Once, in a far-off time, there lived an English lord who had four wives. Above all, he cherished his fourth wife—youthful and delicate, the jewel of his household. He lavished her with fine silks, golden trinkets, and every comfort, tending to her, indulging her every whim.
His third wife, a woman of unmatched beauty, held his admiration as well. On journeys to distant lands—London, York, or beyond—he took her with him, parading her grace before lords and ladies. Yet always, a shadow of fear lingered in his heart, that one day she might leave him for another.
His second wife, clever and wise in the ways of the court, stood as his truest confidante. When trials befell him—be they disputes over land or matters of the crown—he sought her counsel, and with patience and shrewdness, she guided him through stormy times.
His first wife, the eldest, had been wed to him by duty, inherited from his late elder brother. Steadfast and devoted, she managed his estates with care, ensuring his wealth and influence grew. Yet the lord scarce spared her a glance, though her love for him ran deep.
Then came a day when the lord fell gravely ill. As death drew near, he reflected on his life of splendor and thought, *”I have four wives, yet when I depart this world, I shall go alone.”*
Turning to his fourth wife, he asked, *”I loved you most of all, gave you finest garments and rarest jewels. Now that my end is near, will you follow me into the dark?”*
*”Do not be absurd,”* she replied, and without another word, she left. Her dismissal struck him like a blade to the heart.
Grief-stricken, he summoned his third wife. *”I prized your beauty above all else. Now, as death claims me, will you walk beside me beyond the veil?”*
*”No,”* she answered. *”Life is fair, and when you are gone, I shall wed anew.”*
His sorrow deepened—never had he known such pain.
Next, he called for his second wife. *”You were ever my help in troubled times. Now, as I face the end, will you come with me where shadows dwell?”*
*”Alas, not this time,”* she said. *”All I may do is bury you with honor.”*
Her words struck like thunder. Then, from the dim light, a voice spoke:
*”I will go with you—wherever you go, unto the end.”*
He turned and saw his first wife, weary with grief, her face worn yet full of devotion. Stricken with remorse, he whispered, *”I should have treasured you while I could.”*
Each of us, in truth, has four wives. Our fourth is the body—no matter how we adorn it, it leaves us at death. The third is our station—fortune, titles, and gold—yet when we are gone, they pass to others. The second is kin; though they may stand by us in life, the farthest they may go is the grave.
But the first wife is the soul, oft neglected in pursuit of glory and fleeting joys. Yet she alone follows us beyond, faithful even when all else fades. To tend to her, invest in her, is to give both the world and oneself the greatest gift of all.
