of considerable assurance in the social gatherings, and generally
managed to lead off with the dances and parties from his size and
commanding way more than from any merit of talent or real goodness in
himself; one of the village leaders who gained favor by fine looks and
outward appearance; one of the petted class of forenoon brilliants
whose afternoons are often more shaded.
There was a smile of serene contentment and half-satisfaction on the
haughty face of young Arthur as he offered himself to the Judge’s
daughter in that manner assumed by generals in battle. He obtained his
prize, and she obtained her ambition. He married beauty, she married a
leader. Her highly colored future was a life of intellectual greatness;
his first pride was of conquest, then of distinction.
A large man in a small place may be a little man in a large city.
In good season they were married, of course; and of their courtship
little need be said, for it was all unromantic.
Arthur’s father was a merchant of limited means, and the younger having
high notions of going West to grow up with the country, early settled
in a lumber-making city of North Michigan, where he took his fair young
companion, who soon realized that her rose-colored romance of brave
pioneers was not a living reality.
Dreams are one thing, real life is another; work was scarce in the big
overgrown city, but plentiful in the pineries; and after the first
day of married life wore into weeks, and living expense came around
with painful regularity, the new couple were forced to economize, then
look for employment, which they first found in tending store and camp,
cooking for a large lumber-ranch; certainly far less refining than the
vision of a Vassar schoolgirl’s essay had pictured.
But they prospered, and by dint of close saving, always coming from the
wise counsel of the weaker one, they became managers, then owners, of
a portable saw-mill and a ranch, and gradually a store building partly
paid for.
From the letters home, showing their thrift and economy, gradually
came small sums lent to the far-away idol of the staid old Judge’s
household. Cyrus was surprised and delighted one day to find a large
bill of goods sent on to fill up their store and give them a start in
their hard beginning.
It was the work and influence of that little brainy wife, whose tender
hands had grown harder by cooking, mending, and working for forty or
more robust workmen, and the reward it brought and the encouragement
to both. With a well-stocked grocery and comfortable surroundings,
Cyrus began to look the world in the face quite complacently, and take
matters easier. Meanwhile, the silent ambition of Caroline determined,
if growing up with the country meant anything, she would fathom its
mystery, and she continued to delve and save, and plan and execute, and
encourage her husband in his extensive contracts.
Here was a profit on forty laborers, a margin on their payment in
goods, a rise in lumber, and a golden opportunity to buy vast tracts
of pine timber at very low figures in cash payments. Drawing on her
savings the little wife advised wise investments.
II.
Fifty-seven, eight, and nine were the three trying years in Northern
Michigan. Many a man would cheerfully trade a load of shingles for
a bag of corn, and a thousand feet of timber for a single ham. New
England thrift was in the market, and the little daughter of a discreet
judge balanced the chances and made hay in sunshine most effectually.
Four years passed by, and a rapid rise in prices gradually increased
the value of timber, then lumber, then shingles, then lands, and long
before the war ended, Arthur and his once timid wife were among the
wealthy citizens of the Rapids.
A large, strong frame, and but little anxiety; a dark, swarthy
complexion, with a heavy black beard; the face of such a man at
thirty-eight showed less signs of wear than his little fair-faced
companion at six years younger.
Age, climate, work, and care were telling on the slender build of
Caroline. The rapid birth of three children in ten years told also
their story of a mother’s anxiety, written in shading lines on her once
delicate features.
Absorbed in her duties as a wife, she had little room for society,
while he, a man relieved by riches from hard labor, was approaching
that prime of maturity when the world looks complacently upward to one
who has prospered, not even asking how, or why, or any reason.
Long trips to large cities, absence from home, mingling often with
wealthy lumbermen, and assuming that position that wealth ever commands
in society, were doing for Cyrus Arthur what they will do for many in
like situations.
He craved a larger field for usefulness, he moved and settled in
a large city; he craved society, he was a favorite with women; he
developed a fondness for the more forward class. He fell; he fell often.
