'Is Marriage a Failure?

Te Aroha News, Volume VI, Issue 327, 22 December 1888, Page 5

'Is Marriage a Failure?

It was a hob, muggy night. Indeed, the candid mind must admit that in Auckland the evening of Christmas Eve is often mu ggy— oftener than not. There is a dampness in the atmosphere, visible to the most unobservant eye, which takes the criepness and elasticity not. only out of curls and muslins and other feminine fallals, but also oub of masculine limbs and muscles — when horses droop their heads; and dogs their tales ; when the feet of both two-footed and four-footed animals leave the ground reluctantly, and return to ib heavily ; when the stars refuse to twinkle, or, if they do, have a merry time of it — it is at the othor side of the mist where they have the fun all to" themselves ; when the gas lamps have a blurred, splotchy look, as if their outlines were melting away into nothingness ; while the portion left in its place is evidently unequal to its task, and perspires dreadfully in trying to fulfil ib. On such a Christmas Eve, any number of years ago, two men were standing on the steps of the Northern Club. The light from the inside made silhouettes of their figures. One was of middle height, and neither fat nor thin ; the other was taller, and inclining to portliness. 'Good-bye, Dormer. I'm very glad to have seen you,' said the taller of the two ' You'll think the matter over, won't you ? And you'll get old Screwcoine (old Screweome was Dormer's partner in Christchurch) . to think it over too.' * Yes, I will ; I think there is something in it.' ' Something in ifc ! Why, man, there's a fortune in it. By George, Dormer, you are harder to convince than a brick wall. But I'm not going all over my arguments again. You have them ; mind you take care to properly digest them. Remember me to Mrs Donner — best wishes of the season and all that.' 4 Thanks. You are still a bachelor ?' ' I believe you, my boy ' — and one could almost feel the sly wink he gave as he answered, ' I flatter myself I know what's what. A pretty face, a graceful waltzer, unlimited — hem ! repartee ; all very well in a ball-room, where on s'amuse ; but, my dear fellow, we don't want to spend our married lives in a ball-room. We want home 3. Lots of us want homes ; but wo don't yearn after the doubtful privilege of paying a woman's milliner's bills in return for being neglected in an ill-regulated abode ; I won't desecrate our good old word, 'Home. 5 ' The speaker's voice, which had grown more and more serious as he proceeded, after a short pause resumed its first joking tones. 'No thank you, Dormer. I know when I am well off. 1 You are not just. There are plenty of good wives to be found in Auckland.' 'That statement, my dear fellow, requires a bushel of salt. There may be some I grant you ; as there are horses in England that win the blue riband ; and young men who gain the Ireland scholarship ; and lawyers who become Lord Chancellor; and painters who add P.R.A. to their names, and ' ' Come now, Bailey,' interrupted the other, ' though bub one horse in the year can win the Derby, how many are there that fulfil their daily toil faithfully and patiently, unknown to fame and telegrams? Nor is it always the brilliant creature that ■wins that f amo u s scholarshi p that h as worked most zealously for it, or worked with the purest motives. Your argument is flippant, and you have nob scored one against 'our girls." ' I congratulate you on your faifch, more especially as you are in bondage. Any belief, never mind how false, is better "than none. The poor victim of Juggernaut, the ignorant African, who alternately worships and whacks his fetish, is happier ■than the atheist. Much more so is the dreamer like — hem ! you know, that imagines he sees in our girls all the homelike and loveable virtues, which every man would fain see in his wife, sisters, and daughters— than a sceptic like myself, going about with his eyes wide open, and seeing on all sides the irregular, vapid, selfish, aimless lives of our dear sylphs. But I'm open to conviction. I'm no misogamist, and when one of your sort come 3 along, I'll marry her. When, ha, ha !' * You are jusb the same as of old, Bailey ; always a scoffer. Yet surely this season of peace and goodwill towards all ought to soften you. ' Search and you shall find 'is equally true of good and evil j and if you were to turn your energies as vigorously towards the discovery of gold, as hitherto you have of dross, you would be astonished at the result. ' * I have no doubt of it, old fellow,' the other replied with good-tempered bub ironical agreement. ' I should be like an infatuated digger who insists upon crushing tons and tons of quartz although well aware that but very few grains of gold will be the result.' ' My dear old chum, you are no better than a brass cymbal co-night— all sound. Your miner's labour would be truly wasted, because the grains of gold could never repay him for his expended time and labour ; but the grains of gold in a human being may be that being' 3 salvation.' 'May be.' c Yes, bhab's jusb ib ; and it is a serious matter to let it waste with the dross.' ' Do you mean by that, that I'm to marry all the girls in whom, after careful search, I imagine I detect a grain of gold ?' Both the men laughed at this. * Well, Dormer, we'll agree to differ, as we have done ever since our school-days. I know you pay me the compliment of doubting my sincerity in spite of my deeds which vouch for ib. Bub are you sincere when you endue others with fancy virtues ?' Ac Dormer did nob answer ab once, his friend went on — 'Never mind, old chap, I'm quite sincere in wishing you a merry Christmas, and other good wishes too. Good-bye, shall see you to-morrow at Remuera.' They shook bands and parted, Bailey returningr inside the club, while Mr Dormer ' crossed over to the Government House side of Princes-street, and then continued his way south. He had not been in Aucklaud for the last eight years until his arrival two days ago ; but he knew it fairly well, for part of his youth had been spent in the northern city, although he belonged to a Christchurch family *; and his earlier stock of knowledge had been gained at the Auckland; Grammar, School, when that school was carried on in -an unsightly building in the Barracks reserve, under the supexvisioh. of Mr Macrae. But that was fif been years ago, and the town had altered considerably during the interval, and had it nob been for a more recent visit, paid'nob so .very long before,, his marriage, the numerous changeg/that had, taken place on all' sides mighb^have struck kirn more 'forcibly.'" Bub' though he had "much liking for Auckland, and many pleasant memories connected with It, yet now, ne heeded.it nob at all. His* mind was solely occupied with hi«i t own, sad thoughts (his. tod frequent ine'ntal companions), .which" the parting conversation with his friend had brought painfully 'forward.-*-"* --'. "': '-^-•V a 8 * " ; f '" Us h~e.rigb.tr? Am Ia; hypocrite f :'-. '.' f Oh; "^Jay, MayJ Who. wjll* conceal'.- ypjar -|

