In some old magazine or newspaper I recollect a story，told as truth， of a man—let us call him Wakefield—whoabsented himself for a long time from his wife. The fact，thus abstractedly stated， is not very uncommon， nor，without a proper distinction of circumstances， to becondemned either as naughty or nonsensical. Howbeit，this， though far from the most aggravated， is perhaps thestrangest instance on record of marital delinquency， and，moreover， as remarkable a freak as may be found in thewhole list of human oddities. The wedded couple lived inLondon. The man， under pretence of going a journey， tooklodgings in the next street to his own house， and there，unheard of by his wife or friends and without the shadowof a reason for such self-banishment， dwelt upward oftwenty years. During that period he beheld his homeevery day， and frequently the forlorn Mrs. Wakefield. Andafter so great a gap in his matrimonial felicity—whenhis death was reckoned certain， his estate settled， hisname dismissed from memory and his wife long， longago resigned to her autumnal widowhood—he enteredthe door one evening quietly as from a day’s absence， andbecame a loving spouse till death.
This outline is all that I remember. But the incident，though of the purest originality， unexampled， and probablynever to be repeated， is one， I think， which appeals tothe general sympathies of mankind. We know， each forhimself， that none of us would perpetrate such a folly， yetfeel as if some other might. To my own contemplations，at least， it has often recurred， always exciting wonder， butwith a sense that the story must be true and a conceptionof its hero’s character. Whenever any subject so forciblyaffects the mind， time is well spent in thinking of it. Ifthe reader choose， let him do his own meditation； or ifhe prefer to ramble with me through the twenty years ofWakefield’s vagary， I bid him welcome， trusting that therewill be a pervading spirit and a moral， even should wefail to find them， done up neatly and condensed into thefinal sentence. Thought has always its efficacy and everystriking incident its moral.
What sort of a man was Wakefield？ We are free to shapeout our own idea and call it by his name. He was now inthe meridian of life； his matrimonial affections， neverviolent， were sobered into a calm， habitual sentiment；of all husbands， he was likely to be the most constant，because a certain sluggishness would keep his heart atrest wherever it might be placed. He was intellectual，but not actively so； his mind occupied itself in long andlazy musings that tended to no purpose or had not vigorto attain it； his thoughts were seldom so energetic as toseize hold of words. Imagination， in the proper meaningof the term， made no part of Wakefield’s gifts. With acold but not depraved nor wandering heart， and a mindnever feverish with riotous thoughts nor perplexed withoriginality， who could have anticipated that our friendwould entitle himself to a foremost place among thedoers of eccentric deeds？ Had his acquaintances beenasked who was the man in London the surest to performnothing to-day which should be remembered on themorrow， they would have thought of Wakefield. Only thewife of his bosom might have hesitated. She， withouthaving analyzed his character， was partly aware of a quietselfishness that had rusted into his inactive mind； of apeculiar sort of vanity， the most uneasy attribute abouthim； of a disposition to craft which had seldom producedmore positive effects than the keeping of petty secretshardly worth revealing； and， lastly， of what she called alittle strangeness sometimes in the good man. This latterquality is indefinable， and perhaps non-existent.
Let us now imagine Wakefield bidding adieu to his wife.
It is the dusk of an October evening. His equipment isa drab greatcoat， a hat covered with an oil-cloth， topboots，an umbrella in one hand and a small portmanteauin the other. He has informed Mrs. Wakefield that heis to take the night-coach into the country. She wouldfain inquire the length of his journey， its object and theprobable time of his return， but， indulgent to his harmlesslove of mystery， interrogates him only by a look. He tellsher not to expect him positively by the return-coach norto be alarmed should he tarry three or four days， but， atall events， to look for him at supper on Friday evening.
Wakefield， himself， be it considered， has no suspicion ofwhat is before him. He holds out his hand； she gives herown and meets his parting kiss in the matter-of-course wayof a ten years’ matrimony， and forth goes the middle-agedMr. Wakefield， almost resolved to perplex his good lady bya whole week’s absence. After the door has closed behindhim， she perceives it thrust partly open and a vision ofher husband’s face through the aperture， smiling on herand gone in a moment. For the time this little incidentis dismissed without a thought， but long afterward，when she has been more years a widow than a wife， thatsmile recurs and flickers across all her reminiscences ofWakefield’s visage. In her many musings she surrounds theoriginal smile with a multitude of fantasies which make itstrange and awful； as， for instance， if she imagines him ina coffin， that parting look is frozen on his pale features；or if she dreams of him in heaven， still his blessed spiritwears a quiet and crafty smile. Yet for its sake， when allothers have given him up for dead， she sometimes doubtswhether she is a widow.
