The express train which passed through Crossbourne station between ten
and eleven o'clock on the night when Joe Wright met with his sad end,
arrived in London about three a.m. the following morning. It was
heavily laden, for it conveyed a large number of persons from the north,
who were coming up to the metropolis to spend Christmas with their
friends.
From a first-class carriage about the middle of the train there emerged
a heap of coats and wraps, surmounted by a fur cap, the whole enclosing
a gentleman of middle age and middle height, with black beard and
moustache, and gold-rimmed spectacles.
"Cab, sir?" asked the porter who opened the door.
"If you please."
"Any luggage, sir?"
"Yes; it was put on the roof of my carriage."
"All right, sir; I'll see to it if you'll get into the cab."
So the gentleman, who was John Prosser, PhD, got into the cab which was
waiting for him; and having seen that his luggage was all brought to the
conveyance, threw himself into a corner and closed his eyes, having
given his direction to the driver as he was stepping into the vehicle.
"Stop a moment, Jim," said the porter to the cabman, as the latter was
just jerking his reins for a start. "Here, catch hold of this bag; it
was on the top of this gent's carriage: no one else owns to it, so it
must be his'n. The gent's forgotten it, I dessay."
So saying, he threw a light, shabby-looking carpet-bag up to the driver,
who deposited it by his side, and drove off.
After sleeping for a few hours at a hotel where he was well-known, and
having urgent business in the city next morning, the doctor deposited
his luggage, which he had left with sundry rugs and shawls in charge of
the hotel night porter, at his own door on his way to keep his business
appointment, leaving word that he should be at home in the afternoon.
With the other luggage there was handed in the shabby-looking carpet-bag
which had come with it.
"What's this?" asked the boy-in-buttons, in a tone of disgust, of the
housemaid, as he touched the bag with his outstretched foot.
"I don't know, I'm sure," was the reply. "It ain't anything as master
took with him, and I'm quite sure it don't belong to mistress."
"I'll tell you what it is," said the boy abruptly, and in a solemn
voice, "it's something as has to do with science. There's something
soft inside it, I can feel. P'raps there's something alive in it--I
shouldn't wonder. Oh! P'raps there's gun-cotton in it. I'd take care
how I carried it if I was you, Mary, or p'raps it'll go off and blow you
to bits!"
"Oh goodness!" exclaimed the housemaid, "I won't touch it. Just you
take it yourself and put it into master's study; it'll be safest there."
So the boy, with a grin of extreme satisfaction at the success of his
assault on the housemaid's nerves, helped her to carry the rest of the
luggage upstairs, and then deposited the mysterious bag in a corner of
the doctor's own special sanctum. Now this study was a room worth
describing, and yet not very easy to describe.
The doctor's house itself was one of those not very attractive-looking
dwellings which are to be found by streetfuls running from square to
square in the west end of London. It had stood patiently there for many
a long year, as was evident from the antiquated moulding over the
doorway, and from a great iron extinguisher, in which the link-bearers
of old used to quench their torches, which formed part of the sombre-
coloured ironwork that skirted the area. The gloomy monotony of the
street was slightly relieved by a baker's shop at one corner and a
chemist's at the other. But for these, the general aspect would have
been one of unbroken dinginess.
Nor did the interior of the doctor's house present a much livelier
appearance.
The entrance-hall, which was dark and narrow, had rather a sepulchral
smell about it, which was not otherwise than in keeping with some
shelves of books at the farther end--the overflow apparently of the
doctor's library; the tall, dark volumes therein looking like so many
tombs of the _dead_ languages.
To the left, as you entered the hall, was a dining-room massively
furnished, adorned with a few family portraits, and as many vigorous
engravings. But there lacked that indescribable air of comfort which
often characterises those rooms devoted to the innocent and social
refreshment of the body at meal-times. The chairs, though in themselves
all that dining-room chairs ought to be, did not look as if on a
habitual good understanding with one another; some were against the
wall, and others stood near the table, and at irregular distances, as
though they never enjoyed that cozy fraternity so desirable in well-
conditioned seats. Books, too, lay about in little zigzag heaps; while
a bunch of keys, a pair of lady's gloves, and a skein of coloured wool
lay huddled together on the centre of the sideboard. The whole
arrangement, or rather disarrangement, of the room bespoke, on the part
of the presiding female management, an indifference to those minor
details of order and comfort a due attention to which makes home (a
genuine English home) the happiest spot in the world.
