Woman's Trials

About this time a lady and gentleman, named Marion, called and engaged boarding for themselves and three children.  In Mrs. Marion there was something that won the heart at first sight, and her children were as lovely and attractive as herself; but towards her husband there was a feeling of instant repulsion.  Not that he was coarse or rude in his exterior—­that was polished; but there were a sensualism and want of principle about him that could be felt.

They had been in the house only a week or two, when their oldest child, a beautiful boy, was taken ill.  He had fever, and complained of distress in his back and pain in his head.  The mother appeared anxious, but the father treated the matter lightly, and said he would be well again in a few hours.

“I think you’d better call in a doctor,” Mrs. Darlington heard the mother say, as her husband stood at the chamber door ready to go away.

“Nonsense, Jane,” he replied.  “You are easily frightened.  There’s nothing serious the matter.”

“I’m afraid of scarlet fever, Henry,” was answered to this.

“Fiddlesticks!  You’re always afraid of something,” was lightly and unkindly returned.

Mrs. Marion said no more, and her husband went away.  About half an hour afterwards, as Mrs. Darlington sat in her room, there was a light tap at her door, which was immediately opened, and Mrs. Marion stepped in.  Her face was pale, and it was some moments before her quivering lips could articulate.

“Won’t you come up and look at my Willy?” she at length said, in a tremulous voice.

“Certainly, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Darlington, rising immediately.  “What do you think ails your little boy?”

“I don’t know, ma’am; but I’m afraid of scarlet fever—­that dreadful disease.”

Mrs. Darlington went up to the chamber of Mrs. Marion.  On the bed lay Willy, his face flushed with fever, and his eyes wearing a glassy lustre.

“Do you feel sick, my dear?” asked Mrs. Darlington, as she laid her hand on his burning forehead.

“Yes, ma’am,” replied the child.

“There are you sick?”

“My head aches.”

“Is your throat sore?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very sore?”

“It hurts me so that I can hardly swallow.”

“What do you think ails him?” asked the mother, in anxious tones.

“It’s hard to say, Mrs. Marion; but, if it were my case, I would send for a doctor.  Who is your physician?”

“Dr. M——.”

“If you would like to have him called in, I will send the waiter to his office.”

Mrs. Marion looked troubled and alarmed.

“My husband doesn’t think it any thing serious,” said she.  “I wanted him to go for the doctor.”

“Take my advice, and send for a physician,” replied Mrs. Darlington.

“If you will send for Dr. M——­, I will feel greatly obliged,” said Mrs. Marion.

The doctor was sent for immediately.  He did not come for two hours, in which time Willy had grown much worse.  He looked serious, and answered all questions evasively.  After writing a prescription, he gave a few directions, and said he would call again in the evening.  At his second visit, he found his patient much worse; and, on the following morning, pronounced it a case of scarlatina.

Already, Willy had made a friend in every member of Mrs. Darlington’s family, and the announcement of his dangerous illness was received with acute pain.  Miriam took her place beside Mrs. Marion in the sick chamber, all her sympathies alive, and all her fears awakened; and Edith and her mother gave every attention that their other duties in the household would permit.

Rapidly did the disease, which had fixed itself upon the delicate frame of the child, run its fatal course.  On the fourth day he died in the arms of his almost frantic mother.

Though Mrs. Marion had been only a short time in the house, yet she had already deeply interested the feelings of Mrs. Darlington and her two eldest daughters, who suffered with her in the affliction almost as severely as if they had themselves experienced a bereavement; and this added to the weight, already painfully oppressive, that rested upon them.

The nearer contact into which the family of Mrs. Darlington and the bereaved mother were brought by this affliction, discovered to the former many things that strengthened the repugnance first felt towards Mr. Marion, and awakened still livelier sympathies for his suffering wife.

One evening, a week after the body of the child was borne out by the mourners and laid to moulder in its kindred dust, the voice of Mr. Marion was heard in loud, angry tones.  He was alone with his wife in their chamber.  This chamber was next to hat of Edith and Miriam, where they, at the time, happened to be.  What he said they could not make out; but they distinctly heard the voice of Mrs. Marion, and the words—­

“Oh, Henry! don’t! don’t!” uttered in tones the most agonizing.  They also heard the words, “For the sake of our dear, dear Willy!” used in some appeal.

Both Edith and Miriam were terribly frightened, and sat panting and looking at each other with pale faces.

All now became silent.  Not a sound could be heard in the chamber save an occasional low sob.  For half an hour this silence continued.  Then the door of the chamber was opened, and Marion went down stairs.  The closing of the front door announced his departure from the house.  Edith and her sister sat listening for some minutes after Marion had left, but not a movement could they perceive in the adjoining chamber.

“Strange!  What can it mean?” at length said Miriam, in a husky whisper.  Edith breathed heavily to relieve the pressure on her bosom, but made no answer.

“He didn’t strike her?” said Miriam, her face growing paler as she made this suggestion.

