"FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE."
ADAM LIVESEY was not fated to be long without a companion. His mother's
next door neighbour was a widow, like herself. Her only unmarried
daughter had just given up her place to come and live with her, the one
who had been at home having lately become the wife of a mechanic.
Mrs. Livesey, as we know, had not been much given to neighbouring,
but, being "fond of peace and quietness," was certain to quarrel with
nobody. She was silent enough, but Mrs. Allison, being a great talker,
had liked her all the better on that account. So she told how Annie was
going to be married, and Maggie, her youngest, coming to live with her
at home, because she could not be left by herself.
"And lucky for me," she said, "my husband had a trifle of money that
came to him only just before he died, or I am afraid he would have run
through it; and he left it to me for life, and then it will go, share
and share alike, amongst the four girls. Only a trifle when it comes
to be divided, but enough to keep a little house over my head while I
live, and so as I can have one daughter with me. Maggie is the last.
Eh, dear! I hope nobody will want her!"
Maggie was a dark-eyed, rosy-checked damsel, full of spirits, rather
too fond of finery, yet kindly hearted and of an affectionate
disposition. She had only been home a few days when Mrs. Livesey was
taken ill. What so natural as that the one neighbour who had persisted
in making her acquaintance should minister to her during her sickness?
What so certain as that one pair of hands proving insufficient, the
bright-eyed daughter should relieve her mother?
Both were very kind. There could be no mistake about that, and Adam was
very grateful, and longed to express his feelings; but having become
taciturn by habit, he hardly knew how to begin. He thought he should
offer payment, but was afraid of giving offence. However, greatly to
his relief, Mrs. Allison guessed from the first hesitating words what
was coming, and stopped the rest.
"Don't you say one word about what Maggie and I have done. Mrs. Livesey
was heartily welcome to our best, whether by night or day. I felt for
her, having no daughter or sister to watch by her. Our turns will come,
when we shall want looking after, and somebody will have to do for us
what we have done for your mother."
Adam found words to express his thanks, and the friendly widow extended
her good offices, put his house in order for him, made all the
arrangements that would have fallen naturally to a woman's hand, had
there been one of his kindred to undertake them, and laid him under no
small obligation by so doing. What so natural as for him to consult
such kindly neighbours, and to talk over with them his plans for the
future?
"I think I shall sell the few sticks of furniture and go into
lodgings," he said. "It is so lonely to come home and find no mother.
She was very quiet, but she was always there."
"I wouldn't, if I were you," replied the widow briskly. "It would never
do for you to be by yourself. You must have somebody to look after you.
If you sold your things, you would get next to nothing for them, and
yet there is a tidy little lot. They would cost a good bit if you had
to buy them. You'll not be a bachelor always, Mr. Livesey, and it says
a deal for your good heart that you denied yourself of marrying and
stopped with your mother."
The widow's words were strangely confusing to Adam Livesey, and the
suggestion was a novel one to him. The idea of marrying had not
entered his mind, though, now he was alone in the world, it came home
with great force as the most fitting remedy for his solitude. Almost
involuntarily he looked towards the widow's daughter, and she, seeing
his glance, turned quickly to the window, though not soon enough to
hide the flush that rose to her cheek at the words of her mother.
Maggie Allison was young, pretty, bright, and kind. How different it
would be if he had such a face as that to meet him at the threshold!
How pleasant to hear her singing about his little house, as she did
about her mother's! He had heard her voice often, through the thin
walls which divided the tenements, and thought that she was just like
a bird, with her cheery voice and active movements. How delightful it
would be to have her at one side of the hearth, turning that rosy face
towards him, and chatting away about all that had happened during his
working hours! Thus cogitated Adam Livesey. Before he went back to his
own cottage that night, Mrs. Allison had persuaded him to let things be
for a while, until he had time to turn round.
"Maggie and me will see to things for you. Just for a bit, till you
settle on something, or somebody to keep house," added the widow, with
a half-smile hovering round her features.
Adam thankfully agreed, and went home with his mind full of Maggie
Allison, and wondering whether, after all her mother had said about her
being the last daughter left, and her dread of losing her, she would
look favourably upon him as a suitor. Perhaps if she were only coming
next door it would not be like parting! There was hope in that fact.
Then Adam looked at his spare form and homely features, and thought,
with a sigh, that he was too old, too plain, too poor for one so young
and pretty as Maggie. His dimly-conceived plans for self-improvement
must be given up if he married, for in this case he would have to work
for a wife, instead of a mother. Well! He had never been afraid of
work, and he thought, if he only had such a face as that to look on,
and such a voice to cheer him on, he could do more and better than he
had hitherto done.
