 | Some women's hearts |  |
THE JUDGE'S WIFE.
“WHOSE house is that behind the elms?” asked
a stranger, one summer morning in 18—, of
Israel King, landlord of the only inn the good town
of Essex could boast. Strangers frequently made this
inquiry, for the house in question was by far the
most noticeable in the little village. The situation, on
the top of a gentle hill, was in itself fine. Noble old
trees, stately enough to have been the pride of some
English park, surrounded it, and between their foliage
you could catch tempting glimpses of a large, hospitable-looking
stone mansion.
“Yes, that is a hansum house. You are not the
fust one, by a good many, to ask who it belongs to,”
commenced the landlord in his circumlocutory fashion,
rubbing his hands and sitting down as who might, if he
was urged, a tale unfold. “I calkerlate it's about as
hansum a house as you'll find in a country village anywhere,
and Judge Elliott, the man who owns it and
lives in it, is a fine man, — a master fine man, I call
him, though there's been some hard talk about him, but
that's neither here nor there;” and Israel shut his
more, — at least not without urging.
By this time, however, the stranger's curiosity was
really aroused; besides, he had a lonely morning to
pass before he could attend to the business which had
brought him to Essex, and what could while away the
hours more agreeably than to listen to a story, — a
veritable New-England romance? So he fell in with
the landlord's humor, and urged the worthy publican
to his heart's content.
“Waal,” commenced the narrator, “I dunno as I
mind tellin' ye, seein' yer a stranger here, an' it can't
do no hurt, ef it don't do no good. It's nigh onto
fifteen year ago; let me see, — yes, 'twas seventeen
year ago last spring, — how time does fly, don't it? —
when Jacob Elliott, he wan't judge then, come to
Essex and hung out his shingle. He was a master
smart young lawyer, an Englishman born, and he'd
larnt most of his law in England. Anyhow, he'd got
admitted to this county bar some way, and he'd practised
a year over in Simsbury afore he come here. I
never see any young man come up as he did. 'Twant
long afore he was on one side or t'other of about
every hard case that was tried in Har'ford county, and
the side he was on most gen'ally come off ahead.
When he'd been here seven year they chose him Judge
of the County Court.
“But I'm gittin' afore my story. He hadn't been
here long when he got acquainted with 'Lizabeth
Mills. I dunno as you'd a called her hansum, — most
better'n any girl in Essex, and I guess 'Squire Elliott
was pooty much o' my opinion.
“She wan't small, — ruther above middle size, I
guess you might call her neither slim nor stout. She
had kind of a stately form, and my good woman used
to say she made her think of our horse-chestnut tree,
— not a bit too large for her height, and not a bit
too tall for her size, but shaped just as true as a die,
and kind o' lofty lookin', as if small things couldn't git
nigh her. She's kind o' poetical, Miss King is, and she
allus thought a master sight of 'Lizabeth Mills. So did
everybody, for that matter. All the old folks was greatly
took up with her, she was so perlite and respectful and
willin' to talk with 'em. The young girls all liked
her. She was so neat and so smart, — she knew how
to twist a ribbon or tie a bow better'n the best of 'em,
and she was allus ready to help other folks. Besides,
she never interfered with their sweethearts. The little
children, — it did beat all how they took to her. She
allus had some nice story to tell 'em, and she made 'em
rag-babies, and did a heap o' things for 'em the other
girls was too full of beaux and finery ever to think o'
doin'. When she went amongst the little ones they
was allus all over her to once, and she never seemed a
bit put out by 'em. Her face would kind o' kindle up
when she see how they loved her, and my good woman
said the smiles she would give 'em it did her heart good
to see. `She ought to be married and have some of her
own, she loves 'em so well,' says Miss King. I was
it was main doubtful whether she ever got married;
the young men was all afraid of her. Truth to tell,
they was the only human critters who was oneasy in
her company. Old folks and young folks, children and
grandparents, all felt free and easy with her, but the
young men hung off. Girls that wan't good enough to
tie up her shoe-strings got courted and married, but
she got along to twenty-three, and I don't believe any
chap had ever so much as walked home with her from
meetin' or singin' school, exceptin' her own brother
William.
“Her father — everybody called him 'Squire Mills,
he'd been Justice of the Peace nigh onto twenty year
— was one of our fust men. He owned the best farm
in Essex, and folks kind o' looked up to him. They
lived in hansummer style than most on us, 'specially
arter 'Lizabeth grew up. She had a mighty sight o'
taste, that girl had. Their parlor used to look, of a
summer day, like a little garden, with pinks and roses
put all round in cheney saucers and little glass dishes.
He hadn't but them two children, 'Squire Mills hadn't,
and they did think a main sight of one 'nother. 'Lizabeth
was jest two years the oldest, but William was
taller than she was, and they was allus together.
