The Married Sisters
"Come, William, a single day, out of three hundred and sixty-five,is not much,""True, Henry Thorne. Nor is the single drop of water, that firstfinds its way through the dyke, much; and yet, the first drop butmakes room for a small stream to follow, and then comes a flood. No,no, Henry, I cannot go with you, to-day; and if you will be governedby a friend's advice, you will not neglect your work for the fanciedpleasures of a sporting party.""All work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy, We were not made to bedelving forever with tools in close rooms. The fresh air is good forus. Come, William, you will feel better for a little recreation. Youlook pale from confinement. Come; I cannot go without you.""Henry Thorne," said his friend, William Moreland, with an air moreserious than that at first assumed, "let me in turn urge you tostay.""It is in vain, William," his friend said, interrupting him."I trust not, Henry. Surely, my early friend and companion is notdeaf to reason.""No, not to right reason.""Well, listen to me. As I said at first, it is not the loss of asimple day, though even this is a serious waste of time, that I nowtake into consideration. It is the danger of forming a habit ofidleness. It is a mistake, that a day of idle pleasure recreates themind and body, and makes us return and necessary employments withrenewed delight. My own experience is, that a day thus spent, causesus to resume our labors with reluctance, and makes irksome whatbefore was pleasant. Is it not your own?""Well, I don't know; I can't altogether say that it is; indeed, Inever thought about it.""Henry, the worst of all kinds of deception is self-deception.Don't, let me, beg of you, attempt to deceive yourself in a matterso important. I am sure you have experienced this reluctance toresuming work after a day of pleasure. It is a universal experience.And now that we are on this subject, I will add, that I haveobserved in you an increasing desire to get away from work. You makemany excuses and they seem to you to be good ones. Can you tell mehow many days you have been out of the shop in the last threemonths?""No, I cannot," was the reply, made in a tone indicating a slightdegree of irritation."Well, I can, Henry.""How many is it, then?""Ten days.""Never!""It is true, for I kept the count.""Indeed, then, you are mistaken. I was only out a gunning threetimes, and a fishing twice.""And that makes five times. But don't you remember the day you weremade sick by fatigue?""Yes, true, but that is only six.""And the day you went up the mountain with the party?""Yes.""And the twice you staid away because it stormed?""But, William, that has nothing to do with the matter. If it stormedso violently that I couldn't come to the shop, that surely is not tobe set down to the account of pleasure-taking.""And yet, Henry, I was here, and so were all the workmen butyourself. If there had not been in your mind a reluctance to comingto the shop, I am sure the storm would not have kept you away. I amplain with you, because I am your friend, and you know it. Now, itis this increasing reluctance on your part, that alarms me. Do not,then, add fuel to a flame, that, if thus nourished, will consumeyou.""But, William----""Don't make excuses, Henry. Think of the aggregate of ten lost days.You can earn a dollar and a half a day, easily, and do earn itwhenever you work steadily. Ten days in three months is fifteendollars. All last winter, Ellen went without a cloak, because youcould not afford to buy one for her; now the money that you couldhave earned in the time wasted in the last three months, would havebought her a very comfortable one--and you know that it is alreadyOctober, and winter will soon be again upon us. Sixty dollars a yearbuys a great many comforts for a poor man."Henry Thorne remained silent for some moments. He felt the force ofWilliam Moreland's reasoning; but his own inclinations were strongerthan his friend's arguments. He wanted to go with two or threecompanions a gunning, and even the vision of his young wifeshrinking in the keen winter wind, was not sufficient to conquerthis desire."I will go this once, William," said he, at length, with a longinspiration; "and then I will quit it. I see and acknowledge theforce of what you say; I never viewed the matter so seriouslybefore.""This once may confirm a habit now too strongly fixed," urged hiscompanion. "Stop now, while your mind is rationally convinced thatit is wrong to waste your time, when it is so much needed for thesake of making comfortable and happy one who loves you, and has casther lot in life with yours. Think of Ellen, and be a man.""Come, Harry!" said a loud, cheerful voice at the shop door; "we arewaiting for you!""Ay, ay," responded Henry Thorne. "Good morning, William! I ampledged for to-day. But after this, I will swear off!" And sosaying, he hurried