Mrs. Deane found the hours drag heavily while her parents remained. She
was not like her former self, and they could not but notice the change.
It was the first time in their married life that she wished them at
home. One hour alone with her husband would have set all right; but
there were none, for business seemed to press in from all quarters, and
every moment of his time, far into the night, was occupied in writing.
They saw nothing of each other save in the presence of their parents,
for Mr. Deane only snatched a few hours' sleep at early dawn, and
awoke just in time to prepare for breakfast. They were estranged, and
circumstances to embitter the sad state of affairs seemed to daily
multiply.
The fourth evening after the arrival, there was a slight pause in the
pressure of his business, but feeling no inclination to join the family,
knowing that Mabel and himself would be in feelings miles apart, he
called again upon Miss Evans.
To his relief he found her alone, for he longed for another communion
with a mind so comprehensive, and a soul so pure as her own. She noticed
the look of sadness on his face, and was glad her own heart was light
and her soul strong in trust, that she might administer to him.
Had he come last night, she said to herself, how little could I have
done for him, for my own soul was dark with grief, my lips dumb. His
face bore a more buoyant look as her words of hope and thoughtful
sayings appealed to his good judgment, and before long it glowed with
joy like her own. He forgot the cloud that had arisen over himself and
Mabel; forgot her words that so wounded his soul; and only her best and
true self was mirrored on his heart, as he listened to the vital truths
which flowed from the lips of the noble woman in whose presence he sat.
“Our conversation the other night,” he said, “awakened such new
emotions, or rather aroused feelings which were dormant, that I could
not resist the strong impulse I felt to call on you again and renew our
conversation.”
“I am very glad you have come, for it does my soul good to see others
interested in these newly-developed views, and recognizing the great
needs of humanity, and the imperative demands of our natures.”
“I have felt,” remarked Mr. Deane, “for a long time that the church, the
subject of our last conversation, needs more life; that it must open its
doors to all rays of light, and not longer admit only a few, and that
those doors must be broad enough and high enough, that whatever is
needed for the advancement of mankind may enter therein, come from
whence it may, and called by whatever name it may be. In a word, the
church must go on in advance of the people, or at least with them,
else it will be left behind and looked upon as a worn out and useless
institution.”
“I am glad to hear you express your thoughts thus, and hope you will
give them as freely at all times, for too many who entertain these views
do not speak them, standing in fear of what their friends or the church
may say or do. Of such there are tens of thousands. Give them utterance.
Every honest man and woman should, and thus aid in hastening on the day
of true life and perfect liberty. While I value associative effort, I
would not for a moment lose sight of individual thinking and acting. We
do not have enough of it. The church has much to adopt to bring it
into a healthy condition. To-day it ignores many valuable truths which
retired individuals hold, while it feeds its hearers on husks. Finding
better food for their souls outside, they go, and cannot return, because
the truths they hold would not be accepted.”
“We have made rapid advances in art and science, Miss Evans, but the
church has lagged behind, until at length we find that more christianity
is found outside than inside its walls.”
“True. The best men and women I have ever known, have never sat at the
table of the Lord, so called, have never broken the bread and drank the
wine, yet their souls have tasted life-everlasting when they have given
in His name food to the hungry and clothing to the naked. Each soul is a
temple and each heart a shrine. The only thing the church can do to-day
is, to reach forth and take its life from the world. All the accessions
of art must be unfolded, if she would keep alive. Fortify it with these
things, and we shall not see, as we do now, in every town and city even,
the whole burden of its support resting on one or two individuals. If
it has life enough it will stand; if it refuse light, such persons only
retard its progress, although strictly conscientious in their position.
I think one of its greatest errors is in keeping one pastor too long.
How can the people be fed, and draw life from one fount alone?”
“True,” he said, “and is not that view applicable to our social and
domestic as well as to our religious state? Can we draw life always from
one person?”
“No; nor was it ever intended that men and women should so exhaust
each other. The marriage law is too arbitrary; it allows no scope for
individual action, and yet the subject is so delicate, so intricate,
that none but the keenest and nicest balanced minds dare attempt to
criticise, much less improve it. The misconstructions of a person's
motives are so great that many who see its errors, tremble and fear
to speak of them. But if we are to bring any good to the covenant, so
sacred in its offices, we must point out its defects and seek to remedy
them, and I sometimes think it will be my mission to help it to
higher states. Although such a task would be far from enviable, I will
willingly give my thoughts to those who are struggling, at the risk of
being misunderstood nine times in ten, as I probably shall be.”
“Then please give me your best thoughts, Miss Evans, for I need all the
light I can get, not only for myself, but for others.”
“I am but a scholar, like yourself, Mr. Deane, and I sometimes think
that all I may hope to do will be but to lift the burden an instant from
the pilgrim's shoulder, that deeper breath may be taken for the long and
often dreary journey.”
A sharp ring of the door-bell interrupted further conversation, and Mr.
Deane, bowing to the intruder, as such she seemed at that moment to be,
bade Miss Evans good evening, and departed.
The caller was a gossiping woman, who kept many domestic fires alive
with her fuel of scandalous reports.
