A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

The Wedding Guest

T >> T.S. Arthur >> The Wedding Guest









A LEAF FROM A FAMILY JOURNAL.





OUR married life had commenced, and this was HOME. As I opened my
eyes in our new abode, the rays of the morning sun were penetrating
the muslin curtains, the air was, fill with the fragrance of
mignionette, and in the adjoining room I heard a loved voice
warbling my favourite air.

On the different articles of furniture lay a hundred things to
remind me the change which had taken place in mode of life. There
lay the bouquet of orange flowers worn by Micelle on our wedding
day; here stood her work basket; a little further on, and my eye
fell on her small bookcase, ornamented with her school prizes and
several other volumes, recent offerings from myself. Thus all my
surroundings indicated that I was no longer alone. Till then in my
independence I had merely skirted the great army of humanity,
measuring all things with regard to my own strength only. I had now
entered its ranks; accompanied by a fellow traveller, whose powers
and feelings must be consulted, and whose tenderness must be
equalled by the protecting love shed around her. A few weeks ago I
should have fallen unnoticed and left no void, henceforward my lot
lay bound in that of others. I had taken root in life, and for the
future must fortify and strengthen myself for the protection of the
nests which would in time be formed beneath my shade.

Sweet sense of responsibility, which elevated without alarming me!
What had Marcelle and I to fear? Was not our departure on the voyage
of life like that of Athenian Theori for the island of Delos,
sailing to the sound of harps and songs while crowned with flowers?
Did not our hearts beat responsive to the chorus of youth's
protecting genii?

_Strength_ said, "What matters the task? Feel you not that to you it
will all be easy? It is the weak alone who weigh the burden. Atlas
smiled, though he bore the world on his shoulders."

_Faith_ added, "Have confidence, and the mountains which obstruct
your path shall vanish like clouds; the sea shall bear you up, and
the rainbow shall become a bridge for your feet."

_Hope_ whispered, "Behold, before lies repose after fatigue; plenty
will follow after scarcity. On, on, for the desert leads to the
promised land."

And lastly, a voice more fascinating than any, added, "Love one
another; there is not on earth a surer talisman; it is the 'Open
Sesame' which will put you in the possession of all the treasures of
creation."

Why not listen to these sweet assurances? "Cherished companions of
our opening career, my faith in you is strong; you, who, like unto
the military music which animates the soldier's courage, lead us,
intoxicated by your melody, on to the battle field of life." What
can I fear from a life through which I shall pass with Marcelle's
arm entwined in mine? The sun shines on the commencement of our
journey; forward over flowery fields, by hedges alive with song,
through ever-verdant forests! Let one horizon succeed another! The
day is so lovely, and the night yet so distant!

While thus occupied with my newborn happiness, I had risen and
joined Marcelle, who had already taken possession of her domestic
kingdom.

Everything must be visited with her; her precocious housewifery must
be admired; her arrangements must be applauded. First she showed me
the little '_salle à manger_,' dedicated to the meals which
would unite us in the intervals of business: to this cause it owed
the air of opulence and brightness which Marcelle had carefully
striven to impart to it. China, silver, and glass, sparkled on the
shelves. Here lay rich fruits half hidden in moss; there, stood
freshly-gathered flowers--everything spoke of the reign of grace and
plenty. From thence we passed into the salon, the closed curtains of
which admitted only a soft and subdued light, which fell on
statuettes ornamenting the consoles, and the gilt frames on the
walls: on the tables lay scattered in graceful negligence, albums,
elegancies of papier mache, and carved ivory; precious nothings
which had constituted the young girl's treasures. At the farther
end, the folds of a heavy curtain concealed the bower, sacred to the
lady of the castle. Here admittance was at first denied me, and I
was obliged to have recourse to entreaty before the drapery was
raised for our entrance.

The cabinet was lighted by a small window, over which hung a blind,
representing a gothic casement of painted glass, the bright colours
of which were now rendered more brilliant by the sunlight which
streamed through. The principal furniture consisted of a pretty
lounging chair and the work table, near which I had so often seen
Marcelle seated with her embroidery when I passed under her aunt's
window. Her pretty flower-stand, gay with her favourite flowers,
occupied the window in which hung a gilt-wire cage, the melodious
prison-house of her pet bird; and lastly, there stood fronting the
window, the bureau, consecrated since her school-days, to her
intimate correspondence.

