The Old Man's Bride CHAPTER 22.
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For the party at Mrs. Levering's, Mrs. Bullfinch made even more thoughtful preparation than for the one previously attended. Her new dress was of the richest material, and its style and trimming such as to show off her person and complexion to the greatest advantage.
"How beautiful! How attractive!" was the mental exclamation of her husband, as he gazed upon her, when fully attired for the evening, and ready to enter the carriage which was to convey them to Mrs. Levering's. Yet, with this involuntary feeling of admiration — this consciousness of his young wife's charms, Mr. Bullfinch looked forward to the mirthful assemblage in which she was to shine, with a feeling of uneasiness so profound, as to rob him of peace entirely. Too fully was he satisfied that Helen did not regard him with any real affection. But, of this, he had no right to complain; for, had she not declared to him, most unequivocally, before marriage, that she possessed no heart to give; that, if he took her hand — he must be content with that alone? Then, he did not give to her declaration its full force; alas! how fraught with meaning had he since proved it to be! And now, when he saw the admiration she was eliciting, and believed that at least one man, with whom she must come into immediate contact, loved her with the fervor of a first passion, his jealousy became feverish in its intensity.
As for Helen, though she knew it not, the leading impulse from which she was acting sprang from a desire to meet Mr. Wellford. In all her toilette arrangement, now most carefully made, every effect sought to be produced was for his eyes. At Mr. Lane's party, during the earlier portion of the evening, gratified vanity fed the flame of excitement, and enabled her to act her brilliant part. But, now, another state had supervened; she felt indifferent to all, except Henry Wellford, whose image was scarcely ever absent from her mental vision. The moment she entered Mrs. Levering's drawing-room, her eyes began ranging about in search of her old lover; and the search did not end until, with a feeling of disappointment, she ascertained that he was not present. Then a certain listlessness came over her, and to many of those who, at Mr. Lane's, had been charmed by her free, social manners and lively conversation — she was dull, distant, and abstracted. By several, the change was noticed and remarked upon. Mr. Bullfinch, who was quite as uninteresting as his wife, remained close by her side, and did his part fully, towards keeping young gallants at a distance.
Suddenly, after the lapse of nearly an hour, the rather pale face of Mrs. Bullfinch was seen to flush and her eyes to light up with a new interest. Those who noticed this, and followed the direction of her glances, saw the handsome person of Henry Wellford, junior partner in the extensive house of Lane, Latta & Co. From that time, Mrs. Bullfinch, to all external seeming, was another creature. A new beauty came into her young face. No longer did she repel those who approached her; and soon, as on the evening at Mr. Lane's, she was the center of an admiring circle. Yet, even beyond this circle, went eyes and thoughts to one who did not approach her; nor, indeed, so far as she was able to detect, seem even to know she was in the room.
Not long after Mrs. Bullfinch became aware of Mr. Wellford's presence, she saw the attractive face of her husband's niece, Fanny Milnor; and almost at the same moment, the young man approached her, and the two were soon engaged in earnest and familiar conversation. Lip and cheek paled for a moment; then, an effort, born of conscious weakness, sent the blood back again. How instantly wretched became the excited woman; while a feeling of bitter dislike towards Fanny took possession of her bosom. It required, now, a far stronger effort on her part than before, to maintain an interested exterior; to meet and adequately respond to the social attentions which were freely accorded. As for Wellford and Miss Milnor, no full minute of time passed, in which Mrs. Bullfinch did not turn her eyes upon them, and note, with a quick instinct, from signs none but a woman can read, the state of feeling that existed between them. Disappointed beyond measure was she, in not receiving from Wellford a single glance. Not once was a look cast towards her; and there was nothing in his manner which indicated a knowledge of her presence. As this manifestation of ignorance or indifference continued, it seemed to Mrs. Bullfinch as if her feelings would suffocate her. In the midst of this unhappy state, she saw Wellford accompany Miss Milnor to the piano, and watched him while he stood by her, as she sung, with skill and fine taste, two or three popular tunes. She did not hear the complimentary words he uttered; but she imagined them; which was all the same, so far as the effect upon her state of mind was concerned.
"Now, Mrs. Bullfinch," said a gentleman as soon as Fanny retired from the piano, "you will favor us with a song."
