Sweethearts and Wives CHAPTER 11.
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When Milnor returned from his office in the evening, he met Grace with a quiet, cheerful air, his mind apparently unconcerned about anything. After tea, he took up a book and proposed reading, which was assented to by both Aunt Mary and Grace. An hour was spent in reading, and the conversation followed upon the subject treated of in the book, in which Milnor expressed himself in a style of language and thought, which made the heart of Grace warm with a feeling of pride for her husband, at the same time that it throbbed with a more generous, and, therefore, a less selfish affection.
After the evening had passed in this way, and they were about separating for the night, Milnor said, in a quiet, "of course" kind of way, which showed his mind to be fully made up on the subject,
"I shall go to Boston tomorrow, Aunt Mary."
"Will you, indeed? What takes you to Boston, Lewis?"
"Mr. Goodlow has written to me to come there and attend a case for him of some importance, and, of course, I must go."
"Oh, certainly. I'm glad to find that a man like Mr. Goodlow has confidence in your legal abilities. It is a case of some importance, you say?"
"Yes, I believe it is; but I have not been advised of its nature."
"How long do you expect to be absent?"
"That I cannot say. A week or two, perhaps."
"Not so long as that, Lewis?" Grace said, with an involuntary expression of surprise and disappointment, the tears gathering in her eyes as she spoke.
"Perhaps not, Grace; but if it is a case of any consequence, it will require some days to study it thoroughly — and then the trial of it may last as many more."
"I wish you didn't have to go," the young wife said, in a trembling voice.
"Duty calls him away, Grace. Let him go, then, with words of strength and encouragement — not with tears to depress his energies."
Grace made no reply, but turned away to hide her tears, and passed quickly to her chamber. Milnor did not follow her for some minutes. He purposely waited to give her time to recover her feelings.
About ten o'clock the next day, he parted with Grace in the tenderest manner, and then set off for Boston.
The hour that was passed alone by the young wife, after her husband had left her, was an hour of close self-examination and bitter self-upbraidings. His words, uttered so plainly the day before, came back upon her stripped of the harshness with which they seemed then to be spoken, and bearing all the force of true sentiments. Keenly did she feel their import.
"Oh, how unjust I have been!" she could not help at last exclaiming, as the tears came to her eyes, and she bent down her head, and commenced weeping and sobbing bitterly.
Her feelings had calmed down a good deal when her aunt came into her chamber and said,
"Come, Grace, I want you to make a call with me upon Mrs. Williams — Julia Lawson that was. You know she was married on the same day that your wedding took place. She has been ill for some time. We ought to have called before."
"Excuse me, aunt, if you please. I really do not feel like calling on anybody today."
"No, but that won't do, child. You must shake off such feelings."
"But what has made you think of calling on Mrs. Williams?"
"Her illness, for one thing. But I have often thought of making her more intimate acquaintance. She is a lovely young woman — as sweet tempered, I am told, as she is innocent and beautiful in appearance."
"I had rather not call now, aunt. I didn't call while I was rich, and now I do not wish to subject myself to the remarks about 'coming down,' and all that, which will be made. I feel myself just as important now, as ever I did."
"And so you are; but your reason for not wishing to call is a very foolish one. You have nothing to do with what people may say. Is it right to call upon Mrs. Williams? That is the question to ask."
"It's right enough, I suppose; but I feel no inclination to go whatever."
"Will you not go to oblige me?"
"Certainly I will, aunt."
"Then get yourself ready." And, so saying, Aunt Mary turned away, and went to her own room to dress.
An exposure during the early part of the winter, had left Mrs. Williams with a severe cold, to which followed fever, and a general prostration of the whole system. She was exceedingly tender and fragile, far better fitted for a genial southern climate, than for the piercing airs and sudden changes of New England. The least exposure affected her. A sudden draught, a damp foot, or exercise that produced the slightest perspiration — would be felt almost instantly. It was this susceptibility which had kept her indisposed the greater part of the winter.
"She has not been out of the house for two months, I am told," Mrs. Ellis said, as she stepped from her own door with Grace.
"So long as that? Her days must pass very tediously."
"Perhaps not. Sickness subdues the temper, and brings with it the blessing of patience."
"Then Mrs. Williams is very patient, no doubt."
"I am told that she is."
"Well, some people have a larger share of this virtue than others. I wish I possessed more of it."
By this time they had gained the little gate to the white fence that enclosed Mrs. Lawson's cottage, and lifting the latch, they passed in. Their knock was answered by Mrs. Lawson herself, who bade them a smiling welcome.
"How is your daughter?" Mrs. Ellis asked, after they had been seated for a few moments.
"She seems better today, though she is still unable to leave her room," Mrs. Lawson replied, while a faint shadow flitted over her face.
"She has been ill for some time, I believe," Grace remarked.
"Yes, ma'am, ever since the winter set in. But will you not walk into my daughter's room — she will be much gratified to see you."
Mrs. Lawson arose, and led the way into an adjoining chamber.
"Mrs. Ellis and Mrs. Milnor, my dear," said the mother, in a tone of peculiar tenderness.