She showed it to me with an almost tearful gravity. Everything it
contained was a relic, or souvenir. That agate inkstand had belonged
to her elder sister, who died just when Marcelle was old enough to
know and love her; this mother-of-pearl paper-cutter was a present
to her from her aunt, before she became her adopted child; this seal
had belonged to her father! She half-opened the different drawers,
for me to peep at the treasures they contained. In one were the
letters of her dearest school-friend, now married, gone abroad, and
therefore lost to her; in another, were family papers; lower down,
her certificates for the performance of religious obligations,
prizes obtained, and examinations passed--the young girl's humble
patent of nobility!--and last of all, in the most secret corner, lay
some faded flowers, and the correspondence which, with the consent
of her Aunt Roubert, we had interchanged when absent from each
other.

In the contents of this bureau, were united all the touching and
pleasing reminiscences of her former life; they formed Marcelle's
poetic archives, whither she often retired in her hours of solitude.
Often, on my return from business, I found her here, smiling, and
seemingly perfumed by memories of the past.

Ah! thought I, why have not men also some spot thus consecrated to
like holy and sweet remembrances, a sanctuary replete with tokens of
family affection, and relics of youth's enthusiasm? Our ancestors,
in their pride, cut out of the granite rock safe depositories for
the proofs of their empty titles and long pedigrees; is it
impossible for us to devote some obscure corner to the annals of the
heart, to all that recalls to us our former noble aspirations, and
generous hopes?

Time has torn from the walls the genealogical trees of noble
families, but he has left space for those of the soul. Let us seek
the origin of our decisions, our sympathies, our repugnances, and
our hopes, and we shall ever find that they spring from some
circumstance of by-gone days. The present is rooted in the past. Who
has met by chance with some relic of earlier years, and has not been
touched by the remembrances called forth? It is by looking back to
the starting-point, that we can best calculate the distance
traversed; it is in so doing that we feel either pleasure or alarm.
Truly happy is the man who, after gazing on the portrait of his
youth, can turn towards the original and find it unimpaired by age!

These reflections were interrupted by the sound of my father's
voice, which brought us out of Marcelle's retreat to welcome him. He
came to see our new abode, and add his satisfaction to our
happiness. He was a gentle stoic, whose courage had ever served as a
bulwark to the weak, and whose inflexibility was but another name
for entire self-abnegation; he was indulgent to all, because he
never forgave himself, and ever veiled severity in gentleness. His
wisdom partook neither of arrogance nor passion; it descended to the
level of your comprehension, and while pointing upwards, led you by
the hand, and guided the ascent. It was a mother who instructed,
never a judge who condemned.

Though pleased with my choice, and happy at seeing us united, he had
nevertheless refused a place at our fireside. "These first hours of
youth are especially your own," he had said to me with a paternal
embrace; "an old man would throw a shadow over the meridian sunshine
of your joy. It is better that you should regret my absence, than
for one moment feel my presence a restraint. Besides, solitude is
necessary to you, as well as to me--for _you_ to talk of your hopes
for the future, for _me_ to recall remembrances of the past. Some
time hence, when my strength is failing, I will come to you, and
close my eyes in the shadow of your prosperity."

And all my entreaties had been unavailing: the separation was
unavoidable. Now, however, Marcelle sprang forward to meet him, and
led him triumphantly across the room, to begin a re-examination of
its treasures. My father listened to all, replied to all, and smiled
at all. He lent himself to our dreams of happiness, pausing before
each new phase, to point out a hope overlooked before, or a joy
forgotten. While thus pleasantly occupied, time slipped away
unnoticed, until Marcelle's aunt arrived.

Who was there in our native town who did not know Aunt Roubert? The
very mention of her name was sufficient to make one gay. Left a
widow in early life, and in involved circumstances, she had, by dint
of activity, order, and economy, entirely extricated herself from
pecuniary difficulty. Of _her_ might be said with truth, that
"_sa part d'esprit lui avait été donnee en bon
sens_." Taking reality for her guide, she had followed in the beaten
track of life, carefully avoiding the many sharp flints which
caprice scatters in the way. Always on the move, alternately setting
people to rights, and grumbling at either them or herself, she yet
found time to manage well her own affairs, and to improve those of
others--a faculty which had obtained for her the name of "_La Femme
de menage de la Providence_." Vulgar in appearance, she was
practical in the extreme, and results generally proved her in the
right. Her nature was made up of the prose of life, but prose so
clear, so consistent, that, but for its simplicity, it would have
been profound.

