CHAPTER II.
It touched the honest heart of her son, and he said: “Mother, I know there’s a great sorrow you wish to keep from me. I have found out that my father is living, but why he is an exile from his home I know not, as you have always avoided telling me of him.”
Paul looked wistfully at his mother, hoping she would respond favorably to his last few words and tell him something about his father, whose picture hung over the piano, in the parlor. She had taught him to love it and call it papa, yet would always avoid telling anything about him when Paul in childish prattle would say: “Mamma, where is my papa?”
The answer was always the same: “Paul, my darling son, your papa is gone, gone;” then would break out weeping violently.
His childish questions were quickly hushed, as it always awed him into silence to see his mother in trouble. Yet the same thought had grown up with him, and in later years had troubled him very much. “Why does not mother tell me more about my father—whether he is dead or alive;” these were his thoughts.
He was sitting under a tree one Sunday evening musing, when he exclaimed aloud: “Is my father dead or alive? Why does mother not tell me and not keep me in misery?”
An old negro servant was passing by and heard him. He went quietly to him, and laying his hand on Paul’s shoulder said: “Young massa, fadda is alibe and is a roving ober the earf, missa and massa had a quarrel and massa went away when you was a little babe. He laid you in my arms and said, ‘Pompey, watch ober dis boy as if he was your own, and God will bless you always; and my prayer will always be for you and my poor little boy, who will neber know he has a fadder.’”
Great tears rolled down the negro’s dusky cheeks and fell on the young man’s shoulder as he said: “Paul, I has always watched you grow up to be a man, and a good, kind man you is, too, and now I is ready to die.”
“No, no,” answered Paul, “do not say die, Pompey. You have tried to fill the place of father to me, and I can remember many acts of kindness you have shown to me in my childhood and I want you to live long with me,” and he grasped the hand of his faithful old servant.
This was how Paul came to know his father was living; and when he was last speaking to his mother and she did not say anything about his father he turned to go and she saw he was deeply moved: she said, “Paul, who is this little girl you spoke so highly of?”
“I do not know, mother, but perhaps I shall before the week is out.” So saying, he went slowly to the barn.
He was the owner of a fine farm of two hundred acres, surrounded by the beautiful forest. Here he had lived ever since he could remember. It had always seemed strange to him why his mother would not live in the city. She would only go to town occasionally and always avoided company while there. She seemed very low-spirited at times, and Paul many times wondered what made her act so strange. She had given him a fine education and taught him to be a good farmer, as she thought he would be compelled personally to go to farming to save the farm, as she, a few years before the opening of ourstory, had mortgaged it to save her father from ruin. She had always managed to pay the interest on it in the strictest secrecy, always preserving the papers in a little drawer in the closet in the garret. She thought no one knew where it was. Paul knew nothing of what o’er-shadowed his birthplace. Happy was he at the age of twenty-one when his mother deeded him the farm, saying, “My son, I freely give this beautiful mansion and large farm to you, my only child. I know you love your mother and will take care of her as long as she lives, and when she is dead will place a plain marble stone at her grave to mark the resting place of her who gave you birth.”
“Yes, mother,” answered her son. “Never will I forsake you or do aught to give you pain;” and so far he had kept his word.
At this time or period in his career, time was changing with him; there was a little being stepping between him and his mother, or in other words his love was being divided between them. He dearly loved the mother who had nursed him up to manhood and freely resolved ever to do only what was just and right by her. He went to the barn to see his beautiful team of horses, a finer span of blacks there was not for miles around. They were the envy of all the boys in the country. Whenever he drove out to parties they always attracted attention and comment, and their owner was highly esteemed for his true manliness. All the girls said he was too fastidious, as none of them could please him so well as to keep him from fishing. At last all the girls of his acquaintance said he could never be suited. At last his fastidious taste was pleased. The lovely, dreamy girl he met by the lake had won his honest heart. As he cared for his horses he was deeply thinking of her whom he saw at the lake, and he mused: “I will saddle Nellie and go to town this evening by the way of Hilton’s, and perhaps I will see or hear of this city cousin, as I am very anxious to see this little lady.”
Hastily throwing the saddle on his horse he brought him out of the barn, and handed the reins to his faithful old servant, who was standing near by, and went and told his motherof his intentions, omitting of course his going by the way of Hilton’s. As he came out of the house and took the horse by the bridle, Pompey said, “Where now, massa Paul, at dis time ob day.”
“To see my girl and tell her what a good old boy you are,” said Paul, laughing as he went away.
“Bless his young heart; just like his fadder when a boy. How I lobe him. If he only knowed what I does, how sad he would be. I can neber tell him, but will watch all the same;” thus mused Pompey as he went out to see if everything was all right, before retiring.
