It was on a Sunday morning going to church; she was walking along the road before us, stepping out with wonderful briskness, we thought, considering her very recent bereavement. We had to quicken our pace to come up with her, and said when we did so: ‘We are so sorry for you, so very sorry! You have lost your husband.’
‘Thank you kindly; you were always good,’ she said, lifting up her heavy crape veil from off a face radiant with smiles. ‘He isn’t dead at all, glory be to God! an’ ’tis recovering beautiful he is. The doctor says if he goes on gettin’ up his strength as he’s doing the last fortnight, he’ll soon be finely; out and about in no time.—Oh, the clothes, is it? Sure ’twas himself, the dear man, bought them for me! When he was that bad there wasn’t a spark of hope, he calls me over to him, an’ “Katie my heart,” sez he, “I’m going from you. The doctors have gave me up, and you’ll be a lone widow before long, my poor child. And when I’m gone, jewel, and you’re left without a head or provider, there’ll be no one in the wide world to give you a stitch of clothes or anything conformable. So I’ll order them home now, darlin’, the best that can be got for money; for I’d like to leave you dacent and respectable behind me.” And your honours,’ she went on, ‘so he did. Two golden guineas he gev for the bonnet; and as for the gownd, ladies dear, only feel the stuff that’s in it, and ye may guess what that cost. And beautiful crape, no end of a price!—every whole thing the hoight of good quality—top lot of the shop, and no stint.—Well,’ she continued, ‘there they all were in the chest. And sure when himself got well we thought it a sin and a shame to let lovely clothes like these lie by without wearing ’em—to be ruined entirely and feed the moths—after they costing such a sight of money too. So he made me put them on; and a proud man himself was this morning, and a happy, seeing me go out the door so grand and iligant—the best of everything upon me!’
There was something absurd, almost grotesque, in the self-conscious complacent way in which the young woman gazed admiringly down on her lugubrious finery; tripping off exulting and triumphant, her manner in curious contrast with the sore woe associated with those garments—the saddest in which mortal can be clad.
MR ASLATT’S WARD.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER IV.
I will pass over the misery of the days that followed; days stretched by anxiety and suspense to double their ordinary length. The woman succeeded only too well in proving the truth of her story; and knowing how useless it would be, Mr Hammond did not attempt to deny that she was his wife. Nor did he endeavour to justify his conduct, which was truly inexcusable. Yet in after-years, when our indignation had cooled, and we were able calmly to reflect upon the history thus revealed, we could not help pitying the unfortunate young man. He had not been much past twenty when, on a visit to Wiesbaden, he had made the acquaintance of a woman several years older than himself, whose brilliant beauty and fascinating address had fairly bewitched him. She was a gay adventuress, who, living by the chances of the gaming-table, and tired of such a precarious livelihood, had fostered the young man’s passion, and then condescended to marry him.
Alas! Frederick Hammond had not been long married before he bitterly regretted the step he had taken. His wife proved the bane of his life. She had contracted the habit of drinking to excess, and her intemperance destroyed all hope of happiness in domestic life. Her husband’s love changed to hatred, and unable to control her vicious propensities, he deserted her. In one place after another he took refuge, hoping to elude her search; but again and again she succeeded in tracking him to his place of concealment, though she was willing to leave him to himself when he had satisfied her demand for money. But at last for a long time he heard nothing of her; and as the months passed into years, the hope sprang up within him that his wife was either dead, or else had lost all clue to his whereabouts. Weary of residing abroad, he returned to England, and finding it difficult to obtain other employment, was glad to accept the post of village schoolmaster, for he thought the little country village might prove a secure hiding-place. And here becoming acquainted with Miss Sinclair, he basely yielded to the temptation to act as though the hope he cherished that his wife was dead were already a realised fact. He dared not openly ask Rose’s hand of her guardian; but he sought by all the means in his power to win her love, and did not rest till he had won from her a response to his avowed affection, and gained her consent to a secret engagement. It was a cruel selfish proceeding, for which his past misfortunes offered no excuse; and thankful indeed were we that his scheme of eloping with Rose had been frustrated.
But poor Rose! Bitter indeed was her distress when she found we had no comfort to give her. The shock was too great for her physical strength, and ere many hours had elapsed it was evident that a severe illness would be the consequence. For days she lay tossing in feverish delirium; whilst we kept anxious watch by her bedside, much fearing what the issue might be. But our fears were mercifully disappointed; the fever turned, and soon the much-loved patient was pronounced out of danger. But the improvement was very gradual, and after a while almost imperceptible. Extreme exhaustion was accompanied in Rose’s case by an apathetic indifference to everything around her, which formed the chief barrier to her recovery. She felt no desire to get strong again, now that life had no longer any great attraction for her.
‘If we could only rouse her to take an interest in anything, she would soon be well,’ the doctor said to me one day.