Married Life; Its Shadows and Sunshine Page 8

  “Very well; I am not going to stay here and starve.”

  “We haven’t starved yet, Thomas,” spoke up Lizzy.

  “No, thanks to my prudence in saving every dollar I could spare while a bachelor! But we’re in a fair way for it now. Every week we are going behindhand, and if we stay here much longer we shall neither have the means of living nor getting away. I’ve finished my job, and cannot get another stroke to do.”

  “Something will turn up, Thomas; don’t be impatient.”

  “Impatient!” ejaculated Ward.

  “Yes, impatient, Thomas,” coolly said his wife. “You are in a very strange way. Only wait a little while, and all will come right.”

  “Lizzy,” said Thomas Ward, suddenly growing calm, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis—”I’ve decided upon going to America. If you will go with me, as a loving and obedient wife should, I shall be glad of your company; but if you prefer to remain here, I shall lay no commands upon you. Will you or will you not go? Say at a word.”

  Lizzy had a spice of independence about her, as well as a good share of pride. The word “obedience,” as applied to a wife, had never accorded much with her taste, and the use of it made on the present occasion by her husband was particularly offensive to her. So she replied, without pausing to reflect—”I have already told you that I am not going to America.”

  “Very well, Lizzy,” replied Thomas, in a voice that was considerably softened, “I leave you to your own choice, notwithstanding the vow you made on that happy morning. My promise was to love you and to keep you in sickness and in health, but though I may love you as well in old England as in a far-off country, I cannot perform that other promise so well. So I must e’en leave you with my heart’s best blessing, and a pledge that you shall want for no earthly comfort while I have a hand to work.”

  And saying this, Thomas Ward left the presence of his wife, and started forth to walk and to think. On his return, he found Lizzy sitting by the window with her hands covering her face, and the tears making their way through her fingers. He said nothing, but he had a hope that she would change her mind and go with him when the time came. In a little while Lizzy was able to control herself, and move silently about her domestic duties; but her husband looked into her face for some sign of a relenting purpose, and looked in vain.

  On the next day, Ward said to his wife—”I’ve engaged my passage in the Shamrock, that sails from Liverpool for New York in a week.”

  Lizzy started, and a slight shiver ran through; her body; but a cold “Very well” was the only reply she made.

  “I will leave twenty pounds in the Savings’ Bank for you to draw out as you need. Before that is gone, I hope to be able to send you more money.”

  Lizzy made no answer to this, nor did she display any feeling, although, as she afterwards owned, she felt as if she would have sunk through the floor, and sorely repented having said that she would not go with her husband to America.

  The week that intervened between that time and the sailing of the Shamrock passed swiftly away. Lizzy wished a hundred times that her husband would refer to his intended voyage across the sea, and ask her again if she would not go with him. But Thomas Ward had no more to say upon the subject. At least as often as three times had his wife refused to accompany him to a land where there was plenty of work and good wages, and he was firm in his resolution not to ask her again.

  As the time approached nearer and nearer, Lizzy’s heart sank lower and lower in her bosom; still she cherished all possible justifying reasons for her conduct, and sometimes had bitter thoughts against her husband. She called him, in her mind, arbitrary and tyrannical, and charged him with wishing to make her the mere slave of his will. As for Ward he also indulged in mental criminations, and tried his best to believe that Lizzy had no true affection for him, that she was selfish, self-willed, and the dear knows what all.

  Thus stood affairs when the day came upon which the Shamrock was to sail, and Ward must leave in the early train of cars for Liverpool, to be on board at the hour of starting. Lizzy had done little but cry all night, and Thomas had lain awake thinking of the unnatural separation, and listening to his wife’s but half-stifled sobs that ever and anon broke the deep silence of their chamber. At last daylight came, and Ward left his sleepless pillow to make hurried preparations for his departure. His wife arose also, and got ready his breakfast. The hour of separation at length came.

