about to leave, when Mrs. Wentworth awoke from her sleep, and gazed
with an unmeaning look upon the gentlemen. She recognized no one--not
even her husband, who never left her, save when nature imperatively
demanded repose.
The doctors requested that Alfred and Emma would retire while they
examined the patient. In accordance with their wishes, they did so,
and Alfred, entering the balcony, paced up and down, impatient for the
result of the consultation. The door of Mrs. Wentworth's chamber
remained closed for nearly half an hour, when it opened, and Drs.
Humphries, Mallard and Purtell issued from it, looking grave and sad.
The heart of the husband sank as he looked at their features.
"Let me know the worst," he said, huskily, as they approached him.
"We will not deceive you," replied Dr. Mallard, "your wife, we fear,
will remain a maniac while her strength lasts, and then--" here he
paused.
"And then--" replied Alfred, inquiringly.
"We fear she will only recover her reason to die" continued Dr.
Mallard in a tone of sympathy.
"God help, me," uttered the soldier, as he sunk on a chair and buried
his face in his hands.
After a few more words full of sympathy and condolence the two doctors
left, and shortly after Dr. Humphries dispatched a servant to bring
the little boy from the old negro's cabin.
"His presence may rally Mr. Wentworth," the doctor observed to Harry.
"Since the consultation he has remained in the same seat, and has
never once visited the room of his wife. Something must be done to
rouse him from his grief, otherwise it will be fatal to his health."
"The presence of his son may be beneficial," said Harry, "but I do not
believe the child can while him away from the sorrow he has met with.
It has been a hard--a fatal blow, and has fallen with fearful effect
upon my poor friend."
In about an hour the servant returned with the child. He had been
neatly dressed in a new suit of clothes and looked the embodiment of
childish innocence.
Taking him by the hand Dr. Humphries led him into the balcony where
Alfred still sat with his face buried in his hands, deep in thought
and racked with grief.
"Here," said the old gentleman, "here is your son. The living and well
claim your attention as well as those who are gone and those who
suffer."
Alfred raised his head and gazed at the child for a moment.
"My boy," he exclaimed at last, "you are the last link of a once happy
chain." As he spoke he pressed the child to his bosom, and the
strong-hearted soldier found relief in tears.
CHAPTER THIRTIETH.
DEATH OF THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.
The presence of his child lightened but did not remove the grief of
Alfred Wentworth. The love he bore his wife may be likened to the love
of the eagle for liberty. Cage it, and the noble bird pines away; no
longer allowed to soar on high, but fettered by man, it sickens and
dies, nor can it be tamed sufficiently to become satisfied with the
wires of a cage. So it was with the soldier. His love for his wife was
of so deep and fathomless a nature, that the knowledge of her being a
maniac, and only returning to reason to die, changed the current of
his nature, and from being a friendly and communicative man, he became
a silent and morose being. The world had lost its charms, and the
blank left in his heart, the sear upon his mind, the agony at knowing
that his wife--his pure and peerless wife, had been compelled from her
necessities to take that which was not her own, could never be filled,
never be healed and never be eased.
A wife! We know not from experience what it means, but there is a
something, an inward voice, which tells, us that a wife is the holiest
gift of God to man. A wife! what is it? A woman to cherish and
protect, to give the heart's affection to, and to receive all the
confiding love with which her bosom is filled. The partner of your
happiness--the source of all that makes man good and binds him to
earth; the solace of woes, the sharer of joys--the gentle nurse in
sickness, and the fond companion in health. Oh! there is a something
in the name, which thrills the heart, and makes it beat with emotion
at the sound of the word. Amid the cares and pleasures of man, there
can be no higher, no worthier desire than to share his triumphs with a
wife. When Ambition tempts him to mount yet higher in this earthly
life, and take his stand among the exalted men of genius, who so
fitting to be the partner of his fame as the gentle woman of this
world, and when disappointed in his aspirations, when the cold frowns
of a callous world drive him from the haunts of men, who so soothing
as a Wife? She will smoothen the wrinkles on his forehead, and by
words of loving cheer inspire him with courage and bid him brave the
censure and mocking of the world, and strive again to reach the summit
of his desires. A Wife! There is no word that appeals with greater
force to the heart than this. From the moment the lover becomes the
Wife, her life becomes a fountain of happiness to a husband, which
gushes out and runs down the path of Time, never to cease, until the
power of the Invisible demands and the Angel of Death removes her from
his side. Age meets them hand in hand, and still imbued with a
reciprocity of affection, her children are taught a lesson from
herself which makes the Wife, from generation to generation, the same
medium of admiration for the world, the same object of our adoration
and homage. We write these lines with homage and respect for the Wife,
and with an undefined emotion in our hearts, which tells us they are
correct, and that the value of a Wife is all the imagination can
depict and the pen indite.
