Sweethearts and Wives CHAPTER 14.
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Several days more passed, but not a line was received during the time from Milnor. Once during that period, had Grace written, but, as before, in a formal and reserved tone, though her heart yearned to unburden itself freely. Another and another, and even another day, passed without a letter, until Grace became so much disturbed in mind as to seriously alarm Mrs. Ellis. At last, after the lapse of a whole week, making two weeks since his departure, a letter was brought for Grace. Eagerly did she tear it open, and take in its contents almost at a single glance. It was as follows:
"My Dear Grace — The trial is just over, and we have been successful! Two weeks of most intense labor and application have been severe upon me. Both body and mind are exhausted. I feel greatly, the need of rest and recreation — and yet I find I am to have neither. Instead of returning to Westbrook, which I greatly desire to do, I am compelled to leave for New York this afternoon, to attend to some very important business there for Mr. Goodlow, which requires my immediate presence. I regret this very much, for I desire ardently to see you. The separation has seemed a long one, even though my mind has been intensely occupied every moment that I have been here. But why have you written socoldly? Your letters are before me now — your three letters, written in two weeks. I have read them over and over again, but they do not warm my heart. There is a smile in but one of them, and that a feeble smile; and I am going still farther from you. Cannot my wife sustain her husband in the path of duty — or must he travel that rugged way, uncheered? Must he press onward alone? Could I have met you every night, as I returned from the hard labors of the day, and felt the warmth of your sunny smile, and the sweet encouragement of your voice, I would have felt myself, during the past two weeks, the happiest of beings; but this could not be — and why should I allude to it? Your letters do not speak of loneliness; I trust, therefore, that you bear this necessary separation calmly and patiently. To know that you can do this is a satisfaction, for I would not have you feel pain on account of my necessary absence.
"I received a long letter yesterday from my friend Williams. He tells me you have been frequently to see his wife since my absence. I am glad of this. You will find her a lovely woman. Her mind is well balanced, and her heart as warm as unselfish affections can make it. I am sure that you will love her. The tenor of his letter is desponding in regard to her health. This pains me very much. Surely her long sickness does not portend a fatal termination? I earnestly hope not; though, from my knowledge of the fact that she has always been very delicate, I have my fears. Such an event would be sad indeed. I cannot bear to think of it.
"Write to me in New York immediately on receipt of this, and do not study brevity and coldness. Let me see your heart as it really is — warm with a true affection for your husband. Ever faithfully yours, Lewis."
After Grace had read this letter, she laid it down, and, clasping her hands tightly together, sat for a long time with compressed lips, and fixed, untearful eyes. What were thethoughts that passed through her mind, we may vaguely imagine, but cannot throw into the form of words. At length her agitation became so strong, that she rose to her feet, and commenced slowly moving backward and forward through the room. At this moment Mrs. Ellis came in.
"Oh aunt!" exclaimed Grace, the tears coming instantly to her eyes, and flowing over her cheeks, "Lewis has gone to New York!"
"To New York!" ejaculated Mrs. Ellis, in surprise.
"Oh yes — he went yesterday!" And Grace actually wrung her hands with distress. "But what has taken him to New York?"
"Business. But there is his letter. Oh, how selfishly, and unreasonably, and cruelly I have acted!"
Mrs. Ellis took the letter and read it hurriedly through.
"You have doubtless both been to blame," she then said, "though somewhat unequally. You, I think, to a greater extent than your husband; but it is only for you to think and feel right in your position as a wife — and all will be well."
"I am ready to do anything to repair the wrong I have done," Grace said, weeping bitterly.
"Are you ready to make any sacrifice to a sense of duty?" Mrs. Ellis asked, calmly.
"Oh yes! any — any! I will do anything!"
"Still, my dear child — you must be calm. You are not now in a state to make any really good resolutions; for a resolution, to be really good — must flow from a clear perception of some truth. Your feelings are all excited, and your judgment beclouded. Let your heart cease, first, its fluttering pulsations, so that your mind can become clear, and you be able thence to perceive in what course, lies the way of duty. Your husband's prolonged absence is occasioned by unexpected business requirements. To this, then, you must endeavor to be reconciled. If you feel that you would much rather he had returned home, even at the expense of urgent duties — shun that feeling as wrong. The man who will deliberately choose self-indulgence over duty — can never make a woman truly happy, for he does not possess those moral qualities to which her tender affections can permanently cling. Fix this in your mind as a truth, and then think whether you have not opposed your husband when he urged the claims of duty — whether you have not set up your will against his deliberate judgment. Is it possible, do you think, for a man to love deeply, and truly, and permanently — the woman who acts thus? Your own reason must answer, No!"
"Oh aunt! you distress me beyond measure, by what you say. I see it all clearly. I have been guilty of deep injustice to my husband, but I do most sincerely repent of it."
"Then write to him freely. Make a clear confession of all that you see to be wrong. But do not let your feelings betray you into a confession of such things as you are not willing to put away as evil. Bear this in mind; for if you do not guard against this, you will have them rising up hereafter to mar your happiness. You will have confessed them to be wrong — and yet not really seeing them to be so, and acting them out at some future time — you will weaken your husband's confidence in your sincerity."