away.Henry Thorne and William Moreland were workmen in a largemanufacturing establishment in one of our thriving inland towns.They had married sisters, and thus a friendship that had longexisted, was confirmed by closer ties of interest.They had been married about two years, at the time of theirintroduction to the reader, and, already, Moreland could perceivethat his earnings brought many more comforts for his little familythan did Henry's. The difference was not to be accounted for in thedays the other spent in pleasure taking, although their aggregateloss was no mean item to be taken from a poor man's purse. It was tobe found, mainly, in a disposition to spend, rather than to save; topay away for trifles that were not really needed, very small sums,whose united amounts in a few weeks would rise to dollars. But, whenthere was added to this constant check upon his prosperity thefrequent recurrence of a lost day, no wonder that Ellen had less ofgood and comfortable clothing than her sister Jane, and that herhouse was far less neatly furnished.All this had been observed, with pain, by William Moreland and hiswife, but, until the conversation recorded in the opening of thisstory, no word or remonstrance or warning had been ventured upon bythe former. The spirit in which Moreland's words were received,encouraged him to hope that he might exercise a salutary controlover Henry, if he persevered, and he resolved that he would extendthus far towards him the offices of a true friend.After dinner on the day during which her husband was absent, Ellencalled in to see Jane, and sit the afternoon with her. They wereonly sisters, and had always loved each other much. During theirconversation, Jane said, in allusion to the season:"It begins to feel a little chilly to-day, as if winter were coming.And, by the way, you are going to get a cloak this fall, Ellen, areyou not?""Indeed, I can hardly tell, Jane," Ellen replied, in a serious tone;"Henry's earnings, somehow or other, don't seem to go far with us;and yet I try to be as prudent as I can. We have but a few dollarslaid by, and both of us want warm underclothing. Henry must have acoat and pair of pantaloons to look decent this winter; so I musttry and do without the cloak, I suppose.""I am sorry for that. But keep a good heart about it, sister. Nextfall, you will surely be able to get a comfortable one; and youshall have mine as often as you want it, this winter. I can't go outmuch, you know; our dear little Ellen, your namesake, is too youngto leave often.""You are very kind, Jane," said Ellen, and her voice slightlytrembled.A silence of some moments ensued, and then the subject ofconversation was changed to one more cheerful.That evening, just about nightfall, Henry Thorne came home, muchfatigued, bringing with him half a dozen squirrels and a single wildpigeon."There, Ellen, is something to make a nice pie for us to-morrow,"said he, tossing his game bag upon the table."You look tired, Henry," said his wife, tenderly; "I wouldn't go outany more this fall, if I were you.""I don't intend going out any more, Ellen," was replied, "I'm sickof it.""You don't know how glad I am to hear you say so! Somehow, I alwaysfeel troubled and uneasy when you are out gunning or fishing, as ifyou were not doing right.""You shall not feel so any more, Ellen," said Thorne: "I've beenthinking all the afternoon about your cloak. Cold weather is coming,and we haven't a dollar laid by for anything. How I am to get thecloak, I do not see, and yet I cannot bear the thought of your goingall this winter again without one.""O, never mind that, dear," said Ellen, in a cheerful tone, her facebrightening up. "We can't afford it this fall, and so that'ssettled. But I can have Jane's whenever I want it, she says; and youknow she is so kind and willing to lend me anything that she has. Idon't like to wear her things; but then I shall not want the cloakoften."Henry Thorne sighed at the thoughts his wife's words stirred in hismind."I don't know how it is," he at length said, despondingly; "Williamcan't work any faster than I can, nor earn more a week, and yet heand Jane have every thing comfortable, and are saving money into thebargain, while we want many things that they have, and are not adollar ahead."One of the reasons for this, to her husband so unaccountable,trembled on Ellen's tongue, but she could not make up her mind toreprove him; and so bore in silence, and with some pain, what shefelt as a reflection upon her want of frugality in managinghousehold affairs.Let us advance the characters we have introduced, a year in theirlife's pilgrimage, and see if there are any fruits of these goodresolutions."Where is Thorne, this morning?" asked the owner of the shop,speaking to Moreland, one morning, an hour after all the workmen hadcome in."I do not know, really," replied Moreland. "I saw him yesterday,when he was well.""He's