Lovers and Husbands CHAPTER 20.
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"Poor Mrs. Garnett!" was the sympathizing remark of Doctor Arlington, uttered almost involuntarily, as he sat musing on the evening after having dismissed her case. "She lives on only for her children."
"Mrs. Garnett! Oh yes; how is she?" said the wife of the doctor, lifting her eyes from a newspaper she held in her hand.
"She is better than she was; but better only for the sake of her children. Nothing but her love for them keeps her alive. There is something very mysterious in her manner towards her husband. She seems to be struggling with herself to keep from loathing him. And he certainly has no affection for her. When I left him this morning, after informing him that my attendance was no longer required, he thanked me coldly for what I had done, and said he hoped there would not be another recurrence of the disease that had rendered medical treatment necessary. I certainly hope there will not. If so, his conduct will be changed; for that his treatment of her has something to do with the sudden illness from which she has just recovered, I have little doubt. To me it has been a very painful case. I can bear with professional composure to see the body wasting away under a disease that does not depend upon the patient's state of mind; but when the mind's distress is so acute as to prostrate the physical system, my sympathies are all alive. The cause of Mrs. Garnett's severe illness is evidently a mental one, and has particular reference to her marriage relation."
Mrs. Arlington did not reply to these remarks of her husband. They awakened thoughts which she did not wish to utter. They led her to contrast her own happy condition with what it must have been had she married the fascinating — but unprincipled individual who, at one time, had drawn out towards him her young affections. An inward shudder caused her heart momentarily to pause, as imagination pictured herself in the position of Garnett's wife; but the consciousness of a glad reality sent quickly a warm glow through her bosom.
A bright little boy came in at this moment, and taking his place upon his father's knee, began to relate the wonders he had seen in Broadway, while walking out that afternoon with the nurse. Mrs. Arlington resumed her newspaper — but soon interrupted the prattle of her child by saying, with some concern in her voice,
"Just listen, dear. 'Died on the 14th inst., Mrs. Emily Cooper, aged fifty-seven years.'"
"Mrs. Emily Cooper! who is she?" inquired the doctor.
"The mother of Mrs. Emily Whitney."
"Indeed?"
"Yes; it is my old friend, Mrs. Cooper, in whose house I have spent many a happy hour. But where can her daughter be? I wonder if it is possible that she is in New York? I really feel condemned to think that I have not, since our residence in the city, sought out Mrs. Cooper, and renewed our acquaintance. She was an excellent, kind-hearted — but rather weak woman. After my refusal of Mr. Garnett's offer, Emily, influenced by her husband, I have no doubt, ceased to communicate with me by letter, as formerly; and, under the circumstances, I did not feel inclined to visit at her mother's, where I would be likely to meet her, especially as two notes written to her remained unanswered."
"I don't know that you have any particular cause for self-condemnation," the husband said; "I should think you acted pretty nearly right."
"Perhaps so. Still, I can't help wishing that I had made some effort to find Mrs. Cooper. Through her I should have learned whether Emily were still living, and, if alive, her condition. My old feelings for this pleasant friend of early years have not yet subsided. I often think of her with much interest."
"Is the residence of Mrs. Cooper given in the notice you have there?"
"No; there is nothing but what I have read to you."
"When did she die?"
"On the 14th."
"And this is the 21st of the month."
"Yes; she has been dead for a week."
Here the conversation dropped again. While the doctor sported with his prattling child, the thoughts of his wife continued to rest upon her friend of other days; and with these thoughts came also the yearnings of old affections. An hour after, the doctor was called out to see a patient. He did not return until a late hour.
At breakfast on the next morning, he was more than usually thoughtful and silent. Flora noticed this, and rightly conjecturing that he was occupied in some professional matter of more than ordinary interest, made no remark that referred to his absent-mindedness. That evening, after the little ones had retired, and they were alone, Doctor Arlington said,
"Flora, I met with a case today as strange, in some respects, as that of Mrs. Garnett."
"What was it, dear?" his wife asked, eagerly.
"Strange as it may seem, I find that a lady whom I saw last evening is no other than your old friend, Mrs. Whitney."
"Why, husband!" exclaimed Flora, starting forward.
"Yes, it is true; and she is almost as much a wreck as Mrs. Garnett."
Mrs. Arlington looked into her husband's face with mute surprise.
"She is now," continued the doctor, "lying very ill at the house where her mother died. She arrived from Charleston, in a boat, two days ago, with one child. She had two when she left; but the other sickened on the way, and was taken from the evil to come. I have learned that her husband, who for years has lived by gambling, became involved in some difficulty with a man from whom he had won a large sum of money, and that the man shot him dead. His wife then took her two children, and returned to New York by sea, to find a home once more with her mother; but, as you are aware, that mother was dead. The death of her husband, under such terrible circumstances, shocked both mind and body; the loss of one of her children at sea, and then the dreadful news that her mother was likewise in the grave, completed the work. When called in, I found her body under the influence of a raging fever, and her mind in delirium."