And to lose one! Oh! what sorrow it must awaken--how the fountains of
grief must fill to overflowing, when the companion of your life is
torn from you by the hand of Death! No wonder, then, that the heart of
Alfred Wentworth bled with woe, and he became a changed man. What
cared he longer for this world? Almost nothing! But one thing urged
him to rally his energies and meet the blow with fortitude whenever it
should come. It was the knowledge that his little boy would need a
father's care. This made him not quite oblivious to this world, for
though his life would be in the front, so soon as he returned to the
battle-field, there were chances for his escaping death, and his
desire was to live, so that the child might grow up and remind him of
his wife. No, not remind! As fresh as the hour when love first entered
his heart for her--as plain as the day he led her to the altar and
registered his vows to Heaven--and as pure as herself, would his
memory ever be for her. Time can soothe woes, obliterate the scars
left by grief, but the memory of a dead wife can never be extinguished
in the mind of a husband, even though her place in his heart may be
filled by another. She must ever be recollected by him, and each hour
he thinks of her, so will her virtues shine brighter and more
transparent, and her faults, if any, become forgotten, as they were
forgiven. But we weary the reader with these digressions, and will
proceed to close our narrative.
Three additional weeks passed, and still Mrs. Wentworth remained
insane, but her insanity being of a gentle character, Dr. Humphries
would not permit her to be sent to the lunatic asylum, as her husband
advised. It is true, he desired it more for the purpose of avoiding
being the recipient of any further favors, than because he thought it
necessary. This morbid sensitiveness shrank from being obligated to a
comparative stranger like the doctor, and it was not until the old
gentleman absolutely refused to permit Mrs. Wentworth to leave the
house, that he yielded his assent to her remaining.
"As you insist upon it," he remarked, "I make no further opposition to
her remaining, but I think it an imposition on your benevolence that
your home shall be made gloomy by my wife being in it."
"Not in the least gloomy, sir," replied the doctor, "nor do I think it
the slightest imposition upon my benevolence. Were it only to repay
the debt Harry owes you for the preservation of his life, I should
insist upon her not being removed. But I deem it a duty we owe to our
suffering fellow mortals, and as long as she remains in her present
state, so long will she be an inmate of my house, and everything that
can lighten and ameliorate her unhappy condition shall be deemed a
pleasant business to perform."
"I do not doubt it, sir," said Alfred, grasping the doctor's hand and
shaking it heartily, "believe me, the attention of your daughter,
Harry and yourself, has been the oasis in my present desert of life,
and though in a few short weeks I expect all will be over, and she
will no longer need your care, the memory of your kindness in these
gloomy times of sorrow, shall ever remain unfading in memory, and
shall always be spoken of and thought of with the greatest gratitude."
"No gratitude is necessary," answered the doctor as he returned the
pressure of Alfred Wentworth's hand, "I consider myself performing a
sacred duty, both to God and to humanity, and no gratitude is needed
for the faithful performance of the same."
"No, no sir," interrupted Alfred, hastily, "it is no duty, and cannot
be looked upon as such--at least by me."
"Well, well," remarked the doctor, "we will not argue about that. I
only wish it were in my power to do more by giving you assurance that
your wife will recover, but I fear very much she never can."
"How long do you suppose she will linger?" asked Alfred sadly.
"I cannot tell," replied the doctor, "Her strength has been failing
very rapidly for the past week, and I do not think she can last much
longer."