Aunt Roubert arrived, according to custom, a large umbrella in hand,
while her arm was loaded with an immense horsehair bag. She entered
the little cabinet, where we were seated, like a shower of
hail:--"Here you are at last," she exclaimed, "I have been into
every room, in search of you, Do you know, my dear, that the chests
of linen have arrived?"

"Very well, I will go and see after it," said Marcelle, who, with
one hand in my father's, and the other in mine, seemed in no hurry
to stir.

"You will go and see after it," repeated Aunt Roubert, "that will be
very useless, for you will find no place to put it in; I have been
over your abode, my poor child, and instead of a home I find a
'_salon de theatre_.'"

"Why, aunt," exclaimed Marcelle, "how can you say so? Remi and his
father have just been through the rooms, and are delighted with
them!"

"Don't talk of men and housekeeping in the same breath," replied
Madame, in her most peremptory tone; "see that they are provided
with a pair of snuffers and a bootjack, and they will not discover
the want of anything else; but I, dear friend, know what a house
should be. In entering the lobby just now, I looked about for a
hook, on which to hang my cloak, and could find nothing, but
flowering stocks! My dear, flowers form the principal part of your
furniture!"

Marcelle endeavoured to protest against the assertion by enumerating
our stock of valuables, but she was interrupted by her aunt.

"I am not talking of what you have, but of what you have not," she
said; "I certainly saw in your salon some little bronze
marmozettes."

"Marmozettes!" I cried, "you mean statuettes of Schiller and
Rousseau."

"Possibly," Aunt Roubert quietly replied, "they may at a push serve
as match holders; but, dear friend, in the fire-place of your office
below, I could see neither tongs nor shovel. On opening the
sideboard, I found a charming little silver-gilt service, but no
soup ladle, so one can only suppose that you mean to live on
sweetmeats; and lastly, though the '_salle à manger_ is
ornamented with beautifully gilt porcelain, the kitchen
unfortunately is minus both roasting-jack and frying-pan! Good
heavens, these are most unromantic details, are they not?" added
she, noticing the gesture of annoyance which we were unable
altogether to repress; "but as you will be obliged to descend to
them whenever you want a roast or an omelette, it would perhaps be
as well to provide for them."

"You are right!" I replied, a little out of humour, for I had
noticed Marcelle's confusion, "but such omissions are easily
rectified when their need is felt."

"That is to say, you will wait until bed-time to order the
mattrass," replied Aunt Roubert; "well, well, my children, as you
will, but now your attendance is required on your linen, which
awaits you in the lobby; I suppose my niece does not propose to
arrange it in her birdcage, or flower-stand; can she show me the
place destined for it?"

Marcelle had coloured to the roots of her hair, and stood twisting
and untwisting her apron-string.

"Ah well! I see you have not thought of that," said the old aunt;
"but never mind, we will find some place to put it in after
breakfast; you know we are to breakfast together."

This was a point Marcelle had not forgotten, and she forthwith led
the way to her breakfast-table.

At the sight of it my father gave a start of pleased surprise. In
the centre stood a basket of fruit, flowers, and moss, round which
were arranged all our favourite dainties; each could recognize the
dish prepared to suit his taste. After having given a rapid glance
round, Madame Roubert cried out,

"And the bread, my child?"

Marcelle uttered a cry of consternation.

"You have none," said her aunt, quietly; "send your servant for
some." Then lowering her voice, she added, "As she will pass by my
door, she can at the same time tell Baptiste to bring the large
easy-chair for your father, and I hope you will keep it. Your gothic
chairs are very pretty to look at but when one is old or invalided,
what one likes best in a chair, is a comfortable seat."

While awaiting the servant's return, Madame Roubert accompanied
Marcelle in a tour round our abode. She pointed out what had been
forgotten, remedied the inconvenience of several arrangements, or
superseded them with better, doing it all with the utmost cheerful
simplicity. Her hints never bordered on criticisms; she showed the
error without astonishment at its having been committed, and without
priding herself on its discovery.

