"YOU look sober, Laura. What has thrown a veil over your happyface?" said Mrs. Cleaveland to her niece, one morning, on findingher alone and with a very thoughtful countenance.
"Do I really look sober?" and Laura smiled as she spoke.
"You did just now. But the sunshine has already dispelled thetransient cloud. I am glad that a storm was not portended."
"I felt sober, aunt," Laura said, after a few moments--her faceagain becoming serious.
"So I supposed, from your looks."
"And I feel sober still."
"Why?"
"I am really discouraged, aunt."
"About what?"
The maiden's cheek deepened its hue, but she did not reply.
"You and Harry have not fallen out, like a pair of foolish lovers, Ihope."
"Oh, no!" was the quick and emphatic answer.
"Then what has troubled the quiet waters of your spirit? About whatare you discouraged?"
"I will tell you," the maiden replied. "It was only about a weekafter my engagement with Harry that I called upon Alice Stacy, andfound her quite unhappy. She had not been married over a few months.I asked what troubled her, and she said, 'I feel as miserable as Ican be.' 'But what makes you miserable, Alice?' I inquired. 'BecauseWilliam and I have quarrelled--that's the reason,' she said, withsome levity, tossing her head and compressing her lips, with a kindof defiance. I was shocked--so much so, that I could not speak. 'Thefact is,' she resumed, before I could reply, 'all men are arbitraryand unreasonable. They think women inferior to them, and their wivesas a higher order of slaves. But I am not one to be put under anyman's feet. William has tried that trick with me, and failed. Ofcourse, to be foiled by a woman is no very pleasant thing for one ofyour lords of creation. A tempest in a teapot was the consequence.But I did not yield the point in dispute; and, what is more, have noidea of doing so. He will have to find out, sooner or later, that Iam his equal in every way; and the quicker he can be made consciousof this, the better for us both. Don't you think so?' I made noanswer. I was too much surprised and shocked. 'All men,' shecontinued, 'have to be taught this. There never was a husband whodid not, at first, attempt to lord it over his wife. And there neverwas a woman, whose condition as a wife was at all above that of apassive slave, who did not find it necessary to oppose herself atfirst, with unflinching perseverance.'
"To all this, and a great deal more, I could say nothing. It chokedme up. Since then, I have met her frequently, at home and elsewhere,but she has never looked happy. Several times she has said to me, incompany, when I have taken a seat beside her, and remarked that sheseemed dull, 'Yes, I am dull; but Mr. Stacy, there, you see, enjoyshimself. Men always enjoy themselves in company--apart from theirwives, of course.' I would sometimes oppose to this a sentimentpalliative of her husband; as, that, in company, a man verynaturally wished to add his mite to the general joyousness, orsomething of a like nature. But it only excited her, and drew forthremarks that shocked my feelings. Up to this day, they do not appearto be on any better terms. Then, there is Frances Glenn--marriedonly three months, and as fond of carping at her husband for hisarbitrary, domineering spirit, as is Mrs. Stacy. I could name two orthree others, who have been married, some a shorter and some alonger period, that do not seem to be united by any closer bonds.
"It is the condition of these young friends, aunt, that causes me tofeel serious. I am to be married in a few weeks. Can it be possiblethat my union with Henry Armour will be no happier, no more perfectthan theirs? This I cannot believe. And yet, the relation that Aliceand Frances hold to their husbands, troubles me whenever I think ofit. Henry, as far as I have been able to understand him, has strongpoints in his character. From a right course of action,--or, from acourse of action that he thinks right,--no consideration, I am sure,would turn him. I, too, have mental characteristics somewhatsimilar. There is, likewise, about me, a leaven of stubbornness. Itremble when the thought of opposition between us, upon any subject,crosses my mind. I would rather die--so I feel about it--than everhave a misunderstanding with my husband."
Laura ceased, and her aunt, who was, she now perceived, muchagitated, arose and left the room without speaking. The reason ofthis to Laura was altogether unaccountable. Her aunt Cleaveland,always so mild, so calm, to be thus strongly disturbed! What couldit mean? What could there be in her maidenly fears to excite thefeelings of one so good, and wise, and gentle? An hour afterwards,and while she yet sat, sober and perplexed in mind, in the sameplace where Mrs. Cleaveland had left her, a domestic came in andsaid that her aunt wished to see her in her own room. Laura attendedher immediately. She found her calm and self-possessed, but palerthan usual. "Sit down beside me, dear," Mrs. Cleaveland said,smiling faintly, as her niece came in.
