CHAPTER VI.
“My child,” answered the mother sorrowfully, “you will be surprised when I state that the young man did go home and did not try to find where we removed to, but soon became acquainted with a lady of high standing and married her. They came over here, bought a large tract of land somewhere in the New England states. Your father and I met him once on board a vessel lying in harbor. Your papa, dear soul, knew of my first love and also the name of his predecessor, and getting an introduction to him made himself very inquisitive, as he found he was the same person and had been married some twelveyears. You see how deceitful some people are in this world. It is a good saying and a true one, too, that ‘sometimes you think a friend you’ve got until trial proves you have him not.’ Thus it proved out to be to me.”
“Mamma,” answered Nettie, “I am a trusting spirit. It might not have been all his fault. He might have been deceived, as the story circulated by the family deceived you. Perhaps he did try to find you but could not get any clue to your whereabouts, as money sometimes will do a great deal in the way of bribing people.”
“Well. Nettie, time will prove all things. As it is said, ‘Right conquers might.’”
“Mamma, what is the name of the once young man you have been speaking of?”
The mother looked sadly up in her daughter’s fair face as she answered, “Paul Burton; with manly form, blue eyes, and hair the color of your admirer’s. Nettie, I am so glad you had sense enough to come home, as it is my conjecture that this young man is the son of him I have told you of. God grant it may not be!” said the mother fervently. “I do not wish my child to be deceived as I have been.”
“Your father and I lived very happy through the years of our married life. No shadows came to mar the horizon of our union until he became bankrupt through a person we supposed our friend. Poor soul, like many others before him he could not stand the crash in his financial affairs, and soon after died. It was a sad blow to me as I loved him fully as well as I ever did Paul Burton, the baronet’s son.”
“Poor mamma!” exclaimed Nettie passionately. “God must have willed it to be so. I love this strange young man and it was very hard for me to come home and leave him whom I loved so fondly, but my English pride bade me come home.”
“And I hope God will deal justly by us all. We must trust to Providence and wait and see what time will bring in the future.”
“Oh mamma dear, I cannot believe Paul is false. Oh, no, no, it cannot be!” exclaimed Nettie passionately.
“May God be merciful to me.”
“My child. God doeth all things. We can trust to Providence and all yet may be well. This is a world of trouble and sorrow to us poor mortals and what falls to our lot we must endure patiently, for what is to be will be, in spite of all human aid. I sincerely hope for the happiness of my only child,” said the mother, pressing Nettie fondly to her breast.
Here I will leave them bemoaning their fate, and return to Paul, who, on returning home, found his mother very ill. She gradually grew worse day by day. All medical skill was of no avail and they could not restore her to ordinary health. Time passed drearily at that once pleasant home. Paul, sad hearted, went about the house as one in a dream, never speaking to any one except to give orders to servants and inquire about his mother, whom he loved more fondly than ever. He knew she would soon leave him, and it grieved him very much to see her sad, pale face as she would look fondly at him and say, “I will soon be at rest—free from all earthly trouble.”
She lingered through the fall and long dreary winter months, and as the buds came on the trees in the following spring she breathed her last, while lying in the arms of her affectionate son. Sad was the scene, to see the young man fondly clasp his mother to his breast while tears fell like rain, on the sad, silent face.
A few moments before she died she called for her son, and when he did not come immediately she said, “Must I die and not tell him? I ought to have done it before now. Oh, where is my boy? Will he come soon?” she asked faintly, turning her face to the wall.
Pompey, hearing her call, went into the room in time to hear her last words. He went to her bedside as he said, “Paul will come soon. He went down the lane to see if the doctor is coming. I’s sent for him and he will come very fast when he hears de news. Missus, I’s been berry kind and obedient to you, ain’t I? I’s lived with you ever since Paul was a little chick. Anything you want me to tell him, Missus?”
“Yes, my faithful man, you know the whole history of my life, and when I am gone tell him not to censure his father as it was all my fault—his leaving home; but make my sin aslight as you can. There is a little tin box in the garret that will tell him all he wishes to know.”
