"MRS. LEE is quite fortunate with her daughters," remarked a visitorto Mrs. Wyman, whose oldest child, a well grown girl of fifteen, wassitting by.
"Yes; Kate and Harriet went off in good time. She has only Fannyleft."
"Who is to be married this winter."
"Fanny?"
"She is engaged to Henry Florence."
"Indeed! And she is only just turned of sixteen. How fortunate,truly! Some people have their daughters on their hands until theyare two or three-and-twenty, when the chances for good matches arevery low. I was only sixteen when I was married."
"Certainly; and then I had rejected two or three young men. There isnothing like early marriages, depend upon it, Mrs. Clayton. Theyalways turn out the best. The most desirable young men take theirpick of the youngest girls, and leave the older ones for second-rateclaimants."
"Do you hear that, Anna?" Mrs. Clayton said, laughing, as she turnedto Mrs. Wyman's daughter. "I hope you will not remain a moment laterthan your mother did upon the maiden list."
Anna blushed slightly, but did not reply. What had been said,however, made its impression on her mind. She felt that to beengaged early was a matter greatly to be desired.
"My mother was married at sixteen, and here am I fifteen, andwithout a lover." So thought Anna, as she paused over the page of anew novel, some hours after she had listened to the conversationthat passed between her mother and Mrs. Clayton, and mused of loveand matrimony.
From that time, Anna Wyman was another girl. The sweet simplicity ofmanner, the unconscious innocence peculiar to her age, graduallyvanished. Her eye, that was so clear and soft with the light ofgirlhood's pleasant fancies, grew earnest and restless, and, attimes, intensely bright. The whole expression of her countenance wasnew. It was no longer a placid sky, with scarce a cloud floating inits quiet depths, but changeful as April, with its tears and smilesblending in strange beauty. Her heart, that had long beattranquilly, would now bound at a thought, and send the brightcrimson to her cheek--would flutter at the sight of the veryindividual whom she, a short time before, would meet without asingle wave ruffling the surface of her feelings. The woman hadsuddenly displaced the girl; a sisterly regard, that pure affectionwhich an innocent maiden's heart has for all around her had expiredon the altar where was kindling up the deep passion called love.And yet Anna Wyman had not reached her sixteenth year.
All at once, she became restless, capricious, unhappy. She had beenat school up to this period, but now insisted that she was too oldfor that; her mother seconded this view of the matter, and herfather, a man of pretty good sense, had to yield.
"We must give Anna a party now," said Mrs. Wyman, after theirdaughter had left school.
"Why so?" asked the father.
"Oh--because it is time that she was beginning to come out."
"Come out, how?"
"You are stupid, man. Come out in the list of young ladies. Go intocompany."
"But she is a mere child, yet--not sixteen."
"Not sixteen! And how old was I, pray, when you married me?"
The husband did not reply.
"How old was I, Mr. Wyman?"
"About sixteen, I believe."
"Well; and was I a mere child?"
"You were rather young to marry, at least," Mr. Wyman ventured tosay. This remark was made rather too feelingly.
"Too young to marry!" ejaculated the wife, in a tone of surprise andindignation--"too young to marry; and my husband to say so, too! Mr.Wyman, do you mean to intimate--do you mean to say?--Mr. Wyman, whatdo you mean by that remark?"
"Oh, nothing at all," soothingly replied the husband; "only thatI"--
"What?"
"That I don't, as a general thing, approve of very early marriages.The character of a young lady is not formed before twenty-one ortwo; nor has she gained that experience and knowledge of the worldthat will enable her to choose with wisdom."
"You don't pretend to say that my character was not formed atsixteen?" This was accompanied by a threatening look.
Whatever his thoughts were, Mr. Wyman took good care not to expressthem. He merely said--
"I believe, Margaret, that I haven't volunteered any allusion toyou."
"Yes, but you don't approve of early marriages."
"True."
"Well, didn't I marry at sixteen? And isn't your opinion areflection upon your wife?"
"Circumstances alter cases," smilingly returned Mr. Wyman. "Fewwomen at sixteen were like you. Very certainly your daughter isnot."
"There I differ with you, Mr. Wyman. I believe our Anna would makeas good a wife now as I did at sixteen. She is as much of a woman inappearance; her mind is more matured, and her education advanced farbeyond what mine was. She deserves a good husband, and must have onebefore the lapse of another year."
"How can you talk so, Margaret? For my part, I do not wish to seeher married for at least five years."
"Preposterous! I wouldn't give a cent for a marriage that takesplace after seventeen or eighteen. They are always indifferentaffairs, and rarely ever turn out well. The earlier the better,depend upon it. First love and first lover, is my motto."
