Sister—I am wounded, and must die. I have felt it for several days. The doctor and the kind boys try to cheer me up, but I've been growing weaker daily. The suffering in my breast is terrible. I had a Minnie ball pass through my left lung. I have been very much frightened about dying, and wanted to live; but last night I had a dream which has produced a great change. Now I feel sure I shall die, and am content. I am with the Union boys; they are very kind. The one next me fanned me and rubbed my side until I fell asleep last night, and slept better than I have since I've been wounded. Now, darling sister, here is my dream: I thought I had been fighting, and having been wounded, was carried off the field and was laid under a large tree; after being there a little while I felt some one clasp my hand; looking up, I found Paul, He also had been wounded.He handed me his canteen, and while drinking I seemed to get quite easy. There seemed to be a great mist all over us; I could see nothing for a little while. Again I heard my name called, and looking up, found the mist had cleared away, and our great-grandfather (whom I knew well, from the old portrait, which we used to be so proud of, father telling us he was one of the signers of the "Declaration") was standing before me, but he did not look smiling like the face of the picture; but, oh! so sad and stern. In his hand he had a beautiful wreath of ivy, which he, stooping, placed on the brow of Paul, saying, "Live, boy—your country wants you;" and stretching forth his hand, he drew me to a stand near him on which stood our old family Bible, ink and pen. He opened to the births, and putting his finger on my name, he raised the pen and marked a heavy black line over the H, and was proceeding, when his hand was caught by our old nurse, Mammy Chloe, who has been dead years, you know, who pointed over toward the west of us, and there stood a large shining cross with these words over it, "Unless ye forgive men their trespasses, how can your Heavenly Father forgive you?" And coming up to me, put forth her hand and beckoned me to follow her. Then the old gentleman spoke and said, "Your blood will blot out your disgrace;" and turning the leaf, he pointed to the "Deaths," and I read, "On the 28th of September, 1862, Harry Clay Mason, aged 21;" and then I woke up. This is the 20th; I think I shall live until that day. Now I bid you go carry mother to somewhere North, to Paul's friends; they will be kind to her and try to comfort her, and go you and devote yourself to the suffering soldiers, and find Paul, if possible; he will live, I know; tell him how I loved him, yet, and honored him, although I thought him wrong. Tell him good-by. And to mother, try to soften this blow as much as possible. Tell her I am happy now. I think God will pardon me for my sins, for His Son's sake. There is a boy from my regiment expecting to be parolled, and he has promised to deliver this to you. Good-by. God bless you, darling. Lovingly,Harry.Fairfax, Va.
Sister—I am wounded, and must die. I have felt it for several days. The doctor and the kind boys try to cheer me up, but I've been growing weaker daily. The suffering in my breast is terrible. I had a Minnie ball pass through my left lung. I have been very much frightened about dying, and wanted to live; but last night I had a dream which has produced a great change. Now I feel sure I shall die, and am content. I am with the Union boys; they are very kind. The one next me fanned me and rubbed my side until I fell asleep last night, and slept better than I have since I've been wounded. Now, darling sister, here is my dream: I thought I had been fighting, and having been wounded, was carried off the field and was laid under a large tree; after being there a little while I felt some one clasp my hand; looking up, I found Paul, He also had been wounded.
He handed me his canteen, and while drinking I seemed to get quite easy. There seemed to be a great mist all over us; I could see nothing for a little while. Again I heard my name called, and looking up, found the mist had cleared away, and our great-grandfather (whom I knew well, from the old portrait, which we used to be so proud of, father telling us he was one of the signers of the "Declaration") was standing before me, but he did not look smiling like the face of the picture; but, oh! so sad and stern. In his hand he had a beautiful wreath of ivy, which he, stooping, placed on the brow of Paul, saying, "Live, boy—your country wants you;" and stretching forth his hand, he drew me to a stand near him on which stood our old family Bible, ink and pen. He opened to the births, and putting his finger on my name, he raised the pen and marked a heavy black line over the H, and was proceeding, when his hand was caught by our old nurse, Mammy Chloe, who has been dead years, you know, who pointed over toward the west of us, and there stood a large shining cross with these words over it, "Unless ye forgive men their trespasses, how can your Heavenly Father forgive you?" And coming up to me, put forth her hand and beckoned me to follow her. Then the old gentleman spoke and said, "Your blood will blot out your disgrace;" and turning the leaf, he pointed to the "Deaths," and I read, "On the 28th of September, 1862, Harry Clay Mason, aged 21;" and then I woke up. This is the 20th; I think I shall live until that day. Now I bid you go carry mother to somewhere North, to Paul's friends; they will be kind to her and try to comfort her, and go you and devote yourself to the suffering soldiers, and find Paul, if possible; he will live, I know; tell him how I loved him, yet, and honored him, although I thought him wrong. Tell him good-by. And to mother, try to soften this blow as much as possible. Tell her I am happy now. I think God will pardon me for my sins, for His Son's sake. There is a boy from my regiment expecting to be parolled, and he has promised to deliver this to you. Good-by. God bless you, darling. Lovingly,
Harry.
Fairfax, Va.
I was much affected. After a few moments I said: "How long did he live?"
"He lived, seemingly growing much better, until the afternoon of the twenty-eighth. He was then taken with hemorrhage and so passed away." And pushing her hair back from her temples, she said:
"These came the night I got that letter." And I saw the numberless white hairs gleaming amid her raven locks. I said:
"Come, we will go to him. I think you had better write a little note to him; you know best what to say, but do not tell him you are here just yet, but something to set his heart at peace; and I will tell him it was given me by a Southerner I found in the hospital."
"Yes," she said; "you are very thoughtful, that is just the thing."
And she went into the ante-room, and soon came out, and giving me the note, said:
"You know all; read it."
And I read: "Paul, forgive and love me again. I shall try to come to you soon."
