obscurity? Be passed with a toss of the head, a cold bow, or utter unconsciousness by my former associates? No! no! I have a little too much pride left for that, Aunt Mary! If I am to be cast down, let it be here, or in some Southern city where I am not known by anyone. But go to Boston — Never!"
"You have not truly loved your husband," Mrs. Ellis said, compressing her lips, and fixing her eyes upon Grace.
"If to love my husband, truly is to give up all natural feelings, and submit my will passively to his — then you are right, aunt. But no such sacrifice is required of any woman."
"But it is required that she should have such a confidence in her husband's judgment as to believe him right, even if his opinions are against her feelings; otherwise she ought not to have married him. No woman is justified in marrying a man, in the soundness of whose judgment in leading matters of life, she has not the fullest confidence."
"And then, if he tells her to walk through the fire barefoot with him, while he has heavy boots on — she must obey without a word of reluctance?"
"I did not say so, Grace."
"But my inference is just. Lewis can go to Boston, and live as humbly there as he chooses, without an unpleasant emotion. But not I! Would not such an existence in Boston, be to me a living death!"
"It need not be, Grace. It ought not to be."
"But it will be, if I go there. How would I feel, do you think, to meet Sarah Mitchell, or Mrs. Bannister, or Jane Palumbo, or a dozen or two others I could name?"
"It might not be pleasant, my child; but still, the dread of meeting them, and of having your changed condition exposed to them — would not be an evil half so great as your refusing to go there, when your husband clearly saw it right for him to establish himself in that city."
"I can't help it, Aunt Mary. To Boston I am resolved not to go, and I wish you would save me the pain of telling Lewis so plainly and distinctly."
"But, Grace — "
"Do not, let me beg of you, aunt, say one word more to me on the subject. I am satisfied in this pleasant little village. I will be content here with a little. To force me into Boston, then, would be an act of cruelty. If I am to be poor, obscure and rejected — let it be here."
"But it is with the end of elevating, ultimately, your condition, that Lewis wishes to go to Boston. He seeks a broader plane of operation for his talents."
"I do not wish any elevation — if it is to be attended with such sacrifices," Grace replied. "No matter how high I might afterward rise, I could never feel the same if I came in contact with old friends, and be shunned by them."
"There is nothing womanly in all this, Grace; nothing of the loving, self-renouncing wife; but much of the weakness of a child," Mrs. Ellis said, in a reproving voice. "Your conductpains me far more deeply than does the sudden reverses which have overtaken us."
"I am sorry for it, aunt, as far as your feelings are concerned, but no farther. I do not think that Lewis ought to have entertained the thought for a moment, of taking me to Boston. His own sense of justice to me, should have made him reject the idea the moment it came into his mind. If he cannot see this, and, therefore, will not permit himself to be governed by a consideration for my feelings — then I must protect myself. He will not find me a passive slave!"
The last two sentences were uttered with a degree of warmth that really startled Mrs. Ellis, and made her conscious that to oppose Grace in her present mood, would only be to confirm her state of mind, instead of bringing her out of it. She therefore gradually soothed down her chafed feelings, and then drew her off into some other subject.
On the morning after his first interview with Mr. Goodlow, Milnor called upon him again, and held a long conversation with him in regard to Boston as a suitable place to settle down in as a lawyer. Mr. Goodlow, who had taken a fancy to the young man from the first, said a good deal in favor of the measure, and held out, besides several fair inducements in regard to business which he could throw in his way, and that he could make for him with a number of men who were constantly requiring legal aid in some form or other. All this strengthened in the mind of Milnor, the much more than half-formed resolution to re-locate immediately to Boston. That Grace would have any very decided objection to going — he never for a moment supposed. Why would she? She had lived nearly her whole life in Boston, and would, no doubt, be well pleased to return — so hethought.
That afternoon he started for Westbrook, his mind more occupied during his ride home with the prospect of going to Boston, than with the condition of his wife's property. It was just dark when he came to his own door, eager to meet Grace, from whom he had parted on the previous day, with feelings of acute pain. The long hours that had passed since his separation from her, had made him conscious how deeply he loved her, and how necessary her presence and her smiles were to his happiness. Aunt Mary met him at the door. With her, he only passed a few words of greeting, and then hurried up to the chamber of his wife.
She heard his rapidly-ascending footsteps, and, rising from her chair, advanced to the middle of the room to meet him on his entrance. In the next moment, the door was swung widely open, and Milnor bounded into the room, drew his arm around Grace, and kissed her over and over again with the most earnest tenderness.
