until the husband and wife were in positions of direct antagonism. Lane could not give up his love of controlling every thing around him, and his wife, fairly roused to opposition, followed the promptings of her own will, in matters where right was clearly on her side, with a quiet perseverance that always succeeded. Of course, they were often made unhappy; yet enough forbearance existed on both sides to prevent an open rupture—at least, for a time. That, however, came at last, and was the more violent from the long accumulation of reactive forces.
The particulars of this rupture we need not give; it arose in a dispute about the child when she was two years old. As usual, Lane had attempted to set aside the judgment of his wife in something pertaining to the child, as inferior to his own, and she had not submitted. Warm words ensued, in which he said a good deal about a wife’s knowing her place and keeping it.
“I am not your slave!” said Amanda, indignantly; the cutting words of her husband throwing her off her guard.
“You are my wife,” he calmly and half contemptuously replied; “and, as such, are bound to submit yourself to your husband.”
“To my husband’s intelligence, not to his mere will,” answered Amanda, less warmly, but more resolutely than at first.
“Yes, to his will!” said Lane, growing blind from anger.
“That I have done long enough,” returned the wife. “But the time is past now. By your intelligence, when I see in it superior light to what exists in my own, I will be guided, but, by your will—never!”
The onward moving current of years, which, for some time, had been chafing amid obstructions, now met a sudden barrier, and flowed over in a raging torrent. A sharp retort met this firm declaration of Amanda, stinging her into anger, and producing a state of recrimination. While in this state, she spoke plainly of his assumption of authority over her from the first,—of her passiveness for a time,—of being finally aroused to opposition.
“And now,” she added, in conclusion, “I am content to be your wife and equal, but will be no longer your passive and obedient slave.”
“Your duty is to obey. You can occupy no other position as my wife,” returned the blind and excited husband.
“Then we must part.”
“Be it so.” And as he said this, Lane turned hurriedly away and left the house.
Fixed as a statue, for a long time, sat the stunned and wretched wife. As the current of thoughts again flowed on, and the words of her husband presented themselves in even a more offensive light than when they were first uttered, indignant pride took the uppermost place in her mind.
“He will not treat me as a wife and equal,” she said, “and I will no longer be his slave.”
In anger Lane turned from his wife; and for hours after parting with her this anger burned with an all- consuming flame. For him to yield was out of the question. His manly pride would never consent to this. She must fall back into her true position. He did not return home, as usual, at dinner-time; but absented himself, in order to give her time for reflection, as well as to awaken her fears lest he would abandon her altogether. Towards night, imagining his wife in a state of penitence and distressing anxiety, and feeling some commiseration for her on that account, Mr. Lane went back to his dwelling. As he stepped within the door, a feeling of desertion and loneliness came over him; and unusual silence seemed to pervade the house. He sat down in the parlour for some minutes; but hearing no movement in the chamber above, nor catching even a murmur of his child’s voice, a sound for which his ears were longing, he ascended the stairs, but found no one there. As he turned to go down again he met a servant.
“Where is Mrs. Lane?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” was answered. “She went out this morning, and has not returned.”
“Where is Mary?”
“She took Mary with her.”
“Didn’t she say where she was going?”
“No, sir.”
Mr. Lane asked no more questions, but went back into the room from which he had just emerged, and, sitting down, covered his face with his hands, and endeavoured to collect his thoughts.
“Has she deserted me?” he asked of himself in an audible husky whisper.
His heart grew faint in the pause that followed. As the idea of desertion became more and more distinct, Mr. Lane commenced searching about in order to see whether his wife had not left some communication for him, in which her purpose was declared. But he found none. She had departed without leaving a sign. The night that followed was a sleepless one to Lane. His mind was agitated by many conflicting emotions. For hours, on the next day, he remained at home, in the expectation of seeing or hearing from Amanda. But no word came. Where had she gone? That was the next question. If he must go in search of hers in what direction should he turn his steps? She had no relations in the city, and with those who resided at a distance she had cultivated no intimacy.
The whole day was passed in a state of irresolution. To make the fact known was to expose a family difficulty that concerned only himself and wife; and give room for idle gossip and gross detraction. Bad as the case was, the public would make it appear a great deal worse than the reality. In the hope of avoiding this, he concealed the sad affair for the entire day, looking, in each recurring hour, for the return of his repentant wife. But he looked in vain. Night came gloomily down, and she was still absent.
He was sitting, about eight o’clock in the evening, undetermined yet what to do, when a gentleman with whom he was but slightly acquainted named Edmondson, called at the door and asked to see him.
On being shown in, the latter, with some embarrassment in his manner, said—
“I have called to inform you, that Mrs. Lane has been at my house since yesterday.”
“At
“Yes. She came there yesterday morning; and, since that time, my wife has been doing her best to induce her to return home. But, so far, she has not been able to make the smallest impression. Not wishing to become a party
