Next Part Loved Too Late'.
Back to Main Index Timothy Shay Arthur
Seven years passed away, leaving their shadows as the sun does. And Ellen realized that,
"But matron care, or lurking woe —
Her mirthful, innocent look had banished,
And from her cheek the roseate glow,
Of girlhood's balmy morn had vanished.
Within her eyes, upon her brow,
Lay something softer, fonder, deeper,
As if in dreams some visioned woe,
Has broke the fantasy of the sleeper!"
Never yet, since that bright bridal morn, had Ellen looked upon her native village, though scarcely three hundred miles separated her from it. Now her heart beat quick and joyfully, for her husband had told her that business would call him to that vicinity in a few days, and she might accompany him. With all the eagerness of a child she set her heart on that visit, and from morning till night, she would talk with her little boys of the journey to what seemed to her the brightest, most sacred spot on earth, next to her present home. And the home of one's childhood! no matter how sweet, how-dear and beloved the home the heart afterwards loves — it never forgets, it never ceases most fondly to turn back to the memories, and the scenes, and the friends of its early years.
One fault, if fault it might be called, among so many excellencies in Ellen's character, was that of putting off until tomorrow — what should be done today. This had troubled Frederic exceedingly, who, prompt himself, would naturally wish others to be so also, and notwithstanding his constant complaints, and Ellen's desire to please him — she had not yet overcome her nature in that respect, though she had greatly improved. The evening preceding the intended departure, Frederic said to his wife,
"Now, Ellen, I hope you will have everything in readiness for an early departure in the morning. Have the boys and yourself all ready the moment the carriage is at the door, for you know I do not like to be obliged to wait."
Almost before the stars had disappeared in the sky, Ellen was busy in her final preparations. She was sure she should have everything in place, and wondered how her husband could suppose otherwise, upon an occasion in which she had so much interest. Several minutes before the appointed time, Ellen had all in readiness for departure, the trunks all packed and locked, the children in their riding dresses and caps; and proceeding from her dressing-room to the front hall door, she was thinking that this time, certainly, she should not hear the so oft repeated complaint — "Ellen, you are always too late!" — when, to her dismay, she met Georgie, her youngest boy, dripping with mud and water from the brook, whence he had just come, where, he said, he had ventured in chase of a goose, which had impudently hissed at him — which insult the young boy, in his own conception a spirited knight, could not brook, and in his wrath had pursued the offender to his place of retreat, much to the detriment of his clothes.
Ellen was in consternation; but one thing was evident — Georgie's clothes must be changed. With trembling hands she unlocked a trunk, and sought for a change of clothes, while the waiting-maid proceeded to disrobe the child.
Just at this moment Frederic entered, saying the carriage was at the door. Various things had occurred that morning to perplex him, and he was in a bad humor. Seeing Ellen thus engaged with the trunk, as he thought, not half packed, various articles being upon the carpet, and Georgie in no way ready, the cloud came over his brow, and he said, harshly,
"I knew it would be thus, Ellen — I have never known you to be in readiness yet; but you must know I am not to be trifled with!"
And with this, not heeding the explanation she attempted to make, he seized his traveling bag and left the room. Jumping into the carriage, he commanded the driver to proceed.
Ellen heard the carriage rolling away in astonishment. She ran to the door, and watched it in the distance. But she thought it could not be possible he had gone without her — he would certainly return. She still kept watching at the door — but she waited in vain, for he returned not.
The excitement into which Ellen was thrown by the anticipation of meeting her friends once more, may be readily imagined by those similarly constituted with her, and the reaction occasioned by her disappointment, also. Her heart had been entirely fixed upon it, and what but cruelty was it in her husband to deprive her thus so unreasonably, of so great an enjoyment — to her so exquisite a pleasure?
In the sudden rush of her feelings, she recalled the last seven years of her life, and could recollect no instance in which she had failed doing all in her power to contribute to her husband's happiness. On the other hand, had he not often wounded her feelings unnecessarily? Had he ever denied himself anything for her sake, but required of her sacrifice of her own wishes, to his?
The day wore away, and the night found Ellen in a burning fever. The servant who went for the physician in the early morning, said she had raved during the latter part of the night. As the family physician entered the room, she said, mildly,
"O, do not go and, leave me! I am all ready — all ready. Do not go — it will kill me if you go!"
