Why Uncle George Did Not Marry

We were all at the seashore, passing a few weeks of the hot season. Mark, the eldest, was accompanied by his affianced; Henry, number two, was similarly favored, or nearly so; the presence of the particular one was not wanting; and I, the least in years of the brothers, was blessed with the acquaintance and society of a number of angelic creatures for whom I had a sincere hankering; all at the same hotel, and all sufficiently gifted with sentiment to enjoy, to the full, that happiness which alone comes from social intercourse between the sexes.

Uncle George, the hero of our story, (I had almost forgotten him), was also with us for a night only; business with the proprietor of the hotel brought him amongst us. We, that is, the male portion of our family, were comfortably seated on the piazza attached to the "sea-view" wing of our abiding-place; three of us taking our after-supper smoke, (Uncle George never smokes), and indulging in an animated talk about the pleasures of the day; our female companions and their loveliness being the chief topic of conversation.

We had about exhausted the queen’s English, and our own small stock of French, in praises of our fair sisters, when Uncle George, who had been a listener up to this time, abruptly remarked:
“Boys, it seems to me that you are woman-mad; can’t you think of something more profitable to talk about?”

Well, that remark sobered us a little, and for a moment silence’s reign was undisputed. Mark, a little bolder than the rest of us, (we had great respect for Uncle George), ventured with a half-tragic air to ask,
“Could you suggest any grander theme than women—our mothers, sisters, and sweethearts?”
“Yes,” quickly replied Uncle George: “Realities versus Delusions.”

At this juncture Henry was struck with an idea, and observed,
“Uncle George, we youngsters have monopolized the conversation thus far, and it is clearly your turn now. Won’t you enlighten us upon a certain subject about which we are all in the dark?”
“What might that be?”
“Why you never married.”
“Humph!” said Uncle George. “If it would give you as much pleasure as it would occasion pain to me, you would be highly entertained.”

My curiosity being excited, I remarked,
“Uncle, there are three of us, and only one of you; so, the pleasure being to the pain as three to one, it is certainly your duty to suffer a little martyrdom for our benefit.”
“Well, you shall know then, why I never married. It may do you good. When I was a young man I entered the manufacturing house of Ball & Co., as a clerk. The position which I held, that of chief-salesman, gave me a knowledge of the wants of customers, and necessarily brought me in daily contact with the master-mechanic of the concern.

“This gentleman was a man of considerable ability, and much goodness of heart. We became intimate—socially, and fast friends. He was married. His wife was to all appearances, an estimable lady—loving and unselfish. I was a frequent visitor at their house, their society being particularly pleasurable to me; and I had reason to believe my presence was equally agreeable to them. I often thought that if I had a wife to grace my home like the one possessed by John Rivers, I should be contented and happy.

“After a while a visitor arrived at the Rivers’ mansion—a sister of the wife. The sister was younger, fairer, and more beautiful in every respect than the madam. I, as might be expected, took a great fancy to the newcomer. An attachment sprang up between us which ripened into love; a very ardent love on my part, at least. I then felt that women were little less than angels, and she the sweetest and purest of them all.

"In time I declared my passion, and my sweetheart gladdened my heart by the acknowledgment of feelings similar to my own. We became engaged. I need not tell you of the blissfulness of those days. The charm of life seemed to have just begun.

"In the meantime, John grew discontented with his position at the factory. His income was large for a salaried man, but its coming was so regular, and the amount so unvarying, that there was a monotony about it which did not harmonize with his ambitious ideas. He threw up his position and started a factory of his own. His notions of business were those of a child; his training had not been in the proper direction for success.

"He failed disastrously. His wife, instead of extending the sympathy which a man, under such circumstances, craves, charged him with imbecility. Her reproaches were so constant that the poor man became distracted. The loss of his wife’s love and respect, added to the blasting of his financial hopes, made him succumb entirely. He died, leaving his wife a nearly penniless widow.

"The bereaved ones took their loss quite philosophically—evinced but little grief, I thought. I offered them all the consolation in my power—showed a becoming interest in the widow’s future—made various suggestions in regard to positions which were respectable, the duties light, and the pay good—all of which advice was kindly received, but not acted upon."

"Though Mrs. Rivers, after her husband’s misfortunes, had exhibited traits of character which would render her, during seasons of disaster, anything but a congenial companion, should, if I had been pecuniarily able, have urged a speedy marriage of myself and beloved, and offered a home free from care, to the widow of my deceased friend; but the claims of my widowed mother and young sister could not be ignored, and those claims, though moderate enough, were sufficiently great to keep my purse in a state of depletion quite incompatible with the government maintenance of strangers. My resources were too limited to entertain such a thought for a moment.

"So it was, however, with the ladies. That, as yet unproposed arrangement, was the one of all others uppermost in their minds; though, I opine, they had no great faith in its accomplishment, else the change in their manner toward me would not have been so marked.

"I continued my attentions, of course, to my lady-love; but I noticed a great lack of cordiality on her part; the heretofore freely given smiles were withheld; and when I put the question to her, 'How soon shall the happy day be?' she replied,
"'The day of our marriage may be hastened, or permanently removed, according to your decision in regard to a request which I have to make.'

