The Old Man's Bride CHAPTER 29.
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"Forty-five years old. Oh, life! life! How smoothly, for some, the stream glides — how roughly for others!"
It was early in an autumnal day; a thin, golden haze was in the atmosphere; no breeze stirred in the maple branches which spread themselves before the window, near which Mrs. Bullfinch was sitting, yet leaf after leaf, yellow from the first touch of frost, was dropping away, and fluttering to the ground.
"Forty-five years old, today," she repeated. "At sixty, my heart should not have been so withered and sapless. Oh! what a desecration of a whole life!"
She struck her hand hard upon her bosom, adding — "Such a trampling down, and tearing up of the roots of luxuriant affection! Long before this, the vine would have spread itself over the very topmost branches of its sustaining tree!"
"But, peace, peace!" she murmured, her whole manner growing calmer under a strong effort of the still potent will. "Poor heart! Be done with your futile throbbings."
And, saying this, she arose, and commenced making preparations to go out, and enter upon her daily round of duties as a teacher. After giving lessons at two places, she went to Mr. Wellford's. She had three scholars there now. A well-known physician's carriage stood at the door. On entering, she noticed that the servant who admitted her looked unusually sober.
"Is anyone sick?" inquired Mrs. Bullfinch.
"Oh, yes ma'am," was replied. "Mrs. Wellford is very ill."
"Not dangerously, I hope."
"I'm afraid so, ma'am," answered the servant. "The doctor has been here for two hours; and Mrs. Wellford looks dreadfully."
"What ails her?" asked Mrs. Bullfinch.
"She's been poorly, and drooping about, you know, for some time, Mrs. Bullfinch. Poor thing! She's lost weight amazingly of late, as you've no doubt seen. Well, yesterday was Ella's birthday, and the children had a little party last night. They were all very happy; and I never saw Mrs. Wellford enjoy herself more in my life. The party broke up about ten o'clock, and soon after the company went away, all the children were in bed. It was near eleven o'clock when Mr. and Mrs. Wellford left the parlors. In a little while after they were in their room, I heard a noise upstairs, as if a chair had been knocked over, and then Mr. Wellford called for the waiter in such a quick, loud voice, that we were all frightened, and ran to see what was the matter. On going into their chamber, I saw Mrs. Wellford lying on the bed, her face as white as a sheet, and the blood running out of her mouth. I was so frightened that I screamed and ran downstairs. 'Run for the doctor!' I heard Mr. Wellford say. And, in a minute, the waiter came flying downstairs, and out at the front door as fast as he could run."
"She had broken a blood vessel!" said Mrs. Bullfinch.
"Yes, ma'am. That is what ailed her. The doctor stayed with her all night; and came again early this morning. They say he hasn't much hope of her."
"No one is allowed to see her, of course?"
"O, no, ma'am. She's too sick for that. We all go about on tip-toe, as it were; and nurse keeps the children as still as little mice."
"I'm very sorry," said Mrs. Bullfinch, who was startled and deeply pained by this alarming news. The longer and more intimately she had known Mrs. Wellford, the higher had been her estimation of her character. Almost as a sister she loved her; though never with the freedom of a sister had she felt privileged to give voice to her affections.
"I am very sorry," she repeated.
Then adding, "Of course no lessons can be given here today; so I will return home. But, if I could be of any use — "
This last sentence was spoken in an earnest voice, so earnest, that, unconsciously, the tones were slightly elevated, and reached the ears of Mr. Wellford, who at the moment was passing one of the landings on the stairway, but a little distance from the place where she stood, in the hall. He came down immediately, calling her name as he did so. His countenance was pale and haggard, his eyes humid, and everything about him showed anxiety and alarm.
"Of use, Mrs. Bullfinch?" he said, "O yes, you can be of great use. Will you not come up and stay with my poor wife, if it is only for a little while? She has whispered your name several times."
"Will not my presence disturb her?" asked Mrs. Bullfinch.