“But you'll think I'm steerin' a good ways from
my story. Truth is, I ain't so young as I used to be,
and my thoughts have got slow 'long with my steps,
and like jest about as well as my feet do to stop among
the old places and rest. Never mind, it all has something
to Essex when 'Lizabeth was jest about twenty-three,
and I calkerlate he wan't fur from thirty. As I was
sayin', 'twan't long afore he got acquainted with 'Squire
Mills' folks, and he and 'Lizabeth seemed to take to
each other from the fust. He was over there most every
night on one excuse or another; and they read together,
and talked, and walked about under the trees;
but somehow I didn't think the courtin' seemed to git
along very fast. The young man grew thin and pale,
and somethin' seemed to worry him mightily. You
had to speak to him twice afore he'd hear you, and
everybody noticed how absent-minded he was. Most
o' folks laid it to his bein' 'fraid of 'Lizabeth; she had
carried sech a high head to all the young men. But
my good woman sees about as fur into a millstone as
anybody, and, says she to me, —
“`Israel, you may depend 'tain't no sech a thing.
He understands 'Lizabeth too well to feel 'fraid of her.
He's got somethin' to trouble him that we don't know
nothin' about. Maybe he feels too poor to be married.'
“The time come afterwards that we understood those
symptoms better, but my good woman was right when
she said he had somethin' to trouble him that nobody
knew on.
“Waal, things went on in that fashion fur some time,
and one night — it was a summer night, and dark as a
pocket — I was outside of the house, sittin' down to git
cooled off under the horse-chestnut tree, in front there
by the road, and I see 'Squire Elliott come out o' 'Squire
from here, on the other side of the road. I could see
him in spite o' the dark, — I'd been out so long my eyes
had got used to it. I dunno as I told ye he took his
meals at our house, but he lodged in his office, just beyond
here. As he come along by where I was sittin',
I heard him say to himself, he spoke kind o' firm like,
as if he'd made up his mind, —
“`Well, I shall taste happiness now. Dear girl.
God knows I would die before any harm should come
to her, but I cannot tell her my secret. She would
never see the matter as I do.'
“Arter his office door had shut, I went into the house
and told Miss King what I'd heerd. My good woman
never was no gossip.
“`Waal, Israel,' says she, when I'd told her, `keep it
all to yourself. If 'Squire Elliott don't choose to tell
his secrets, don't you go and let on that he's got 'em.
He knows his own business best, and he'll do about the
right thing, I guess. He's a good man; he shows it in
his face.'
“Waal, I took Miss King's advice. I didn't say
any thing, and the next day we heerd that 'Squire Elliott
and 'Lizabeth Mills had promised to have one another,
and would be married that fall. From that day 'Squire
Elliott seemed to have put off his trouble, whatever it
was. He had a quick hearin' and a kind word for
everybody, and his face — he was a master hansum
man — seemed all kindled up with hope.
“Where his stone house stands now was a good,
owned the place. It was ruther old-fashioned, to be
sure, but it had been a good house in its day, and all
the trees and every thing o' that sort was jest as hansum
then as they are now. Jacob Elliott wan't wuth
a great deal, but old 'Squire Mills give a deed o' the
place to 'Lizabeth, and fitted it up a little, and that fall
they was married and went to livin' in it.
“You never see a happier couple. For the next five
years I don't believe they knew what trouble meant,
only I reckon 'Lizabeth would have liked some children,
and they never had none. Babies came thick as hops to
folks that had nothin' to take care on 'em with and didn't
want' em, and 'Squire Elliott's practice grew bigger, and
he made more and more money every year, and there
was only they two to use it. Maybe 'twas my notion
that 'Lizabeth wanted any more. At any rate, they
was all bound up in each other, and they seemed happy
as the day is long.
“At last the 'Squire concluded to build, and they
went home one summer, and staid to old 'Squire Mills'.
In the mean time the old house was tore down, and
that big stone one put up in its place, and in the fall
they went to housekeepin' again. There didn't seem to
be any human comfort wantin' to 'em then. That winter
'Lizabeth jined the church. She allus had seemed as
good as a saint to me, but Miss King said, after this her
face was like the face of an angel, and her voice was so
tender and full of love to everybody that it most made
the tears come in your eyes to hear it.
“The next year they chose him Judge, and now
Judge Elliott was quite a great man among us. They
looked up to him more than ever, and folks that hadn't
seen any beauty in 'Lizabeth Mills' face begun to think
her a 'mazin' fine-lookin' woman, now her husband was
Judge, and she wore silks and satins stiff enough, as
Miss King said, to stand alone. Most folks would 'a
been set up, in her place, but she hadn't half so high
and mighty an air to anybody now as she used to put on
to the young men when she was 'Lizabeth Mills. She
was a true Christian, if there's one on earth, I b'lieve,
and she did all the good she could to everybody. It
seems main hard that heavy trouble should come to any
one so good as she was, but the Scripter says that the
Lord chastens those He loves, and maybe, though we
couldn't see it, her heart was sot too much on this
world.