So we proceeded to the "Douglas," and I went in, found Dr. B., told him and asked if we might venture in. He thought better to break it gently at first, and promising to stay near in case of being needed, laughingly said to Miss Mason:
"Now, if I was a doctor of divinity, I should be wishing to be sent for."
Leaving her in his charge, I went in.
"Back so soon?" Ashton said. "How bright and cheerful you look!"
I sat down and said, "Yes, I have some pleasant news; I have a letter for you; I met with a Southerner who knew a friend of yours, who gave me this for you. It may be from your aunt, and you may hear from your lady love, possibly."
He caught the letter, tore off the envelope, and read. I was frightened—he never spoke a word or moved. Then, "Thank God!" burst forth in heart-felt tones.
I saw he was all right. I said:
"You must now commence to think of her coming and being with you, for it is some time since that person left the South, and you may look for her any time. I was told that the family were intimate with Mr. Davis, and they were to have a 'pass' North to find 'the son.' I then told him I had wanted to prepare him, for she was really in Washington, and I had met her—she had given me the note for him. He seemed to divine all, and said:
"Bring her to me. I am strong and well now."
I sent the attendant to Dr. B.'s room, and in a few moments she was beside him.
"Forgiven!" she murmured; and, bending, pressed her lips to his pale forehead, and taking his hand, she sat on the cot beside him. There was little said, but
"Eyes looked love to eyes that spake again."
So they remained until the sun went down and it was getting quite dark, when Dr. B. came in and said:
"Ah, Ashton, you have a more skillful physician than I. She has done more for you in five minutes than I have for as many weeks, I guess you will take that furlough and commission now, Lieutenant Ashton."
He took Dr. B.'s hand, and said:
"Under God, doctor, by your skillful hand and great kindness, with the attentions of the good friends here, I have been kept alive for this day."
Emma Mason bade him good-night, saying she must go over to her boys again, and get her discharge from the surgeon in charge.
In three days Ashton bade adieu to his friends in the "Douglas," and with Miss Mason, Dr. B. and myself, he got into the carriage waiting, directing the driver to stop at the residence of the Rev. Dr. Smith. There they were united, and received our heart-felt congratulations, and proceeded to the cars, which soon bore them to their friends North.
A few days ago a servant came to my room, bringing a card.
I read: "Paul Ashton and wife."
I almost flew down to them. They were on their way South to settle up their property and provide for the old servants who remained there. Paul had returned to the army and remained until the close of the war, having reached the rank of colonel. He is looking very well. He has been offered a commission in the regular service, but his wife says his country had him when he was needed, but she must have him now. They are taking with them the remains of poor Harry, to place beside his father in their Southern home. His mother is now quite resigned, and says she is only waiting God's will to meet her friends above.
"You have never loved me, Constance, or you could not thus calmly bid me go, without one word of hope for the future. Only say that I may some day call you mine, and I will win a name that you will not blush to bear."
"Would to Heaven I could, Ernest; but I can see no hope of my father's relenting. You heard how determined he was never to consent to my union with any one save Gerald. You say I have never loved you! Believing this, it will not be so hard for you to leave me. It is useless prolonging this interview! Every moment brings an increase of agony, making it harder to part. Bid me good-by, say God bless me, and go quickly, if you have any mercy for me."
"Listen just for a moment more! Oh, my darling, forgive my hasty word; but, Constance, if your love was as devoted and single as mine you would not thus resign one who loves you only of all the world; no one shares my heart with you. I know you love me, but not as I would be loved, or you would leave father and mother and cling to me. What right has your father, or any other father, to blast his child's happiness? Heed him not, love, but come with me. I will never let you feel a single regret. I will love you more than all their love combined. Nay, do not turn aside—you must hear me. Think what you are doing! wrecking my happiness, casting me forth, without hope, to drag out a miserable, useless existence. I may be cursed with long life. Constance, darling, come with me! With your parents it will only be a short grief—disappointed ambition—and, at the most, only the thwarting of their proud hopes. They will soon get over it; but even if they should not, in all human probability they have not the length of days to suffer that we have. Bid me hope!"
"Ernest, Heaven only knows what a severe trial this is to me. Yet your words only strengthen me in my duty. It is true, as you say, my parents are old. Can I grieve and wring their careworn hearts? No, no! What recompense can a child make her parents for all their unselfish love, and constant watching over, and providing for, from the first feeble baby days, to the time when they could, if willing, return all this, by simple duty; obedience to their will. Think, Ernest, how, in my days of illness, my mother watched over and soothed me. The long, sleepless nights spent over my cradle—praying God to spare her child—for what? to prove an ungrateful one! Oh, no! I could look for no blessing on our union if I should be deaf to the pleading of my parents, and heedless of God's own command.
"Perhaps some time hence they may think differently. Then, if you have not sought and won another, we may be happy. One thing you may rest assured of, I shall never wed Gerald Moreton, or any other. I obeyed my father in resigning you, but cannot perjure myself by taking the marriage vows, even at their command. Do not leave me in anger, Ernest. Let your last look be of kindness and forgiveness for the sorrow I cause you. Now, a long look into your eyes, to engrave them forever on my heart. Good-by—God bless you, Ernest."
She held out her arms, and was clasped in a long, last embrace. Breaking away, she was soon lost to view among the deep shadows of the garden.
"And this is the end! This is woman's love! Mere filial duty, I should say. Well, well, a final adieu to all thought of love. In future I devote myself to ambition, wedded only to my profession, in hope that in this I shall not meet with another such reward."