There was not a moment's hesitation. The invitation just accorded with her wishes. She arose, and crossing the room, took her seat at the instrument. Never, perhaps, in her life, had Mrs. Bullfinch thrown so much power and expression into her voice, as on this occasion. For a time, conversation was hushed; and, as her voice died away into silence,murmurs of pleasure and admiration reached her ears from all sides; but, she listened in vain for the voice of Wellford. What would she not then have given, could she have looked upon him; but too many eyes were on her; she dared not turn herself towards the part of the room where she knew he was standing in company with Fanny Milnor.
The moment Mrs. Bullfinch retired from the piano, she threw a hurried, but stealthy glance, towards Wellford. How her heart sunk and fluttered. His back was towards the instrument at which she had been seated, and he was bending to Miss Milnor, whose countenance manifested the interest she felt in his words.
Soon after this, Mrs. Bullfinch's absence from the drawing-rooms was remarked. She had complained of indisposition to her husband — and he, quite ready to withdraw her from a company so fraught with trial and temptation, suggested their return home, to which she consented. Their retirement was made unobtrusively, and was known, at the time it took place, only to their hostess. Many questions and surmises followed, as soon as they were missed, and, as is usual in all such cases, some of the latter, from a slight suspicion of the truth, took the form of rather distinct affirmations, in which the presence of an old lover, and his indifference, or attentions to a new idol, made a pretty broad foundation.
The true cause of Helen's wish to retire, was a sudden and overwhelming conviction of the danger and sinfulness of the thoughts and feelings, which were permitted to rule in her bosom. Some good angel had lifted the veil from her eyes, and enabled her to see herself as she was; the sight produced a fearful shudder, which chilled her whole being.
"Am I not a wedded wife?" she whispered to herself — and as the full meaning of the words stood out in living relief before her, the shudder went, if possible, still deeper.
Crouching beside her husband, a feeling almost like guilt in her heart, the unhappy woman rode home in silence. To his kind, even tender inquiries, and obtrusive suggestions of remedies for her indisposition, Mrs. Bullfinch forced herself to reply gently, and with some small acknowledgment in her tones of the real interest of which she was the subject. That her husband had full cause for the jealous suspicions he had manifested — she acknowledged to herself, with a sense of painful humiliation. This produced something of a new feeling towards him; duty, more clearly seen, became the prompter of different actions, and led to a new, if compelled, external.
But, oh! What a trial was before her! These meetings with Wellford had blown into a flame, the damped fires kindled years before, and which could not be permitted to blaze forth again without destroying honor and virtue; and now, though she sought to cover them from view, they burned still, consuming the very altar where they rested.
It was not in Mr. Bullfinch to comprehend the change which, from this time, was apparent in his wife. That it had something to do with Mr. Wellford, he, indeed, suspected, for he had not failed to notice the total indifference manifested by him; as well as his marked attentions to his niece, between whom he most sincerely hoped a matrimonial arrangement might take place. But he was far from giving his wife credit for the real state of mind from which she was acting. He had seen her but a little while before, apparently wholly absorbed in Wellford — and utterly indifferent to himself. Wellford made no return of this interest, while he plainly enough showed that, if he had ever loved her, he was about transferring his affections to another. The change in his wife, therefore, he attributed to no higher sources than disappointment and chagrin; and while he was gratified at her softened manners towards him, respect for her was in no way increased; nor did his jealous feelings lose their active suspicion.
The suddenly awakened interest in society, which Mrs. Bullfinch had manifested — as suddenly died out. The social season promised to be unusually mirthful, and invitation after invitation came in, often as many as two in a single week; but, in every case, regrets were sent, and the old man and his young wife were missed from the festive circles. Thus more than two months passed.
Awakened to a sense of her duty as a wife, Helen had striven, during this time, though in a weak way, to make the home circle more cheerful than it had been. Her father's health was growing feebler every day, and it was now but rarely that he could venture abroad into the open air. His spirits, too, were low. A sense of dependence on Mr. Bullfinch, whose manner towards him had never been frank and cheerful; and worse than this, a consciousness that the food he ate, and the house which covered him, were obtained at the cost of his daughter's happiness — lay ever like a heavy weight upon his bosom. In brooding over the ruin of her own hopes in life, Helen had failed to comprehend, as fully as the case required, her father's state of mind; but, now, her thoughts were turning to him with a wiser appreciation, and a loving desire to brighten, with warmer colors, the later days of his waning life.
