The Old Man's Bride CHAPTER 16.
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The effort made by Helen to induce Fanny to return to her uncle's house, proved unsuccessful. The girl's entire being had revolted against the unnatural union, and now, look at it and think of it as she would, the intense disgust at first created, remained. The interview just described had inspired her with a degree of respect for Helen not before felt, and left in her heart a feeling of pity for the unhappy creature, who gave painful evidence, not only in her countenance, but in the tones of her voice, of having suffered intensely. This was one thing; but to live in daily fellowship with her as the wife of her uncle, was another matter altogether. To do that, she did not regard herself as under obligation; and so she remained steady to her first purpose. Mr. Bullfinch was not the man to go after her, and seek to bring her back to his home. Had he put any faith in her threat to leave him, he would have used every inducement in his power to prevent her doing so. But, now that she had actually gone away — his pride would not let him take even the first step towards prevailing on her to return. The effort which Helen had made, was entirely without his knowledge.
Time, while it wore away some of the rough edges which at first produced unpleasant contact, did very little towards bringing into harmony the opposing elements which a false marriage had bound together. A closer union with Mr. Bullfinch, in no way broke down the repugnance which, from the first, possessed the mind of Helen — in no way lessened the pain of the living sacrifice she had made, and was still making.
The change produced upon the state and temper of the young wife, by the new relation into which she had come, was almost inconceivable. At the end of six months, she was so altered that a familiar friend, who had been absent through the period, would scarcely have known her. Not in the breaking down of her health was this apparent, though, most of the time, her face had an unnatural paleness; nor was it shown in a spiritless or melancholy exterior. Most the change was seen in the development of a more decided character; in an occasional haughtiness of manner, savoring at times of heartlessness, never displayed before her marriage. She seemed to regard her new position as one of defense, if not actual warfare, and to have armed herself at every point.
Although Helen tried, and faithfully, for a time, so to administer the affairs of her husband's household as to meet his wants and wishes — she was unable to satisfy his expectations; and he, too old and confirmed in his ways to bend to the new order of things, fretted, or stormed, as the case might be — thus making matters worse instead of better. A milder temper on his part; a giving up, in a measure, if only in appearance, of self, and a graceful acceptance of the earnestly made efforts of Helen to have all things as he desired — would have encouraged and softened her feelings towards him. But, he only thought of and felt the disagreeable differences which now existed, and continually chafedhis wife by a complaining or angry reference thereto. Mr. Lee did what he could, in his weak way, to ameliorate what was around him, while the mother of Helen was ever making things worse by an unwise interference when Mr. Bullfinch was present, or indignant censures on his conduct when he was absent.
A few times had Helen been abroad with her husband since their marriage. From social or public appearances, she had shrunk with a reluctance, that it required all her strength of will to overcome. Of her personal appearance and accomplishments, Mr. Bullfinch was very proud; and having no delicacy concerning the diversity in their ages, would haveshown her off on all occasions, could he have made her passive to his will. This, however, was a matter in which he rarely had his own way. When he wished her to go out with him, she never failed to have some good reason for desiring to remain at home; and far oftener than was agreeable to her husband, refused positively to go with him to places of public amusement, or to join in private entertainments. In company, the old man was ever desirous of bringing his wife forward; urging her to play and sing invariably on these occasions. She had a fine voice, and sang and played with exquisite taste and skill. But, thus to be thrust forward in strange companies — her circle of personal and intimate friends was very limited — was what she could not endure, and she yielded, therefore, only on few occasions to the wishes of her husband, who not infrequently lost patience with her, and manifested, in mixed companies, to the mortification of Helen, and the delight of those who were ill-natured and fond of idle gossip — an overbearing and fretful temper.
Something like a year had elapsed since Helen's marriage, when, one day, invitations were sent for a party at the house of Mr. Lane. The first impulse of Mrs. Bullfinch was to destroy them, and thus leave her husband in ignorance of the fact that they had ever been received. Upon second thought, however, she hesitated to do this. Knowing the temper of Mr. Bullfinch, she did not wish to be involved in the trouble which would surely follow his discovery of what had been done. So, after pondering the matter for some time, she wisely determined to let things take their course.
"What is this?" said Mr. Bullfinch, as his eyes rested on the note of invitation, which Helen had been at no pains to conceal, and, as he spoke, he took it up and read it.
"Ah, indeed!" he remarked, with a pleased manner. "Company at Mr. Lane's, on Thursday evening."