Opposite to this room, on the other side of the hall, was another of
similar size, used apparently as a sort of reception-room. Huge book-
shelves occupied two of the walls, an orrery stood against a third,
while dusty curiosities filled up the corners. There was something
peculiarly depressing about the general appearance and tone of this
apartment,--nothing bright, nothing to suggest cheerful and happy
thoughts,--plenty of food for the mind, but presented in such an
indigestible form as was calculated to inflict on the consumer
intellectual nightmare. This room was known as the library.
But we pass on to the doctor's own special room--the study. This was
beyond and behind the dining-room. Book-shelves towered on all sides,
filled with volumes of all sizes, and in nearly all languages, some in
exquisitely neat white vellum binding, with Tome One, Tome Two,
etcetera, in shining gold on their backs--the products of an age when a
conscientiousness could be traced in the perfect finish of all the
details of a work external or internal; some in the form of stately
folios, suggestive at once both of the solidity and depth of learning
possessed by the writers and expected in the readers; while a multitude
of lesser volumes were crowded together, some erect, others lying flat,
or leaning against one another for support. Greek and Latin classic
authors, and in all languages poets, historians, and specially writers
on science were largely represented--even French and German octavoes
standing at ease in long regiments side by side, suggestive of no
Franco-Prussian war, but only of an intellectual contest, arising out of
amicable differences of opinion. On one side of the principal bookcase
was an electrical machine, and on the other an air-pump; while a rusty
sword and a pair of ancient gauntlets served as links to connect the
warlike past with the pacific present. In the centre of the room was a
large leather-covered writing-table, on which lay a perfect chaos of
printed matter and manuscript; while bottles of ink, red, black, and
blue, might be seen emerging from the confusion like diminutive forts
set there to guard the papers from unlearned and intrusive fingers.
Order was clearly not the doctor's "first law;" and certainly it must
have required no common powers of memory to enable him, when seated in
front of the confusion he himself had made, to lay his hand upon any
particular book or manuscript which might claim his immediate attention.
On either side of a small fire-place at the rear of the table, and
above it, hung charts, historical, geological, and meteorological; while
a very dim portrait of some friend of the doctor, or perhaps of some
literary celebrity, looked down from over the doorway through a haze of
venerable dust on the scientific labours which it could neither share
nor lighten.
In the corner of the room farthest from the door was a little closet,
seldom opened, secured by a patent lock, whose contents no one was
acquainted with save the doctor himself. The housemaid, whose duties in
this room were confined to an occasional wary sweeping and dusting, and
fire-lighting in the winter season, would keep at a respectful distance
from this closet, or pass it with a creeping dread; for the boy-in-
buttons had thrown out dark suggestions that it probably contained the
skulls of murderers, or, at the least, snakes and scorpions preserved in
spirits, or even possibly alive, and ready to attack any daring intruder
on their privacy.
Such were Dr John Prosser's home and study.
It was just four o'clock in the afternoon of the 24th of December when
the doctor returned to his house from the city.
"Is your mistress at home?" he asked of the boy.
"No, sir; she told me to tell you that she was gone to a meeting of the
school board."
The doctor's countenance fell. He was evidently disappointed; and no
wonder, for he had been away from his home for the last ten days, and
felt keenly the absence of his wife, and of a loving greeting on his
return.
"Any letters for me, William?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, they're on your table; and, please, sir, I've put the little
carpet-bag into your study."
"Carpet-bag! What carpet-bag?" asked his master.
"Why, sir, the little bag as came with your luggage. We didn't take it
upstairs, because it's nothing as you took with you when you left home,
and Mary says it don't belong to mistress; so I thought it would be
better to put it into your study till you came home, as it might be
something particular. It's in the corner by the fire-place, sir."
"Well, well, never mind," was the reply; "let me know when your mistress
comes in," and the doctor retired to his sanctum.
Drawing up his chair to the table, he was soon deep in his letters; but
turning round to poke the fire, his eye fell on the little bag. "How
can I have come by this, I wonder? And what can it be?" he said to
himself, as he took it up and turned it round and round. It was
fastened by an ordinary padlock, which easily opened on the application
of one of the doctor's keys. "Nothing but waste paper," he said, as he
turned out a portion of the contents, which appeared to consist merely
of pieces of newspaper and brown paper crumpled up. "Pshaw! Some
foolish hoax or practical joke intended for me, or somebody else,
perhaps!" he exclaimed. "Well, it seems scarcely worth making any
trouble about; but if it has come here by mistake, and is of sufficient
value, there will be inquiries or an advertisement about it." So
saying, he replaced the crumpled papers, locked the bag again, and
opening his closet, placed it on one of the upper shelves, where it must
rest for a while and gather dust.
