A Marriage!
In a quiet side street of the market town in which Mr. Holcroft was
accustomed to dispose of his farm produce was a three-story tenement
house. A family occupied each floor, those dwelling in the first two
stories being plain, respectable people of the mechanic class. The
rooms in the third story were, of course, the cheapest, but even from
the street might be seen evidences that more money had been spent upon
them than could have been saved in rent. Lace curtains were looped
aside from the windows, through which were caught glimpses of flowers
that must have come from a greenhouse. We have only to enter these
apartments to find that the suggestion of refined taste is amply
fulfilled. While nothing is costly, there is a touch of grace, a hint
of beauty in everything permitting simple adornment. The mistress of
these rooms is not satisfied with neatness and order merely; it is her
instinct to add something to please the eye--a need essential to her,
yet too often conspicuously absent in rented quarters of a similar
character.
It is remarkable to what a degree people's abodes are a reflex of
themselves. Mrs. Alida Ostrom had been brought to these rooms a happy
bride but a few months since. They were then bare and not very clean.
Her husband had seemed bent on indulging her so far as his limited
means permitted. He had declared that his income was so modest that he
could afford nothing better than these cheap rooms in an obscure
street, but she had been abundantly content, for she had known even the
extremity of poverty.
Alida Ostrom had passed beyond the period of girlhood, with its
superficial desires and ambitions. When her husband first met her, she
was a woman of thirty, and had been chastened by deep sorrows and some
bitter experiences. Years before, she and her mother had come to this
town from a New England city in the hope of bettering their
circumstances. They had no weapons other than their needles with which
to fight life's battle, but they were industrious and
frugal--characteristic traits which won the confidence of the
shopkeepers for whom they worked. All went as well, perhaps, as they
could expect, for two or three years, their secluded lives passing
uneventfully and, to a certain extent, happily. They had time to read
some good books obtained at a public library; they enjoyed an
occasional holiday in the country; and they went to church twice every
Sunday when it was not stormy. The mother usually dozed in the obscure
seat near the door which they occupied, for she was getting old, and
the toil of the long week wearied her.--Alida, on the contrary, was
closely attentive. Her mind seemed to crave all the sustenance it
could get from every source, and her reverential manner indicated that
the hopes inspired by her faith were dear and cherished. Although they
lived such quiet lives and kept themselves apart from their neighbors,
there was no mystery about them which awakened surmises. "They've seen
better days," was the common remark when they were spoken of; and this
was true. While they had no desire to be social with the people among
whom they lived, they did not awaken prejudices by the assertion of
superiority. Indeed, it was seen that the two women had all they could
do to earn their livelihood, and they were left to do this in peace.
When Alida Armstrong--for that was her maiden name--carried her own and
her mother's work to and from the shops, she often encountered admiring
glances. She was not exactly pretty, but she had the good, refined face
which is often more attractive than the merely pretty one, and she
possessed a trim, rounded figure which she knew how to clothe with
taste from the simplest and most inexpensive materials. Nor did she
seek to dress above her station. When passing along the street, any
discerning person would recognize that she was a working girl; only the
superficial would look upon her as a common-place girl. There was
something in her modest air and graceful, elastic carriage which
suggested the thought to many observers, "She has seen better days."
The memory of these days, which had promised immunity from wearing
toil, anxiety, and poverty, was a barrier between the two women and
their present world. Death had bereft them of husband, father, and
such property as he had left had been lost in a bad investment.
Learning that they were almost penniless, they had patiently set about
earning honest bread. This they had succeeded in doing as long as the
mother kept her usual health. But the infirmities of age were creeping
upon her. One winter she took a heavy cold and was very ill. She
rallied only temporarily in the milder days of spring. In the summer's
heat her strength failed, and she died.
During her mother's long illness Alida was devotion itself. The strain
upon her was severe indeed, for she not only had to earn food for both,
but there were also doctor's bills, medicines, and delicacies to pay
for. The poor girl grew thin from work by day, watching by night, and
from fear and anxiety at all times. Their scanty savings were
exhausted; articles were sold from their rooms; the few precious
heirlooms of silver and china were disposed of; Alida even denied
herself the food she needed rather than ask for help or permit her
mother to want for anything which ministered to their vain hopes of
renewed health.