"O no; it will prevent disturbance from others. Oh, if you could only remain with her, how thankful I would be!"
There was no resisting this appeal of the distressed husband. Mrs. Bullfinch removed her shawl and bonnet, and with light steps passed up to the sick chamber. As she entered the door, the white face of Mrs. Wellford, white almost as the snowy pillow on which she lay, startled her with its deathliness, even prepared, as she was, for the change. A faint smile was instantly visible, and the lips of the invalid moved; but Mrs. Bullfinch placed a finger on her own lips to enjoin silence. Coming softly to the bedside, she stooped down, and kissed her. The tender impulse that prompted this act, was too sudden and too strong to be resisted. It was the token of a deeper love than she had ever been free to express. The hand that lay in hers — taken as she bent to her lips — gave back a quick pressure; and in a faint whisper, Mrs. Wellford said —
"Don't leave me."
"I will not leave you," was the low but earnest reply, which was answered by a grateful look. And Mr. Wellford said —
"We shall ever remember your kindness, Mrs. Bullfinch."
In a little while, the appearance of the room, the bed, and the person of the invalid underwent a change; and this, without apparent effort or obtrusiveness on the part of Mrs. Bullfinch. As she moved about, in her quiet way, the eyes of the physician were on her. A slight forward motion of his head, showed that he was satisfied with the observation.
"Mr. Wellford," said he, on leaving the room, "a good nurse is more to the doctor, often, than his medicine. It will be more in this case. As you hope for the recovery of your wife, retain this lady with her; at least for a few days."
"She will not leave her, I am sure," replied Mr. Wellford. "But, at your next visit, will you not, yourself, say how much depends on her remaining with my wife?"
"I shall not fail in that," said the doctor, as, after promising to return in a couple of hours, he went away.
But, it was neither in the power of medicine nor good nursing to save the failing wife and mother. The vital forces, already running low, had been too much exhausted by this bleeding from the lungs. Instead of rallying, it was soon too evident, that the time of her departure was near at hand — that a few days, at most, must close her earthly pilgrimage. Five children, the youngest but a year old, made up the number of bright jewels in the mother's crown. To leave these, even with a father who tenderly loved and wisely cared for them — Oh, what a trial! When first the painful truth was communicated, it seemed, for a time, more than she could bear.
"My dear, dear husband!" she sobbed, as, with her arms clasped tightly around his neck, she drew his face down to hers, and wet it with her tears. "I cannot leave you. And my children — my babe! — Oh, Henry!
How weak are words of consolation offered at such an hour, and in view of a separation like this? After the-first gush of feeling was over, Mr. Wellford whispered —
"We must look upwards. God will give us strength for the trial."
As he spoke, the tremor in his voice, if it betrayed not his lack of confidence in the Divine aid to which he referred, showed the weakness of nature.
The certainty of approaching dissolution, usually brings calmness of feeling, and clearness of thought. It is a wise and merciful provision, that death, which we view at a distancewith so much dread — loses its terrors in drawing near. It is no longer a grim monster — but an angel of mercy, to take us lovingly by the hand and lead us safely along the dark passage which opens into the brighter world of spirits. How rarely, in the closing hour, dwells the mind on dissolution — how insensibly it rises into thoughts of eternal life! Words of consolation come with higher meanings; and there is given a trust in Him who does all things well, profound enough to still the tempest of emotion even in a mother's bosom.
And it was so in the present case.
True to her promise, Mrs. Bullfinch did not leave the wasting invalid, during the two weeks that she lingered among the beloved ones who, even while they clung to her, felt their hold gradually giving way. Other friends, and near and dear relatives, were with her; but, to the dying one, no hand was laid upon her with such a gentle, loving pressure, no voice was so soothing, no ministration so satisfying as that of Mrs. Bullfinch. And yet, how unobtrusively all was done!
