The Trials of the Soldier's Wife

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST.

  THE INTRUSION.

  As soon as the breath had left her child's body, Mrs. Wentworthremoved the corpse from her lap and laid it on the bed; than standingaside of it, gazed upon all that remained of her little daughter. Nota tear, not a sigh, not a groan denoted that she felt any grief at herbereavement. Except a nervous twitching of her mouth, her featureswore a cold and rigid appearance, and her eye looked dull and glassy.She spoke not a word to those around her who yet lived. Her little boywas unnoticed, no other object but the dead body appeared to meet herview.

  There are moments when the fountains of grief become dried up. It wasso with Mrs. Wentworth. The sight of her dead child's face--beautifulin death--for it wore a calm and placid exterior, too life-like fordeath, too rigid for life, awoke no emotion in her bosom; nor did theknowledge that the infant would soon be placed in the grave, and beforever hidden from the gaze she now placed on it so steadfastly,cause a single tear drop to gather in her eye, nor a sigh to burstfrom her pale and firmly closed lips. And yet, there raged within herbreast a volcano, the violence of whose fire would soon exhaust, andleave her scarred and blasted forever. At that moment it kindled witha blaze, that scorched her heart, but she felt it not. Her whole beingwas transformed into a mass of ruin. She felt not the strain on thetendrils of her mind; that her overwrought brain was swaying betweenmadness and reason. She only saw the lifeless lineaments of herchild--the first pledge of her wedded affection--dead before her.

  It came to her like a wild dream, a mere hallucination--an imaginationof a distempered mind. She could not believe it. There, on that lowlybed, her child to die! It was something too horrible for her thoughts,and though the evidence lay before her, in all its solemn grandeur,there was something to her eye so unreal and impossible in its silentmagnificence that she doubted its truthfulness.

  The old negro saw her misery. She knew that the waters which run witha mild and silent surface, are often possessed of greater depth, thanthose which rush onward with a mighty noise.

  "Come missis," she said, placing her hand on Mrs. Wentworth'sshoulder. "De Lord will be done. Nebber mind. He know better what todo dan we do, and we must all be satisfy wid his works."

  Mrs. Wentworth looked at the old woman for a moment, and a bittersmile swept across her countenance. What were words of consolation toher? They sounded like a mockery in her heart. She needed them not,for they brought not to life again the child whose spirit had wingedits flight to eternity, but a short time since.

  "Peace old woman," she replied calmly, "you know not what you say.That," she continued, pointing to the body of Ella, "that you tell menot to mourn, but to bend to the will of God. Pshaw! I mourn it not.Better for the child to die than lead a beggar's life on earth."

  "Shame, shame missis," observed the old woman, very much shocked atwhat appeared to her the insensibility of Mrs. Wentworth. "You musn'ttalk dat way, it don't do any good."

  "You know not what I mean, auntie," Mrs. Wentworth answered in amilder tone. "Why did I come here? Why did I bring my child ill anddying from a shelter, and carry her through the night air, until Ifound a home in your lonely cabin? Do you know why?" she continuedwith bitterness. "It was because I was a beggar, and could not pay thedemands of the rich."

  "Poh lady!" ejaculated the old woman. "Whar is your husband."

  "My husband?" she replied. "Ah! where is he? Oh, God!" she continuedwildly. "Where is he now while his child lies dead throughdestitution, and his wife feels the brand of the _thief_ imprintedupon her forehead? Why is he not here to succor the infant boy who yetremains, and who may soon follow his sister? Oh, God! Oh, God! that heshould be far away, and I be here gazing on the dead body of mychild--dead through my neglect to procure her proper medicalattendance; dead through the destitution of her mother."

  "Nebber mind, missis," observed the old negro soothingly, "De chile isgone to heaben, whar it wont suffer any more."

