Huberts Wife | Page 7

I should be on thorns; I
must go."

Philip St. Leger was not a Virginian by birth. He was a native of the
city at whose distinguished school Della Lisle had graduated. Only on
the day of graduation and at the time of her marriage had the brother
and husband of Della met.
It was a sad meeting now, on this dreary night. These men, still in the
flush of manhood, clasped hands, and looked into each others' eyes,
with a despairing, inquiring eagerness.
Their chill fingers were scarce unlocked when Duncan asked:
"And did you come alone?"
"I brought her child; but Della-- I left her sleeping beneath the shadow
of the minarets."
Duncan stamped his foot. His cup of sorrow had been full. He had
quaffed with what patience possible its bitter draughts, and still were
they poured in afresh.
"I wrote you particulars of her death a year ago: I learned at Flat-Rock
that you never have received the mournful tidings. I learned also"--but
his voice trembled, and he could not go on.
"Of the sudden death of my wife. Good God! it may as well be spoken.
Yes, she was to-day buried out of my sight."
"O, my friend, speak not with such wildness."
"But all is gone--all but dreary, wretched, useless life. O, what a
world!"
"See here, my good brother," said the missionary, in a more cheerful
tone, "I have come a long journey; I am tired to death, wet through,
hungry, and cold."
Before he had finished, Duncan's hand had rang the bell violently. His
right-hand man, Grandison, appeared. In a brief space of time, the fire
was replenished, dry clothes produced, a small table of refreshments

spread in the same cheery room, and the missionary, with
commendable zeal, proceeded to refresh the inner man.
Duncan paced the floor in a desperate manner. The missionary paused
amidst his slices of cold chicken and ham, and thus addressed him:
"My friend, I am greatly distressed for you, but that helps you nothing.
I have been through the same fiery trial; and I not only believed, but
wished I might not survive the ordeal. I would not eat nor sleep, but
grieved incessantly. It was so sudden, so unforeseen. Was it not
singular that Della and Ellice, loving each other so well, should have
gone so near each other and in the same way? That is hardest of all;
martyrs were they in a true sense. But I had a friend, who aroused,
warned, and induced me to eat, sleep, and go on with the duties of life.
After one first great effort it is easier. If one must suffer, he may
assuage his pain by bearing it bravely. The over-tending of a wound
may produce worst consequences. Exposure to the air, frequent
ablutions, occasional frictions, create healing processes, reduce
sensitiveness, and restore somewhat of the old life and vigor. I dare say
you have not eaten a mouthful to-day; come eat, drink with me. I will
not preach you a sermon, but let us philosophize like sensible men."
Thus solicited, Duncan drew up his chair opposite his friend. With
evident disgust he swallowed the first mouthful, but this morsel seemed
to awaken appetite, and he made a respectable meal.
Having thus broken his involuntary fast, he felt, in a sense, refreshed,
and producing some fine cigars, the friends sat down before the fire,
where, looking through the blue wreaths, they seemed to gain a
soothing and an inspiration. The missionary gave to his host a brief
history of his life with Della, of her sickness and death, and then
incidentally gave a sketch here and there of his own youth. We will
commence where he left off, giving but the substance in brief, instead
of his own words, so often interspersed with irrelevant allusions and
interrupted by remark and question.
Philip St. Leger was the son of a sea captain. His youth, of course, he
spent mostly at school, its monotony varied more than once by a

prolonged voyage with his father at sea. His mother was a woman of
society, and left her children much to the care of servants.
Consequently, she had much trouble with them in after years. Philip
was the oldest child. He was naturally good-dispositioned and tractable;
but, owing to a false system of training, became headstrong and
altogether beyond maternal control.
At the age of nineteen, after a wild and fruitless career at college, and
after repeated suspensions, he was really expelled near the beginning of
the senior year. To his parents this was a severe mortification, and his
father, being at that moment at home, sent him to some distant cousins,
who lived among the white hills of New Hampshire.
Colonel Selby, in whose family Philip found himself domiciled, was