“The next summer arter the one Jacob Elliott was
chosen Judge there came a stranger to my house, —
I've kept tavern here for twenty-five year, summer and
winter. He was a gentleman, I saw that the minit I
put my eye on him. He looked somethin' like Judge
Elliott, I couldn't help thinkin'. He was younger, and
his featers wan't much like the Judge's, only there was
a kind of a look, — what you might call a family likeness.
He told me if he found it pleasant here, he might
stop several days, and he should like to git acquainted
with some of the people in the village. He was an
Englishman, he said, travellin' in America for pleasure,
and he thought the best way of judging of a country
says he, kind o' careless like, as you asked me this
mornin', —
“`Who lives in that hansum stone house behind
the elms?'
“I told him it was Judge Elliott, and that he was an
Englishman. He seemed mightily interested at once,
and I went on and told him all I knew about the Judge,
so fur; jest as I've told it to you, only I didn't speak o'
the words I'd heerd him say the night arter he got engaged
to 'Lizabeth Mills.
“When I'd got through, says he, — `Thank you, Mr.
King,' — he was a mighty perlite, smooth-spoken man,
— `I have been very much interested in your story.
Would you feel free to take me over to Judge Elliott's,
and introduce me? I should like to make his acquaintance
very much.'
“`Free,' says I, `bless your heart, anybody feels free
to go and see Judge Elliott, — there isn't a kinder or
more hospitable man anywhere.'
“With that I went into the house and brushed up a
little. Then I clapped on my hat and started off. It
wanted jest about two hours of dinner time. It happened
that the Judge himself came to the door.
“`How do you do, neighbor King?' says he, in his
pleasant, friendly way, and then his eyes fell upon the
stranger gentleman. I could have sworn that he turned
as white as a sheet to his very lips, but the next second
I doubted my own eyes, for his smile was so composed
and pleasant, and his manner so natural that it didn't
to make him turn pale a minit afore.
“`Perhaps,' thinks I, `it was only in my eyes, and
perhaps it might have been a suddin pain come over
him.'
“So I took no notice. Says I, —
“`Judge Elliott, this is Mr. Robert Armstrong, an
English gentleman, who would like to git acquainted
with you.'
“He shook hands heartily with the stranger, — he
was allus a master cordial man, — and then he invited
us in. The time passed quickly, and, fust we knew, it
was dinner time. We had sot talkin' two hours. To
be sure I hadn't talked much, I reckoned it warn't my
place; no more had Mr. Armstrong, fur that matter;
he'd seemed satisfied to sit an' hear the Judge talk and
look at him, and sure enough I'd never seen Judge Elliott
more sociable, and he allus was a mighty good
talker. When I see it was dinner time I made a move
to go, but the Judge wouldn't hear to no sech thing.
We must both stay and take dinner with him, he said.
Fust I thought I'd go home and leave Mr. Armstrong,
but arter a good deal o' pressin' I agreed to stay too.
“Jest then Miss Elliott come into the room. You've
no idee how grand and kind o' splendid she looked in
that hansum parlor. It seemed jest made for her to
live in. She had on a silk gown, sort of a dove color,
and it trailed along behind her on the carpet when she
walked. She had more hair than any other woman I
ever see, and it was braided that day, and wound round
She couldn't a looked more like a queen ef she'd been
born one, — so stately as she was, with her silk dress,
her pale face, and her dark eyes, with pride and kindness
both in their looks. I tell you I was a little set
up to have the Englishman see in a Har'ford County
Connecticut girl a woman they'd a' been proud of in
Queen Vic's court. I see he was struck all of a heap
with her, to once. He talked with her very quiet and
respectful, and she was sociable and yet dignified to him,
and real friendly to the old tavern-keeper she'd known
ever sence she was knee-high.
“It didn't want very keen eyes to see that the Judge
was prouder o' her than of house and lands; and every
now and then, in the midst of her talk, she would look
at her husband, with eyes runnin' over full of love. I
tell you, stranger, it ain't every man that gits looked at
like that in his journey through this world. I could
see Armstrong noticed her looks and understood 'em
as well as I did.
“Waal, pooty soon we had dinner, and a nice one it
was, too; and when it was over, the Judge invited us to
walk out into the grounds. Miss Elliott, she stayed in
the house, and arter a little I got kind o' strayed away
from 'em. I hadn't any idee of their having any privacy
to talk, but I thought they might get better acquainted
without me than with me.
“There's a double walk round back o' the Judge's
house. Three rows of pine-trees are planted thick together,
in kind of semicircular fashion; a middle row
each outside one is a walk where you can never hear a
footstep, the dead pine leaves cover the ground so soft
and thick. Somehow the shade looked invitin', and
arter a little I went into one of these walks. It was
the outside one, furthest from the house, and pooty soon
I heard Judge Elliott's voice, and knew't they were in
the other one.