off gunning, I suppose, again. If so, it is the tenth day hehas lost in idleness during the last two months. I am afraid I shallhave to get a hand in his place, upon whom I can place moredependence. I shall be sorry to do this for your sake, and for thesake of his wife. But I do not like such an example to the workmenand apprentices; and besides being away from the shop oftendisappoints a job.""I could not blame you, sir," Moreland said; "and yet, I do hope youwill bear with him for the sake of Ellen. I think if you would talkwith him it would do him good.""But, why don't you talk to him, William?""I have talked to him frequently, but he has got so that he won'tbear it any longer from me.""Nor would he bear it from me, either, I fear, William."Just at that moment the subject of the conversation came in."You are late this morning, Henry," said the owner of the shop tohim, in the presence of the other workmen."It's only a few minutes past the time," was replied, moodily."It's more than an hour past.""Well, if it is, I can make it up.""That is not the right way, Henry. Lost time is never made up."Thorne did not understand the general truth intended to beexpressed, but supposed, at once, that the master of the shop meantto intimate that he would wrong him out of the lost hour,notwithstanding he had promised to make it up. He therefore turnedan angry look upon him, and said--"Do you mean to say that I would cheat you, sir?"The employer was a hasty man, and tenacious of his dignity as amaster. He invariably discharged a journeyman who was in the leastdegree disrespectful in his language or manner towards him beforethe other workmen. Acting under the impulse that at once promptedhim, he said:"You are discharged;" and instantly turned away.As quickly did Henry Thorne turn and leave the shop. He took his wayhomeward, but he paused and lingered as he drew nearer and nearerhis little cottage, for troubled thoughts had now taken the place ofangry feelings. At length he was at the door, and lifting slowly thelatch, he entered."Henry!" said Ellen, with a look and tone of surprise. Her face waspaler and more care-worn than it was a year before; and its calmexpression had changed into a troubled one. She had a babe upon herlap, her first and only one. The room in which she sat, so far fromindicating circumstances improved by the passage of a year, was farless tidy and comfortable; and her own attire, though neat, wasfaded and unseasonable. Her husband replied not to her inquiringlook, and surprised ejaculation, but seated himself in a chair, andburying his face in his hands, remained silent, until, unable toendure the suspense, Ellen went to him, and taking his hand, asked,so earnestly, and so tenderly, what it was that troubled him, thathe could not resist her appeal."I am discharged!" said he, with bitter emphasis. "And there is noother establishment in the town, nor within fifty miles!""O, Henry! how did that happen?""I hardly know myself, Ellen, for it all seems like a dream. When Ileft home this morning, I did not go directly to the shop; I wantedto see a man at the upper end of the town, and when I got back itwas an hour later than usual. Old Ballard took me to task before allthe shop, and intimated that I was not disposed to act honestlytowards him. This I cannot bear from any one; I answered him inanger, and was discharged on the spot. And now, what we are to do,heaven only knows! Winter is almost upon us, and we have not fivedollars in the world.""But something will turn up for us, Henry, I know it will," saidEllen, trying to smile encouragingly, although her heart was heavyin her bosom.Her husband shook his head, doubtingly, and then all was gloomy andoppressive silence. For nearly an hour, no word was spoken byeither. Each mind was busy with painful thoughts, and one withfearful forebodings of evil. At the end of that time, the husbandtook up his hat and went out. For a long, long time after, Ellen satin dreamy, sad abstraction, holding her babe to her breast. Fromthis state, a sense of duty roused her, and laying her infant on thebed,--for they had not yet been able to spare money for acradle,--she began to busy herself in her domestic duties. Thisbrought some little relief.About eleven o'clock Jane came in with her usual cheerful, almosthappy face, bringing in her hand a stout bundle. Her countenancechanged in its expression to one of concern, the moment her eyesrested upon her sister's face, and she laid her bundle on a chairquickly, as if she half desired to keep it out of Ellen's sight."What is the matter, Ellen?" she asked, with tender concern, themoment she had closed the door.Ellen could not reply; her heart was too full. But she leaned herhead upon her sister's shoulder, and, for the first time since shehad heard the sad news of the morning, burst into tears. Jane wassurprised, and filled with anxious concern. She