Fiction: The Young Wife

his mother was not mistaken, she had endangered his moral reformation. Mary had indeed observed the dejection of his looks--his dissatisfaction. And was it possible that wounded pride and sensibility might induce him to leave his present asylum, and drive him back to the pernicious courses he had relinquished? And could she save him from such a risque? "It shall be done," exclaimed she to herself, "even more shall be done--I will open to his view pleasures so much more satisfying and enduring than those he has hitherto pursued, that inclination as well as reason shall lead him into the paths of virtue." Her imagination kindled at the idea, and when she next met him her countenance was irradiated with a benevolence that banished from it all coldness and reserve. Charles Lovel knew not the soul of virtuous woman; when, therefore, after her long continued avoidance and coldness, Mary met him with such a beaming countenance and cordial warmth, he presumed, on her renovated kindness, and dared to hope she participated in the feelings that even her late coldness had heightened. He was not base enough to form any design on her honor, but he could not deny himself the delight of awakening in her bosom sensations similar to those that burned within his own.--Never before had he experienced the species of pleasure he enjoyed in her society, for never before had he attached himself to a virtuous woman. There was an exaltation in her sentiments perfectly new to him. He never dreamt of making flattering speeches or paying fine compliments; he unawares found himself engaged in the most delightful convserations, to which the play of her fancy and the warmth of her heart imparted a thousand varying charmes. At times his mind was so awakened that his senses slept. And never did he appear to such advantage in her eyes as at such times. He drew out all the powers of her mind. This vivifying influence extended to every faculty. She looked, she felt, she thought, with a vivacity and warmth long, long unknown. From the monotonous tranquility and placid contentment of a happy married life, she was roused to a livelier and keener sense of enjoyment. Acquaintance with human life, with human nature, might have taught her, that this state of excitement cannot be long sustained--that these keen and glowing emotions are evanescent, kept alive by fancy and hope--destroyed by reality. Marriage deprives passion of the fuel which fed its flame; for the certainty of assured affection is devoid of all the hopes and fears which prompt the continual effort to please and to secure its object. Hence results the cessation of those fond, devoted, flattering attentions, so gratifying, not only to self-love, but to our best and tenderest sensibilities. This change inflicts little pain on man. Unceasingly occupied in the business and turmoil of life, various exciting interests afford employment for that moral, intellectual and physical activity which keeps in motion the human machine. Not so with woman. Love is the main-spring of her existence--when this loses its elasticity and force, the mechanism of the whole being is deranged. True she still lives and performs her appointed tasks, faithfully, contentedly, and often cheerfully--but soberly and quietly. Yet often, oftener, perhaps, than is generally imagined, a craving void is left in her bosom. Affection and esteem, though dearly prized, do not satisfy the yearnings of her heart--its own keen and deep sensibilities require no reciprocation. Activity, that vital principle of our nature, expended by men on a thousand objects, preys on the peace, and disorders the current of woman's life. Intellectual pleasures, the varied amusements of fashionable life, domestic duties, are insufficient to fill this restless principle--to satisfy this craving for lively and strong emotion. Hence the necessity of some influence stronger than human nature--higher and holier than moral sanction, to control and regulate the sensibilities of the female heart; an influence religion alone supplies. Turn thee, fond and feeble woman, from the always disappointing and sometimes debasing love of the creature to the all-satisfying and exalting love of the Creator. There only can thy fervent nature find an object commensurate with its capacity of loving; an object to fill that craving void which nought on earth can fill. Not yet had Mary sought this immutable and inexhaustible source of felicity; she still quaffed