  "Peace!" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth passionately. "Do not talk to me ofHeaven. What has God done to aid me in my misery? Has he not sufferedme to feel the pangs of hunger, to see my children deprived of bread,to permit me to stain my whole existence with a crime? The child isgone to Heaven. Aye! there her sinlessness and innocence might giveher a welcome, and she may be happy, but the blank left in my heart,the darkness of my mind, the cheerless and unpropitious future thatunveils itself before my aching eyes, can never be obliterated until Iam laid in the grave beside her, and my spirit has winged its flightto the home where she now dwells."

  She spoke slowly and earnestly, but her words were of despair not ofgrief. Motioning to the old woman that she desired no furtherconversation, Mrs. Wentworth again fixed her gaze upon the deadfeatures of her child. On them she looked, until the tablet of hermemory contained but one impress, that of her daughter's face. Allrecords of past suffering, all anxiety for the present, all prayer forthe future, were driven away, and solitary and alone the image of thedead child filled their place, and in that lone thought wasconcentrated all that had transpired in her life for months past. Itwas the last remaining bulwark to her tottering mind, and though itstill held reason dominant, the foundation of sanity had been shakento such an extent that the slightest touch and the fabric would fallfrom its throne and crumble to dust at the feet of madness. But thiswas unknown to God. He who knoweth all things still kept his eyes awayfrom the mother and her children.

  "Dead! dead!" said, Mrs. Wentworth, swaying her body to and fro. "Myangel child dead! Oh, God!"' she continued, passing her hand acrossher brow. "That I should live to see this day, that this hour ofbereavement should ever be known to me. Oh! that this should be theresult of my sufferings, that this should be the only reward of mytoils and prayers."

  The blood rushed to her face, and her whole form trembled with anuncontrollable agitation; her bosom heaved with emotion, and thebeatings of her heart were heard as plain as the click of the clock onthe mantlepiece. Stooping over the dead body she clasped it in herarms, and pressed the bloodless and inanimate lips in a fond embrace.It was the promptings of a mother's heart. She had nursed the childwhen an infant, and had seen her grow up as beautiful as the fairiesso often described by the writers of fiction. She had looked forwardfor the day when the child would bloom into womanhood, and be ablessing and a comfort in her old age. All these were now foreverblighted. Not even the presence of her son awoke a thought within herthat the living remained to claim her care and affection. He was but alink in the chain of her paternal love, and the bonds having beenbroken she looked on the shattered fragment and sought not to unitewhat yet remained in an unhurt state.

  When she rose from her stooping posture her face had resumed its coldand rigid appearance. Turning to the old negro who was looking on insilent wonder and grief, she enquired in a calm tone: "Have you any ofthe money left that I gave you this morning?"

  "Yes, missis," she replied. "I got some left."

  "How much is it?" asked Mrs. Wentworth.

  "Twelve dollars," she answered, counting the notes that she had takenfrom her pocket.

  "Will that be enough to pay for a coffin for my child?" Mrs. Wentworthenquired.

  "I don't know, but I spect it will do," replied the old negro.

  "To make sure that it will be enough," observed Mrs. Wentworth, "hereis some more money to pay for it." As she spoke she handed severalnotes to the old woman. "And now," she continued, "I want you to goout and order a coffin, as I want the child to be buried to-morrowmorning."

  "I spec I better get de parson to preach over de poor chile," remarkedthe old woman, who was a strict member of the church, and verysuperstitious in relation to the evils that would accrue from adeparture from all that is laid down in religious tenets.

  "Yes, yes!" Mrs. Wentworth replied. "But there is no necessity ofgoing for him this evening, wait until early in the morning, that timewill do well enough."

  The old woman curtsied and moved out of the room. Arriving in town sheentered an undertaker's shop and e
nquired if he could furnish a coffinby the next morning. On his answering in the affirmative she paid himtwenty dollars, the amount charged, and hastened back to her cabin.The interest manifested by this old woman, was that usually shown toall persons in distress by the faithful slave of the South. She hadnot even learned Mrs. Wentworth's name, but the sight of her sad andhaggard features, as well as the death of Ella, had awaken a feelingof sympathy for the unfortunate family; thus we see her obeying theorders of her accidental guests, without making any objections. But toreturn to the dead.