"What you said this morning, Laura," she began, after a few moments,"recalled my own early years so vividly, that I could not keep downemotions I had deemed long since powerless. The cause of thoseemotions it is now, I clearly see, my duty to reveal--that is, toyou. For years I have carefully avoided permitting my mind to goback to the past, in vain musings over scenes that bring no pleasantthoughts, no glad feelings. I have, rather, looked into the futurewith a steady hope, a calm reliance. But, for your sake, I will drawaside the veil. May the relation I am now about to give you have theeffect I desire! Then shall I not suffer in vain. How vividly, atthis moment, do I remember the joyful feelings that pervaded mybosom, when, like you, a maiden, I looked forward to my wedding-day.Mr. Cleaveland was a man, in many respects, like Henry Armour.Proud, firm, yet gentle and amiable when not opposed;--a man withwhom I might have been supremely happy;--a man whose faults I mighthave corrected--not by open opposition to them--not by seeming tonotice them--but by leading him to see them himself. But this courseI did not pursue. I was proud; I was self-willed; I was unyielding.Elements like these can never come into opposition without a victoryon either side being as disastrous as the defeats. We were married.Oh, how sweet was the promise of my wedding-day! Of my husband I wasvery fond. Handsome, educated, and with talents of a high order,there was every thing about him to make the heart of a young wifeproud. Tenderly we loved each other. Like days in Elysium passed thefirst few months of our wedded life. Our thoughts and wishes wereone. After that, gradually a change appeared to come over myhusband. He deferred less readily to my wishes. His own will wasmore frequently opposed to mine, and his contentions for victorylonger and longer continued. This surprised and pained me. But itdid not occur to me, that my tenaciousness of opinion might seem asstrange to him as did his to me. It did not occur to me, that therewould be a propriety in my deferring to him--at least so far as togive up opposition. I never for a moment reflected that a proud,firm-spirited man, might be driven off from an opposing wife, ratherthan drawn closer and united in tenderer bonds. I only perceived myrights as an equal assailed. And, from that point of view, saw hisconduct as dogmatical and overbearing, whenever he resolutely sethimself against me, as was far too frequently the case.
"One day,--we had then been married about six months,--he said tome, a little seriously, yet smiling as he spoke, 'Jane, did not Isee you on the street, this morning?' 'You did,' I replied. 'Andwith Mrs. Corbin?' 'Yes.' My answer to this last question was notgiven in a very pleasant tone. The reason was this. Mrs. Corbin, arecent acquaintance, was no favourite with my husband; and he hadmore than once mildly suggested that she was not, in his view, a fitassociate for me. This rather touched my pride. It occurred to me,that I ought to be the best judge of my female associates, and thatfor my husband to make any objections was an assumption on his part,that, as a wife, I was called upon to resist. I did not, on previousoccasions, say any thing very decided, contenting myself withparrying his objections laughingly. This time, however, I was in aless forbearing mood. 'I wish you would not make that woman yourfriend' he said, after I had admitted that he was right in hisobservation. 'And why not, pray?' I asked, looking at him quitesteadily. 'For reasons before given, Jane,' he replied, mildly, butfirmly. 'There are reports in circulation touching her character,that I fear are'--'They are false!' I interrupted him. 'I know theyare false!' I spoke with a sudden excitement. My voice trembled, mycheek burned, and I was conscious that my eye shot forth no mildlight. 'They are true--I know they are true!' Mr. Cleaveland said,sternly, but apparently unruffled. 'I don't believe it,' I retorted.'I know her far better. She is an injured woman.'
"'Jane,' my husband now said, his voice slightly trembling, 'you aremy wife. As such, your reputation is as dear to me as the apple ofmy eye. Suspicion has been cast upon Mrs. Corbin, and that suspicionI have good reason for believing well founded. If you associate withher--if you are seen upon the street with her, your fair fame willreceive a taint. This I cannot permit.'
"There was, to my mind, a threat contained in the last sentence--athreat of authoritative intervention. At this my pride took fire.
"'Cannot permit!' I said, drawing myself up. 'What do you mean, Mr.Cleveland?'
"The brow of my husband instantly flushed. He was silent for amoment or two. Then he said, with forced calmness, yet in aresolute, meaning tone--
"'Jane, I do not wish you to keep company with Mrs. Corbin.'
"'I WILL!' was my indignant reply.
"His face grew deadly pale. For a moment his whole frame trembled asif some fearful struggle were going on within. Then he quietlyarose, and, without looking at me, left the room. Oh! how deeply didI regret uttering those unhappy words the instant they were spoken!But repentance came too late. For about the space of ten minutes,pride struggled with affection and duty. At the end of that time thelatter triumphed, and I hastened after my husband to ask hisforgiveness for what I said. But he was not in the parlours. He wasnot in the house! I asked a servant if she had seen him, andreceived for reply that he had gone out.
