HOMES MADE AND MARRED.

A BOOK FOR

WORKING MEN AND THEIR WIVES.

[BY]

[LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY]

LONDON:

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

56, PATERNOSTER Row; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD; AND 164, PICCADILLY.

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I. HOPES AND PROSPECTS

II. OUR OWN FIRESIDE

III. MORE THINGS "PUT OUT" THAN THE BRICK

IV. FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT

V. TURNED INSIDE OUT

VI. IN DISAPPOINTMENT

VII. EVIL COMMUNICATIONS

VIII. CAUGHT AND CAPTURED

IX. WOES AND WARNINGS

X. NEW SCENES AMONG OLD FRIENDS

XI. IMPORTANT POINTS

XII. WITH THE "DOORS SHUT"

XIII. THE LAMP LIGHTED

XIV. STITCHING AND TALKING

XV. SOLEMN FACTS FOR SOCIAL SCIENCE

XVI. THE BOTTOM OF THE INCLINE

XVII. DELUSIONS DISPELLED

XVIII. FRIENDS WORTH KEEPING

XIX. IN "THE SHADOW OF A GREAT ROCK"

XX. A DISCOMFITURE

XXI. A SORROWFUL SURPRISE

XXII. SIN AND PUNISHMENT

XXIII. SHIPWRECKED

XXIV. ADDITION WITHOUT IMPROVEMENT

XXV. TRYING CONSEQUENCES

XXVI. AN ELOPEMENT

XXVII. DOMESTIC REVELATIONS

XXVIII. IN CONCLUSION

HOMES MADE AND MARRED.

CHAPTER I.

HOPES AND PROSPECTS.

"MAMMA, do come and see our beautiful new swing!" cried a little boy, rushing into his mother's sitting-room. "Mr. Hill has finished, and he would like to know that you think it is all right."

Mrs. Oakland immediately rose and followed to inspect the new appliances which had been erected for amusement and exercise, and stood while an intelligent workman described to her the strength and the security of the plans. The lady was quite satisfied, and thanked him warmly for the skill and trouble he had bestowed upon his work.

He was a fine-looking young man, with a well-formed head, a clear, bright eye, and a strong arm, and might have stood as a model of a British workman. His cheek glowed and his heart warmed with the well-earned praise; and if the lady were pleased, so certainly was he.

The young man seemed to hesitate for a moment after receiving thanks for his work, and then, twisting his cap once or twice round on his hand,—

"If you please, ma'am," said he, "if it's not intruding too much, might I beg a few words with you?"

"Certainly, Mr. Hill," she replied. "Come to the house; we will leave the children to their new swing."

"I beg pardon, ma'am; but if you'll just walk a little this way, I would rather not go to the house." And Matthew Hill glanced involuntarily at his working jacket and tool-basket.

The lady, somewhat perplexed, walked with him towards the garden gate.

"I beg pardon, ma'am; but you know Jane?" said the young workman, abruptly.

"Jane, whom? My housemaid?" said Mrs. Oakland, and a new light broke upon her mind. "Oh yes, I have known Jane for several years."

"And you have been very kind to her, ma'am, I know."

"She is an orphan, and, having no other home, I have overlooked many things that might have deprived her of one with me," said Mrs. Oakland. She felt as if she must at least say so much, fearing that Matthew was thinking of placing his happiness in very precarious keeping.

Matthew's bright face clouded for an instant, but, recovering, he proceeded rapidly:

"Well, ma'am, you see Jane and I think of going to housekeeping together, and she seemed against asking you to spare her because she has been so long with you, and feels your house to be her home like. I hope you will not take it amiss that I made bold to speak for her."

"Certainly not, Mr. Hill, I have no right to feel anything but the sincerest wish for your mutual happiness."

"Many thanks to you, ma'am," said Hill, gratefully, "and Jane would not think of going until you are suited."

"Stay, Matthew," said Mrs. Oakland as he was about to leave the garden, "may I ask you a question about yourself?"

"Surely, ma'am, but I can pretty well guess what it is," said he, smiling; "you would ask if I've kept my word since that sad time at the fair. I have indeed, and I'm quite sure, with Jane to keep me at home, and make it happy there, I shall not even need the pledge any more."