When she had completed her examination, she took her niece aside
with her accounts. Marcelle fetched the little rosewood case which
served her as a cash box, and sat down to calculate the expenses of
the past week. But her efforts to produce a satisfactory balance,
seemed useless. It was in vain that she added and subtracted, and
counted piece by piece her remaining money, the deficit never
varied. Astounded at such a result, and at the amount spent, she
began to examine the lock of her box, and to ask herself how its
contents could have so rapidly disappeared, when Aunt Roubert
interrupted her.

"Take care," she said in one of her most serious tones. "See, how
from want of careful account-keeping you already suspect others;
before this evening is here you will be ready to accuse them. It
always is so. The want of order engenders suspicion, and it is
easier to doubt the probity of others than one's own memory. No lock
can prevent that, my child, because none can shelter you from the
results of your own miscalculations. There is no safeguard for the
woman at the head of a household, like a housekeeping-book which
serves to warn her day by day, and bears faithful witness at the end
of the month. I have brought you such a one as your uncle used to
give me."

She drew it from her bag, and presented it to Marcelle.

It was an account-book bound in parchment, the cover of which was
separated like a portfolio into three pockets, destined for
receipts, bills, and memoranda. The book itself was divided into
several parts, distinguished one from the other by markers
corresponding to the different species of expenditure, so that a
glance was sufficient to form an estimate, not only of the sum
total, but also of the amount of expenditure, in each separate
branch.

The whole formed a domestic budget as clear as it was complete, in
which each portion of the government service had its open account
regulated by the supreme comptroller.

M. Roubert, who had been during his life a species of unknown
Franklin, solely occupied in the endeavour to make business and,
opinions agree with good sense, had written above, each chapter a
borrowed or unpublished maxim to serve as warning to its possessor.
At the beginning of the book the following words were traced in red
ink:--

_"Economy is the true source of independence and liberality."_

Farther on, at the head of the division destined to expenses of the
table:--

_"A Wise man has always three cooks, who season the simplest food:
Sobriety, Exercise, and Content."_

Above the chapter devoted to benevolence:--

_"Give as thou hast received"_

And lastly, on the page destined to receive the amount of each
month's savings, he had copied this saying of a Chinese
philosopher:--

_"Time and patience convert the mulberry leaf into satin."_

After having given us time to look over the book, and read its wise
counsels, Aunt Roubert explained to Marcelle the particulars of its
use, and endeavoured to initiate her in domestic book-keeping.






TRIFLES.





TRULY hath the poet said that, "Trifles swell the sum of human
happiness and woe." Our highest and holiest aspirations, our purest
and warmest affections, are frequently called forth by what in
itself may be deemed of trivial importance. The fragrant breath of a
flower, the passing song of the merry milk-maid, a soothing word
from one we love, will often change the whole current of our
thoughts and feelings, and, by carrying us back to the days of
childhood, or bringing to our remembrance some innocent and happy
state which steals over us like a long-forgotten dream, will
dissipate the clouds of sorrow, and even the still deeper shades of
falsity and evil.

How many of the great events of life have their origin in trifles;
how many deep, heart-felt sorrows spring from neglect of what seemed
to us a duty of little or no account--something that could be done
or left undone as we pleased!

Alas! this is a dangerous doctrine. Let us endeavour to impress upon
the minds of our children that no duty is trifling; that nothing
which can in any way affect the comfort and happiness of others is
unimportant.

The happiness of domestic life, particularly of married life,
depends almost wholly upon strict attention to trifles. Between
those who are united by the sacred tie of marriage, nothing should
be deemed trivial. A word, a glance, a smile, a gentle touch, all
speak volumes; and the human heart is so constituted that there is
no joy so great, no sorrow so intense, that it may not be increased
or mitigated by these trifling acts of sympathy from one we love.

