Volume II. The Wife CHAPTER 2.
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"You are going to housekeeping, I hear," said Mrs. Riston, a young friend, about a week after the conversation mentioned in the preceding chapter had taken place. Mrs. Riston had called in to see Anna, whose acquaintance she had recently made.
"Yes," was the smiling reply.
"You'll be sorry for it."
"Why so?"
"Oh, it will bring you into a world of trouble. My husband has been teasing me to death about going to housekeeping ever since we have been married. But I won't hear to it."
"That is strange. I thought every married woman would like to be in her own house."
"Oh dear! no. I know dozens who would throw houses and all into the river if they could. It makes a slave of a woman, Mrs. Hartley. She is tied down to a certain routine of duties of the most irksome nature; and this, day in and day out, the year round. And what is worse, instead of her duties growing lighter, they are constantly increasing."
"But all these duties it is right for her to perform, is it not?"
"Not if she can get out of them, or delegate their performance to someone else, as I do. In a boarding-house you pay for having all this trouble taken off your hands. And I think our husbands may just as well pay for it as not. I have no notion of being a slave. I did not marry to become a mere drudge, so to speak, to anyone."
"It is a question in my mind, Mrs. Riston, whether it is right to delegate the duties which we are competent to perform," was Anna's mild reply.
"All nonsense! Get out of doing everything you can. At the best, you will have your hands full."
"No doubt I shall find plenty to do; but my labor will be lightened by the consciousness that it is done in order to make others happy."
"Others happy! Oh, ha! Who'll try to make you happy, I wonder?"
"My husband, I hope," said Anna, gravely.
"Humph! You will see. Husbands aren't the most unselfish creatures in the world. I believe they are not proverbial for sacrificing much to the happiness of their wives."
Anna felt shocked at this. But her young friend did not notice the effect her words produced, and continued to run on.
"You had better take my advice, and tell your husband, as I have told mine over and over again — that you are not going to become a domestic slave for him or anybody else."
Anna shook her head.
"Well! Just as you like. If you will go to housekeeping, so be it. It won't hurt me. Have you picked out your house yet?"
"We haven't exactly decided. Mr. Hartley thought, at first, of taking a very beautiful house in Walnut Street, at a rent of seven hundred dollars a year."
"But very soon thought better of it, I have no doubt."
"If I had not objected — he would have taken it."
"You objected? Why so?"
"I thought it would involve more expense and style than two young folks like us ought to indulge in."
"Upon my word! But you are a novice in the world! This is the first instance that has occurred among all my acquaintances, of such a thing as a wife objecting to style and expense. Precious few of us get the chance, I can assure you! And you'll soon wish, or I am mistaken, that you had taken your good man at his word!"
Anna felt a glow of indignation at this reflection upon her husband. But she forced herself to appear unmoved, merely replying,
"No, I shall never wish that. I shall never have any need, in his power to supply, that will not be readily met."
"So you may think now. But take my advice, and don't put any prudential and stingy notions into your husband's head. If he wants to carpet your floors with gold, let him do it. He'll never hurt himself by spending money on you or his household. Men rarely, if ever, do, let me tell you. As they grow older, they get to be tighter and tighter with their money, until, at last, you can get scarcely anything at all. The best time is at first. The first few years of marriage is the only golden harvest time a woman ever sees."
"You have not been married long enough to speak all this from experience."
"I have seen a good deal more of life than you have, child; and I have had my own experience. As far as it goes, it can witness fully to what I have said. And yet my husband is as good as the rest, and much better than the mass. I love him about as well, I suppose, as most women love their husbands; though I don't pretend to be blind to his faults. But what kind of a house do you prefer, seeing that the elegant one in Walnut Street is rather costly and stylish?"
"There is a house vacant close by. Perhaps you noticed the notice as you came up Eighth Street."
"Just around the corner?"
"Yes, the rent is three hundred dollars."
"Mrs. Hartley!"
"It is a very good house, and quite genteel, with a great deal more room than we need."
"But, my dear, good madam, it is nothing but an ordinary house, built to rent. There is nothing elegant about it. Don't refuse to take the one in Walnut Street for so common an affair as this, if you can get it. Always go in for the best."
"I have been through it, and find it replete with every convenience for a moderate sized family. I have no wish to make a display. That could render me no happier. I go to housekeeping, because I think it right to take my true place as the mistress of a family; and for no other reason. Here I could be happy, without a care. On Walnut Street, I would be out of my true sphere."
"You are certainly the strangest creature I ever met," replied Mrs. Riston. "But a few years will take all this nonsense out of you."
The displeasure felt by Anna at Mrs. Riston's insinuations against her husband, began to give way, as she saw more clearly the lady's character, and began to understand that, although there was a good deal of earnestness in what was said, there was much more of talk for talk sake. She, therefore, merely replied in a laughing voice to Mrs. Riston's last remark, and sought to change the subject. Before they parted, the friend could not help saying —
"But, my dear Mrs. Hartley, I cannot get over your refusing that elegant house in Walnut Street. I would like, above all things, to see you in just such a dwelling, elegantly furnished. If I had refused the splendid offer that you did in Herbert Gardiner, I'd show him that I had lost nothing."
This very indelicate and ill-timed remark, caused the blood to rush to the brow of Anna, and her eyes to flash with honest indignation. Her volatile friend saw that she had gone a little too far, and attempted to make all right again, by begging "a thousand pardons." Anna's external composure soon returned, but she sought to change, entirely, the subject of conversation. But, in spite of all she could do, the lady would, ever and always, have something disparaging to say about husbands, and gently insinuate that Anna herself, before she was many years older, would find that all was not gold which glittered.