“Bimeby I looked through, between the trees. I
knew the green was so thick they warn't likely to see
me, and I thought I'd jest give 'em a good look, as they
walked slowly along, and see ef it had all been my imagination
about Mr. Armstrong's lookin' so much like
the Judge. They were pacin' under the pines, and the
Judge made some remark and seemed waitin' for an
answer. Just that minit Mr. Armstrong — he was a
little ahead — turned round suddenly and stood full in
front of Judge Elliott.
“`My brother,' he cried out, with sort of a tender
yearnin' in his voice, `my own dear brother Alfred,' —
I was lookin' at the Judge and I saw that same strange
look pass a second time over his face, turnin' it white
to the lips. But, as afore, it went away in a minit, and
he gave Mr. Armstrong kind of a puzzled, surprised
smile.
“`Do not deny me, you cannot,' the stranger went
on, his voice gatherin' up passion and energy. `You
are my brother, my own elder brother Alfred. Did
you think I would believe you were dead? Did you
think I would never find you? I loved you too well,
heart that the world still held you. I have hoped and
waited all these years, and at last it came about in the
very strangest way. I happened to see a few numbers
of the North American Review, and there were some
articles in them which I knew were yours. There was
no name to them, but I could not be mistaken. They
advocated some of your favorite old theories; they had
exactly your cast of mind, your very turns of expression.
I thought no labor too much by which I might
hope to find my brother; so with only this clue I crossed
the ocean. I came to Boston and learned the name
and address of the author of those papers, and then I
came here to find you. The landlord strengthened my
conviction by telling me you were an Englishman, and
had not been in this country more than nine or ten
years. And now I have seen your well-known smile;
heard your well-known voice; felt the touch of your
hand. Do you think you could deceive me now? Oh,
Alf, Alf, you will not try to shut me out of your
heart?'
“At that moment he made a movement as if he
would throw himself on his brother's neck, and Judge
Elliott drew back real quiet and dignified. Armstrong
had forced me into believin' him by his earnestness, but
I must say I was staggered by the Judge's cool, calm
manner. I couldn't believe any brother could put it
on arter listenin' to sech words. I begun to think the
stranger must be on a wrong track.
“`I am more than puzzled by what you say,' answered
name is not Alfred Armstrong, but Jacob Elliott. I
am an Englishman, it is true, but I think if you will
look at me again you will convince yourself that we
have never met before.'
“`Oh, Alf, Alf,' cried the stranger again, `this is too
cruel. I cannot bear it. I will not. To have hoped
for this meeting for ten long years and then be cast off
like this. I know that woman I saw in the house
would be an excuse for a good deal, but I swear to you
I will not interfere with your happiness. I will not ask
you to take your first wife back. I will not betray you
to a soul on earth; only call me brother; only let me
into your heart,' and he made as if he would have
thrown himself at Judge Elliott's feet, and still the
Judge drew back and answered calmly, and yet sort o'
cuttingly, —
“`I should be sorry, my dear sir, to suspect you of
being a monomaniac, but I am at a loss to account for
your vagaries in any other manner. The only wife I
ever had is Mrs. Elliott, the lady I had the honor of
presenting to you. I have no brother, and never had,
and if you persist further in this strange talk I shall be
obliged to bring our interview to a close.'
“I declare, sir, I wish you could a' heard how that
Armstrong did beg. I can't tell it over, rightly, so I
won't try, but it acterly squeezed the tears out o' my
eyes, and I ain't one o' the cryin' kind. He couldn't
a begged harder fur his life. He kep tellin' over all
sorts of boy capers that he said they had cut up together,
told 'em to love one 'nother when she was dying; and
he promised to go away satisfied if the Judge would
only call him brother once, and let him go off thinkin'
they two loved one 'nother as they used to.
“But 'twan't no use. The Judge didn't flinch a
hair. He wan't apparently no more moved than a
stone. He kep jest as perlite and smilin' as ever,
until at last he seemed to git tired o' listenin', and then
he put a stop to the talk ruther sternly, and turned to
walk away. I never shall forgit how Armstrong's face
looked that minit. Somethin' like pride seemed riz up in
him at last, and he cried out in a firm, strong voice, —
“`Alfred Armstrong, I will trouble you no more, —
I will never trouble you again. Cast me off and deny
me, if you will, — forget your dead mother and your
poor old living father, and scorn every tie of blood!
Go on in sin, yes, sin, and the time will come when
my face shall haunt you; when you won't die easy
without my forgiveness, which you must ask for before
you have it.'
“The Judge never made no answer. There was a
mighty strange look on his face as he walked away, as
if he had fixed all his features jest so, so't they
shouldn't tell no story. I was puzzled, you may
depend. I didn't know what to make of any on't.
When you heerd Armstrong speak you couldn't help
believin' him, and then again I thought he must be
mistaken, 'cause I didn't think any nateral born brother
could a' stood it out agin them words as the Judge
quite reasonable to that view o' the case, so I had to
give it up. I was mighty shamed o' listenin', I confess
to you, but I hadn't had no notion o' doin' on't in
the fust place, and I dunno but most men would a'
done the same thing if they had stood in my place,
arter they'd heerd the beginnin' on't. Anyhow, I went
out o' the other end o' the pine walk, and dodged
about among the trees, and went into the parlor, and
I don't think Judge Elliott ever mistrusted, from that
day to this, that I heerd him.