The moment this was uttered, Edith arose quickly and moved towards the door.

“Where are you going?” asked her sister.

“Into Mrs. Marion’s room.”

“Oh no, don’t!” returned Miriam, speaking from some vague fear that made her heart shrink.

But Edith did not heed the words.  Her light tap at Mrs. Marion’s door was not answered.  Opening it softly, she stepped within the chamber.  On the bed, where she had evidently thrown herself, lay Mrs. Marion; and, on approaching and bending over her, Edith discovered that she was sleeping.  On perceiving this, she retired as noiselessly as she had entered.

Ten, eleven, twelve o’clock came; and yet Mr. Marion had not returned.  An hour later than this, Edith and her sister lay awake, but up to that time he was still away.  On the next morning, when the bell rang for breakfast, and the family assembled at the table, the places of Mr. and Mrs. Marion were vacant.  From their nurse it was ascertained that Mr. Marion had not come home since he went out on the evening before, and that his wife had not yet arisen.  Between nine and ten o’clock, Mrs. Darlington sent up to know if Mrs. Marion wished any thing, but was answered in the negative.  At dinner time Mr. Marion did not make his appearance, and his wife remained in her chamber.  Food was sent to her, but it was returned untasted.

During the afternoon, Mrs. Darlington knocked at her door, but the nurse said that Mrs. Marion asked to be excused from seeing her.  At supper time food was sent again to her room; but, save part of a cup of tea, nothing was tasted.  After tea, Mrs. Darlington called again at her room, but the desire to be excused from seeing her was repeated.  Marion did not return that night.

Nearly a week passed, the husband still remaining away, and not once during that time had Mrs. Marion been seen by any member of the family.  At the end of this period, she sent word to Mrs. Darlington that she would be glad to see her.

When the latter entered her room, she found her lying upon the bed, with a face so pale and grief-stricken, that she could not help an exclamation of painful surprise.

“My dear madam, what has happened?” said she, as she took her hand.

Mrs. Marion was too much overcome by emotion to be able to speak for some moments.  Acquiring self-possession at length, she said, in a low, sad voice—­

“My heart is almost broken, Mrs. Darlington.  I feel crushed to the very ground.  How shall I speak of what I am suffering?”

Her voice quivered and failed.  But in a few moments she recovered herself again, and said, more calmly—­

“I need not tell you that my husband has been absent for a week; he went away in a moment of anger, vowing that he would never return.  Hourly have I waited since, in the hope that he would come back; but, alas!  I have thus far received from him neither word nor sign.”

Mrs. Marion here gave way to her feelings, and wept bitterly.

“Did he ever leave you before?” asked Mrs. Darlington, as soon as she had grown calm.

“Once.”

“How long did he remain away?”

“More than a year.”

“Have you friends?”

“I have no relative but an aunt, who is very poor.”

Mrs. Darlington sighed involuntarily.  On that very day she had been seriously examining into her affairs, and the result was a conviction that, under her present range of expenses, she must go behind-hand with great rapidity.  Mr. and Mrs. Marion were to pay fourteen dollars a weeks Thus far, nothing had been received from them; and now the husband had gone off and left his family on her hands.  She could not turn them off, yet how could she bear up under this additional burden!

All this passed through her mind in a moment, and produced the sigh which distracted her bosom.

“Do you not know where he has gone?” she asked, seeking to throw as much sympathy and interest in her voice as possible, and thus to conceal the pressure upon her own feelings which the intelligence had occasioned.

Mrs. Marion shook her head.  She knew that, in the effort to speak, her voice would fail her.

For nearly the space of a minute there was silence.  This was broken, at length, by Mrs. Marion, who again wept violently.  As soon as the passionate burst of feeling was over, Mrs. Darlington said to her in a kind and sympathizing voice—­

“Do not grieve so deeply.  You are not friendless altogether.  Though you have been with us only a short time, we feel an interest in you, and will not”—­

The sentence remained unfinished.  There was an impulse in Mrs. Darlington’s mind to proffer the unhappy woman a home for herself and children; but a sudden recollection of the embarrassing nature of her own circumstances checked the words on her tongue.

“I cannot remain a burden upon you,” quickly answered Mrs. Marion.  “But where can I go?  What shall I do?”

The last few words were spoken half to herself, in a low tone of distressing despondency.

“For the present,” said Mrs. Darlington, anxious to mitigate, even in a small degree, the anguish of the unhappy woman’s mind, “let this give you no trouble.  Doubtless the way will open before you.  After the darkest hour the morning breaks.”

Yet, even while Mrs. Darlington sought thus to give comfort, her own heart felt the weight upon it growing heavier.  Scarcely able to stand up in her difficulties alone, here was a new burden laid upon her.

None could have sympathized more deeply with the afflicted mother and deserted wife than did Mrs. Darlington and her family; and none could have extended more willingly a helping hand in time of need.  But, in sustaining the burden of her support, they felt that the additional weight was bearing them under.