The Trials of the Soldier's Wife

  CHAPTER THIRTIETH.

  DEATH OF THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.

  The presence of his child lightened but did not remove the grief ofAlfred Wentworth. The love he bore his wife may be likened to the loveof the eagle for liberty. Cage it, and the noble bird pines away; nolonger allowed to soar on high, but fettered by man, it sickens anddies, nor can it be tamed sufficiently to become satisfied with thewires of a cage. So it was with the soldier. His love for his wife wasof so deep and fathomless a nature, that the knowledge of her being amaniac, and only returning to reason to die, changed the current ofhis nature, and from being a friendly and communicative man, he becamea silent and morose being. The world had lost its charms, and theblank left in his heart, the sear upon his mind, the agony at knowingthat his wife--his pure and peerless wife, had been compelled from hernecessities to take that which was not her own, could never be filled,never be healed and never be eased.

  A wife! We know not from experience what it means, but there is asomething, an inward voice, which tells, us that a wife is the holiestgift of God to man. A wife! what is it? A woman to cherish andprotect, to give the heart's affection to, and to receive all theconfiding love with which her bosom is filled. The partner of yourhappiness--the source of all that makes man good and binds him toearth; the solace of woes, the sharer of joys--the gentle nurse insickness, and the fond companion in health. Oh! there is a somethingin the name, which thrills the heart, and makes it beat with emotionat the sound of the word. Amid the cares and pleasures of man, therecan be no higher, no worthier desire than to share his triumphs with awife. When Ambition tempts him to mount yet higher in this earthlylife, and take his stand among the exalted men of genius, who sofitting to be the partner of his fame as the gentle woman of thisworld, and when disappointed in his aspirations, when the cold frownsof a callous world drive him from the haunts of men, who so soothingas a Wife? She will smoothen the wrinkles on his forehead, and bywords of loving cheer inspire him with courage and bid him brave thecensure and mocking of the world, and strive again to reach the summitof his desires. A Wife! There is no word that appeals with greaterforce to the heart than this. From the moment the lover becomes theWife, her life becomes a fountain of happiness to a husband, whichgushes out and runs down the path of Time, never to cease, until thepower of the Invisible demands and the Angel of Death removes her fromhis side. Age meets them hand in hand, and still imbued with areciprocity of affection, her children are taught a lesson fromherself which makes the Wife, from generation to generation, the samemedium of admiration for the world, the same object of our adorationand homage. We write these lines with homage and respect for the Wife,and with an undefined emotion in our hearts, which tells us they arecorrect, and that the value of a Wife is all the imagination candepict and the pen indite.

  And to lose one! Oh! what sorrow it must awaken--how the fountains ofgrief must fill to overflowing, when the companion of your life istorn from you by the hand of Death! No wonder, then, that the heart ofAlfred Wentworth bled with woe, and he became a changed man. Whatcared he longer for this world? Almost nothing! But one thing urgedhim to rally his energies and meet the blow with fortitude whenever itshould come. It was the knowledge that his little boy would need afather's care. This made him not quite oblivious to this world, forthough his life would be in the front, so soon as he returned to thebattle-field, there were chances for his escaping death, and hisdesire was to live, so that the child might grow up and remind him ofhis wife. No, not remind! As fresh as the hour when love first enteredhis heart for her--as plain as the day he led her to the altar andregistered his vows to Heaven--and as pure as herself, would hismemory ever be for her. Time can soothe woes, obliterate the scarsleft by grief, but the memory of a dead wife can never be extinguishedin the mind of a husband, even though her place in his heart may befilled by another. She must ever be recollected by him, and each hourhe thinks of her, so will her virtues shine brighter and moretransparent, and her faults, if any, become forgotten, as they wereforgiven. But we weary the reader with these digressions, and willproceed to close our narrative.

  Three additional weeks passed, and still Mrs. Wentworth remainedinsane, but her insanity being of a gentle character, Dr. Humphrieswould not permit her to be sent to the lunatic asylum, as her husbandadvised. It is true, he desired it more for the purpose of avoidingbeing the recipient of any further favors, than because he thought itnecessary. This morbid sensitiveness shrank from being obligated to acomparative stranger like the doctor, and it was not until the oldgentleman absolutely refused to permit Mrs. Wentworth to leave thehouse, that he yielded his assent to her remaining.