“It wan't more'n ten minutes afore he and Mr. Armstrong
come in together, as perlite and civil as possible,
but I didn't think there seemed quite as much friendliness
betwixt 'em as there had afore dinner. Mr. Armstrong
apologized for keepin' me waitin', and pooty
soon we started for home. You may b'lieve 'twan't
long afore I'd told Miss King all about it.
“That's one o' the prime comforts o' havin' a good
wife. When you want to tell somethin' so you can't
keep it in no longer, you can go to her, and it's jest as
safe as it was afore. She didn't know what to make
on't no more'n I did, but she charged me to keep it all
to myself, and I may say I didn't need no caution on
that pint, for Judge Elliott wan't a man a body'd like
to git sot agin him, and indeed I liked him and his
wife both, too much to want to make 'em any trouble.
Ef there was any thing at all to Armstrong's story, wife
and I concluded that the Judge had had a wife in
England and been divorced from her, and was afraid
with him; knowin' how strict she was about them
matters. Ef that was the case, Miss King said there
was some excuse for his not ownin' his brother, for we
all knew that he sot his life by 'Lizabeth. But we were
fur enough from guessing the truth. We wan't much
surprised when Mr. Armstrong paid his bill and left
the next mornin'. We kep all these things to ourselves,
and I may safely say that's more'n some people
would a done; maybe more'n I should a done ef I
hadn't had my good woman to help me.
“Arter this time it seemed to me that I could see a
little difference in the Judge. I reckon no one else
noticed it, but I could see that he was more silent, and
when he wan't talkin' there was a look in his face as if
some heavy trouble had settled down on his heart.
I guess he was more'n ever soft and tender to 'Lizabeth.
Folks said, laughingly, that he seemed to be afraid he
should lose her if she was out of his sight a minit;
and, true enough, when he was to home they wan't
never long separated.
“It went on three months, and then, 'long the fust
of October, the Judge was suddenly took down with
brain fever. I 'spose all these things had been a
harassin' him till he couldn't keep 'em under no longer.
From the fust day he was took down he was jest as
crazy as a loon. Miss King allus was a master hand
at nussin', and she thought so much o' 'Lizabeth that
she went right over there and told 'em she'd stay by,
pretty much o' the time till the wust was over. After
see to things a little, and she told me it was enough to
break a body's heart to hear how the Judge went on.
Sometimes he'd start up and say, real firm, — `My
name is not Alfred Armstrong. I am Jacob Elliott.'
Then sometimes he'd cry out, so pitiful, to his brother
to come back, — that he never meant to send him off,
— he did love him, and allus had. Often and often he'd
say, as humble as a little child, — `Won't you forgive
me, brother Robert? You told the truth, I can't die
easy without it, — oh, Rob!'
“Other times he'd shout out to him to be gone, —
that 'Lizabeth was his wife, the only wife he ever did
have, or would have, — nobody should take her away.
Then again he'd put on a smilin', perlite face that was
wuss than any on't to see, and he'd say, —
“`I never saw you before, no, sir, never. Excuse me,
but you are entirely mistaken.'
“I 'spose Miss King understood these things a good
deal better'n 'Lizabeth did, but, of course, she couldn't
explain nothin'. He kep goin on so, day arter day.
“Gen'ally I used to see my good woman once a day,
and she told me it did beat all how 'Lizabeth bore it.
She was jest as white as a sheet, Miss King said, but
she kep over him night and day, and never seemed a
bit tired nor sleepy. Wife had a sofy in one corner o'
the room, where she used to lie down and sleep nights,
for she was determined not to leave 'Lizabeth, and,
spite o' restin' a good deal, she was pretty well tuckered
out; but she said 'Lizabeth didn't seem to know
old and feeble now, so't she couldn't be there, and wife
tried to be a mother to the poor, troubled critter as
well as she could. 'Lizabeth was one o' them kind
that don't love easy, but when they do love it's deep.
Miss King said if the Judge died she thought they'd
both go together.
“One mornin', when he'd been sick a little more'n
a week, I got up early and went out door. It was
jest about the finest mornin' I ever see. The sun was
comin' up red and round, and the trees was green as
ever in some places, and in others they looked as if
they'd jest been sot afire. I don't pertend to think
much o' sech things, but somehow, that mornin' took
right hold of me, and made me feel soft-hearted, but
maybe I shouldn't remember it so well ef it hadn't been
for what came arterwards.
“Jest then I see Miss King a comin', and I went to
meet her. Somehow I was 'mazin' glad to see her.
There hadn't been a soul to stop to the house sence the
Judge was sick, and there hadn't been no partikler need
of her in a business pint o' view, but somehow things
allus look lonesome to home when a woman ain't about.