Constance Lyle was the only child of wealthy parents. Ever since her infancy her father had cherished the hope of uniting her with his ward, Gerald Moreton, the son of a very dear friend. Gerald was left an orphan before he had reached his tenth year. When Mr. Moreton, on his deathbed, placed his son under the care of his old friend, he intimated his desire that some time in the future, the little Constance (scarcely then four years old) should bear the name of Moreton. To this Mr. Lyle readily agreed. The little Gerald was truly a noble boy, and he was much attached to him, years before having lost a son of the same age; this child of his dearest friend had, in some degree, served to fill the aching void. Again, Gerald's prospects were very brilliant; but, to do Mr. Lyle justice, more than all this was the desire to please his friend, to make some amends for the past. In years gone by these two men had been rivals for the love of Constance's mother.
Moreton was a high-minded, noble fellow, and when he became sure that young Lyle was the favored one, not a thought of ill-feeling entered his heart against his friend; but going to him, with his usual candor and generosity, he said:
"I shall go away for a while. It will be rather too much for me to bear witnessing your happiness, just yet. I shall get over it in time, though. Heaven bless you, dear friend, and grant you happiness and prosperity. No one will pray for your welfare more sincerely than myself. Bid her good-by for me. After a while I'll be back, to stand god-father to some of your little ones, perhaps."
He remained away three years; and then returned home, bringing with him a fair, fragile little creature, who remained with him scarce two years; leaving the little Gerald to comfort and console the bereaved man, and be a loving reminder of the gentle little dove, who had loved him so dearly, and then winged her flight above, to watch over and pray for the coming of her loved ones.
So it was that Mr. Lyle would look with no favor, or even patience, on any suitor. Even when Constance herself pleaded for Ernest Ellwood, telling him she could never love Gerald other than as a brother; and if he would not give her to the one she loved, that she would remain with them, but would never wed where she could not love.
Still he remained firm in his determination to give her to his friend's son or no one.
Years passed by—but she continued as firm and determined in her resolve as her father in his.
Gerald, like his father, was a noble fellow. He loved Constance, but when he found his love was a source of grief to her, he began to set himself to work to devise means of rendering her path in life rather more pleasant. She did not murmur at her self-sacrifice; this she considered her duty; but the constant and continual entreaties for the marriage wore upon her, and made her life almost miserable.
Gerald told Mr. Lyle he must beg to resign all pretensions to Constance; that upon examining his heart, he found out that it was as a sister he loved her, and was not willing to render her unhappy by making her his wife. If his father were living he would not wish it. That he thought a promise, made to the dead, had much better be broken, than kept by making the living miserable.
So, to carry out his views, he left home for a summer trip. After being absent three months, he wrote to Constance that he had decided to remain a while longer; and at the end of another month came a letter to Mr. Lyle, saying that he was about to be married—desiring certain business arrangements to be made—and ending by the remark, that he knew this marriage would not meet with the cordial approval of his kind guardian, and for this he was truly sorry; but was more than compensated for this by the knowledge that he had the best wishes of his dear sister, Constance, and begged Mr. Lyle to try and render her happy, in return for her unhappiness during the last ten years.
This was a dreadful blow to Mr. Lyle, and he declared that if Ernest Ellwood had not crossed their path that his dearest hopes would not have been thwarted. Not for a moment did he relent.
Constance had heard nothing from Ernest since she parted from him, except once, about five years after. She picked up a Western paper, and saw his name mentioned as one of the rising men of —— State—an extract from a political speech made by him—and finally the prediction of a brilliant career for this young man, whose talents and eloquence were placing him before the people, who, even now, in so young a man, recognized a master-spirit; and in all probability very shortly he would speak for his adopted State in the halls of the national Capitol.
This slip was cut out and treasured by her—and once when her father was grumbling and predicting bad luck to his evil genius, as he called him, she brought forth and displayed, with a grateful heart, this notice to prove she had not loved unworthily.
Her father listened with interest to the extract from the speech and the comments relative to the speaker. He had been considerable of a politician, and as Ernest was of the same party as himself, he felt really glad of his brilliant prospects.
"In all probability he is married long ago, and has almost, if not quite, forgotten you, Constance. At any rate, you see your sending him off did no hurt. Men are sensible; they don't die of love. Something more formidable, in the way of disease, must attack to carry them off, or affect their minds, either. Yes, yes, child, be sure he has transferred his affections long ago," remarked the father.
"I cannot tell, father. Perhaps it is so; you can judge of man's constancy better than I. If I judged him, it would be by my own heart, then I should be sure he is not married. I think that when alone, and freed from the care and toil of business, or, at rest from his studies, that his mind wanders back to the girl of his love. No! no! he has not forgotten me."
One after another of the joyous new years rushed into the world, passing on to maturity, growing older, and finally passing out, leaving the gentle, submissive girl, as they had found her, devoting herself to her father.
Now disease had settled on Mr. Lyle. For years he had been an invalid, nervous, fretful and impatient. No one but Constance could suit him. Not even his wife. Her gentle hand, only, could soothe his suffering. Her soft, loving tones alone would quiet his paroxysm of nervousness.
Time passed on, and Death entered the home of Constance, not to disturb the long-suffering father, but taking the apparently healthy mother. Swiftly, quietly, and without suffering, she passed from her slumbers to the home of her Maker.
This was a terrible trial for the poor girl. She almost sank under it; but in a little while she rose above her own sorrows. Bowing with submission to the will of God, she now felt why it was her young hopes had been blasted. Before, all was dark; now, she saw plainly. She alone was left to cheer and solace the stricken father. No longer a single regret lingered in her heart. All was well. A holy calm broke over her, and she became almost happy, blessed with an approving conscience.
Suffering at last softened the stern nature of Mr. Lyle, and opened his eyes to the value of his child. He knew her devotion, her patient, untiring attendance on him, and he felt what a blessed boon she had been to him, and how illy he had merited so much loving kindness!
On one occasion he said:
"My daughter, I do not deserve such a blessing as you are to me. I have been very harsh and relentless, and caused you much sorrow; would that I could call back the past, and act differently. Heaven only knows how grieved I am for my mistaken views and actions."
