THE END OF A SAD STORY.
In New York Edward Montague mailed a letter to Sara Medway. Before he
had been in New Orleans a week her answer came to him. She was better;
her cough had entirely left her, and she slept well. Nothing was needed
to make her happy but his presence.
"Go, Ned; go, by all means," said Tom Barkesdale.
"But my father--"
"Never mind your father," interposed Tom, whose impetuous southern
temperament could hardly brook the cold caution of his friend.
"I promised to write to him at least once a month."
"Do so, then."
"But my letters will betray me."
"Date them at New Orleans, a day or two ahead, and send them to me
under cover. I will mail them here, and your father will believe you are
in this city all the time."
"That's a mean deception," said Edward, whose impulses were rather above
such conduct.
"All is fair in love and war," laughed Tom. "Your letters from home will
come here, and I will forward them to you."
Under the temptation that beset him Edward did not long consider this
scheme before he adopted it; and he went to Havana in the steamer which
had brought the letter from Sara. The Medways were still in the city,
for the cottage at Limonar, which was to be their residence, was not yet
ready for their reception. On his arrival Edward found father and
daughter plunged in the deepest grief. However the climate agreed with
Sara, it did not agree with her mother. She was taken sick in a sudden
and violent manner, and in less than three days she breathed her last,
though she was attended by the most skilful resident and foreign
physicians.
Edward's office was now that of comforter, and his presence alone seemed
to save the stricken ones from utter despair. Both father and daughter
leaned upon him, and he faithfully discharged the duties which devolved
upon him. After the funeral of Mrs. Medway, Edward conducted Mr. Medway
and Sara to their new home at Limonar. In a few weeks the poignancy of
their grief was abated; but Edward's presence seemed to be even more
necessary than ever. Tom Barkesdale forwarded his letters and cashed his
drafts in New Orleans; and the Honorable Mr. Montague in Maine had no
suspicion that his son was not reading law in the Crescent City.
Two months after the death of Mrs. Medway, Edward Montague was privately
married, by an English clergyman, to Sara Medway. The circumstances
seemed to justify the breaking through of the ordinary proprieties which
regulate the interval between a funeral and a wedding. This event seemed
to sweep away all the clouds which lowered over the happiness of the
young people.
Edward had made up his mind to face the wrath of his father, but he
desired to postpone the tempest as long as possible. He wrote to Tom a
full account of the step he had taken, and that worthy assured him he
could conceal his marriage for an indefinite period. The young husband
did not flatter himself that even a year could elapse before the
momentous secret would be exposed. There were scores of invalids at
Limonar, but, fortunately, none who recognized him or the Medways. He
was very happy in his new relation, and the health of his wife appeared
to be completely restored.
Letters came regularly from his father--brief, business-like epistles,
in which the old gentleman, in his clumsy way, expressed his affection
for his son. Edward used his spare time in reading law and studying the
Spanish language.
In the spring Edward's letters, in accordance with a suggestion from
Tom, began to hint at a trip to the Rocky Mountains, for it was hardly
possible for the young couple to spend the summer in Cuba. In May Edward
went to New Orleans with his wife, but was very careful to avoid public
places. Two months later, attended by Tom, the party went up the
Mississippi and Missouri Rivers, and spent the summer in a quiet
village. From this point Edward went home to pass a month with his
father, in order to remove any suspicion in the old gentleman's mind, if
any had been created; but the old gentleman had never received even a
hint of the new relation of his son.
The news of Mrs. Medway's death had reached the town, and it was known
that Sara and her father were spending the winter in the west. This
intelligence had been communicated by Mr. Medway, who, of course, did
not allude to the marriage of his daughter.
After spending a month at home, Edward departed for the west, saying
that he was to meet Tom Barkesdale at St. Louis, and, after a trip to
the Rocky Mountains, they would return to New Orleans, and resume their
law studies. The young man wrote to his father from the place where he
joined his wife and father-in-law. In the autumn the party went to the
south, and, as soon as it was prudent to do so, Edward, his wife, and
Mr. Medway returned to Cuba. The cottage at Limonar was just as they had
left it, and they resumed their quiet domestic life as before. Edward
had observed, with fear and trembling, that some of the consumptive
symptoms of his wife appeared while she was at the north. Indeed, she
had brought back with her a hacking cough, which, however, soon yielded
to the softening influence of the climate.
Limonar is but a short distance from Matanzas, by railroad, and either
Mr. Medway or Edward was obliged to visit the city occasionally, to
procure the comforts and luxuries not to be had in a country village.
Sara's knowledge of Spanish was very limited, though by this time Edward
spoke it quite fluently. Her Spanish servants were a constant perplexity
to her, and she very much desired to obtain an English or American woman
to perform the ordinary offices of the household. On one of his visits
to the city Edward met an American woman in great distress. Her husband
was a cooper, with whom she had come from a seaport town in Maine, to
better their fortunes. High wages tempted him to remain through the
summer; but as late as October he fell a victim to yellow fever. He had
sent most of his surplus funds home, and his widow soon exhausted her
scanty supply of money. Instead of applying to the American consul, she
went to live with an English family as a nurse. But there she was taken
sick herself, and was sent away from her comfortable home to a
boarding-house, lest she should communicate some contagious disease to
her employer's family. Here she had contracted a debt which she could
not pay, and was seeking a friend to assist her, when she met Edward in
a shop. Hearing him speak English, she addressed him.
