Home Scenes and Home Influence Part 25

"If that were my child," said Mr. Little, pausing at his own door, and turning round to Mr. and Mrs. Manly, who had accompanied his wife thus far on their way home, "I would teach him better manners, or I would half kill him. I never saw such an ill-conditioned little imp in my life!"

"Children are children, you know," was Mr. Manly's quiet reply.

"Yes, but children may be made to behave, if any pains at all be taken with them. It is really unpardonable for any one to let a child like that worry visitors as he did us this evening."

"Few children of his age, Mr. Little, unless of a remarkably quiet and obedient disposition, are much better than Pelby's little boy."

"As to that, Mr. Manly," broke in Mrs. Little, "there's our Tommy, a fine boy of twelve, as you know. He never acted like that when he was a child. I never had a bit of trouble with him when we had company. We could bring him down into the parlour when he was of Henry Pelby's age, and he would go round and kiss all the ladies so sweetly, and then go off to bed, like a little man, as he was."

"Ah, Mrs. Little, you forget," said Mr. Manly, laughing.

"Oh, no, indeed, Mr. Manly. I don't forget these things. We could do any thing with Tommy at his age, and it was because we managed him rightly. You can do any thing with children you please."

"Indeed, then, Mrs. Little, it is more than I can say," remarked Mrs. Manly. "If my children could be made any thing at all of, they would have been different from what they are; and yet, I believe,"

she added, with a feeling of maternal pride, "they are not the worst children I have ever seen."

"Good-nights" were now exchanged, and, after Mr. and Mrs. Manly had walked a few steps, the former said,

"Well, this is a curious world that we live in. Ten years ago, Pelby, then a trim bachelor, as nice and particular as any of the tribe, said, in allusion to Tommy Little--'If that were my child, I would half kill him but what I'd make a better boy of him!'"

"He did?"

"Yes, those were his very words. We were spending an evening at Mr.

and Mrs. Little's, and when Tommy was about two years old or so; and Pelby was terribly annoyed by him. He acted pretty much as all children do--that is, pretty much as Henry did to-night. But Pelby couldn't endure it with any kind of patience."

"Ha! ha!" laughed out Mrs. Manly, in spite of herself. "How completely the tables have been turned!"

"Yes, they have been, certainly. But what is a little singular is, that neither of the parties concerned seem to have gained wisdom by their experience. Pelby forgets how other people's children once annoyed him, and Mr. and Mrs. Little seem to be entirely unconscious that their paragon was very much like all other little boys when he was only about two or three years old. For my part, I think we should be careful not to let our children trespa.s.s upon visitors.

None can feel the same interest in them that we do, or exercise the same forbearance towards their faults. Faults they all have, which need especial care in their correction; and these should be suffered to appear as rarely as possible under circ.u.mstances which prevent a salutary check being placed upon them. For this reason, you know, we have made it a matter of concert not to let our children, while, too young to understand something of propriety, be present, but for a very short time, when we had company. The moment they become rude or too familiar, they were quietly taken from the room."

"Yes; and knowing as I do," said Mrs. Manly, "how very restless some children with active minds are, I am never disposed to look with unfavourable eyes upon any, even when wild, turbulent, and heedless.

They act as they feel; and so far as evil affections show themselves, we know they are inherited, and that it is not in the power of the child to remove them. We should then be moved, it seems to me, with a purer affection for them; with something of pity mixed with our love, and, instead of suffering their wrong actions to repulse us, we should draw towards them with a desire to teach them what is wrong, and impart to them some power to overcome evil."

"If all thought as you, Mary," said Mr. Manly, as they gained their own doors, "we should hear no one railing out against other people's children, while he indulged his own. A fault too common with most parents."

I WILL!

"YOU look sober, Laura. What has thrown a veil over your happy face?" said Mrs. Cleaveland to her niece, one morning, on finding her alone and with a very thoughtful countenance.

"Do I really look sober?" and Laura smiled as she spoke.

"You did just now. But the sunshine has already dispelled the transient cloud. I am glad that a storm was not portended."

"I felt sober, aunt," Laura said, after a few moments--her face again becoming serious.