Going up, and putting her arms around him, she replied:
"Do not worry about the past, father dear, nor about your daughter. Believe me, I am happy with you; and have no regrets. I would not be absent from you during your suffering, even to be with him."
"Where is Ernest? Do you love him still?" he asked.
"I only know (through the papers) that he has been elected to Congress. About my still loving him, depends entirely on whether I have the right to do so; he may have given that to another," she replied, and called to her beautiful lips a sweet smile, to try to convince him, more than her words would, that she was content, whate'er her lot should be.
It is a few weeks after the meeting of Congress. All Washington is on thequi viveabout the passage of the —— Bill, and the appeal to be made in its favor by the new member from ——.
Constance Lyle stands before her mirror. More than usual care has she bestowed on her toilet.
We will play eavesdropper, dear reader, just for once, and peep over her shoulder, to view the changes time has made. No longer the fresh, brilliant beauty of her youthful days. Constant confinement in the sickroom, care, and anxiety have faded the roses that used to bloom on her cheeks; but to us she is more charming, this pale beauty, with her gentle dignity, and sweet, patient look, than the bright, merry girl of years ago.
There is something about her which makes us think we would like ever to be near her, side by side, to pass on life's pathway, feeling sure her beauty would never wane, but wax purer and brighter as she neared her journey's end. Listen! She says:
"How strange my birthday should be the one for his speech! This day I shall see him for the first time for fifteen years. Yes, I am thirty-three to-day, and this is the anniversary of our parting!"
Leaving her room she is soon by her father's side.
"I'll have to go early, father, dear. It will be very crowded, and Gerald is waiting. His wife is going to stay with you during my absence."
"How well you look, my daughter! Why, really, you are getting young again!"
"This is my birthday, father. I am a maiden of no particular age to the public, but I whisper in your ear privately," she joyously said; and, suiting the action to the word, bent down, whispered, kissed him, and was gone.
"How time flies! But she is still very beautiful. Heaven grant my prayers may be answered. She deserves to be happy; and when I am gone she will be very lonely, and then feel keenly my harsh treatment," he murmured.
Wearily passed the hours until he heard her light step on the stairs. She came in. He thought there seemed a shadow on her face, but she came forward, and said, pleasantly:
"Well, father, you are likely to keep your daughter. I heard Ernest. I had not expected too much; he was grandly eloquent. He has altered in his looks; he seems much older, and is quite gray; mental work and hard study, he says."
"Then you saw him, and spoke to him! What do you mean by saying I shall keep you? Is he mar——"
"Yes," she replied, before he had finished his question. "He introduced me to his daughter, a little miss of about twelve; so you were right when you said that men were too sensible to suffer for or from love. He must have married in two years after he left us. Gerald left little Constance and me in the library, and went and brought him to see us. We were with him only a very short time, when he was sent for. He excused himself, and bade us good-day. Now, father, I will remove my wrappings, and order dinner."
Day after day passed on, and Constance had schooled herself to think of Ernest only as a happy husband and father. She did not blame him for taking a companion. He was away from all kindred and friends, and she had given him no hope to induce him to wait through all these years for her.
One day, just a week after their meeting at Congress, she was sitting reading to her father, when a servant entered, and handed a card. She read, Ernest Ellwood!
Paler for a few moments, and tightly pressed were the sweet lips. She did not rise from her seat, until she had communed with her heart. Now, she thought, I must call up all my fortitude and self-control, and prove to Ernest, to my father, and, more than all, to myself, that my heart is not troubled!
"Father," she said, "Ernest is below. He is waiting, probably, to inquire after you. I told him you had long been an invalid. Will you see him?"
"I would rather not, darling, unless you wish it. Go down a while, and if he must come up, let me know first."
Slowly she descended the steps, passed through the long hall, and entered the drawing-room, advancing with quiet dignity to welcome the distinguished representative.
He listened a moment to her words, so calm and cold; then, clasping her in his arms, he drew her down beside him, and said:
"Oh, my darling! thank Heaven, I find you still Constance Lyle!"
She tried to draw herself away from his side, but his arms held her tightly, and his hand clasped hers. His eyes were gazing so earnestly and lovingly in hers, as in by-gone days. She tried to speak, but he said:
"Nay, my beautiful love, you must not move or speak until you have heard me through, and then I shall await your verdict. I know you think it so strange that I have not been to you before. I have been the victim of a miserable mistake. The day I entered this city I walked past here to catch a glimpse of you, perhaps. As I neared the door, I beheld seated on the steps that pretty little girl that I afterward saw with you. I stopped, spoke to her, and asked her name. Constance, she told me, and her father's, Gerald. Oh, my love, the long years of suspense were ended to me then! I cannot tell you how dark the world seemed to me then. I struggled on, however, with my sorrows. Then I met you. Your being with Gerald and having the little one with you only too truly proved that my conjecture was right. I saw you, as I believed, the happy wife of Gerald, and knew no difference until this morning. When I met him then, he stopped and urged me to come and see him. I asked after his wife, and remarked that time had changed her but very little, when, to my amazement, he said he did not know I had ever met Mrs. Moreton. Then came the explanation. I parted with the noble fellow only a few moments ago, and here I am now. Tell me, love, that all my waiting—never wandering from my love for you for an hour, has not been in vain. Speak, love!"
"Ernest Ellwood, what mean you by speaking to me thus? Allow me to rise. Your mind is certainly very much affected. Nothing but insanity can excuse this language to me. I will order the carriage to convey you home to your wife and daughter."
"My wife—oh, yes, now I know. Gerald told me. We have all been very busy blundering. My darling, I have no wife or daughter. Louise is only mine by adoption. Her father was my dearest friend. This little one was placed in my arms, an orphan, when only three years old—and she knew no parent but myself. Can I go to your father, love?"