"Well, Margaret, I suppose you will have these matters your own way;but I don't agree with you for all."
"Anna must have a party."
"You can do as you like."
"But you must assent to it."
"How can I do that, if I don't approve?"
"But you must approve."
And Mrs. Wyman persevered until she made him approve--at least do soapparently. And so a party was given to Anna, at which she wasintroduced to several dashing young men, whose attentions almostturned her young head. In two weeks she had a confidante, a younglady named Clara Spenser, not much older than herself. The progressalready made by Anna in love matters will appear in the followingconversation held in secret with Clara.
"Did you say Mr. Carpenter had been to see you since the party?"asked Clara.
"Yes, indeed," was the animated reply.
"He's a love of a man!--the very one of all others that I would setmy cap for, if there was any hope. But you will, no doubt, carry himoff."
Anna coloured to the temples, half with confusion and half withdelight.
"He used to pay attention to Jane Sherman, I'm told."
"Yes; but you've cut her out entirely. Didn't you notice how unhappyshe seemed at the party whenever he was with you?"
"No; was she?"
"Oh, yes; everybody noticed it. But you can carry off all of herbeaux; she's a mere drab of a girl. And, besides, she's getting onthe old maids' list; I'm told she's more than twenty."
"She is?"
"It's true."
"Oh, dear; there's no fear of her then. If I were to go over sixteenbefore I married, I should be frightened to death."
"Suppose Carpenter offers himself?"
"I hope he won't just yet."
"Why?"
"I want two or three strings to my bow. It would be dangerous toreject one unless I had another in my eye."
"Reject? Nonsense! Why should you reject an offer?"
"My mother had three offers before she was sixteen, and rejected twoof them."
"Was she married so early?"
"Oh, yes; she was a wife at sixteen, and I'm not going to be a daylater, if possible. I'd like to decline three offers and getmarried into the bargain before a year passes. Wouldn't that beadmirable? It would be something to boast of all my life."
Pretty well advanced!--the reader no doubt exclaims; and so ouryoung lady certainly was. When a very young girl gets into lovematters, she "does them up," as the saying is, quite fast; shedoesn't mince matters at all. A maiden of twenty is cooler, morethoughtful, and more cautious. She thinks a good deal, and is verycareful how she lets any one--even her confidante, if she shouldhappen to have one, (which is doubtful)--know much beyond her mereexternal thoughts. Four or five years make a good deal of differencein these things. But this need hardly have been said.
"You are going to Mrs. Ashton's on Wednesday evening, of course?"said Clara Spenser to Anna, on visiting her one morning, some weeksafter the introduction to Carpenter had taken place.
"Oh, certainly; their soirees, I'm told, are elegant affairs."
"Indeed they are; I've been to two of them. Fine music, pleasantcompany, and so much freedom of intercourse--oh, they aredelightful!"
"Did you ever see Mr. Carpenter there?"
"Oh, yes; he always attends."
"I shall enjoy myself highly."
"That you will--the young men are so attentive."
Wednesday night soon came round, and Anna was permitted to go,unattended by either of her parents, to the so-called soiree at Mrs.Ashton's. As she had hoped and believed, Carpenter was there. Hisattentions to her were constant and flattering; he poured manycompliments into her ears, talking to her all the time in a low,musical tone. Anna's heart fluttered in her bosom with pleasure; shefelt that she had made a conquest. But the fact of bringing socharming a young man to her feet, and that so speedily, quickenedher pride, and made it seem the easiest thing in the world to beable to reject three lovers and yet be engaged, or even married, atsixteen.
Besides Carpenter, there was another present who saw attractionsabout Anna Wyman. He wore a moustache, and made quite a dashingappearance. In the language of many young ladies, who admired him,he was an elegant-looking young man--just the one to be proud of asa beau. His name was Elliott.
As soon as he could get access to the ear of the young andinexperienced girl, he charmed it with a deeper charm than Carpenterhad been able to impart. She felt almost like one within a magiccircle. His eye fascinated her, and his voice murmured in her earlike low, sweet music.
A short time before parting from her, he said--
"Miss Wyman, may I have the pleasure of calling upon you at yourfather's house?"
"Oh, yes, sir; I shall be most happy to see you." She spoke withfeeling.
"Then I shall visit you frequently. In your society I promise myselfmuch happiness."
Anna's eyes fell to the floor, and the colour deepened on hercheeks. When she looked up, Elliott was gazing steadily in her face,with an expression of admiration and love.
Her heart was lost. Carpenter, that love of a man, was not thoughtof--or, only as one of her rejected lovers.
