CHAPTER 5.
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Mr. Waverly was a Philadelphia merchant of wealth, and much respected for his many good qualities by all who knew him. He had married a few years before the time at which our story opens, a beautiful young girl whom he had met in the family of a friend residing in Baltimore. Up to within a year and a half, he had lived with her most happily. During the time they had three children.
But, a blasting suspicion had fallen upon the young wife, and proofs of her infidelity were presented in such a black array before her husband's mind, that he had been constrained to divorce her, as unworthy of his love. Not only this, but to separate her children from her.
In all of this, Mr. Waverly had felt no anger against the unhappy creature who had, for nearly ten years, lain upon his bosom. The anguish of mind he endured, was too great to leave room for indignation. But he was a man of much decision of character and firmness of purpose. It had been the habit of his life to compel himself to do what hisreason affirmed as right, no matter at what sacrifice of feeling to himself or others. All weaknesses he condemned as unmanly, and permitted them not to have influence over him.
Satisfied, from the evidence that was set before him, of his wife's departure from virtue, he did not for an instant hesitate as to what he should do. She was immediately separated from his household and from her children — though not without a fair provision for her support. His next step, was to apply to the Legislature for a divorce, which, on the plain evidence he furnished for the consideration of the committee that had the matter under examination, was freely granted.
Friendless, and almost heart-broken, the poor cast-off wife, who had no living relative to take up her cause, made a feeble effort to get from the court having jurisdiction in the case, possession of one or both of her children; but the court continued the guardianship in their father.
Before this unhappy period, Mr. Waverly had been a man of but few words when in society. Some, judging from the exterior presentation of his character, regarded him as inclined to austerity, or as being constitutionally discontented. But, such was not the case. His heart was warm; and none knew its warmth so well, as the wife and children he tenderly loved. But, after this period, all with whom he came in contact marked a great change, and perceived the presence of a real shadow upon his feelings. He was never seen abroad, in either public or private assemblies; and was only met by his friends at his place of business, or, on the street, as he moved along, from his store to his dwelling, with eyes cast gloomily on the pavement.
Mr. Waverly, by the force of a strong will, could compel himself to divorce his wife; but, it was another thing to remove her image from his mind, or to forget the happy days when he held her to his bosom, and believed her as pure as when he pressed upon her sweet young lips, the fervent bridal kiss. Ah, it was a difficult and painful task he was trying to perform, that of forgetting the mother of his children, and lifting from his oppressed bosom, the crushing weight that lay upon it. He might as well have tried to still, by a mental effort, the beatings of his heart.
One day — it was some two months after the court had decided that he should retain possession of the children — Mr. Waverly was sitting alone, trying to cover up with some other image, and thus hide it from his sight, the intruding image of her who had once called him husband, when a letter was placed in his hands. He was about breaking the seal, but an impulse prompted him to re-examine the superscription. It was in the handwriting of his wife; or, of the one who had been his wife. Instantly it dropped upon the table by which he was sitting, while he murmured —
"It is vain — vain! Why seek to prolong the anguish of mind from which we are both suffering? It can do no good."
He then took up the letter, and made a movement to throw it into the glowing grate; but, some suddenly injected thought restrained him, and, with a single sigh, he replaced it upon the table.
For, perhaps, ten minutes, Mr. Waverly sat almost motionless, crouching down in the large, easy chair in which he was sitting. Then he aroused up with a groan that marked the intensity of his suffering, saying aloud, in answer to some argument in his thoughts —
"It will be of no use, and only add to the pain I already suffer. She has brought a wreck upon my household — she has blasted the happiness of her husband and stained the name of her children — why not let me alone now? What can she have to say, that I need hear? Nothing! There is a gulf between us, that must ever remain.
For a while longer Mr. Waverly sat deeply musing, the activity of his thoughts being marked, now and then, by some sudden exclamation like the above. At last, he rose up, and taking the letter deliberately from the table, threw it into the fire.
"So ends that trial," said he, in a low, sad, yet firm voice. Again he resumed his seat, and again became lost in deep thought.
But it was very far from being ended; for, scarcely had the cinders that remained from the consuming paper, swept up the chimney, before a feeling of regret came over the mind of Mr. Waverly.
"She is no less a sufferer than myself," such were the thoughts which intruded themselves. "I might at least have heard her. Ah! I wish I knew what was best."
And the unhappy man struck his hands together and sighed, or rather groaned, heavily.