"Dreadful!" ejaculated Mrs. Arlington.
"Today there is some abatement of the fever, though her mind still wanders. She talks continually in a sad, mournful strain; sometimes incoherently — but often uttering whole sentences that express most touchingly how much she has suffered from loneliness and neglect. 'Oh, Charles,' she said once, 'why do you stay away so long, so very long? I sit up and work until I ache with weariness. There! it is three o'clock, and he hasn't come yet. Where does he stay so long — so long — oh! so very long?" A great deal like this she utters, with touching pathos."
"Does she look at all as she used to look?" asked Flora.
"I wouldn't have known her. The brow that was once so smooth is now seamed with many lines; there is no bloom upon her cheeks, now this and sallow; her eye has lost its brightness; she is indeed a wreck."
Tears were rolling down the face of Mrs. Arlington, as, rising from her chair, she came up to the doctor, and laying her cheek to his, while she drew her arm around his neck, murmured,
"Thank God for giving me a good husband!"
This little act of affection — these brief words — came from a full heart. Two of her friends had made shipwreck of all that is dear to a woman; but her bark still moved gently on a summer sea. This thought, coming home to her so vividly, touched her heart, and brought forth the almost involuntary act and words that have been just recorded.
On the next morning it was agreed that Flora should accompany her husband in his visit to Mrs. Whitney. Her heart fluttered as she ascended to the chamber where her old friend lay, after entering the house in which Mrs. Cooper had lived with a distant relative for some years previous to her death. From the door of the sick room, she moved with a quiet step to the bed upon which Emily rested, and there, by the side of her husband, in fact, leaning upon his arm, she stood looking down upon the pale, shrunken, and marred face of Emily for nearly a minute. The sick woman slept. Her quiet breathing, and the moisture that rested upon her forehead, showed that her fever had left her, while her calm, infant-like sleep indicated the return of reason.
"She is better," the doctor said, in a low tone, to the woman who had the care of her.
"Yes, she seems better. Her fever left her several hours ago," was replied.
The sound of voices reached the ear of Mrs. Whitney. Her lids unclosed, and she looked up with surprise to find that strangers were standing beside her. For a moment or two she closed her eyes as if to shut out an illusion; then opened them again, to find that she had only looked upon what was real.
"Emily!" said Mrs. Arlington, in a low, earnest voice, bending over towards her old friend as she spoke.
The sick woman started at the sound of her voice, while her cheeks flushed, and her eyes scanned eagerly the countenance of the strangers.
"Emily, do you not know me?"
"Flora! Flora! Oh! is it indeed you?" quickly burst from the lips of Mrs. Whitney, as she rose up from the pillow upon which she lay, and threw herself forward upon the bosom of Mrs. Arlington.
"Yes, yes, my dear friend!" returned Flora, as she drew her arms around the almost skeleton form of Emily, and held it tightly to her heart.
"To think that we should ever meet thus," the almost heart-broken creature said, an hour afterward, as Mrs. Arlington sat holding her hand, at the same time that she caressed a flaxen-haired child, some four years old, the sweet image of her mother, that had climbed up confidently into her lap. In the hour that had passed, much of Mrs. Whitney's sad history had been related, while mutual tears mingled freely. "To think that, a few years ago, all was so bright above and around, and so full of promise; and that now, all is sorrow and gloom! Ah, Flora, life's early promise is a cheating dream!"
To this sentiment, Mrs. Arlington could not respond. To her, early promises had been more than fulfilled. She had chosen wisely her lot; the mere external form of good was not enough for her; she had looked for the substance within the form. Her friend, deceived by the semblances of good, had rested her all in life upon an unstable foundation which had crumbled beneath her, when it was too late to seek another habitation.
All the assurances of undecayed affections, all the consolations and hopes that she could present to her mind, were freely offered by Mrs. Arlington. They had their effect, small though the appearance was, upon the mind of Emily.
"You will come and see me again, will you not. Flora?" she said, as she clung to the hand of her friend, who had risen at last to leave her; "there is now no one left to care for me, or to love me."
"Yes, Emily, I will come again, and often. I am glad to find you so much better than I had expected, from the doctor's account of your situation when he left you yesterday. You will soon be able to walk out, I hope, and then I shall expect you to be one of my most frequent, as you certainly will be one of my most welcome visitors."
Then kissing tenderly the moist cheek of her unhappy friend, Mrs. Arlington left her and returned home.
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