Changed in her manner towards her husband, and more interested and cheerful in the home circle than before; and, at the same time, aware that such was the case — Helen was disappointed at not meeting from Mr. Bullfinch a looked-for appreciation of this new and better state of things. He had grown, all at once, silent, abstracted in manner, moody, and often fault-finding. Money was supplied for the use of the family more frugally, and with what seemed a grudging spirit. Frequently he would sit the evening through without speaking a word, unless addressed, and then his replies indicated an entire indifference on the subject to which his attention was called. Everything which did not exactly suit his tastes, was the subject of complaint, while nothing that was agreeable, met with a single word of commendation. How often was his ear greeted with a sigh, that an expected pleasant look or tone would have prevented.
Thus the season was passing away, and Mr. and Mrs. Bullfinch had not ventured into any of the fashionable assemblages, since the evening at Mrs. Levering's. But now, invitations were received from a source that made the sending of regrets a doubtful expedient. They could nut absent themselves without being misunderstood, and producing a state of coolness in friends particularly regarded.
So, with much reluctance, Mrs. Bullfinch prepared for another evening abroad. Even if she had desired a new dress for the occasion, the recent frugality exhibited by her husband, in regard to money, would have caused her to suppress the desire. That worn at Mrs. Levering's had never been used since, and her present love of appearance was not strong enough to make her desire another. So, making a few changes in this dress, which was of rich material, by which the effect was diminished instead of heightened, she attired herself for the occasion, and in doing so, studied simplicity instead of ornament, to an extent which, governed as it was by good taste, rendered her appearance really more attractive than before. With the effect produced, Mr. Bullfinch was particularly struck, while, at the same time, he was puzzled. The change in his wife, dating from the evening at Mrs. Levering's, he had never been able clearly to understand, although he had endeavored to account for it, and, at one time, pretty much to his satisfaction. That it had something to do with lack of attention on the part of Mr. Wellford, he still believed. And now, he was at a loss to determine whether the new effects produced in her appearance by his wife, were really the result of indifference or design. Suspicious jealousy favored the latter view, while her total lack of interest in society, manifested for some two months, led to a different conclusion. Be the reason what it might, Mr. Bullfinch resolved to keep an eagle eye upon her.
Much as Mrs. Bullfinch had striven to avoid effect in her dress, she was far from going to this party, at the residence of Mrs. Floyd, in a state of mental indifference. While, under a strong sense of womanly virtue, she was repressing all voluntary interest in her old lover; and had sought, by avoiding society, to shun temptation; now, that there was a prospect of meeting him once more, she could not repress the wish to note the progress of events between him and Fanny Milnor. Hopelessness had produced, on the surface of her feelings, an icy calm — at least in reference to Wellford; and, if the waters beneath were at any time troubled, threatening to break the congelation, a strong effort of the will repressed the agitation. She did not, therefore, wish to attract attention; but rather desired the privilege of an observer, without being observed.
There were few who had met Mrs. Bullfinch at Mr Lane's and Mrs. Levering's, who were not struck with the marked difference in her appearance, and who were not as much interested in her as before; but the interest was altogether of another kind. Before, there was about her much of the brilliant woman of the world, and many, while attracted and admiring, said, in their secret thought, that she was heartless. Now, changed states of mind had subdued what before led to a light estimation of her character; and evidences of suffering softened towards her, many who, on the previous occasions, would not have hesitated in the utterance of words that would have struck her like barbed arrows.
Wellford was present, and also Miss Milnor, and it was plain to see that a very good understanding existed between them. Not, as before, however, did the former keep entirely aloof from Mrs. Bullfinch. At Mr. Lane's, he had observed her closely, and listened to the observations of others. The character she had assumed and the impression she made — produced on his mind an unfavorable conclusion. At Mrs. Levering's, he was less pleased than before. In fact, he was shocked at her taking the piano, immediately after Miss Milnor had risen from it, and striving, as was too evidently the case, to eclipse her performance. That she was playing and singing for his ears, he understood too well; and while not insensible to the fact that she still regarded him with affection, his virtuous feelings were shocked at her effort to awaken an interest in his mind, when she was the wedded wife of another. Purposely, therefore, did he refrain from manifesting even a knowledge of her presence; and when she so suddenly retired, at an early hour, and he heard her indisposition remarked upon, he did not err in his interpretation of its meaning.