"Ah, Matthew, do not depend on any earthly motive, however dear: you cannot tell how soon it might fail you. Avoid temptation on the principle of loving obedience to your forgiving Saviour, and his strength will be your safeguard. Jane is a valuable young woman in many things, but you must not fancy that she is so perfect as never to disappoint you in anything."

"I'm sure she will be only too good a wife for me, ma'am," said the lover, responding to Mrs. Oakland's smiling caution.

"Well, I trust she will not be of your opinion, Matthew, but will feel that she cannot do too much to enable you to maintain it. So Jane shall be at liberty whenever you both desire it."

Matthew again warmly thanked her and went his way, and Mrs. Oakland continued for some time to walk slowly up and down the path, as if counting the gravel stones at her feet.

Had she been quite true with Matthew? she asked herself. Was it her duty to warn him of a rock on which she feared his sunny hopes might be wrecked? She had certainly ventured to speak of himself. But ought she not to have spoken of Jane, and told him her experience of her character in the family—her frequent fits of sullenness, her pride, her bad temper? Probably it was now too late; he would be sure to hope the best, his heart would refuse to doubt or fear, and no good would be done. But she could speak earnestly to Jane, and did so without delay.

A respectable-looking and rather pretty young woman obeyed the summons to the dressing-room.

"Come in, Jane," said her mistress, kindly, "I want to have a little talk with you. Sit down, and try to feel that I really am what I have tried to prove myself, your sincere friend."

Jane had a tolerable notion, of what was coming, for she knew that Matthew Hill intended to "break it" to Mrs. Oakland, because she said she could not do it herself, and she knew that her mistress was sufficiently interested in him to think it no liberty that he should do so for her. So Jane only coloured a little, and picked up some tiny ends of thread which she spied on the carpet.

"I will not ask you if you thoroughly know your own mind with respect to Matthew Hill, Jane. He is a young man whose affection any young woman may feel honoured to possess, and I assume that in accepting it, you give him a heart full of affection in return, with a determination by God's help to be to him a true, good wife."

"I hope so, indeed, ma'am," said Jane; "I'm sure I mean it."

"But, Jane, let me remind you that you cannot treat Mr. Hill as you have too often treated me when anything vexed you. You cannot give him a month's notice, and bid him 'suit himself' when you get a little out of temper, Jane."

Jane could scarcely help laughing at the idea; yet she knew full well that it was to her mistress's forbearance and patience that she owed the home she had enjoyed so long, and that she had not been tossed from place to place at the mercy of her own temper.

"Now, Jane," continued Mrs. Oakland, kindly, "I do not want to bring up any of our old grievances, or to remind you needlessly of anything that we have agreed to forget; but, as I parted from Matthew just now, and saw his honest joy in the thought of having you to make him a happy home, I did feel a painful misgiving lest he should be disappointed. I am so fearful lest your temper should prove a hindrance to your comfort and his, and lest anything disagreeable at home should lessen his love for it, and cause him to seek other companionship and relaxation."

"He assures me there is no fear of it, ma'am," said Jane; "it was only once that he got overtaken, as it were, and he was so ashamed, he is not likely to do it again."

"But if, unhappily, he did under sudden temptation so far forget himself and all his promises and resolutions, how would you bear it, Jane? Would your temper be roused, and would you reproach and taunt him, and try to make him feel how he had fallen in your eyes? Or would you kneel, by him, pray for him, bear with him, forgive him, and let him see that he has grieved rather than angered you, and so lead him to hate his sin, and dread to throw away the love and respect of an affectionate, forbearing wife? Would you mourn his fall with him before God, or would you raise a storm about his offence against you? On the conduct of many a wife at such a moment of trial has hung the future of her own and her husband's happiness."

"I dare say I should be dreadfully put out," said Jane, "but I would try to do right, and I don't think there's any fear of Matthew."

"Well, I pray that it may be so," said the lady; "but suppose other more probable provocations—some hasty word that might seem to reflect on your management or doubt your wisdom, some little failure in attention to your wishes,—would you flaunt and toss your head, and declare that you are not going to be 'put upon' by anybody, that you won't be interfered with—you know your duty, and you don't want teaching, and so on? Or would you say, 'Matthew is tired; I won't say anything until he is rested, and then I can show him that I did my best;' or 'Matthew has had something vex him at his work; I know he does not mean to be unkind; he loves me and I love him, and we did not come together to quarrel over trifles; he shall have a nice peaceful evening, and I'll do all I can to make him forget outside worries in home blessings'? Will you do thus, Jane?"