If he had ever loved his devoted wife, the author of all his success
and prosperity, he now grew unloving, haunted by the caresses of more
passionate women. Driven by appetite to seek the companionship of the
brazen and deceitful, he lost his self-respect, his love of home, and
grew madly in love with a most bewitching character, lately divorced
from her husband.
A spell came over him; “the trail of the serpent is over them
all,”--the “twelfth temptation,” as shown in the powerful drama of
its name, that takes a farmer-boy in innocence, carries him safely
through the perils of a great city, saves him from saloons and wine,
and larceny and dishonesty, and at last when weakened by tampering with
sin, brings him face to face with such dazzling beauty that his fall
before it seems as natural as his ruin later is effectual.
The trail of the serpent had crossed by the path of Arthur. The coil
wound around him, for he loved the bold siren who enchanted him, and
yielded to the twelfth temptation.
III.
“For a woman can do with a man what she will;” yet a man who knows a
woman thoroughly and loves her truly--and there are women who may be so
known and loved--will find, after a few years, that his relish for the
grosser pleasures is lessened, and that he has grown into a fondness
for the intellectual and refined amusements without an effort, and
almost unawares.
Fettered and controlled by the witchery of his evil genius, Cyrus
Arthur lost all power but that borrowed of his seducer. Her counsel
replaced the once wise confidence of a better companion. Her influence
was as a loadstone in a compass,--it carried him in dumb obedience to
her will. He was absorbed, confused, bewitched, stranded, lost!
As often as they met in their evil way, she demanded a divorce and
insisted on early proceedings.
“But the cause?” he would say. “Cause?” she would answer; “make a
cause!” “Not so easily done,” replied her willing admirer.
“Money will do anything,” was her ready answer.
“Money will do anything,” repeated the fond lumberman; “true, money
will do everything.”
But how? When, and where?
These questions were all puzzling.
IV.
There was a dark-faced inspector, a man-of-all-work in lumber camp,
called Roland, who had often called at Arthur’s, and who occasionally
partook a little too freely of Northern fire-water, as the Indians term
it, and whose poverty at such times would consent to almost anything,
on one pretence and another.
Young Roland was sent to inquire if Mr. Arthur was in, or if Mrs.
Arthur needed shopping done, or errands attended to, with instructions
to hint that his employer was seen riding out with the enchantress
in a cutter, seemingly on the way to another village. These little
irritations were to be repeated for effect, but no effect seems
probable. They did create some inquiry, and at such dates of
confidential conferences Mrs. Arthur was alone with the hireling spy
and listened to his inferences of her husband’s indiscretions.
Neither by word nor deed nor murmur did Caroline exhibit a sign
or symbol of her unhappiness, save by the deeper lines and paler
countenance that easily escaped detection to one who barely looked her
in the eyes twice a day for months together.
It was a failure; she would never act, he must take the initiative.
Armed with a sworn affidavit of her infidelity with Roland on a recent
occasion, together with further papers to complete their separation
and settle an alimony of a few thousand dollars as her share of their
large property, Cyrus Arthur visited his wife late at night as a robber
would call for her jewels, and demanded a complete surrender. Stunned
and shocked, and overcome by the intelligence, she wept most bitterly,
pleaded, begged, and implored her husband, in the name of Heaven, to
spare her and her _children_ from a disgrace so terrible. The sighing
of the pines in a Northern forest would have moved him as soon from his
purpose. She was between him and an envied object; he must succeed.
He was already goaded to desperation. Seizing the part of her plea
relating to her little girls, he made the worst of it.
“If you would spare yourself and them from disgrace eternally, make no
denial and all shall be secret, and no one the wiser.”
“Can this be true?” asked the distracted mother of the other’s lawyer.
“Yes,” he replied, cases have been heard on default and divorces
granted, and not one scrap of bill or answer ever published.
“What is a bill and answer?” questioned the little woman in her tears,
for she never dreamed of a divorce between her and her husband till
that moment.
“It is the ground and denial for divorce,” replied the attorney.
“Cyrus Arthur,” said his wife, as she looked at the eyes that evaded
her earnestness, “do you mean this proceeding, or are you trifling?”
“I am in earnest,” he answered.