“When I come up to her, though, I see pretty soon
that somethin' more'n common had happened. At fust
thought I didn't know but the Judge was dead, and I
asked her.
“`No,' says she, `but I dunno but he'd better be
afore all comes out that's got to.'
“She wouldn't say no more till we'd got into the
me how, the night before, as she lay on the sofy in the
corner, and Miss Elliott sot by the Judge's bed, he
woke up, and she could see in a minit that he was
rational again. She said she'd been talkin' with Miss
Elliott the minit afore, and as long as she knew of
her bein' there she thought no harm o' lyin' still,
though perhaps she'd ought to have got up and gone
out. The Judge was dreadful weak, but he managed
to put out his hand and touch his wife's. In a minit
she was bendin' over him and kissin' him as if he'd been
a baby. Says he, —
“`You do love me, 'Lizabeth. All this time when
you thought I didn't know any thing I've felt that you
was hoverin' round me and taking care o' me.'
“As he said that, Miss King said the tears gushed
right out, and his wife kind o' soothed him, and then,
pooty soon, he broke out again. He said he couldn't
keep his secret no longer. It had well nigh killed him,
or made him crazy for life, keepin' it so long. Then he
went on and told her how, when he was a young man,
not much more'n a boy, he'd been married in England.
He didn't love the woman, nor she didn't love him, but
she was rich, and somehow his folks and hern fixed it
up between 'em, and he didn't make no objections.
He'd never been in love then, and sech things was more
common there than they are here. So he lived with the
woman a number o' year, and, from not carin' any thing
about her in the fust place, he got to most hatin' her.
“She didn't suit him no way, and he began to feel
he was too reasonable to lay it all to her. I guess
he blamed himself the most. Well, arter a while, he
found out, pooty nigh for certain, that she hadn't been
true to him. He said he s'posed he might a got positive
proof of it ef he'd a tried, and ef he'd known what
was comin' arter, he would a tried. But as it was, he
didn't think he should ever want to marry again, and
he pitied her, and felt like bein' merciful to her. He
thought it wan't her fault, marryin' as she did, — that,
maybe, ef he'd a loved her, and been tender and lovin'
to her, she'd a' kep strait. So he concluded to leave her
her good name, and all the money he had married her
for, and go off in sech a way that folks would think he
had killed himself, and she could marry the man she
liked ef she wanted to.
“It was pooty hard to leave his old father, and harder
still to leave his younger brother, who had allus been
nearer to him than any thing else in the world, ever
sence his mother died, but he was pooty nigh desperate,
and when he'd made up his mind he didn't flinch. He
come to America, and took a new name. He had
studied law in England, and he went into 'Squire
Holmes' office over to Simsbury, — he'd happened to
git acquainted with the 'Squire in Boston, where he
landed, — and pooty soon got admitted to the bar.
He'd no thought of ever marryin' at that time, but
when he come here and see 'Lizabeth Mills, he found
out what love was.
“'Twould e'en a most melted a stone, my good
what a fight he had in his own mind afore he could
make out what to do. He thought some, fust, of going
back to England and tryin' for a divorce, but he s'posed
they'd all gin him up for dead there; he didn't know
as he could get one, and he knew that 'Lizabeth was
dead sot agin 'em.
“Finally, he concluded that, whatever Alfred Armstrong
had done, Jacob Elliott had never been married,
and he didn't think there was one chance in a thousand
that anybody'd ever know them two names meant one
person. Take it all in all, he felt perfectly safe in gettin'
married agin; and arter he'd once made up his mind
his conscience never troubled him. He persuaded himself
that he was doin' right. I've allus noticed it was
pooty easy to do that when a man's whole heart was
sot on any thing. His life had been as happy as any
human bein's need to be till arter his brother come.
“He told her all that story, — how his heart had
yearned over his brother, but he had loved her so much
better he couldn't run the shadder of a risk of havin'
to give her up, and so he had sent his brother off. But
Robert's voice had sounded ever sence in his ear, — he
couldn't silence it. Robert's last words had stuck by
him. Livin' in sin, — he couldn't get that out o' his
mind, and he had brooded over it until the fever came.
He had never meant to tell her, but he couldn't go anywhere
else for comfort, and he couldn't keep it in no
longer. All the way through, Miss King said 'Lizabeth
had listened without sayin' a word, but she could see
turnin' into stone, and when he got so fur a cry come
out of her lips, not loud, but a sort of gasp like, as if
her heart was breakin', and says she, —
“`Thank God that I've no children to bear this with
me.' Wife said she couldn't help thinkin' then how
often we see that God is blessin' us instead of cursin'
us in keepin' back the very things we hanker arter the
most. When 'Lizabeth had gin that one cry she
bowed her head down on the bed, kind o' helpless like.