She no longer tried to release herself from his arms. Lower and lower drooped the beautiful head until it was pillowed on his breast. He felt her heart throbbing against his own, and almost bursting with its fulness of joy. He was answered—rewarded for all the years of waiting.
At length she raised her head. In her eyes he saw all the love of years beaming there.
"At last, my Ernest," she said. "I must go to father first and prepare him to see you."
Springing lightly up the stairs, she entered the room and stood beside her father's armchair.
He saw her beaming look, and said:
"What is it, Constance? What has brought this great joy to you? You look so happy."
"Father, we have all been under a great mistake. Ernest has never been married. That was his adopted daughter. He is waiting to see you; may I bring him up?"
"Yes, yes. Thank God! my prayers are answered."
In a few moments she stands before him, with her hand clasped in Ernest's.
"Here I am again, Mr. Lyle, as in years gone by, pleading for your blessing on our love. May I have her now, after all these years of waiting?"
"Ernest Moreton, I am profoundly thankful to Heaven for sparing me to see this day. Welcome back to your home and old friends, and welcome to the hand of my daughter. Take her; she has been a loving, patient, dutiful child. She has brightened and cheered my path for a long, weary time, and now I resign this blessing to you, and beg your forgiveness for these long years, lost to both, which might have been passed happily together."
"Not resign, but only share with me, this blessing; she shall never leave you, sir," replied Ernest.
"Father, do not speak of years lost; they have not been. Ernest would not have gone away, and devoted himself to study, if we had been united then; just think then what his adopted State would have lost! and I have been cheering you—think what you would have lost without your little Constance! Nay, there is nothing lost; all is gain, and simply by keeping God's command, 'Honor thy father and thy mother.'"
"Let me come in to rejoice with you all, and make my speech," exclaimed the noble Gerald, grasping the hand of each. "I say that they are worthy of each other. He by his earnest, unwavering love for his lady fair, and earnest, untiring endeavors to serve his State—who has now won the respect and confidence of his countrymen—he alone is worthy of the woman ever constant to her early love, yet never faltering in her chosen path of filial duty."
"How is it, my old friend, that you are so very lenient to these young thieves? Your sentence was very unexpected. Every one thought you would, at least, send them to the State's prison for three or four years. The young rascals were amazed themselves. The House of Correction for six months has not much terror for them. Do you know that it has become a common saying among the members of the bar that our venerated and respected judge has a strong sympathy—in a word, a fellow-feeling—for all young thieves! I think you will have to commit a few of those gentlemen for contempt."
"I do not wonder, at all, Mr. Archer, at any, indeed, every one, thinking and saying as much," said Mrs. Morley, the wife of the judge, just entering the room in time to hear the concluding part of Mr. Archer's remarks. "Only a few months ago the judge could not possibly help sentencing a boy to the State's prison; but, before the time for entry came, he succeeded in getting his pardon; and, more than this, he has brought him here, into his own home-circle, with the idea of reforming him."
"My dear wife, have you any cause, so far, to think I shall fail? Has not the boy proved grateful and worthy?" asked the judge, in a mild, though very sad, voice.
"Yes, yes; but how you can have any patience with such characters, I cannot imagine," answered his wife.
"Sit still, Archer, if you have no engagement; I am going to tell my wife a little story, which will probably explain my charity toward those unfortunate youths that you have spoken of; and, indeed, all such. You, as my oldest and most valued friend, shall share the hearing, if you wish."
"Many thanks for the privilege, with my deep appreciation for your kindness in thinking of me thus," returned Mr. Archer, warmly, at the same time resuming his seat.
"The story I have to tell you came under my immediate observation. I was quite well acquainted with the principal character.
"Very many years ago, and not far distant from this city, lived an orphan boy, scarce fifteen years of age—bereaved, at one cruel blow, by a prevailing epidemic, of both parents, and left to the care of an uncle (his father's brother), a hard, cruel man.
"A few hundred dollars, quite sufficient, however, to support and continue the boy's studies, for a few years, was left in the hands of the uncle. But of this there was no proof—no will or last testament was left.
"Death came so swiftly there was little time for aught save an appealing look from son to brother, and the pleading voice murmured:
"'Be a father to my boy, Oh! deal justly, kindly towards him!'
"In a very few days the sensitive mind of the poor boy too truly perceived that he was not a welcome inmate. Before a month had passed he was withdrawn from school; his love of study was discouraged; in fact, made a source of ridicule; and his time so completely taken up with hard work on the farm, there was no chance for aught else.
"On one occasion George (we will call him) ventured a remonstrance with his uncle—alluding to the money in his possession to be used for George's education and support. Judge of his amazement and indignation when the bad man denied having one dollar in trust for him, and ended by calling him a pauper, and saying he would have to work for his bread.
"The future, there, was very plain to George; a life of ignorance—nothing higher than a mere farm drudge. His mind was determined against that. Privation, suffering, death, even, were preferable. The next day found him a fugitive from injustice and dishonesty—a lonely traveler on the path of life. Seeking Fortune, to find and be treated by that whimsical goddess with good or ill. To be smiled or frowned upon, to be mounted upon the triumphing waves, rising higher and higher, until he had reached the pinnacle of Fame, or drifted about, sinking lower and lower in the dark waters, at last reaching the pool of Dishonesty, Despair, Death!
"Ah! who could tell which fate would be his?
"Oh, how I can sympathize with all such! looking back on my own pathway to manhood; remembering the dangers, temptations and numberless snares that youths have to encounter. In fact, to pass through a fiery furnace! And how very few are they, that come forth, unscarred, and purified!
"Remembering this, I exclaim, 'How was I saved?' And then my heart, almost bursting with gratitude, forces the words to my lips—by God's mercy alone!