She nearly held out her hand to the faithful man, saying, “It’s very hard bidding you goodbye, Pompey, and may God bless you forever!”
She whispered the last words, and as her son came into the room her eyes brightened for a moment and she tried to speak to him but could not. Her breath grew shorter and shorter with each moment, and soon she was no more.
They laid her beneath the weeping willow tree and at her grave the son placed a neat monument in memory of her who reared him to manhood. Sad and dreary was that house to Paul. The sunshine had fled and only shadows remained. No mother now to kiss him good night; no father to bear with him this sorrow, and the only being he loved beside his mother was gone, he knew not where. The only friends that deeply sympathized with him except the servants were John Hilton’s family, especially Warren, who was there night and day and kept Paul company through this sad affliction. When this kind companion went home Paul could not reconcile himself to stay in the house where once was life and joy for him.
“I cannot stay here; I must go somewhere; there is no comfort for me on this earth. Oh, why did I live to see this trouble!”
Thus he would talk to Warren Hilton when they were alone.
“Why do you not go away from here for a while? The servants can look after the farm, and I will run over now and then to see how they get along. You can write me and you can hear all about them. You can go down to the city of New York, or anywhere else you choose. Something may change for the best. I would not stay here and moan myself to death if I were you. What do you say to that, my friend?” said Warren, tapping his friend on the shoulder, one summer evening as he saw how sad and lonely Paul was. Warren’s sympathetic heart went out to his friend. It grieved him sadly to see his lonely friend, as Paul was never seen to smile since his mother’s death.
It was nearly a year since the opening of our story. All nature was dressed in its mantle of green when Paul decided to travel. The evening before he was to start he sat in the library with his head in his hands thinking of the past. A light rap sounded on the door, which brought him back to the present, and bidding the knocker come in Pompey put his wooly head in the room and said, “Massa berry busy? I’s like to talk wid you a little while before you goes away, as you go so early in de morning, so I’s just come now to see you.”
“All right, Pompey, take a chair and tell me all the news.”
“I fear I has sad news for you, as you will get sad from what I’s got to tell you. I’s lived here ever since you was a child. Well, I first lived with Missus’ fodder, and when Missus got married I just came and lived wid her, so you see, Massa Paul, I just knows nearly all de history of your fodder and modder. Well, I suppose you would like to have me tell something about them?”
“Yes, Pompey, tell me all you know about them,” answered Paul, all animation to hear something about his parents.
“Well, just before Missus died she told me there was a little tin box for you in de garret, and I was to tell you all I knows about her.
“Your modder was a lady—a perfect lady—and your father a gentleman, and a baronet’s son in England. Your fadder had a fust lub, and your mudder caught him looking at a picture of a sweet face and head all curls—a pretty face it was, too. It made Missus very angry and she wanted him to burn it up, but he wouldn’t and they quarreled often about it. He told Missus it would not be any harm to her if he did keep it—the original was dead. But he could not give up the picture. Well, Missus was bound to have her way, so she stoled de picture and burned it up, and when Massa found it out he just came to me and told me what I told you under de tree. I told him to just stay, but he said, ‘No, no, I never can be trampled on by a woman. We cannot lib peacefully together and I will go and lebe her for a while.’
“I do not think he intended to stay away always. Massa Paul, you are just like your fodder in every respect. You just look and act like him. Your fodder was a British soldier and when he went to Boston with the regiment your mother saw him and just fell in lub wid him ober head and ears. Well, he was a baronet’s son and she a beautiful lady wid lots of money—as your fodder supposed. Well, he was deceived, and Missus just let him think what he might. I does not think your fodder lubber your mudder very much; and your mother—beautiful and rich—he thought so—he just married her for she loved him fondly; but she had such a temper and did not care what she said when mad. Well, in their last quarrel she just up and told him she wished he would go away, as she wished nebber to see his face any more, and he just up and went away. But I always thought he would come back. Wid de money out de army he bought dis big farm and bringed Missus to lib wid him here, and all Missus’ fodder had to gib her was me and my ole woman. Just before he left he went and deeded de farm to Missus, free from all incumbrance, and told me to take care of you. Dat is all I knows about your fodder.