"Ought I not to go to him at once!"
"I think not, Grace; write to him first, and ask him if you should do so. There may be good reasons why he would rather you would not come, or why he would wish to know that you were coming. He has not said where you could find him in New York, nor whether he would be there two days or two weeks. No, no; your first duty is to write to him freely."
"That I will do at once."
"The sooner the better, of course. Compose your mind as quickly as you can, and then pour out everything into the bosom of your husband."
Grace did so. She wrote a long and tender letter to her husband, making free confession of her faults — and begging his forgiveness. When this was finished and despatched, she felt greatly relieved in mind — an almost insupportable weight was taken from her bosom. When she now thought of living in Boston, the idea was not painful. Any place, with her husband by her side — she felt would be a paradise.
This state continued until about the hour at which the mail was to arrive on the next day. Then she began to look for another letter. But recollecting, after she found that no letter had come, that her husband could not have written while on his way to New York, nor possibly have despatched a letter so as to reach her by that mail, she endeavored to feelpatient for another day, confidently hoping then to hear from him again. But the next day brought no letter, nor the next, nor the next — although full time had passed for him to have received hers and answered it. This was inexplicable. Even Aunt Mary felt troubled. She could not understand it. As for Grace, she was distressed beyond measure.
On the morning of the sixth day since her husband's last letter had been received, a messenger came for Grace from Mrs. Lawson, with the request that she would be kind enough to step in and sit for a little while with her daughter. It had been three days since her last visit to Julia, and then there were apparent too evident indications of a rapidly-progressing decline.
Reluctant as Grace felt to see anyone under existing circumstances, she yet obeyed the request almost immediately. On entering Julia's chamber, she was startled by the change that had taken place in the invalid — a change not fully perceptible to those who daily and hourly lingered about her bed — but to her eyes as palpable as if DEATH had been written in capitals upon her brow. Her lips had lost their delicate tint, the color had faded from her cheek, and her eyes had a glassy appearance. She was supported by pillows in a half-recumbent position. As Grace came up to her bedside, she extended her hand and smiled feebly, saying,
"I felt as if I would like to see you this morning, and therefore you must forgive the liberty I took in sending for you."
"I am glad you took that liberty," Grace returned, "and I shall be still more gratified if I can do or say anything which will give you a moment's pleasure."
"Your company has always been pleasant to me," the invalid said, "and as I felt somehow or other more wearied with myself than usual this morning, I was so selfish as to ask you to drop in, under the hope that in your society I might find relief from thoughts which more than usually oppress me."
"If it is from thoughts that oppress your spirits," Grace said, in a saddened tone, "that you seek relief in my company, I am afraid you will seek in vain. My own feelings are burdened heavily."
"I grieve to hear you say so, my dear madam," replied Julia, her eye brightening, and an expression of tender sympathy pervading her sweet, pale face. "If not presuming too far, may I ask the cause?"
"I have not heard from my husband since he went unexpectedly to New York, and it is now a week since he left Boston."
"A week since you heard from him! Have you written to him in that time?"
"Oh yes — immediately on his going."
"He may be ill."
"Ill?" Grace said, starting and turning pale. "He is — he must be ill! When he wrote from Boston, he complained of being greatly fatigued both in mind and body. Oh, if he should be ill, away from home, and amid strangers! What shall I do?"
"You can go to New York; and you ought to go, without a moment's delay," Julia promptly responded. "No one, like a wife, can minister to her husband in sickness. If you should find him well — it will be the happier meeting; if ill — your duty is by his side."
"You are right," Grace said, instantly rising. "Why did I not know my duty, without having to be reminded of it?"
Then, stooping down and kissing fervently the broad white forehead, the sunken cheeks, and pale lips of Julia, she embraced her tenderly, and murmuring, "Farewell! may we soon meet again, sweet angel!" turned away, and hurriedly left the house.
"Aunt Mary!" she exclaimed, bounding into the presence of Mrs. Ellis a few minutes afterward, "Lewis is ill, and I must go to him immediately!"
"Who told you?" was Aunt Mary's surprised interrogation, as she rose quickly, holding an open letter in her hand.
"My heart tells me so. But that letter! Who? — where is it from?"
"From Mr. Goodlow. He has written me to say that Lewis lies ill at the American Hotel in New York."
"It is indeed true!" poor Grace exclaimed, her face growing pale, her eyes staring wildly, and her whole frame becoming violently agitated. "Oh! let me go quickly! Let me go to him! Oh, if he were to die before I could get there!"
"But you cannot go alone, Grace," Mrs. Ellis said, her own mind much bewildered.
"Alone? I would go to the end of the world alone for the sake of my husband!" was the firm reply of Grace, who was regaining her self-possession.
<p align="justify">"But you cannot go today; the stage left for Boston an hour ago," returned Mrs. Ellis, her mind still confused.
"It matters not — the cars do not leave Boston for New York until five o'clock. I can go there in a private conveyance;" and, so saying, Grace turned away quickly, and went to her own room to make instant preparations for the journey.
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