When Dr Prosser had finished reading his letters, and had answered such
as needed an immediate reply, he betook himself to the drawing-room.
This was a large apartment, occupying upstairs the same area as the
library, hall, and dining-room. It was handsomely furnished, bearing
marks in every direction of a highly cultivated taste and of woman's
handiwork. Yet there was wanting that peculiar air of comfort which
gives a heart--cheering glow alike to the humblest cottage parlour and
the elegant saloon of the man of wealth and refinement. Indeed, it
might truly be said that the room abounded in everything that could be
devised, _but_ comfort. Like a picture full of brilliant colouring, the
various hues of which need blending and toning down, so the articles of
luxury and beauty lavishly scattered about Dr Prosser's drawing-room,
though tastefully selected, seemed calculated rather to call forth the
passing admiration of friends and strangers than to give abiding
pleasure to their possessors.
At present there was certainly something very discouraging about the
whole appearance of things in the eyes of the doctor, as he entered the
costly furnished apartment. A fire, it is true, twinkled between the
bars of the grate; but its few feeble sparks, in contrast with the
prevailing surroundings of black coal and cinders, were suggestive to
the feelings rather of the chilliness they were meant to counteract than
of the warmth which they were designed to impart. Near the fire was a
dwarf, round, three-legged table, on which lay a manuscript in a female
hand. The doctor took it up, and laid it down with a sigh. It was a
portion of a long-since-begun and never-likely-to-be-finished essay on
comparative anatomy. A heap of unanswered letters lay on a taller table
close by, having displaced a work-basket, whose appearance of
superlative neatness showed how seldom the fingers of its gentle owner
explored or made use of its homely stores. A grand piano stood near the
richly curtained windows. It was open. A vocal duet occupied the
music-rest, and various other pieces for voice and instrument were
strewed along the highly polished top. Near the piano was a harp, while
a manuscript book of German and Italian songs was placed upon an elegant
stand near it, and other pieces filled a gaping portfolio at the foot.
On a beautifully inlaid table in the centre of the room was an
unfinished water-colour drawing, propped up by a pile of richly gilded
and ornamented books. The drawing, with its support, had been pushed
back towards the middle of the table, to make way for a sheet or two of
note-paper containing portions of a projected poem. And the presiding
and inspiring genius of all this beautiful confusion was Agnes Prosser.
And did she make her husband happy? Well, it was taken for granted by
friends and acquaintance that she did--or, at any rate, that it must be
_his_ fault if she did not; and so the poor doctor thought himself. He
was proud of his wife, and considered that he ought to be thoroughly
happy with her; but somehow or other, he was not so. She was, in the
common acceptation of the words, highly accomplished, of an amiable and
loving disposition, graceful and winning in person and manner, able to
take the head of his table to the entire satisfaction of himself and his
friends, and capable of conversing well on every subject with all who
were invited to her house, or whom she met in society elsewhere.
What could her husband want more? He _did_ want something more--his
heart asked and yearned for something more. What was it? He could
hardly distinctly tell. Nevertheless he felt himself on this
afternoon--he had been gradually approaching the feeling for some time
past--a disappointed man. Perhaps it was his own fault, he thought; yet
so it was.
He was now just forty years of age, and had been married three years.
His wife was some ten years younger than himself. He had looked well
round him before making choice of one with whom he was to share the joys
and sorrows of a domestic life. He was a man who thoroughly respected
religion, and could well discriminate between the genuine servant of
Christ and the mere sounding professor, while at the same time
scientific studies had rather tended to make him undervalue clear
dogmatic teaching as set forth in the revealed Word of God. Yet he was
too profound a thinker to adopt that popular scepticism which is either
the refuge of those who, consciously or unconsciously, use it as a
screen, though it proves but a semi-transparent one at the best, to shut
out the light of a coming judgment, or the halting-place of thinkers who
stop short of the only source of true and infallible wisdom--the
revealed mind of God. His wife, too, had been taught religiously, and
cordially assented to the truths of the gospel, though the constraining
love of Christ was yet wanting; and both she and her husband were
intimate friends of one whose path had ever been since they had known
it, "the path of the just, like the shining light, that shineth more and
more unto the perfect day:" and that one was Ernest Maltby, now vicar of
Crossbourne.
