"MY heart is now at rest," remarked Mrs. Presstman to her sister,Mrs. Markland. "Florence has done so well. The match is such a goodone."
Mrs. Presstman spoke with animation, but her sister's countenanceremained rather grave.
"Mr. Barker is worth at least eighty thousand dollars," resumed Mrs.Presstman. "And my husband says, that if he prospers in business ashe has done for the last ten years, he will be the richest merchantin the city. Don't you think we have been fortunate in marryingFlorence so well?"
"So far as the securing of wealth goes, Florence has certainly donevery well," returned Mrs. Markland. "But, surely, sister, you have ahigher idea of marriage than to suppose that wealth in a husband isthe primary thing. The quality of his mind is of much moreimportance."
"Oh, certainly, that is not to be lost sight of. Mr. Barker is anexcellent man. Every one speaks well of him. No one stands higher inthe community than he does."
"That may be. But the general estimation in which a man is held doesnot, by any means, determine his fitness to become the husband ofone like Florence. I think that when I was here last spring, therewas some talk of her preference for a young physician. Was suchreally the case?"
"There was something of that kind," replied Mrs. Presstman, thecolour becoming a very little deeper on her cheek--"a foolish notionof the girl's. But that was broken off long ago. It would not do. Wecould not afford to let her marry a young doctor with a poorpractice. We knew her to be worthy something much higher, as theresult has shown."
"Doctor Estill, I believe, was his name?"
"Yes."
"I remember him very well--and liked him much. Was Mr. Barkerpreferred by Florence to Doctor Estill?"
"Why, yes--no--not at first," half-stammered Mrs. Presstman. "Thatis, you know, she was foolish, like all young girls, and thought sheloved him. But that passed away. She is now as happy as she can be."
Mrs. Markland felt that it was not exactly right to press thismatter now that the mischief, if any there were, had been done, andso remarked no further upon the subject. But the admission made inher sister's reply to her last question pained her. It corroborateda suspicion that crossed her mind, when she saw her niece, that allwas not right within--that the good match which had been made wasonly good in appearance. She had loved Florence for the innocence,purity, and elevation of soul that so sweetly characterized her. Sheknew her to be susceptible of tender impressions, and capable ofloving deeply an object really worthy of her love. This plant hadbeen, she feared, removed from the warm green-house of home, wherethe earth had touched tenderly its delicate roots, while its leavesput forth in a genial air, and placed in a hard soil and a chillingatmosphere, still to live on, but with its beauty and fragrancegone. She might be mistaken. But appearances troubled her.
Mrs. Markland lived in a neighbouring city, and was on a visit toher sister. During the two weeks that elapsed, while paying thisvisit, she heard a great deal about the excellent match thatFlorence had made. No one of the acquaintances of the family had anything to say that was not congratulatory. More than one mother of anunmarried daughter, she had good cause for concluding, envied hersister the happiness of having the rich Mr. Barker for a son-in-law.When she parted with her niece, on the eve of her return home, therewere tears in her mild blue eyes. It was natural--for Florence lovedher aunt, and to part with her was painful. Still, those tearstroubled Mrs. Markland. She ought of them hours, and days, andmonths after, as a token that all was not right in her gentlebreast.
Briefly let us now sketch a scene that passed twenty years from thisperiod. Twenty years! That is a long time. Yes--but it is a periodthat tests the truth or falsity of the leading principles with whichwe set out in life. Twenty years! Ah! how many, even long beforethat time elapses, prove the fallaciousness of their hopes! discoverthe sandy foundation upon which they have built!
Let us introduce Mrs. Barker. Her husband has realized even morethan he had hoped for, in the item of wealth. He is worth a million.
Rather a small sum in his eye, it is true, now that he possesses it.And from this very fact, its smallness, he is not happy--for is notMr. T--worth three millions of dollars? Mr. T--, who is nobetter, if as good as he is? But what of Mrs. Barker? Ah, yes. Letus see how time has passed with her. Let us see if the hours havedanced along with her to measures of glad music, or in cadence witha pensive strain. Has hers indeed been a good match? We shall see.
Is that sedate-looking woman, with such a cold expression upon herface, who sits in that elaborately furnished saloon, or parlour,dreamily looking into the glowing grate, Mrs. Barker? Yes, that isthe woman who made a good match. Can this indeed be so? I see, inimagination, a gentle, loving creature, whose eyes and ears are opento all things beautiful in creation, and whose heart is moved by allthat is good and true. Impelled by the very nature into which shehas been born--woman's nature--her spirit yearns for high, holy,interior companionship. She enters into that highest, holiest, mostinterior relationship--marriage. She must be purely happy. Is thisso? Can the woman we have introduced at the end of twenty years bethe same being with this gentle girl? Alas! that we should have itto say that it is so. There has been no affliction to produce thischange--no misfortune. The children she has borne are all about her,and wealth has been poured liberally into her lap. No external wishhas been ungratified. Why, then, should her face wear habitually sostrange an expression as it does?