waited until thisebullition of feeling in some degree abated, and then said, in atone still more tender than that in which she had first spoken,--"Ellen, dear sister! tell me what has happened?""I am foolish, sister," at length, said Ellen, looking up, andendeavoring to dry her tears. "But I cannot help it. Henry wasdischarged from the shop this morning; and now, what are we to do?We have nothing ahead, and I am afraid he will not be able to getanything to do here, or within many miles of the village.""That is bad, Ellen," replied Jane, while a shadow fell upon herface, but a few moments before so glowing and happy. And that wasnearly all she could say; for she did not wish to offer falseconsolation, and she could think of no genuine words of comfort.After a while, each grew more composed and less reserved; and thenthe whole matter was talked over, and all that Jane could say, thatseemed likely to soothe and give hope to Ellen's mind, was said withearnestness and affection."What have you there?" at length asked Ellen, glancing towards thechair upon which Jane had laid her bundle.Jane paused a moment, as if in self-communion, and then said--"Only a pair of blankets, and a couple of calico dresses that I havebeen out buying.""Let me look at them," said Ellen, in as cheerful a voice as shecould assume.A large heavy pair of blankets, for which Jane had paid fivedollars, were now unrolled, and a couple of handsome chintz dresses,of dark rich colors, suitable for the winter season, displayed. Itwas with difficulty that Ellen could restrain a sigh, as she lookedat these comfortable things, and thought of how much she needed, andof how little she had to hope for. Jane felt that such thoughts mustpass through her sister's mind, and she also felt much pained thatshe had undesignedly thus added, by contrast, to Ellen's unhappyfeelings. When she returned home, she put away her new dresses andher blankets. She had no heart to look at them, no heart to enjoyher own good things, while the sister she so much loved was deniedlike present comforts, and, worse than all, weighed down with aheart-sickening dread of the future.We will not linger to contrast, in a series of domestic pictures,the effects of industry and idleness on the two married sisters andtheir families,--effects, the causes of which, neither aidedmaterially in producing. Such contrasts, though useful, cannot butbe painful to the mind, and we would, a thousand times, rather givepleasure than pain. But one more striking contrast we will give, asrequisite to show the tendency of good or bad principles, unitedwith good or bad habits.Unable to get any employment in the village, Thorne, hearing thatsteady work could be obtained in Charleston, South Carolina, soldoff a portion of his scanty effects, by which he received moneyenough to remove there with his wife and child. Thus were thesisters separated; and in that separation, gradually estranged fromthe tender and lively affection that presence and constantintercourse had kept burning with undiminished brightness. Eachbecame more and more absorbed, every day, in increasing cares andduties; yet to one those cares and duties were painful, and to theother full of delight.Ten years from the day on which they parted in tears, Ellen sat,near the close of day, in a meanly furnished room, in one of thesouthern cities, watching, with a troubled countenance, the restlessslumber of her husband. Her face was very thin and pale, and it hada fixed and strongly marked expression of suffering. Two children, aboy and a girl, the one about six, and the other a little over tenyears of age, were seated listlessly on the floor, which wasuncarpeted. They seemed to have no heart to play. Even theelasticity of childhood had departed from them. From the appearanceof Thorne, it was plain that he was very sick; and from all theindications the room in which he lay, afforded, it was plain thatwant and suffering were its inmates. The habit of idleness he hadsuffered to creep at a slow but steady pace upon him. Idlenessbrought intemperance, and intemperance, reacting upon idleness,completed his ruin, and reduced his family to poverty in its mostappalling form. Now he was sick with a southern fever, and hismiserable dwelling afforded him no cordial, nor his wife andchildren the healthy food that nature required."Mother!" said the little boy, getting up from the floor, where hehad been sitting for half an hour, as still as if he were sleeping,and coming to Ellen's side, he looked up earnestly and imploringlyin her face."What, my child?" the mother said, stooping down and kissing hisforehead, while she parted with her fingers the golden hair thatfell in tangled masses over it."Can't I have a piece of bread, mother?"Ellen did not reply, but rose slowly and went to the closet, fromwhich she took part of a loaf, and cutting a slice from it, handedit to her hungry