  As soon as Mrs. Wentworth was left alone, her face assumed its naturalappearance, and the rigid expression it had hitherto worn wasdispelled. Opening a bundle she had brought front her room, she tookout a white dress. It was one of the few remaining articles ofclothing she possessed, and had only been saved at the earnestsolicitation of the little Ella. It was her bridal robe; in that shehad walked up to the altar and plighted her troth to the loved husbandwho was now a prisoner and far away. The first and last time she hadworn it was on that day, and as she gazed on it the memory of the pastrushed upon her. She thought of the hour when, as a blushing bride,she leaned on the proud form of her lover, as they walked together inthe sacred edifice to register those vows that bound them in anindissoluble tie, and unite their hearts in a stronger and holier lovethan their lover's vows had done. Then she know not what sorrow was.No gift of futurity had disclosed to her the wretchedness and penurythat after years had prepared for her. No, then all was joy andhappiness. As she stood by the side of her lover her maiden facesuffused with blushes, and her palpitating heart filled with mingledfelicity and anxiety as she looked down on the bridal dress thatcovered her form. No thought, no dream, not even a fear of what afteryears would bring to her, stirred the fountain of fear and caused hera single pang. And now--but why trouble the reader with any furtherremarks of the past? That is gone and forever. We have seen her treadthe paths in which all that is dismal and wretched abides; we haveseen herself and her children lead a life, the very thought of whichshould cause us to pray it may never be our lot. Words can avail butlittle. They only fill the brain with gladness for awhile to turn tohorror afterwards. We have but to write of the present. In it we findmisery enough, we find sorrow and wretchedness, without the hand ofcompassion being held forth to help the miserable from the deep andfearful gulf with which penury and want abound.

  The wedding dress was soiled and crumpled; the bunches of orangeblossoms with which it was adorned, lay crushed upon its folds--a fitappearance for the heart of the owner--It looked like a relic ofgrandeur shining in the midst of poverty, and as its once gaudy foldsrested against the counterpane in the bed, the manifest difference ofthe two appeared striking and significant.

  For a moment Mrs. Wentworth gazed upon this last momento of long pasthappiness, and a spasm of grief contracted her features. It passedaway, however, in an instant, and she laid the dress across the deadbody of her child. Drawing a chair to the bedside, she took from herpocket a spool of thread, some needles and her scissors. Selecting oneof the needles, she thread it, and pinning it in the body of herdress, removed the wedding gown from the body of her child, andprepared to make a shroud of it. Rapidly she worked at her task, andbefore darkness had set in, the burial garment was completed, and thebody of Ella was enclosed in the last robe she would wear on earth.

  The body of the dead child looked beautiful. The snowy folds of thedress were looped up with the orange blossoms which Mrs. Wentworth hadrestored to their natural beauty. On her cold, yet lovely brow, awreath of the same flowers was placed, while in her hand was placed atiny ivory cross, that Ella had worn around her neck while living. Thetransformation was complete. The dress of the young and blooming bridehad become the habiliments of the dead child, and the orange blossomsthat rested on its folds and on the brow of Ella, were not moreemblematical for the dead than they had been for the living.

  "Oh! how pretty sister looks," exclaimed the little boy, who could notcomprehend why the dead body lie so motionless and stiff. "Wake herup, mother," he continued, "she looks so pretty that I want her tostand up and see herself."

  Mrs. Wentworth smiled sorrowfully at her son's remarks, but she didnot remove her features from the dead. The saint-like expression ofher child, and the placid and beautiful face that lay before herdevoid of animation, had awoke the benumbed feelings of affectionwithin her. A bright light flashed across her brain, and the long pentup tears, were about to flow, when the door was widely opened, and adark shadow spread itself over the body of Ella. Checking her emotion,Mrs. Wentworth looked around and beheld the figure of Mr. Swartz,accompanied by two police officers.

  She spoke not a word at first, for in an instant the cause of hisvisit was known. One look she gave him, which sunk into the inmostdepths of his soul; then turning to the dead child, she slowlyextended her hand and pointed to it.

  "There," she said at last. "Look there," and her face again wore itsformer colorless and rigid aspect.