repeatedly kissing his sweet; dear mamma, he crept up coldly and timidly, and held up his little mouth, which Mary as coldly kissed. At this moment she caught her husband's eye fixed on her. What a look! It was one of reproach, almost of anger. She felt it chill her very heart. He did not say a word, but coming forward took the little boy in his arms, and carried him, himself, to the nursery. Not a volume of words could more fully have expressed the displeasure of her husband. That night Mary's pillow was drenched in tears--bitter tears. Her conscience smote her--but she suppressed its monitions, by aggravating what she called (not what she felt) the undeserved displeasure of her husband. The next morning when they met at table the looks and manners of each were cold, and as Mary handed the large cup to Mr. Murray, she coloured and trembled, and he, instead of his usual pleased and bland manner on receiving any little kind attention, took it silently as if not noticing the change. Through the day Mary's spirits were much dejected--to her children, particularly, her manner was unkind. Charles marked her disturbance, and rallied her on what he called a matrimonial fracas. "Your lord and master has been a little spoiled, my good lady, or he never would be so easily out of temper. The way to break him of these freaks is not to humor him as you have done. Had I been you he should not have had his favourite cup for a month to come." "I have been the spoiled child," replied Mary, her eyes swimming in tears. "Oh, Charles!" exclaimed she, "unkindness would soon break my heart!" She clasped her hands over her eyes and wept with unrestrained emotion. Charles took these hands, wiped the tears from them and looking fondly in her face.- "How cruel," said he, "thus to distress you. Come, my dear sister, let us walk--the air will revive you. This husband of yours wants tutoring; remmber what I say, do not spoil him by concession, or you will become a very slave to his caprices." Mary's spirits were revived by air and exercise, until again dejected by the presence of her husband, who still looked thoughtful and absent. She felt glad when he left the house--she felt as if a dark, heavy cloud had passed away, and the sun shone forth. Mr. Murray's affection lay at the very bottom of his heart, and seldom overflowed in words or caresses, except to his children. Of an evening when he came home they would spring to his arms, cling round his neck, and sit on his knees. It was only with them his quietude and placidity yielded to any thing like gaiety. But their mirth was contagious, and he often found himself romping and playing with them in a manner litle accordant with his natural gravity. Tutored by their gentle mother they were never obstreperous or rude; though nothing less than her continual restraining influence could so have regulated their exuberant spirits and hasty tempers. "I often think, Mary," said her husband to her on one occasion, "that were it not for your training, Henry would be a sad little tyrant; he has a terrible temper." Too soon this good father found this opinion verified. Often when he now came home he found the child quarrelling with his little sister; her play-things broken--her frock torn--her face streaming with tears. One day, particularly, he felt really shocked at the condition in which he found the children. Henry in his passion had thrown a piece of broken china at his sister,--it had cut her cheek, and the blood was streaming from the wound. After ascertaining the cause, he hastily enquired for their mother, and how they came to be left alone. "She has gone to walk with uncle Charles," said Meta. "But has she not given you your lessons this morning." "She gave us holiday," said Henry, gruffly, not yet recovered from his father's correction. "Holiday!" said his father; "I did not know you had holidays." "Oh yes," said the little Meta, "Mamma gives us holidays very often--she is very good, she lets us play almost all day long." Mr. Murray said nothing. But after reproving and reconciling the children, and giving them in charge to his mother, he took his hat and walked out. Doubts, dreadful doubts, flashed across his mind--flashed like lightning from a dark cloud, then left it in obscurity. No it could not be. His good, his lovely, his pure-minded wife--the hitherto dotingly fond mother of his precious children. No it could not be. And his friend, his grateful, obliged friend! The thing was impossible! He would dismiss it from his mind. But what could it be that had thus changed his wife? Doubtless some household matter had disturbed her. He had observed that of late their servants had been several times changed--this of course had given her more care--taken up more of her time, and might have produced considerable vexation, and consequently diverted her attention from her children, and made her