CHAPTER XLI.

The years passed. Mr. Jasper was like a patriarch among us, revered and loved by all, his advice and friendship sought by young and old. He was a frequent guest in our home, and we loved him for his gentleness, with a reverence for his purity, and admired him for his wisdom. Our children ran to him on his entrance, often watching for him at the gate, sat upon his knees, clung to his neck, and made him their confidant, as he made them his companions and friends. I say our children, for there had come to us, two boys and a girl to the joy of our hearts and the delight of our home.

There was one thing in them that lifted a burden from my life; they resembled their mother in complexion. Before they came, I was in an agony of fear lest they should bear upon their faces that Cain-like curse that had blasted my happiness and been my constant torment. I prayed, yes, I prayed day and night, pleading, beseeching God if He had the power that He would avert that terrible stain from these innocent ones. I reasoned with Him, begged for justice and mercy, that He would not let the sin of my father be visited upon them; that I had suffered enough and made sufficient atonement. I know that my wife also prayed for this,though she never hinted a word about it. She was too good and true a wife for that. Alas! What a sad thing for a father to pray that his children might not resemble himself! I have often felt a sting when people would say to a father, “How much your boys take after you!” I never had the pleasure of such a remark, but I had more, a profound satisfaction in knowing that my own dear children had not inherited that accursed brand of shame from their father to carry through their lives.

Our prayers were answered. Whether by God or our mutual desires and ardent wishes, I would not assume to say, for having such a firm belief in God’s immutable, established laws, I am inclined to believe that we answered our own prayers, as most, if not all our prayers, are answered by ourselves.

Prayers are most essential and are answered best when we give them life and reality by our practice.

In our community we had our annoyances. What else could we expect when there were so many “taints of blood and defects of will?” These were endured as thorns among the roses, the fairer the flowers the less we thought of the thorns.

But a great calamity and grief came upon us. Mr. Jasper fell ill. He knew it was unto death. He lingered for a few days, and every one went to receive his blessing. The shadow of a great cloud hung over us. Everybody spoke in whispers. Surely death is the king of terrors, as well as the terror of kings and of everybody. Death is terrible, anywhere and always, but infinitely so when we are watching, waiting, when one we love as part of ourselves is about to leave us, and start on that eternal unknown journey,

“For none has ever returned to tell us of the road,Which to discover we must travel too.”

“For none has ever returned to tell us of the road,

Which to discover we must travel too.”

No religionist or moralist, has ever, with all their fine theories, been able to prevent this dread, this indefinable, choking pain at the heart, when our loved ones are going, O so far away!

I could neither eat, sleep or rest. It seemed as if a partof myself was dying, going away from me. Under all the hardening influences of my life I have made a constant endeavor to keep my heart tender to the ennobling influence of real friendship. I have had bitterness enough, and it is well there was something to keep me from utter hardness and despair.

Our dear friend received our unremitting attention. The last moment was approaching. My wife and I, with others, were around his couch, while a crowd was outside, waiting with bowed heads, in solemn silence, his departure. Opening his eyes, with a smile upon his face, he pressed my hand, and whispered with gasping breath: “I’m going—God—bless—you—all,” and he had gone. As the sorrowful word was quickly passed outside, some one on the veranda started the hymn, “Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,” and all joined in it with sobbing, weeping tones.

This was the great second death in my life. Need I say that the first was that of my best friend, the one of my youth, Mr. Percy. Never had any one lost two better friends. My mother? Yes, my darling mama had gone. She had never died to me, only gone away, and I had not seen her go, too young to realize what it meant, however bereaved I was.

At evening time we laid his body to rest in the garden, in front of the building he had done so much to erect. Every one, from the oldest to the youngest, had gone into the garden, his garden, and plucked flowers that he had cultivated for us, and now for his own burial, and one by one, they came up and strewed them upon the coffin with sobs and lamentations. Then we all sang, as best we could through our tears, his favorite hymn, “Nearer my God to Thee, Nearer to Thee.”

The shades of night fell on us, while we lingered at the sacred, hallowed spot.

On the next Sunday morning, we had a solemn remembrance service in our lecture room, which was festooned with flowers that our friend loved so well, intertwined with mourning cloth to signify our love and joy in him, as well as our great sorrow.

It seemed to be conceded by mutual consent, that I should give a eulogy—no that would not have pleased him—an address or talk, in remembrance of him. This was a service of devotion, of joy, that we had known such a man, and of the deepest grief that we had lost him, for each could truthfully say

“None knew thee but to love thee,None named thee but to praise!”

“None knew thee but to love thee,

None named thee but to praise!”

I portrayed his life, the nobility of his manhood, his devotion to purity and truth, and then I told for the first time what he had done for us in erecting our beautiful structure, and ornamenting our grounds, and his heartfelt interest in the welfare of every one. In closing the lessons of his life to us, I urged all, especially the younger men and boys, by all the powers of their being, to imitate him, and make themselves pure and noble.

His life, his purity, his kindness, and his beautiful death, made such an impression upon every one, as never to be effaced, and he knows now in part, and will know all in the great hereafter, the good he accomplished, and his heaven and our heaven will have a brighter glory for his having lived. In closing, I pointed to one of the mottoes as most appropriate to him, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

We erected a beautiful marble monument over his grave to be a perpetual remembrance, and a daily lesson to all, of his life and character.