  “Lizzy,” said the unhappy but firm-hearted man, “we must now part. Whether we shall ever meet again, Heaven only knows. I do not wish to blame you in this trying moment, in this hour of grief to both, but I must say that—No, no!” suddenly checking himself, “I will say nothing that may seem unkind. Farewell! If ever your love for your husband should become strong enough to make you willing to share his lot in a far-off and stranger land, his arms and heart will be open to receive you.”

  Ward was holding the hand of his wife and looking into her face, over which tears, in spite of all her efforts to control herself, were falling. The impulse in Lizzy’s heart was to throw herself into her husband’s arms; but, as that would have been equivalent to giving up, and saying—”I must go with you, go where you will,” she braved it out up to the last moment, and stood the final separation without trusting her voice in the utterance of a single word.

  “God bless you, Lizzy!” were the parting words of the unhappy emigrant, as he wrung the passive hand of his wife, and then forced himself away.

  The voyage to New York was performed in five weeks. On his arrival in that city, Ward sought among his countrymen for such information as would be useful to him in obtaining employment. By some of these, the propriety of advertising was suggested. Ward followed the suggestion, and by so doing happily obtained, within a week after his arrival, the offer of a good situation as overseer and gardener upon a large farm fifty miles from the city. The wages were far better than any he had received in England.

  “Are you a single man?” asked the sturdy old farmer, after Ward had been a day or two at his new home.

  “No, sir; I have a wife in the old country,” he replied, with a slight appearance of confusion.

  “Have you? Well, Thomas, why didn’t you bring her along?”

  “She was not willing to come to this country,” returned Thomas.

  “Then why did you come?”

  “Because it was better to do so than to starve where I was.”

  “It doesn’t matter about your wife, I suppose?”

  “Why not?” Thomas spoke quickly, and knit his brows.

  “If you couldn’t live in England, what is your wife to do?”

  “I shall send her half of my wages.”

  “Ah, that’s the calculation, is it? But it seems to me that it would have been a saving in money as well as comfort, if she had come with you. Does she know any thing about dairy work?”

  “Yes, sir; she was raised on a dairy farm.”

  “Then she’s a regular-bred English dairy maid?”

  “She is, and none better in the world.”

  “Just the person I want. You must write home for her, Thomas, and tell her she must come over immediately.”

  But Thomas shook his head.

  “Won’t she come?”

  “I cannot tell. But she refused to come with me, although I repeatedly urged her. She must now take her own course. I felt, it to be my duty to her as well as to myself, to leave England for a better land; and if she thinks it her duty to stay behind, I must bear the separation the best way I can.”

  “I hope you had no quarrel, Thomas?” said the farmer, in his blunt way.

  “No, sir,” said Thomas, a little indignantly. “We never had the slightest difference, except in this matter.”

  “Then write home by the next steamer and ask her to join you, and she will be here by the earliest packet, and glad to come.”

  But Thomas shook his head. The man had his share of stubborn pride.

  “As you will,” s
aid the farmer. “But I can tell you what, if she’d been my wife, I’d have taken her under my arm and brought her along in spite of all objections. It’s too silly, this giving up to and being fretted about a woman’s whims and prejudices. I’ll be bound, if you’d told her she must come, and packed her trunk for her to show that you were in earnest, she’d never have dreamed of staying behind.”

  That evening Thomas wrote home to his wife all about the excellent place he had obtained, and was particular to say that he had agreed to remain for a year, and would send her half of his wages every month. Not one word, however, did he mention of the conversation that had passed between him and the farmer; nor did he hint, even remotely, to her joining him in the United States.

  All the next day Thomas thought about what the farmer had said, and thought how happy both he and Lizzy might be if she would only come over and take charge of the dairy. The longer this idea remained present in his mind, the more deeply did it fix itself there. On the second night he dreamed that Lizzy was with him, that she had come over in the very next packet, and that they were as happy as they could be. He felt very bad when he awoke and found that it was only a dream.