  "As you insist upon it," he remarked, "I make no further opposition toher remaining, but I think it an imposition on your benevolence thatyour home shall be made gloomy by my wife being in it."

  "Not in the least gloomy, sir," replied the doctor, "nor do I think itthe slightest imposition upon my benevolence. Were it only to repaythe debt Harry owes you for the preservation of his life, I shouldinsist upon her not being removed. But I deem it a duty we owe to oursuffering fellow mortals, and as long as she remains in her presentstate, so long will she be an inmate of my house, and everything thatcan lighten and ameliorate her unhappy condition shall be deemed apleasant business to perform."

  "I do not doubt it, sir," said Alfred, grasping the doctor's hand andshaking it heartily, "believe me, the attention of your daughter,Harry and yourself, has been the oasis in my present desert of life,and though in a few short weeks I expect all will be over, and shewill no longer need your care, the memory of your kindness in thesegloomy times of sorrow, shall ever remain unfading in memory, andshall always be spoken of and thought of with the greatest gratitude."

  "No gratitude is necessary," answered the doctor as he returned thepressure of Alfred Wentworth's hand, "I consider myself performing asacred duty, both to God and to humanity, and no gratitude is neededfor the faithful performance of the same."

  "No, no sir," interrupted Alfred, hastily, "it is no duty, and cannotbe looked upon as such--at least by me."

  "Well, well," remarked the doctor, "we will not argue about that. Ionly wish it were in my power to do more by giving you assurance thatyour wife will recover, but I fear very much she never can."

  "How long do you suppose she will linger?" asked Alfred sadly.

  "I cannot tell," replied the doctor, "Her strength has been failingvery rapidly for the past week, and I do not think she can last muchlonger."

  "Could nothing be done to keep her alive, if even it were as amaniac?" he inquired, and then added, and as he spoke, repressing theemotion he felt, "Could she but live, it would be some solace to me,for then I should have her with me, and by procuring a position insome of the departments, be enabled to remain with her; but the ideaof her dying--it is that which saddens me and almost makes me cursethe hour I left her. My poor, darling wife!"

  The last words were uttered as if he were speaking to himself, and thetone of sorrow in which he spoke touched Dr. Humphries deeply.

  "Bear with fortitude the dispensations of a Divine Providence," saidthe old gentleman. "If He has willed that your wife shall die, youmust bow humbly to the decree. Time will assuage your grief and removefrom your mind, this sad--too sad fate that has befallen her."

  "If you think that time can assuage my grief," replied Alfred, "yougreatly underrate the strength of my affection. When a mere stripling,I first met my wife, and from that hour all the affection I possessedwas hers. Each day it grew stronger, and at the time I left NewOrleans with my regiment, the love I bore my wife, and for her, mychildren, could not have been bartered for the wealth of California.She was to me a dearer object than all else on earth, and more--"

  He could speak no longer, so overcome was he with emotion. Once morewringing the doctor's hand, he left the room and entered the chamberof his wife.

  "Unhappy man," exclaimed the doctor, when he was alone, "his is,indeed, a bitter grief, and one not easily obliterated."

/>   With these words the kind-hearted old gentleman retired to his study,greatly moved at the misfortunes of the family he had been brought incontact with.

  The furloughs granted to Alfred and Harry had been renewed on theexpiration of the time they had been granted for, but on therepresentation of Dr. Humphries, had been renewed. At the time theabove conversation took place, they were again nearly expired andHarry determined to appeal to the government once more for a secondrenewal. Accordingly he took the cars for Richmond and obtaining aninterview with the Secretary of War, he represented the condition ofMrs. Wentworth, and exhibited the certificates of several doctors thatshe could not survive two months longer. For himself, he requested afurther renewal of his furlough on the ground of his approachingmarriage. With that kindness and consideration which distinguishedGen. Randolph, his applications were granted, and leaves of absencefor Alfred and himself for sixty days longer were cordially granted.

  With the furloughs, he arrived from Richmond the same evening that theconversation related above took place between the doctor and Alfred,and on the return of his friend from his wife's chamber, he presentedhim with his leave.