"Taking with him a few favorite books—a change of linen—he bade adieu to the home so laden with bitter memories.
"A day's weary travel brought him to the city of L——. Here, for many days, until the autumn came on, he managed to subsist—doing little chores, carrying a carpet-bag or bundle—earning enough to sustain life merely, and sleeping in the depot or market-house.
"At length the cold days and colder nights came on; work was very hard to find, and our poor boy's fortitude was severely tried.
"The day of his trial, his direst temptation, came! For twenty-four hours he had not tasted food. A cold, bleak night was fast approaching. One after another of his books had gone to get a piece of bread. Now nothing was left but starvation or—the boy dare hardly breathe it to himself—or dishonesty!
"He must have food somehow. Loitering about the depot, watching a chance to earn a few pennies, he saw a gentleman alight from a carriage, take out his pocketbook, pay the driver, and return it, as he supposed, to his pocket.
"It was almost dark, yet the eager eye of the hungry boy saw what had escaped the driver's.
"There, in that gutter, lay the surety against suffering for that and many coming nights.
"He was about to rush forward and secure the prize—the lost pocketbook—but caution whispered, 'Be sharp! you may be seen.' And then, with the cunning and slyness of an old thief—thus suddenly taught by keen suffering—he sauntered along, crossing the gutter, stumbled and fell; then put out his hand, covered and secured his treasure, slowly arose, and feigning a slight lameness, he retraced his steps towards the depot, entered the waiting-room, which he felt sure would be unoccupied at that hour. Getting behind the warm stove and close to the dim lamp, he opened the pocketbook—gold! notes! tens, twenties! over a hundred dollars met his gaze! When had he seen so much? His—all his! Had he not found it? Possibly he might have overtaken the owner and restored it, but what was the use of throwing away good luck! But already Conscience was at work. Turning over the notes he found a little silken bag. Opening it, he drew forth a miniature painting of a beautiful little girl, and on the back was written:
"'Our darling! three years old to-day.'
"It was a lovely, angelic face. The boy was fascinated, spellbound by it. Long he gazed. He grew very uneasy. His bosom heaved convulsively. There were signs of violent emotion, and then burst forth the words:
"'I have not stolen it. Who says so? I found it!'
"Again he looks almost wildly at the picture; then whispers hoarsely:
"'She says, "Thou shall not steal!" Can this be stealing? No—no, it is not. It is luck. I am growing nervous from long fasting. Oh, Heavens, how hungry I am! Bread, bread! I must have bread or die!'
"Taking out a few small coins, he closed the pocketbook, putting the little miniature in his bosom; then walked as swiftly as his failing strength would allow; reached, and was about to enter, an eating-house. At the door, he hesitated; and, drawing forth the little picture, looked again at the baby-face. Now, to his eye, she has grown older; and the face is so sad, with such an appealing look, which speaks to his inmost heart.
"The blue eyes were no longer the laughing ones of childhood; but, oh! yes, it was really so—his mother's lovely, sad face was before him! The same sweet, quivering lips, which seemed whispering so earnestly:
"'Thou shalt not steal!'
"Thrusting the picture back to its hiding-place, he sank exhausted from violent emotion and extreme weakness down on the stone steps.
"Oh, the terrible struggle that was going on in that young breast!
"The tearing pangs of hunger, the sharp stinging thrusts of conscience were warring for the victory. Oh, those who have never known the pangs of hunger can but poorly imagine that fearful struggle. At last, thank God! Conscience triumphed. Honesty was victor.
"Bursting into tears, he murmured:
"'God forgive, and have mercy! Mother—little angel-girl smile on me!'
"He returned the coin to the book, and clasping it tightly, replaced it in his pocket.
"'I will not touch one cent; and in the morning, if I live so long, I will find some means to restore it to the owner—all but the little picture—that angel-child has saved me, and I must keep her to watch over me in the future.'
"Slowly he arose, and was proceeding along the street, thinking he could at least return and sleep in the depot, when a loud noise attracted his attention.
"A horse came dashing furiously along the street, drawing after him a buggy in which was crouching a lady almost lifeless with terror. Thoughts as swift as lightning flashed through his mind; he might save her—what though he was trampled to death. Then he surely would be relieved from suffering!
"Summoning up all his little strength—then wonderfully increased by excitement and manly courage—he rushed forward, faced the frightened little animal, seized the reins, and was dragged some distance, still holding firmly on—sustaining no injury save a few bruises—until he succeeded in checking the wild flight. He saw his advantage; then, with a kind voice, he spoke to the horse, patting and rubbing his head and neck, until he became quite gentle. George knew the poor fellow was not vicious but frightened at something he had seen or heard.
"In a few moments he was joined by a crowd—among whom came a gentleman limping and wearing a look of great anxiety.
"George knew his thoughts, and said:
"'The lady is not at all hurt, sir, only frightened.'
"Several had seen the boy's action, and the owner of the horse soon understood all about it. Many were his words of grateful acknowledgment, and warmly shaking the boy's hand, he pushed into it a half-eagle.
"Looking at this a moment, again tempted by hunger, he hesitated—then exclaimed:
"'No, thank you, sir, I cannot take it. I am amply rewarded by having succeeded in helping the lady.'
"'Oh, do let us do something to prove our thanks. You look so weary, and indeed, almost sick. Tell us how can we serve you,' said the lady, who had not spoken until then.
"These kind words brought tears to the boy's eyes; he tried to speak, but his voice failed.
"'There, my boy,' said the gentleman, 'it is growing very cold. We live only a short way from here. I shall lead my horse, and you must follow on. Supper is waiting for us; and after we have been refreshed by a cup of hot coffee and something substantial, I shall insist on being allowed to prove my thankfulness in some way or other.'
"This kindness, George had neither the strength nor the will to refuse.
"Following on, he soon reached with them, the house of Dr. Perry. Such a supper the famished boy had not seen since his parents' death, and he did full justice to it.