temper more irritable. This was so natural that he could not blame her--she was to be excused for her little negligences to him and the children--he must try by increased kindness on his part to sooth this irritation--to compensate her for her domestic troubles. Women had trying duties to perform--it was no wonder their gentleness and patience sometimes gave way. He accused himself of not having been sufficiently kind and attentive--and after a long, lonely walk returned home full of resolutions by increased kindness to dissipate the disturbance under which he perceived his wife laboured. Every now and then in spite of himself the same dreadful doubts would shoot through his mind--but he as quickly banished them. Still they so far affected him as to make him watch more than he ever had before the looks and manners of both Mary and Charles. There was nothing he could find fault with in either. When he was present Mary appeared entirely engaged with her work, whilst he and Charles coversed with little interruption from either of the ladies. As he was absent all day, he knew not how his family passed their time. He knew not that whole mornings were spent together by Charles and Mary, while the household cares were devolved on his mother,--that of afternoons they rambled until near the time of his return. But what most distressed and perplexed him was Mary's altered manner

to himself, and the sadness that seemed settled on her spirits. Where now was the frank and cordial manner with which she used to welcome him back--the glad and joyous countenance--the gay and tender voice--the elastic step--the kind vigilance and activity--the alacrity for every duty which had made his home so happy, his wife so dear? And his children! Ah, there was the keenest pang! there was the strangest effect of Mary's altered disposition! Surely she must be sick--some insidious disease was preying on her health and spirits--change of air and scene would certainly prove beneficial. The quiet and monotony of home had become wearisome. It was the constant activity of his life, the variety of places to which his business called him, that doubtless had preserved his health and spirits. The last excursion Mary had made, he now recollected, had had a delightfully animating effect, and as she observed at the time, had made home more agreeable to her. She was always delighted in accompanying him on his distant circuits. The court he was soon to attend was in a charming part of the country, where he had some kind friends, and though the autumn was far advanced, the season was still delightful for travelling, and the country still beautiful. He made his arrangements accordingly, and wishing to give Mary an agreeable surprise, did not tell her of his design until a day or two previous to setting out. Poor Mary, she looked any thing but pleased--she looked troubled, distressed, and after some hesitation said she felt no inclination to leave home--that having just hired a man servant she could not leave home. This objection was quickly overruled by Mrs. Murrary's offering to take charge of the family. "But the children," said Mary, hesitatingly; "how can I leave them--I should be so anxious I could not enjoy myself." She caught her husband's scrutinizing glance, and blushed--blushed all over--then got up and went to the window to hide the embarrassment her internal consciousness produced. And has it come to this--the artless, the ingenuous Mary is guilty of equivocation. She is conscious of feelings which she wishes to conceal from her husband! Aye, of feelings she dare not acknowledge to herself! How certain is the progression of evil--it is never stationary. One drop of poison can diffuse itself through the whole body, and destroy life itself. So can one vicious sentiment spread its deleterious and fatal influence through the whole moral system. How vigilantly then should the avenues of access be guarded, and the endeavour be, to keep the heart with all diligence, since out of it are the issues of life! Mr. Murray checked the harsh reply he was about to make. He did not say, as his feelings impelled him to say, "talk not of anxiety about children whom you so sadly neglect." No, he did not speak, but he deeply felt it. He was silent until he had mastered his angry emotion, and then mildly, but firmly, said--"Mary, I am persuaded a change of scene will do you good. I insist on your making the experiment, and shall expect you to be in readiness the day after to-morrow." she did no reply, and he left the room, again to wander forth and think his own sad thoughts--to wrestle with doubts that would intrude themselves, and to ponder on the best method of