Wives and Widows; or The Broken Life Part 65

"'But I scarcely regard it--perhaps I ought; but money seems so trivial compared to other things.'

"'Your health, for instance; for you are ill,' I answered, brus.h.i.+ng the white hair back from his temple with my hand, while the ladies opposite were watching me in a flutter of curiosity.

"'You are kind to think of that,' he said, gently; 'but I am not ill, only reproaching myself.'

"'Why?'

"'For the bondage which you are beginning to feel so heavily.'

"I looked at him earnestly a moment, and in that glance gathered a knowledge of all he had suffered. My heart smote me, for that moment I was ready to make any sacrifice that would do him good. In truth, the life I had been leading had already become wearisome. After all, empty homage satisfies no real want of the heart.

"'Shall we go home?' I said, with a sudden impulse of kindness.

"He grasped my hand so tightly that the diamonds hurt me.

"'If you would--if you only would!'

"'Let us go to-morrow, then,' I answered. 'No, that cannot be, I have engagements; but next week. We shall get home in full time for the orange-blossoms.'

"'And you _will_ go?'

"'Certainly. All this is getting very tiresome. Even the spite of the women has lost its charm.'

"That morning we went into the breakfast-room together, and then I remarked how completely Mr. Dennison's appet.i.te had failed. This made me very thoughtful. What if he should die?'

"'Cora,' I said that night, as the girl was undressing me, 'have you observed how ill Mr. Dennison looks?'

"'Yes, I have, young mistress, and it has frightened me dreadfully.'

"'Frightened you, Cora? Is he so far gone as that? I did not dream of your caring so much for him.'

"'Neither do I. It is you that I care for.'

"'And you think that I would grieve?'

"'Yes, I do.'

"'It should be so. Indeed, Cora, he is a good man, and has been kind to us.'

"'But that won't last forever, young mistress. The old master is keen as he is kind. If he was to make his will now, have you much idea that his property would go to the wife, who scarcely speaks to him once in twenty-four hours?'

"I started, and turned upon the girl.

"'Why, Cora, you frighten me!'

"'Not so much as you have frightened me. Poor white widows aren't to my taste. We have tried that once, and I didn't like it.'

"'Cora, we will go back to the plantation.'

"'That is the best thing you can do,' answered the girl, quietly. 'Home is the place for a man to die in.'

"'Why, girl!' I cried out, in nervous dread, 'you speak as if he were really in danger.'

"'And so he is; people seldom get over the disease that has been creeping on him ever since we came here.'

"'What disease? What are you speaking of, Cora? What disease do you think Mr. Dennison has?'

"'A broken heart.'

"'Cora!'

"'None of your sudden fits--people get over them; but slow and sure: I have been watching it from the first.'

"'And you think I have done this?'

"'Of course. Who else?'

"'Cora, we will go home next week.'"

CHAPTER LXXIII.

FIRST WIDOWHOOD.

"I am a widow. The name fills me with awe, as if I had never heard it before. It has a new meaning now--a terrible meaning of death, which is full of reproach and horror. He lies yonder, cold and still, the smile which he had almost forgotten of late frozen on his white lips, the lines of age graven deeply in his face,--with something more terrible still, which makes me s.h.i.+ver and shrink as I gaze upon it.

"Have I done this? Is that look of sorrow but the shadow of a charge which the recording angel is now writing down in the eternal book against me? Am I the murderer of this good old man? How he loved me! how kind, how generous, how delicate he was! And I--no, no! it must have been old age. Men of seventy do not sink down and perish in silence because they are not loved with the intensity given to youth. Oh, how I wish it were all over! While he lies in the house, so frozen and cold, I shall not draw a free breath. It seems to me as if he could rise up any moment out of that marble sleep with the power to search every thought that has been in my heart during the last year. His knowledge is perfect now; he reads my soul as I dare not read it myself. _Have_ I wished his death? Have I ever thought of what might happen after that? G.o.d forgive me, for I seem terrible to myself.

"Death in the house; this great lonely dwelling, with all its luxurious appliances, is but a tomb. The air chills me; its solitude is terrible.

Cora comes to me once in a while with her silky flatteries, and attempts to convince me that I have never been blamable as a wife. I know that she does not believe this, and almost hate her for thinking that her sophistry can reconcile me with myself. Yet what have I done? Amused myself--gathered crowds of admirers around me--neglected the only true love that ever lightened my life. Shall I ever be wors.h.i.+pped again as that old man wors.h.i.+pped me?...

"They have carried him out from his home forever, and now the old house seems more vast and lonely than before. I still hear the tramping of his bearers' feet, and shudder as the pall seems to rustle and sweep by me.

Ah! the first feelings of widowhood must be mournful indeed to a devoted wife; to me they are terrible. The very air seems to reproach me. I start at each sound as if it were a denunciation. The very air I breathe seems heavy with funereal shadows....

"The first great horror has left me, but a feeling of blank desolation still remains. I have not yet thought of the future, or asked myself what may be in store for the woman whom so many are loading with praises and commiseration which she knows in her heart are undeserved.

"This morning I was aroused from the heavy apathy which has made my life a blank, by the arrival of my husband's solicitor. Mr. Dennison has left a will making me the inheritor of everything he had on earth. The lawyer told me this, and, for the first time since my widowhood, I felt the heart in my bosom stir like a living thing. Was I indeed so wealthy, and free, too!

"I observed in a dreamy way that the lawyer looked anxious and oppressed, as if something yet remained to be told.

"'Is this all,' I said; 'has he mentioned no other person in the will?'

"'No other person,' was the reply; 'but I have something to explain which may change the aspect of my news. It seems that within the past few months a heavy mortgage has been laid upon the plantation, and it must be sold.'

"'A mortgage!' I said; 'that is something which prevents a man holding or selling his own land, is it not?'