  "You are indeed a friend," remarked Alfred, "and I can neversufficiently repay the kindness you have shown me. But before thisfurlough expires I do not suppose I shall have any wife to be with."

  "Why do you speak so?" inquired Harry.

  "She cannot last much longer," he replied. "Although unwillingly andwith sorrow I am compelled to acknowledge that every day she sinkslower, and to-day her appearance denotes approaching dissolution tooplain, even for me to persuade myself that such is not the case."

  "I cannot tell you I hope you are mistaken," observed his friend, "forI feel that such language can never lighten nor remove your sorrow.But be assured that I deeply sympathize with you in your affliction."

  "I know it," he answered. "Would to heaven all in the South were likeyou. It might have been different with my poor wife, and my angel girlmight have been alive this day. However, it was not their duty tosuccor and protect my family, and I have no right to complain becausethey lent her no helping hand. I alone must bear the weight of myaffliction, and from the misery it causes me, I devoutly trust none ofmy comrades may ever know it. Here your betrothed comes," hecontinued, observing Emma at the door. "I will leave you for thepresent, as I suppose you wish to speak with her and I desire to bealone for awhile."

  "Do not let her presence hasten your departure," said Harry. "She willbe as happy in my company while you are here, as if no third personwas present."

  Alfred smiled faintly as he replied: "Her presence alone does notimpel me to leave, but I desire to be alone for a time. My mind isvery much unsettled, and a few moments of solitary thought willrestore it to its wonted quietude."

  Rising from his seat, he bade Harry adieu, and bowing to Emma, whoentered at the moment, left the house and bent his steps toward hislodgings. Dr. Humphries had invited him to be a guest at his house,but he politely but firmly declined the invitation, at the same timehis days were spent there with his wife, and it was only in theevening he left, to take a few moments of rest. From the time hediscovered his wife, and she was carried to Dr. Humphries' residence,he had never been to any other place than the doctor's or hislodgings.

  Four days after Harry's return, he was seated with Emma in the parlorconversing on the subject of his marriage, which the fair girl desiredput off until after Mrs. Wentworth's death, which her father told hercould not be postponed many weeks. Her lover endeavored to combat herresolution, by declaring that while Alfred would always get a furloughif his wife was still alive at the expiration of its time, he couldneither ask nor expect to obtain any further extension. They were inthe midst of a warm discussion, when Dr. Humphries entered. He hadjust come from Mrs. Wentworth's room, and appeared exceedingly sad.

  "How is Mrs. Wentworth this morning, father?" inquired Emma, as thedoctor entered, and observing his mournful expression, she added,"What is the matter."

  "Mrs. Wentworth has recovered her reason, and is dying," he replied.

  "Poor Alfred," observed Harry, "this hour will not take him bysurprise, but it cannot fail to add to his grief."

  "Has he been here this morning," asked the doctor.

  "Not yet," answered Harry, "but," he continued, looking at his watch,"he will soon be here, for it is now his usual hour of coming."

  "I trust he will not delay," said Dr. Humphries "for his wife cannotlast three hours longer."

  "In that event, I had better go and look for him," Harry observed "henever leaves his lodgings except to come here, and there will be nodifficulty in finding him."

  Rising from his seat, he took up his hat and departed for his friend.Before he had gone two squares he met Alfred, and without sayinganything to him, retraced his steps to the doctor's window.

  "My friend" said Doctor Humphries as Alfred entered, "the hour hascome, when you must summon all your fortitude and hear withresignation the stern decree of the Almighty. Your wife is perfectlysane this morning but she is dying. On entering her chamber a whileago, I found her quite composed and perfectly sensible of the life shehad passed through. Though she did not recognize me, an intuitiveknowledge of who I was, possessed her, and her first request was thatyou should be sent to her. Your little boy is now with her and sheawaits your arrival."

  Taking Alfred by the hand and followed by Harry, the doctor led theway to the chamber of the dying wife. The child was sitting on the bedwith his mothers arms around his neck. Emma, Elsie, and the old negrowere standing at the bedside looking sorrowfully at Mrs. Wentworth. Assoon as her husband entered, they made way for him to approach.

  "Alfred, my husband" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth, extending her arms, "Iam so glad you have come that I can see you once more before I die."