The warmth of Anna's feeling, gradually, in spite of herself, passed off, as she continued to converse with Mrs. Riston, until she became constrained in her manner. This affected her visitor, who perceived, with a woman's intuition, that her sentiments had not met with the approval they too often did from her lady friends. She tried, before she went away, to soften some things she had said, and laugh at others as having been uttered in jest. After Mrs. Riston's departure, Anna sat in a thoughtful mood for some time. The remarks she had just listened to, shocked her feelings more and more, the more she reflected on them.
"Can there be any happiness," she mused, "in marriage thus viewed? — in the marriage relation thus perverted? I can conceive of none. To me, such a union would be, of all things, a condition most miserable. No unity of sentiment or end — no confidence — no self-sacrifice for each other's good; but restrictions on the one hand, andencroachments on the other. Ah me! It makes me shudder to think of woman in circumstances so deplorable. To me death would be a thousand times preferable!"
While thus musing, another visitor called. It was Florence Armitage, whom the readers of the "Maiden" will remember. Since the severe lesson her heart had received, Florence was a good deal changed. Her thoughtlessness, which had come near involving her in a whole lifetime of misery; and her escape, effected by an incident at once strange and thrilling in its character, made her feel humble and thankful. She visited Anna frequently, and profited much more than formerly by her truthful precepts and life so purely accordant with all right principles.
On this occasion, Anna saw, after a few moments, that her friend was slightly agitated.
"You seem disturbed, Florence. What is the matter?" she said.
The color deepened on the maiden's face.
"Two things have disturbed me," she replied. "Who do you think I met in the street, just now?"
"I cannot tell."
"William Archer!"
"You did?"
"Yes. And he paused, as we approached each other, evidently with the design of speaking."
"But you did not speak to him?"
"No."
"In that, I need scarcely say, you were right. Your own heart will tell you that."
"And yet, Anna, I confess to you, that I was tempted to do so."
"Florence!" Anna's voice and countenance expressed strongly the surprise she felt.
"Do not condemn me until you hear all; until you know the cause of disturbance. I received a letter from him yesterday."
"Which you immediately returned, unanswered."
"No, I did not feel sure that I ought to do so, until I had seen and conversed with you about it."
"What does he say?"
"Here is his letter; read it."
Anna shrunk from touching the epistle, which Florence held towards her.
"Read it aloud, if you particularly wish me to know its contents," she merely said.
Florence did as requested. The letter contained a most solemn denial of charges brought against the writer by a certain individual, who was, he said, evidently not in her right mind, and whose statements should at least be taken with great caution. He knew that rumor had been busy with his name, and had magnified his faults into crimes; "and how easy it is," he urged, "to blast any man's character by false charges, if he is not permitted to refute them;" — with much more of the same tenor. Altogether, the letter was written with tact, force, and an air of great plausibility, and well calculated to create a doubt as to the correctness of the judgment which the general voice had passed upon him. He did not, he said, purpose to renew his suit for the hand of Florence; for that, he was well assured, would be useless. But, it was a duty he owed to himself and society to at least make an attempt tovindicate his character, and in the highest quarter.
After Florence had read the letter, she looked inquiringly into the face of Mrs. Hartley. Anna returned her steady look, but made no remark.
"There is, at least, an appearance of truth about this letter," Florence at length said.
Mrs. Hartley compressed her lips and shook her head, but did not speak.
"I am afraid, Anna, that you sometimes suffer your prejudices to obscure the otherwise clear perceptions of your mind."
"I trust that I have but few prejudices, Florence. Still, I am but a weak and erring mortal, and may fall into wrong judgments of others."
"We are all liable to err, Anna."
"True. But, if a woman's heart is in the right place — that is, has a love for all that is innocent and virtuous, and a deep abhorrence of everything opposite to these — she will not be very liable to form an erroneous judgment of any man who approaches her, no matter how many semblances of virtue he may put on. As for me, I do not pretend to have very acute perceptions, but from William Archer, you well know, I always shrunk with instinctive dislike."
"That arose, no doubt, from the estimate common report had caused you to form of his character."
"And are you prepared to doubt common report, on this head?"
"Somewhat, I must confess. You have heard his solemn denial."
"And Grace Leary's still more solemn affirmation."
"But she was, evidently, beside herself."
"Do you think so?" Mrs. Hartley said with emphasis. "Recall the whole scene that passed on the evening appointed for your marriage. Bring up Grace Leary before you, in imagination, as she then appeared, and as she then confronted Archer, and answer to your own heart whether she did not utter the truth. If she were deranged, that derangement brought no oblivion. She did not mistake her betrayer. Did a doubt cross your mind then, or the mind of anyone present? No!"
Still, Florence seemed unconvinced.
"What do you propose to yourself, in accrediting this letter?" Anna asked.
"Nothing at all."
"Are you sure?"
"I think I am. Perhaps to say that I propose nothing is too unqualified an expression. I certainly propose, at least, to treat the young man civilly, if no more, provided I can feel satisfied that he has been wrongfully accused."
"What will satisfy you? His mere denial?"
"No."
"You must see the proof?"
"Yes."
"Florence! I would think you had seen proofs enough. But, if not satisfied, a half hour's conversation with my mother will convince you that the writer of the letter you hold in your hand is quite as base as you had been led to believe him."
No reply was made. Florence folded the letter, and returned it to her pocket, with a deep sigh, breathed forth unconsciously.
Mrs. Hartley was deeply pained at observing this change in the mind of her young friend. But she said no more, trusting that the momentary weakness to which she was yielding would pass away, after conversing with her mother, who knew much more about Archer than the daughter wished to utter, or we record.
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