What she should have done she scarcely knew, had not an unexpected
friend interested himself in her behalf. In one of the men's clothing
stores was a cutter from whom she obtained work. Soon after he
appeared in this shop he began to manifest signs of interest in her He
was about her own age, he had a good trade, and she often wondered why
he appeared so reticent and moody, as compared with others in similar
positions. But he always spoke kindly to her, and when her mother's
illness first developed, he showed all the leniency permitted to him in
regard to her work. His apparent sympathy, and the need of explaining
why she was not able to finish her tasks as promptly as usual, led her
gradually to reveal to him the sad struggle in which she was engaged.
He promised to intercede in her behalf with their mutual employers, and
asked if he might come to see her mother.
Recognizing how dependent she was upon this man's good will, and seeing
nothing in his conduct but kindness and sympathy, she consented. His
course and his words confirmed all her good impressions and awakened on
her side corresponding sympathy united with a lively gratitude. He
told her that he also was a stranger in the town, that he had but few
acquaintances and no friends, that he had lost relatives and was in no
need to go about like other young men. His manner was marked
apparently by nothing more than interest and a wish to help her, and
was untinged by gallantry; so they gradually became good friends. When
he called Sunday afternoons the mother looked at him wistfully, in the
hope that her daughter would not be left without a protector. At last
the poor woman died, and Alida was in sore distress, for she had no
means with which to bury her. Ostrom came and said in the kindest
tones:
"You must let me lend you what you need and you can pay me back with
interest, if you wish. You won't be under any obligation, for I have
money lying idle in the bank. When you have only yourself to support
it will not take you long to earn the sum."
There seemed nothing else for her to do and so it was arranged. With
tear-blinded eyes she made her simple mourning, and within a week after
her mother's death was at work again, eager to repay her debt. He
urged her not to hasten--to take all the rest she could while the hot
weather lasted, and few evenings passed that he did not come to take
her out for a walk through the quieter streets.
By this time he had won her confidence completely, and her heart
overflowed with gratitude. Of course she was not so unsophisticated as
not to know whither all this attention was tending, but it was a great
relief to her mind that his courtship was so quiet and undemonstrative.
Her heart was sore and grief-stricken, and she was not conscious of any
other feeling toward him than the deepest gratitude and wish to make
such return as was within her power. He was apparently very frank in
regard to his past life, and nothing was said which excited her
suspicions. Indeed, she felt that it would be disloyalty to think of
questioning or surmising evil of one who had proved himself so true a
friend in her sore need. She was therefore somewhat prepared for the
words he spoke one warm September day, as they sat together in a little
shaded park.
"Alida," he said, a little nervously, "we are both strangers and alone
in this world, but surely we are no longer strangers to each other.
Let us go quietly to some minister and be married. That is the best
way for you to pay your debt and keep me always in debt to you."
She was silent a moment, then faltered, "I'd rather pay all my debt
first."
"What debts can there be between husband and wife? Come now, let us
look at the matter sensibly. I don't want to frighten you. Things
will go on much the same. We can take quiet rooms, I will bring work
to you instead of your having to go after it. It's nobody's business
but our own. We've not a circle of relations to consult or invite. We
can go to some parsonage, the minister's family will be the witnesses;
then I'll leave you at your room as usual, and no one will be any the
wiser till I've found a place where we can go to housekeeping. That
won't be long, I can tell you."
He placed the matter in such a simple, natural light that she did not
know how to refuse.
"Perhaps I do not love you as much as you ought to be loved, and
deserve to be in view of all your kindness," she tried to explain. "I
feel I ought to be very truthful and not deceive you in the least, as I
know you would not deceive me." So strong a shiver passed through his
frame that she exclaimed, "You are taking cold or you don't feel well."
"Oh, it's nothing!" he said hastily, "only the night air, and then a
fellow always feels a little nervous, I suppose, when he's asking for
something on which his happiness depends. I'm satisfied with such
feeling and good will as you have for me, and will be only too glad to
get you just as you are. Come, before it is too late in the evening."
"Is your heart bent on this, after what I have said, Wilson?"