"The doctor's delicate kindness and cordial manner so won the boy, that during the evening he told him his whole story, of his hard struggles and dreadful temptation, and ended by producing the pocketbook, and asking the doctor's advice as to the manner of restoring it.
"His kind friend suggested that there might be some clew to be found inside as to whom it belonged.
"Opening it, George carefully examined every part, and sure enough, found a card with the probable name and address of the owner.
"'Now, my boy, it is too late to-night, but in the morning you can go find the place, inquire for the lady, and then ask "if her husband left last night in the train for ——." If he did, then you may know you have found the right person. Now about yourself, your future. What are your ideas?'
"'Oh! sir, if I could only earn enough to support me and get into the City Academy, I should be the happiest boy alive. But it is so hard to get a permit. I know I am quite far enough advanced to be able to keep up with the boys. I could live on bread alone to be able to acquire knowledge,' said the boy, with great earnestness.
"'I am thankful, my young friend, I can now find a way to serve you. I am one of the directors of that institution. You shall be entered, and obtain all the advantages it offers.
'"I see you are a proud boy and must feel that you are earning your living. Come here to me every morning before, and after school has closed in the afternoons. I wish you to take care of my office, and keep my things in perfect order for me. What say you to this, and then getting your meals with us?'
"Oh! what joy was in that hitherto sorrowful heart.
"Words could not express it; but clasping the doctor's hands, he pressed them to his heart, and pointed upward.
"His friend knew how grateful he was, and how very happy he had made him.
"Oh! had not God heard his prayer and speedily answered it. Mercy! how freely, how bountifully, it was bestowed on him.
"At last the words burst from his lips: 'Oh, God! I thank Thee.'
"Early the following morn the pocketbook was restored; everything save the miniature. This he kept, yet all the while feeling keenly that he was guilty of a theft. Yet in this he did not feel that God was offended. And often as he gazed at his little 'guardian angel,' as he called her, he would say, smilingly:
"She does not look reproachfully or seem to say, 'Thou shalt not steal me.'
"His mind was determined on the purpose to work every spare moment, night and day, denying himself in every way, until he had secured money sufficient to get the picture copied, and then return the original.
"Months passed on, prosperity smiled on him. His best friend, the doctor, had full confidence in him. His teachers encouraged and approved. All was well.
"His miserable lodgings were before long resigned for a comfortable room in the happy home of Dr. Perry, who insisted on this arrangement, saying:
"'George, your services fully repay me. My little son loves you dearly, and has wonderfully improved in his studies, since he has been under your charge. We want you with us as much as possible.'
"Now, only one thing troubled him. The stolen picture.
"At length he accomplished what once seemed an almost impossible thing. The picture was copied and paid for; and George started to return the original, the one that had rested in his bosom so long. How he loved it!
"It was a great sacrifice for him to give up that, and retain the copy. However, he was somewhat compensated by the result of his errand.
"'Twas the fifth birthday of the little girl, and well he knew it. Ascending the steps of her father's house, he rang the bell, which was soon answered by a servant, and behind him came a bevy of little girls, the foremost being the original of his picture, his little 'guardian angel.'
"'More presents for me?" she asked, as he handed the precious parcel into her tiny hands, extended for it.
"'No, little one, for your father! Will you tell me your name?' he asked.
"'Oh, yes! My name is——'"
"What was it?" eagerly asked Mrs. Morely.
"Why are you so anxious? I'll punish you a little for interrupting me, by not telling you," answered the judge, playfully.
"Well, well, no matter; only go on," answered his wife, showing plainly how deeply she was interested in his story.
"The little one held her hand, saying:
"'I am five years old to-day. Shake hands with me, Mr. ——I do not know your name. Every one shakes hands and kisses me to-day.'
"The youth clasped the dear little hand (held forth with the sweet innocence of childhood and combined with a dignity well worthy of a maid of twenty), and pressed on it a pure kiss, at the same time breathing to himself the vow that, with God's blessing and help, to win such a position that should enable him to seek and know this child in her home. To try and make himself worthy of her; to win her love, and in years to come to have her as his 'guardian angel' through life.
"Often he would get a glimpse of her at the window or the door, this giving him encouragement to work on.
"Another year he was taken as assistant in the primary department of the academy, this giving him a small income.
"In two more years he had graduated with the highest honors.
"His mind had been determined in favor of the law. His most ardent wish to get in the office and read with the father of 'his little love,' then a very distinguished lawyer.
"This desire he made known to Dr. Perry, who readily encouraged it, saying:
"'I have no doubt, George, that you can succeed, backed by such letters as we can give you. This gentleman is very kind and courteous, and I think has no one with him at present. If I am not very much mistaken, after you have seen and talked with him a short time, it will be all right.'
"And so it proved. In a few days more George was studying under the same roof with the child of all his dearest, highest aspirations, daily seeing and speaking to her.
"Very soon the little maid of eight years became very fond of him.
"George rose rapidly in the respect and esteem of his instructor, and in a few months a deep and sincere attachment existed between them. Subsequently our young friend entered the Bar, and was looked upon as a man of fine promise; his career upward was steady, and finally, after eight or ten years' practice, he was among the best of his day.
"All these years of toil and study were for laurels to lay at the feet of the one who had so unconsciously saved him and encouraged him 'onward.' Nothing now prevented the fruition of all his hopes. A little while longer, and the living, breathing, speaking guardian angel was all his own—blessing his heart and house, filling his very soul with the purest love, the most profound gratitude to God, by whose infinite mercy he was thus almost miraculously saved. And to prove his gratitude and thankfulness, he has endeavored constantly to win the erring from sin, to encourage and sustain the penitent, to try and soften the hardened heart, and finally, as much as possible, to ameliorate the suffering and punishment of the guilty and condemned, truly knowing how very many are tempted as much and more than the hero of my story, without the interposition of such a special Providence."