With that, Miss King said, the Judge seemed as strong
as a lion. He caught her in his arms and kissed her
cheeks and her eyes and her white lips. He told her
she was his wife, — his only wife; the only one he had
ever loved or would ever own, and, now she knew all,
they would be so happy together. Surely she couldn't
think, for one moment, that first marriage was binding
before God, — nobody could. A woman he had never
loved, who had never loved him. Besides, he was Alfred
Armstrong no longer. He was another man now,
and she was his wife, his own true wife, and no power
on earth had any right to separate them. Then, when
she didn't say any thing, he began callin' on her to forgive
him, and tellin' her if she didn't, he should die
there afore her eyes. At last this roused her, and she
kissed him once.
“`Oh, Jacob,' says she, `forgive you! I forgive you
as I hope to be forgiven. How you have loved me.'
“By this time he was all exhausted, and she soothed
him and made him go to sleep. I s'pose, in his weakness,
forgiven him, and so they should live right along, jest
as they did afore; but, ef he did, he didn't know 'Lizabeth.
Arter he had got well to sleep she left him and
come along to where wife was lyin'. Miss King said it
seemed as ef she'd grown ten years older in that one
night. Says she, —
“`You heard it all?' Wife told her she did hear it,
and that she pitied her as ef she was her own child.
There was some pride left in her, gentle as she was.
I s'pose she didn't like to be pitied, and she cut Miss
King short by askin' her not to mention what she had
heard, for her sake, till the Judge got better. Then it
must all come out, but till then she'd be thankful to
have it kept secret. Of course wife promised, and she
didn't consider that she broke it by tellin' me, fur we
never had no privacies from one 'nother. Neither of
us said a single word to any outsider, but I tell you
our hearts ached in them days for 'Lizabeth. Miss
King was over there pooty much o' the time till the
Judge got better, and, as fur as she knew on, the subject
was never mentioned again betwixt him and Miss
Elliott. But all this time, she said, 'Lizabeth was jest
the tenderest nuss. She built him up as nobody else
would a' had the patience to, and at last, when he had
got comfortable, she went out of the house one November
mornin', and over to her father's; and, pooty
soon, we see old 'Squire Mills hobblin' along arter the
doctor.
“She had borne up as long as she could, and now
six weeks we half hoped, half feared she would never
get up again. I say half hoped she wouldn't, fur it
didn't look as ef there could be any more comfort fur
her in this life. We all knew how she loved the Judge,
and we knew, jest as well as we knew her, that she'd
never live with him any more.
“When he heard she was sick he was nigh upon
crazy. Jest as soon as he could, he used to crawl over
to 'Squire Mills' and sit beside her. Even her best
friends, now it had all come out, hadn't the heart to
reproach him. It was clear to everybody that he'd sot
a great deal more by her than he did by his life, and he
wan't no more the same man that he was six months
ago than two persons. Trouble and sickness had broke
him down as twenty years o' common life couldn't have
begun to.
“It was Christmas before 'Lizabeth begun to set up.
Everybody called her `Miss Elliott' jest as they used
to, and I s'pose 'twould a' come hard to her to give up
the name she had been called by through all the happiest
years of her life. When she was toler'ble well and
strong she asked to see the Judge alone, one day. It
was the fust time she ever had seen him alone a minit,
sence she went out of his house. They had a long talk.
Nobody knew what they said, but I s'pose she made
him understand that they must never be nothin' more'n
common friends to each other again. When it was
over she went upstairs to her room, and wan't seen
again that day by anybody, and the Judge come out
must live alone all the rest of his life, and his face
looked a'most as if he was struck with death.
“Arter that he didn't go there no more for some time,
— then he got to goin' again, maybe once a week, and
she would sit in the room with her old, feeble mother
and talk with him fur an hour together. But I should
a thought 'twould a been about as bad as not seein' one
'nother at all. All this time she was urgin' it upon him
to go to England and make it up with his brother.
Besides, she told him it was his duty to find out whether
he hadn't been mistaken about his wife, and, if he had
been, to live with her again, if she wanted to live with
him. I couldn't see no duty o' that sort about it,
but 'Lizabeth had got it into her head, and she could
allus make him do jest about what she thought was
right.
“So the next spring he sailed for England, and it
was nigh upon fall afore he got back again. He had
found his father alive, and he and his brother had made
it all up. As for his wife, the man that he thought she
was in love with had been dead a number o' year, and
he heard a good character of her everywhere, so't maybe
he'd been mistaken in what he thought about her in
the fust place. But she told him she never had loved
him no more'n he had her, and that, so fur from havin'
any desire to live with him, nothin' short o' force would
ever make her do it. So he come back, as he went,
alone.
“He went to see 'Lizabeth the fust thing, and she
knew her'n, and she could never be nothin' more than
friendly to him again. I don't rightly understand the
law o' the case, but he couldn't git a divorce from his
English wife, though she might a got one from him ef
she'd chosen, but she didn't.
“I forgot to say that as soon as the matter had come
out he had resigned his office, but folks call him Judge
Elliott still, and I s'pose they allus will. He's had
chances enough to practise, for 'most all that knew his
story pitied him more'n they blamed him, but he
hain't done much business sence. 'Twan't long afore
his father died, and he got some consider'ble money from
England. He paid 'Squire Mills more'n what the old
place where he built his house was wuth, and I s'pose
he'll allus live there.”
