Finger Posts on the Way of Life

T >> T. S. Arthur >> Finger Posts on the Way of Life

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The consequence was, that idle habits took him into idle company,
and idle company led him on to dissipation. Three years after his
marriage with Mary Lester, he was a drunkard and a gambler, and she
a drooping, almost heart-broken young wife and mother.

One night, nearly four years from the date of her unhappy marriage,
Mary sat alone in her chamber, by the side of the bed upon which
slept sweetly and peacefully a little girl nearly three years of
age, the miniature image of herself. Her face was very thin and
pale, and there was a wildness in her restless eyes, that betokened
a troubled spirit. The time had worn on until nearly one o'clock,
and still she made no movement to retire; but seemed waiting for
some one, and yet not in anxious expectation. At last the door below
was opened, and footsteps came shuffling along the hall, and noisily
up the stairs. In a moment or two, her room-door was swung widely
open, and her husband staggered in, so drunk that he could scarcely
keep his feet.

"And pray what are you doing up at this time of night, ha?" said he,
in drunken anger.

"You did not like it, you know, because I was in bed last night, and
so I have sat up for you this time," his wife replied, soothingly.

"Well, you've no business to be up this late, let me tell you,
madam. And I'm not agoing to have it. So bundle off to bed with you,
in less than no time!"

"O Henry! how can you talk so to me?" poor Mary said, bursting into
tears.

"You needn't go to blubbering in that way, I can tell you, madam; so
just shut up! I won't have it! And see here: I must have three
hundred dollars out of that stingy old father of yours to-morrow,
and you must get it for me. If you don't, why, just look out for
squalls."

As he said this, he threw himself heavily upon the bed, and came
with his whole weight upon the body of his child. Mrs. Fenwick
screamed out, sprang to the bedside, and endeavoured to drag him off
the little girl. Not understanding what she meant, he rose up
quickly, and threw her from him with such force, as to dash her
against the wall opposite, when she fell senseless upon the floor.
Just at this moment, her father, who had overheard his first angry
words, burst into the room, and with the energy of suddenly aroused
indignation, seized Fenwick by the collar, dragged him down-stairs,
and thence threw him into the street from his hall-door, which he
closed and locked after him--vowing, as he did so, that the wretch
should never again cross his threshold.

All night long did poor Mrs. Fenwick lie, her senses locked in
insensibility; and all through the next day she remained in the same
state, in spite of every effort to restore her. Her husband several
times attempted to gain admittance, but was resolutely refused.

"He never crosses my door-stone again!" the old man said; and to
that resolution he determined to adhere.

Another night and another day passed, and still another night, and
yet the heart-stricken young wife showed no signs of returning
consciousness. It was toward evening on the fourth day, that the
family, with Mrs. Martindale, who had called in, were gathered round
her bed, in a state of painful and gloomy anxiety, waiting for, yet
almost despairing again to see her restored to consciousness. All at
once she opened her eyes, and looked up calmly into the faces of
those who surrounded her bed.

"Where is little Mary?" she at length asked.

The child was instantly brought to her.

"Does Mary love mother?" she asked of the child, in a tone of
peculiar tenderness.

The child drew its little arms about her neck, and kissed her pale
lips and cheeks fondly.

"Yes, Mary loves mother. But mother is going away to leave Mary.
Will she be a good girl?"

The little thing murmured assent, as it clung closer to its mother's
bosom.

Mrs. Fenwick then looked up into the faces of her father and mother
with a sad but tender smile, and said--

"You will be good to little Mary when I am gone?

"Don't talk so, Mary!--don't, my child! You are not going to leave
us," her mother sobbed, while the tears fell from her eyes like
rain.

"Oh no, dear! you will not leave us," said her father, in a
trembling voice.

"Yes, dear mother! dear father! I must go. But you will not let any
one take little Mary from you?"

"Oh no--ever! She is ours, and no one shall ever take her away."

Mrs. Fenwick then closed her eyes, while a placid expression settled
upon her sweet but careworn face. Again she looked up, but with a
more serious countenance. As she did so, her eyes rested upon Mrs.
Martindale.

"I am about to die, Mrs. Martindale," she said, hit a calm but
feeble voice--"and with my dying breath I charge upon you the ruin
of my hopes and happiness. If my little girl should live to woman's
estate," she added, turning to her parents, "guard her from the
influence of this woman, as you would from the fangs of a serpent."

Then closing her eyes again, she sank away into a sleep that proved
the sleep of death. Alas! how many like her have gone down to an
early grave, or still pine on in hopeless sorrow, the victims of
that miserable interference in society, which is constantly bringing
young people together, and endeavouring to induce them to love and
marry each other, without there being between them any true
congeniality or fitness for such a relation! Of all assumed social
offices, that of the match-maker is one of the most pernicious, and
her character one of the most detestable. She should be shunned with
the same shrinking aversion with which we shun a serpent which
crosses our path.

THE RETURN; OR, WHO IS IT?

"IT'S nearly a year now since I was home," said Lucy Gray to her
husband; "and so you must let me go for a few weeks."

They had been married some four or five years, and never during that
time had been separated for a single night.

"I thought you called this your home," said Gray, looking up with a
mock-serious air.

"I mean my old home," replied Lucy, in a half-affected tone of
anger. "Or, to make it plain, I want to go, and see father and
mother."

"Can't you wait three or four months, until I can go with you?"
asked the young husband.

"I want to go now. You said all along that I should go in May."

"I know I did. But then I supposed that I would be able to go with
you."

"Well, why can't you? I am sure you might, if you would."