One day, it was near the closing hour, Mrs. Wellford found herself, for a short time, alone with her gentle attendant. A few minutes before, little Henry, her youngest born, was taken from the room. She had kissed him, and then shut her eyes tightly to keep tears from flowing over her cheeks. Opening her eyes at length, she said, her tones slightly tremulous,
"It is a hard, hard trial, my kind, good friend! How can I leave these dear ones? Who can fill my place to them?"
"I can give but this answer, replied Mrs. Bullfinch, in her low even tones. "There is One who loves them with a love exceeding even that of a mother."
"I know, I know. Yet, is not my love to be an instrument for their good? While life remains, should not my thoughts regard their future?"
"It should."
"My friend" — Mrs. Wellford took the hand of Mrs. Bullfinch, pressing it tightly in her own, while her eyes were fixed intently upon her face. "If I could know that they were inyour care! At Maggy's age, the wisdom of a mother's love is needed, quite as much as its tenderness at the age of dear little Henry. They love you, they confide in you; and love and confidence would make them obedient to your every word. Oh! Mrs. Bullfinch, if I knew they would henceforth be in your wise and loving guardianship, I could pass away without a sigh."
Mrs. Wellford felt the low thrill that came instantly into the hand she clasped so tightly. But, she did not know its meaning, nor comprehend the change of expression that passed over the face of her companion.
What a request to make, and that, too, of one who had, for more than twenty years, loved, with a hopeless, yet undying love, the father of the children she now wished to leave in her keeping! Mrs. Bullfinch were more than mortal not to have experienced a profound agitation. But what could she reply?
The disturbance of feeling bewildered her thought. Moreover, as the disturbance went deeper, she clearly saw its origin in a yet unextinguished interest in Henry Wellford; and a wave, burdened with anguish from a sense of guilt, swept across her mind. Closing her eyes, she looked up, and, in silence, prayed for strength and guidance.
"You do not answer me," said Mrs. Wellford, in a voice of suspense.
"How can I answer you?" replied Mrs. Bullfinch. Then she added, with less feeling —
"You leave them in a safer and wiser guardianship — that of their own father."
"I know — I know!" was quickly answered. "But — you understand all I can and would say. A father cannot supply the mother's place to his children. They ever need a woman's care, a woman's love. I know my husband will confide in you entirely — that he will trust to your judgment — and the children — they all love you. Sometimes I have been almost jealous of their attachment; and half jestingly, half in earnest, said that they loved you better than they loved their mother. So far as your worldly interests are concerned, be sure they will not suffer. I have property in my own right — say that you will become the personal guardian of my children, and I will endow you with a liberal income."
"Speak not of that!" said Mrs. Bullfinch, putting up a hand, and averting her face, that the pleading mother might not see its expression. "With me, these selfish and worldly considerations have long since, I trust, ceased to have influence."
"Then why not give your promise?"
"Because," replied she, in a voice that was very low — only in the diminished tone was steadiness acquired, "another will than ours must give consent."
"Another! whose? O, yes. I see! My husband!"
"Yes."
"If," said Mrs. Wellford, slowly and solemnly, "when I am no more among these household treasures, he asks you to take my place with them, as far as that may be, will you answer yes?"
Many minutes passed before there was any answer. The dying mother saw not her countenance — dreamed not of what was passing in her heart. At last Mrs. Bullfinch said, feebly, and as if the answer had cost a powerful struggle —
"It shall be as you wish."
"Thank God! I can die in peace!" came exultingly from the mother's lips. "Thank God!" she repeated. "Thank God!"
Motionless, almost as a statue, Mrs. Bullfinch remained. A path was opening before her, the very thought of treading which half suspended her respiration. When, at length, she turned to meet the grateful, confiding looks of Mrs. Wellford, her eyes sunk beneath the earnest gaze that was fixed upon her; while she felt the warm blood mounting to her face. The entrance of Mr. Wellford, at the moment, gave her a fitting opportunity to retire. Alone, in earnest self-communion, she remained for some time. When she entered the sick chamber again, her heart was beating with even pulses.
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