Once drawn from his self-imposed seclusion, Mr. Wellford, after tasting the pleasures of social life, and, more particularly, after making the acquaintance of Miss Milnor, needed no persuasion to induce him to mingle in society. Helen was married; and, in her marriage, violence to his respect for her had been committed. Why, then, should he make himself a hermit on her account? She was no longer anything to him. An impassable gulf had been thrown between them. Thus he reasoned with himself, and gradually gained accessions of internal sustaining power. He felt that social fellowship was good for him; and from this perception, as well as from inclination, he was led to go much into company.
Wellford did not of course, fail, to notice that, after the evening at Mrs. Levering's, Mrs. Bullfinch, from some cause, no longer went into company. Nor did he fail to notice, on her re-appearance at Mrs. Floyd's, that she had assumed a new character altogether; or, rather, had fallen back into her own. After carefully observing her for some time, and remarking an entire absence of what he had before thought a mirthful, almost heartless manner; and also remarking that she no longer fixed on him the strangely penetrating glances that really haunted him at Mrs. Levering's, and which he avoided, by seeming not to be aware of her presence, at Mr. Lane's — he began to feel differently towards her, and very soon made his way to her side.
Even the sharp, suspicious eyes of Mr. Bullfinch saw little in either the manner of his wife or Mr. Wellford, to add fuel to the flame of jealousy. Both were guarded carefully, and guarded by the surest protection, that of virtuous principle. While the latter had no desire to rob the husband of his wife, the affections of his wife, the former, conscious that every truant thought, or cherished regard for her old lover — was sin; kept even, by a powerful effort, the pulsations of her heart.
What a trial — shall we say a triumph? — it was to both! No, not altogether a triumph. "Love never dies. The heart that has once loved truly — loves on forever." The fires may be hidden, but they burn on.
Ashes may lie on the altar, but there is a latent fire beneath them.
For a while they conversed — the old lover and his lost idol — and, to each ear, how full of music, sweet as the songs of childhood, were the voices that filled them! Then, Mr. Wellford, feeling that his soul was going out towards her, as if drawn by a spiritual magnet — forced himself away. The struggle was not apparent, even to Mrs. Bullfinch; nor did the quick ear of her husband detect the sigh that breathed from her lips, as the young man withdrew from her side.
And now, for Wellford's eyes, a strange eclipse had come over the face of Fanny Milnor, and her voice had lost many tones of melody. He drew again to her side, but failed to become interested as before. He wondered at this, sighed, yet not audibly, and then experienced a sense of relief, as he remembered that he had not, up to this time, uttered a word for her ears which could be construed into lover-like preference. It did not escape the observation of Fanny, that from this time, during the evening — Wellford was less constant, than heretofore, in his attentions. Why this was so, she had no suspicion, or she would not have been so unwise as to remark, on finding him near her —
"My uncle's wife looks twenty years older than when married. The wine of her life has soured. Yet, who wonders — or who pities her?"
There was, certainly, no pity in the tones of the young lady's voice, but rather a feeling of triumph. Wellford made no reply; but, in a little while, he left her side, and did not seek her company again during the evening. From that time, she had no attractive power for him. Occasionally he had been a visitor at her residence, but he called there no more; and, when, on the next occasion of her being in company, she searched the crowded rooms for the form now most attractive to her eyes, it was nowhere to be seen. Nor did she meet him again at any of the closing parties for the season.
Winter closed, and spring came with its cordial airs and the fragrance of budding leaf and opening blossom. To Helen, the season had been one of no light trial. Another page in the book of her life had been turned, and the writing thereon told the story of a new and a bitter experience. And now, sorrow was to be added to her cup. She must stoop to thewaters of Marah — yet untouched by the leaf of healing.
