Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge with other tales, representing life as it is and intended to show what it should be |
 |
MARK MERIDEN. |
 | Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge |  |
MARK MERIDEN.
BY MRS. H. E. B. STOWE.
“Come, Mark Meriden! don't settle down into
an old grandfather before your time — a pretty
wife's a pretty thing, Mark, and a pretty house is
a pretty thing — but hang it! — one must have a
little of life.”
Mark Meriden stood at his desk, giving a last
look at his books, while Ben Sanford — the roguish
— the merry — the song singing — the Ben of all
Bens, was thus urging on him the claims of a projected
frolic that evening. Now Ben was precisely
the messenger for such an embassy — there was
fun in the twinkle of his blue eye, and a world of
waggery in the turn of his head, and in a pair of
broad roguish dimples that went merrily dodging
in and out of his cheeks every time he spoke, and
he had laid hold of Mark's arm to drag him away.
But Mark shook off his hand, and finished summing
up a column of figures — put the blotting
paper into the book, and the book into the place,
and, at last, turning to Ben, said — “I think
I won't go this time.”
“Now why not?” said Ben, eagerly.
“Because — because,” said Mark, smiling;
“because I have an odd fancy that I should like
Mrs. Meriden's company better this evening.”
“Hang Mrs. Meriden — beg pardon, Mark,
hang myself for saying so, but one don't like to
see a fine fellow buried alive! come, take a real
wake up with us.”
“Thank you, Ben, but I hav'n't been asleep
and don't need it. So I'll go home and see my
wife” — and thereat Mark turned a resolute footstep
homeward as a well-trained husband ought.
“Now,” says one of our readers, “who was
Mark Meriden?” You would not have asked,
good reader, if you had lived in the town of —,
when his name first appeared on the outside of
one of its most fashionable shops `Mark Meriden,'
surrounded by these waving insignia of grace and
fashion that young belles need to have their eyes
turned off from beholding. Every thing in the
tasteful establishment told of well arranged business,
and Mark himself, the mirror of fashion,
faultless in every article of costume, quick, attentive,
polite, was every day to be seen there winning
“golden opinions from all sorts of people.”
fashionable exchange, the promenade of beauty
and wealth, who came there to be enlightened as
to the ways and means of disposing of their surplus
revenue — to see and to be seen. So attentive,
polite, and considerate was Mark, so profound his
bows, so bright his eyes, so unexceptionable his
whiskers, that it might have proved a dangerous
resort for the ladies, had not a neat, tasteful house,
going up in the neighborhood, been currently
reported as the future residence of an already
elected Mrs. Meriden; and in a few months, the
house neatly finished, and tastefully furnished,
received a very pretty lady who called herself to
that effect. She was as truly refined and lovely
a woman as ever formed the centre flower in a
domestic bouquet, and Mark might justly be pardoned
for having as good again an opinion of
himself for having been fortunate enough to secure
her.
Mark had an extensive circle of business and
pleasure acquaintances, for he had been one of
the social, companionable sort, whose money
generally found its way out of his pocket in very
fair proportion to the rate it came in. In short,
he was given to clubs, oyster suppers, and now
and then a wine party, and various other social
privileges for elevating one's spirits and depressing
one's cash, that abound among enlightened communities.
But nevertheless, at the bottom of Mark's head,
there was a very substantial stratum of a certain
quality called common sense, a trait, which though
it was never set down in any chart of phrenology,
may very justly be called a faculty, and one too
which makes a very striking difference among
people as the world goes. In consequence of
being thus constituted, Mark, when he found
himself in love with, and engaged to a very pretty
girl, began to reflect with more than ordinary
seriousness on his habits, ways, and manners of
life. He also took an accurate survey of his
business, formed an average estimate of his future
income on the soberest probabilities, and determined
to live a little even within that. He also
provided himself with a small account book, with
which he intended to live in habits of very close
acquaintance, and in this book he designed to note
down all the savings consequent upon the retrenching
of certain little extras, before alluded to, in
which he had been in the habit of pretty freely
indulging himself.