"So it seems," remarked Helen, indifferently.
"Something brilliant, no doubt. I've been at several of Mr. Lane's entertainments, and they are handsome affairs. We will go, of course. I always regretted that you did not accept the last invitation. Now, I am sure you will be delighted."
"I care but little for company," said Helen.
"So much the worse for you," replied her husband, speaking in a quickened tone of voice. "If you would go abroad more frequently, instead of moping, as you do, at home, from week in to week out — you would have better health and lighter spirits. Really, Helen, you wrong yourself, your husband, and society, by the way you are acting. I like company — am social in my habits — have many friends whom I desire to meet; but you — "
Mr. Bullfinch felt himself growing warm, and, therefore, checked the utterance of what was on his tongue. He had learned to forbear a little, as the re-action of his young wife was at times, of a character far from agreeable.
"You need not deny yourself any social pleasures on my account, Mr. Bullfinch," said Helen. I shall always be gratified to have you go into company. If I am happier at home — then why drag me out into the world, between which and myself is no congeniality?"
"I cannot bear to hear you talk in this way, Helen," replied Mr. Bullfinch, with real kindness of manner. "What would I not give to see you cheerful and happy — ready to take the world as it is, and enjoy all the good it has to offer! This is my philosophy, and if it was yours, how much of sunlight would be on your way — and on mine," — he added in a lower voice.
Helen drew a deep sigh, but did not answer. She felt the utter impossibility of being what her husband desired her to be; and yet, as a wife, it was her duty to do all in her power for his happiness. A clear perception of duty, accompanied by this sense of the impossibility of its performance, so saddened her spirit, that, in spite of her struggles to hide what she felt, tears flowed from her eyes.
It was not often that she had permitted Mr. Bullfinch to see her weep. Intensely as she had too frequently suffered, she had been able, through pride, strengthened by a strong will — to subdue the woman's weakness which melted into tears. And there was another reason. She did not love her husband, and, therefore, in her fellowship with him, was rarely affected with any of the tenderer emotions.
It was a strange thing for Mr. Bullfinch to see his wife in tears; and it moved him greatly.
"My poor, dear child," said he, with unaffected kindness, as he laid his hand caressingly upon her. "Do not go on so about this. If you are so adverse to going into company, I will not urge it upon you. We can be happy with each other at home. Try, dear Helen! to be more cheerful. I love you truly, and will do all in my power to secure your happiness. Have I not done so from the first? Perhaps I have been strong-headed, at times, from confirmed habit; this, you must look over and forgive. I am a little quick-tempered, but it is soon past and forgotten."
And as he thus talked, the feelings of Helen softened more and more, and, for awhile, she wept freely. Thought was clearer as emotion at length subsided, and she saw more distinctly her duty, than she had seen it for a long time. A softer expression came into her face, and her large eyes drooped with something of a woman's tenderness.
"I will go with you to Mr. Lane's," said she, in a gentle voice.
"We will decline the invitation, if it is at all disagreeable to you, Helen," replied Mr. Bullfinch.
"I would rather go. It ought not to be disagreeable. I know that I seclude myself too much; that I am unjust to you. But I will try to overcome my weakness."
Her voice trembled through part of this sentence, but regained its steadiness at the close.
"It is not good for us to keep ourselves too much away from society," remarked Mr. Bullfinch. "The mind will prey upon itself. In cheerful contact with the world, we gain cheerfulness. As face answers to face in a glass, so does the face of a man to his friend. We reflect our mutual good feelings, and thus share them as common property. I am glad to hear you say that you will go to Mr. Lane's. I know you will enjoy yourself."
How little did he know of her true state of mind! Enjoy herself in a mirthful company, with the spirit of which her palsied heart had nothing in common! — in a company where she would be as the wife of an old man, the observed of many curious observers, and the subject of ungenerous and heartless comment! Enjoy herself! It was the anticipation of anutter impossibility. Ah! Mr. Bullfinch little dreamed of the self-abnegation involved in the declared purpose of his wife to go with him to the brilliant party that was to be given at Mr. Lane's. He was too much pleased at her assent in the matter, to look very curiously below the surface; and too little skilled in the mysteries of woman's nature to comprehend what he saw, even if it were possible for him to open a window into her heart.
