The Wife of his Youth | Page 6

to with a very fair display of after-dinner wit.
"The last toast," said the toast-master, when he reached the end of the
list, "is one which must appeal to us all. There is no one of us of the
sterner sex who is not at some time dependent upon woman,--in
infancy for protection, in manhood for companionship, in old age for
care and comforting. Our good host has been trying to live alone, but
the fair faces I see around me to-night prove that he too is largely
dependent upon the gentler sex for most that makes life worth
living,--the society and love of friends,--and rumor is at fault if he does
not soon yield entire subjection to one of them. Mr. Ryder will now
respond to the toast,--The Ladies."
There was a pensive look in Mr. Ryder's eyes as he took the floor and
adjusted his eyeglasses. He began by speaking of woman as the gift of
Heaven to man, and after some general observations on the relations of
the sexes he said: "But perhaps the quality which most distinguishes
woman is her fidelity and devotion to those she loves. History is full of

examples, but has recorded none more striking than one which only
to-day came under my notice."
He then related, simply but effectively, the story told by his visitor of
the afternoon. He gave it in the same soft dialect, which came readily to
his lips, while the company listened attentively and sympathetically.
For the story had awakened a responsive thrill in many hearts. There
were some present who had seen, and others who had heard their
fathers and grandfathers tell, the wrongs and sufferings of this past
generation, and all of them still felt, in their darker moments, the
shadow hanging over them. Mr. Ryder went on:----
"Such devotion and confidence are rare even among women. There are
many who would have searched a year, some who would have waited
five years, a few who might have hoped ten years; but for twenty-five
years this woman has retained her affection for and her faith in a man
she has not seen or heard of in all that time.
"She came to me to-day in the hope that I might be able to help her find
this long-lost husband. And when she was gone I gave my fancy rein,
and imagined a case I will put to you.
"Suppose that this husband, soon after his escape, had learned that his
wife had been sold away, and that such inquiries as he could make
brought no information of her whereabouts. Suppose that he was young,
and she much older than he; that he was light, and she was black; that
their marriage was a slave marriage, and legally binding only if they
chose to make it so after the war. Suppose, too, that he made his way to
the North, as some of us have done, and there, where he had larger
opportunities, had improved them, and had in the course of all these
years grown to be as different from the ignorant boy who ran away
from fear of slavery as the day is from the night. Suppose, even, that he
had qualified himself, by industry, by thrift, and by study, to win the
friendship and be considered worthy the society of such people as these
I see around me to-night, gracing my board and filling my heart with
gladness; for I am old enough to remember the day when such a
gathering would not have been possible in this land. Suppose, too, that,
as the years went by, this man's memory of the past grew more and

more indistinct, until at last it was rarely, except in his dreams, that any
image of this bygone period rose before his mind. And then suppose
that accident should bring to his knowledge the fact that the wife of his
youth, the wife he had left behind him,--not one who had walked by his
side and kept pace with him in his upward struggle, but one upon
whom advancing years and a laborious life had set their mark,--was
alive and seeking him, but that he was absolutely safe from recognition
or discovery, unless he chose to reveal himself. My friends, what would
the man do? I will presume that he was one who loved honor, and tried
to deal justly with all men. I will even carry the case further, and
suppose that perhaps he had set his heart upon another, whom he had
hoped to call his own. What would he do, or rather what ought he to do,
in such a crisis of a lifetime?
"It seemed to me that he might hesitate, and I imagined that I was an
old friend, a near friend, and that he