  At last, after a week had passed, Thomas Ward fully forgave his wife every thing, and sat himself down to write her a long letter, filled with all kinds of arguments, reasons, and entreaties favourable to a voyage across the Atlantic. Thus he wrote, in part:—

  …….”As to wild Indians, Lizzy, of which you have such fear, there are none within a thousand miles, and they are tame enough. The fierce animals are all killed, and I have not seen a single serpent, except a garter snake, that is as harmless as a tow string. Come then, Lizzy, come! I have not known a happy moment since I left you, and I am sure you cannot be happy. This is a land of peace and plenty—a land where—”

  Thomas Ward did not know that a stranger had entered the room, and was now looking over his shoulder, and reading what he had written. Just as his pen was on the sentence left unfinished above, a pair of soft hands were suddenly drawn across his eyes, and a strangely familiar voice said, tremblingly—”Guess who it is!”

  Before he had time to think or to guess, the hands passed from his eyes to his neck, and a warm wet cheek was laid tightly against his own. He could not see the face that lay so close to his, but he knew that Lizzy’s arms were around him, that her tears were upon his face, and that her heart was beating against him.

  “Bless us!” ejaculated the old farmer, who had followed after the young woman who had asked at the door with such an eager interest for Thomas Ward—”what does all this mean?”

  By this time Thomas had gained a full view of his wife’s tearful but happy face. Then he hugged her to his bosom over and over again, much to the surprise and delight of the farmer’s urchins, who happened to be in the room.

  “Here she is, sir; here she is!” he cried to the farmer, as soon as he could see any thing else but Lizzy’s face, and then first became aware of the old gentleman’s presence; “here is your English dairy maid.”

  “Then it’s your wife, Thomas, sure enough.”

  “Oh, yes, sir; I thought she would be along after a while, but didn’t expect this happiness so soon.”

  “How is this, my young lady?” asked the farmer, good-humouredly—”how is this? I thought you wasn’t going to come to this country. But I suppose the very next packet after your husband left saw you on board. All I blame him for is not taking you under his arm, as I would have done, and bringing you along as so much baggage. But no doubt you found it much pleasanter coming over alone than it would have been in company with your husband—no doubt at all of it.”

  The kind-hearted farmer then took his children out of the room, and, closing the door, left the reunited husband and wife alone. Lizzy was too happy to say any thing about how wrong she had been in not consenting to go with her husband; but she owned that he had not been gone five minutes before she would have given the world, if she had possessed it, to have been with him. Ten days afterwards another packet sailed for the United States, and she took passage in it. On arriving in New York she was fortunate enough to fall in with a passenger who had come over in the Shamrock, and from him learned where she could find her husband, who acknowledged that she had given him the most agreeable surprise he had ever known in his life.

  Lizzy has never yet had cause to repent of her voyage to America. The money she received for managing the dairy of the old farmer, added to what her husband could save from his salary, after accumulating for some years, was at length applied to the purchase of a farm, the produce of which, sold yearly in New York, leaves them a handsome annual surplus over and above their expenses. Thomas Ward is in a fair way of becoming a substantial and wealthy farmer.

  MARRYING A TAILOR.

  “KATE, Kate!” said Aunt Prudence, shaking her head and finger at the giddy girl.

  “It’s true, aunt. What! marry a tailor? The ninth part of a man, that doubles itself down upon a board, with thimble, scissors, and goose! Gracious!”

  “I’ve heard girls talk before now, Kate; and I’ve seen them act, too; and, if I am to judge from what I’ve seen, I should say that you were as likely to marry a tailor as anybody else.”

  “I’d hang myself first!”

  “Would you?”

  “Yes, or jump into the river. Do any thing, in fact, before I’d marry a tailor.”

  “Perhaps you would not object to a merchant tailor?”

  “Perhaps I would, though! A tailor’s a tailor, and that is all you can make of him. ‘Merchant tailor!’ Why not say merchant shoemaker, or merchant boot-black? Isn’t it ridiculous?”

  “Ah well, Kate,” said Aunt Prudence, “you may be thankful if you get an honest, industrious, kind-hearted man for a husband, be he a tailor or a shoemaker. I’ve seen many a heart-broken wife in my day whose husband was not a tailor. It isn’t in the calling, child, that you must look for honour or excellence, but in the man. As Burns says—’The man’s the goud for a’ that.’”