Preparation for the event was next to be made. Mr. Bullfinch expressed his wish that Helen should appear with befitting elegance; and that there might be nothing to prevent it, supplied her liberally with money, besides presenting her with some rich and costly jewelry. If Helen had consulted her own tastes and feelings, she would have attired herself with extreme simplicity, in order to attract as little attention as possible. But knowing what her husband desired and expected, and aware how much he would be disappointed if she did not dress with an elegance that accorded with his views, she abandoned her own preferences. In doing this, she was still governed by good taste.
Having consented to dress for the sake of pleasing her husband — a change of feeling came over Mrs. Bullfinch. Gradually, an interest in the work of preparation was awakened. As one article of attire after another was chosen, and, in imagination, she saw the effect which it produced, the pride of appearance grew active, and something like a spirit of emulation warmed the cold atmosphere in which her thoughts had moved.
As strange as it may seem, this feeling gradually increased, until Helen began to look forward to the coming entertainment with something like pride and pleasure. If she was to be the observed of many observers — then admiration, as well as pity, would be excited. Once admitted to a place in her bosom, the feeling grew stronger; and by the time the evening of the party had arrived, the old man's bride was anticipating the occasion as one in which triumphs were to be achieved. And she did not greatly err in this. But of theirnature, there came no foreshadowing to her mind.
The evening of the party at Mr. Lane's had come, and the interest now manifested therein by Helen, was a matter of surprise both to her husband and parents — pleased surprise to Mr. Bullfinch and her mother, and, to her father, who had observed with a sad hopelessness of feeling, the unnatural changes which were taking place in the character andmental states of his daughter, a source of at least some small degree of satisfaction.
If, in anything, Mr. Bullfinch was dissatisfied with the appearance of his wife, when she joined him, on descending from her chamber, dressed for the occasion, it was in the lack of certain showy points which her good taste had led her to reject. Yet, for all this, never had she appeared so beautiful in his eyes — never had he felt prouder of her than now.
"You really look charming, Helen," he said, as he gazed upon her with lover-like admiration. "Charming," he repeated, as his eyes ranged over her person.
"Do I?" was her simple response; yet, in the tones of her voice, the most indifferent ear could have detected an expression of pleasure.
"And you would have looked more beautiful still," he added, "if you had consulted less carefully, your too severe taste. A little more ornament would have made the whole effectperfect."
Helen smiled rather feebly, as she answered, "My own opinion is, that I am rather over-dressed."
"O, no, no; not in a single particular," said the ardent, admiring old man. "Your excellent taste will always prevent your falling into that error."
"Others may see with different eyes," replied Helen, as a shadow flitted over her face.
For the sober moods of his wife, Mr. Bullfinch had no fancy. He saw the passing shadow, and said, instantly —
"Come, dear; the carriage is waiting." Without further remark, Helen passed from the house, and was soon whirling away towards the elegant residence of Mr. Lane.
It was not without sore conflict, and bitter self-denial, that Helen had decided to make one of this party, the second which she had been induced to attend since her marriage. After her decision, she came under the influence, as has been seen, of a new state. A certain worldliness of feeling overlaid the instinctive qualities of her mind, and gave birth to a spirit of display, and a desire to make an impression. She was too conscious that, in marrying an old man, she had forfeited the good opinion of her gender. She had but to take counsel of her own thoughts and feelings, to know how the act would be regarded. She had but to refer to her own loss of self-respect, to know how she would be esteemed among right-feeling women. She could not, therefore, go into society hoping to win regard and love — hoping to gain a position such as she might be proud to occupy. As she must appear on the social stage, it was needful to act a part; and her latent pride of character prompted her to choose a brilliant part, and to act it well. If she could not inspire a sentiment ofrespect — she was resolved to win admiration.
This was the state of mind which the unhappy victim of a false marriage was endeavoring to super-induce upon her real character. The effects of her last struggles with good impulses, were visible in the flitting shadow which darkened her young brow, as she was about passing from the scene of rehearsal at home — to make her appearance on thestage at Mr. Lane's.
As Mrs. Bullfinch entered the brilliantly lighted and already well-filled drawing-rooms, not a trace of weakness could be seen on her beautiful countenance, that was flushed with hues warm from her now lightly beating heart. Leaning on the arm of her husband, she moved amid the crowd, extorting admiration, and conscious that it was given.
"Who is she?"
"Is that her father"?
