Mrs. Deane sat rocking, and casting impatient glances at the little
clock upon the mantle. The book which she had an hour previous been
deeply interested in, lay closed upon her lap, while the nervous
glancing of her eye towards the door, told that she was anxiously
awaiting the arrival of some one. The clock struck ten, and rising from
her seat, she went to the window, and drawing the curtain aside, looked
out on the soft summer night. It was one of those lovely evenings
towards the close of the season, when the slightly chilled air reminds
one of cosy firesides, and close companionship with those dearest to the
heart. But her thoughts were not of a peaceful cast. She was alone,
and jealous of him who had left her so. A moment later and the sound of
footsteps was heard upon the piazza; a sound which in earlier years she
had heard with thrills of pleasure. But to-night they only loosed the
tension of long-pent passion, and selfish thoughts of neglect. She sank
into a chair, and sat with the air of one deeply wronged, as her husband
entered the room.
“What, up and waiting for me?” he said, going towards her, his face
glowing with mental exhilaration.
She turned coldly from him, and took up her book. He drew it gently from
her, saying,--
“Listen, Mabel, to me. I want to talk with you awhile. You can read when
I am away.”
“Yes, sir, I find ample opportunities for that,” and she cast on him a
look of keen rebuke.
“Don't, Mabel; listen to me.”
“I am all attention; why do you not proceed?”
“Do you think I can talk while you are in such a frame of mind?”
“Why, what would you have me do? I am waiting for your words of wisdom,
or, maybe, a lecture on the foibles of the sex in general, and myself in
particular; proceed, it's quite a relief, I assure you, to hear a human
voice after these lonely evenings, which seem interminable.”
“Why, Mabel, what do you mean? I have not spent an evening away from you
for nearly a year before this. My absence this evening has been purely
accidental, although I have passed it very agreeably.”
“And may I ask where you find such delightful entertainment, that kept
you away till this late hour, for it is nearly midnight?”
“Yes. I have spent the evening with Miss Evans.”
“That detestable strong-minded-”
“Mabel! I will not hear her spoken of in this manner.”
“O, no indeed. All the men in L--are crazy after her society,--so
refined, so progressive, so intelligent. I am sick of it all. I suppose
you think we poor wives will submit to all this. No, no; I shall not,
for one. You will spend your evenings at home with me. Howard Deane,
you have no right to leave me for the society of any woman, as you have
to-night.”
Having thus expended her breath and wrath, she sank back into her hair
and gave vent to her feelings in a flood of tears. To her limited sight,
she was an injured woman. How different would she have felt could she
have kindly listened to the words which he was longing to speak to her.
“O, Mabel, if you would only listen to me. To-night I have heard such
glorious thoughts that my whole being longed to share them with you.
Thoughts that would make any man or woman live a nobler and better life.
O, Mabel, be my helpmate. Do not turn from one who loves you.”
“A strange way to manifest your love for me, spending your hours with
other women,--”
“Stop, Mabel. I will, at least, have myself heard, and be free to hear
the thoughts of other women, as well as those of men. I begin to believe
that the words of Hugh Wyman are too true, 'marriage, in nine cases out
of ten, is a bondage-a yoke of tyranny, keeping two souls fretting and
wearing each other's lives away.'”
He stopped, fearful that he had gone too far, and looked earnestly on
the cold features of his wife. Forgive him, reader, he could not help
comparing her then with Miss Evans, the latter so calm, earnest, and
deep in her love for humanity and progressive life.
He stepped close to her side, and taking her hand as tenderly as a lover
might, said,--
“Mabel, forgive me; I was excited, and said too much. I love you, as
you well know, as I love no other woman, but I must have the innocent
freedom of enjoying a friend's society, even though that friend be a
woman.
“O, certainly, Mr. Deane. I would not for a moment debar you from social
pleasures. I see I am not congenial, and do not attract you. Perhaps
Miss Evans is your soul-affinity; if so, I beg you not to let me stand
in your way. I can go to my father's, any day.”
“Mabel!” It was all he could utter, and went out of the room.
Alone, and left to her own reflections, she became more calm. A tear of
real penitence for her hasty words, stole down her cheek. “I will go and
tell Howard I am sorry for my unkind remarks,” she said, as she brushed
it from her face, and she rose to do so. At that moment a short, quick
ring of the doorbell shook away the resolve, and she trembled with fear,
unable to answer the summons.
How thankful she felt to hear her husband's firm, manly step in the
hall, and then his voice, low and rich as ever, welcoming her own
parents. Why were they here? and what could have happened? were the
questions which came to her mind, as her mother rushed into the room,
followed by her father, with a carpet-bag and sundry packages.
“We have given you a surprise this time, I guess, Mabel,” he said,
kissing her as tenderly as he used to when she sat upon his knee, and
listened to almost endless stories of his own making.
“But why is it that you are so late?” she asked, anxiously.
“The cars were delayed three hours by an accident, so instead of
arriving in good time, we have come in rather out of order, but not
unwelcome, Mabel, I know.”
He did not see her face, or he might have feared that the welcome was
not as warm as usual. She answered quickly:
“Why, yes, father, you and mother are welcome at any time of day or
night,” and yet she wished she was alone with Howard that moment.
“I told father,” said her mother, looking at the clock, “that it was
so late we had better go to a hotel, but he would come, saying, Howard
would not mind getting up to give the old folks a welcome.”
“We should have been very sorry to have had you done so. O, here comes
Howard,” and the husband of Mabel entered, looking very pale.