"I asked her to name the request, though I confess I was not without a surmise as to the nature of it. Said she,—
"'It relates to my sister. Her welfare is a consideration of more importance to me, just now, than a matrimonial alliance with anyone; that is, unless such alliance would contribute as much to her comfort as to my own. What I wish to ask is, whether you are willing, in the event of our marriage, to undertake my sister’s support, and to give her a home—a permanent home—under your own roof?'"

"This request, as she termed it, I felt in no position to grant. The want of delicacy displayed, made me forget that solicitude for one’s kindred is an admirable thing, even though allowed to outrun one’s discretion; and the bargain-like way in which the matter was broached seemed to rob the subject of our union, of all that tenderness with which I, in my own mind, had surrounded it.

"I tried to explain to her that I was not a rich man, but expected to do for her relative whatever my ability would permit; and reminded her that if she loved and trusted me, she might safely leave the matter to my honor. But that did not satisfy her. Counting too much upon the extent of my love, and not realizing the effect of persistency on some natures, she pressed me to bind myself by a sacred promise, or relinquish any claim which I might fancy I had to her hand.

"The conflict of emotions (love and pride) made me hesitate for a moment ere I was ready to reply. When about to speak, she seemed to divine my answer, and, anticipating it, raised her hand and said, coolly,
"'I know what you would say; please consider our engagement at an end.'

"After a few words of entreaty and reproach on my part, and the farewell injunction, 'Go, and never show your face again!' from my amiable friend, I retired from her presence."

"For three weeks following this distressing interview, I was the most wretched man in the country. The alternate feelings of wrath and forgiveness, of love and chagrin, to say nothing of the rude awakening which I had experienced from my blissful dreams, so wore upon me that I could neither eat nor sleep, and I became reduced to a mere shadow of my former self. What the end might have been for me I dread to think, had not a few lines from her own pen reached me, expressing regret at what had been said—avowing a love which could not endure endless separation, and intimating that a sister’s importunity was the cause of the whole unpleasantness."

"That letter calmed the 'troubled waters' of my soul considerably. My appetite improved; I began to assume again the appearance of a human being. But I was in no hurry to reply. My love had received such a withering that it was in no condition to bloom again right away; and my views as to the nature and motives of women had undergone somewhat of a change. 'Angelica' and 'Sinceritas' were names which had been replaced in my mind by others less flattering, but perhaps more appropriate.

"Indecision, common to young people suffering from heart-ache, led me to delay so long any recognition of her communication, that the lady evidently thought I needed another stirring up, and one, too, of a different character. I received, through her lawyer, notice of a suit brought against me for breach of promise, and pecuniary damages for injured feelings, etc.

"Strange to what expedients women will resort to further their ends!

"I should willingly have paid the damages, although I had but little faith in the existence of injuries; but public scandal was a thing I dreaded to face; and a legal contest with a woman—a woman whom I once had dearly loved, and for whom, perhaps, I still felt a weakness—was highly distasteful to me. But I had a character to sustain, so I concluded to appear as defendant in the case.

"The trial, like the lady herself, was a mixture of bitter and sweet. The hand of the widow, as prime mover in the proceedings was plainly revealed. The sympathies of the jury were largely with the fair plaintiff; (beauty and tears have their influence), but the evidence was entirely against her, and she lost the suit."

"Subsequent to the trial, I offered, through my attorney, to pay such part of the damages claimed as I was then able—promising to liquidate the whole in time. I did not like the attitude in which I was unwillingly placed, that of an enemy to the cherished ones of my departed friend, and made this offer to change it, as well as to show to the ladies that their welfare was a matter in which I had not ceased to take an interest. And I had, too, an undefinable heart-longing for the happy days of the past—a yearning for her who once had received my caresses, and a sincere wish to retain her esteem.

"My offer was refused with disdain, (the freak of a woman, or, perhaps, the disregard, for once, of the prayers of a sister), and a verbal message sent to me to the effect that it was her earnest hope that I should know nothing but misery for the remainder of my life.

"After the lapse of several years, I was summoned to the death-bed of my not-forgotten friend. I found her conscious, but hardly able to articulate. She implored forgiveness, and managed to inform me that her love had always been mine—her heart had been right, though her judgment wrong—and wished me to promise to meet her in heaven. I made her the promise, God permitting.

"The sudden revealing of the better side of her nature so overwhelmed me with love and grief for her—the only woman who had ever entered my heart—her helpless condition so excited my pity, that I would have made any sacrifice to prolong her life. She died in my arms. When I go hence, I shall look for her. I hope she may be found in that place from whence I, when I first met her, felt assured she came."

"'Very much obliged to you, Uncle George,' said Mark, as he rose to go. 'I feel the necessity of repetition; there is no telling how the complexion of things might be changed by the sudden demise of a brother-in-law.'
"'Please excuse me, too,' observed Henry; 'the liability of being sued for breach of etiquette weighs heavily upon me.'
"'Rather,' said I, 'than run the risk of being invited to “Go, and never show your face again!” I will linger a while with you, uncle, and have a chat about something “profitable.”' — Waverley Magazine."