Lovers and Husbands CHAPTER 15.
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Two years afterward, Arabella suffered from another attack, brought on by the conduct of her husband. In each of these a new physician had been called in. The reason was, that the cause, as existing in himself, might not be traced out, even by the medical attendant. His love of reputation was strong, and this, seeing that his manner towards his wife produced, when not too well guarded, such dreadful results — caused him, after that time, to treat her with more apparent consideration than he had been in the habit of doing. Even this was grateful to the suffering wife, as little reason as she had to believe in its sincerity.
Time passed on, and the lawyer rose into eminence at the bar. His aid was sought in difficult cases, where large fees tempted him to put forth the very best energies of his mind. Notwithstanding the failure to grasp the golden prize at which he had looked so long that he felt a right in it, there was no lack of means to enable him to live in a style suited to his taste. His talents brought him wealth.
As there was little at home to hold his affections there — he spent but a small portion of his time in the society of his wife, who rarely stepped beyond her threshold, and knew but little of what was passing in the mirthful world around her. She had now three children. They occupied her whole attention. Anxious to keep them within the pure atmosphere of home — she devoted much time to their instruction, so as to make their father satisfied in respect to their intellectual progress. The oldest boy went to school. This the father desired, and she did not object.
It was a thing of ordinary occurrence for Mr. Garnett to be away until midnight. Gentlemen's parties, or other engagements of a like nature, were usually given at first as the reason; but the statement of any reason at all soon ceased. The husband went and came, as suited his own pleasure, thinking not, or caring not for the heart which his coldness andindifference was breaking.
Thus things had gone on, year after year, until Mrs. Garnett was little more than a hermit. None saw her beyond the precincts of her own home. Her husband thought little about her, and cared less, except so far as her pale face, drooping form, and sad, patient look, rebuked him for neglect.
One day, late in the afternoon, a note was handed in by someone, unsealed, and addressed to her. She opened it, and read the contents. Only consciousness enough remained to crush it into her bosom for concealment, when she fell upon the floor in the swoon, to restore her from which Doctor Arlington, as has been seen, was summoned. The contents of that note were such as to prevent their declaration here. It is enough to say that they were of a character to inflict upon the heart of a virtuous wife — a wound that no balm can heal.
At the same time that this note was left at his dwelling, another was thrown into the office of Mr. Garnett, giving him notice of the fact. The deed was prompted by disappointment and revenge. It was the work of one who had long since laid aside virtue and humanity. No sooner had Garnett received intelligence of what had been done, than, in alarm for the consequences, he hastened home. When he found his wife insensible, he understood too well the cause. If he needed confirmation, he had it in the contents of the note she had received, which he found in the folds of the dress that covered her bosom. It was instantly destroyed.
The reader now understands the case much better than even Doctor Arlington, who visited his patient early on the morning following her restoration to consciousness. He found her in a very low state, and altogether indisposed to answer even the questions that were put to her professionally. Her husband was not present.
"How is Mrs. Garnett today?" asked the wife of Doctor Arlington, when her husband joined her at the dinner-table.
The doctor shook his head, and looked grave.
"Not worse, I hope?" Flora said, in a concerned voice.
"No, not worse than she was yesterday — but very little better than she was last night. The fact is, I don't know what to make of her case. There is something wrong. If there ever was a heart-broken woman — she is one. I never saw just such an expression upon any face, nor just such a look out of any eyes. Her husband was not with her. He had already left the house, although it was quite early."