Through the long winter, Mr. Lee's health had been growing worse and worse. To the milder season, his wife and daughter looked forward with anxious interest. It had come, but, to the drooping invalid, it came not with a blessing. Anxiety changed to alarm. Instead of gaining sufficient strength to ride out, the softer air of spring relaxed his system; and now, when he had permission to leave his room — a mere descent to the parlors caused so much fatigue, that it was not again ventured upon.
An occasional walk across his chamber, supported by his wife or daughter, soon made the extent of Mr. Lee's bodily exertion. This did not long continue. Next, the sitting up for a few hours each day was as much as his strength would bear — then, entire physical prostration came. Life's pulses beat weaker and less evenly — the end was near.
From some cause, the feelings of Mr. Bullfinch had been greatly soured against Mr. Lee. For months, he had scarcely treated him with common civility. After he was confined to his room, he never visited him, and it was but rarely that he made inquiries as to the state of his health. The beginning of this dislike, was his strong opposition to the marriage of his daughter, and the plainness of his speech prior to that event. Many things then said, had never been forgotten; and, in treasuring them, memory had given added force to their meanings.
The declining health of Mr. Lee was to Mr. Bullfinch, therefore, less a source of pain than pleasure. If he thought of his death at all, it was with a sense of relief. His presence was a burden and an annoyance; and he cared not how soon he were rid of both. Such could not be the state of her husband's mind, without the fact being perceived by Helen. How exquisite the pain it occasioned! It was to secure comfort, and freedom from care and a sense of dependence, for her father — that she had consented to become the wife of Mr. Bullfinch. All, and more than all the dreaded suffering, she had endured twice told, while the hoped-for good was denied! How the fine, manly qualities of her father's mind had smarted under a sense of dependence, which he had been made to feel!
And was Helen ignorant of this? Alas! no. Her own perceptions were too quick not to comprehend all this. As for the mother, her lack of womanly tact and delicacy increased the evil. Towards her, Mr. Bullfinch entertained a most profound dislike, which he was at no pains to conceal. Not infrequently warm words passed between them; and more than once he had intimated, pretty broadly, that if she did not interfere less with his views and comforts — he would feel called upon to speak in a way that might not be altogether agreeable. What this meant, Mrs. Lee readily comprehended, and the hint was not lost.
As Mr. Lee grew weaker and weaker, he could not bear to have his daughter away from him a moment; and she had little desire to leave him. They were much alone; for Mrs. Lee took from Helen, the care of the household. As life waned slowly, and drew nearer and nearer its mortal close, the thoughts of Mr. Lee reached themselves more and moreheavenward; and yet how constantly were these upward soaring thoughts, drawn back to rest upon the earth — how often he sighed, as their wings were folded in his bosom.
Not many words passed between him and Helen, beyond kind inquiries and grateful replies. From the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks. Their hearts were full — full to oppression, and struggling for utterance — but they dared not give voice to their thoughts. How often the daughter's light hand was laid tenderly on the forehead of her father, now resting there with a gentle pressure, and now smoothing away the thin hair that scarcely hid his temples. How often were her silent lips pressed to his pale forehead — or her cheek, in sudden excess of tender feeling, laid close against his own. And then, how earnestly and lovingly they would gaze at times, into each other's eyes; gaze until their light was dimmed by gathering moisture. Beautiful, yet sad — exquisitely sad — was this daily fellowship between the father and daughter. And all the while their hearts were oppressed for utterance; yet silence was felt to be a sacred duty.
One day, as Helen sat thus by her father, who had been silent, as usual, for some time, he said —
"There is always consolation in the night, Helen."
The remark roused Mrs. Bullfinch from a kind of mental lethargy into which she had fallen. She bent over her father, and looked at him inquiringly.
"There is always consolation in the night," repeated Mr. Lee, and he smiled as he spoke.
"From what source?" asked Helen, in partial abstraction of thought.
"The morning is sure to break," was answered, with something of an exultant tone, as if a new truth, or the strong realization of an old one, had come to his mind.
"To give," returned Helen, unguardedly and bitterly, "a clearer view of the ruin which has been wrought in the darkness."
"Dear child! Say not so!" quickly returned Mr. Lee, in an altered voice. "The morning of which I speak, reveals not wreck nor ruin."
"Forgive me, dear father!" said Helen, forcing a smile. "I spoke unguardedly. Oh, yes; there is, I trust, such a morning."