She had been seated for more than half an hour in an abstract mood,when some one came in. She knew the step. It was that of herhusband. But she did not turn to him, nor seem conscious of hispresence. He merely glanced toward his wife, and then sat down atsome distance from her, and took up a newspaper. Thus they remaineduntil a bell announced the evening meal, when both arose and passedin silence to the tea-room. There they were joined by their fourchildren, the eldest at that lovely age when the girl has blushedinto young womanhood. All arranged themselves about the table, theyounger children conversing together in an under tone, but thefather, and mother, and Florence, the oldest child, remainingsilent, abstracted, and evidently unhappy from some cause.
The mother and daughter eat but little, and that compulsorily. Afterthe meal was finished, the latter retired to her own apartment, theother children remained with their books in the family sitting-room,and Mr. and Mrs. Barker returned to the parlour.
"I am really out of all patience with you and Florence!" the formersaid, angrily, as he seated himself beside his wife, in front of thegrate. "One would think some terrible calamity were about tohappen."
Mrs. Barker made no reply to this. In a moment or two her husbandwent on, in a dogmatical tone.
"It's the very best match the city affords. Show me another in anyway comparable. Is not Lorimer worth at least two millions?--and isnot Harman his only son and heir? Surely you and the girl must bothbe beside yourselves to think of objecting for a single moment."
"A good match is not always made so by wealth," Mrs. Barkerreturned, in a firm voice, compressing her lips tightly, as sheclosed the brief sentence.
"You are beside yourself," said the husband, half sneeringly.
"Perhaps I am," somewhat meekly replied Mrs. Barker. Then becomingsuddenly excited from the quick glancing of certain thoughts throughher mind, she retorted angrily. Her husband did not hesitate toreply in a like spirit. Then ensued a war of words, which ended in apositive declaration that Florence should marry Harman Lorimer. Atthis the mother burst into tears and left the room.
After that declaration was made, Mrs. Barker knew that furtheropposition on her part was useless. Florence was gradually broughtover by the force of angry threats, persuasions, and arguments, soas finally to consent to become the wife of a man from whom herheart turned with instinctive aversion. But every one called it sucha good match, and congratulated the father and mother upon thefortunate issue.
What Mrs. Barker suffered before, during, and after the brilliantfestivities that accompanied her tenderly-loved daughter'ssacrifice, cannot all be known. Her own heart's history for twentylong years came up before her, and every page of that history sheread over, with a weeping spirit, as the history of her sweet childfor the dreary future. How many a leaf in her heart had been touchedby the frost; had withered, shrunk, and dropped from affection'sstem--how many a bud had failed to show its promised petals--howmany a blossom had drooped and died ere the tender germ in its bosomcould come forth into hardy existence. Inanimate golden leaves, andbuds, and blossoms--nay, even fruits were a poor substitute forthese. A woman's heart cannot be satisfied with them.
In her own mind, obduracy and coldness had supervened to the firststates of disappointed affection. But her heart had rebelled throughlong, long years against the violence to which it had beensubjected--and the calmness, or rather indifference, that at lastfollowed was only like ice upon the surface of a stream--the waterstill flowing on beneath. Death to the mother would have been awilling sacrifice, could it have saved her child from the livingdeath that she had suffered. But it would not. The father was aresolute tyrant. Money was his god, and to that god he offered upeven his child in sacrifice.
Need the rambling hints contained in this brief sketch--this dimoutline--be followed by any enforcing reflections? An oppositepicture, full of light and warmth, might be drawn, but would it tendto bring the truth to clearer perception, where mothers--truemothers--mothers in spirit as well as in name--are those to whom wehold up the first picture? We think not.
Wealth, reputation, honours, high intelligence in a man--all oreither of these--do not constitute him a good match for your child.Marriage is of the heart--the blending of affection with affection,and thought with thought. How, then, can one who loves all that isinnocent, and pure, and holy, become interiorly conjoined with a manwho is a gross, selfish sensualist? a man who finds happiness onlyin the external possession of wealth, or honours, or in theindulgence of luxuries? It is impossible! Take away these, and giveher, in their stead, one with whom her affections can blend inperfect harmony--one with whom she can become united as one--andearth will be to her a little heaven.
In the opposite course, alas! the evil does not always stop withyour own child. The curse is too often continued unto the third andfourth generation--yea, even through long succeeding ages--toeternity itself! Who can calculate the evil that may flow from asingle perversion of the marriage union--that is, a marriage enteredinto from other than the true motives? None but God himself!
THE END.
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