Though Mrs. Wayland desired only to return to her home in Maine, Edward
prevailed upon her to go with him to Limonar. He paid her debts,
provided her with everything she needed, and offered her large wages.
All were so kind and indulgent to her that she soon became much attached
to her new friends. When she had been a month at the cottage, Edward
Montague became the happy father of a fine boy.
But with this joy came the heaviest of sorrows. Sara's health began to
fail, and the incipient malady which had been working upon her physical
frame so silently for years rapidly developed itself. The delicious
climate had lost its influence; and when the boy was only three months
old, his mother breathed her last. Edward and Mr. Medway were stunned by
the blow, and wept as those without hope. The young wife was buried by
the side of the mother in the cemetery in the vicinity of Havana.
There was no longer any motive for the survivors to remain in Cuba.
Limonar had lost all its glory now, and Edward could not endure the
sight of the familiar localities which had been hallowed by the presence
of his lost wife. Mr. Medway was alone in the world. His own health was
feeble, and he desired only to return to his native land. His spirit was
broken, and all this world seemed to have passed away. It was decided
that Mr. Medway, with Mrs. Wayland and the child, should take the
steamer for New York, and return to Maine, while Edward went home by the
way of New Orleans.
Much as the young father had loved his boy before, he appeared to be in
a measure indifferent to him now. His wife and child were a real joy;
but the boy alone only reminded him of her whom he had lost.
When the steamer arrived at New York, Mr. Medway was too feeble to
travel. Mrs. Wayland was a faithful nurse to him; but her charge died in
a week after he landed. The last of the family was gone. His remains
were sent home, and Mrs. Wayland and the child went with them. She knew
the whole of the story we have related; and, in his last illness, Mr.
Medway had impressed upon her mind, in the strongest manner, the
necessity of entire secrecy in regard to his daughter's marriage and the
paternity of the child. If Edward chose to acknowledge it, he would do
so in due time.
Mrs. Wayland had no relations to trouble themselves about her affairs;
and when she appeared in Camden, which had been the residence of her
husband, no one thought of asking whether or not the child was her own.
She volunteered no information on this subject; and, recovering the
money which her husband had sent home, she was comfortably situated for
the present. She found a good boarding-place, and devoted herself wholly
to the little one, who already occupied a large place in her affections.
Edward Montague went to New Orleans, and when he presented himself
before his college friend, he looked like another man, so severe had
been the workings of his grief upon him. Tom Barkesdale pressed his hand
in silence, for he had already been informed by letter of the sad event
of the last month.
"It is all over with me now, Tom," said he, gloomily, as the tears
gathered in his hollow eyes.
"Don't take it so hardly, Ned. Time softens the severest trials."
"Not mine. I am ready to die myself now."
"No you are not. Don't give up the battle so. Be a man."
"I can be nothing now. I shall go home, and let my life ebb out with my
sorrows."
"Don't go home as you are now. You will only make your father miserable.
You have no right to do that."
"I must tell him all."
"Don't do it, Ned."
"Why not?"
"It will only vex and torment your governor to no purpose. He is an old
man, and cannot live many years more. Don't disturb him with the
reflection that you have disobeyed him."
"But my child!"
"Keep the child in the shade for a few years," said Tom; and Edward
fully understood him. "One of these days you can acknowledge it, and all
will be well. Out of regard to your father's happiness you ought to keep
still."
"As my wife is dead now, I hope he will forgive me."
"Perhaps he would, perhaps not. What is the use of stirring up the
waters and making a storm, when everything is quiet now?"
"But my father cannot help seeing that something has happened to me. I
can never be as I was before."
"Wait and see," replied the more philosophic young man.
A letter came from Mr. Montague a few days later. It was in the usual
quiet tone, with the gossip and news of the town. Edward dreaded the
thought of disturbing the serenity of his father's life. He felt now
that he ought not to have deceived the old gentleman; that it would have
been better to face his wrath. He was sure that his own and Sara's
happiness required that he should marry her; and he could not reproach
himself for this step. But by this miserable deception--successful as it
had been--he had stepped from the high plane of honor and truth. He was
utterly dissatisfied with himself; and all the more so because he
realized that his wife was worthy of all the sacrifice he could have
made for her sake. Tom Barkesdale reasoned from a different point of
view, and insisted that the matter was best as it was. Edward had done
right in marrying Sara, and it was quite proper to save Mr. Montague
from the pain and misery of a useless opposition.
Then came another letter from Mrs. Wayland, announcing her safe arrival
in New York and the illness of Mr. Medway.
"I must go to New York at once," said Edward.
"Don't you do it. You will undo everything that has been done, if you
do. Probably Mr. Medway has been seasick overmuch. He will be all right
in a few days. Wait till you hear again, at least."