restoring his dear Mary to her former self, and of recovering his own peace of mind. Arduous and futile task! Unknown to himself he had been swayed in his scheme of removing her from home, by the suspicions which he believed he had crushed--but they lurked in his bosom, and prompted the wish of separating her from Charles, and in spite of his endeavours to behave with unchanged frankness to his friend, he had thrown a reserve into his manner which had betrayed to that interested observer the real state of his feelings. Perhaps it was the natural effect of such a discovery, and not any peculiar malignancy of disposition in Charles, to make him feel irritated and angry at the suspected jealousy of his friend, and feelings akin to revenge sprung up in his breast. The gratitude and affection he had felt for years was changed into the gall of bitterness. It is no less true that we hate those whom we injure, than that we love those whom we benefit--for such are the natural fruits of the malignant or benevolent dispositions of the heart. In the present case this new born malevolence prompted Charles to add injury to injury, and when he met Mary, soon after her husband had left her, and learned the project that had been formed, of carrying her from home, he would have given vent to his evil passion had he not feared he might thus frustrate his own wishes. The words had almost escaped him--"Pho! Mary, he is only jealous." Had he done so, he would have torn the bandage off her eyes, and she would have discovered it was not a brother's love he felt, nor a sister's affection she indulged. His effort had been to blindfold her as to this dangerous truth. Hitherto he had succeeded--while too effectually he had chilled her maternal and conjugal affections. "Why do you not refuse at once? you are too tame and yielding. Come, my sister, summon up courage, and tell this lordly husband of yours that you are a free agent--show a little proper spirit and you will soon see the tables reversed, and instead of obeying you will be obeyed." Mary shook her head. "It is too late to learn that lesson, even had I the disposition to do so. No, Charles, I am too feeble to stand alone, I need support, and must cling to that support, or perish." "Oh, Mary, cling then to your brother." He pressed the hand he held in his, and would have drawn her to him, had she not shrunk from his arm and snatched away her hand. "Do not talk thus--I entreat you do not. You known not how unhappy you make me. It is my duty to obey my husband." "Your duty--yes, your duty, but not your pleasure--and is inclination never to be followed? This, indeed, is slavery. Tell him at once, Mary, that you will not take this journey." "I cannot--indeed I cannot, Charles--so let me go and prepare to obey my husband." "Detestable phrase," muttered Charles--but seeing her resolute he no longer detained her. Mary retired to her room, but instead of hurrying herself with preparations, she threw herself on her bed, and covering her head with a

pillow, wept and sobbed with unchecked emotion. Her conscience whispered she was wrong--very wrong. In vain did she try to silence its reproaches--in vain did she try to persuade herself of the innocence of her attachment to Charles. Or, when conscience continued its accusations, she would palliate her weakness by replying to her monito, that affections were involuntary--that feelings could not be commanded, though actions might, and that while these were conformed to the dictates of duty, she had nothing to reproach herself with. But conscience was not satisfied with this sophistry, and Mary was miserable. Why did she not seek that divine assistance, which at an earlier period she had sought? Why not go to that source of consolation which in other troubles had proved so efficacious? Alas! her present sorrows were such as she dared not carry to the throne of grace--rather, were it possible, she would conceal them from the all-searching eye. By degrees she had left off all communion with God; devotion had no longer any attraction for her soul; self-examination she avoided. To probe her own heart was too painful--she sought in the reveries of imagination to lose the upbraiding thoughts which marred all her present enjoyment. Her only relief from uneasiness and dissatisfaction was in the society of Charles. But even that was transient; for only while she listened to his beguiling words was her mind divested from its perplexities. And now she must leave him--leave him, to be alone with her husband. She scarcely knew wherefore, but fear mingled with her reluctance at the idea. But go she must, and she must endeavour to do it with as good a grace as