“Have you forgotten my home, my surroundings, the shock to my mother,
my father, my own feelings, my neighbors, our children? Do you realize
how you sin, and wrong me?
“How I have toiled and helped you, planned our success! How I have
suffered, gone almost in the grave, in bringing you these children! Are
you in earnest?
“If your heart is not iron, speak to me; shall I deny such a foolish
slander? Shall I tell you before God, who will one day judge us all,
that every one of the charges are infamous lies and perjuries; shall I
place my word against his and you deny me?”
“But you cannot swear in court in such cases,” said the ready lawyer.
“Then Heaven will hear me; I am innocent. And may the Almighty end my
life right here, if I have ever, by act or look, or word or deed, done
aught that a true woman should not do in every day of our married life,
from first to last, as God is my witness!”
“But your children?” he pleaded, as if he had heard not a word of her
earnest protest.
On and on they argued, later and later grew the hour, till, worn out at
midnight they passed her the papers, and eight thousand dollars, with
which she was to return to her home in New England, and abandon all
defense to the proceeding, including a release of all dower interest in
his estate, real and personal.
You may smile at the absurdity, you may question the reason of such
haste and compulsion.
“But who, alas! can love and still be wise?”
Ask of the court records in every American city, and you will find
stronger cases and stronger instances, more degradation, greater
hardship, and equal perjury. Ask of _one_ court and find this case!
No sleep nor rest comes to Caroline Arthur. Early dawn found her
surrounded by her weeping children, in alarm at the sudden illness, for
she only called it illness.
Twice she started for the City National Bank to deposit her money, and
twice relented. Once she determined to consult a neighbor, and later
concluded she would bear alone her sorrow.
Hastily filing his bill and securing her appearance, an early demand
for a hearing before a commissioner, in less than a _single week_ came
a divorce on the ground of infidelity.
Elated by his victory, with his deeds well recorded, and the court’s
great seal granting their divorcement, Cyrus Arthur stalked the streets
in supreme confidence as a man of victory.
It is said that Roman generals, once victorious ever bore about with
them the marks of conquerors; so did our modern general, but for a
brief duration.
Once in the newspapers, and the busy streets were vocal with open
denunciation. “Eight thousand dollars from a property worth one hundred
and fifty thousand dollars!” came from bankers. “The wife that made
him what he is,” said another. “A shame to our civilization,” said the
third. “A fraud, a sham, a pretext,” said another.
And the majority joined in the last anthem,--“a sham, a pretext,” a
trick to turn off his worn-out wife and marry that impious trader in
unvirtue and immorality.
Press interviews were had, and the dear little lady of clean hands
and honest heart, whose soul shone as a diamond in the filth of foul
slander around her, utterly and consistently refuted and denied the
whole story, and related its history with marvellous circumstantial
evidence to convince any reasonable person of her truthfulness.
Indignation knew no bounds; a firm of able lawyers at once filed a
cross bill, and a prayer to set aside the fraudulent bill and another
to annul all conveyances to Arthur; and within almost as brief a limit
as he had secured his decree she had been restored to her rights with a
divorce from Arthur and a thirty-thousand-dollar settlement.
He was driven from the city in infamy, and she lived on in honor; but
the stain on the children was of a nature more permanent.
UNROMANTIC MARRIAGES.
Grace Hartwell graduated at Hillsdale College in 18--, and settled as
an assistant teacher in the Union school on College Hill, living with
her mother across the narrow river near by, where she would pass the
old homestead of Richard Baker, son of a well-to-do farmer adjoining
the village, and who early became interested in the fair young teacher.
Grace was a full brunette, of fairer complexion than is common to her
school of beauty.
She was beautiful, with well rounded arms, heavy black hair, rosy lips,
white hands, eyes of marked expression--eyes that stood out full, and
shone in striking contrasts, the black portion and the white being
clear and sharply defined.
Grace was no less a beauty than a dreamer, and longed for the kind of
change that best suits a girl of her quick, passionate, and impulsive
nature--a marriage.
Richard was below the medium size, with very light hair, of slim
figure, reticent of speech, shy and bashful, especially so in the
presence of Grace, whom he met at parties, donations, and college
receptions, so frequent and amusing in their lively village.