When Anna laid her head upon her pillow that night, it was not tosleep. Her mind was too full of pleasant images, central to all ofwhich was the elegant, accomplished, handsome Mr. Elliott. He had,she conceived, as good as offered himself, and she, much as shewished to reject three lovers before she accepted one, felt stronglyinclined to accept him, and so end the matter.
Now, who was Mr. Thomas Elliott? A few words will portray him. Mr.Elliott was twenty-six; he kept a store in the city; had been inbusiness for some years, but was not very successful. His habits oflife were not good; his principles had no sound, moral basis. Hewas, in fact, just the man to make a silly child like Anna Wymanwretched for life. But why did he seek for one like her? That iseasily explained. Mr. Wyman was reputed to be pretty well off in theworld, and Mr. Elliott's affairs were in rather a precariouscondition; but he managed to keep so good a face upon the matter,that none suspected his real condition.
After visiting Anna for a short time, he offered his hand. If it hadnot been that her sixteenth birthday was so near, Anna would havedeclined the offer, for Thomas Elliott did not grow dearer to herevery day. There were young men whom she liked much better; and ifthey had only come forward and presented their claims to favour, shewould have declined the offer. But time was rapidly passing away.Anna was ambitious of being engaged before she was sixteen, andmarried, if possible. Her mother had rejected two offers, and shewas anxious to do as much. Here was a chance for one rejection--butwas she sure of another offer in time? No! There was the difficulty.For some days she debated the question, and then laid it before hermother. Mrs. Wyman consulted her husband, who did not much likeElliott; but the mother felt the necessity of an early marriage, andoverruled all objections. Her advice to Anna was to accept theoffer, and it was accepted, accordingly.
A fond, wayward child of sixteen may chance to marry and do well,spite of all the drawbacks she will meet; but this is only in caseshe happen to marry a man of good sense, warm affections, and greatkindness, who can bear with her as a father bears with a capriciouschild; can forgive much and love much. But give the happiness ofsuch a creature into the keeping of a cold, narrow-minded, selfish,petulant man, and her cup will soon run over. Bitter, indeed, willbe her lot in life.
Just such a man was Thomas Elliott. He had sought only his ownpleasures, and had owned no law but his own will. For more than tenyears he had been living without other external restraints thanthose social laws that all must observe who desire to keep a fairreputation. He came in when he pleased and went out when he pleased.He required service from all, and gave it to none--that is, so faras he needed service, he exacted it from those under him, but wasnot in the habit of making personal sacrifices for the sake ofothers. Thus, his natural selfishness was confirmed. When hemarried, it was with an end to the good he should derive from theunion--not from a generous desire to make another happy in himself.Anna was young, vivacious, and more than ordinarily intelligent andpretty. There was much about her that was attractive, and Elliottreally imagined that he loved her; but it was himself that he lovedin her fascinating qualities. These were all to minister to hispleasure. He never once thought of devoting himself to herhappiness.
On the night of the wedding, which took place soon after Anna'ssixteenth birthday, the bride was in that bewildered state of mindwhich destroys all the rational perceptions of the mind. Her wholesoul was in a pleasing tumult, and yet she did not feel happy; andwhy? Spite of the solemn promise she had made to love and honour herhusband above all men, she felt that there were others whom shecould have loved and honoured more than him, were they in his place.But this, reason told her, was folly. They had not presentedthemselves, and he had. They could be nothing to her--he must beevery thing. To secure a husband early was the great point, and thathad been gained. This thought, whenever it crossed her mind, wouldcause her to look around upon her maiden companions with proudself-complacency, They were still upon the shores of expectancy. Shehad launched her boat upon the sunny sea of matrimony, and wasalready moving steadily away under a pleasant breeze.
Alas! young bride, thy hymeneal altar is an altar of sacrifice. Loveis not the deity who is presiding there. Little do they dream whohave led thee, poor lamb! garlanded with flowers, to that altar, howinnocent, how true, how good a heart they were offering up upon itsstrange fires. But they will know in time, and thou wilt know whenit is too late.
Two years from the period of their marriage, Elliott and his wifewere seated in a small room moderately well furnished. He wasleaning back in a chair, with arms folded, and his chin resting onhis bosom. His face was contracted into a gloomy scowl. Anna, wholooked pale and troubled, was sewing and touching with her foot acradle, in which was a babe. The little one seemed restless. Everynow and then it would start and moan, or cry out. After a time itawoke and commenced screaming. The mother lifted it from the cradleand tried to hush it upon her bosom, but the babe still cried on. Itwas evidently in pain.
"Confound you! why don't you keep that child quiet?" exclaimed thehusband, impatiently casting at the same time an angry look upon hiswife.
