The Two Wives
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T.S. Arthur >> The Two Wives
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10 THE TWO WIVES;
OR, LOST AND WON.
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
PHILADELPHIA:
1851.
PREFACE.
THE story of the "Two Wives; or, Lost and Won," is intended to show
the power of tender, earnest, self-forgetting love, in winning back
from the path of danger a husband whose steps have strayed, and who
has approached the very brink of ruin; and, by contrast, to exhibit
the sad consequences flowing from a want of these virtues under like
circumstances.
This book is the third in the Series of "ARTHUR'S LIBRARY FOR THE
HOUSEHOLD." The fourth, which is nearly ready, will be called "THE
WAYS OF PROVIDENCE; OR, HE DOETH ALL THINGS WELL."
THE TWO WIVES.
CHAPTER I.
"YOU are not going out, John?" said Mrs. Wilkinson, looking up from
the work she had just taken into her hands. There was a smile on her
lips; but her eyes told, plainly enough, that a cloud was upon her
heart.
Mrs. Wilkinson was sitting by a small work-table, in a neatly
furnished room. It was evening, and a shaded lamp burned upon the
table. Mr. Wilkinson, who had been reading, was standing on the
floor, having thrown down his book and risen up hastily, as if a
sudden purpose had been formed in his mind.
"I shall only be gone a little while, dear," returned Mr. Wilkinson,
a slight air of impatience visible beneath his kind voice and
manner.
"Don't go, John," said Mrs. Wilkinson, still forcing a smile to her
countenance. "I always feel so lonely when you are away. We only
have our evenings to be together; and I cannot bear then to be
robbed of your company. Don't go out, John; that's a good, dear
husband."
And Mrs. Wilkinson, in the earnestness of her desire to keep her
husband at home, laid aside her sewing, and rising, approached and
leaned her hands upon his shoulder, looking up with an affectionate,
appealing expression into his face.
"You're a dear, good girl, Mary," said Mr. Wilkinson, tenderly, and
he kissed the pure lips of his wife as he spoke. "I know it's wrong
to leave you alone here. But, I won't be gone more than half an
hour. Indeed I won't. See, now;" and he drew forth his watch; "it is
just eight o'clock, and I will be home again precisely at half-past
eight, to a minute."
Mrs. Wilkinson made no answer; but her husband saw that tears were
in the eyes fixed so lovingly upon him.
"Now don't, love," said he, tenderly, "make so much of just half an
hour's absence. I promised Elbridge that I would call around and see
him about a little matter of business, and I must keep my word. I
had forgotten the engagement until it crossed my mind while
reading."
"If you have an engagement." There was a certain emphasis in the
words of Mrs. Wilkinson that caused her husband to partly turn his
face away.
"I have, dear. But for that, I should not think of leaving you
alone."
Almost instinctively Mrs. Wilkinson withdrew the hands she had
placed upon the shoulder of her husband, and receded from him a step
or two; at the same time her face was bent downwards, and her eyes
rested upon the floor.
For some moments Mr. Wilkinson stood as if in earnest debate with
himself; then he said, in a cheerful, lively tone--
"Good-by, love. I shall only be gone half an hour." And turning
away, left the room. He did not pause until he was in the street.
Then a spirit of irresolution came over him, and he said to himself,
as he moved slowly away,
"It isn't kind in me to leave Mary alone in this way; I know it
isn't. But I want to see Elbridge; and, in fact, partly promised
that I would call upon him this evening. True, I can say all I wish
to say to him in the morning, and to quite as good purpose. But--"
Wilkinson, whose steps had been growing more and more deliberate,
stopped. For some time he stood, in a thoughtful attitude--then
slowly returned. His hand was in his pocket, his dead-latch key
between his fingers, and his foot upon the marble sill of his door.
And thus he remained, in debate with himself, for as long a time as
two or three minutes.
"Yes; I must see him! I had forgotten that," he exclaimed, in a low
tone, and suddenly stepped back from the door, and with a rapid pace
moved down the street. A walk of ten minutes brought him to the
house of Mr. Elbridge. But it so happened that this gentleman was
not at home.
"How soon do you expect him to return?" was inquired of the servant.
"He may be here in half an hour; or not before ten o'clock," was the
reply.
Wilkinson was disappointed. Leaving his name with the servant, and
saying that he would probably call again during the evening, he
descended the steps and walked away. He was moving in the direction
of his home, and had arrived within a block thereof when he stopped,
saying to himself as he did so--
"I must see Elbridge this evening. It is already nearly half an hour
since I left home, and I promised Mary that I would not remain away
a moment longer than that time. But, I did not think Elbridge would
be out. Poor Mary! She looks at me with such sad eyes, sometimes,
that it goes to my very heart. She cannot bear to have me out of her
sight. Can she doubt me in any thing? No; I will not believe that.