“Late hours don't agree with you, my son. What has kept you up so long?”
“Some winged messenger, I suspect, knowing you were coming; but you
must be weary,” and he offered the new-comers refreshments from the side
board. Mabel, however, had flown to the dining-room and prepared them
something more substantial in the way of cold meats, and a cup of tea,
which she made in an incredibly short space of time.
It was a relief when she had shown them to their room. She went below
and sat alone, hoping Howard would come to her. He had gone into his
study, where he sometimes passed a greater part of the night in writing,
for he was a lawyer by profession, being a man of more than average
abilities, his services were sought for many miles around. Mabel waited,
but he came not, and being unable longer to bear delay, she sought him
in his retreat.
“Mabel, you ought to be in bed; its now half past one. You will scarce
be able to entertain your father and mother, I fear, if you do not go
now,” and he resumed his writing.
“So cold! Well, I can live without his love,” she said to herself, and
turned to leave the room. He glanced at her lithe form, and all the
lover-like feelings of early years came over him. He longed to fold her
once more to his heart, and rose to follow her.
“Good night, sir,” came from her lips in icy tones, and he returned to
his labors, chilled, heart-sick and weary, where we will leave him and
turn back one chapter to the cause of all this misconception, and see if
we find in it aught but words of truth, and principles which should be
understood by all.
Like too many women, Mrs. Deane had striven to keep her husband wholly
to herself. She could not realize that one who is determined in her own
way and time to get the whole, may not get even a part. She wanted him
entirely for herself, ignorant of the fact, or if knowing, rebellious
against it, that his being would flow to herself after a temporary
receding, far richer in love. Alas, how many women are dwarfing noble
men, and cheating themselves out of the highest enjoyments of life.
Of Miss Evans she knew nothing, save by report. Like the many, she
allowed her prejudices to control her, and avoided all opportunities
of making the acquaintance of a worthy woman, one who was fast becoming
life and light to minds of a high order. The thoughts which had thrilled
the heart and soul of her husband we will record for the benefit of
those who may be struggling for light.
Howard Deane walked to the village post office that evening with no
other thought than of receiving his papers and returning home. While
there, he met Hugh Wyman, who requested him, as it was on his way, to
take a magazine to Miss Evans. He did not hesitate to grant the
request of his friend. Reaching her home he found her alone, and common
courtesies led them into conversation. This at first touched only upon
daily events, but soon it led into deeper channels, and their individual
thoughts were brought out upon religious subjects, each receiving
suggestions from the standpoint of the other.
“I am impatient, I know,” said Miss Evans, as the subject warmed
and brightened under the glow of words, “to see the day when my long
cherished ideas will be wrought into actual life. Will it not be grand
when religion shall no longer be an abstract, soulless science, a
musty theology, but a living, vital truth, lived and acted, not merely
professed and preached; when the human family shall be united in one
bond, and man love to do his brother good; when he who is strong, shall
care for him who is weak; when daily deeds of kindness shall be accepted
as true worship; when the golden rule shall be the only creed of
mankind, and woman shall throw upon her erring sisters the blessed veil
of charity. The world is full of need to-day. It never so much needed
the labor of every earnest man and woman as now. All can work for its
advancement; some speak, some write, others act, and thus unitedly aid
in ushering in the millenium of humanity. Religion is to me only a
daily life of goodness. The church has little but form. We want vital
christianity flowing from heart to heart; and prayers, not at stated
times, but when souls mount heavenward, whether in words or deeds, to be
recognized as true worship. When our churches shall be adorned by art;
when the theatre, now so little understood, is employed as a lever of
moral power, equal if not greater than the church, for reaching the
heart, and enriching the intellect; when these two forces approach each
other, then shall we have a real church and true worship. Art in every
form must be acknowledged as the great mediator between God and man, and
when this is done we shall have a completeness in our worship, which
is little dreamed of now. To my mind, the drama appears as the great
instructor of the coming time--greater than the church, more potent,
hence more effectual, and will, I think, at some day occupy its place. I
have talked long, but the fullness of the theme must be my excuse.”
“I am but too glad to hear expressions of such thoughts from any one. I
have been for a long time reaching for something more satisfactory than
I have received. The forms of worship have long been dull and void of
life to me.”
“Too long have our minds been lumbered with doctrines, instead of
principles,” said Miss Evans, her face glowing with earnest thought,
“but the signs of the times are now glorious. Men will no longer feed
on husks and dry bones. The call is every day for light, more light, and
theories are fast giving place to human experiences. A strong current
of individual life, too, is setting in, which inspires every speaker and
writer with high and noble thoughts, and they are forced to give bread
and not stones to the multitude. We shall, I hope, Mr. Deane, live to
see the coming of the new day, for surely we have little but darkness
now, and yet all the light we could use, I suppose, else it would have
come before.”
“I trust we shall, and if men and women are true to the light they have,
the day will soon be here. But, really, Miss Evans,” he said, looking
at his watch, “'t is almost ten o'clock; how rapidly the moments have
flown.”
“I lose all idea of time when I feel the beating and pulsing of a human
soul,” responded Miss Evans. “I hope you will come again and bring your
wife; I only know her by features; I really wish to know her through her
thoughts.”
“I will, I thank you,” and he left, full to overflowing, impatient to
impart to his wife the thoughts of an earnest soul. We have met him in
his home, and know the result,--the sharp reverse side of most of life's
best experiences.