Both went too long a distance for their dinner to make the trip
agreeable, and both often carried their daily lunches in little baskets
for convenience.
On their homeward trips they met occasionally, bowed, passed the time
of day, chatted of the last night’s party. It was growing so much of a
custom with Richard to meet these road-side appointments, self-made,
and well timed to match his lonely companion, that they soon became a
matter of each day’s history.
Grace was willing to listen, Richard was anxious to turn aside from his
regular pathway and go round a square to bear her company.
They were in love without romance, and against both the belief and
expectation of all their associates.
She was the prize of the village; he was neither well-off nor popular,
but plain and unhandsome. He was not her only suitor, but the first had
taken some pique at her attentions to a stranger in the village, that
offended the haughty admirer of her beauty, and each was claimant for
her entire devotion.
Miss Hartwell’s father was a tall black-eyed Virginian, warm-blooded,
swarthy, and impulsive, and liked not the manner of his daughter’s new
friendship.
He put his foot down with emphasis. He insisted on obedience. He wanted
position, old family, wealth and social standing, or no marriage.
Grace could not always govern her scholars, but herself she was
determined to control.
Herein both father and daughter were much alike.
Time passed; attachment increased by opposition. Such is more often the
way of lovers separated; but these were not wholly separated.
At the death of Richard’s stepfather a division of the estate netted a
round three thousand to the young farmer, who had done nearly all the
farm work lately, and now started on an early Northwestern visit to
the wheat-growing regions, resolved on a test of climate, comparison
of prices, and general outlook for an investment. He bought early and
largely in prairie lands of finest quality. He struggled, prospered,
and grew well-to-do as a farmer.
And what became of Grace, the teacher? Letters to and from Dakota,
neatly written, choicely worded, and carefully punctuated, from one
side; hurried notes, badly composed, from the other. The mind is never
quite full of two subjects at once, and the surest cure for heartache
is active employment and earnest work.
The increasing cares of farming, the magnitude of the business, the
constant desire for money (for the seed-time of farming is in its early
stages), were a source of daily anxiety to Richard. “My poor Richard”
was not a common name for a heading to Grace’s letters; truly she had
found a fit name for her absent lover; a lover of land and of cattle, a
lover of acres and of reapers, a lover of fences and shade-trees, and a
growing Northwesterner; but poor, indeed, in actual happiness.
They were married; Grace removed to her rude quarters and furnished
them by taste, skill, and refinement. She took to her new home all the
delicacy of rare machine-work, neat stitching, and tidy ornaments of
her Eastern education; the sewing of many odd hours of industry.
It seemed like an endless harvest, a long busy day, a strife and a
struggle, in a wilderness of bleak broad fields at great distance from
market. They raised vast crops, but sold at low prices.
The panic of ’73, and the cold winter following, made not a very happy
honeymoon to both, but they endured it all, risked all in a fond large
hope of abundant future riches. In a land of no railroads (it’s changed
now; it’s as much more brilliant to-day as an electric light compared
with the light of a common candle), Dakota was then rather a dreary
country.
Sometimes, it is true, there would come over Grace a feeling of
lonesome homesickness. It comes to a far-away settler many times in a
lifetime; but she would choke it under, and resolve to be a brave wife
and a worthy companion.
Ten years have rolled by, and times are better; both are older, worn a
little by climate, larger, changed.
On the way to the National Park I chanced past their village one
evening on the great Pacific Railroad, and mentioned “Hillsdale”
incidentally.
I saw a woman turn half-way round and look towards me, but went on
unmindful of the situation. Suddenly her companion arose and asked me
if I said Hillsdale, to which I assented, and then a vacant seat was
made and both came back and questioned me. They were strange people,
truly.
He a stout-built, long-bearded man, half gray, with buffalo
overcoat, fur cap and mittens on; she well wrapped in beaver; both
Western-looking in every particular.
“You spoke of Hillsdale, sir,” began the woman; “and we lived there
once, and feel curious to know if you would not remain all night with
us. We have a farm near by next station. I hope you will consent to
spend the night with us;” clearly the woman was the social leader.
