Married and Single CHAPTER 14.
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For a year or two after the marriage of Edith, neither her father nor mother could really tell whether she were happy or not. Sometimes they would think her unchanged; but no sooner had this conclusion been settled, and their minds allowed to rest upon it, than something would occur to agitate again their doubts. As to her husband, there was something about him that they never could understand. He was a kind of enigma. He had been established in business by his father, but it was easily seen that success could not and would not attend him, and for the simple reason that he did not devote himself properly to his business. To almost any other man bearing to him the relation that Corbin did, Trueman would have talked freely. But there was about him something so cold and distant that he could never speak to him except with formal courtesy, and about general topics.
After the second year, both the father and mother saw the truth they had long dreaded to know — Edith was not happy. More than once had Mrs. Trueman found her in tears, and agitated. But no persuasion could induce her to tell the cause; it was steadily evaded. This mystery made them wretched at times. There was not an hour in the day that they did not think of her, and scarcely an hour through the night that she did not stand vividly before them as an actor in some dream.
To add another bitter ingredient to their cup, just at this time William, their oldest boy, who had attained his eighteenth year, left the store in. which he had been employed, and went off to the South with an adventurer, who had seen in him certain mental qualities that he was assured he could turn to account. For two years, the boy had been a constant source of anxiety. The remonstrances of his father against his dissolute course had not been, in any case, kindly received, but met with ill-nature, and sometimes downright insolence. When he went away, he made known his purpose to no one, and did not even send a verbal message to his father or mother, who only gained intelligence of him in an indirect way.
The conduct of this boy almost broke his mother's heart. It was a cruel recompense for all she had suffered for him, for all the unselfish love which burned upon her heart with a never-dying flame. One day, when somewhat recovered from the first paralyzing effects of this event, Mrs. Trueman called to see Edith. The servant admitted her, and she passed upstairs. She went into the back chamber where she usually found her daughter, but it was vacant. Just as she was about placing her hand upon the closed door that communicated with the two chambers, with the intention of seeking Edith in the adjoining room — she was almost petrified at hearing Corbin say, loud and sternly, as if replying to something spoken so low that she could not hear even the sound of the voice,
"It is true; I do not love you; and the quicker you know it, the better. Go home to your father, and tell him to take care of you! I shall do it no longer. It's enough for me to take care of myself, and it's all that I'm going to do."
"Oh, Alfred!" Mrs. Trueman could hear Edith say, in a hoarse, supplicating voice, "do not say so. You love me — I know you do — you must love me. I will live anywhere, anyhow, submit to anything — only don't say that you do not love me. It will kill me if you repeat it again!"
"Hush! will you!" was the impatient, angry, brutal reply to this. "I am sick to death of your whining. I tell you that I do not love you, and don't believe I ever did!"
As Corbin said this, Mrs. Trueman heard him take two or three steps across the room, when the door was shut with a loud jar, and the incensed husband strode heavily downstairs and left the house. The moment he went out of her daughter's chamber, the mother entered. She found that Edith had fallen across the foot of her bed, and was alreadyinsensible. Her babe was lying in its cradle, sweetly sleeping, all unconscious of the storm that had been raging around it. For a while Mrs. Trueman stood bewildered, and in expectation, each moment, of awaking from a terrible dream; but the body of her child remained before her — a fearful confirmation of the truth of all she had just heard. At length her resolution was taken. She rang for a servant, and directed a carriage to be immediately called. Into this, she had the body of Edith lifted, and removed to her house, where it was laid upon her own bed. The family physician, who had been sent for, and also Mr. Trueman, both entered together, and both were informed, in a few words, of the cause of Edith's alarming condition. The father staggered back, and sank into a chair with a groan of anguish, while the physician calmly proceeded to the adoption of such a course of treatment as the case required.
An hour elapsed, and Edith showed signs of life. Her father and mother stood over her in breathless anxiety. For a time, they feared that her heart would never renew its healthful motion. Now that it beat on again, sending its warm currents to every relaxed fibre of her body, they trembled lest returning animation would not bring returning reason. But in this they were mistaken. At first she moaned sadly, then she seemed in a dream.
"I won't speak of it again, Alfred," she said, as a flush passed quickly over her face. "You may go in and come just as you please, only look at me kindly, and speak to me as you used to do. Oh, it is so long since I have heard you say Edith, dear. Why don't you say it now? Aren't I your own Edith — the mother of your babe? and don't I love you better than all the world beside? What can I do to make you love me as at first?"
To this followed sobs and moans. Then, still with closed eyes, she went on:
"Hark! two o'clock! and Alfred isn't here yet! I wish he would come home. Where can he be? He doesn't love me — or he wouldn't keep away from me so long. Oh! oh! oh!" in a sudden, heart-piercing cry, "don't do it, Alfred! Don't! don't! don't!"
A violent shudder passed through her frame. Her face was disfigured by a look of terror. In the midst of this, she opened her eyes, started up in bed, and looked eagerly into the faces of the three who stood beside it — father, mother, and physician. Then closing her eyes, she sunk back upon her pillow, and lay panting like a deer just escaped from the hunters. Her mother took her hand and pressed it within hers, but the pressure was not returned. At this time, the physician whispered some directions into the ear of Mr. Trueman, and quietly retired, leaving the parents alone with their child.
"Edith!" whispered the mother, bending close to her ear.
Edith looked up into her face. At first there was an absence of thought; this was quickly followed by a look of earnest inquiry, that passed off and rested upon her father.
"Where is my husband?" she asked.
"He is not here."
"Not here! Where am I?"
"At home — in your own old home."'
She startled up and looked around the room and then fell back again with a sigh.
"Where is little Henry? Oh, where is my dear little babe?" and again she rose up, and cast her eyes anxiously around.
"Here he lies, sleeping close by you."
Mrs. Trueman lifted the babe from the bed, and placed it in Edith's arms. The young mother drew it tightly to her bosom, kissed it, and murmuring, "Precious darling!" lay down again, and, closing her eyes, seemed striving to collect her scattered senses. Gradually, deep lines began to sink in her brow, her lips slowly compressed, and a heavy sigh struggled up from her bosom.
"Edith!" whispered her mother.
The sufferer opened her eyes.
"Edith, you are again in your old home. Will you not remain here? We love you with an undying love. No time, no change; no circumstances can affect our love."
Eagerly did Edith look into her mother's face. There was in her countenance, a blended expression of inquiry, alarm, and surprise.
"Why am I here, mother?" she at length asked.
"I brought you here. I found you in a fainting fit, and had you removed."
Edith looked earnestly at her while she said this, sighed, closed her eyes, and turned her face to the wall.
"Say no more to her on this subject than can be helped," Mr. Trueman whispered in his wife's ear. "Keep her quiet both in mind and body."
"I will do the best in my power; but how to act wisely in this crisis, I know not. My mind seems like a whirlpool."
"Look up! look up!" returned the father, in the same low whisper. "If wisdom to guide aright comes at all, it will come from no earthly source."
As Trueman went quietly from the room, his wife's eyes, filled with tears, were turned imploringly upward.
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