That was the letter which Mrs. Waverly spoke of having written. Its contents, as has been seen, never reached the eyes of him for whom they were intended. And, it will also be seen, that Mr. Waverly, though firm in the repudiation of his wife, was not angry towards her, nor disposed to be cruel and vindictive. He deemed her unworthy to be his wife; and he had, therefore, cast her from him. If unworthy to be his wife, he regarded her as alike unworthy to have the guardianship of his children, and, therefore, separated them from her.
This marks the relationship that existed between the divorced wife and her former husband.
On the evening that Mr. Waverly came home and found little Ada asleep in his chamber, his thoughts had been more than usually occupied with the image of the child's mother. And his feelings were softened with more than a usual tenderness. Ada bore to her a strong resemblance, and this, without his reflecting on the cause, led him to ask for her as soon as he came in.
The little scene that took place with the child when her father found her asleep, has already been related.
As Mr. Waverly sat at tea that evening with his sister, he was unusually silent. Edith spoke of Ada's bad conduct in the street, and remarked that she would have to punish her for it, by keeping her in the house; but, her brother made no answer. After tea, he went up to his room, where Ada was sleeping, and, for awhile, sat by her side and gazed upon her innocent face.
"So young, and to have no mother!" came at length from his lips.
"It was a happy day for dear little Edith, when God took her. I could almost wish that this precious one were at rest also!"
While he was yet murmuring these words, Phoebe came in, and taking Ada in her arms, bore her away to her own chamber.
How desolate all felt to the unhappy man! — How lonely, sad, and cheerless! She who had made the sunshine of his life; she who had caused the flowers to spring up all along his pathway, had left his side, and he was moving on alone with a heart that would not be comforted.
On the next morning, Mr. Waverly said to his sister, as they sat at the breakfast table.
"The day is going to be so warm and cheerful, that I think a ride out with the children would do them good."
"I'm sure it would do me good," replied Edith.
"Very well. Then I will order a carriage to be here after dinner."
Both the children hearing this, clapped their hands with delight at the prospect of a ride; at which their aunt rather severely reproved them for being rude and boisterous, adding —
"You'll both have to behave a little better than usual, or you will be left at home!"
Instantly the little things checked their boisterous feelings, and glanced towards their father, as though appealing to him against their aunt. Mr. Waverly did not perceive this; but the act escaped not aunt Edith's observation.
"Oh, they'll be good," said Mr. Waverly, half indifferently.
"Where do you think of riding?" asked Edith of her brother, as they were about rising from the table at dinner time.
"I thought of going out to Laurel Hill," replied Mr. Waverly.
"I don't wish to go there," said Edith. She spoke in a way that had the effect of rousing the will of Mr. Waverly into some activity, and he answered —
"If you feel disinclined to visit Laurel Hill, you needn't go with us today. We can ride again tomorrow."
"Oh, never mind me," returned Edith, with some petulance in her voice. "I can stay at home. It's of no consequence in the world!"
"I would like you to go with us, Edith," said Mr. Waverly.
"I don't wish to go," replied the sister, coldly.
"Very well. You must consult your own feelings," remarked Mr. Waverly, as he withdrew from the room.
When the carriage drew up to the door, the children came bounding downstairs; but Edith did not make her appearance.
"Run up and ask your aunt if she is going with us?" said Mr. Waverly to Herbert.
The little boy went upstairs, but soon returned with word that she was lying down and didn't wish to go out.
"Poor children!" sighed Mr. Waverly, as he entered the carriage with Herbert and Ada. "I wish, for your sakes, that your aunt had a warmer and gentler heart."
But few words passed between Mr. Waverly and his children as they rode along. Ada sat beside her father, her face wearing a subdued and pensive expression; while Herbert amused himself by looking from the carriage window. As for Mr. Waverly, there was an unusual pressure on his feelings. Not for many months, had he visited the spot where rested the mortal remains of his youngest child, whose loss, at the time it occurred, had touched him with acutest sorrow. How vividly present in his thoughts, was the sad scene of parting with that babe! He did not bend over her alone, when she lay panting in the death struggle; no — another stood by his side, and mingled her tears with his — another, against whom no suspicion of wrong had entered his heart. He almost felt the pressure of her cheek against his, as when she leaned upon him, in that hour of darkness, stricken of heart, and comfortless.