Upon a bed of virgin whiteness lay a pale, thin figure. Her face was partly turned away, and she seemed not to have heard the voice of her mother, or to be conscious of the presence of anyone. And yet her eyes were open, but lifted to the clear blue sky which was visible through the window, from which the curtain had been partly drawn aside. Enough of her features could be seen by Grace to impress her instantly with a feeling of admiration for their chaste beauty; while their calm, holy, elevated expression, so unlike anything of earthly mold she had ever seen, filled her with something like reverence and love.
"Julia, dear!" said her mother again, laying her hand upon her as she spoke, "Mrs. Ellis and Mrs. Milnor have been so kind as to make you a call."
A slight flush came instantly to the cheek of the invalid, as she turned towards the visitors, and offered them her thin, white hand. But her smile was sweet, and her large bright eyes lit up with a sparkling welcome. Grace felt drawn irresistibly towards her in a moment. There was a charm about her — the charm of purity, innocence, and love to all — which won her heart, and made her feel an inexpressible tenderness towards her.
"I will not attempt to apologize for not having called upon you before," she said, after the passage of some ten minutes, which had given Mrs. Ellis and Mrs. Lawson time to become engaged in conversation; "but, now that I am here, permit me to say that I shall feel greatly favored if you will number me among your friends. I have many with summerhearts; many who are mirthful, and glad, and running over with joyfulness; but none like you, who have learned, amid the privations, and pains, and weariness of sickness, to be cheerful — nay, I may say, even happy. May I, then, claim the privilege I ask?"
"I know not that I can impart anything to you," Julia replied. "But as often as you can spare an hour for my sick chamber, just so often will you bless the loneliness of one who often wishes for the presence of a friend to give light wings to the passing moments."
"Then you are sometimes weary?"
"I am but human," said the invalid, with a feeble smile.
"True! you seemed so calm and resigned that I had almost forgotten that," Grace replied, smiling in turn.
"But I am never allowed to forget it. Still, I would not be thought to murmur or repine. I have little cause for either. But for one thing — I would be happy."
"But for one thing! Ah! yes. That one thing. Who cannot say the same?"
"True. There is ever something to make us unhappy."
"But what, may I ask, is this disturber of your otherwise peaceful bosom?"
"I am not one of those," said Mrs. Williams, calmly, "who cling to life with such an eager anxiety as to be ever cheating themselves into false security. I am willing to die whenever my time shall come. But," and her voice quivered, and the rising moisture dimmed her eyes, "like yourself, but few months have passed since my wedding-day. When I look into my husband's anxious face, and listen to his tender inquiries — I am disturbed; and the thought of him disturbs me whenever I am more than usually conscious of weakness, and the gradual sinking of my health."
"But surely, Mrs. Williams, you do not have apprehensions of so serious a nature?"
"They often force themselves upon me — but are painful only on my husband's and my mother's account. It will be hard for them to give me up, if I should really be called to die, and that right early."
"Do not talk so, my dear madam! You pain me!"
"The thought of death to me, has nothing terrible," said Julia, innocently.
"It is a thought that always shocks me dreadfully."
"It has nothing in it painful to my feelings. It is, in reality, only life going from a dusky chamber, through a dark passage — into a brilliantly-lighted palace!"
"How strangely you talk!" Mrs. Milnor said, in surprise.
"Does this, indeed, sound strange to your ears! To me, such thoughts are as familiar as household words. From childhood up, I have been taught to look upon death not only without dread — but really as a messenger of good. I have been taught that the Lord's providence is over everyone, the evil and the good, and that no one is removed from this world except at the very best moment for him. I have also been taught that when anyone dies, his spirit is received by angels, who guard him with inexpressible tenderness and love, and that they introduce him so gradually into the scenes of another life, that he is not for some time conscious of the change; that when he has entered upon the other life, which is only a continuation of the life in this world — he is introduced into a society of like affection with himself; and, if those be good affections — he lives in that society engaged in active spiritual employments, which are uses of various kinds, inexpressibly happy forever. Why, then, should I fear to die?"
"Come, Grace, dear!" said Mrs. Ellis, laying her hand upon her niece, who was leaning over towards Julia, and listening with eager attention. "We must make one or two more calls this morning — and then it will be time for us to be at home."
Hastily dashing aside a tear, Grace arose, pressed warmly the hand of Julia, and even bent down and kissed her thin, pale cheek.
"I will see you soon," she said, in a low voice. "I must talk with you again."
"Come as often, Mrs. Milnor, as you feel willing to breathe the not very cheerful atmosphere of a sick room," replied Julia, smiling.
"You seemed interested with Mrs. Williams," Aunt Mary said, as they gained the street.
"Deeply! I have never felt so drawn towards anyone in my life. She is no common woman."
"That I have often heard said, by those who know her best."
"I do not mean that she has strong and brilliant points. I mean — "
"I know what you mean, Grace. There is a loveliness of character about her — a sweetness — a goodness that we rarely meet with."
"Even that does not express all I mean, Aunt Mary. She has truth, as well as goodness. With the harmlessness of the dove, there seems to be the wisdom of the serpent. There is power and lucidity in her mind — as well as gentleness and goodness in her heart."
"These, in just proportions — these, evenly balanced, make the perfect character, Grace."
"And such a character is rarely met. This is why I said she was no common woman."
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