Yet, as she uttered the words "I trust," there was doubt, and lingering sadness in her tones.
"There is such a morning for all who will look, in hopeful trust, to its breaking," said Mr. Lee. "It is not an earthly morning. For me, it will soon break, love; and I trust I am ready to welcome it, when it dawns."
Helen tried to answer, but her lips quivered, and she remained a few moments voiceless. Then she hid her face on her father's bosom and wept.
"It will break for you, dear father," said she, on recovering herself. She spoke with composure, and deep feeling. "And it will break, I know, before long. But oh! When you leave me, what shall I have to lean upon? When the morning breaks for you — colder and darker will the night close around your unhappy child. My father — "
Her slender form quivered for a few moments; then she was able to grasp the rein that had left her hand suddenly.
"Oh, my father," she said, speaking from an impulse that would no longer be governed by any considerations, "before you go, pray that I may have strength to bear my burdens. They are not light, believe me; and, under their pressure, I feel myself growing weaker. Oh! How often have I longed to open my heart to you, dear father! To tell you all I have suffered, to show you with what patience I have striven to bear all and to endure all. Yet how weakly and hopelessly have I struggled! You could have understood me — you could have sympathized with me; and, in my weakness and ignorance, have helped and instructed me. Ah! my steps have well near slipped! But, thank God! I have been able to tread the rugged path of duty, though with bleeding feet. How it will be, when your daily presence no longer speaks to me of the right, I cannot tell."
Mr. Lee had grasped a hand of his daughter, so soon as she began thus to unbosom herself, and was now holding it tightly in both of his. A flood of emotions was sweeping through his mind; but he was able to control himself, and to speak with composure.
"I will still be very, near to you, my sweet one!" said he, and he even smiled as he looked intently at her.
"My guardian angel!" exclaimed Helen, unable to restrain herself, as a new thought flashed into her mind. And she again hid her weeping face on the bosom of her father.
Whispered Mr. Lee, faintly, "Helen, your night shall neither be colder nor darker, because mine has passed away. God bless you, my child!"
Feebler and feebler had grown the voice of Mr. Lee, through this sentence; and his earnest "God bless you!" was but just audible. When Helen lifted her head, as his lips ceased their utterance, she was alarmed at the deathly hue which overspread the countenance of her father. The sudden cry of anguish that burst from her heart, reached her mother's ears in a distant room, which brought her quickly to the chamber. As the two bent, with pale faces, over the husband and father, whose sands of life were running low, nature rallied feebly, and he whispered —
"Not yet — not yet. But the night will soon come — "
"And the morning!" — she added, while a faint smile lit up his wan features.
An hour later, and Helen was again alone with her father. Mr. Lee had slept for a portion of the time. The curtains were closed that the light might not disturb him. Helen sat near the bedside, her head resting on the back of an easy chair, and her eyes closed. A few rays, which struggled through a small opening in the window drapery, were resting on her forehead, and throwing a mellowed light over her pale countenance. From his brief slumber, Mr. Lee had awakened, and while Helen sat thus, his eyes rested upon her young, but thin and pain-marked features, which were beautiful, though faded. How early in life, for the fading! What were the father's thoughts and feelings, as he lay there, with his eyes on that suffering countenance, can only be imagined. He gave them no utterance in words. Inexpressibly sad was his face, so sad that its hue was instantly caught by that of Helen, as she suddenly unclosed her eyes, and saw that her father had awakened.
"Dear father!" said she, tenderly, starting forward, and placing, as she was accustomed to do, her hand on his forehead. What pleasure that soft touch ever gave him!
A smile chased, instantly, the sadness away. "The morning will soon be here, my love," he faintly murmured.
"Oh, my father! I cannot bear this," said Helen, with an anguish she strove not to conceal. "I try to think of the morning; but I see only night — dark, starless night!"
"I would not pain you, dear child!" replied Mr. Lee, tenderly, drawing her cheek down, and touching it with his lips, "by turning your thoughts to the approaching change; but in the little while I have to remain with you, I wish, if possible, to impart strength to your mind, even though I must sow in tears. May you reap in joy! Amen!"
For a little while, the eyes of the dying man were closed. If to his outward ear came no response, in spirit he heard the fervent "Amen" which answered to his own.