Upon the present occasion, it had cost him
something of an effort to say “no,” for Mark was
one of your easy “clever fellows” to whom the
enunciation of this little syllable causes as much
trouble as all the gutturals of the German. However,
when he came in sight of his parlor windows
through which a bright fire was shining — when
easy chair drawn up in front, and a pair of embroidered
slippers waiting for him quite at their
leisure, and above all, when he read the quick
glance of welcome in a pair of very bright eyes,
Mark forgot all about Ben Sanford, and all bachelor
friends and allurements whatsoever, and
thought himself the happiest fellow on earth.
The evening passed off rapidly by the help of
music, and the little small talk of which newly
married people generally find a supply, and the
next morning saw Mark at early business hours
with as steady a hand and as cool a head as if
there had been no such things as bachelor frolicks
in existence.
Late in the forenoon, Ben Sanford lounged in
to ogle a few of the ladies, and above all, to rally
Mark on losing the glorious fun of the evening
before.
“Upon my word, Mark,” he began, “we must
have you put up for Selectman, you are becoming
so extremely ancient and venerable in your ways
— however, you are to be excused,” he added,
“circumstances considered; female influence! —
ah! well! its a fine affair this marriage!”
“Better try it, Mr. Sanford,” said a bright saucy
girl, who, with her laughing companions, was
standing by while Ben was speaking.
“Ah, madam! the wherewithal!” said Ben,
rolling up his eyes with a tragic expression. “If
some clever old fellow would be so obliging as to
die now and leave me a few thousands, then,
ladies! you should see!”
“But speaking of money,” said Mark, when he
saw the ladies busy over some laces he had just
thrown on to the counter, “what did your `glorious
fun' cost you?”
“Pooh! nothing! only a ten dollar bill — nothing
in my purse, you know!”
“Nothing in your purse! not an uncommon
incident after these occasions,” said Mark, laughing.
“Oh, hang it all!” said Ben, “too true! I can
get no remedy for this consumption of the purse,
as old Falstaff says; however, the world owes
me a living and so good morning!”
Ben Sanford was just one of that class of young
men of whom common report goes, that they can
do any thing they please, and who consider this
point so well established, that they do not think
it necessary to illustrate it by doing any thing at
all. He was a lawyer of talents, and would have
had an extensive run of business, had he not been
one of the class of people never to be found when
wanted. His law books and law office saw far
less of him than certain fashionable places of resort,
accomplishments, always secured to him a welcome
reception. Ben had some little property
left him by his father, just enough as he used
laughingly to quote, “to keep him in gloves and
cologne water,” and for the rest, he seemed vastly
contented with his old maxim, “the world owes
me a living,” forgetting that the world can sometimes
prove as poor a paymaster as the most fashionable
young gentleman going.
But to return to Mark. When he had settled
his accounts at night, he took from a pigeon-hole
in his desk, the little book aforenamed, and entered
as follows: “To one real wake up, $10,”
which being done, he locked his desk, and returned
once more to Mrs. Meriden.
Days flew on, and the shop of Mark became
increasingly popular, and still from time to time
he was assailed by the temptation we have described.
Now it was, “Mark, my dear fellow, do
join us in a trip to G — 's;” and now, “Come,
my old boy, let us have a spree at F — 's;” now
it was the club, now the oyster supper — but still
Mark was invincible and still as one or another
gaily recounted the history of the scene, he silently
committed the account of the expense to his little
book. Yet was not mark cynical or unsocial.
His refusals, though so firm, were invariably good
natured, and though he could not be drawn abroad,
in his own home. No house had so warm a welcome
— no dinner table could be more bountiful
or more freely open for the behoof of all gentlemen
of the dining-out order — no tea-table presented
more unexceptionable toast, and no evening lounge
was more easy, home-like, and cheerful, than on
the warm sofas in the snug parlors of Mark Meriden.
They also gave evening parties, where all
was brilliant, tasteful, and well ordered; and, in
fine, notwithstanding his short comings, Mark
was set down as a fine open-handed fellow after
all.
