“Indeed you do her great injustice,” said Mrs. Howard. “To be sure, I do not know Mrs. Murray intimately, but I am certain if you were to see her pale, wretched face and frail figure, as I do daily in the corridor, when they bring her in, half fainting, from the bath, you would think as I do—that, let her husband’s sufferings be ever so great, the wife suffers quite as much. Oh, my dear Mr. Morrison, how I wish I were Edda Murray’s friend.”
“What would you do, my dear madam? Add another to her host of sympathizers?” said the old gentleman.
“No,” replied Mrs. Howard, mildly; “I would tell her to send for Ralph, to ask pardon for the past and patience for the future, and beg him to take me once more to his heart, and help me to be a good, faithful wife. This she must do, or never know peace in this life.”
“Ha, ha,” laughed Mr. Morrison; “why, my dear Mrs. Howard, if she had sense and feeling enough to act thus, she would never have behaved as she has done.”
“Edda Murray has acted willfully and selfishly, I admit,” said Mrs. Howard; “but we do not know what provocations she may have had. Ralph is a fine, noble fellow, but arbitrary and impatient—the very kind of man that I should fancy it would not be easy to make happy in domestic life, even if a judicious woman were to undertake the task. Think, then, how many excuses should be made for his impulsive, wayward little wife, who never in her life was subjected to control. I am certain this trouble has done her good, however, for a woman’s character is seldom properly developed in prosperity; like precious metals, it must pass through the fiery furnace of affliction—it must be purified in the crucible of sorrow, until it loses all recollection of self. There is a beautiful simile in the Bible, which compares the purification of the soul to the smelting of silver. Silver must be purged from all dross, until it is so clear and mirror-like that it will reflect the countenance of the refiner; thus the soul must be so pure, in so high a state of godliness, as to reflect only the will of the Creator. I cannot recall the passage exactly, but I often apply it to my own sex, whose characters, to be properly developed, must be purged from all selfish dross, in order to make them think only of the happiness of others—forgetful always of self; then, like silver seven times refined and purified, their spirits reflect only the countenance of the purifier, which is the will or command of God.”
Just then Mr. Howard and some others joined them, and after a little playful bantering about the flirtation of two such steady old persons, a remark or two on the fine night and the beauty of the ocean scene, the party moved off and Edda at last was alone.
That night, when Mr. and Mrs. Martin stopped at Edda’s room door, on their way to bed, they found her sitting at her desk writing. She kissed them, bade them good night, and thanked them for their affectionate inquiries, in a more cheerful manner than she had shown for months, which gladdened their silly, warm old hearts, and they went off comforting themselves with the hope that all now would be well.
“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Martin, as he composed himself to sleep, “you were right—Edda is getting over it. She looked and talked more brightly than she has since poor little Martin’s death.”
And Edda really felt so, but for a reason her uncle little suspected. Mrs. Howard’s words had given form and impulse to her thoughts; she no longer wasted time in mere actionless grief; she saw her duty before her, and, hard as it was to perform, she nobly resolved to do it. A day or so afterward, as Ralph Murray was leaving town for his new western home—sad, lonely, and for the first time feeling that maybe in the past he had not been entirely free from blame, he received a letter, directed in the delicate, lady-like, hand-writing of his wife. With trembling hands he opened it, and thick, short sobs swelled up in his throat and hot tears sprang to his eyes, as he read her childish, frank, penitent appeal.
“I am your wife, Ralph,” she wrote; “you must not leave me—you must take me with you. God joined us, and trouble—death has bound us still closer. Pardon my past waywardness, and take your penitent, suffering Edda back to your heart. Think what a reckless, thoughtless, uncontrolled child I was when you married me, and have patience with me. I cannot live without you, Ralph. I shall die broken-hearted if you treat my selfish, wayward conduct as it merits. God forgives the penitent—will you be more just than He is, my beloved? Come to me, and let me hear from your lips once more, ‘dear Edda.’ Do not tell me you are poor; I can live on any thing, submit to any privation, if blessed with your presence, your forgiveness, your love. You shall not find me in the future a thoughtless, extravagant child, but, with God’s help, a faithful good wife. Oh, Ralph, receive me once more, I pray you, and let me be again your own darling little wife Edda.”