"Yes, yes, indeed!" clasping her hand and drawing her to her feet.
"It would seem very ungrateful in me to refuse, after all you have done
for me and mother, if you think it's right and best. Will you go to
the minister whose church I attended, and who came to see mother?"
"Certainly, anyone you like," and he put her hand on his arm and led
her away.
The clergyman listened sympathetically to her brief history of Ostrom's
kindness, then performed a simple ceremony which his wife and daughters
witnessed. As they were about to depart he said, "I will send you a
certificate."
"Don't trouble yourself to do that," said the groom. "I'll call for it
some evening soon."
Never had she seen Ostrom in such gay spirits as on their return; and,
woman-like, she was happy chiefly because she had made him happy. She
also felt a glad sense of security. Her mother's dying wish had been
fulfilled; she had now a protector, and would soon have a home instead
of a boarding place among strangers.
Her husband speedily found the rooms to which the reader has been
introduced. The street on which they were located was no thoroughfare.
Its farther end was closed by a fence and beyond were fields. With the
exception of those who dwelt upon it or had business with the
residents, few people came thither. To this locality, Ostrom brought
his bride, and selected rooms whose windows were above those of the
surrounding houses. So far from regretting this isolation and
remoteness from the central life of the town, Alida's feelings
sanctioned his choice. The sense of possessing security and a refuge
was increased, and it was as natural for her to set about making the
rooms homelike as it was to breathe. Her husband appeared to have
exhausted his tendencies toward close economy in the choice of
apartments, and she was given more money than she desired with which to
furnish and decorate. He said, "fix everything up to suit your mind,
and I'll be satisfied."
This she did with such skill, taste, and good management that she
returned a large portion of the sum he had given her, whereupon he
laughingly remarked that she had already saved more than she owed him.
He seemed disinclined to accompany her in the selection of their simple
outfit, but professed himself so pleased with her choice of everything
that she was gratified and happy in the thought of relieving him from
trouble.
Thus their married life began under what appeared to her the most
promising and congenial circumstances. She soon insisted on having
work again, and her busy fingers did much to increase his income.
Alida was not an exacting woman, and recognized from the beginning that
her husband would naturally have peculiar ways of his own. Unlike Mrs.
Mumpson, she never expatiated on "adaptation," but Ostrom soon learned,
with much inward relief, that his wife would accept unquestioningly
what appeared to be his habits and preferences. He went early to his
place of work, taking the nice little lunch which she prepared, and
returned in the dusk of the evening when he always found a warm dinner
in readiness. After this, he was ready enough to walk with her, but,
as before, chose the least frequented streets. Places of amusement and
resort seemed distasteful. On Sundays he enjoyed a ramble in the
country as long as the season permitted, and then showed a great
disinclination to leave the fireside. For a time he went with her in
the evening to church, but gradually persuaded her to remain at home
and read or talk to him.
His wife felt that she had little cause to complain of his quiet ways
and methodical habits. He had exhibited them before marriage and they
were conducive to her absolute sense of proprietorship in him--an
assurance so dear to a woman's heart. The pleasures of his home and
her society appeared to be all that he craved. At times she had
wondered a little at a certain air of apprehensiveness in his manner
when steps were heard upon the stairs, but as the quiet days and weeks
passed, such manifestations of nervousness ceased. Occasionally, he
would start violently and mutter strange words in his sleep, but noting
disturbed the growing sense of security and satisfaction in Alida's
heart. The charm of a regular, quiet life grows upon one who has a
nature fitted for it, and this was true to an unusual degree of Alida
Ostrom. Her content was also increased by the fact that her husband
was able each month to deposit a goodly portion of their united
earnings in a savings bank.
Every day, every week, was so like the preceding ones that it seemed as
if their happy life might go on forever. She was gladly conscious that
there was more than gratitude and good will in her heart. She now
cherished a deep affection for her husband and felt that he had become
essential to her life.
"Oh, how happy mother would be if she knew how safe and protected I
am!" she murmured one March evening, as she was preparing her husband's
dinner. "Leaving me alone in the world was far worse to her than dying."
At that very moment a gaunt-looking woman, with a child in her arms,
stood in the twilight on the opposite side of the street, looking up at
the windows.