At the end of the year, Mark cast up the account
in his little book, and was mightily astonished at
it, for with all his ideas of the power of numbers,
he had no idea that the twos, and fives, and tens,
and ones, which on greater or smaller occasions,
had found their way into its columns, would
mount up to a sum so considerable. Mark looked
about him — the world was going well — his business
machinery moving in exact touch and time —
his house — where was there a prettier one? —
where a place more replete with every home-drawing
comfort? Had he lost any thing in pleasure
the year past? Mark thought not, and therefore
as he walked homeward, he stepped into a bookseller's
and ordered some books of superb engravings
for Mrs. Meriden, and spoke to a gardener
he had heard her express an admiration some
evenings before.
That same evening came in Ben Sanford, as he
expressed it, “in the very depths of indigo,” for
young gentlemen whose worldly matters invariably
go on wrong end foremost, will sometimes be
found in this condition, however exuberant may
be their stock of animal spirits.
“Pray Ben, what is the matter?” said Mark
kindly, as the latter streched himself at length, in
an arm-chair, groaning audibly.
“Oh, a bilious attack, Mark! shoemakers' bills!
tailors' bills! boarding house bills! all sent in for
new years' presents! hang 'em all!”
Mark was silent for a few moments, and Ben
continued “Confound it, Mark! what's the sense
of living, if a fellow is to be so cursedly poor!
Here you, Mark, born in the same town with me,
and younger than I by some two years — you have
a house, as snug, as cosy, and comfortable as man
need ask — a wife like an angel — peace and
plenty by the bushed, and all comes of having a
good run of luck in the money line” — and Ben
kicked his slippers against the andiron most energetically.
“What has become of Emily P —?” asked
Mark, after a pause.
“Poor soul!” said Ben, “there she is yet, with
all sweetness and patience, waiting till such a
luckless scapegrace as I can give her a home and
a husband, I wish to my soul, for her sake, I could
afford to be married, and have a home of my own;
besides, to tell the truth, I am tired of this rambling,
scrambling, out-at-elbow, slip-shod life.”
“Why don't you get married?” said Mark.
“Why don't I? to be sure — use my tailors'
bills for fuel, and my board bill for house rent,
and my shoe bill for bread and butter — hey?
Would you recommend a poor girl to try me,
Mark — all things considered?” said Ben, bitterly.
Mark reflected awhile in silence, and then drew
out his book — his little book, to which we have
before alluded.
“Just look at this account, Ben,” said he; “I
know you hate figures, but just for once.”
Ben glanced at it impatiently — laughed when
he read over the two or three first items, but his
face lengthened as he proceeded, and Mark detected
a sort of whistle of astonishment as he read
the sum total.
“Well, Mark!” he exclaimed, “what a very
old gentlemanly considerate trick is this of yours
— to sit behind your curtain so coolly noting down
the `cost and come to' of all our little frolicks —
really it is most edifying! How much you must
and Ben laughed, but not with his
usual glee.
Nay, you mistake,” said Mark. “I kept this
account merely to see what I had been in the habit
of spending myself, and as you and I have been
always hand and glove in every thing, it answers
equally for you. It was only yesterday that I
summed up the account, and I assure you the
result surprised myself; and now Ben, the sum
here set down, and as much more as you please,
is freely at your disposal, to clear off old scores
for the year, provided you will accept with it this
little book as a new year's gift, and use it one
twelve-month as I have done; and if at the end
of that time, you are not ready to introduce me to
Mrs. Sanford, I am much mistaken.”
Ben grasped his friend's hand — but just then
the entrance of Mrs. Meriden prevented his reply
— Mark however, saw with satisfaction that he
put the book carefully in his vest pocket, and
buttoned up his coat with the air of a man who is
buttoning up a new resolution.
When they parted for the night, Mark said with
a smile, “In case of bilious attacks, you know
where to send for Medicine.” Ben answered only
by a fervent grasp of the hand, for his throat felt
too full for him to answer.
Mark Meriden's book answered the purpose
admirably. In less than two years Ben Sanford
was the most popular lawyer in —, and as steady
a householder as you might wish to see, and, in
conclusion, we will just ask our readers their
opinion on one point, and it is this:
If Mrs. Meriden had been a woman who understood
what is called “catching a beau,” better
than securing a husband — if she had never curled
her hair except for company, and thought it a
degradation to know how to keep a house comfortable,
would all these things have happened?
| Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge | |