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WIVES AND WIDOWS;
OR,
THE BROKEN LIFE.
BY
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.
AUTHOR OF "RUBY GRAY'S STRATEGY," "FASHION AND FAMINE," "THE CURSE OF
GOLD," "THE REJECTED WIFE," "THE OLD HOMESTEAD," "THE WIFE'S SECRET,"
"MABEL'S MISTAKE," "THE GOLD BRICK," "SILENT STRUGGLES," "MARY DERWENT,"
"DOUBLY FALSE," "THE HEIRESS," "THE SOLDIER'S ORPHANS," ETC., ETC.
When falsehood genders in a human soul,
Blossoms may hide the reptile in his creeping,
But every pulse will stir at his control,
Or feel the burden of his poisonous sleeping,
Until the tight'ning circle of his coils
Binds down the heart, which God alone assoils.
In honest hearts the gentle truth reposes;
As nightingales, with rapturous music filled,
Nestle down, softly, in the clust'ring roses,
While the sweet night and moonlit air is thrilled
With perfect harmonies,--truth will arise
And send its voice, upringing, to the skies.
PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
TO
MISS ELIZA S. ORMSBEE,
OF
PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND,
THIS BOOK IS
MOST AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
ANN S. STEPHENS.
ST. CLOUD HOTEL, NEW YORK,
NOVEMBER, 1869.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. LEAVING MY HOME 25
II. MY NEW HOME 31
III. A NEW LIFE 35
IV. THREATENED WITH SEPARATION 40
V. AFTER THE WEDDING 48
VI. TELLING HOW LOTTIE INTRODUCED HERSELF 53
VII. OUT IN THE WORLD 59
VIII. OUR GUEST 63
IX. FANCIES AND PREMONITIONS 70
X. NEW VISITORS 76
XI. THE BASKET OF FRUIT 81
XII. BREAKFAST WITH OUR GUEST 86
XIII. JESSIE LEE AND HER MOTHER 88
XIV. INTRUSIVE KINDNESS 92
XV. THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT 97
XVI. AFTER DREAMING 101
XVII. LOTTIE EXPRESSES HER OPINION OF THE
WIDOW 106
XVIII. THE UNWELCOME PROPOSAL 109
XIX. OUT UPON THE RIDGE 112
XX. ADROIT CROSS-QUESTIONING 118
XXI. THE EVENING AFTER BOSWORTH'S PROPOSAL 121
XXII. SOWING SEED FOR ANOTHER DAY 125
XXIII. AN OUTBREAK OF JEALOUSY 130
XXIV. THE OLD PENNSYLVANIA MANSION 135
XXV. THE MOTHER AND GRANDMOTHER 139
XXVI. SICK-BED FANCIES 143
XXVII. THE FIRST SOUND SLEEP 147
XXVIII. THE INTERVIEW IN THE WOODS 150
XXIX. TROUBLES GATHER ABOUT OUR JESSIE 155
XXX. MRS. DENNISON GATHERS WILD FLOWERS 159
XXXI. LOTTIE'S ADVICE 165
XXXII. MRS. LEE DREAMS OF PASSION-FLOWERS 169
XXXIII. COMPANY FROM TOWN 173
XXXIV. OUR VISIT TO THE OLD MANSION 177
XXXV. YOUNG BOSWORTH'S SICK-ROOM 181
XXXVI. LOTTIE'S REPORT 184
XXXVII. MY FIRST QUARREL WITH MR. LEE 188
XXXVIII. MR. LAWRENCE MAKES A CALL 192
XXXIX. LOTTIE AS A LETTER-WRITER 197
XL. YOUNG BOSWORTH RECEIVES A LETTER 200
XLI. OUT IN THE STORM 206
XLII. JESSIE GETS TIRED OF HER GUEST 208
XLIII. A CONSULTATION WITH LOTTIE 211
XLIV. THE MIDNIGHT DISCOVERY 216
XLV. BAFFLED AND DEFEATED 221
XLVI. LOTTIE OWNS HERSELF BEATEN 225
XLVII. MR. LEE SENDS IN THE ACCOUNT OF HIS GUARDIANSHIP 227
XLVIII. COMING OUT OF A DANGEROUS ILLNESS 231
XLIX. LOTTIE SEEMS TREACHEROUS 237
L. CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION BETWEEN THE WIDOW AND
MRS. LEE 240
LI. THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER 247
LII. THE FATAL LETTER 252
LIII. DEATH IN THE TOWER-CHAMBER 257
LIV. MRS. LEE'S FUNERAL 261
LV. OLD MRS. BOSWORTH'S VISIT 265
LVI. LOTTIE'S REVELATIONS 268
LVII. MRS. DENNISON URGES LAWRENCE TO PROPOSE 272
LVIII. AFTER THE PROPOSAL 277
LIX. A HEART-STORM ABATING 282
LX. THE TWO LETTERS 286
LXI. THE DEPARTING GUEST 290
LXII. WHOLLY DESERTED 297
LXIII. OLD-FASHIONED POLITENESS 302
LXIV. NEWS FROM ABROAD 306
LXV. LOTTIE LEAVES A LETTER AND A BOOK 313
LXVI. MRS. DENNISON'S JOURNAL 316
LXVII. OUR FIRST VISITOR 323
LXVIII. THE WATERFALL 329
LXIX. THE THREATENED DEPARTURE 338
LXX. THE MIDNIGHT WALK 348
LXXI. AWAY FROM HOME 355
LXXII. OUT IN THE WORLD AGAIN 358
LXXIII. FIRST WIDOWHOOD 362
LXXIV. LOTTIE'S LETTER 385
LXXV. LOTTIE IN PARIS 392
LXXVI. THE CASKET OF DIAMONDS 395
LXXVII. ALL TOGETHER AGAIN 404
WIVES AND WIDOWS.
CHAPTER I.
LEAVING MY HOME.
At ten years of age I was the unconscious mistress of a heavy stone
farm-house and extensive lands in the interior of Pennsylvania, with
railroad-bonds and bank-stock enough to secure me a moderate
independence. I shall never, never forget the loneliness of that old
house the day my mother was carried out of it and laid down by her
husband in the churchyard behind the village. The most intense suffering
of life often comes in childhood. My mother was dead; I could almost
feel her last cold kisses on my lip as I sat down in that desolate
parlor, waiting for the guardian who was expected to take me from my
dear old home to his. The window opened into a field of white clover,
where some cows and lambs were pasturing drowsily, as I had seen them a
hundred times; but now their very tranquillity grieved me. It seemed
strange that they would stand there so content, with the white clover
dropping from their mouths, and I going away forever. My mother's
canary-bird, which hung in the window, began to sing joyously over my
head, as if no funeral had passed from that room, leaving its shadows
behind, and, more grievous still, as if it did not care that I might
never sit and listen to it again.
One of the neighbors had kindly volunteered to take charge of the gloomy
old house till my guardian came, but her presence disturbed me more than
funereal stillness would have done. I had a family of dolls up stairs,
and any amount of tiny household furniture, which I would have given the
world to take with me; but this thrifty neighbor protested against it.
She said that I was almost a young lady and must forget such childish
things, now that I was going into the world to be properly educated.
To a shy, sensitive child, this was enough. So, with a double sense of
bereavement, I saw my pretty dolls and delicate toys swept into a basket
and carried off to the woman's house, between two stout Irish girls, who
seemed to be taking my heart off with them.
In less than half an hour one of this woman's children came down the
road with my prettiest doll under her arm. Its flaxen curls were all
disordered, and its tiny feet, with their slippers of rose-colored kid,
had evidently been in the mud, where she had probably insisted on making
the doll walk. While I sat by the window, waiting and watching, this
bare-headed little girl sat down by a fragment of stone that had fallen
from the wall close by, and began pounding the head of my doll upon it
with all her might. A cry broke from me that made the little wretch
start and run away, leaving my poor mutilated doll by the stone.
I ran out, seized upon my ruined doll, and came back to the house,
crying over it in bitter grief. With trembling hands I unlocked my
trunk, which was ready packed for travelling, and laid my broken
treasure down among the most precious of my belongings. Just then Mrs.
Pierce, our neighbor, came in, and in a half jeering, half kind way,
expostulated with me for being such a little goose as to cry over a
doll. This woman did not mean to be hard with me; far from it. Persons
exist who are really kind-hearted, and seem cruel only because they
cannot comprehend feelings utterly unknown to themselves. To me that
doll was a type of my wrecked home; to her it was a combination of wax,
sawdust, and leather, which a few dollars could at any time replace;
besides that, she was put a little on the defensive by the fault of her
child.
While she reasoned with me in her coarse kindness, which only wounded me
deeper, a carriage had driven up, and two persons entered through the
outer door, which had been left open by the little girl when she ran
into the house to claim her mother's protection. I was sitting on the
floor by my trunk, with both hands pressed to my face, sobbing
piteously, when a sweet, strange voice checked the force of that woman's
harangue; some one sank down to the floor by me, and I was all at once
drawn into a close embrace.
"Don't cry, dear; it is all very sad, no doubt, but you are going with
us, and to-morrow will be brighter."
I looked through a mist of tears that half blinded me, and saw the
kindest, sweetest face that my eyes ever dwelt upon. It was that of a
young woman, perhaps twenty or twenty-two years of age. "You must not
feel yourself alone, dear child," she said, smoothing my hair with one
hand, from which she had drawn off the glove.
"Oh," said Mrs. Pierce, pushing her daughter behind her, "you will never
believe, marm, what she is crying about,--leaving home, you think it is?
Oh, no; Miss is just taking on about a snip of a doll which my little
girl here smashed a trifle, not meaning any harm, for children will be
children, you know."