So Dr Prosser had chosen his wife well. And yet he was disappointed in
her; and why? Just because he had made the mistake--and how common a
mistake it is in these days--of supposing that accomplishments acquired
and a highly cultivated mind make the model woman, wife, and mother.
Surely the mistake is a sad and fatal one--fatal to woman's highest
happiness and truest usefulness; fatal to her due fulfilment of the part
which her loving Creator designed her to fulfil in this world!
There are two concentric circles in which we all move, an inner or
domestic circle, an outer or social circle. We are too often educating
our women merely for the outer circle. We crowd the mind and memory
with knowledge of all sorts, that they may shine in society: we forget
to teach them first and foremost how to make home happy. It was so with
Mrs Prosser. She had overstrained her mind with the burden of a
multitude of acquirements and accomplishments, which had not, after all,
made her truly accomplished. One or two things for which she had real
taste and ability thoroughly mastered would have been a far greater
source of delight to her husband, and of satisfaction to herself, than
the mere handful of unripe fruit which she had gathered from a dozen
different branches of the tree of knowledge, and in the collecting of
which she had, in a measure, impaired the elasticity of her mind and her
bodily strength, and found no time for making herself mistress of a
thousand little undemonstrative acquirements which tend to keep a steady
light of joy and peace burning daily and hourly in the home.
What wonder, then, that, when a little one came to gladden the hearts of
those who were already fondly attached to each other, the poor mother
was unable to do justice to her child. Partly nourished by a stranger,
and partly brought up by hand, and missing those numberless little
attentions which either ignorance or a mind otherwise occupied prevented
Mrs Prosser from giving to the frail being who had brought into the
world with it a delicacy of constitution due, in a considerable degree,
to its mother's overstrain of mind and body, the baby pined and drooped,
and, spite of medicine, prayers, and tears, soon closed its weary eyes
on a world which had used it but roughly, to wing its way into a land
unclouded by sin or sorrow.
How keenly he felt the loss of his child the doctor dared not say,
especially to his wife, entertaining as he did a painful misgiving that
she had hardly done her duty by it; while on the mother's heart there
rested an abiding burden, made doubly heavy by a dreadful consciousness
of neglect on her part--a burden which no lapse of time could ever
wholly remove. Thus a stationary shadow brooded over that home where
all might have been unclouded sunshine.
Dr Prosser was disappointed; for he had hoped to find in his wife, not
merely or chiefly an intellectual and highly educated companion, but one
in whose society he could entirely unbend--one who would make his home
bright by causing him to forget for a while science and the busy whirl
of the world in the beautiful womanly tendernesses which rejoice a
husband's heart, and smooth out the wrinkles from his brow.
It was, then, as a disappointed man that Dr Prosser sat with his feet
on the drawing-room polished fender with his chair tilted back. Moodily
gazing at the cheerless fire, he had become sunk deep in absorbing
meditation, when a rushing step on the stairs roused him from his
reverie, and scattered for the time all painful thoughts.
"My dear, dear John, how delighted I am to see you back; I hardly
expected you so soon!" exclaimed Agnes Prosser, after exchanging a most
loving salutation with her husband.
"Why, I thought," was the answer, with somewhat of reproach in its tone,
"that you knew I should be here this afternoon."
"Oh yes; but hardly so soon. Well, I am so sorry; it was too bad not to
be at home to welcome you. And, I declare, they've nearly let the fire
out. What can that stupid boy have been about? And the room in such
confusion too! Well, dearest, you shan't find it so again. Just ring
the bell, please, and we'll make ourselves comfortable.--William," to
the boy who answered the summons, "bring up a cup of tea, and a glass of
sherry, and the biscuit box.--You'll like a cup of tea, John.--And, by-
the-by, William, tell Mrs Lloyd I should like dinner half an hour
earlier.--You won't mind dinner at half-past five to-day, dearest?"
"No, my dear Agnes, not if it is more convenient to yourself."
"Why, the fact is, I've promised to meet a select committee of ladies
this evening at seven o'clock, at Lady Strong's."
"What!--this evening!" exclaimed her husband. "Why, it's Christmas-eve!
Whatever can these good ladies want with one another to-night away from
their own firesides?"
"Ah now, John, that's a little hit at your poor wife. But a man with
your high sense of duty ought not to say so. You know it must be `duty
first, and pleasure afterwards.'"
"True, Agnes, where the duty is one plainly laid upon us, but not where
it is of one's own imposing. I can't help thinking that a wife's first
and chief duties lie at home."
