The Good Match
by
“MY heart is now at rest,” remarked Mrs. Presstman to her sister, Mrs. Markland. “Florence has done so well. The match is such a good one.”
Mrs. Presstman spoke with animation, but her sister’s countenance remained rather grave.
“Mr. Barker is worth at least eighty thousand dollars,” resumed Mrs. Presstman. “And my husband says, that if he prospers in business as he has done for the last ten years, he will be the richest merchant in the city. Don’t you think we have been fortunate in marrying Florence so well?”
“So far as the securing of wealth goes, Florence has certainly done very well,” returned Mrs. Markland. “But, surely, sister, you have a higher idea of marriage than to suppose that wealth in a husband is the primary thing. The quality of his mind is of much more importance.”
“Oh, certainly, that is not to be lost sight of. Mr. Barker is an excellent man. Every one speaks well of him. No one stands higher in the community than he does.”
“That may be. But the general estimation in which a man is held does not, by any means, determine his fitness to become the husband of one like Florence. I think that when I was here last spring, there was some talk of her preference for a young physician. Was such really the case?”
“There was something of that kind,” replied Mrs. Presstman, the colour becoming a very little deeper on her cheek–“a foolish notion of the girl’s. But that was broken off long ago. It would not do. We could not afford to let her marry a young doctor with a poor practice. We knew her to be worthy something much higher, as the result has shown.”
“Doctor Estill, I believe, was his name?”
“Yes.”
“I remember him very well–and liked him much. Was Mr. Barker preferred by Florence to Doctor Estill?”
“Why, yes–no–not at first,” half-stammered Mrs. Presstman. “That is, you know, she was foolish, like all young girls, and thought she loved him. But that passed away. She is now as happy as she can be.”
Mrs. Markland felt that it was not exactly right to press this matter now that the mischief, if any there were, had been done, and so remarked no further upon the subject. But the admission made in her sister’s reply to her last question pained her. It corroborated a suspicion that crossed her mind, when she saw her niece, that all was not right within–that the good match which had been made was only good in appearance. She had loved Florence for the innocence, purity, and elevation of soul that so sweetly characterized her. She knew her to be susceptible of tender impressions, and capable of loving deeply an object really worthy of her love. This plant had been, she feared, removed from the warm green-house of home, where the earth had touched tenderly its delicate roots, while its leaves put forth in a genial air, and placed in a hard soil and a chilling atmosphere, still to live on, but with its beauty and fragrance gone. She might be mistaken. But appearances troubled her.
Mrs. Markland lived in a neighbouring city, and was on a visit to her sister. During the two weeks that elapsed, while paying this visit, she heard a great deal about the excellent match that Florence had made. No one of the acquaintances of the family had any thing to say that was not congratulatory. More than one mother of an unmarried daughter, she had good cause for concluding, envied her sister the happiness of having the rich Mr. Barker for a son-in-law. When she parted with her niece, on the eve of her return home, there were tears in her mild blue eyes. It was natural–for Florence loved her aunt, and to part with her was painful. Still, those tears troubled Mrs. Markland. She ought of them hours, and days, and months after, as a token that all was not right in her gentle breast.