She is a loving, gentle-minded creature--and one of the best of
wives. Ah me! I wish I were more like her."
Still Wilkinson remained standing, and in debate with himself.
"I will go home," said he, at length, with emphasis, and walked
quickly onward. He was within a few doors of his own home, when his
steps began to linger again. He had come once more into a state of
irresolution.
"Perhaps Elbridge has returned." This thought made him stop again.
"He must have understood me that I would be around."
Just at this moment the crying of a child was heard.
"Is that Ella?" Wilkinson walked around a little way, until he came
nearly opposite his own house. Then he stopped to listen more
attentively.
Yes. It was the grieving cry of his own sick babe.
"Poor child!" he murmured. "I wonder what can ail her?"
He looked up at the chamber windows. The curtains were drawn aside,
and he saw upon the ceiling of the room the shadow of some one
moving to and fro. He did not doubt that it was the shadow of his
wife, as, with their sick babe in her arms, she walked to and fro in
the effort to soothe it again to sleep. Had there been a doubt, it
would have been quickly dispelled, for there came to his ears the
soft tones of a voice he knew full well--came in tones of music, low
and soothing, but with most touching sweetness. It was the voice of
his wife, and she sang the air of the cradle-hymn with which he had
been soothed to rest when he lay an innocent babe in his mother's
arms.
The feelings of Wilkinson, a good deal excited by the struggle
between affection and duty on the one side, and appetite and
inclination on the other, were touched and softened by the incident,
and he was about entering his house when the approaching form of a
man, a short distance in advance, caught his eye, and he paused
until he came up.
"Elbridge! The very one I wished to see!" he exclaimed, in a low
voice, as he extended his hand and grasped that of his friend. "I've
just been to your house. Did you forget that I was to call around?"
"I didn't understand you to say, certainly, that you would call, or
I should have made it a point to be at home. But no matter. All in
good time. I'm on my way home now, and you will please return with
me."
"I don't know about that," said Wilkinson, who could not forget his
promise to his wife. "I told Mary, when I went out, that I would
only be gone half an hour, and that time has expired already."
"Oh, never mind," returned the other, lightly. "She'll forgive you,
I'll be bound. Tell her that you came home, in all obedience to her
wishes, but that I met you at your own door, and carried you off in
spite of yourself."
And as Elbridge said this, he drew his arm within that of Wilkinson,
and the two men went chatting away.
Elbridge was fond of good wine, and always kept a few choice bottles
on hand. Wilkinson knew this; and, if he had looked narrowly into
his heart on the present occasion, he would have discovered that the
wine of his friend had for him a stronger attraction than his
company.
As the latter had anticipated, wine and cigars were produced
immediately on their arrival at the house of Elbridge; and in the
exhilaration of the one and the fumes of the other, he soon forgot
his lonely, troubled wife and sick child at home.
A friend or two dropped in, in the course of half an hour; and then
a second bottle of wine was uncorked, and glasses refilled with its
sparkling contents.
The head of Wilkinson was not very strong. A single glass of wine
generally excited him, and two or three proved, always, more than he
could bear. It was so on this occasion; and when, at eleven o'clock,
he passed forth from the house of his friend, it was only by an
effort that he could walk steadily. The cool night air, as it
breathed upon his heated brow, partially sobered him, and his
thoughts turned towards his home. A sigh and the act of striking his
hand upon his forehead marked the effect of this transition of
thought.
"Poor Mary! I didn't mean to stay away so late. I meant to return in
half an hour," he muttered, half aloud. "But this is always the way.
I'm afraid I've taken too much of Elbridge's wine; a little affects
me. I wonder if Mary will notice it; I wouldn't have her to do so
for the world. Poor child! it would frighten her to death. I rather
think I'd better try to walk off the effects of what I've been
drinking. It's late, any how, and fifteen or twenty minutes will
make but little difference either way."
As Wilkinson said this, he turned down a cross street which he
happened to be passing at the moment, and moved along with a quicker
pace. Gradually the confusion of his thoughts subsided.
"I wish I had remained at home," he sighed, as the image of his wife
arose distinctly in his mind. "Poor Mary! I broke my word with her,
though I promised so faithfully. Oh, dear! this weakness on my part
is terrible. Why was I so anxious to see Elbridge? there was no real
engagement, and yet I told Mary there was. I would not have her know
of this deception for the world. I forgot about dear little Ella's
being so sick; what if we should lose that little angel? Oh! I could
not bear it!"