“How long is it since?” asked the stranger, as
honest Israel King concluded the narrative to which he
had been an absorbed listener.
“Waal, I should think a matter o' nine year. Let's see.
Seven year arter he fust came here he was chose Judge,
and the next year this affair come out, and he's been
here in all seventeen year this spring.”
“And he has lived here nine years, only a few steps
from the woman he loved so well; who had thought
herself, for seven years, his true and lawful wife, and
neither of them are dead or mad?”
Honest Israel smiled, a shrewd yet sorrowful smile.
“No, they wan't weak by natur, either of 'em.
Plenty of women that didn't love half so deep as
hers broke and she lives. It's somethin' like Moses
smitin' the rock for the water to gush out, my good
woman says, for her life has been a constant stream of
kindness and good deeds ever sence. She don't shet
herself up in any selfish sorrow, but I guess she goes to
the best place for comfort, arter all. She does jest what
God tells her. She's kinder than ever to the old folks,
and I guess she's nigh about the best idee the children
have got of an angel. She sees the Judge pretty often.
He goes there every now and then and spends an evening
with her and the old folks. Anybody'd s'pose that
would be a sorrowful kind of comfort, but it seems to
do him good; and every now and then they meet when
she's on some of her walks, and he talks with her a
little while, and then goes back into his hansum house
alone. I should s'pose it must be a pretty hard tussle
for him to live right along where she used to live with
him, but Miss King thinks it's the very reason he want's
to live there. She thinks he can kind o' fancy, sometimes,
that 'Lizabeth's sittin' in the old places, and hear
her voice when it's all still and quiet round him.”
The landlord paused, and his guest was silent also.
Both were lingering in pensive thought over sorrows
not their own. At length the old man touched the
stranger's arm.
“There she comes now,” he said, almost in a whisper.
“You can go out and walk kind o' careless along
the road, and you'll get a good sight at her.”
The stranger's interest was too much absorbed for
this course. He went out of the yard, and sauntered
along the street. He saw a woman of forty, more
beautiful, to him, than any younger face he had ever
seen. She looked, as Israel King had said, a grand
woman, strong in body and soul. Her face was still,
and pale, and fair. Round the lofty forehead was
braided hair as dark and luxuriant as ever. Under it
shone large, clear eyes, full of a glory and a light not
of this world. Heaven's own peace sat on her features,
and smiled in the mouth, sweet as a child's,
but firm as a martyr's. She wore a quiet, gray dress,
which suited her as well as the silks and satins of
earlier days ever could have done. Her step was
lofty, her port worthy of an empress.
“Fit for earth or fit for Heaven,” he murmured involuntarily
as he looked on her, — “fit for one because
fit for the other.” He could see that “the tranquil God,
who tranquillizes all things,” had sent calm upon her
life.
As she walked by Judge Elliott's stately house, he
saw a man go out and speak to her, — a man, to whose
life calmness, unless it be the calmness of despair, was
yet to come; a man, old beyond his forty-eight years,
sorrowful, downcast, lonely. He saw this man's face
brighten as she talked with him, and, finally, he saw
her gather from the hedge a rose full of dew and
fragrance, and give it to him, and then go calmly on her
way, leaving some of the glory of her presence behind
her.
He went slowly back to the inn.
“That was Judge Elliott,” said the landlord, meeting
him as he approached. “Poor things! Poor things!
I s'pose it'll be all squared up and come out right up
there,” and he lifted his old, weather-beaten face to the
calm blue of the summer morning sky. Did he see,
through and beyond the azure, a glimpse of shining
turrets, the gold and pearl and amethyst of the city
not made with hands?
It is just ten years since my friend, to whom the
Connecticut innkeeper related this strange story, recounted
it to me. It interested me deeply at the time,
and it was many months before I ceased to think of it.
It was obscured, at length, by the interests of my own
life, and passed out of my heart as such tales will,
when we have never seen the faces or heard the voices
of the people. Perhaps it would never have come back
to me, but for a strange chance, or Providence. Looking
over, in an idle hour, the deaths and marriages in a
file of English papers, sent me by a friend, my eyes fell
on this: —
“Died, at Birmingham, Susan Armstrong, wife or
widow of Alfred Armstrong.”
With feelings stronger than an idle whim I marked
this item, and sent it to the address of the man whom,
in this “ower true tale,” I have chosen to call Jacob
Elliott, but who was known by another name to the
denizens of Hartford County. Perhaps he already was
aware of his first wife's decease, and had wooed and
or both of them may have gone long ago to the land
where, we are told, is neither marrying nor giving in
marriage, but where, I love to think, those who love
truly here will love on for ever. I know not. Heaven
is higher than earth, and nothing is left to blind chance.
Those two were God's care, for they were His children.
Pray for them, all kind souls!
| Some women's hearts | |