swiftly passed the happy days in the beautiful villa home to which arthur barrington had taken his bride. but at length remorseful thoughts of his father's loneliness would intrude themselves upon arthur's happiest hours, until he could bear it no longer; so he told louisa the unkind way in which he had left his father, and how unhappy he was on that account, proposing that they should proceed to barrington park without delay. to this she readily agreed, but unfortunately their route lay through a district where a malignant fever was very prevalent, and while traversing a lone and dreary portion of this district, arthur was attacked with this terrible disease. he strove bravely against it, and endeavored to push on to the nearest town, but that was yet forty miles distant, when arthur became so alarmingly ill that they were forced to stop at a little hamlet and put up with the best accommodation its miserable inn afforded, which was poor indeed. there was no doctor to be had nearer than z----, but the driver promised to procure one from there if possible. with this they were obliged to be content; but day after day passed and none came, while arthur hourly became worse, and louisa grew half wild with grief and fear.
"if we could only get a doctor, i believe he would soon be well; but, ah! it is so dreadful to see him die for want of proper advice," murmured louisa, glancing toward the bed where arthur lay tossing in the terrible malaria fever, so fatal to temperaments such as his; "but he will not die, o no i cannot believe that my happiness will be of such short duration that i shall again be left in such icy desolation. oh! arthur, arthur, do not leave me she sobbed, covering her face with her hands, but arthur does not heed her, racked with burning fever he cannot even recognize her, as with patient gentleness she endeavors to alleviate his sufferings with cooling drinks, or bathes his burning brow. in vain were all the remedies that the simple people of the inn could suggest, or that louisa's love could devise. day by day his life ebbed away consumed by the disease, the prostration and langour following the fever being too much for his strength, thus louisa saw that he who alone in the wide world loved or cared for her, was fast passing away; still though she could not but see it was so, she would not believe the terrible truth, but clung to the hope that a doctor might yet arrive before it was too late, and so her great bereavement came upon her with overwhelming force, when after a day of more than usual langour, during her midnight vigil, he ceased to breathe. louisa had not known why he had clasped her hand so tightly all that night as she sat beside his couch, he was dead, and with a cry of anguish louisa fell insensible beside the lifeless body of her husband.
the moonbeams fell alike upon the inanimate forms of the living and the dead, and the morning sun rose brightly and she still lay there, none heard the midnight cry of anguish, or if heard it was unheeded, and the noisy lamentations of the girl who brought in the morning meal, greeted her as consciousness returned. the master of the inn said the funeral must take place at sunset, and louisa shed bitter tears in the little room which was given her, while the corpse was being prepared for interment, for these precipitate funeral arrangements added greatly to louisa's grief. composed but deadly pale she followed arthur's remains to the grave--his only mourner; there was no minister to be had, but louisa could not see him buried thus, so read herself a portion of the beautiful burial service of the episcopal church, then amid tears and sobs she watched them pile and smooth the earth above him, and when they had finished, with a wail of agony she threw herself in a burst of passionate grief upon the damp earth, and there she lay until darkness enveloped all around, heedless of danger, of time, of everything but her deep deep grief, her misery, and her irreparable loss. and there she would have remained but for francesca, the girl who had waited on them; francesca had some pity for the poor lady, and with a great effort stifled her superstitious fears, and went down to the grave and led her away, whispering you will get the fever here. so louisa returned desolate indeed to the miserable inn, not for a moment because of the fear of fever, only dreamily, scarcely knowing where she was going.
those long hours with the dead had but too surely done their work, louisa was attacked with the same fever of which her husband died, but carelessly tended and neglected as she was, she did not die.
when she was able to go out again, she would sit pensively for hours by arthur's grave, or in passionate grief throw herself upon it and wish that she too might die. it was after one of these paroxysms of despair that louisa remembered her promise to arthur, that she would take his letter to his father at barrington park. faithful to her word she reluctantly prepared to depart, when to her dismay she found that a cheque for a large amount had been abstracted from arthur's desk, and further search discovered that nearly every article of value had been perloined during her illness. their charges were so exorbitant, that it took nearly all the money she had to satisfy their demands, and when she mentioned the cheque, &c., they held up their hands in horror at the idea, that after all their kindness she should suspect them of such villiany.
weary and broken-hearted, louisa set out on her lonely journey, and at length arrived sad and dejected at barrington park, having had to part with nearly all she possessed in order to prosecute her journey. after some difficulty she succeeded in gaining lord barrington's presence.
"well, what is it you want?" asked his lordship impatiently, but louisa could not speak, she could only hold out arthur's letter with a mute gesture of entreaty.
"i don't want to read any of that nonsense; just tell me what you want, and be quick, as i am busy."
tell him what she wanted!--tell him that she wanted him to love and receive her as a daughter--tell him that the love he bore his son was henceforth to be transferred to the unhappy being before him--how could she tell him this? how could she tell him what she wanted?
"speak, girl, i say!" he cried, angrily.
"read this," she faltered, "it will tell you all."
"i will not," he answered; "tell me, or begone!"
falling on her knees before him, she held out the letter, crying: "i am arthur's wife. he is dead, and this is his letter, and i am here according to his wish--to his dying injuction. take it--read it--it will tell you all."
"good gracious, the girl is mad!" he exclaimed, "mad as a march hare. come, come! get up and go about your business, or i shall have you put in the asylum."
louisa felt choking, she could not speak; she could only stretch out her arms imploringly, still holding the letter.
"there is some great mistake; my son is not dead, nor is he married, so do not think to impose upon me."
"there is no mistake; arthur is dead, and you see his widow before you," she managed to articulate.
"no, no, arthur is not dead, poor crazy girl; get up and go away," and he threw her half a sovereign, saying, as he did so, "now go away quickly, or i shall have you turned out; and mind, don't go about with your tale about being my son's wife, or i shall send the police after you. now go."
crushed and humbled as she was by sorrow and suffering, this was more than louisa's fiery nature could endure passively. springing to her feet, her lips quivering with anger, while her large eyes flashed with passion, she cried, as she threw the proffered alms upon the table, in proud defiance, "keep your alms for the first beggar you see, but do not insult me. i ask but what is right--that, as your son's wife, i should receive a home and the necessaries of life from you, his father, as he promised me. this you refuse me; but, were i to starve, i would not take your alms, thrown to me as a crazy beggar--never, never!"
"go, go!" he cried, she by her burst of passionate indignation still more confirming the idea that she was mad.
"i will go," she answered, "and will never again trouble you; but know that i am no impostor--no insane person."
john, who answered his master's summons, stood wonderingly at the door, and, as louisa passed out, he opened the hall door, looking terribly mystified. "take this," she said to him, "and if you loved your young master, give this to his father when he will receive it." then with a full heart louisa hastened from the park.
a short distance from the gate was a small copse wood, which louisa entered, and, throwing herself down on the grassy bank beside a stream, gave way to a storm of passionate grief. "oh, arthur, arthur!" she sobbed, "how desolate is louisa in this cold, cruel world." the storm of grief would have its way, nor did she strive to check it, but continued sobbing convulsively, and shivered with cold, though it was a balmy autumn day; the icy chill at her heart seemed to affect her body also. when at length she became more calm, she began to consider what course she should next pursue. she turned out her scanty store of money--fifteen and sixpence was the whole amount. she determined to return to the inn, where she had left the small bag (the sole remnant of the numerous trunks, etc., with which they had left ----), and remain there that night, and start next day for brierley, the present abode of her grandfather, and try her luck in that quarter, but with small hope of success. not for herself would she have done this, for she trembled at the thought of meeting him, but circumstances made it imperative.