He did wait, and the next letter informed him of the death of his
father-in-law, and that his remains had been sent to his friends in
Maine. Mrs. Wayland added that she should go to Camden at once, where a
letter from him would reach her.
"It is no use for you to go now, Ned," said Tom. "You can do no good."
"I ought to have gone before."
"As you didn't go before, it cannot be helped. Your father thinks you
are diligently reading law in the office of Colonel Bushnell, in New
Orleans. We can't help the past; but I advise you to deceive him no
longer."
"What do you mean?"
"Go into the office and read law with all your might. Then you will be
deceiving him no longer. You will be doing just what he thinks you are
doing," replied Tom, lightly.
"And not tell him of the past?"
"Certainly not."
Edward felt the need of some occupation, and he accepted the counsel of
his friend. He studied day and night, for he could not join in any of
the pleasures of the city, or go into the gay society which Tom
frequented. He wrote to Mrs. Wayland, enclosing a considerable sum of
money; but he forbade her writing to him, lest the fact of a letter to
him from Camden should connect him with the child. It was a groundless
fear; but he had now fully resolved not to disturb his father's peace by
acknowledging his own disobedience.
For four months he studied so diligently that his friend began to fear
he would impair his health. Every day found him more cheerful than the
last; and it was plain enough that youth and time were rapidly
conquering his grief. He began to go into society again, and the
presence of the ladies was not altogether repulsive to him. In June,
with Tom as his companion, he went home to spend the summer.
His father commented upon his altered appearance, but Tom insisted that
it was because he had studied so hard. He had not only read law, but had
learned the Spanish language, so that he could converse fluently in it.
The vacation wonderfully recruited his health, and in the autumn the
students returned to their southern home. Edward studied as diligently
as ever. Youth had wholly conquered his grief, and he was as before. He
sent money regularly to Mrs. Wayland; but he expressed no desire to see
his child, though he declared to Tom that the little one still had a
place in his heart, and that he intended at some future time to
acknowledge it.
Edward boarded with his friend's father, who had a daughter. She was but
sixteen when Edward first became a member of the family. She was
nineteen now, and the young northerner began to be tenderly impressed
towards her, though his attentions did not begin till his wife had been
dead over a year. The attraction was mutual, and Edward wrote to his
father about it. The old gentleman was pleased, and facetiously remarked
that he had all along supposed there was something or somebody in New
Orleans, besides Tom or the law, that had drawn him there for three
winters. He hadn't the slightest objection. Edward could _now_ please
himself in that respect, as in every other. The "now" was heavily
underscored, and the son had no difficulty in understanding his meaning.
It was known that all the Medways were dead, and the Honorable Mr.
Montague could no longer object to any match his heir might choose to
make.
The marriage was deferred till the next year, when Edward's father and
mother made a winter tour to New Orleans. The great event was duly
chronicled in the newspapers, and the young couple made a bridal tour to
Europe, where they spent a year. On their return an elegant residence,
next to the Honorable Mr. Montague's, in one of the finest towns on
Penobscot Bay, awaited them.
Edward practised law in a mild way, but never made any great figure in
his profession. He was an officer in the war, has been to the state
legislature as a representative, and the honors of a senatorship are
still before him. Like the other distinguished men we have introduced,
he is the father of only one child by his second marriage, a pretty
daughter, who is the idol of both parents, and particularly of the
Honorable Mr. Montague.
Edward Montague has all of this world's goods which are required to make
a man happy, he has a beautiful and loving wife, a beautiful and
affectionate daughter, a kind and indulgent father still. All the world
regards him as a happy man; but he is not entirely so, for he cannot be
satisfied with his past life. He cannot help thinking of the deception
he practised upon his father, and still fears that some unexpected event
will disclose his misconduct. His wife shares his great secret, for,
before he married her, a sense of honor compelled him to make her his
confidante, which he did in the presence of her brother, who vouched for
the truth of all he said. He can never be entirely at peace while his
father lives.
Mrs. Wayland married again, but Edward continued to send her at the rate
of ten dollars a week for the care of his son, who still passes as her
own child. After this marriage of the nurse, the father of the boy was
vexed by a new fear. He saw that it was possible for her husband to
probe the secret through his letters and remittances; so he ceased to
write letters, or to send money by mail as before. Once a year, when Tom
Barkesdale came north to spend his summer vacation, he sent him with the
money to deliver into her own hands.
Strange as it may seem, Edward has not seen his boy since he parted with
him on board of the steamer at Havana. When he thinks of the little one
he cannot but reproach himself for the past. He feels that he has
wronged the boy, and fears that his own emotions might betray him in the
presence of the child. He is vexed by a score of fears which he cannot
define. The guide and standard of his life is honor rather than
religious principle, which is the only safe guide and standard. His
conscience reproaches him for what he has done and for what he has left
undone. He feels that he has dishonored the memory of his lost wife, and
that his conduct is a continued wrong to his child. Like thousands of
others, he shuns that which might lead him into the path of truth and
right. He pays liberally for the support of his boy, and tries to
persuade himself that he is doing all that honor requires of him.
All this is but the introduction to our story; and with the next chapter
we step over a period of more than a dozen years.