"Dear, dear Grace!" he murmured in her ear, "it has seemed almost a month since we parted. How slowly the time has passed!"
Grace did not reply, but, leaning her head against his bosom, gave way to a gush of tears.
For a few moments Milnor stood perplexed in thought, yet deeply sympathizing with his wife; for he understood, or thought that he understood, why her pleasure at meeting him was mingled with tears. At last he drew her towards a chair, and, seating himself by her side, said,
"Dear Grace! do not let any event in life, which leaves us each other, have power to make you unhappy. Only be cheerful, and I will ask of you no more. That cheerfulness will be strength to me in every undertaking, and will be my guarantee for success. I can and I will rise in the world. Give me only a few years, and I will bring you back the wealth that has so suddenly taken to itself wings and flown away."
There was a generous warmth in the heart of her husband, perceived so distinctly by his wife, that for a little while her own bosom felt the genial excitement, mingled with pride for the manly tone of her husband's mind; but self-love, and a weak, vain pride were active within her, and soon threw to the circumference these better feelings, and she checked the fervent response that was on her tongue.
"I have had a good deal of conversation with old Mr. Goodlow, Aunt Mary's agent, and he strongly advises me to re-locate to Boston. He says that he will — "
"Don't talk of Boston, Lewis! I never can go there," Grace said, with warmth.
"Why not? I thought you had a very decided preference for that city, as a place of residence?"
"Whatever I may have had — no such preference exists now. I would rather, a thousand times, remain here!"
There was an exhibition of such feeling, decision, and earnestness in the manner of Grace as she uttered this, that Milnor was too much surprised, and really confused in his thoughts, to be able to reply for some moments. Then he said, in a kind, persuasive tone,
"But if it is most for our interest to go there, as I seriously believe that it is, you will not certainly object?"
"Yes, positively! On that subject my mind is made up. I cannot go to Boston under present circumstances. I have lived there once, and have still a large circle of fashionable acquaintances. I cannot live there again, unless in the same style I lived in then."
"But, as circumstances have changed, no one would expect you to live in the same style."
"Though enough there would be, who would not expect to know me at all under these changed circumstances; or, if they did know me, it would only be to insult me with their coldness or their pity."
This was said with exceeding bitterness. Milnor was altogether surprised. He could scarcely believe that it was really Grace who was sitting by his side.
"Is not all that but a weakness on your part?" he said, with an earnest frankness that it would have been much better for both of them, if he had used long before their marriage. "What people may say or think of us, or even do to us — should never cause us to refrain from a right action."
Grace had already been chafed by her aunt's opposition in this very matter, and now she had but little control over herself. Her reply was brief, but to the point, and given with marked emphasis.
"Be that as it may, Lewis, you must say no more to me about Boston, for I will not go there!"
Never was Milnor more confounded by any declaration in his life. He did not know what reply to make. Wisely, however, he refrained from saying anything more upon the subject then. But he was as troubled, as he had never before been troubled in his life. The whole surface of his feelings was not thrown into agitation, as when he betrayed his disappointment at the loss of her property, to Grace — but there was a deep, depressing consciousness that he had deceived himself in regard to the true character of his wife. His conversations with his friend Williams came fresh to his recollection, as light to make more vividly apparent a defect that, had he acted with even a small share of wisdom, must have shown itself before.
Up to this time, he had never opposed her in anything, or ventured to have any preferences which were not hers. Her will, he had weakly and foolishly made his law in everything. It was only for her to express a wish or a preference — for him to feel a real pleasure in acquiescence. In minor things, this might all have been well enough, but not as a universal law governing between them; and this presented itself distinctly to his mind. There was also a perception that he could not now give up his judgment to his wife in matters ofimportance, unless she could meet him with sound reasons. To weaknesses and mere prejudices — he felt that it would be unjust both to himself and to her, for him to yield the sober convictions of his own mind.
But the error had been committed. He had flattered a weakness and encouraged a fault in Grace; and now that weakness and that fault of character had come into sudden activity, threatening to destroy the fair promise of his bridal morning.
He had discovered, far too soon, that the lovely being, whom he had fondly deemed as near perfection as possible, had serious defects of character, and such as impinged at once upon his own weaknesses, and at once aroused his own evils into far too active a state. A double trial, he would therefore have to endure. While patience and forbearance would have to be exercised towards his wife — he would have to be in vigorous contention with active evils in his own bosom, aroused by the very state of mind towards which forbearance had to be shown. This, and much more, passed in his thoughts during the night which followed his return from Boston, as he lay unable to sleep from the troubled restlessness of his mind.
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