"Could nothing be done to keep her alive, if even it were as a
maniac?" he inquired, and then added, and as he spoke, repressing the
emotion he felt, "Could she but live, it would be some solace to me,
for then I should have her with me, and by procuring a position in
some of the departments, be enabled to remain with her; but the idea
of her dying--it is that which saddens me and almost makes me curse
the hour I left her. My poor, darling wife!"
The last words were uttered as if he were speaking to himself, and the
tone of sorrow in which he spoke touched Dr. Humphries deeply.
"Bear with fortitude the dispensations of a Divine Providence," said
the old gentleman. "If He has willed that your wife shall die, you
must bow humbly to the decree. Time will assuage your grief and remove
from your mind, this sad--too sad fate that has befallen her."
"If you think that time can assuage my grief," replied Alfred, "you
greatly underrate the strength of my affection. When a mere stripling,
I first met my wife, and from that hour all the affection I possessed
was hers. Each day it grew stronger, and at the time I left New
Orleans with my regiment, the love I bore my wife, and for her, my
children, could not have been bartered for the wealth of California.
She was to me a dearer object than all else on earth, and more--"
He could speak no longer, so overcome was he with emotion. Once more
wringing the doctor's hand, he left the room and entered the chamber
of his wife.
"Unhappy man," exclaimed the doctor, when he was alone, "his is,
indeed, a bitter grief, and one not easily obliterated."
With these words the kind-hearted old gentleman retired to his study,
greatly moved at the misfortunes of the family he had been brought in
contact with.
The furloughs granted to Alfred and Harry had been renewed on the
expiration of the time they had been granted for, but on the
representation of Dr. Humphries, had been renewed. At the time the
above conversation took place, they were again nearly expired and
Harry determined to appeal to the government once more for a second
renewal. Accordingly he took the cars for Richmond and obtaining an
interview with the Secretary of War, he represented the condition of
Mrs. Wentworth, and exhibited the certificates of several doctors that
she could not survive two months longer. For himself, he requested a
further renewal of his furlough on the ground of his approaching
marriage. With that kindness and consideration which distinguished
Gen. Randolph, his applications were granted, and leaves of absence
for Alfred and himself for sixty days longer were cordially granted.
With the furloughs, he arrived from Richmond the same evening that the
conversation related above took place between the doctor and Alfred,
and on the return of his friend from his wife's chamber, he presented
him with his leave.
"You are indeed a friend," remarked Alfred, "and I can never
sufficiently repay the kindness you have shown me. But before this
furlough expires I do not suppose I shall have any wife to be with."
"Why do you speak so?" inquired Harry.
"She cannot last much longer," he replied. "Although unwillingly and
with sorrow I am compelled to acknowledge that every day she sinks
lower, and to-day her appearance denotes approaching dissolution too
plain, even for me to persuade myself that such is not the case."
"I cannot tell you I hope you are mistaken," observed his friend, "for
I feel that such language can never lighten nor remove your sorrow.
But be assured that I deeply sympathize with you in your affliction."
"I know it," he answered. "Would to heaven all in the South were like
you. It might have been different with my poor wife, and my angel girl
might have been alive this day. However, it was not their duty to
succor and protect my family, and I have no right to complain because
they lent her no helping hand. I alone must bear the weight of my
affliction, and from the misery it causes me, I devoutly trust none of
my comrades may ever know it. Here your betrothed comes," he
continued, observing Emma at the door. "I will leave you for the
present, as I suppose you wish to speak with her and I desire to be
alone for awhile."
"Do not let her presence hasten your departure," said Harry. "She will
be as happy in my company while you are here, as if no third person
was present."
Alfred smiled faintly as he replied: "Her presence alone does not
impel me to leave, but I desire to be alone for a time. My mind is
very much unsettled, and a few moments of solitary thought will
restore it to its wonted quietude."
Rising from his seat, he bade Harry adieu, and bowing to Emma, who
entered at the moment, left the house and bent his steps toward his
lodgings. Dr. Humphries had invited him to be a guest at his house,
but he politely but firmly declined the invitation, at the same time
his days were spent there with his wife, and it was only in the
evening he left, to take a few moments of rest. From the time he
discovered his wife, and she was carried to Dr. Humphries' residence,
he had never been to any other place than the doctor's or his
lodgings.
Four days after Harry's return, he was seated with Emma in the parlor
conversing on the subject of his marriage, which the fair girl desired
put off until after Mrs. Wentworth's death, which her father told her
could not be postponed many weeks. Her lover endeavored to combat her
resolution, by declaring that while Alfred would always get a furlough
if his wife was still alive at the expiration of its time, he could
neither ask nor expect to obtain any further extension. They were in
the midst of a warm discussion, when Dr. Humphries entered. He had
just come from Mrs. Wentworth's room, and appeared exceedingly sad.
"How is Mrs. Wentworth this morning, father?" inquired Emma, as the
doctor entered, and observing his mournful expression, she added,
"What is the matter."
"Mrs. Wentworth has recovered her reason, and is dying," he replied.
"Poor Alfred," observed Harry, "this hour will not take him by
surprise, but it cannot fail to add to his grief."
"Has he been here this morning," asked the doctor.
"Not yet," answered Harry, "but," he continued, looking at his watch,
"he will soon be here, for it is now his usual hour of coming."
"I trust he will not delay," said Dr. Humphries "for his wife cannot
last three hours longer."
"In that event, I had better go and look for him," Harry observed "he
never leaves his lodgings except to come here, and there will be no
difficulty in finding him."
Rising from his seat, he took up his hat and departed for his friend.
Before he had gone two squares he met Alfred, and without saying
anything to him, retraced his steps to the doctor's window.
"My friend" said Doctor Humphries as Alfred entered, "the hour has
come, when you must summon all your fortitude and hear with
resignation the stern decree of the Almighty. Your wife is perfectly
sane this morning but she is dying. On entering her chamber a while
ago, I found her quite composed and perfectly sensible of the life she
had passed through. Though she did not recognize me, an intuitive
knowledge of who I was, possessed her, and her first request was that
you should be sent to her. Your little boy is now with her and she
awaits your arrival."
Taking Alfred by the hand and followed by Harry, the doctor led the
way to the chamber of the dying wife. The child was sitting on the bed
with his mothers arms around his neck. Emma, Elsie, and the old negro
were standing at the bedside looking sorrowfully at Mrs. Wentworth. As
soon as her husband entered, they made way for him to approach.
"Alfred, my husband" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth, extending her arms, "I
am so glad you have come that I can see you once more before I die."
"Eva, my heart strings are torn with agony to see you thus" he replied
raising her gently and pillowing his head on her bosom, "Oh! my wife,
that this should be the end of all my hopes. What consolation is there
left to me on earth when you are gone."
"Speak not so despairingly" she answered, "It were better that I
should die than live with a burning conscience. My husband, the act
for which I have been tried, still haunts me, for here on earth it
will ever be a reproach, while in Heaven, the sin I committed will be
forgiven through the intercession of a divine Savior."
"Perish the remembrance of that act!" answered her husband. "To me my
darling wife it can make no difference, for I regret only the
necessity which impelled you to do it, and not the act. Live, oh my
wife, live and your fair fame shall never suffer, while your husband
is able to shield you from the reproaches of the world. Though the
proud may affect to scorn you, those in whose hearts beats a single
touch of generosity will forgive and forget it, and if even they do
not, in the happiness of my unfaltering affections, the opinions of
the world, can be easily disregarded."
"It cannot be" she answered, "I am dying Alfred, and before many
hours, the spirit will be resting in heaven. To have you by my side
ere my breath leaves my body, to grasp your hand, and gaze on your
loved features ere I die, removes all my unhappiness of the weary
months now past, and I leave this world content."
"Oh my wife" said Alfred, "Is this the end of our married life? Is
this the reward I reap for serving my country! Oh, had I remained in
New Orleans, the eye of the libertine would never have been cast upon
you, and you would have been saved from the grasp of the heartless
speculator and extortioner.--What is independence compared with you my
wife? What have I gained by severing the ties of love and leaving a
happy home, to struggle for the liberty of my country? A dead child--a
dying wife--a child who will now be motherless; while I will be a
wretched heart-broken man. Better, far better, had I resisted the
calls of my country, and remained with you, than to return and find my
happiness gone, and my family beggared, and tossing on the rough
billows of adversity, unheeded by the wealthy, and unfriended by all."