Try as he would, to shut out these images, he found it impossible. And they could not be present in his mind without giving their hue to his feelings. He thought of his rejected wife, and with tenderer emotions than he had felt towards her for a long time. She had not only the same grief for the dead child that he had suffered; but there was added, separation from her husband and living children, and a crushing weight of guilt.
"God help her!" came suddenly and half audibly from the lips of Mr. Waverly, and then he closed his eyes, in the vain effort to shut out the haunting image of one he was trying so vainly to forget.
It was in this frame of mind, that Mr. Waverly arrived, with his children, at Laurel Hill. Entering the grounds, he took his way towards the spot where Edith's body was resting. He did not observe, until he was within a few yards of the place, that the gate of his lot stood open, and that a woman, in mourning garments, closely veiled, sat crouching beside the grave, with one small white hand laid upon it. Her face was bent to the ground, and she was as motionless as a figure of marble.
The first impulse of Mr. Waverly was to spring forward, and lift the drooping form from the ground — he knew in an instant whose it was — but recovering himself, he stepped noiselessly aside, and passed on with his children to another part of the cemetery.
"Who was that papa?" asked Herbert, while yet within hearing distance. He had also seen the woman.
"I don't know," replied his father, evasively.
"Wasn't that little Eda's grave?" pursued the child.
"Yes," was answered.
"What was that woman doing there?" asked Herbert.
"I am sure I don't know," said Mr. Waverly. "Come," he added, in a voice of affected cheerfulness, "Don't you want to see the river?"
Herbert was interested in a moment; but Ada walked slowly along, her eyes cast to the ground. At length, lifting them to her father's face, she asked —
"What was mamma doing there?"
"Mr. Waverly paused, and looked at his child in astonishment. For a moment or two, he hesitated on a reply, and then asked, "Who said it was your mamma?"
"Nobody said so," returned the child. "But wasn't it my mamma? Oh, I wish she would come home! Why doesn't she come home, papa? What makes you let her sleep out here, and walk about the streets? We would all love her so much? Why don't you bring her home?"
"Who told you that she walked about the streets?" asked Mr. Waverly, who was overwhelmed with surprise.
"Nobody," answered the child. "But I saw her in the street yesterday."
"You did?"
"Yes. And she made Phoebe take off my shoe, and get something out of it that hurt my foot, when I was crying so, and could hardly walk along."
Mr. Waverly drew his breath several times, long and deeply — stood with a bewildered air for some time, and then, as what he had heard took its right place in his mind, so that he could to some extent comprehend it, he moved forward again, saying as he did so —
"Come! We will go back home again!"
Taking a wide circuit, so as to avoid passing the vicinity of Eda's grave, where he supposed the mother of his children still to be, he made his way towards the gate of the cemetery, and happily as he felt, reached it without encountering her again.
What were the feelings of Mr. Waverly, for the remainder of that day, it would be hard to tell. Particularly was he moved by the declaration of Ada, that her mother had interfered between her and her nurse, in the street. After a good deal of reflection, he sent for Phoebe, and said to her —
"Who was the lady that spoke to you in the street, yesterday?"
The face of Phoebe instantly crimsoned.
"What lady?" she inquired.
"The lady who spoke to you about something in Ada's shoe?"
"I don't know, sir."
The girl looked frightened.
"You don't know who it was?"
"No sir."
"What was the lady's appearance?"
"She was dressed in black. But I didn't see her face."
"What did she say to you?"
"She ordered me to take off Ada's shoe."
"Ordered you?"
"Yes, sir; just the same as if she had been her own mother!" replied the girl.
"It's very strange!" remarked Mr. Waverly, with much severity of tone, "that a lady should interfere with you in the street, in regard to the children. Something is wrong."
"There was nothing wrong, sir," replied the girl, in a subdued manner; "any more than Ada was crying, as she often does in the street, and this woman, whoever she was, took it into her head that I was abusing her."
"But why did she order you to take off her shoe?"
"Because Ada said her foot hurt her."
"Well. What was found in her shoe?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing at all?"
"No sir. The shoe might have pinched her a little; but that was all. She walked well enough afterwards."
Mr. Waverly sat and mused for some time; then he said, "Very well, Phoebe. That's all I wished to say to you."
The girl retired, and he was left alone with his perplexed thoughts. When the tea bell rang, he did not go down; and when a servant came to say that his sister and children were waiting for him, he sent word that he did not wish any supper. The evening was passed by the unhappy man alone.
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