“Dear me, Miss Evans,” she said, as soon as comfortably seated, “was n't
that Mr. Deane? Yes, I thought so; but my eye-sight 'aint over good,
and then he looked so sad-like; maybe he 'aint well,” and she looked
inquiringly to Miss Evans, who replied,--
“I think he is in his usual health; a little worn, perhaps, with
business. How is your family, Mrs. Turner?”
“O, tol'rable, thank ye. But Mr. Deane did n't say anything, did he,
about his folks?
“His folks? What do you mean, Mrs. Turner?”
“Law me, I might as well tell as not, now I've said what I have. Why
you see Miss Moses who nusses Mrs. Baker, was up ter Mrs. Brown's last
night, and Mrs. Deane's hired gal was there, and she told Mrs. Brown's
man that Mr. Deane and his wife had some pretty hard words together, and
that her folks-her father and mother-was 'goin ter take her home.”
“Mrs. Turner, I have no interest in this gossip; we will change the
subject if you please.”
“Lor, don't be 'fended; I only-I mean I meant no harm.”
“You may not; but this idle habit of retailing the sayings of others,
is worse than folly. It's a great wrong to yourself and the individuals
spoken of.”
“Well, I did n't think to have such a lectur',” said the woman,
affecting a feeling of good nature, “I say as I said afore, I meant no
harm. I like Mr. and Mrs. Deane very much, and thought it was too bad
for such things to be said.”
“Is marm here?” inquired a coarse voice at the door, and a red, chubby
face was thrust in the narrow opening.
“Why, Josiah Turner, I told you ter go ter bed an hour ago. Well, I must
go, Miss Evans. I 'spose my boy won't go without me,” and taking her son
by the hand, she departed.
“A storm upon their domestic horizon, I fear, is coming, if not already
there,” said Miss Evans, setting down and resting her lead upon her
hands. “I wish he had not come. Something may be charged to me-but why
should I fear. I have said simply what I felt was right. I must expect
to encounter many storms in this voyage whose haven of peace is-where?
None knoweth.”
She fastened her door, and after lifting her heart in prayer for
guidance, retired.
Mr. Deane found his wife alone when he returned, and one could have seen
by his manner how glad he was to find her so.
“It seems a month, Mabel, since I have seen you alone.”
She only remarked that she feared her parents felt his absence from
home.
“I do think, Howard,” she continued, “that you could give us a little
of your time. It is due to my parents. It must seem to them that you
willingly absent yourself, and it is hard for me to convince them to the
contrary.”
“I am sorry that any such impression should have worked its way into
their minds. They ought to know that it is quite a sacrifice for me to
devote myself so closely to business. I hope, Mabel, you are wrongly
impressed as regards them, and it may be that your own state has more to
do with it than theirs. This is the first evening I have had to myself
since they have been here.”
“And why was this not spent at home?”
“Because I cannot assume to be what I am not, and you know I am not
at rest; that our harmony is disturbed. Could I have seen you alone, I
should have been at home before this.”
“You have sought society, I suppose, more congenial?”
“Mabel, be careful. You may so unnerve me that I may say much that I
shall be sorry for.”
“Howard?”
“Well, Mabel.”
“I think I shall return with father and mother. They will go home day
after to-morrow.”
He did not raise his eyes, nor appear in the least anxious to detain
her, but merely said:
“Where are they this evening?”
“At Mrs. Norton's. They went to tea. I felt too ill to accompany them.”
“Are you very ill, Mabel?”
“I feel far from well, and yet it does not seem to be from physical
indisposition. It is something deeper.”
“True, my poor wife, we have become estranged; and what has caused it?”
She looked thoughtfully at him a moment, but no answer came from her
lips.
“I think we had better part awhile. It will do us both good.”
She started, scarce expecting such a remark from him.
“Then my presence has, indeed, become irksome to you?” Her tone and
manner implied more than she cared to display.
“You know better than that, Mabel; but I-we both are sadly out of
harmony; perhaps have exhausted each other. Let us part, and each find
ourselves. We shall be brighter and happier when we come together,
Mabel; shall we not?” and he laid his hand tenderly on her head.
O, why cannot two at least see things in their true light? Why was
it that she remained so blind to the real state of affairs? Either
ignorance or wilfulness kept her from the light, and coldly bidding him
good night, she left the room.
The next day was indeed gloomy. Mabel's parents had become acquainted,
not with the facts, but with a distorted view of the case, and in their
eyes she was a greatly abused woman. It was no longer any use for her
husband to exert himself for their happiness, the poison of prejudice
had entered their minds, and tinctured every thought.
It was a painful parting. Misconception on one side, and deep suffering
with pride, upon the other. No lighting of the eyes, no pressure of the
hand, no warm good-bye, to keep his heart alive while she was away.
He stood, after the cars had left, deeply pondering the strange affair,
until the crowd jostled him, and brought him back to the external world,
with its toil, its sounds of mirth, and its varied forms of life.
What a break in his usual peaceful life; what a void he found in his
soul when he entered the silent home. There was no lingering atmosphere
of love about the rooms; everything was put away out of sight. The order
was painful, and he left to seek companionship if not sympathy.