Mr. Jasper, as might have been expected, left all his books and many mementoes to “Our Club,” besides quite a sum in government bonds for the annual increase of the library, so his good deeds did not die with him.

Somehow, after this, the ties connecting me with India, seemed to have been sundered. One thing that greatly added to this, was the destiny of our children. I lived in perpetual dread, that if they remained in the country, they might be humiliated, if not cursed, with the sneering epithet: “The children of that Eurasian.” I was determined, if there was a place on God’s earth, where they might escape this, I would try to find it. This may seemto some a trivial matter, yet I could not help feeling intensely about it, for I am very human after all. I have suffered, only God knows how much agony, and how often, from being taunted with that accursed name, more especially when it was uttered by Christian gentlemen and ladies, from whom I might have expected better things, so it ought not to appear strange to any one if I should wish to save my own dear, innocent children from the degrading stigma of their father’s birth.

It was decided that my wife, with the children, should make their residence in southern France, where the mild climate was best suited to them, on leaving the heat of India, and where she could superintend their education, thus realizing in some degree the day dream of my youth, inspired by the reading of a most delightful book, and which I have given at the commencement of this sketch of my life.

After their departure, I sold all my property, except two villages, which I placed in the hands of trustees, for the benefit of “Our Club,” having first drawn up rules of control, so that the villagers should never be oppressed. I left many of my books and pictures to the club, to be for the good of the members, as well as a token of my regard for them.

It was not the least of my sad pleasures to visit my friends, the villagers. Poor heathen, as some might call them, had hearts to feel. Some clung to me with tears, and others threw themselves upon the ground, with loud lamentations. One of the expressions that touched me most, was from one of the old widows, who, in her sobs exclaimed, “What will become of the poor widows, when the Sahib has gone?”

⁂

The day of my departure has arrived. As I am writing these last lines my boxes are all packed, and I am only waiting. We had a farewell meeting last night at “Our Club,” and the memory of the kind words spoken, will be to me a joy forever.

⁂

The hour has come. A crowd of friends are waiting outside to say the last farewell words, and I must go.

⁂

India! The land of my birth, and the land of my degradation, of some joys and pleasures, but always embittered with fear and despair, that cannot be told, but must be felt to realize their depth. Good-bye, never again to see thee, forevermore, and I hope and pray, though I cannot forget the miserable past, that I may never again meet people, mean enough to taunt me with that miserable blasting phrase of contempt, “That Eurasian.”

THE END.

NEELY’SINTERNATIONALLIBRARYIN UNIFORM CLOTH BINDING, $1.25 EACH.LOURDES—Zola.AT MARKET VALUE—Grant Allen.Author of “The Duchess of Powysland,” “This Mortal Coil,” “Blood Royal,” “The Scallywag,” Etc.RACHEL DENE—Robert Buchanan.Author of “The Shadow of the Sword,” “God and the Man,” Etc.A DAUGHTER OF THE KING—Alien.THE ONE TOO MANY—E. Lynn Linton.Author of “Patricia Kimball,” “The Atonement of Leam Dundas,” “Through the Long Night,” Etc.A MONK OF CRUTA—E. Phillips Oppenheim.IN THE DAY OF BATTLE—J. A. Steuart.Author of “Kilgroom,” “Letters to Living Authors,” Etc.THE GATES OF DAWN—Fergus Hume.Author of “Mystery of a Handsome Cab,” “Miss Mephistopheles,” Etc.IN STRANGE COMPANY—Guy Boothby.Author of “On the Wallaby.”For Sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publisher.F. TENNYSON NEELY,CHICAGO.

NEELY’SINTERNATIONALLIBRARY

NEELY’S

INTERNATIONAL

LIBRARY

IN UNIFORM CLOTH BINDING, $1.25 EACH.

LOURDES—Zola.

AT MARKET VALUE—Grant Allen.

Author of “The Duchess of Powysland,” “This Mortal Coil,” “Blood Royal,” “The Scallywag,” Etc.

RACHEL DENE—Robert Buchanan.

Author of “The Shadow of the Sword,” “God and the Man,” Etc.

A DAUGHTER OF THE KING—Alien.

THE ONE TOO MANY—E. Lynn Linton.

Author of “Patricia Kimball,” “The Atonement of Leam Dundas,” “Through the Long Night,” Etc.

A MONK OF CRUTA—E. Phillips Oppenheim.

IN THE DAY OF BATTLE—J. A. Steuart.

Author of “Kilgroom,” “Letters to Living Authors,” Etc.

THE GATES OF DAWN—Fergus Hume.

Author of “Mystery of a Handsome Cab,” “Miss Mephistopheles,” Etc.

IN STRANGE COMPANY—Guy Boothby.

Author of “On the Wallaby.”

For Sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publisher.F. TENNYSON NEELY,CHICAGO.

For Sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publisher.

F. TENNYSON NEELY,

CHICAGO.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTESP.185, changed “you have got hear it” to “you have got to hear it”.P.336, changed “what can happen any mortal man” to “what can happen to any mortal man”.Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

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