"So I supposed, from your looks."

"And I feel sober still."

"Why?"

"I am really discouraged, aunt."

"About what?"

The maiden's cheek deepened its hue, but she did not reply.

"You and Harry have not fallen out, like a pair of foolish lovers, I hope."

"Oh, no!" was the quick and emphatic answer.

"Then what has troubled the quiet waters of your spirit? About what are you discouraged?"

"I will tell you," the maiden replied. "It was only about a week after my engagement with Harry that I called upon Alice Stacy, and found her quite unhappy. She had not been married over a few months.

I asked what troubled her, and she said, 'I feel as miserable as I can be.' 'But what makes you miserable, Alice?' I inquired. 'Because William and I have quarrelled--that's the reason,' she said, with some levity, tossing her head and compressing her lips, with a kind of defiance. I was shocked--so much so, that I could not speak. 'The fact is,' she resumed, before I could reply, 'all men are arbitrary and unreasonable. They think women inferior to them, and their wives as a higher order of slaves. But I am not one to be put under any man's feet. William has tried that trick with me, and failed. Of course, to be foiled by a woman is no very pleasant thing for one of your lords of creation. A tempest in a teapot was the consequence.

But I did not yield the point in dispute; and, what is more, have no idea of doing so. He will have to find out, sooner or later, that I am his equal in every way; and the quicker he can be made conscious of this, the better for us both. Don't you think so?' I made no answer. I was too much surprised and shocked. 'All men,' she continued, 'have to be taught this. There never was a husband who did not, at first, attempt to lord it over his wife. And there never was a woman, whose condition as a wife was at all above that of a pa.s.sive slave, who did not find it necessary to oppose herself at first, with unflinching perseverance.'

"To all this, and a great deal more, I could say nothing. It choked me up. Since then, I have met her frequently, at home and elsewhere, but she has never looked happy. Several times she has said to me, in company, when I have taken a seat beside her, and remarked that she seemed dull, 'Yes, I am dull; but Mr. Stacy, there, you see, enjoys himself. Men always enjoy themselves in company--apart from their wives, of course.' I would sometimes oppose to this a sentiment palliative of her husband; as, that, in company, a man very naturally wished to add his mite to the general joyousness, or something of a like nature. But it only excited her, and drew forth remarks that shocked my feelings. Up to this day, they do not appear to be on any better terms. Then, there is Frances Glenn--married only three months, and as fond of carping at her husband for his arbitrary, domineering spirit, as is Mrs. Stacy. I could name two or three others, who have been married, some a shorter and some a longer period, that do not seem to be united by any closer bonds.

"It is the condition of these young friends, aunt, that causes me to feel serious. I am to be married in a few weeks. Can it be possible that my union with Henry Armour will be no happier, no more perfect than theirs? This I cannot believe. And yet, the relation that Alice and Frances hold to their husbands, troubles me whenever I think of it. Henry, as far as I have been able to understand him, has strong points in his character. From a right course of action,--or, from a course of action that he thinks right,--no consideration, I am sure, would turn him. I, too, have mental characteristics somewhat similar. There is, likewise, about me, a leaven of stubbornness. I tremble when the thought of opposition between us, upon any subject, crosses my mind. I would rather die--so I feel about it--than ever have a misunderstanding with my husband."

Laura ceased, and her aunt, who was, she now perceived, much agitated, arose and left the room without speaking. The reason of this to Laura was altogether unaccountable. Her aunt Cleaveland, always so mild, so calm, to be thus strongly disturbed! What could it mean? What could there be in her maidenly fears to excite the feelings of one so good, and wise, and gentle? An hour afterwards, and while she yet sat, sober and perplexed in mind, in the same place where Mrs. Cleaveland had left her, a domestic came in and said that her aunt wished to see her in her own room. Laura attended her immediately. She found her calm and self-possessed, but paler than usual. "Sit down beside me, dear," Mrs. Cleaveland said, smiling faintly, as her niece came in.