It is easy to foresee the end of these musings. Maggie Allison's image
drove out every other tenant from Adam's mind. Her mother, having a
shrewd suspicion that the girl would not remain single for her sake,
and wishing to keep her near at hand, encouraged his advances, and
Maggie was won by the almost reverential wooing of this hitherto
reserved and silent man.
There was really only six years difference in their ages, and, under
the influence of this new affection, Adam grew younger looking, whilst
his natural intelligence lighted up his face, and hope gave it a new
expression.
"He worships the very ground I tread on, and I am certain he has never
thought about anybody else in all his life," said Maggie; and she was
right.
So the two married, and whilst there were only two, things were fairly
bright. Adam poured his wages into his wife's hands, as he had formerly
done into his mother's, and wished he had more to bring.
Children came, and Maggie could no longer manage to afford herself the
bits of finery in which her soul delighted. She found that plenty for
two, was but a scanty allowance for four, and scantier still for six,
and grumbled accordingly.
Mrs. Allison helped a little from time to time, but finding that
Maggie's appeals became more and more frequent, she grew tired, and,
without having told her daughter until almost the last moment, left the
cottage next door, and went to live near another of her children, whose
circumstances were comparatively prosperous.
This was a terrible blow to Adam and his wife, especially the latter.
Mrs. Allison went, as if only on a visit to her elder daughter, and
then, having taken a cottage, sent a person with authority to remove
her goods to the new home.
Then Adam Livesey had an opportunity of judging as to the relative
merits of a silent, gloomy mother, and one who was too often a fretful,
disappointed, scolding wife.
It had been pleasant, for a time, to be worshipped, to be of the first
importance, to have Adam's eyes following her every movement with
delighted wonder, to receive from his hands all that he had to give.
But after all, Maggie found that they had not much in common, and when
money ran short, that admiring looks would not make amends for the
lack of it. So the wife grumbled at being a domestic slave, and being
quick-tempered as well as keen-witted, often made the house too hot for
husband and children.
Adam never retorted. On the contrary, he felt terribly guilty, and
reminded himself of those old misgivings that had tormented him before
his marriage. "I ought never to have asked a bright young lass like
Maggie to tie herself to a grim know-naught of a fellow such as I am.
But it can't be undone now. I must just work on, and when the children
grow up, they'll help, and things will be better for the mother."
Poor, faithful soul! He loved his wife with the one affection of his
heart, and blamed himself for the change in her. He would soothe the
frightened little ones, when Maggie's angry words drove them in terror
from the hearth. In summer, he would carry one in his arms, and with a
couple more running beside him, would wander off into the public parks
and silently watch, whilst they played in quick and happy forgetfulness.
Or, if it were winter, and the little ones were driven upstairs to
creep into bed in the dark, Adam, remembering his own boyish hungering
for the clasp of arms round his neck, would follow stealthily, and kiss
and comfort them, or hold a tiny hand in his, until the child forgot
its trouble in blessed sleep.
He had learned some lessons as a boy, which he was putting into
practice as a man.
Adam had become as silent as his mother used to be. Never angry at
Maggie, but very pitiful. Never giving way to the temptation to drink,
though not restrained from it by any higher motive than the thought,
"Poor lass! I have little enough to take her as it is. I mustn't make
the little less, by spending it on myself."
So this poor fellow, with his big heart, his willing hands, his
unsatisfied yearnings after knowledge, and his ignorance of things
spiritual, went silently about his daily task, each day realising more
fully the kind of weight of which his mother had spoken when she talked
about "giving up."
It was not giving up work. She had never done that, and Adam was not
likely to do it either. Work was the habit of his life, the one thing
that gave a sort of satisfaction to his inner consciousness. It was all
that he had the power to do, and it must be right to go on, apart from
the needs-be, which ever cried in his ears, "Wife and children have to
be clothed and fed, and your toil must win food and raiment for them."
The "giving up" was the yielding of all his old hopes and longings,
the labouring on like a machine with as little power to turn aside,
as little expectation of any future good, either in this world or the
next, the working passively rather than patiently, the bearing himself
humbly, as one whose opinion of himself is of the lowest. And yet the
time was coming when a new and blessed light would burst upon Adam's
mental and spiritual darkness, and change the whole of his daily life.