"Speak not so, my husband," she answered, "my sufferings may be the
price of independence, and I meet them cheerfully. Though in my hours
of destitution, despair may have caused me to utter words of anguish,
never, for a moment, have I regretted that you left me, to struggle
for your country. If in my sufferings; if in the death of my child; if
in my death; and if in the destroying of our once happy family circle,
the cause for which you are a soldier is advanced, welcome them. Woman
can only show her devotion by suffering, and though I cannot struggle
with you on the battle-field, in suffering as I have done, I feel it
has been for our holy cause."
"Eva, Eva," he exclaimed, "do all these give you back to me? Do they
restore my angel daughter? Do they bring me happiness? Oh, my wife, I
had hoped that old age would meet us calmly floating down the stream
of Time, surrounded by a happy family, and thanking God for the
blessings he had bestowed upon me. When I first led you to the altar,
I dreamed that our lives would be blended together for many, many
years, and though I knew that the 'Lord giveth and the Lord taketh
away,' and that at any time we may die, I never thought that the end
of our happiness would be brought about in such a way as this. You
tell me it is the price of Independence. Aye, and it is a fearful
price. When you are laid in the cold grave aside of Ella, and I am
struggling in the battle-field, what is there to inspire me with
courage, and bid me fight on until liberty is won? And when it is at
last achieved, I cannot share the joy of my comrades. I have no home
to go to, and if even I have, it is desolate. No wife is there to
welcome me, no daughter to thank me, but I must take my orphan boy by
the hand, and leading him to your grave, kneel by its side and weep
together on the sod that covers your remains."
There was not a dry eye in the room. All wept with the husband, and
even the dying woman could not restrain the tears.
"Alfred," she said, "do not weep. My husband, up there, in Heaven, we
will meet again, and then the desolation on earth will be more than
repaid by the pleasure of eternal joy. Let not my death cause you to
falter in your duty to the South. Promise me, my husband, that through
all changes you will ever remain steadfast and loyal to her sacred
cause. Look not on the cruelty of a few men as the work of the whole,
and remember that if even you are not made happier by the achievement
of independence, there are others you assist in making so, and other
homes which would have been as desolate as yours, but for you and your
comrades' defense. Promise me, Alfred, that so long as the war lasts,
you will never desert the South."
"I promise," he replied.
"There is now but one thing that gives me thought," she continued, her
voice growing weaker each moment, "our little boy--"
"Shall have a home so long as I live and his father is serving his
country," interrupted Dr. Humphries. "Rest easy on that subject,
madam," he continued, "it will be a pleasure for me to take care of
the boy."
"Then I die happy," said Mrs. Wentworth, and turning to her husband
she said with difficulty, "Farewell, my husband. Amid all my trials
and sufferings my love for you has ever been as true and pure as the
hour we married. To die in your arms, with my head on your bosom was
all I wished, and my desire is gratified. Farewell."
Before her husband could reply her reason had vanished, and she
remained oblivious to all around her. Her eyes were closed, and the
moving of her lips alone told that she yet lived.
"Eva! darling! Wife!" exclaimed Alfred passionately "Speak to me! oh
my angel wife, speak one word to me ere you die. Look at me! say that
you recognize me. Awake to consciousness, and let me hear the sound of
your voice once more. Wake up my wife" he continued wildly, "Oh for
another word--one look before you are no more."
His wild and passionate words reached the ear of the dying woman, and
her voice came again, but it was the dying flicker of the expiring
lamp. She slowly opened her eyes and looked up in the face of her
husband.
"Alfred--husband, happiness" she murmured softly, then gently drawing
down his head, her lips touched his for an instant, and the soldier's
wife embraced her husband for the last time on earth.
Releasing his head Mrs. Wentworth kept her eyes fixed upon those of
her husband. Their glances met and told their tale of deep and
unutterable affection. The look they gave each other pierced their
souls, and lit up each heart with the fires of love. Thus they
continued for several minutes, when Mrs. Wentworth, rising on her
elbow, looked for a moment on the grief struck group around her bed.
"Farewell," she murmured, and then gazing at her husband, her lips
moved, but her words could not be heard.
Stooping his ear to her lips, Alfred caught their import, and the
tears coursed down his cheek.