The doctor took her hand; it was very hot; and her brow was terribly throbbing and burning. He remained with her the greater part of the day, but the attack of fever on the brain had been so violent, that no attempt for relief was of avail.
She grew worse and about midnight, with the words —
"O, do not go, Frederic — do not go and leave me!" — her spirit took its flight.
And the morning dawned on Ellen in her death-sleep — dawned as beautiful as that bright one, when the bell rang merrily for her bridal. Now the dismal death-notes pealed forth the departure of her spirit to a brighter world. Would not even an angel weep to look upon the first morning — and then upon this morning?
The birds, from the cage in the window, poured forth their songs; but they fell unheeded on the ears they had so often delighted. The voices of little Freddie and Georgie, ever as music to the loving heart of the young mother, would fall thrillingly on her ear no more. She lay there, still and cold — her dreams over — her hopes all passed by — the sun of her young life set!
People came in, one after another, to look upon her — and wept that one so young and good should die. They closed her eyes — they laid her in her grave-clothes, and folded her pale hands — and there she lay!
And now we leave that chamber of the too-early dead. Frederic's feelings of anger soon subsided. In a few hours he felt oppressed with a sense of the grief Ellen would experience. His feelings prompted him to return for her. Several times he put his head out of the carriage window to order the driver to return — but, his, pride intervening, he as often desisted. Yet his mind was ill at ease. He, also, involuntarily, reviewed the period of his wedded life. He recalled the goodness, and patience, and sweetness, which Ellen had ever shown him — the warm love she had ever evinced for him — and his heart seemed to appreciate, for the first time, the value and character of Ellen. He felt how unjust and unkind he had often been to her — he wondered he could have been so — and resolved that, henceforth, he would show her more tenderness.
As he stopped for the night, at a public-house, his resolution was to return early in the morning. Yet, his business must be attended to. It was a case of emergency. He finally resolved to entrust it with a lawyer acquaintance, who lived a half day's ride distant from where he then was. Thus he did; and, about noon of the following day, returned homeward. He was surprised at his own uneasiness and impatience. He had never so longed to meet Ellen. He imagined his meeting with her — her joy at his return — her tears for her disappointment — his happiness in restoring her heart to happiness, by an increasing tenderness of manner, and by instantly gratifying her wish of a return home.
All day and night he traveled. It was early morning when he arrived at his own door. He was surprised at the trembling emotions and quickened beating of his heart, as he descended the steps of his carriage, and ascended those to his own door. He passed on to the room of his wife. The light gleamed through the small opening over the door, and he thought he heard whispers. Softly he opened the door. O! what a terrible, heart-rending scene was before him!
The others soon left the room; and Frederic stood alone, in speechless agony, before the being made voiceless by himself.
The sensibility so long slumbering within his worldly, hardened heart, was aroused to the very keenness of torture. And Ellen, gentle spirit that she was — how would she have grieved to have seen the heart she had loved — so overwhelmed with grief, regret, remorse, despair!
"Ellen! my own Ellen!"
But she could not hear!
"I have killed you, gentlest and best!"
But the kindness of her heart was not open now!
"I forgive you," could not fall from those lips so pale!
"I love you," could never come upon his ear again! 'Never' — 'NEVER!' thrilled his soul — every chord of which was strung to its intensity!
If anything could have added to the inconsolable grief of the man stricken in his sternness and pride — it was the grief of his two motherless boys, as they called on their mother's name in vain, and asked him why she slept so long!
Few knew why Ellen died so suddenly, and so young. But, while Frederic preserved in his heart her memory and her virtues, he remembered, and mourned in bitterness and unavailing anguish, that it was his own cruel unkindness, which laid her in her early grave.
Never again did the the smile come upon his face. And never, though lovely women flattered and praised him — did he wed again; for his heart was buried with his Ellen — whom hetoo late loved as he should have loved.
* * * * *
Washington Irving, in his beautiful "Affection for the Dead," says: "Go to the grave of buried love — and meditate. There settle the account with your conscience, for every past benefit unrequited, and every past endearment unregarded. Console yourself, if you can, with this simple, yet futile tribute of regret, and take warning by this, your unavailing sorrow for the dead. And henceforward be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of your duties to the living!"
Back to Main Index Timothy Shay Arthur