possible. The weather was favourable, and Mr. and Mrs. Murray commenced their journey. Yes, the weather was favourable: the air was mild, the sun shone bright, and the aspect of the country was beautifully varied by the rich and glowing tints of autumn. Nature looked as though she were dressed for a festival-but she appeared so only to those who looked upon her through the medium of festive, at least happy minds. It is not in the power of external objects to awaken the sentiment of beauty or loveliness, or grandeur, by simply impressing the organ of sight. The child, the idiot, the ignorant and uncultivated, may possess a more keen and distinct vision, than the poet or philosopher, but how different the impression made by the same objects on these individuals. Yet, not more so than is produced by scenes, viewed through differing states of feeling by the same person. It is the soul which imparts beauty and loveliness to nature; clothes her in smiles or in frowns, in gladness or gloom. The soul of Mary was sad--the heart of Mr. Murray was chilled; and bright and glowing as were the earth and sky, to these travellers they appeared neither lovely or cheerful; the restraint they felt could not be shaken off, and they journeyed on in coldness and silence, or with now and then a brief observation on some passing object. "Oh, who would believe," thought Mary, "that I am the same being who travelled this some road, ten years ago, a young and happy bride. With what rapture did my heart swell; it seemed as though my bosom were too small to hold it, as if it must burst its narrow prison, so surcharged was it with the fulness of joy and love; and methinks it must have burst, had not these feelings found vent in words, in tears and tender transport." And once stealing a glance at her husband--"Are you he, who awoke these transports. Oh! that it might be so still--that our hearts could again mingle every thought and every feeling--that every glance of the eye were again a messenger of love, and not a spy. Oh! why cannot it be so? How completely happy I then was--what a change the few last months has wrought. Would that our affections depended on our will; then should mine flow with the same warmth that they once did--then should I be again happy; now I must be miserable. Oh! could my feelings obey, how quickly would I enforce obedience--but the affections cannot be commanded." "Mary you are mistaken; you wilfully deceive yourself--had you kept your heart with all diligence, the enemy that is now destroying your peace could never have found an entrance. This first neglect was your first error. But still, after access was gained, this enemy could not have thrown your feelings into such a state of rebellion, had you not entertained your disguised foe as a friend--a pleasing, a dear friend. Soon, every sentiment of thought rallied round the standard--rebels, all, to your holiest duties and affections. Now they are indeed strong--but, Mary, they are not invincible. Rely not on your own strenght; that indeed would be too feeble; but implore the assistance of Divind Power, and be assured, if asked [iR] humility and sincerity, it will not be denied. Go, unhappy woman go." Thus whispered her guardian angel--for is not conscience a guardian angle? "I cannot go," replied her fond and feeble heart. "Rather say you will not--for this is the truth. Oh, the deceitfulness of the heart! deceiving us not only as to the nature of our feelings, but even the nature of our wishes, persuading us we desire to do right, at the very time when we cling most fondly to what is wrong." Distressed and anxious as was the state of Mr. Murray's mind, it was, compared with that of his wife, at peace. He suffered not from the warfare of contending passions--from the conflicts between love and duty--from the reproaches of an offended conscience; his sorrow was unmingled with bitterness, or self-condemnation--it was a tender sorrow, that saddened but did nor irritate his feelings. "My poor Mary," thought he, as he looked tenderly at her, "I should have known better--I should not have thus exposed thee; through my imprudence this evil has fallen on us; and shall I not then by gentleness and kindness endeavour to repair it. Could I but talk freely to her, tell her all I feel, wish, design; but her cold reserve shuts my lips--I have not resolution to say, "Charles must leave us"--yet it must be so. But whither will he go? That however is of less moment than the peace, the virtue, the welfare of my wife and children. My duty is clear--a sacrifice must be made--not however of these precious objects; these it is my duty to save at all hazards. And will her peace be restored?

