Volume II. The Wife CHAPTER 18.
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Three months more elapsed, when an event, looked for with hope and trembling anxiety, transpired. A new chord vibrated in Anna's heart, and the music was sweeter far in her soul's ear, than any before heard. She was changed. Suddenly she felt that she was a new creature. Her bosom was filled with deeper, purer, and tenderer emotions. She was amother! A babe had been born to her! A sweet pledge of love lay nestling by her side, and drawing its life from her bosom. She was happy — how happy cannot be told. A mother only can feel how happy she was on first realizing the new emotions that thrill in a young mother's heart.
As health gradually returned to her exhausted frame, and friends gathered around her with warm congratulations, Anna felt that she was indeed beginning a new life. Every hour her soul seemed to enlarge, and her mind to be filled with higher and purer thoughts. Before the birth of her babe, she suffered much more than even her husband had supposed, both in body and mind. Her spirits were often so depressed that it required her utmost effort to receive him with her accustomed cheerfulness at each period of his return. But, living as she did in the ever active endeavor to bless others — she strove daily and hourly to rise above every infirmity. Now, all was peace within — holy peace. There came a rest of deep, interior joy — which was sweet, unutterably sweet. Body and spirit entered into this rest. No wind ruffled the still, bright waters of her life. She was the same — and yet not the same.
"I cannot tell you, dear husband! how happy I am," she said, a few weeks after her babe was born. "Nor can I describe the different emotions which pervade my heart."
"Above all, is the mother blessed. She suffers much — her burden is hard to bear — the night is dark — but the morning that opens upon her is the brightest a human soul knows during its earthly pilgrimage. And no wonder. She has performed the highest and holiest of offices — she has given birth to an immortal being — and her reward is with her."
Hartley had loved his wife truly, deeply, tenderly. Every day, he saw more and more in her to admire. There was an order, truth, and harmony in her character as a wife, which won his admiration. In the few months they had passed since their marriage, she had filled her place to him, perfectly. Without seeming to reflect how she should regulate her conduct towards her husband, in every act of her wedded life she had displayed true wisdom, united with unvarying love. All this caused his heart to unite itself more and more closely with hers. But now, that she held to him the twofold relation of a wife and mother — his love was increased fourfold. He thought of her, and looked upon her, with increased tenderness.
"Mine, by a double tie," he said, with a full realization of his words, when he first pressed his lips upon the brow of his child, and then, with a fervor unfelt before, upon the lips of his wife. "As you have been a good wife — you will be a good mother," he added, with tender emotion.
Hereafter we must know Mrs. Hartley in the twofold character of wife and mother, for they are inextricably blended. Thus far, scarcely a year has passed since the maiden became the wife. But little presents itself in the first year of a woman's married history, of deep interest. Her life is more strongly marked internally than externally. She feels much, but the world sees little, and little can be brought forth to view. The little that we could present in the history of our gentle, true-hearted friend, with some strong contrasts, has been presented. Enough is apparent, we hope, to enable us to say to each young wife, "Go and do likewise." Enough to make all feel the loveliness of her example.
The change in her husband's external condition was good for them both. It tried their characters in the beginning, and, more than anything else that had occurred, made Hartley sensible of the real worth of a prudent and self-denying wife. Although months had elapsed since he was suddenly thrown down from a position so full of promise, into one comparatively discouraging to a man of an active, ambitious spirit — he still remained a clerk, with no prospect of rising above that condition. Had his wife seemed in the least degree to feel this change, it would have chafed him sorely. He would have been unhappy. But she was so cheerful and contented, and made everything so comfortable, and regulated her household expenses, without appearing to think about doing so, according to her husband's reduced income — that he was rarely ever more than half-conscious while at home, that he was not in the receipt of over one-third of his former income.
If we were to lift for the reader, a moment or two, the veil that hides Mr. Riston and his wife from the public eye — a very different picture from this would be seen. But we care not to do so.
The sayings and doings of Mrs. Riston have already filled more than a fair proportion of our pages. Their moral needs no further expositions to give them force.
Poor Florence Armitage has had reason, already, to repent of her marriage. But who will wonder at that? We may have cause to bring her again before the reader.
THE END.
Please read the last volume of Timothy Shay Arthur's trilogy, "The Mother".
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