There was a pleading in the look, a frank expression that said, Please
do, and I consented.
Two miles, a drive by a cold open sleigh-ride--cold is hardly strong
enough to mark the term,--and we found a low unpainted farm-house,
plastered below, with chamber-floor for ceiling overhead, and rudely
formed walls; a house of three rooms, mainly in two; a farm of six
thousand acres, five teams, three tenant-houses, wagons and sleighs and
farming-tools without stint, but comfort nowhere.
After breakfast the farmer fed his flocks and attended to his general
chores, while I stayed in and chatted by a sickly pretence of fire
made of bad coal and green kindling-wood. I had seen, each time as he
came in, how gently he handled his little pet dogs, that seemed their
only children, how deeply absorbed he was in farm and stock, and how
anxious he was I should see the ranch, but how little he noticed his
superior companion.
“Where are your children?” I ventured to inquire.
“They are all three yonder in the field,” she said, and I knew they
all slept in narrow houses there. This seemed to let loose the flood
that held her feelings since the night before. “But for my husband,”
she added, “I should go home ere this. He promised me to go as soon as
the road was built; but then it costs so much, we keep on putting off
from year to year. But I am longing so much to go! And when I heard
that word Hillsdale last night, it filled me so full of home I could
not contain myself. I hope you were not offended; but it seemed if
some one would come and talk to me, my life would all be new again! It
is so blank, so bleak, so cold and desolate, and I am heart hungry.”
The tears came fast, and filled her large dark eyes and softened down
her voice to tones of confidence. With eagerness she spoke of care, and
work and trouble, sorrow and neglect; for, in his greed of gain, he had
forgotten her as year by year rolled on, and both were growing older
fast, and he not heeding it,--living on in his farm, reapers, sheep and
crops; his heart was full of such, and had no room for her, no room for
life.
“And you have been out here for fifteen years?” I said. “How many years
in that long time have you really lived?”
“Lived!” said Grace--for this was Grace and Richard, as you must know
ere this--“lived!” she replied;--“in work and trouble a long life
indeed; in happiness, not one year yet. We have been waiting every year
for that good time to come when we would find our happiness; we have
not found it yet. The more he gets, the more he wants. Land means care,
and taxes, and hired men, anxiety of crops, and overwork.
“I had rather live _one year_ back by the old farm school-house, when I
carried my dinner to my school, and had a loving group of faces looking
into my eyes each noon, and loving me, than own all our acres and be
here a dozen years.
“Life is not all in years to me! I have learned that lesson dearly,
learned it living where we see so little of real life that memory is
all the hope I have.”
“Starving amid plenty is cruelty,” I said. “Sell half and live while
you may. You are wasting your whole lives in a fruitless hunt for
happiness.”
I have since learned that my visit was a revolution and reform, and
that they are living better.
And I thought, as I turned to the States and cast a long sad look
at the lonely form in the doorway, and one at the bundle of robes
beside me, who was driving me to the land of daily enjoyment, if their
children had grown up and lived in such a place, where would have
been their hope? In land and horses! Where their company? The company
of flocks and cattle. The hope of sometime finding more congenial
quarters. I turned in sadness, saying inwardly, “God pity the land-poor
farmers, and pity their wives, and show them the lives they are
leading!”
* * * * *
THE SCIENCE OF A NEW LIFE.
BY JOHN COWAN, M. D.
A Book Well Worth Possessing by Every Thoughtful Man and Woman.
The “Science of a New Life” has received the highest testimonials and
commendations from leading medical and religious critics; has been
heartily endorsed by all the leading philanthropists, and recommended
to every well-wisher of the human race.
_TO ALL WHO ARE MARRIED_
Or are contemplating marriage, it will give information worth HUNDREDS
OF DOLLARS, besides conferring a lasting benefit, not only upon them,
but upon their children. Every thinking man and woman should study this
work. Any person desiring to know more about the book before purchasing
it, may send to us for our 16-page descriptive circular, giving full
and complete table of contents. It will be sent free by mail to any
address. The following is the table of contents.