"Helen," said he, as he looked again into her face, "I know your trials, your patient endurance, your long suffering. But out of all these will come, I trust, purification. As gold tried in the fire may you be, when our Heavenly Father comes to make up His jewels."
"Only what is developed here, can be perfected there. Is this not so, father?" Helen lifted a finger as she spoke, and pointed upwards.
"It is so, I believe," answered Mr. Lee. "But why make this inquiry, my child?"
Helen laid her hand on her bosom, and sighed heavily, but did not reply to the question. Her father partly comprehended her meaning, but it involved a subject that neither felt willing to approach nearer; yet, on which, of all others, Helen most longed to unburden herself to someone who could comprehend her, and who could throw some light on thedark path of duty, along which she was moving with wearied limbs and bleeding feet.
A long silence followed, yet thought was busy in the minds of both. At last, Helen, with the manner of one who had forced herself into a doubtful utterance, said —
"Father, I do not love Mr. Bullfinch — nor did I ever love him. I married him from motives which I see to be wrong. Even the good I expected from the sacrifice, has not been attained in anything like the anticipated measure. Daily, since our unnatural union, has he grown more and more repugnant to me. I have striven against this, but the strife is hopeless. Nature will speak out. Now, father, what is my duty?"
Mr. Lee, while he knew to what his daughter made allusion, in the beginning, was hardly prepared for this broad declaration. He did not reply, immediately, for he saw not clearly how to answer.
"What is my duty, father?" she repeated. "Forgive me for thus disturbing the hours which should be sacred to thoughts of eternal life. But, oh! my father, when you leave me, to whom shall I go for counsel? If words of wisdom reach not my ears now — they may never come. You have sought my confidence in this sad and solemn time. Shall I give it freely?"
"Freely, my child, freely!" replied Mr. Lee. "Keep nothing back. I am fully prepared to hear. God is giving me strength for the hour."
"What, then, is my duty?" There was now a stern calmness about the daughter. "I do not love Mr. Bullfinch. I have failed to make him happy. The union is altogether external, and of constraint. Had I not better leave him?"
"Helen! My child!" exclaimed the father, his wan face flushing, "who has thrown such a thought into your mind? What God has joined together — let not man put asunder," he added, solemnly.
"This union was not of God," replied Helen. "It had its origin in selfishness and false principles."
"Did you not refer it to God, and invoke His sanction, in your submission to a solemn ordinance of the church? Were you not joined together by his minister and representative? Surely you were! The conjunction was not of external constraint, in a sense which took your consent away from you. Formally and solemnly you presented yourselves, and formally and solemnly wedded each other; and now you cannot abandon the assumed relation without sin."
Helen bowed her head, while her father was speaking. He paused, but she still bent her head and listened.
"Did you not promise Mr. Bullfinch to be to him all that a wife should be, even until the end of life?"
"A wife should love her husband," said Helen. She spoke without raising her head.
"True."
"I promised love — promised it when I knew I could not give it."
"Love does come at the bidding; but outward obedience to a known duty is possible. You promised to keep your husband in sickness and in health. If you fail in part, fail not in all, my child. If, as a wife, love is an utter impossibility; yet, in an unselfish seeking of your husband's good; in a daily, earnest endeavor to make him happy, something of interest may and will be awakened. You cannot do this, without softening and humanizing his character, and making him better fitted for a higher and purer life than he has yet lived. Inbrooding over the ruins which fill the chambers of your heart, you only neglect the offices which are required of one in your position. The trial is great, I know; but having assumed such momentous responsibilities — do not abandon them, as you value your soul's safety. God has joined you together, not in the orderly union He would have provided, but in the disorderly one provided by your own mistaken judgments. The bond is just as sacred, and must be kept whole until the end. This is the divine law; not made arbitrarily, but for the good of those who are to live in obedience to what it requires. Better, far better will it be for your own spiritual good — and this is, in fact, the only real good — tobear the cross that you have taken up, and bear it even to the end. It will be sowing in tears, I know, my child; but there will come a harvest of joy."