  "Eva, my heart strings are torn with agony to see you thus" he repliedraising her gently and pillowing his head on her bosom, "Oh! my wife,that this should be the end of all my hopes. What consolation is thereleft to me on earth when you are gone."

  "Speak not so despairingly" she answered, "It were better that Ishould die than live with a burning conscience. My husband, the actfor which I have been tried, still haunts me, for here on earth itwill ever be a reproach, while in Heaven, the sin I committed will beforgiven through the intercession of a divine Savior."

  "Perish the remembrance of that act!" answered her husband. "To me mydarling wife it can make no difference, for I regret only thenecessity which impelled you to do it, and not the act. Live, oh mywife, live and your fair fame shall never suffer, while your husbandis able to shield you from the reproaches of the world. Though theproud may affect to scorn you, those in whose hearts beats a singletouch of generosity will forgive and forget it, and if even they donot, in the happiness of my unfaltering affections, the opinions ofthe world, can be easily disregarded."

  "It cannot be" she answered, "I am dying Alfred, and before manyhours, the spirit will be resting in heaven. To have you by my sideere my breath leaves my body, to grasp your hand, and gaze on yourloved features ere I die, removes all my unhappiness of the wearymonths now past, and I leave this world content."

  "Oh my wife" said Alfred, "Is this the end of our married life? Isthis the reward I reap for serving my country! Oh, had I remained inNew Orleans, the eye of the libertine would never have been cast uponyou, and you would have been saved from the grasp of the heartlessspeculator and extortioner.--What is independence compared with you mywife? What have I gained by severing the ties of love and leaving ahappy home, to struggle for the liberty of my country? A dead child--adying wife--a child who will now be motherless; while I will be awretched heart-broken man. Better, far better, had I resisted thecalls of my country, and remained with you, than to return and find myhappiness gone, and my family beggared, and tossing on the roughbillows of adversity, unheeded by the wealthy, and unfriended by all."

  "Speak not so, my husband," she answered, "my sufferings may be theprice of independence, an
d I meet them cheerfully. Though in my hoursof destitution, despair may have caused me to utter words of anguish,never, for a moment, have I regretted that you left me, to strugglefor your country. If in my sufferings; if in the death of my child; ifin my death; and if in the destroying of our once happy family circle,the cause for which you are a soldier is advanced, welcome them. Womancan only show her devotion by suffering, and though I cannot strugglewith you on the battle-field, in suffering as I have done, I feel ithas been for our holy cause."

  "Eva, Eva," he exclaimed, "do all these give you back to me? Do theyrestore my angel daughter? Do they bring me happiness? Oh, my wife, Ihad hoped that old age would meet us calmly floating down the streamof Time, surrounded by a happy family, and thanking God for theblessings he had bestowed upon me. When I first led you to the altar,I dreamed that our lives would be blended together for many, manyyears, and though I knew that the 'Lord giveth and the Lord takethaway,' and that at any time we may die, I never thought that the endof our happiness would be brought about in such a way as this. Youtell me it is the price of Independence. Aye, and it is a fearfulprice. When you are laid in the cold grave aside of Ella, and I amstruggling in the battle-field, what is there to inspire me withcourage, and bid me fight on until liberty is won? And when it is atlast achieved, I cannot share the joy of my comrades. I have no hometo go to, and if even I have, it is desolate. No wife is there towelcome me, no daughter to thank me, but I must take my orphan boy bythe hand, and leading him to your grave, kneel by its side and weeptogether on the sod that covers your remains."

  There was not a dry eye in the room. All wept with the husband, andeven the dying woman could not restrain the tears.

  "Alfred," she said, "do not weep. My husband, up there, in Heaven, wewill meet again, and then the desolation on earth will be more thanrepaid by the pleasure of eternal joy. Let not my death cause you tofalter in your duty to the South. Promise me, my husband, that throughall changes you will ever remain steadfast and loyal to her sacredcause. Look not on the cruelty of a few men as the work of the whole,and remember that if even you are not made happier by the achievementof independence, there are others you assist in making so, and otherhomes which would have been as desolate as yours, but for you and yourcomrades' defense. Promise me, Alfred, that so long as the war lasts,you will never desert the South."

