Woman's Trials

“IT’S nearly a year, now, since I was home,” said Lucy Gray to her husband, “and so you must let me go for a few weeks.”

They had been married some four or five years, and never had been separated, during that time, for twenty-four hours at a time.

“I thought you called this your home,” remarked Gray, looking up, with a mock-serious air.

“I mean my old home,” replied Lucy, in a half-affected tone of anger.  “Or, to make it plain, I want to go and see father and mother.”

“Can’t you wait three or four months, until I can go with you?” asked the young husband.

“I want to go now.  You said all along that I should go in May.”

“I know I did.  But I thought I would be able to go with you.”

“Well, why can’t you go?  I am sure you might, if you would.”

“No, Lucy, I cannot possibly leave home now.  But if you are very anxious to see the old folks, I can put you into the stage, and you will go safe enough.  Ellen and I can take care of little Lucy, no doubt.  How long a time do you wish to spend with them?”

“About three weeks, or so.”

“Very well, Lucy; if you are not afraid to go alone, I will not say a word.”

“I am not afraid, dear,” said the wife, in a voice changed and softened in its expression.  “But are you perfectly willing to let me go, Henry?”

“Oh, certainly,” was the reply, although the tone in which the words were uttered had something of reluctance in it.  “It would be selfish in me to say, no.  Your father and mother will be delighted to receive a visit just now.”

“And you think that you and Ellen can get along with little Lucy?”

“Oh yes, very well.”

“I should like to go, so much!”

“Go, then, by all means.”

“But won’t you be very lonesome without me?” suggested Lucy, in whose own bosom a feeling of loneliness was already beginning to be felt at the bare idea of a separation from her husband.

“I can stand it as long as you,” was Gray’s laughing reply to this.  “And then I shall have our dear little girl.”

Lucy laughed in return, but did not feel as happy at the idea of “going home” as she thought she would be, before her husband’s consent had been gained.  The desire to go, however, remaining strong, it was finally settled that the visit should be paid.  So all the preparations were entered upon, and in the course of a week Henry Gray saw his wife take her seat in the stage, with a feeling of regret at parting, which required all his efforts to conceal.  As for Lucy, when the moment of separation came, she regretted ever having thought of going without her husband and child; but she was ashamed to let her real feelings be known.  So she kept up a show of indifference, all the while that her heart was fluttering.  The “good-bye” was finally said, the driver cracked his whip, and off rolled the stage.  Gray turned homewards with a dull, lonely feeling, and Lucy drew her veil over her face to conceal the unbidden tears from her fellow-passengers.

That night, poor Mr. Gray slept but little.  How could he?  His Lucy was absent, and, for the first time, from his side.  On the next morning, as he could think of nothing but his wife, he sat down and wrote to her, telling her how lost and lonely he felt, and how much little Lucy missed her, but still to try and enjoy herself, and by all means to write him a letter by return mail.

As for Mrs. Gray, during her journey of two whole days, she cried fully half of the time, and when she got “home” at last, that is, at her father’s, she looked the picture of distress, rather than the daughter full of joy at meeting her parents.

Right glad were the old people to see their dear child, but grieved, at the same time, and a little hurt, too, at her weakness and evident regret at having left her husband, to make them a brief visit.  The real pleasure that Lucy felt at once more seeing the aces of her parents, whom she tenderly loved, was lot strong enough to subdue and keep in concealment, except for a very short period at a time, her earning desire again to be with her husband, for whom she never before experienced a feeling of such deep and earnest affection.  Several times, during the first day of her visit, did her mother find her in tears, which she would quickly dash aside, and then endeavour to smile and seem cheerful.

The day after her arrival brought her a letter—­the first she had ever received from her husband.  How precious was every word!  How often and often did she read it over, until every line was engraven on her memory!  Then she sat down, and spent some two or three hours in replying to it.  As she sealed this first epistle to her husband, full of tender expressions, she sighed, as the wish arose in her mind, involuntarily, that she could only go with it its journey to the village of——.

Long were the hours, and wearily passed, to Henry Gray.  It was the sixth day of trial before Lucy’s answer came.  How dear to his heart was every word of her affectionate epistle!  Like her, he went over it so often, that every sentiment was fixed in his mind.

“Two weeks longer!  How can I bear it?” he said, rising up, and pacing the floor backwards and forwards, after reading her letter for the tenth time.  On the next day, the seventh of his lonely state, Mr. Gray sat down to write again to Lucy.  Several times he wrote the words, as he proceeded in the letter—­“Come home soon,”—­but as often obliterated them.  He did not wish to appear over-anxious for her return, on her father’s and mother’s account, who were much attached to her.  But, forgetting this reason for not urging her early return, he had commenced again writing the words, “Come home soon,” when a pair of soft hands were suddenly placed over his eyes, by some one who had stolen softly up behind him.

“Guess my name!” said a voice, in feigned tones.

Gray had no need to guess whose were the hands, for a sudden cry of joy from a little toddling thing, told that “Mamma” had come.

How “Mamma” was hugged and kissed all round, need not here be told.  That scene was well enough in its place, but would lose its interest in telling.  It may be imagined, however, without suffering any particular detriment, by all who have a fancy for such things.

“And father, too!” suddenly exclaimed Mr. Gray, after he had almost smothered his wife with kisses, looking up, with an expression of pleasure and surprise, at an old man who stood looking on, with his good-humoured face covered with smiles.

“Yes.  I had to bring the good-for-nothing jade home,” replied the old man, advancing and grasping his son-in-law’s hand, with a hearty grip.  “She did nothing but mope and cry all the while, and I don’t care if she never comes to see us again, unless she brings you along to keep her in good-humour.”

“And I never intend going alone again,” Mrs. Gray said, holding a little chubby girl to her bosom, while she kissed it over and over again, at the same time that she pressed close up to her husband’s side.

The old man understood it all.  He was not jealous of Lucy’s affection, for he knew that she loved him as tenderly as ever.  He was too glad to know that she was happy with a husband to whom she was as the apple of his eye.  In about three months Lucy made another visit “home.”  But husband and child were along, this time, and the visit proved a happy one all around.  Of course, “father and mother” had their jest and their laugh, and their affectation of jealousy and anger at Lucy for her “childishness,” as they termed it, when home in May; but Lucy, though half-vexed at herself for what she called a weakness, nevertheless persevered in saying that she never meant to go anywhere again without Henry.  “That was settled.”