"What you said this morning, Laura," she began, after a few moments, "recalled my own early years so vividly, that I could not keep down emotions I had deemed long since powerless. The cause of those emotions it is now, I clearly see, my duty to reveal--that is, to you. For years I have carefully avoided permitting my mind to go back to the past, in vain musings over scenes that bring no pleasant thoughts, no glad feelings. I have, rather, looked into the future with a steady hope, a calm reliance. But, for your sake, I will draw aside the veil. May the relation I am now about to give you have the effect I desire! Then shall I not suffer in vain. How vividly, at this moment, do I remember the joyful feelings that pervaded my bosom, when, like you, a maiden, I looked forward to my wedding-day.

Mr. Cleaveland was a man, in many respects, like Henry Armour.

Proud, firm, yet gentle and amiable when not opposed;--a man with whom I might have been supremely happy;--a man whose faults I might have corrected--not by open opposition to them--not by seeming to notice them--but by leading him to see them himself. But this course I did not pursue. I was proud; I was self-willed; I was unyielding.

Elements like these can never come into opposition without a victory on either side being as disastrous as the defeats. We were married.

Oh, how sweet was the promise of my wedding-day! Of my husband I was very fond. Handsome, educated, and with talents of a high order, there was every thing about him to make the heart of a young wife proud. Tenderly we loved each other. Like days in Elysium pa.s.sed the first few months of our wedded life. Our thoughts and wishes were one. After that, gradually a change appeared to come over my husband. He deferred less readily to my wishes. His own will was more frequently opposed to mine, and his contentions for victory longer and longer continued. This surprised and pained me. But it did not occur to me, that my tenaciousness of opinion might seem as strange to him as did his to me. It did not occur to me, that there would be a propriety in my deferring to him--at least so far as to give up opposition. I never for a moment reflected that a proud, firm-spirited man, might be driven off from an opposing wife, rather than drawn closer and united in tenderer bonds. I only perceived my rights as an equal a.s.sailed. And, from that point of view, saw his conduct as dogmatical and overbearing, whenever he resolutely set himself against me, as was far too frequently the case.

"One day,--we had then been married about six months,--he said to me, a little seriously, yet smiling as he spoke, 'Jane, did not I see you on the street, this morning?' 'You did,' I replied. 'And with Mrs. Corbin?' 'Yes.' My answer to this last question was not given in a very pleasant tone. The reason was this. Mrs. Corbin, a recent acquaintance, was no favourite with my husband; and he had more than once mildly suggested that she was not, in his view, a fit a.s.sociate for me. This rather touched my pride. It occurred to me, that I ought to be the best judge of my female a.s.sociates, and that for my husband to make any objections was an a.s.sumption on his part, that, as a wife, I was called upon to resist. I did not, on previous occasions, say any thing very decided, contenting myself with parrying his objections laughingly. This time, however, I was in a less forbearing mood. 'I wish you would not make that woman your friend' he said, after I had admitted that he was right in his observation. 'And why not, pray?' I asked, looking at him quite steadily. 'For reasons before given, Jane,' he replied, mildly, but firmly. 'There are reports in circulation touching her character, that I fear are'--'They are false!' I interrupted him. 'I know they are false!' I spoke with a sudden excitement. My voice trembled, my cheek burned, and I was conscious that my eye shot forth no mild light. 'They are true--I know they are true!' Mr. Cleaveland said, sternly, but apparently unruffled. 'I don't believe it,' I retorted.

'I know her far better. She is an injured woman.'

"'Jane,' my husband now said, his voice slightly trembling, 'you are my wife. As such, your reputation is as dear to me as the apple of my eye. Suspicion has been cast upon Mrs. Corbin, and that suspicion I have good reason for believing well founded. If you a.s.sociate with her--if you are seen upon the street with her, your fair fame will receive a taint. This I cannot permit.'

"There was, to my mind, a threat contained in the last sentence--a threat of authoritative intervention. At this my pride took fire.

"'Cannot permit!' I said, drawing myself up. 'What do you mean, Mr.

Cleveland?'

"The brow of my husband instantly flushed. He was silent for a moment or two. Then he said, with forced calmness, yet in a resolute, meaning tone--

"'Jane, I do not wish you to keep company with Mrs. Corbin.'

"'I WILL!' was my indignant reply.