Here Mrs. Pierce patted her child's head, who cast sidelong glances at
me and attempted to hide herself behind her mother's dress.
I looked up at the young lady, blushing red, and begging her in my heart
not to think me so very ridiculous.
She smiled encouragingly, and turning upon Mrs. Pierce, said, very
gravely,--
"I am surprised, madam, that you should think this a slight cause of
grief. The smallest thing connected with the child's home must be dear
to her."
Mrs. Pierce gave her head a fling, and muttered that she meant no harm.
Miss was welcome to all her things back again; her children did not want
them, not they.
"You are right," said the young lady, quite seriously; "have everything
she has owned or loved packed up at once."
Mrs. Pierce went out muttering; the child followed her with a finger in
her mouth.
"Now," said the young lady, "is there anything else you would like to
take away,--a bird, a little dog, or the cat you have loved; we can find
room for them?"
My heart leaped. I had the dear old canary-bird; and lying upon the
crimson cushions of my mother's easy-chair was "Fanny," a pretty
chestnut-colored dog, that had all the grace of an Italian greyhound,
and the brightness of a terrier.
"May I take her with me?" I cried, springing up and falling on my knees
before my mother's arm-chair, and hugging Fanny to my bosom. "I am so
glad, so grateful, so--"
Here I broke down, and burying my face in Fanny's fur, cried and laughed
out my thankfulness. When I looked up, one of the handsomest men I ever
saw stood by the young lady, who was smiling upon him, though I saw
bright tears in her eyes.
"So this is your father's ward," said the gentleman, reaching out his
hand as if he had known me all his life.
I put my hand in his, and felt my heart grow warm, as if it had found
shelter from its loneliness. He exchanged glances with the lady, and I
felt sure that they were pleased with me.
"Now," said the gentleman, "we have a little time, if you want to take
leave of anything."
"Oh, I have been taking leave ever since she died," I answered, saddened
by his words. "I couldn't do it again."
"Perhaps that is best," said the gentleman; "so get on your things; we
have a long ride before us."
I started to obey him, but all at once a doubt seized upon me. Who were
these people? I did not know them. Mr. Olmsly, my guardian, I had been
informed, was an old man. What right had these people to take me away
from my home?
I stole back to the gentleman, trembling, and filled with sudden
apprehension.
"Please tell me who you are," I said; "Mr. Olmsly! I thought he was an
old man."
"And so he is," answered the gentleman, smiling pleasantly, "but he is
not very well, and so his daughter came after you in his place. This is
Miss Olmsly."
The young lady stooped down and kissed me. My arms stole around her neck
unawares, and from that moment I loved her dearly. When I turned away
from the young lady's caresses, her companion said,--
"Now you would like to know who I am; isn't that so?"
I nodded my head, feeling that I could tell at once who he was.
"Her brother, I am sure of that, you are both so--so--pleasant."
I was about to say "handsome," but changed it to the less flattering
word.
They both laughed, and the gentleman glanced at Miss Olmsly's face,
which, I was surprised to see, turned red as a wild rose.
"No, I am not her brother," he said, flushing up himself; "but I shall
be a great deal at your guardian's, and I shall think that you are
almost my sister. Will you like that?"
"So much!" I replied, with a light heart, for all my anxieties were put
to rest. "Now I will get my things."
I went up-stairs and entered my own little room for the last time. How
homelike and familiar everything looked: the little bed in the corner,
with its draperies of white net; the muslin window-curtains, through
which I could see great clusters of old-fashioned white roses, still wet
with morning dew, and lying like snow among the vivid green of the thick
leaves; my little walnut-wood desk, where I had got my first
lessons,--all appealed to me with a force that swept away the dawning
cheerfulness which the conversation down-stairs had inspired. I sat down
by the window and looked sadly out. The sash was open, and a sweet
fragrance came up from the white clover-field, mingling with that of the
great rose-bush, which had reached the second-story windows, ever since
I could remember. I could not bear to leave all these things. Yet the
house had been so lonely that I had no clear wish to stay. To me there
was something terrible in leaving that safe home-shelter. I grew cold,
and began to cry again. Afar off I could see the graveyard where my
mother was lying. Her presence was close to me then. How could I go away
and leave her resting there within sight of the old house? But she had
herself arranged that I should live with my guardian. Why should these
bitter regrets depress me, while obeying her? It was that strong home
feeling which has never left me during my life,--the feeling which
prompted me to gather a handful of those white roses, and keep them till
they crumbled into nothing but the ashes of a flower. Oh, how my heart
ached when we drove away from that old stone house! the picture is even
yet burned in on my brain. That tall hickory-tree at one end--the willow
in front. Those fine old lilac-bushes, and the clustering roses reaching
luxuriantly to the upper windows, in the full rich blossoming of early
June. Many a time since, when in sadness and sorrow this picture has
come back to my mind, I have wondered if it might not have been better
had I stayed in that quiet old home.