Such questions, in suppressed tones, or low whispers, reached, ever and always, her ear. They did not awaken in her bosom a quicker throb. She was fully prepared for them. None knew better than she, that her husband was old enough to be her father, and she did not expect strangers to the true relation that existed, to be guiltless of error on the subject. Her pride had been wounded, over and over again, from these mistakes, so naturally made; but she had covered her coat of armor with new plates of harder and more highly polished steel, and especially for this occasion; and now the arrows rebounded from her protected bosom, with scarcely a jar against the armor.
"Beautiful!"
"What a splendid creature!"
"Not her husband?"
Was it a well-bred company, which remarks like these were loudly enough uttered to reach her ears — in fact, uttered at all?
Well-bred, or not, such whispered remarks were made, and were heard by the young wife. We only note the fact. If such things indicate lack of good-breeding, then there is a sad lack of this essential of truly good society in many of our fashionable drawing-rooms, and among people who effect to hold everything vulgar in abhorrence.
But Helen was protected at every point. She knew the quality of those among whom she was going, and was well enough read in the book of human nature, to understand the lessons which were profitable to be learned. And, yet, while she was altogether unaffected by a reference to her position as the wife of an old man, she was far from being insensible to the admiration she had designed to awaken. That produced a warmer glow in her bosom, and deepened the rose which spread its beautiful petals on her cheeks.
As the wife of Adam Bullfinch, Helen attained at once a social position. The standing thus settled, her personal attractions made her the center of a circle, in which she was no shrinking girl, timid of her powers — but a self-possessed woman, entirely equal to the maintenance of her position, yet never guilty of over-acting or indelicate boldness; and, therefore extorting a sentiment of respect, as well as compelling admiration. While she made no overtures, she rejected no offered attentions; and all who came in contact with her were, in a measure, constrained to a favorable impression.
It was not long after Helen entered the drawing-rooms of Mr. Lane, before she became aware of the presence of two people, who if she did not hold her natural feelings with a double rein, would have power to break down her assumed character, and compel her to retire in utter inability to sustain the part in acting, which she had made so good a beginning. These were Henry Wellford, and the niece of her husband, Fanny Milnor.
What she was to endure, from the presence of Wellford, may be imagined from the fact that she had not met him since her marriage, and had ever looked forward to such a meeting, as a trial of all others to be dreaded. Far away, in the most sacred chamber of her heart, a chamber with the door closed, and the secret of entrance known only to herself — was enshrined an image — the image of Henry Wellford. He was her first love and her only love, and to him would her heart remain true as the needle, even until its last feeblest pulsation. How many an hour, had she brooded over the picture of a meeting, which must sooner or later take place, and striven to school her heart into an icy calmness; but never in imagination could she compel the quick, throbbing pulses to beat low and evenly.
Never did she unlock the door of that secret chamber, open it, and stand reverently before the enshrined image — that she did not suffer from profound agitation. How, then, was she to meet her heart's idol, face to face, in utter hopelessness — and maintain a composed exterior? We may not wonder that she grew faint, nor that her cheek paled, as her eyes rested upon him. An electric consciousness of her position, and the fatal consequences which might follow a betrayal of her real feelings, brought back the color to cheeks and brow, and restored the fire of her eyes. To aid the recovery of her self-possession, she turned her eyes from him, and strove to forget the changed face that came upon her suddenly, like an apparition. It was some time before she ventured to look in the direction where she had first seen him.
Although frequently urged by his largely increasing circle of friends, to go into society, this was the first time that Wellford had been dragged from his self-imposed, and, to most of those who knew him, incomprehensible seclusion. But for the importunities of Mr. Lane, who disregarded all excuses, he would have spent this evening in his quiet home, instead of in the agitating sphere of a fashionable party.
It so happened that, soon after Wellford's entrance into the drawing-rooms, he received an introduction to Fanny Milnor, whose thoughtful, subdued, and rather retiring manners, combined with an agreeable address, gave him a bias in her favor. Change and trial had left their marks on her also. He was conversing with Fanny, when he first became aware of Helen's presence. He was remarking with more than usual animation, upon something which she had said, when, on lifting his eyes, he encountered those of Mrs. Bullfinch. They were fixed upon him with an intenseness which seemed like fascination. She seemed to be reading not only his countenance, but his very soul; and, while she did so, betrayed to him the secret of her own heart. No oral language was needed to tell him that he was still beloved; and with a devotion far greater than he had dreamed of, in the earlier and happier days, when lip-language falteringly told the story of affection. For a few moments, he was stunned — bewildered. Before he recovered himself, or Helen could withdraw her eyes from his, Fanny's gaze took the direction of her companion's, and she too first became aware of the presence of her uncle's wife.