Paul rode quickly down the road and soon Hilton’s fine farm was in sight. As he passed slowly by the house he heard someone singing. He stopped and listened, and these words came floating out on the evening breeze:
But drops of grief can e’er repayThe debt of love I owe.Here, Lord, I give myself away—’Tis all that I can do.
But drops of grief can e’er repayThe debt of love I owe.Here, Lord, I give myself away—’Tis all that I can do.
But drops of grief can e’er repayThe debt of love I owe.Here, Lord, I give myself away—’Tis all that I can do.
But drops of grief can e’er repay
The debt of love I owe.
Here, Lord, I give myself away—
’Tis all that I can do.
As the sound of the sweet voice died away, he rode off saying, “It is her voice, and it sounds as melancholy as it did down by the lake.” His whole soul seemed to go out to her; his heart was beating violently, as the words just uttered seemed to echo through his whole being. “Can such bliss ever be mine to enjoy? If I can only win the little girl I saw today, I shall be the happiest man on earth.” Thus the young man mused until the village was in sight. He rode up to one of the principal stores, when Ralph Harding, an old chum, came up to him saying, “Paul, have you had a bid to Hilton’s to a party Friday night?” Not waiting for an answer he said: “I have, and I am going too. They say there is going to be a New York girl there, and won’t we have jolly fun. She will call us ‘moss backs’ and stick up her nose at us. They say she is so aristocratic that a fellow can’t talk with her, even. Anyway, I am going up to see her.”
Paul stayed to hear no more, as he said: “You had better stay away from there or keep your foolish clack to yourself, as no decent man would talk as you do about a person he never saw.”
“Perhaps you have seen her and fallen in love with her, as you speak in such high terms of her,” answered Ralph, winking knowingly.
“I have never had the honor of seeing her as I know of. What would Warren Hilton say if he heard what you say about his cousin? He would take you for less than a gentleman,” said Paul, springing lightly on his horse.
“I don’t know and I don’t care; better go and tell him,” said Ralph in a sneering tone.
“Sir,” answered Paul, “it is a very foolish plan to strike a fool, or I would pitch you in the street,” springing from his horse down on the sidewalk as he said: “Ralph, you and I have never had any words before, and it is very strange we should now, over a stranger; yet I cannot hear you speak ill of a woman you know no harm of. I never heard you speak so hateful before of anyone. Why should you now, Ralph?”
“I don’t know,” said Ralph meekly. “I will take it all back, and we will be friends as of yore if you choose.”
“Thanks,” answered Paul; “kind words are better any time than cruel ones. My mother always told me to shun a quarrel, and I would find it better in the end, as no good ever sprung out of one. I must be going, as it is nearly nine o’clock and I will not get home now until ten and mother will be very anxious about me,” said Paul. “I would like to see you at the party, Ralph, as I am going too, if mother is as well as usual. She has not been very well lately. She went to town some time ago, and since then has been very poorly.”
“I am very sorry,” answered Ralph, and he felt deeply moved as he said: “Paul, your mother is all the relative you have living, and it would be very bad indeed to see her die. She has been a good, kind mother to you and you would miss her very much.”
“Yes,” answered Paul, “a kinder mother there never was,and may she live long to see what a dutiful son she has.” As he said this tears were in his eyes. “Good night, Ralph!” Suiting the action to the word he sprang lightly on his horse and rode away. He went homeward thinking of all Ralph had said about Warren’s cousin and his mother, and he was deeply troubled. His mother he loved deeply and feared for her health. He soon arrived and all were to bed except his mother who met him at the door, saying: “My son, I am very glad to see you come.”
“Why, mother, did you think the wolves would get me?” said her son laughing, as he bent down and kissed her. “You see I am here and looking well, so you need not worry any more, but go right to bed, as you are very pale. Mother, have you any objections to my going to John Hilton’s to a party Friday night? I will not stay long.”
“No, my son, I should be pleased to have you go, as it is very lonesome for you to stay here all the time with only me as company,” said his mother, the tears springing to her eyes.
“No, no, mother, it is not lonesome here. It would be, though, if I had no mother to kiss me good night.”
He went to his mother and kissed her again, saying: “Drive those tears away, dear mother, and let me see you smile again. You have been thinking too deeply about me since I went away this evening.”
If he only knew what troubled her day and night he would have been troubled too, but as it were he only thought it was because he went away and left her alone, which he seldom did in the evening, lately. He went to bed thinking of all that had transpired since morning—the little lady he met by the lake—Ralph’s cruel and kind words—and seeing his mother in tears, which he seldom ever did.
“’Tis strange, very strange,” mused Paul as he fell asleep.