The judge had finished. Mrs. Morely arose, and, passing her arm around her husband, pressed her lips to his, earnestly and with deep emotion, saying:
"I long since recognized the noble, suffering boy of your story. My husband, forgive my having ever questioned your actions or motives. In the future I will try to prove my worthiness of your love by aiding you in all your works of mercy."
"My old friend, and of all the most respected and honored, if it were possible your story would increase my veneration," said Mr. Archer, grasping and pressing the judge's hand.
"I would to Heaven there were more like you. If so, the temptations and snares which surround the path of youth would be less terrible and frequent—in a word, our whole community a little nearer, as God would have us be."
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn.—Tennyson.
"Draw near me, William; I have so much I want to say, and now I feel too truly how rapidly I am drifting away. When I close my eyes I see so many happy, familiar faces, just a little way above, in the clouds. They are beckoning me away. Tell me, what day is this?"
"Thanksgiving, dear. But, pray, do not talk so. You are not going to leave me yet, Mary. You will be, you are better," said her husband, bending sorrowfully over her.
"Yes, I will be well, soon. I shall not see to-morrow's sun. Promise me, my husband, to try and make our boy feel as little as possible his loss. Be to him what I have been. He is a strange, shy child, and reminds me much of my own childhood. You scarcely know him, you have been so completely absorbed in your business all the time. Be with him, have him more with you. There is no need now of your being such a slave to business. You are prospering, you will be rich. Oh! do not let your heart become so encased in gold as to render it inaccessible to all higher, better feelings. In years to come another will occupy my place, but, oh! William, do not let those new ties come between you and your first-born. Give me your hand, and with it the pledge to make his welfare your first thought.
"Thank you, dear! you have lifted a great weight from my heart. The only doubt is cleared away. Here put our wedding ring on your finger! How tight it fits. It will be a constant reminder of your pledge. Now bring Willie to me."
She gradually faded away during the afternoon, murmuring constantly words of love and hope, the last intelligible being, "Love each other for my sake."
As the Thanksgiving sun went down the spirit of the gentle, long-suffering Mary Archer joined the waiting ones above.
William Archer truly loved his young wife, and sincerely mourned her loss. Much of his time was spent with his son in trying to comfort and divert the attention of the sorrowing boy from his great loss.
Willie grew to love very dearly his father, hitherto almost a stranger to him.
Mary's words were soon verified. Riches grew rapidly around him, and in less than two years he had filled her vacant place by another.
With what an acute ear, jealous eye and aching heart he listened for every word of endearment, watched every action of love that his father bestowed on his new wife. Willie was not a boy to win the heart of a stranger. Retiring, silent and sad, but possessing a brave, grateful heart, he had to be known to be loved. The new mother did not care to take the trouble to win the love of her husband's child.
Years rolled on. Bright, cheerful, happy boys and beautiful, loving girls grew round the father's heart, claiming and winning his love, until poor Willie was almost forgotten, or only remembered when in sight, and then always compared so unfavorably with the merry ones around him.
On one occasion some temporary ailment caused the father's hand to become very much swollen, until the little wedding ring became very tight and pained his finger much. His wife suggested its being filed off. While debating on the necessity of so doing, there came memories of the past. The long-forgotten pledge, the reminder of which was making him feel it so keenly then. How had he fulfilled that promise?
He would not have the ring removed. The swelling gradually passed away. And William Archer determined to make amends for his past neglect by future care and attention to his motherless boy.
But these good intentions were put to a speedy flight by an unfortunate accident which occurred that afternoon.
Constant difficulties and childish quarrels arose between the little ones, Willie always being the erring one, both with the mother and nurses. If a child fell and was hurt, "Willie did it." In a word, the poor boy was the "scapegoat."
The children were playing in the large ground surrounding their future elegant home. Willie was just twelve years old then. The nurse was attending the younger ones. A little way from the house was a large pond with a rustic bridge. Mr. Archer had frequently warned the nurse of the danger in allowing the children to play about there. Little Eddie, a merry, willful boy of six years, disregarding all Willie's entreaties to come away, would amuse himself by "riding horseback," as he called it, on the railing of the frail bridge, and tossing up his arms with a shout of defiance and laughter, he lost his balance and fell into the water, quite deep enough to drown a much larger boy.
A scream from the little ones brought the nurse to a knowledge of the truth.
"Eddie's in the water! Eddie's drowned."
In a moment Willie's jacket was off, and he plunged in, and, before the terrified nurse could collect her thoughts, brought out and placed the insensible boy on the grass before her.
Catching up the child, she rushed to the house, and, placing him in his mother's arms, declared, to screen her own negligence, that:
"Willie had pushed his brother in the pond."
Willie, following on with the other children, entered the house, his young heart proudly glowing with the knowledge of having done a good, brave action, and saying to himself:
"Now, this will surely please papa and make Eddie's mother love me a little."
Poor boy! He was met by stern eyes and harsh, upbraiding words, which for a moment quite bewildered him.
"You have killed your brother! You cruel, unnatural child," cried the mother.
"Out of my sight, boy," said his father, in low, threatening tones.
"Oh, father! what do you mean? Let me tell you how it was."
"Begone, sir!" and the enraged man gave poor Willie a blow which sent him reeling into the hall.
Staggering up to his room and throwing himself on the bed, he wailed forth, in heart-rending tones:
"Oh, mother, mother! I wish I was with you! Others can die, why not I? No one loves me! Oh, I wish I were dead!"
Tired and exhausted by the exertions in the water, he soon fell asleep, and remained so until the sun was just rising next morning.
All his sorrow, all the injustice of the night before came rushing back to his mind.
Hastily dressing himself, and then taking from his desk paper and pen, he wrote: