—And is this the intertwining of soul of which you had dreamed in the days that are gone? Is this the blending of sympathies that was to steal from life its bitterness; and spread over care and suffering, the sweet, ministering hand of kindness, and of love? Ay, you may well wander back to your bachelor club, and make the hours long at the journals, or at play—killing the flagging lapse of your life! Talk sprightly with your old friends—and mimic the joy you have not; or you will wear a bad name upon your hearth and head. Never suffer your Charlotte to catch sight of the tears which in bitter hours may start from your eye; or to hear the sighs which in your times of solitary musings may break forth sudden and heavy. Go on counterfeiting your life, as you have begun. It was a nice match; and you are a nice husband!
But you have a little boy, thank God, toward whom your heart runs out freely; and you love to catch him in his respite from your well-ordered nursery, and the tasks of his teachers—alone; and to spend upon him a little of that depth of feeling, which through so many years has scarce been stirred. You play with him at his games; you fondle him; you take him to your bosom.
But papa—he says—see how you have tumbled my collar. What shall I tell mamma?
—Tell her, my boy, that I love you!
Ah, thought I—my cigar was getting dull, and nauseous—is there not a spot in your heart that the gloved hand of your elegant wife has never reached: that you wish it might reach?
You go to see a far-away friend: his was not a “nice match;” he was married years before you; and yet the beaming looks of his wife and his lively smile are as fresh and honest as they were years ago; and they make you ashamed of your disconsolate humor. Your stay is lengthened, but the home letters are not urgent for your return; yet they are marvelously proper letters, and rounded with a French adieu. You could have wished a little scrawl from your boy at the bottom, in the place of the postscript, which gives you the names of a new opera troupe; and you hint as much—a very bold stroke for you.
Ben—she says—writes too shamefully.
And at your return there is no great anticipation of delight; in contrast with the old dreams, that a pleasant summer’s journey has called up, your parlor as you enter it—so elegant, so still—so modish—seems the charnel-house of your heart.
By and by you fall into weary days of sickness; you have capital nurses—nurses highly recommended—nurses who never make mistakes—nurses who have served long in the family. But alas for that heart of sympathy, and for that sweet face, shaded with your pain—like a soft landscape with flying clouds—you have none of them! Your pattern wife may come in, from time to time, to look after your nurse, or to ask after your sleep, and glide out—her silk dress rustling upon the door—like dead leaves in the cool night breezes of winter. Or, perhaps, after putting this chair in its place, and adjusting to a more tasteful fold that curtain—she will ask you, with a tone that might mean sympathy, if it were not a stranger to you—if she can do anything more.