boy. It was her last loaf, and all their money wasgone. The little fellow took it, and breaking a piece off for hissister, gave it to her; the two children then sat down side by side,and ate in silence the morsel that was sweet to them.With an instinctive feeling, that from nowhere but above could shelook for aid and comfort, did Ellen lift her heart, and pray thatshe might not be forsaken in her extremity. And then she thought ofher sister Jane, from whom she had not heard for a long, long time,and her heart yearned towards her with an eager and yearning desireto see her face once more.And now let us look in upon Jane and her family. Her husband, bysaving where Thorne spent in foolish trifles, and working whenThorne was idle, gradually laid by enough to purchase a little farm,upon which he had removed, and there industry and frugality broughtits sure rewards. They had three children: little Ellen had grown toa lively, rosy-cheeked, merry-faced girl of eleven years; andGeorge, who had followed Ellen, was in his seventh year, and afterhim came the baby, now just completing the twelfth month of itsinnocent, happy life. It was in the season when the farmers' toil isrewarded, and William Moreland was among those whose labor had metan ample return.How different was the scene, in his well established cottage, fullto the brim of plenty and comfort, to that which was passing at thesame hour of the day, a few weeks before, in the sad abode of Ellen,herself its saddest inmate.The table was spread for the evening meal, always eaten before thesun hid his bright face, and George and Ellen, although the supperwas not yet brought in, had taken their places; and Moreland, too,had drawn up with the baby on his knee, which he was amusing with anapple from a well filled basket, the product of his own orchard.A hesitating rap drew the attention of the tidy maiden who assistedMrs. Moreland in her duties."It is the poor old blind man," she said, in a tone of compassion,as she opened the door."Here is a shilling for him, Sally," said Moreland, handing her apiece of money. "The Lord has blessed us with plenty, and somethingto spare for his needy children."The liberal meal upon the table, the mother sat down with the rest,and as she looked around upon each happy face, her heart blessed thehour that she had given her hand to William Moreland. Just as themeal was finished, a neighbor stopped at the door and said:"Here's a letter for Mrs. Moreland; I saw it in the post-office, andbrought it over for her, as I was coming this way.""Come in, come in," said Moreland, with a hearty welcome in hisvoice."No, I thank you, I can't stop now. Good evening," replied theneighbor."Good evening," responded Moreland, turning from the door, andhanding the letter to Jane."It must be from Ellen," Mrs. Moreland remarked, as she broke theseal. "It is a long time since we heard from then; I wonder how theyare doing."She soon knew; for on opening the letter she read thus:--SAVANNAH, September, 18--.MY DEAR SISTER JANE:--Henry has just died. I am left here without adollar, and know not where to get bread for myself and two children.I dare not tell you all I have suffered since I parted from you.I----My heart is too full; I cannot write. Heaven only knows what I shalldo! Forgive me, sister, for troubling you; I have not done sobefore, because I did not wish to give you pain, and I only do sonow, from an impulse that I cannot resist.ELLEN.Jane handed the letter to her husband, and sat down in a chair, hersenses bewildered, and her heart sick."We have enough for Ellen, and her children, too, Jane," saidMoreland, folding the letter after he had read it. "We must send forthem at once. Poor Ellen! I fear she has suffered much.""You are good, kind and noble-hearted, William!" exclaimed Jane,bursting into tears."I don't know that I am any better than anybody else, Jane. But Ican't bear to see others suffering, and never will, if I can affordrelief. And surely, if industry brought no other reward, the powerit gives us to benefit and relieve others, is enough to make us everactive."In one month from the time Ellen's letter was received, she, withher children, were inmates of Moreland's cottage. Gradually thelight returned to her eye, and something of the former glow ofhealth and contentment to her cheek. Her children in a few weeks,were as gay and happy as any. The delight that glowed in the heartof William Moreland, as he saw this pleasing change, was a doublereward for the little he had sacrificed in making them happy. Nordid Ellen fall, with her children, an entire burden upon her sisterand her husband;--her activity and willingness found enough to dothat needed doing. Jane often used to say to her husband--"I don't know which is the gainer over the other, I or Ellen; for Iam sure I can't see how we could do without her."
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