There was a heightened color in the face of Fanny Milnor, when Wellford turned to her again, and her voice had lost its steadiness at her next utterance. His voice was also changed and husky. Both suddenly lost interest in the subject on which they had been conversing; were less pointed in their remarks, and gradually lapsed into silence.
They were sitting, each busy with new thoughts, when a young lady friend came to the side of Fanny, and said, in a low voice, as she glanced across the room,
"Have you seen Mrs. Bullfinch?"
"Yes," was the low, and seemingly reluctant reply.
"She makes quite a showy appearance," said the other.
"Yes."
"I'm afraid she's utterly heartless," was added.
"How could you look for anything else," said Fanny, with a bitterness of tone which almost caused Wellford to startle.
"Young ladies with much heart, don't usually enter into marriages of this kind," remarked the friend.
"Heart has nothing to do with it," said Fanny. "None but motives the most sordid, could ever have induced Helen Lee to marry my uncle. I told him so, but he would not listen to me. He has had good cause, I have reason to believe, long before this, for a correction of his opinions in regard to her."
"Do they not live happily together?" inquired the young friend.
"Happily! What a question to ask? One might as soon expect repose on the eternal billows — as happiness in such a union. They may tolerate each other, but as for happiness? — it comes not within the range of their experience. Look at Helen's face."
The young lady turned her eyes towards Mrs. Bullfinch.
"Did you know her before her marriage? asked Fanny.
"I used to see her sometimes," was answered.
"Do you remember her countenance as it was then?"
"Distinctly. I used to think it a very sweet, innocent face."
"Look at it now!"
"It is much changed, certainly; but is more womanly and brilliant, if I may use the word. What splendid eyes!"
"Their splendor has been acquired at too great cost."
"At what cost?"
"They shine not from heart-fires, kindled by the breath of love. Dead embers and ashes, lie upon the altar whereon she has offered up her sacrifices. Their light comes from without — they reflect only the glare of a vain, weak, debasing desire for admiration."
"You speak strongly," said Mr. Wellford, now first trusting himself in utterance; yet not venturing to look Fanny steadily in the face, lest he should betray something of what he felt. He was now first aware that his companion was the niece of Mr. Bullfinch, of whose indignant withdrawal from her uncle's house, he had heard at the time of its occurrence.
"I do, and with reason," answered Fanny.
"Mr. Bullfinch is your uncle?"
"He is."
"Excuse me; I was not aware of this until a moment ago. You did not approve the marriage?"
"How could I?"
"You knew Helen Lee?"
"She was my teacher."
"How did you regard her?"
"With a respect and esteem amounting almost to affection."
"Upon what were these based?"
"On her supposed qualities."
"May not your uncle have been as much attracted by these, as you were?"
"I have tried not to blame him," said Fanny, in a low, troubled voice, partly speaking to herself. "She must have acted on him with consummate arts!"
"How often did she visit your house?" asked Wellford, now resolved to gain all possible information on a abject that had been, to him, a blight and a mystery.
"Twice a week."
"For what purpose?"
"To give me lessons, according to engagement."
"Was your uncle at home on these occasions?"
"Rarely during the earlier times of her visits; but, towards the last, quite frequently."
"Did you then see anything in her manner towards him, that awakened suspicion?"
"Nothing. The announcement, when finally made, came upon me like a thunderbolt! I was utterly unprepared for it."
"Her arts must have been consummate, indeed," said Wellford, with an irony that Miss Milnor did not fail to perceive, "if it could win your uncle's regard, without in the least exciting your suspicion. When and where did she act upon him? Did they meet except at your house?"
"I know not. Nothing that occurred, ever led me to think so. But, it strikes me, Mr. Wellford," said Fanny, with a frankness that his rather close interrogations fully warranted, "that your questions are rather searching, and betray more than an idle interest in the wife of my uncle. It is said that she had a lover." And she turned her eyes fully upon the young man's face. "Did you ever hear whether this were so or nor!"
Vainly Wellford strove to keep down the tell-tale blood that a quicker heart-throb sent bounding up to his face. He was only in part successful. Before he could frame a reply, they were joined by two or three friends, and the conversation took a new shape, much to his relief.
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