But Dunscomb’s manner was very different from that of his nephew. John was excited, petulant, irritable, and in a state to feel and say disagreeable things; dissatisfied with himself, and consequently not very well pleased with others. A great change had come over his feelings, truly, within the last week, and the image of the gentle Anna Updyke was fast taking the place of that of Mary Monson. As the latter seldom saw the young man, and then only at the grate, the former had got to be the means of communication between the youthful advocate and his client, throwing them constantly in each other’s way. On such occasions Anna was always so truthful, so gentle, so earnest, so natural, and so sweetly feminine, that John must have been made of stone, to remain insensible of her excellent qualities. If women did but know how much their power, not to say charms, are increased by gentleness, by tenderness in lieu of coldness of manner, by keeping within the natural circle of their sex’s feelings, instead of aping an independence and spirit more suited to men than to their own condition, we should see less of discord in domestic life, happier wives, better mothers, and more reasonable mistresses. No one knew this better than Dunscomb, who had not been an indifferent spectator of his nephew’s course, and who fancied this a favourable moment to say a word to him, on a subject that he felt to be important.
“This choosing to be is a very material item in the female character,” continued the counsellor, after a moment of silent and profound thought. “Whatever else you may do, my boy, in the way of matrimony, marry a gentle and feminine woman. Take my word for it, there is no true happiness with any other.”
“Women have their tastes and caprices, and like to indulge them, sir, as well as ourselves.”
“All that may be true, but avoid what is termed a woman of independent spirit. They are usually so many devils incarnate. If they happen to unite moneyed independence with moral independence, I am not quite certain that their tyranny is not worse than that of Nero. A tyrannical woman is worse than a tyrannical man, because she is apt to be capricious. At one moment she will blow hot, at the next cold; at one time she will give, at the next clutch back her gifts; to-day she is the devoted and obedient wife, to-morrow the domineering partner. No, no, Jack, marry a woman; which means a kind, gentle, affectionate, thoughtful creature, whose heart is so full of you, there is no room in it for herself. Marry just such a girl as Anna Updyke, if you can get her.”
“I thank you, sir,” answered John, colouring. “I dare say the advice is good, and I shall bear it in mind. What would you think of a woman like Mary Monson, for a wife?”
Dunscomb turned a vacant look at his nephew, as if his thoughts were far away, and his chin dropped on his bosom. This abstraction lasted but a minute, however when the young man got his answer.
“Mary Monson is a wife, and I fear a bad one,” returned the counsellor. “If she be the woman I suppose her to be, her history, brief as it is, is a very lamentable one. John, you are my sister’s son, and my heir. You are nearer to me than any other human being, in one sense, though I certainly love Sarah quite as well as I do you, if not a little better. These ties of feeling are strange links in our nature! At one time I loved your mother with a tenderness such as a father might feel for a child; in short, with a brother’s love—a brother’s love for a young, and pretty, and good girl, and I thought I could never love another as I loved Elizabeth. She returned my affection, and there was a period of many years when it was supposed that we were to pass down the vale of life in company, as brother and sister—old bachelor and old maid. Your father deranged all this, and at thirty-four my sister left me. It was like pulling my heart-strings out of me, and so much the worse, boy, because they were already sore.”
John started. His uncle spoke hoarsely, and a shudder, that was so violent as to be perceptible to his companion, passed through his frame. The cheeks of the counsellor were usually colourless; now they appeared absolutely pallid.
“This, then,” thought John Wilmeter, “is the insensible old bachelor, who was thought to live altogether for himself. How little does the world really know of what is passing within it! Well may it be said, ‘here is a skeleton in every house.’”
Dunscomb soon recovered his self-command. Reaching forth an arm, he took his nephew’s hand, and said affectionately—