"Anxiously passed the hours until nightfall. The sad twilight, as itgathered dimly around, threw a deeper gloom over my heart. Myhusband usually came home before dark. Now he was away beyond hisaccustomed hour. Instead of returning gladly to meet his young wife,he was staying away, because that young wife had thrown off theattractions of love and presented to him features harsh andrepulsive. How anxiously I longed to hear the sound of hisfootsteps--to see his face--to hear his voice! The moment of hisentrance I resolved should be the moment of my humble confession ofwrong--of my faithful promise never again to set up my willdeterminedly in opposition to his judgment. But minute after minutepassed after nightfall--hours succeeded minutes--and these rolled onuntil the whole night wore away, and he came not back to me. As thegray light of morning stole into my chamber, a terrible fear tookhold of me, that made my heart grow still in my bosom--the fear thathe would never return--that I had driven him off from me. Alas! thisfear was too nigh the truth. The whole of that day passed, and thenext and the next, without any tidings. No one had seen him since heleft me. An anxious excitement spread among all his friends. Theonly account I could give of him, was, that he had parted from me ingood health, and in a sane mind.
"A week rolled by, and still no word came. I was nearly distracted.What I suffered, no tongue can tell, no heart conceive. I have oftenwondered that I did not become insane but from this sad condition Iwas saved. Through all, my reason, though often trembling, did notonce forsake me. It was on the tenth day from that upon which we hadjarred so heavily as to be driven widely asunder, that a letter cameto me, post-marked New York, and endorsed 'In haste.' My handstrembled so that I could with difficulty break the seal. Thecontents were to the effect that my husband had been lying forseveral days at one of the hotels there, very ill, but now past thecrisis of his disease, and thought by the physician to be out ofdanger. The writer urged me, from my husband, to come onimmediately. In eight hours from the time I received that letter, Iwas in New York. Alas! it was too late; the disease had returnedwith double violence, and snapped the feeble thread of life. I neversaw my husband's living face again."
The self-possession of Mrs. Cleaveland, at this part of hernarrative, gave way. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbedviolently, while the tears came trickling through her fingers.
"My dear Laura," she resumed, after the lapse of many minutes,looking up as she spoke, with a clear eye, and a sober, but placidcountenance, "it is for your sake that I have turned my gazeresolutely back. May the painful history I have given you make adeep impression upon your heart; let it warn you of the sunken rockupon which my bark foundered. Avoid carefully, religiously avoidsetting yourself in opposition to your husband; should he proveunreasonable or arbitrary, nothing is to be gained, and every thinglost by contention. By gentleness, by forbearance, by even sufferingwrong at times, you will be able to win him over to a better spirit:an opposite course will as assuredly put thorns in your pillow asyou adopt it. Look at the unhappy condition of the friends you havenamed; their husbands are, in their eyes, exacting, domineeringtyrants. But this need not be. Let them act truly the woman's part.Let them not oppose, but yield, and they will find that theirpresent tyrants' will become their lovers. Above all, never, underany circumstances, either jestingly or in earnest, say 'I will,'when you are opposed. That declaration is never made without itsrobbing the wife of a portion of her husband's confidence and love;its utterance has dimmed the fire upon many a smiling hearth-stone."
Laura could not reply; the relation of her aunt had deeply shockedher feelings. But the words she had uttered sank into her heart; andwhen her trial came--when she was tempted to set her will inopposition to her husband's, and resolutely to contend for what shedeemed right, a thought of Mrs. Cleaveland's story would put a sealupon her lips. It was well. The character of Henry Armour too nearlyresembled that of Mr. Cleaveland: he could illy have brooked awife's opposition; but her tenderness, her forbearance, her devotedlove, bound her to him with cords that drew closer and closer eachrevolving year. She never opposed him further than to express adifference of opinion when such a difference existed, and itsutterance was deemed useful; and she carefully avoided, on alloccasions, the doing of any thing of which he in the smallest degreedisapproved. The consequence was, that her opinion was alwaysweighed by him carefully, and often deferred to. A mutual confidenceand a mutual dependence upon each other gradually took the place ofearly reserves, and now they sweetly draw together--now theysmoothly glide along the stream of life blessed indeed in all theirmarriage relations. Who will say that Laura did not act a wise part?Who will say that in sacrificing pride and self-will, she did notgain beyond all calculation? No one, surely. She is not herhusband's slave, but his companion and equal. She has helped toreform and remodel his character, and make him less arbitrary, lessself-willed, less disposed to be tyrannical. In her mildforbearance, he has seen a beauty more attractive far than lip orcheek, or beaming eye.
Instead of looking upon his wife as below him, Henry Armour feelsthat she is his superior, and as such he tenderly regards andlovingly cherishes her. He never thinks of obedience from her, butrather studies to conform himself to her most lightly-spoken wish.To be thus united, what wife will not for a time sacrifice herfeelings when her young self-willed husband so far forgets himselfas to become exacting! The temporary loss will turn out in thefuture to be a great gain.
THE END.
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