"Oh, now, you mustn't look grave like that, and scold me. I ordered a
fly to call for me at a quarter to seven, and I shan't be gone much more
than an hour, I daresay. And you can have a good long snooze by the
dining-room fire while I'm away. I know how you enjoy a snooze."
William now appearing with the tray, she passed the tea to her husband,
and took the glass of sherry herself. A cloud settled for a moment on
the doctor's brow. He wished that the constant drain on his wife's
energies, physical and mental, could be restored by something less
perilous than these stimulants, resorted to, he could see, with
increasing frequency. But she always assured him that nothing so
reinvigorated her as just one glass of sherry.
"And what are these good ladies going to meet about?" he asked, when the
tray had been removed.
"Oh, you'll laugh, I daresay, when I tell you," she replied; "but I
assure you that they are all good and earnest workers. We are going to
discuss the best way of improving the homes of the working-classes."
"Well," said the doctor, laughing, but with a touch of mingled sarcasm
and bitterness in his voice, "I think your committee can't do better
than advise the working-women of England generally to make their homes
more attractive to their husbands, and to lead the way yourselves."
"My dearest John," exclaimed his wife, a little taken aback, "you are
cruelly hard upon us poor ladies. I declare you're getting positively
spiteful. I think we'd better change the subject.--How did you leave
our dear friends the Johnsons? And what are they doing in the north
about the `strikes' and `trades-unions'?"
"Really," he replied wearily, "I must leave the `strikes' and such
things to take care of themselves just now. The Johnsons send their
love. They were all well, and most kind and hospitable. But, my
dearest wife, I feel concerned about yourself; you look fagged and pale.
Come, sit down for a few minutes, and tell me all about it. There, the
fire's burning up a bit; and now that I have got you for a while, I must
not let you slip through my fingers. Just lay your bonnet down; you'll
have plenty of time to dress for dinner. I don't like these evening
meetings. I am sure they are good for neither mind nor body. You'll
wear yourself out."
"Oh, nonsense, dear John; I never was better than I am now--only a
little tired now and then. But surely we are put into this world to do
good; and it is better to wear out than to rust out."
"Not a doubt of it, my dearest Agnes; but it is quite possible to keep
the rust away without wearing yourself out at all; and, still more,
without wearing yourself out prematurely. At the rate you are going on
now, you will finish up your usefulness in a few years at the farthest,
instead of extending it, please God, over a long and peaceful life."
Mrs Prosser was silent for a few moments, and then she said: "Are you
not a little unreasonable, dear John? What would you have me give up?
If all were of your mind, what would become of society?"
"Why, in that case, I believe that society would find itself on a much
safer foundation, and surrounded by a much healthier atmosphere. But
come, now, tell me, what are your engagements for next week?"
"Why, not so many. To-morrow is Christmas-day, you know, and the next
day is Sunday, so that I shall have quite a holiday, and a fine time for
recruiting."
"Good! And what on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, etcetera?"
"Let me see, John. On Monday and Thursday mornings Clara Thompson and
her sister come here, and we read French, German, and Italian together;
and on Monday evening we meet at Clara's mother's to practise for the
amateur concert. On Tuesday morning I have promised to help poor Miss
Danvers."
"Miss Danvers! Why, what help can she need from you?"
"Come, dearest John, don't be unfeeling; she is over head and ears in
debt, and--"
"And do you mean that you are going to take her liabilities upon
yourself?"
"Nonsense, John; you are laughing at me; it isn't kind. I had not
finished my sentence. She is overwhelmed with letter-debts, poor thing;
and I promised to go and help her with her correspondence. You know we
are told in the Bible to `bear one another's burdens.'"
"True, my dearest wife; but the same high authority, if I remember
rightly, bids us do our own business first. But what has entailed such
an enormous amount of correspondence on Miss Danvers?"
"Only her anxiety to do good. She is secretary to some half-dozen
ladies' societies for meeting all sorts of wants and troubles.--Ah! I
see that cruel smile again on your face; but positively you must not
laugh at me nor her. I am sure she is one of the noblest women I know."
"I won't question it for a moment, but I wish she could contrive to keep
her benevolence within such reasonable limits as would allow her to
transact her own business without taxing her friends. Anything more on
Tuesday?"
"Nothing more, dearest, on Tuesday, away from home; but of course you
know that I have to work hard at my essay, my music, my drawing, and my
little poem. I see you shrug your shoulders, but you must not be hard
upon me. Why was I taught all these things if I am to make no use of
them?"