“Your mudder neber was de same woman as before; she would not quarrel wid anyone, and was just as docile as a lamb. If she had been so when Massa was here he never would hab went away. I’s sure ob dat, as he cried like a great baby when he bid me goodbye. Now, Massa Paul, let me get de ole tin box an see what is in it. May be dar is something in it you would like to see. Come, Massa, is you dreaming?” exclaimed Pompey, seeing Paul sitting like a statue, gazing absent-mindedly before him into the deep shadows of the room.
“My dear man,” answered Paul, extending his hand to his servant, “I see clearly why mother always avoided telling me anything about my father, as she knew she had done wrong and was afraid to lose my respect, as she knew I dearly loved her.
“Pompey,” said Paul solemnly, “she was a kind and loving mother to me.”
“Yes, Paul, I’s seed her sit and cry ober your little curly head many a time and say, ‘I love my baby and I will never lethim see my temper;’ and I guess she never did. Shall we get de box tonight, or leave it until morning? Den you can see to read better,” said Pompey, getting up and yawning.
“We had better get it tonight, as I do not wish to let everybody know what there is in the box,” answered Paul, getting up and taking the candle and opening the library door.
They went up stairs and out into a little hall leading to the garret, Pompey leading the way.
“Gosh, Massa, I just guess there has been nobody up here in a long time, as de cobwebs are so thick I can just cut them down. Golly, Massa, what a hole to put treasures away in,” said Pompey, pulling the cobwebs out of his woolly hair.
He set the light down and opened a closet on his right, and after searching a long time he exclaimed, “Dar is noffin here in dis hole but cobwebs and dust and mice nests”—jerking out a handful and throwing it on the floor. “I just like to know where dat box is,” said he, taking up the light and viewing the place critically.
Pompey exclaimed, “Paul, if your mudder has hidden anything she didn’t want everybody to find we will find it in a little closet made purposely for it and well covered up from prying eyes.”
He was looking carefully around and hitting a cleet which hung loose from the wall he espied a little door in the side, which the cleet covered up entirely unless it was struck or run against.
“I think I have found the place where it is hidden,” said Paul, opening the door and viewing the interior.
The wall was covered with dust, and at first he did not discover anything that looked like a box. Just as he was giving up the search he espied a little hole in the wall, and thrusting in his hand he drew out a little box the size of a cigar box.
“I have found it at last,” said Paul, handing it to his servant.
He knew there was something in it which would deeply affect him. He closed up the place and they went down stairs without speaking. They went directly to the library and Pompeyset the box on the table as he said, “Golly, Massa, what do you suppose dar is in this box that your mother took such pains to hide it?”
“I do not know,” answered Paul, “I dread to open it. Something seems to tell me it will make me more deeply in trouble than I am now. But, Pompey, that box must be opened,” said the young man, getting up and taking the box in his trembling hands.
He viewed it over and saw it opened with a peculiar spring. He touched it and the cover flew up and disclosed the contents. He drew the papers out one after another until all lay on the table. He discovered a picture case, and opening it the fair face of a young girl about eighteen met his view. He gazed at it a moment and in a trembling voice said, “It is like her; the same dreamy eyes and head. Who can it be?”
He took out the picture and in the case were the initials, M. H., and a small tress of auburn hair. He put it back in its place of concealment as he said, “My God, here is a mystery I cannot solve. It must be the picture Pompey supposed burned.”
As he viewed the picture he exclaimed, “Just the same form and features. I will keep this as my own, and if I can find her or any one it resembles I will show it to her. I am bound to find out this mystery sooner or later, as ‘where there’s a will there’s a way.’”