will her affections return? ah, there is the doubt, the horrid doubt!" The incidents of this journey, or the characters of those they met, would have as little interest for the reader as they had for the travellers. Absorbed by the world within their own bosoms, the things of the world without passed like shadows over their minds. No melting mood had opened Mary's heart to her husband-a cold reserve closed every avenue to the communion he so firmly hoped for; and after ten day's absence they returned home, more distressed and dissatisfied than when they left it. As the carriage approached, the children ran out to meet it-and then regaining the court-yard, stood at the gate eagerly watching the letting down the steps, clapping their hands for joy: and the moment their mother was within reach, springing to her arms, clasping her neck, and kissing her cheeks. The mother's feelings through numbed, were not dead; at this moment they revived in all their pristine warmth, and she returned their caresses with a fondness that filled the father's heart with delight. "All will yet be well," thought he. Taking a hand of each, she advanced to the door where old Mrs. Murray stood to receive and welcome her. Mary looked this way and that, but she saw not him she looked for-and a shadow passed over her bright countenance-momentary as it was, her husband perceived it, and sighed. Mrs. Murray, who well understood the enquiring glance, observed, that her son did not know of their intended return on that evening, or she was sure he would have been at home. Henry and Meta, still holding each a hand, drew their mother into the parlour, and turned her attention to the tea-table, which they had decked out with the last flowers of the season. "See, mamma," exultingly exclaimed Meta, "here is a rose, the last rose-I do believe it came on purpose for you." "The dear child has been watching its opening these three days," said Mrs. Murray. "And here," said Henry, who did not like to be outdone, "here is some scarlet honey-suckles. But you look tired mamma, come and sit by the fire; see how it blazes-Meta and I gathered ever so many faggots on purpose to have a great blaze when you come home." Mary took the offered seat, and threw off her bonnet and cloak; she smiled on her children, but smiled sadly-and often repeated, "what did you say Henry? what did you say my sweet Meta?" She had eyes, but had not seen the beauties of the country through which she had passed. She had ears, but she did not now hear the fond prattle of her children. Her ears were listening only for a well known footstep-and at the slightest sound she would start. When the door opened she would turn her head, while unheedingly her little boy and girl talked on to her whose thoughts were far away. The tea-things were removed-Mrs. Murray's work-basket was placed on the table-the maid came for the children, who begged her the indulgence of sitting up later; but as their mother took little notice of their request, Mr. Murray told them she was fatigued, and that their noise might disturb her. To reconcile them to their disappointment, he said he would then go and unlock the trunks and give them the presents their mamma had brought them. Hastily they kissed her for good night, and off they scampered with great glee, quite indifferent to remaining the half hour longer, with dear, dear mamma. Of what is the human heart made? of self-all of self! From infancy to manhood, still the same. Yes, reader, in all ages, in all countries, from the first to the last-deceitful too, above all things, clothing its vilest feelings in the twilight garb of purity and goodness. "You had best retire early, my dear," said Mr. Murray, as he left the room-"I have business in my office which will detain me until late." This was a relief to Mary; she brightened up, and drawing her chair close to the table, and leaning her arm on it, she looked eagerly at Mrs. Murray. Her eyes spoke as plainly as need be, and the old lady replied to their interrogatory"Oh Mary, you need not expect to see Charles to-night, for he often does not come home till the morning. But you need not look so alarmed-though to tell the truth, I am far from easy, and have been much troubled in my mind." "What, what is the matter?" exclaimed Mary. "I hope nothing is the matter, my dear; you knew it was quite natural that he should feel very lonely after you and William went away; the house must have been very dull-an old woman like me is no company for a young man." "Well?" said Mary, interrupting her. "Well, my dear, it was not to be expected he would content himself at home-and I ought not to have been uneasy at his being always out; nor should I have felt so, had he come back to-night." She paused-she hesitated. "Does he never return at night?" "Why, Mary, I may as well tell the truth at once-at least to you. But I should be sorry William were to know." "Know what? In pity tell me mother, and keep me not thus in suspense." "Why," said Mrs. Murray, still hestitating-"I am afraid-yet it may be all a mistake-so do not blame your poor brother too hastily. I am afraid he spends his time at the tavern." "Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Mary, clasping her hands. "I may be, I hope I am wrong," said his mother. "But he has looked so strangely, and talked so wildly of late, calling himself a wretch, a ruined man, and a -" "Poor Charles!" sighed Mary. "Oh, my dear, now you have come home, I dare say all will go right again-for indeed Mary you do just what you please with him. Did I not tell you, you alone could save him from his unhappy courses." Mary replied not, but pleading fatigue, took up a candle, and said she would go to bed. "Do not leave me with unkind thoughts of my poor son; do not Mary-have you not promised to love him as your own brother?" Mary sighed. "I feel no unkindness, mother; if it depends on me, Charles shall yet be saved." "Bless you, bless you for that," said the old lady, kissing her pale cheek. Mary passed an almost sleepless night; her imagination had pourtrayed her meeting with Charles in such glowing colours. She took it for