"Why, indeed?" were the words which rose to the doctor's lips, but he
did not utter them. He only smiled sadly, and asked, "What of
Wednesday?"
"There, John, perhaps you had better look for yourself," she said,
rather piqued at his manner, and taking a little card from her pocket-
book, she handed it to him.
Pressing her left hand lovingly in his own, he took the card from her,
and read:--
"`Engagements. Wednesday, 11 a.m. Meet the professor at Mrs
Maskelyne's.'--Mrs Maskelyne! That's your strong-minded friend who
goes in for muscular Christianity and vivisection! I'm very glad we
don't keep a pet terrier or spaniel!"--"Ah, John, you may laugh, but
she's a wonderful woman!"--"`Wonderful!' perhaps so, dear Agnes,--an
`awful' woman, _I_ should say; that's only a term expressive of a
different kind of admiration.--`Concert in the evening.'
"Now for Thursday. `At 12 o'clock, visit the hospital. Jews' meeting
in the evening.'
"`Friday, 10 a.m. Club. Afternoon, district visiting.'
"`Saturday, 3 p.m. Mothers' meeting.'--Why, this mothers' meeting is
something quite new. I thought the vicar's wife took that."--"So she
does, John; but, poor thing, she is so overworked, that I could not
refuse when she asked me to take it for her during the next three
months."
"And is this sort of thing to go on perpetually?" asked the doctor in a
despairing voice.
"Why should it not, dearest husband? You would not have your wife a
drone in these days, when the world all round us is full of workers?"
"Certainly not; but I very much question if we have not gone mad on this
subject of work--at any rate as regards female workers."
"And would you, then, John, shut up people's hearts and hands? I
thought none knew better than yourself what a vast field there is open
for noble effort and service of every kind. Surely you ought to be the
last person to discourage us."
"Nay, my beloved wife, you are not doing me justice," said the doctor
warmly. "What I am convinced of is this--and the conviction gains
strength with me every day--that good and loving women like yourself are
in grievous peril of marring and curtailing their real usefulness by
attempting too much. If agencies for good are to be multiplied, let
those who set new ones on foot seek for their workers amongst those who
are not already overburdened or fully occupied. I cannot help thinking
that there is often much selfishness, or, to use a less harsh word, want
of consideration, in those who apply to ladies whose time is already
fully and properly occupied, to join them as workers in their pet
schemes; for it is easier to try and enlist those who are known to be
zealous workers already, than to be at the pains of hunting out new
ones. I am sure no one rejoices more than I do in the wonderful and
complicated machinery for doing good which exists on all sides in our
land and day--I think it one of the most cheering signs and evidences of
real progress amongst us; but, for all that, if a person wants to launch
a new ship, he should have reasonable grounds for trusting that he shall
be able to find hands to man her without borrowing those from a
neighbouring vessel, who have kept their watch through stormy winds and
waves, and ought, instead of doing extra duty, to be now resting in
their hammocks."
Mrs Prosser was again silent for a while, and sat looking thoughtfully
into the fire. Then, in rather a sorrowful voice, she said, "And what,
then, dear John, do you think to be my duty? I can't help feeling that
there is a great deal in what you say. I have not been really satisfied
with my own way of going on for some time past. But what would you have
me do? What must I give up?"
"I think," was his reply, "that the thing will settle itself, if you
will only begin at the right end."
"And which is that, dearest?"
"The home end. Let your first and best energies be spent on the home;
it will surely be happier for us both. And let the care of your own
health, in the way of taking proper exercise, be reckoned as a most
important part of home duties. Life is given us to use, and not to
shorten. Therefore, don't undertake anything which will unfit you for
the due performance of these home duties. You have no just call to any
such undertaking. Do that which is the manifest work lying at your
hand, and I feel sure you will be guided aright as to what other work
you can find time and strength for."
"Well, John, I will think it well over; I am glad we have had this
conversation."
"So am I, my precious wife; I am sure good will come of it. And you
know we have an invitation to visit the Maltbys in the spring: we shall
be sure to get some words of valuable counsel there. I don't want to
hinder you from doing good out of your own home; I don't want selfishly
to claim all your energies for home work, and my own convenience and
comfort: but I do feel strongly, and more and more strongly every day,
that there is a tendency at the present day to make an idol of woman's
work; to keep, too, the bow perpetually on the stretch; to drag wives,
mothers, and daughters from their home duties into public, and to give
them no rest, but bid them strain every nerve, and gallop, gallop till
they die."
"Perhaps so, John; but it is time for me to go up and dress for dinner."