"No, Lucy, I cannot possibly leave home now. But if you are very
anxious to see the old folks, I can put you in the stage, and you
will go safely enough. Ellen and I can take care of little Lucy, no
doubt. How long a time do you wish to spend with them?"

"About three weeks or so?"

"Very well, Lucy, if you are not afraid to go lone, I have not a
word to say."

"I'm not afraid, dear," replied the wife in a voice hanged and
softened in its expression. "But are you perfectly willing to let me
go, Henry?"

"Oh, certainly," was answered, although the tone in which the words
were uttered had in it something of reluctance. "It would be selfish
in me to say no. Your father and mother will be delighted receive a
visit just now."

"And you think that you and Ellen can get along with little Lucy?"

"Oh yes, very well."

"I should like to go so much."

"Go, then, by all means."

"But won't you be very lonesome without me?" suggested Lucy, in
whose own bosom a feeling of loneliness was already beginning to be
felt at the bare idea of a separation from her husband.

"I can stand it as long as you," was Gray's laughing reply to this.
"And then I shall have our dear little Lucy."

Mrs. Gray laughed in return, but did not feel as happy at the idea
of "going home" as she thought she would be before her husband's
consent was gained. The desire to go, however, remaining strong, it
was finally settled that the visit should take place. So all the
preparations were made, and in the course of a week Henry Gray saw
his wife take her seat in the stage, with a feeling of regret at
parting which it required all his efforts to conceal. As for Lucy,
when the time came, she regretted ever having thought of going
without her husband and child; but she was ashamed to let her real
feelings be known. So she kept on a show of indifference, all the
while that her heart was fluttering. The "good-bye" finally said,
the driver cracked his whip, and off rolled the stage. Gray turned
homeward with a dull, lonely feeling, and Lucy drew her vail over
her face to conceal the unbidden tears from her fellow-passengers.

That night, poor Mr. Gray slept but little. How could he? His Lucy
was absent, and for the first time, from his side. On the. next
morning, as he could think of nothing but his wife, he sat down and
wrote to her, telling her how lost and lonely he felt, and how much
little Lucy missed her, but still to try and enjoy herself, and by
all means to write him a letter by return mail.

As for Mrs. Gray, during her journey of two whole days, she cried
fully half the time, and when she got "home" at last, that is, at
her father's, she looked the picture of distress, rather than the
daughter full of joy at meeting her parents.

Right glad were the old people to see their dear child, but grieved
at the same time, and a little hurt too, at her weakness and evident
regret at having left her husband, to make them a brief visit. The
real pleasure that Lucy felt at once more seeing the faces of her
parents, whom she tenderly loved, was not strong enough to subdue
and keep in concealment, except for a very short period at a time,
her yearning desire again to be with her husband, for whom she never
before experienced a feeling of such deep and earnest affection.
Several times during the first day of her visit, did her mother
find, her in tears, which she would quickly dash aside, and then
endeavour to smile and seem cheerful.

The day after her arrival brought her a letter--the first she had
ever received from her husband. How precious was every word! How
often and often did she read it over, until every line was engraven
on her memory! Then she sat down, and spent some two or three hours
in replying to it. As she sealed this first epistle to her husband,
full of tender expressions, she sighed as the wish arose in her
mind, involuntarily, to go with it on its journey to the village
of----.

Long were the hours, and wearily passed, to Henry Gray. It was the
sixth day of trial, before Lucy's answer came. How dear to his heart
was every word of her affectionate epistle! Like her, he went over
it so often, that every sentiment was fixed in his mind.

"Two weeks longer! How can I bear it?" said he, rising up, and
pacing the floor backward and forward, after reading her letter for
the tenth time.

On the next day, the seventh of his lonely state, Mr. Gray sat down
to write again to Lucy. Several times he wrote the words, as he
proceeded in the letter--"Come home soon,"--but often obliterated
them. He did not wish to appear over anxious for her return, on her
father and mother's account, who were much attached to her. But
forgetting this reason for not urging her early return, he had
commenced again writing the words, "Come home soon," when a pair of
soft hands were suddenly placed over his eyes, by some one who had
stolen softly up behind him.

"Guess my name," said a voice, in feigned tones.

But he had no need to guess, for a sudden cry of joy from a little
toddling thing, told that "Mamma" had come.

How "Mamma" was hugged and kissed all round, need not here be told.
That scene was well enough in its place, but would lose its interest
in telling. It may be imagined, however, without suffering any
particular detriment, by all who have a fancy for such things.

"And father, too!" suddenly exclaimed Mr. Gray, after he had almost
smothered his wife with kisses, looking up with an expression of
pleasure and surprise, at an old man, who stood looking on with his
good-humoured face covered with smiles.

"Yes. I had to bring the good-for-nothing jade home," replied the
old man advancing, and grasping his son-in-law's hand, with a hearty
grip. "She did nothing but mope and cry all the while; and I don't
care if she never comes to see us again, unless she brings you along
to keep her in good humour."

"And I never intend going alone again," said Mrs. Gray, holding a
little chubby girl to her bosom, while she kissed it over and over
again, at the same time that he pressed close up to her husband's
side.

The old man understood it all. He was not jealous of Lucy's
affection, for he knew that she loved him as tenderly as ever. He
was too glad to know that she was happy with a husband to whom she
was as the apple of his eye. In about three months Lucy made another
visit "home." But husband and child were along this time, and the
visit proved a happy one all around. Of course "father and mother"
had their jest, and their laugh, and their affectation of jealousy
and anger at Lucy for her "childishness," as they termed it, when
home in May; but Lucy, though half vexed at herself for what she
called her weakness, nevertheless persevered in saying that she
never meant to go any where again without Henry. "That was settled."

THE END.

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