Anna made no reply, but turned half away from him, evidently toconceal the tears that suddenly started from her eyes, and strovemore earnestly to quiet the child. In this she soon succeeded.
"I believe you let her cry on purpose, whenever I am in the house,just to annoy me," her husband resumed in an ill-natured tone.
"No, Thomas, you know that I do not," Anna said.
"Say I lie, why don't you?"
"Oh, Thomas, how can you speak so to me?" And his young wife turnedtoward him an earnest, tearful look.
"Pah! don't try to melt me with your crying. I never believed in it.Women can cry at any moment."
There was a convulsive motion of Mrs. Elliott's head as she turnedquickly away, and a choking sound in her throat. She remainedsilent, ten minutes passed, when her husband said in a firm voice,
"Anna, I'm going to break up."
Mrs. Elliott glanced around with a startled air.
"It's true, just what I say--your father may think that I'm going tomake a slave of myself to support you, but he's mistaken. He'srefused to help me in my business one single copper, though he'sable enough. And now I've taken my resolution. You can go back tohim as quick as you like."
Before the brutal husband had half finished the sentence, his wifewas on her feet, with a cheek deadly pale, and eyes almost startingfrom her head. Thomas Elliott was her husband and the father of herbabe, and as such she had loved him with a far deeper love than hehad deserved. This had caused her to bear with coldness and neglect,and even positive unkindness without a complaint. Sacredly had shekept from her mother even a hint of the truth. Thus had she gone onalmost from the first; for only a few months elapsed before shediscovered that her image was dim on her husband's heart.
"You needn't stand there staring at me like one moon-struck"--hesaid, with bitter sarcasm and a curl of the lip. "What I say is thetruth. I'm going to give up, and you've got to go home to them thatare more able to support you than I am; and who have a better right,too, I'm thinking."
There was something so heartless and chilling in the words andmanner of her husband, that Mrs. Elliott made no attempt to reply.Covering her face with her hands, she sunk back into the chair fromwhich she had risen, more deeply miserable than she had ever been inher life. From this state she was aroused by the imperativequestion,
"Anna, what do you intend doing?"
"That is for you to say"--was her murmured reply.
"Then, I say, go home to your father, and at once."
Without a word the wife rose from her chair, with her infant in herarms, and pausing only long enough to put on her shawl and bonnet,left the house.
Mr. and Mrs. Wyman were sitting alone late on the afternoon of thesame day, thinking about and conversing of their child. Neither ofthem felt too well satisfied with the result of her marriage. Itrequired not even the close observation of a parent's eye, todiscover that she was far from happy.
"I wish she were only single"--Mr. Wyman at length said. "Shemarried much too young--only eighteen now, and with a cold-heartedand, I fear, unprincipled and neglectful husband. It is sad to thinkof it."
"But I was married as young as she was, Mr. Wyman?"
"Yes; but I flatter myself you made a better choice. Your conditionat eighteen was very different from what hers is now. As I saidbefore, I only wish she were single, and then I wouldn't care to seeher married for two or three years to come."
"I can't help wishing she had refused Mr. Elliott. If she had doneso, she might have been married to a much better man long beforethis. Mr. Carpenter is worth a dozen of him. Oh dear! this marriageis all a lottery, after all. Few prizes and many blanks. Poor Anna!she is not happy."
At this moment the door opened, and the child of whom they werespeaking, with her infant in her arms, came hurriedly in. Her facewas deadly pale, her lips tightly compressed, and her eyes widelydistended and fixed.
"Anna!" exclaimed the mother, starting up quickly and springingtoward her.
"My child, what ails you?" was eagerly asked by the father, as he,too, rose up hastily.
But there was no reply. The heart of the child was too full. Shecould not utter the truth. She had been sent back to her parents byher husband, but her tongue could not declare that! Pride, shame,wounded affections, combined to hold back her words. Her only replywas to lay her babe in her mother's arms, and then fling herselfupon the bosom of her father.
All was mystery then, but time soon unveiled the cause of theirdaughter's strange and sudden appearance, and her deep anguish. Thetruth gradually came out that she had been deserted by her husband;or, what seemed to Mrs. Wyman more disgraceful still, had been senthome by him. Bitterly did she execrate him, but it availed nothing.Her ardent wish had been gratified. Anna was engaged at sixteen, andmarried soon after; but at eighteen, alas! she had come home adeserted wife and mother! And so she remained. Her husband neverafterward came near her. And now, at thirty, with a daughter wellgrown, she remains in her father's house, a quiet, thoughtful,dreamy woman, who sees little in life that is attractive, and whorarely stirs beyond the threshold of the house that shelters her.There are those who will recognise this picture.
So much for being engaged at sixteen!
THE END.
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