and heart, not external attractions, such as brilliant accomplishments, beauty, or wealth, had drawn her towards him at first: these had won her young affections, and they had become purer and brighter, and increased in attractive power as year after year went by.
“On going home that evening, I could not help pausing and looking back. Vividly, as it were but yesterday, came up before my mind my two young friends when, as maidens, their hands were sought in wedlock. I remembered how one, with true wisdom, looked below the imposing exterior and sought for moral worth as the basis of character in him who asked her hand; while the other, looking no deeper than the surface, was dazzled by beauty, wealth, and talents. The result you all have seen.”
Mrs. Harding paused in the narrative. Half a dozen eager voices instantly inquired the ultimate fate of Mrs. Eaverson. “A few years after her return home,” resumed the narrator, “she died. Her husband during that period neither wrote to her nor visited her. What has become of him I don’t know. Mrs. Williamson is still living, surrounded by a lovely family of children. Her oldest daughter has just been married, and, to all present appearances, has united her fate with one every way worthy of her hand. Mr. Williamson, or rather Mr. Rierdon, as I should truly have called him, you all know.”
“Mr. Rierdon!” exclaimed Ella. “It can’t be possible you mean him?”
“Not old Mr. Rierdon!” exclaimed another. “Why he is respected and loved by every one!”
“I know he is,” returned Mrs. Harding, “and well deserves to be. Yet, when a young man, he had nothing very imposing about him, and was thought of but little account by a set of young and foolish girls, just such as you are, whose heads were liable to be turned by any dashing young fellow with more impudence than brains, or more talent than principle, who happened to thrust himself forward and push better men aside. I hope the lesson I have endeavoured to teach you may not be lost entirely; and that when any one of you has an offer of marriage, she will look rather at the heart than the head—at the qualities instead of the accomplishments—of him who makes it. If she does not, she will be in great danger of committing the sad mistake made by my excellent but thoughtless young friend, Harriet Wieland, of whom I never can think without pain.”
Whether the narrative of Mrs. Harding had any good effect upon her hearers, we do not know; but we would fain believe that it had; and we hope our fair young readers will not forget the important lesson it teaches. Let them be well assured that marriage is no lottery, except where it is made so. Every one who will look at the moral qualities of the object of her regard, instead of at what is merely external, will see deep enough to enable her to come to a right decision in regard to him. There is no necessity for mistakes in marriage.
THE UNLOVED ONE.
AN EXTRACT FROM “LOVE IN HIGH LIFE.”
……FIXED in his resolution to repel every manifestation of tenderness on the part of his wife, Percy Edwards maintained towards her the same cold formality, in spite of all her earnest efforts to break the icy crust of his feelings. He did not love her, and was not inclined to affect a passion; nay, she was absolutely repulsive to him, and the least he could do, under the circumstances, was to protect himself as he did without overt acts of unkindness.
And thus disjoined, instead of united, Mr. and Mrs. Edwards moved along their way through life, envied by hundreds, who, in exchanging with them, would have left an Eden of happiness for a dreary wilderness.
A few months of such an existence completely broke down the spirits of Kate. She had no pride to sustain her. Thousands, as unloved as she, seek refuge in pride, pleasure, and a heartless worship at the gilded shrine of fashion. They meet coldness with a sharp disdain; and, finding nothing to love at home, turn to what the world has to offer, and become mere bubbles on the surface of society—prominent, brilliant, and useless. Nay, worse than useless; for they reflect the light of heaven falsely, and create discontent in those who see only their glittering exterior, and vainly imagine it to be the correspondent of internal delight.
It was not so with Kate; for she was sincere, unselfish, and true-hearted, and could not seek a false pleasure, when the sources of real delight became dry. A naiad, at a fountain, the waters of which had failed, she turned not to another, but bent weeping over the spot, hoping, yet faint with a long desire to hear the murmur of the coming stream.
There fell, at last, a gleam of light across her path. In her dark and cloudy sky arched, beautifully, a bow of promise. Hope, faint, yet sweet to her spirit, revived, and she looked to the future with a trembling heart. For a long time she locked in her own thoughts the dear secret she had discovered and pondered over it with a daily increasing pleasure. Then it was whispered, low and with a blushing cheek, to her husband. She was to become a mother!
From that moment she felt that there was a change. From that moment her husband’s manner was different. He was still as polite and formal as, before; but with these was blended a something that her heart interpreted as tenderness for his wife; and from this her fainting spirit drew the aliment that sustained it. If, suddenly coming upon her now, he surprised her weeping, he did not turn away, silent and cold, as before; but would speak some word of apparent sympathy, which instantly dried up the fountains of grief. And thus the time passed, until another being saw the light—until another voice sounded upon the air. Oh! with what a thrill of delight did the young mother take her new-born babe into her arms, and hail it as the bond that was to bind to hers the heart of her husband. How eagerly did she read the face of that husband—as he bent over and gazed upon the innocent being to which she had given birth—and marked its glow of pleasure. But, he did not look into
The bow of promise, which had spanned the heaven of her mind, faded away; and the light that had lain so warmly upon her path grew dim. There was love in the heart of her husband only for his child, but none for her. That dreadful truth came with a shock, felt to the very centre of her being; and, reacting upon her exhausted system, disturbed all its vital functions. Fever and delirium laid their hands upon her, and for many days the light of life but flickered in the wind that seemed every moment about to extinguish it.
When, at last, through the skill of her physician, the disease abated, and health, though feeble, began to flow once more through her veins; and when reason came back, and with it the outgushing tenderness of the young mother, she found that her babe had been laid upon another breast, and that from another it was to draw the sustenance which nature had supplied for it in her own bosom.
Against this her heart arose in instant rebellion. But no freedom of choice was left her. The physician said that her health was too slender to admit of the exhaustion attendant upon nursing her own babe. The husband would not hear of such a thing for a moment. And her husband’s mother older-hearted and more worldly-minded than even he, openly sneered at the idea of one in her position degrading herself into a mere child’s nurse!
It was all in vain that Kate pleaded, tearfully, for the mother’s highest privilege. Those who had the power forced her into a compliance with their will; and the fountain in her bosom, that stirred at the voice of her babe, was suffered to become dry.
From that time, the health of Mrs. Edwards visibly declined; or, rather, was never restored to its previous condition. She became subject to fainting fits and long periods of depression, from which nothing could arouse her.