Nearly three months had elapsed since the papers had duly announced
to the public that Mary, daughter of Theodore Melville, had become
the bride of Arthur Hartwell; and the young couple had returned from
a short bridal tour, and were now quietly settled in a pleasant
little spot which was endeared to Arthur by having been the home of
his youthful days. He had been left an orphan at an early age, and
the property had passed into the hands of strangers, but he
continued to cherish a strong attachment for the "old place," as he
termed it, and he heard with joy, some few months before his
marriage, that it was for sale; and without even waiting to consult
his intended bride, he purchased it for their future home. This was
a sad disappointment to Mary, for she had fixed her affections upon
a pretty romantic little cottage, half hid by trees and shrubbery,
which was situated within two minutes' walk of her father's house;
and which, owing to the death of the owner, was offered for sale
upon very favourable terms. In her eyes it possessed every
advantage, and as she mentally compared it with the old-fashioned
dwelling of which Arthur had become the possessor, she secretly
conceived a strong prejudice against the spot where the duties and
pleasures of the new sphere which she was about to enter were to
commence; particularly as it was five miles distant from her
parents, and not very near to any of her early friends.

Some faint attempts were made to induce Arthur to endeavour to get
released from his bargain, and to become the purchaser of the pretty
cottage, but in vain. He was delighted to have become the owner of
what appeared to him one of the loveliest spots on the earth, and
assured Mary that the house was vastly superior to any cottage,
advancing so many good reasons for this assertion, and describing in
such glowing terms the beauty of the surrounding scenery, and the
happiness they should enjoy, that she could not help sympathizing
with him, although her dislike to her future home remained unabated.

The first few weeks of her residences there passed pleasantly
enough, however. All was new and delightful. The grounds about the
house, although little cultivated, were beautiful in the wild
luxuriance of nature; the trees were loaded with rich autumnal
fruits; and even the old-fashioned mansion, now that it was new
painted, and the interior fitted up in modern style, assumed a more
favourable aspect. It was a leisure time with Arthur, and he was
ever ready to accompany Mary to her father's; so that she became
quite reconciled to the distance, and even thought it rather an
advantage, as it was such a pleasant little ride.

But as the season advanced, Arthur became more engrossed with
business. The rides became less frequent, and Mary, accustomed to
the society of her mother and sister, often passed lonely days in
her new home, and her dislike to it in some degree returned. Her
affection for her husband, however, prevented the expression of
these feelings, and she endeavouved to forget her loneliness in
attention to household duties; reading, and music; but these
resources would sometimes fail.

It was one of those bright afternoons in the latter part of autumn,
when the sun shines forth with almost summer-like warmth, and the
heart is gladdened with the departing beauty of nature. Mary was
seated alone in her pleasant parlour, with her books and her work by
her side.

"How I wish Arthur would return early!" she said, aloud, as she
gazed from their open window. "It will be such a lovely evening. We
could have an early tea, and ride over to father's and return by
moonlight; it would be delightful;" and filled with this idea, she
really expected her husband, although it still wanted two hours of
the usual time of his return; and laying aside her work, began to
make some preparations for the evening meal. She was interrupted by
a call from an old friend who lived nearly two miles distant, and,
intending to pass the afternoon at Mr. Melville's, had called to
request Mary to accompany her.

The young wife was in considerable perplexity. She had a great
desire to go to her father's, but she was unwilling to have Arthur
return home and find her absent; and moreover, she felt a strong
impression that he would himself enjoy the ride in the evening, and
would, perhaps, be disappointed if she were not at home to go with
him. So, with many thanks the invitation was declined, the visiter
departed, and Mary returned with a light heart to the employment
which the visit had interrupted.

Janet, the assistant in the kitchen, entered into the feelings of
her mistress, and hastened to assist her with cheerful alacrity,
declaring that she knew "Mr. Hartwell would be home directly,--it
was just the evening for a ride," &c.&c.--this ebullition of her
feelings being partly caused by sympathy with the wishes of her
young mistress, and partly by her own desire to have the house to
herself for the reception of some particular friends, who had
promised to favour her with their company that evening.

But alas! the hopes of both mistress and maid were destined to be
disappointed. The usual time for Arthur's return passed by, and
still he did not appear, and it was not until the deepening
twilight had almost given place to the deeper shades of evening,
that Mary heard his well known step, and springing from the sofa
where she had thrown herself after a weary hour of watching, she
flew to the door to greet him.

"Oh, Arthur!" she exclaimed, forgetful that he was quite ignorant of
all that had been passing in her mind for the last few hours, "how
could you stay so late? I have waited for you so long, and watched
so anxiously. It is quite too late for us to go now."

Copyright (c) 2007. famouswriterz.com. All rights reserved.