Wilkinson stopped suddenly as this thought flashed over his mind. He
was soberer by far than when he left the house of Mr. Elbridge.
"I'll go home at once." He turned and began quickly retracing his
steps. And now he remembered the moving shadow on the wall, as he
stood, nearly three hours before, in front of his house, debating
with himself whether to enter or no. He heard too, in imagination,
the plaintive cries of his sick child, and the soothing melody of
its mother's voice as she sought to hush into sleep its unquiet
spirit.
CHAPTER II.
WILKINSON was nearly in front of his own door, when he was thus
familiarly accosted by a man named Ellis, who came leisurely walking
along with a lighted cigar in his mouth.
"Hallo! is this you, Wilkinson? What in the name of wonder are you
doing out at such an hour?"
"And suppose I were to ask you the same question?" inquired
Wilkinson, as he took the hand of the other, who was an old
acquaintance.
"It would be easily answered," was the unhesitating reply of Ellis,
who had been drinking rather freely.
"Well, suppose I have the benefit of your answer."
"You're quite welcome. I keep no secrets from an old friend, you
see. Can't you guess?"
"I'm not good at guessing."
"Had a little tiff with Cara," said Ellis in a half whisper, as he
bent to the ear of his companion.
"Oh, no!" returned Wilkinson.
"Fact. Cara's a dear, good soul, as you know; but she's a
self-willed little jade, and if I don't do just as she wants me
to--if I don't walk her chalk line--_presto!_ she goes off like a
rocket. To-night, d'ye see, I came home with the first volume of
Prescott's new work on Mexico--a perfect romance of a book, and
wanted to read it aloud to Cara. But no, she had something else in
her head, and told me, up and down, that she didn't want to hear any
of my dull old histories. I got mad, of course; I always get mad
when she comes athwart my hawes in this way.
"'Dull old histories!' said I, indignantly. 'There's more true life
and real interest in this book than in all the Wandering Jews or
Laura Matilda novels that ever were written; and I wish you'd throw
such miserable trash into the fire, and read books from which to get
some intelligence and strength of mind.' Whew! The way she combed my
hair for me at this was curious. I am a philosopher, and on these
occasions generally repeat to myself the wise saw--
'He that fights and runs away,
May live to fight another day.'
So, deeming discretion the better part of valour, I retreated in
disorder."
"That's bad," remarked Wilkinson, who knew something of the
character of his friend's wife.
"I know it's bad; but, then, I can't help myself. Cara has such a
queer temper, I never know how to take her."
"You ought to understand her peculiarities by this time, and bear
with them."
"Bear with them! I'd like to see you have the trial for a while;
your wife is an angel. Ah, John! you're a lucky dog. If I had such a
sweet-tempered woman in my house, I would think it a very paradise."
"Hush! hush! Harry; don't speak in that way. Few women possess so
many good qualities as Mrs. Ellis; and it is your duty to cherish
and love the good, and to bear with the rest."
"Well preached; but, as I am to apply the discourse, and not you, I
must beg to be excused."
"Good-night. Go home, kiss Cara, and forgive her," said Wilkinson;
and he made a motion to pass on, adding, as he did so, "I'm out much
later than usual, and am in a hurry to get back. Mary will be uneasy
about me."
But Ellis caught hold of one of his arms with both hands, and held
on to him.
"Can't let you go, Wilkinson" said he, firmly. You're the man of all
others I want to see--been thinking about you all the evening; want
to have a long talk with you."
"Any other time, but not now," replied Wilkinson.
"Now, and no other time," persisted the other, clinging fast to his
arm.
"What do you wish to talk about?" said Wilkinson, ceasing his effort
to release himself from the firm grip of his friend.
"About Cara," was answered.
"Go home and make it up with her; that's the best way. She loves
you, and you love her; and your love will settle all differences.
And besides, Harry, you shouldn't talk about these things to other
people. The relation between man and wife is too sacred for this."
"Do you think I talk in this way to everybody? No, indeed!"
responded Ellis, in a half-offended tone of voice. "But you're a
particular friend. You know Cara's peculiar temper, and can advise
with me as a friend. So come along, I want to have a talk with you."
"Come where?"
Ellis turned and pointed to a brilliant gas lamp in the next square,
that stood in front of a much frequented tavern.