"Poor Arabella!" Flora said, the tears starting to her eyes. "Ten years ago she was the most light-hearted, happy girl I knew. To think that so hard a fate awaited her, for whom life seemed all sunshine and gladness! And Emily — my old friend Emily, where can she be? How does it fare with her? Badly, I fear. Mr. Whitney was not a man of sound principles. He had not the qualities of mind required to make a woman truly happy. It pains me when I think of her. Ah, it makes the heart sad to look back in life, and recall the bright young faces of many maidens who grew up with us side by side, and then to glance around in search of them now. Here and there may be found a countenance over which has been thrown, it is true, a veil of thoughtfulness — but which still wears, at times, the smile that played upon it in younger days. But where are the many, and how do they fare? Some have gone down into the grave in the freshness of virgin beauty; others have wandered far away from their early homes and early friends by the side of a husband; and others may still be seen, occasionally, in the old places that knew them years ago. But few of these seem happy."
"They may be happier, Flora, than you think," the doctor replied, smiling. "The cares of life make us thoughtful, and, to the eyes of others, sad."
"True; and I know that I am too apt to think no one can be as happy as myself."
"And why not, Flora?"
"Because I think no one can have so kind, so good, so excellent a husband." The face of Mrs. Arlington glowed as she spoke.
"Too partial, my dear Flora," returned Arlington, with a smile of affection. "But, besides you, there are many — very many happy wives. I see both sides of the picture; and one is as bright as the other is dark. Too many a fond, trusting girl, throws herself away upon a man who is unworthy of her, and pays for her mistake, the penalty of a whole lifetime of misery. But others act more wisely; and this number is large. The pale cheek and sunken eye do not always spring from mental causes."
Doctor Arlington visited Mrs. Garnett again on the next day — but there was little apparent improvement. Life played but feebly in her pulses. It was, indeed, a question in his mind, whether she were not actually sinking instead of growing better. He met her husband this time.
"What do you think of her, doctor?" he asked, with some concern upon his face, as they left her chamber together.
"I hardly know what to say," was the reply. "She may be better than she was yesterday — but the change, if any, is to me imperceptible."
The husband looked thoughtful — but said no more. He attended Doctor Arlington to the door, and bowed to him in silence as he left the house.
There was little or no change perceptible at the doctor's next visit. Mrs. Garnett still lay in a state of semi-consciousness.
"Bring me," said he to the servant who attended in the sick chamber, "the little girl I saw downstairs just now. What is her name?"
"Margaret."
"Bring her upstairs to me,"
In a few minutes the attendant brought into the room a lovely child, scarce two years of age, around whose blooming cheeks played a mass of sunny ringlets. The doctor lifted her in his arms, and taking her to the bedside, held her so that she could look down upon her mother's face.
"Mamma!" instantly burst from the lips of the child, in glad accents, as she bent forward eagerly towards her mother.
The eyes of the half-unconscious invalid flew open at the sound of her darling's voice. A feeble smile lit up her almost inanimate face. As she reached her arms towards the child, the doctor gently laid it within them. Hope for the mother, if not for the wife, revived, as he saw the emotion with which that dear one was held to her bosom, and marked the fervent kisses that were imprinted upon its lips. After giving directions to take the child away at the end of ten or fifteen minutes, and restore it again should the mother ask for it, Doctor Arlington retired.
Towards evening he called again. There was a change for the better. The pulse of the invalid beat less feebly; the hue of her countenance was not so death-like. Little Margaret was seated upon the bed, amusing herself with some toys. The mother's eyes were upon the child.
"Dear little one!" said Doctor Arlington, putting his hand upon the head of Margaret, and playing with her golden hair, that had been sweetly curled by the nurse, who perceived, instinctively, the worth of the doctor's prescription.
Mrs. Garnett's eyes brightened. The doctor had spoken of the child purposely, to see how far the mother's feelings had become active. The result assured him that there was now hope of her recovery. In this, he was not mistaken. The mother's love for her offspring, won her back to life. For her children's sakes, she once more took up her burdens, that were grievous to be borne. At the expiration of a few weeks, she was so far recovered as no longer to need a medical attendant. Doctor Arlington parted from her, at his final visit, with feelings of deep commiseration. He saw that her existence was a living death. What she farther suffered, he knew not. He was never again summoned to attend her.
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