The father ceased speaking, but Helen neither raised her head nor replied. Deeply had his words penetrated her heart, and with a strong sense of conviction; yet, so intently had her mind brooded over the thought of a separation from her husband, that she had already come to think of it with a kindling sense of pleasure. All this was now extinguished. The dim light — the false light which had burned in the dark chambers of her mind, flickered and went out. How cold and gloomy was all before and around her! And yet, her father's dying words, while they swept away a false hope, gave new strength for greater endurance.
"Though rough and thorny be the way,
My strength, proportion to my day."
In these words, familiar from childhood, she lifted, almost involuntarily, her suffering heart upwards, and as she did so, a better light dawned upon her, a light felt to be the true precursor of a coming day.
"You have spoken truly, my father," said Helen, breaking at length, the long silence. "I cannot, innocently, abandon the position I so unwisely assumed."
"Not while your husband remains faithful to his vows at the marriage altar. Mere alienation of mind, is no warrant for breaking so holy a bond."
"There is something that I can do, father." Helen's voice was warmer in its tones, as she said this, while a flush lighted, dimly, her face.
"What is it, my love?"
"I can forget myself more than I have done, and be more thoughtful of my husband. In many things I can promote his comfort. Ah! I have been too indifferent. How strong the conviction strikes me now! Dear father! How blind to duty a selfish brooding over my own disappointed feelings, has made me. I have not denied myself for another's good. But, God helping me, I will live differently in the future."
"My spirit leaps with pleasure to hear you thus speak, my good, my true-hearted child," said Mr. Lee, tenderly. "God will help you. The very wish to bend action to duty, brings Him near with His sustaining power; and the silent prayer for strength is never uttered in vain. He will keep you. May His blessing rest upon you! Amen!"
Mr. Lee placed his hand on the bent head of his daughter, and lifted his eyes upward. Silently, for some moments, he prayed for her. Then his lids drooped slowly; the light of thought faded from his countenance, and he seemed unconscious of the present. The minutes glided by, and Helen, who knew that but few sands of life remained, began to feel a breathless suspense. A slight moving of the chest showed that respiration still continued. But a low, shuddering sense of fear was creeping along every nerve, and she was about laying her hand heavily upon him and uttering his name in a quick voice, when his eyes slowly opened, and he looked up into her face with a quiet, heavenly smile.
"Peace — peace," he whispered, but so faintly that Helen bent low to hear him, "All is peace. I go down into the waters, yet fearing no evil; for I can see across the dark river. There are shining ones on the other side. They wait to receive me. Already my feet are on the brink — the waters have touched them. One parting kiss, dear child!"
They were his last words. As he uttered them, the door opened and the mother of Helen came in. With an effort, the dying man stretched his hands towards her, partly raised himself up, and fell forward on her bosom. When she laid him back on the pillow, his spirit was at rest forever.
As quickly as she could get away from the chamber of death, Helen fled to her own room, locked the door, and, sinking on her knees, lifted her bruised and suffering heartupwards, aspiring to Heaven on the wings of prayer. For a long time she remained thus, now weeping in abandonment of grief, now communing with her own heart, and now imploring strength for the future.
Word was sent to Mr. Bullfinch of the sudden death of Mr. Lee. On hurrying home from his store, he found his wife singularly composed. Her countenance, it is true, was inexpressibly sad, and her eyes red from weeping; but there was none of that wild abandonment of grief, that he had expected to see — no irrational wailings; none of that utter prostration of body and mind which so often accompanies deep affliction. He could not but wonder at this, nor help feeling an involuntary respect. He doubted not the suffering— in the endurance, therefore, was something which struck him as sublime, and gave him a new impression of her character. Tenderly he spoke to her, and, with a kindness that she gratefully felt, offered brief, yet fitting words of condolence.
This bereavement, destined, now, to harmonize many antagonisms — to make somewhat smoother the path they were treading — would, but for the dying interview between father and daughter, have been the signal for a violent disruption of the bonds which held together this ill-matched couple. An evil seed had been cast into the mind of Mrs. Bullfinch; it had found life there, and was sending up its first tender leaves. Watered and nourished, it would soon have attained size and vigor. Amid its branches, night-birdswould have found shelter; and beneath its gloomy shadows, the green things of her heart would have perished utterly. But, the father's dying hand had plucked the evil plant, and the tender roots lay sapless in the sunshine.
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