"No, no; I must go home." And Wilkinson tried to extricate himself
from the firm grasp of his friend. But the latter tightened his
hold, as he said--
"It's of no use. I shall not let you go. So come along with me to
Parker's. Over a couple of brandy toddies we will discuss this
matter of Cara's."
A vigorous jerk from the hand of Ellis gave the body of Wilkinson a
motion in the direction of the tavern. Had his mind been perfectly
clear--had none of the effects of his wine-drinking at Elbridge's
remained, he would have resisted to the end this solicitation, at
the hour and under the circumstances. But his mind was not perfectly
clear. And so, a few steps being taken by compulsion, he moved on by
a sort of constrained volition.
As mentioned above, Wilkinson had nearly reached his own door when
he encountered Ellis; was, in fact, so near, that he could see the
light shining from the chamber-window through which, some hours
before, he had marked on the wall the flitting shadow of his wife,
as she walked to and fro, seeking to soothe into slumber her sick
and grieving child. For nearly five minutes, he had stood talking
with his friend, and the sound of their voices might easily have
been heard in his dwelling, if one had been listening intently
there. And one was listening with every sense strung to the acutest
perception. Just as Wilkinson moved away, an observer would have
seen the door of his house open, and a slender female form bend
forth, and look earnestly into the darkness. A moment or two, she
stood thus, and then stepped forth quickly, and leaning upon the
iron railing of the door steps, fixed eagerly her eyes upon the
slowly receding forms of the two men.
"John! John!" she called, in half suppressed tones.
But her voice did not reach the ear of her husband, whose form she
well knew, even in the obscurity of night.
Gliding down the steps, Mrs. Wilkinson ran a few paces along the
pavement, but suddenly stopped as some thought passed through her
mind; and, turning, went back to the door she had left. There she
stood gazing after her husband, until she saw him enter the tavern
mentioned as being kept by a man named Parker, when, with a heavy,
fluttering sigh, she passed into the house, and ascended to the
chamber from which she had, a few minutes before, come down.
It was past eleven o'clock. The two domestics had retired, and Mrs.
Wilkinson was alone with her sick child. Ella's moan of suffering
came on her ear the instant she re-entered the room, and she stepped
quickly to the crib, and bent over to look into its face. The cheeks
of the child were flushed with fever to a bright crimson, and she
was moving her head from side to side, and working her lips as if
there was something in her mouth. Slight twitching motions of the
arms and hands were also noticed by the mother. Her eyes were partly
open.
"Will Ella have a drink of water?" said Mrs. Wilkinson, placing her
hand under the child's head, and slightly raising it from the
pillow.
But Ella did not seem to hear.
"Say--love, will you have some water?"
There was no sign that her words reached the child's ears.
A deeper shade of trouble than that which already rested on the
mother's face glanced over it.
"Ella! Ella!" Mrs. Wilkinson slightly shook the child.
The only response was the muttering of some incoherent words, and a
continued moaning as if pain were disturbing her sleep.
The mother now bent low over her child, and eagerly marked the
expression of her face and the character of her breathing. Then she
laid a hand upon her cheek. Instantly it was withdrawn with a quick
start, but as quickly replaced again.
"What a burning fever!" she murmured. Then she added, in a tone of
anxiety,
"How strangely she works her mouth! I don't like this constant
rolling of her head. What can it mean? Ella! Ella!"
And she shook the child again.
"Want some water, love?"
The mother's voice did not appear to reach the locked sense of
hearing.
Mrs. Wilkinson now lifted a glass of water from the bureau near by,
and raising the head of Ella with one hand, applied, with the other,
the water to her lips. About a table-spoonful was poured into her
mouth. It was not swallowed, but ran out upon the pillow.
"Mercy! mercy! what can ail the child!" exclaimed Mrs. Wilkinson, a
look of fear coming into her face.
A little while she stood over her, and then leaving her place beside
the crib, she hurried out into the passage, and, pausing at the
bottom of the stairs leading to the room above, called several
times--
"Anna! Anna! Anna!"
But no answer came. The domestic thus summoned had fallen into her
first sound sleep, and the voice did not penetrate her ears.
"Anna!" once more called Mrs. Wilkinson.
There was no response, but the reverberation of her own voice
returned upon the oppressive silence. She now hurried back to her
sick child, whose low, troubled moaning had not been hushed for a
moment.
There was no apparent change. Ella lay with her half-opened eyes,
showing, by the white line, that the balls were turned up
unnaturally; with her crimsoned cheeks, and with the nervous motions
of her lips and slight twitchings of her hands, at first noticed
with anxiety and alarm.