faults if Ido not ? A father is not a hypoorite, because he does not cry oat at the pain caused by heedless little feet and Lands, that tread on' him," and pull him about for their pleasure. And she has no more thought than a child. She does not mean to wound. She does not understand how she makes me suffer — our natures are so different. Poor, pretty May ! Is it her fault that lam not sufficient* for her ? She is so pretty and graceful — so much admired ; ao fit for admiration. After all, I am only a plain, humdrum lawyer, with what Carlyle calls the virtue of silence — a virtue almost a vice in her eyes — she being so talkative and witty. . . . Why ami so — soputout at what may be pureaccident? Why should nob another come to spend his holiday in Auckland as well as ourselves ? It may not even be the same and yet Carnelian is not a common name in Now Zealand, J, Carnelian, too. . . It must bo he, and I saw her face flush as she read the passenger list. . . . Good Heavons ! what a coward I am to watch and spy upon her actions. My poor May !' He forced back the groan that was bursting from his heart, and the thoughts that would come into his brain — no, nob even to himself would he blame her, for he knew she had no thought of sin. She might saunter along the brink of a precipice, because there was more amusement (Heaven save the mark ') ami excitement to be found there than in w.ilUing along the broad plain path, but «-he hud not ohs least intention of falling over. She had no capability of a deep passion., nor of the 'unselfishness which a real love, good or bad, demands. She had none of the divine fire ; she did not care for fire, but she liked amusing herself with matches, warranted incombuabible, except when rubbed against real emotion. 'This was a safe pastime, and she laughed equally ab the advice of friends, and the gentle bub manly remonstrances ot her husband, and utterly ignored both. Why shouldn't she amuse herself? It wasn't her fault if he chose to make a fuss about nothing. 'Why had he loved her? Why did he )ove her still? Her whole character as daughter, wife, and mother, was entirely opposed to his idea of what was beautiful in woman. It was nob that love is blind ; jfor he saw the desert on which he had set his heart ; the utterly unresponsive evil. (And oh, how tenderly and carefully he had cultivated it !) But hope iv his never failing, nurturing care had gone hand in hand with his love. Keeping it green, giving it time to strike its roots, till they were too deeply embedded in his heart ever to be corn away from it. He turned into a side street, one of those leading into Symonds-street ; and he had lot gone far when he paused in front of a :ow garden gate, which be opened and olosed again behind him. He went up the short pabh and let himself into the house with a latch key. To his surprise he found his wife up. She had told him she was not well— not fib to go out, and inbended bo go to bed early, so that he might as well get his business interview over with Mr Bailey. 1 What ! Back already ?' she asked with i a yawn. ' I was just going to bed. 1 She was very pretty. Plenty of rich brown hair, large violeb eyes, which she had an affected way of rolling upwards, a clear pink and white skin, a charming little ex- j pressionless mouth, and very white teeth made up an attractive picture to the ordinary observer. ' I am afraid you have been very dull, May, all alone,' he began, going over to her and sitting down by her side ; ' but now, as you are here, I wanb you to say something nice to me this Christmas Eve. 1 ' How foolish you are, Herbert !' she exclaimed peevishly. l What difference is there between one night and another V ' Much, my dear wife. Does ib not seem to you that every recurring Christmas is another opportunity for beginning again, for putting righb what has been wrong, for becoming larger-hearted, much more considerate for others ? Is ifc nob a grand thing to be able to fold back one page, and begin again on a new. wibh power bo prinb whab marks we choose on ib ? And is it nob a great responsibility, too? My dear, dear wife, let us begin this new leaf with love and better understanding. ' ' Really, Herbert, you are boo high-flown for me. I'm quite sure if we had to stop and consider the how, and the why, and the wherefore of all our actions, why, good gracious,life wouldn't be worth living ! The very thought gives me a headache. ' ' But, May, if we do not consider our actions and their consequences, bhink how many we may hurt and injure." ' Oh, bobher ! Let everyone look out for himself. I hate bhinking :ib makes me cross, and you are for ever lecburing. I'm sure if you considered my feelings, you would stop grumbling ; so take your lesson home. I shall go to bed, I'm sorry I didn't go before; 1 * I have left you too long alone, dear,' he said, passing by her complaints 'No wonder you are — dull.' ' I have not been alone all the time. Who do you think is up from Christchurch ? Why, Jack Carnelian. He has come to Auckland on business for a week or 'two. I was so surprised to see him' — another yawn. c Oh, dear, I'm awfully sleepy ! Light the candles, there's a good creature. Thanks. Good night — ' and she left the room. As soon as the door closed Mr Dormer sank down in a chair, and buried his face in his hands. He had never been happy in his marriage ; but his generous kindly nature had taken all the blame as well as the suffering, for he had married her wibh his eyes open. Whab she was now, she had always been — gay and frivolous, a careless and indifferenb daughter, a careless and indifferent sister, wibh not a thought beyond self, giving time and trouble only to the gratification of her whims and pleasures. All this he had seen, and seeing had closed his mind to the consequences. , He knew she had not loved him, but then she loved no one ; and ib was bhis fact (a very quicksand to anchor on) that he had trusted in. Surely his true and patient love must sooner or later call forth something. Six years married, and every year he had been forced to acknowledge to himself that he had failed. Yet hope was not dead though sorely strained, there had been periods when it had been very strong — when the first child was born, when he himself had been ! seriously ill ; when the second child came j and died, as she grew older. Alas, alas ! sbill the same. •' There , seemed no depth to sound ; all was polished/ un : broken surface ; and yet- of such^a flimsy nature that nothing left a mark on* ib. As well bring a "battering ram to strike at a thistle-down floating in the air as hope to make an impression on that shallow nature. To-night he had returned full of generous, loving impulsesr and a heart touched with the holy influence of the seadon — and now ? Surprised? After seeing- that passenger list ? . . The sudden indisposition ? Feigned ? At that moment he hated the man ; he could have trampled the life out of him; to kill him would be a deed just arid righteous — a' man who had nob the manliness ,to refrain from taking advantage of a woman's thoughtless vanity ;,nay, who played .upon it, and used it for liis own amusement, dragging' her . name , through the" mire of gossip^and' scandal. r Such' a man *»• a disgrace to" his< aeVjh an r d had