"I can try," said Jane, softly, feeling how thoroughly her mistress had described her usual habit, while giving in contrast a description of duty.

"I know your house will be a model of neatness and cleanliness, Jane," continued Mrs. Oakland, kindly; "but only a loving, gentle spirit can make it truly home to a husband under all conditions of health, and feeling, and circumstance. Remember it is not a trial, a temporary engagement that either may put an end to at will, but for life, through good and ill, joy and sorrow, health and sickness, youth and middle life and old age; always, ever, needing to be kind, affectionate, attentive, punctual about meals and work, self-denying daily, hourly.

"Oh, Jane! It requires love, much love, constant love, patient love to sustain happily; it requires high principle to persevere uncomplainingly, acting always from right motives within, whatever be the temptations and provocations without. I don't want to discourage you, but wish you to look at it as it really is, and not only at the fair picture that you are both sketching so brightly as you think of each other in the prime of your days, and all things prospering round you.

"I am no longer an interested party, you know, except as I desire your happiness, therefore I venture to speak earnestly about those points on which I fear you may make trouble for yourself and others. When you have been out of temper with me, I could leave you to recover, and I fancied I knew how to treat and excuse you. But a husband cannot rightly get far out of your way, and he will not always excuse you. He will be surprised at first, then disappointed, then angry, and will forget his own faults in comparison with yours, or he will justify them by yours, and then will come a struggle for mastery that will drive peace and love from home and heart. Then—

"'Ruder words will soon rush in To spread the breach that words begin, And eyes forget the gentle ray They wore in courtship's smiling day, And voices lose the tone that shed A tenderness round all they said, Till fast declining one by one The sweetnesses of love are gone, And hearts, so late united, seem Like broken clouds, or like the stream That smiling left the mountain's brow, As if its waters ne'er could sever, Yet ere it reach the plain below, Breaks into floods that part for ever.'

"I would not have it thus with you, Jane, and therefore I do entreat you to pray very earnestly for God's help to subdue your temper, and to attain that 'ornament of a meek and quiet spirit,' which, beautiful always and everywhere, is never more lovely than when it adorns the brow and heart of a trusted, honoured wife."

"Perhaps, ma'am," said Jane, struggling with a host of feelings that she could not have very well defined, "perhaps you think I ought not to get married at all."

"Oh no, Jane, certainly I do not, if, conscious of your weakness, you seek the only strength that can control and finally conquer in the battle you must fight with yourself. I know that God will be faithful to you, and if you fail, the fault will be wholly your own. Keeping close to the meek and lowly One, dear Jane, you may be a good and happy wife; but if you give way to your natural pride and temper, you will too soon have reason to wish you had remained unmarried. I shall hope the best, and shall enjoy witnessing it."

"And perhaps, ma'am, you will remind me if you see—if you think I am going wrong. Matthew thinks a great deal of your opinion, ma'am."

"Poor Matthew!" thought the lady. "He has not chosen wisely, I fear, but now only time can show."

Some weeks afterwards Jane was married from this her only place of service, and settled in a neat cottage, which it was her delight to keep like a little palace.

————————

CHAPTER II.

OUR OWN FIRESIDE.

FOR a time all went comfortably in the neat home of Matthew Hill and his thrifty wife, who imagined herself profited by the good advice of her mistress, while, in fact, few things occurred to test the reality of improvement in her temper. She had good health and her own way, and it is hard indeed if people cannot be good-tempered under such circumstances. It might happen occasionally that "nasty showers" took liberties with the nice clean clothes that hung to dry in the little garden, or a "stupid iron" made itself too hot at the bars; but the shower did not care for rude remarks upon its untimely interference, and the iron could do nothing but stand its ground quietly until it and its mistress got cool again. So Mrs. Hill under such and similar provocations always had both first and last word, and nobody seemed any the worse.

The first interruption to a species of selfishness in the order of her house and her time came in so pretty a form that Mrs. Hill could not possibly resent it, but no longer could she have so entirely her own way. With the beautiful bright eyes and the soft little hands came very stout lungs, and there was very soon no doubt who was master of the position.

"But, Matthew, we mustn't spoil him," said Jane one evening, as Matthew delightedly held a piece of sugar to the clamorous mouth, while Jane set the tea-table and broiled the savoury rasher.