Mrs. Wilkinson was but little familiar with sickness in children;
and knew not the signs of real danger--or, rather, what unusual
signs such as those now apparent in Ella really indicated. But she
was sufficiently alarmed, and stood over the child, with her eyes
fixed eagerly upon her.
Again she tried to arouse her from so strange and unnatural a state,
but with as little effect as at first.
"Oh, my husband!" she at length exclaimed, clasping her hands
together, and glancing upward, with tearful eyes, "why are you away
from me now? Oh, why did you break your promise to return hours and
hours ago?"
Then covering her face with her hands, she sobbed and wept, until,
startled by a sharp, unnatural cry from the lips of Ella, her
attention was once more fixed upon her suffering child.
CHAPTER III.
"Now, what will you take?" said Henry Ellis, as he entered, with the
weak and yielding Wilkinson, the bar-room of Parker's tavern.
"Any thing you choose to call for," replied Wilkinson, whose mind
was turning homeward, and who wished to be there. "In fact, I don't
really want any thing. Call for two glasses of cold water. These
will leave our heads clear."
"Water! Ha! ha! That is a good one, Bill"--and Ellis spoke to the
bar-tender--"Mix us a couple of stiff brandy toddies."
The bar-tender nodded and smiled his acceptance of the order, and
the two men retired to a table that stood in a remote part of the
room, at which they were soon served with the liquor.
"Bill mixes the best brandy toddy I ever tasted. He knows his
business," said Ellis, as he put the glass to his lips. "Isn't it
fine?"
"It is very good," replied Wilkinson, as he sipped the tempting
mixture.
But his thoughts were turning homeward, and he scarcely perceived
the taste of what he drank. Suddenly, he pushed the glass from him,
and, making a motion to rise from the table, said--
"Indeed, Ellis, I must go home. My child is sick, and Mary will be
distressed at my absence. Come around to my store, to-morrow, and we
will talk this matter over. Neither you nor I are now in a fit state
to discuss so grave a matter.
" Sit down, will you!"
This was the reply of Ellis, as he caught quickly the arm of his
friend, and almost forced him, by main strength, to resume his seat.
"There, now," he added, as Wilkinson resumed his seat. "Never put
off until to-morrow what can as well be done to-day. That is my
motto. I want to talk with you about Cara, and no time is so good as
the present."
"Well, well," returned Wilkinson, impatiently. "What do you want to
say? Speak quickly, and to the point."
"Just what I'm going to do. But, first, I must see the bottom of my
tumbler. There, now; come, you must do the same. Drink to good old
times, and eternal friendship--drink, my fast and faithful friend!"
The warmth of the room and the quick effects of a strong glass of
brandy toddy were making rapid advances on Ellis's partial state of
inebriety.
Wilkinson emptied his glass, and then said--
"Speak, now, I'm all attention."
"Well, you see, Jack," and Ellis leaned over towards Wilkinson
familiarly, and rested his arm upon his knee. You see, Jack, that
huzzy of mine--if I must call the dear girl by such a name--is
leading me the deuce of a life. Confound her pretty face! I love
her, and would do almost any thing to please her; but she won't be
pleased at any thing. She combs my head for me as regularly as the
day comes."
"Hush--hush! Don't talk so of Cara. Her temper may be a little
uncertain, but that is her weakness. She is your wife, and you must
bear with these things. It isn't manly in you to be vexed at every
trifle."
Trifle! Humph! I'd like you to have a week of my experience. You
wouldn't talk any more about trifles."
"You should humour her a great deal, Harry. I am not so sure that
you are not quite as much to blame for these differences and
fallings out as she is."
" I wasn't to blame to-night, I am sure. Didn't I bring home
Prescott, thinking that she would be delighted to have me sit the
evening with her and read so charming an author? But, at the very
proposition, she flared up, and said she didn't want to hear my
musty old histories. Humph! A nice way to make a man love his home.
Better for her and me, too, I'm thinking, that she had listened to
the history, and kept her husband by her side."
"And for me, too," thought Wilkinson. "I should now, at least, be at
home with my loving-hearted wife. Ah, me!"
"Now, what am I to do, Jack--say? Give me your advice."
"The first thing for you to do is to go home, and to go at once.
Come!"
And Wilkinson made another effort to rise; but the hand of Ellis
bore him down.
"Stay, stay!" he muttered, impatiently. "Now don't be in such a
confounded hurry. Can't you talk with an old friend for a minute or
so? Look here, I've been thinking--let me see--what was I going to
say?"
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