  "I promise," he replied.

  "There is now but one thing that gives me thought," she continued, hervoice growing weaker each moment, "our little boy--"

  "Shall have a home so long as I live and his father is serving hiscountry," interrupted Dr. Humphries. "Rest easy on that subject,madam," he continued, "it will be a pleasure for me to take care ofthe boy."

  "Then I die happy," said Mrs. Wentworth, and turning to her husbandshe said with difficulty, "Farewell, my husband. Amid all my trialsand sufferings my love for you has ever been as true and pure as thehour we married. To die in your arms, with my head on your bosom wasall I wished, and my desire is gratified. Farewell."

  Before her husband could reply her reason had vanished, and sheremained oblivious to all around her. Her eyes were closed, and themoving of her lips alone told that she yet lived.

  "Eva! darling! Wife!" exclaimed Alfred passionately "Speak to me! ohmy angel wife, speak one word to me ere you die. Look at me! say thatyou recognize me. Awake to consciousness, and let me hear the sound ofyour voice once more. Wake up my wife" he continued wildly, "Oh foranother word--one look before you are no more."

  His wild and passionate words reached the ear of the dying woman, andher voice came again, but it was the dying flicker of the expiringlamp. She slowly opened her eyes and looked up in the face of herhusband.

  "Alfred--husband, happiness" she murmured softly, then gently drawingdown his head, her lips touched his for an instant, and the soldier'swife embraced her husband for the last time on earth.

  Releasing his head Mrs. Wentworth kept her eyes fixed upon those ofher husband. Their glances met and told their tale of deep andunutterable affection. The look they gave each other pierced theirsouls, and lit up each heart with the fires of love. Thus theycontinued for several minutes, when Mrs. Wentworth, rising on herelbow, looked for a moment on the grief struck group around her bed.

  "Farewell," she murmured, and then gazing at her husband, her lipsmoved, but her words could not be heard.

  Stooping his ear to her lips, Alfred caught their import, and thetears coursed down his cheek.

  The words were, "My husband I die happy in your arms."

  As if an Almighty power had occasioned the metamorphosis, thecountenance of the dying woman rapidly changed, and her features borethe same appearance they had in years gone by. A smile lingered roundher lips, and over her face was a beautiful and saint-like expression.The husband gazed upon it, and her resemblance to what she was in daysof yore, flashed across his mind with the rapidity of lightning. Butthe change did not last long, for soon she closed her eyes andloosened her grasp on her husband's neck, while her features resumedtheir wan and cheerless expression. Nothing but the smile remained,and that looked heavenly. Alfred still supported her; he thought shewas asleep.

  "She is now in heaven," said Doctor Humphries solemnly.

  Yes, she was dead! No more could the libertine prosecute her with hishellish passions; no more could his vile and lustful desires wreaktheir vengeance on her, because of disappointment. No more could theheartless extortioner turn her from a shelter to perish in thestreets. No more could the gardened and uncharitable speculator wringfrom her the last farthing, nor could suffering and starvation tempther any more to commit wrong. No--she is in heaven. _There_ thelibertine is not and can never be. _There_ she will ever find ashelter, for _there_ the extortioner rules not. There the speculatorcan never dwell, and in that holy abode suffering and starvation cannever be known. An eternity of happiness was now hers. To the home ofthe Father and to the dwelling of the Son, her spirit had winged itsflight, and henceforth, instead of tears, and lamentations the voiceof another angel would be heard in Paradise chanting the praises ofJehovah.

  Yes, the eye of God was turned upon the soldiers wife, and she wasmade happy. Her months of grief and misery were obliterated, and theAlmighty in his infinite goodness, had taken her to himself--had takenher to Heaven. The spirit of the mother is with the child, and bothare now in that home, where we all hope to go. In the ear of thesoldier, two angels are whispering words of divine comfort and peace,and as their gentle voice enter his heart, a feeling of resignationsteals over this mind, and kneeling over the dead body of his wife hegently murmurs,

  "Thy will be done oh God!"

  Every voice is hushed, every tear is dried, and the prayer of thesoldier ascends to Heaven for strength to hear his affliction. The eyeof God is now upon him, and He can minister to the supplicant.