  “But a man wouldn’t stoop to be a tailor.”

  “You talk like a thoughtless, silly girl, as you are, Kate. But time will take all this nonsense out of you, or I am very much mistaken. I could tell you a story about marrying a tailor, that would surprise you a little.”

  “I should like, above all things in the world, to hear a story of any interest, in which a tailor was introduced.”

  “I think I could tell you one.”

  “Please do, aunt. It would be such a novelty. A very rara avis, as brother Tom says. I shall laugh until my sides ache.”

  “If you don’t cry, Kate, I shall wonder,” said Aunt Prudence, looking grave.

  “Cry? oh, dear! And all about a tailor! But tell the story, aunt.”

  “Some other time, dear.”

  “Oh, no. I’m just in the humour to hear it now. I’m as full of fun as I can stick, and shall need all this overflow of spirits to keep me up while listening to the pathetic story of a tailor.”

  “Perhaps you are right, Kate. It may require all the spirits you can muster,” returned Aunt Prudence, in a voice that was quite serious. “So I will tell you the story now.”

  And Aunt Prudence thus began:

  A good many years ago,—I was quite a young girl then,—two children were left orphans, at the age of eleven years. They were twins—brother and sister. Their names I will call Joseph and Agnes Fletcher. The death of their parents left them without friends or relatives; but a kind-hearted tailor and his wife, who lived neighbours, took pity on the children and gave them a home. Joseph was a smart, intelligent lad, and the tailor thought he could do no better by him than to teach him his trade. So he set him to work with the needle, occasionally sent him about on errands, and let him go to school during the slack season. Joseph was a willing boy, as well as attentive, industrious, and apt to learn. He applied himself to his books and also to his work, and thereby gave great satisfaction to the good tailor. Agnes was employed about the hou
se by the tailor’s wife, who treated her kindly.

  As Joseph grew older, he became more useful to his master, for he rapidly acquired a knowledge of his trade, and did his work remarkably well. At the same time, a desire to improve his mind made him studious and thoughtful. While other boys were amusing themselves, Joseph was alone with his book. At the age of eighteen he had grown quite tall, and was manly in his appearance. He had already acquired a large amount of information on various subjects, and was accounted by those who knew him a very intelligent young man. About this time, a circumstance occurred that influenced his whole after-life. He had been introduced by a friend to several pleasant families, which he visited regularly. In one of these visits, he met a young lady, the daughter of a dry-goods dealer, toward whom he felt, from the beginning, a strong attachment. Her name was Mary Dielman. Led on by his feelings, he could not help showing her some attention, which she evidently received with satisfaction. One evening, he was sitting near where she was chatting away at a lively rate, in the midst of a gay circle of young girls, and, to his surprise, chagrin, and mortification, heard her ridiculing, as you too often do, the business at which he was serving an apprenticeship.

  “Marry a tailor!” he heard her say, in a tone of contempt. “I would drown myself first.”

  This was enough. Joseph’s feelings were like the leaves of a sensitive plant. He did not venture near the thoughtless girl during the evening, and whenever they again met, he was distant and formal. Still, the thought of her made the blood flow quicker through his veins, and the sight of her made his heart throb with a sudden bound.

  From that time, Joseph, who had looked forward with pleasure to the period when, as a man, he could commence his business, and prosecute it with energy and success, became dissatisfied with the trade he was learning. The contemptuous words of Mary Dielman made him feel that there was something low in the calling of a tailor—something beneath the dignity of a man. He did not reason on the subject; he only felt. Gradually he withdrew himself from society, and shut himself up at home, devoting all his leisure to reading and study. This was continued until he attained the age of manhood, soon after which he procured the situation of clerk in a dry-goods store. At his trade he could easily earn twelve dollars a week; but he left it, because he was silly enough to be ashamed of it, and went into a dry-goods store at a salary of four hundred dollars a year. As a clerk he felt more like a man. Why he should, is more than I can comprehend. But so it was.