more of the creeping nature of ttie serpent than of a man, made after the image of God. The more he shielded her in his thoughts the mere did his bitter anger rise against him. For long ho sat, brooding, motionless, with face buried in hie palms. 1 Will you take . anything to-night, sir, before you go to ' bed V J The voice of the landlady aroused him. ' 'Nothing to-night, thank you, Mrs Merry field.' She left him, and he sank back to his previous condition. How many aching, disappointed, lonely hearts might be comforted ; how many cheerless and disunited households might be turned into bright, happy homes, if only the members would seek happiness where it may be found ! Where are our Auckland homes and household spirits? Surely not in the streets ; not at the rinks ; not at the ' socials ;' not at picnics ; not at afternoon teas ; not among acquaintances. These are all very well as casual auxiliaries, but they are not the spirits of truth, of love, of rest, of mutual family help, of contentment. A thousand times, no, and if substituted for them, though otherwise harmless they become lying, false spirits that destroy the very foundation of our homes. Because we have the frequent sunshine, warm days, bright skies and blue -eas, do not let them sap away the root of what is best and holiest in our lives. In not our English word 'Home' a beautiful one? Should not the scene that it brings to our mind be pleasanter than any other we can call up? Let not that woid drop out of our every-day prosaic lives, and become a term to express something ideal, poetic. Let us keep the ' Home. 1 And let home be doubly home at this blessed season of Christmas. For if our hearts do not open freely to our own people, and we have not for them that 'good- will,' which Christmas teaches so lovingly, in vain shall we try to extend it to 'all men.' Do nob let those that are near, and should be dear to us, tit brooding ovor their desolate hearthstones this night, if word or deed from us can comfort them. Be kind, be patient. And j ye, who suffer, receive the peace offering with candid and saftened hearts. Let none of us hear in our consciences the rebuke, ' I came to you, but you would not receive me.' "