"Oh no!" said Matthew, with a young father's smiling sense of his immense power over the tiny thing that sprawls helplessly in his arms. "Oh no, I hate spoiled children; but, dear me, he's sucked in the whole lump! Here, Jane, oh! What shall we do?"

And really it was an alarming question, the greedy baby was nearly choked, and got very dark in the face. Jane screamed and rushed to seize him, with a slap on his back and a violent shake, while Matthew, the picture of horror, stammered out an inquiry whether he should run for a doctor.

"Yes, no, stop a bit," said Jane; "oh dear, he's better now."

And she gave a sigh of relief as the sugar scratched its way down to dissolve at leisure, and the child, breathing again, made the most of his grievance.

Poor Matthew felt as if he could knock his own head off for his awkwardness, but a flush rose up to his very brow when Jane repulsed him from caressing the recovered sufferer, calling him "clumsy," and "a fool," and "not fit to touch anything so tender as an infant."

Mr. Hill did not care for his tea then, and sat moodily silent while his wife rocked her baby and herself with noisy vigour by the fireside. But at last, allowing generously for the roused instincts of maternal feeling over a suffering child, he tried to think no more of her insulting language, and to bring things round again to harmony and comfort.

But, nevertheless, mischief was done. Jane had shown what she could say and be; and her husband, while kindly forgiving, could not wholly forget it. He loved his babe as dearly as she did, and if he did not handle it with the same thoughtful care, it was not through wilful negligence, but simply through ignorance; and there is a wide difference between the two.

During three or four years many such interruptions to domestic concord occurred, and disagreements became more serious on both sides. Then Jane would go in tears to her former mistress, whose kind offices were exerted to reconcile differences, and again there was peace for a time, Matthew protesting that, if Jane would but keep her temper, there would not be a better wife in all the land, nor a kinder, soberer husband than himself.

It was during one of these lulls in the doubtful elements that Matthew came in one evening from work more than usually kind and pleasant. Tea was soon ready, and with face and hands clean through that self-respect which belongs to a true gentleman, even if he be a working man, he sat down to his own table.

Mrs. Hill looked round proud and happy, and thought that the scene before her really was as pretty a picture as any that could adorn a book. There was her good-looking husband, and little Josy with his picture-cards building up a house on his low table, and Bessy with little fat hands trying to help him, and a baby, plump and happy, dozing in the cradle, and a clean hearth and shining irons, and a very well-conducted cat, tolerated not because Mrs. Hill had much regard for cats, but because it amused the children, and never returned their rough caresses with any but velvet paws and approving purrs.

Surely it was a scene to enjoy, and to set forth "home," an Englishman's home, and to endear the country where such scenes can be, and to make life worth the toil and industry that maintains it in honour and peace.

Who should dare to intrude into this little "castle" to disturb the comfort of its lord, to ruffle the brow of its lady, and frighten its little olive-branches? Who indeed! Certainly nobody, and nothing that could get in at the door. But there are other ways of access to the fireside of a house, a respectable English house, and one is, down the chimney.

The little family sat enjoying their comfort, all the more, perhaps, that a storm had arisen without, and wind blew and rain pattered, making the contrast more striking. Suddenly there came thump, bump, and clatter down that chimney, and in an instant, a fierce blaze in the fire and a cloud of soot and smoke burst from the grate, covering with a dusky mantle everything within the room.

Matthew Hill started, Mrs. Hill groaned, the elder children shouted, and the baby screamed with fright at the noises they made. All was confusion and dismay.

Mrs. Hill was the first to break forth in another key. "Did ever anybody see such a thing? It's a nasty brick, I do declare, come right down the chimney! Where's baby's porridge? Oh, it's as black as soot! Oh dear, what shall I do? Stand still, Josy, don't you see the mess? Matthew, do lift them out of the room. Get the brush. Bessy, stop that baby's crying, I can't bear the noise. Get out of the way, all of you. Oh dear, you're all as black as tinkers, and my nice clean room too. Do look! Oh, I shall go wild. Stand still; don't set your feet in the nasty soot. Matthew, you're doing nothing—men have no sense; don't stand staring at me, man, get out of my way—you'll only make bad worse."

And between the red of anger and the black of soot, poor Mrs. Hill really was getting rather distressing to look at.