 | CHAPTER XIV.
A DYING CONFESSION. The boy of Mount Rhigi |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
A DYING CONFESSION.
And money's day is gone.”
We are compelled to recede three weeks in our
story, to the moment of Harry's exit, with the
poor book-keeper, from Holson's shop. Harry half
supported, half dragged him to his melancholy home
— an upper story of a small house in Mulberry Street.
His wife, sick in body and feeble in mind, was incapable
of assisting him; his children, excepting the
lame boy, too young, and he too weak to help himself.
So Harry was compelled to remain till late the
next morning. Carey was in a state of stupor which
the physician said threatened paralysis. That only
could be averted by care; and care he had, unsparing
care, from Harry. He brightened about twelve, and
Harry hastened home to render an account of himself.
on the watch.
“O Harry!” she exclaimed, “where have you
been? Aunts will be so glad!”
“And you did not care at all, Mary, what became
of me?”
“Harry Davis!” she exclaimed, reproachfully; and
she ran, blushing, away to proclaim his return to
aunts Peace and Plenty.
Such was their anxiety at Harry's unaccountable
absence, that neither of the good ladies had gone to
church — “a thing,” as they said, “that had not happened
before in their lifetime.”
Harry's next movement was to call on Mr. Nevis,
and confide to him the scene in Holson's shop. Mr.
Nevis immediately proceeded to Holson's, accompanied
by a police officer, but Holson was gone. He had
absconded during the night, (having first burned his
books,) with such of his effects as he could take with
him. The next day, his gay shop windows were
closed, the door barred, and the ominous words, “To
let,” advertised the public that the incessant importunities,
Holson were at an end; that the most laborious industry,
without integrity, will not prosper; that, in
short, dishonesty is the worst policy.
We give another extract from a letter of Harry's.
“It seems to me, dear mother, that I have lived a
year in the last fortnight. On the very Monday that
I sent you an account of the upshot at Holson's, Mr.
Nevis obtained the promise of an excellent situation
for me with Messrs. James Bent & Co., where his
son, my friend, already is. Mr. Bent is respected as
a man of strict integrity, and every part of his establishment
is well conducted; and I am to have a salary
of $150. Only imagine how rich I shall be! `It
never rains, but it pours!' Coming out of Mr. Bent's,
who should I meet but Mr. Lyman! He has more
work on hand than he can do, — making plans and
drawings for the first architect in the city, — and he
wanted me to help him. Never was any thing more
opportune. The place I am to have at Mr. Bent's
will not be vacant till next month, and now I can be
need a little fitting up for summer.”
“Dear mother, I am really enjoying myself now,
as much as I think one can ever enjoy in a city. I
am afraid I shall never feel at home here, but I really
am happy now. I am drawing all day, and all the
evening. I get a book from the Mercantile Library,
and Mary Hale reads aloud. We are reading now
Irving's Columbus, — one of the most charming books
ever written, — and Mary's reading is like setting it
to music. Mother, her voice is the sweetest you ever
heard. It reminds me of little Lucy's. And when
she sits under the lamp, the light shining on her
beautiful brown hair and white forehead, I — I can
hardly keep my eyes on my drawing. Mary has received
her education at one of the public schools, and
you would be astonished to know how much she has
acquired, and how well. Her good aunts are not fond
of reading; they stay in the little front parlor, where
their tongues go at both ends; but, bless them! they
never speak an evil or an unkind word. Old Mrs.
back parlor with us and listens, and teaches her poor
little blind grandchild to sew and knit. Would you
not like to look in upon us, dear mother? I should
be perfectly happy if I were out of a city. If I
were, dear mother, where I could see Mount Rhigi,
and hear the sound of a brook; and if — O, what
an if! — if Clapham was what he seemed to us when
little Lucy died, and was out of that old jail.”
Extract from a Letter from Harry's Mother.
“Your present, my dear son, was very acceptable,
as a proof of your abiding and ever-thoughtful love;
but do not send me any thing more at present.
Keep your earnings for your summer's outfit. We
want for nothing. Thanks to a kind Providence, my
health is good, and Annie's. There is never lack
of work for willing hands; and our wants, except
for your afflicted father, are small. His cough is
severe, and he declines daily, so that the doctor says
he should not be surprised if he dropped away at
any minute. His appetite continues remarkably. I
neighbors send in daily of their best. We have
plenty of fresh. To-day, dear old Mrs. Allen sent a
quarter of a roaster, and your father ate nearly the
whole of it. You know he was always remarkably
fond of pig. Our neighbors never let him be out of
custards, pies, and preserves. You know, Harry, I
never liked to call on my neighbors for watchers in
sickness, and think that, in most cases, it's much
better doing without them; but father feels different.
He likes company, he says, when he is awake, and I
am no talker. He is able yet to engage his own
watchers. He borrows the sheriff's old horse, and
jogs round after them. I don't oppose, though I
sometimes fear he will die on the road; but it serves
to divert him.
“O Harry, you will have feelings when you read
what I have now to write to you! Last evening,
about nine, Norman Dunn was found lying on the
ground, at the tavern steps. At first, they supposed
he was drunk; but it proved that he was sick, worn
They got him on to a bed, and, as soon as he revived,
he asked to have me sent for. O Harry, he
was an awful sight to behold, with his long, black
beard, and livid face, and swollen eyes. I supposed
he wanted to hear about Massy's death; so I told
him she did not suffer for any thing, and how the
selectmen had her brought down to the village, and
she had good watchers every night, and I was with
her at the last, for the sake of Clapham. He did
not give me the least attention, but kept moving
and worrying till I mentioned Clapham; then he rose
right up, and said, `Stop there; don't talk about
Massy; she's dead, and gone to the d—l, for what
I care.' (Only think, Harry, what a hardened sinner!)
`But Clapham! it's for his sake I have dragged here
more dead than alive; and, while breath lasts, let me
tell you how I wronged him. Your own boy, Harry,
was not better than my boy; nor so good; for Clapham
had the devil always at his elbow, and was good in spite
of it. I was the devil to him — I, his father!”'
Mrs. Davis then went on to write the particulars
his childhood, to accompany him on his marauding
expeditions among hen-roosts and clothes-lines. He
then told the whole story of the robbery, — every
particular, every word, with which our readers are
already acquainted, — and, in conclusion, said, “And
I let him be accused — my own child, and such a
boy — and be taken off to jail, just because I could not
bear shutting up out of the fresh air. But I have
tried to right him at last — I have. I've walked forty
miles since I thought every step would be my last.
Now let them send for Squire Avery, and you tell
the story, and I'll swear to it, and then I'm done.”
The magistrate was immediately sent for, a deposition
made, and the oath administered to Norman.
After that, he sank away, and died before morning,
without sign of repentance towards God. Unhappy
man!
Mrs. Davis's letter thus concluded: “Only think,
my dear son, how we, his best friends, and his true
friends, have wronged this poor boy. I always had
feelings for him. He was somehow bound up in my
him in my prayers. Annie is the happiest girl you
ever saw. She cried for joy. But we must do something
more than feel, or pray, or cry, Harry. Every
one says that steps should be taken for Clapham;
but no one takes them. What is every body's business
is nobody's. Now, my son, as you have a week
before you enter on your new clerkship, had you not
best come home and see about getting up a petition
to the governor for Clapham's pardon? I know it
will be an expense, and neither you nor I have spare
shillings. But sometimes we must not count the cost.
Annie and I have laid by a few dollars against a
call for mourning, that must soon come; that is at
your service; and you, my son, can wear your old
hat till you can earn a new one; and so, among
us, we can make it out, and neither borrow nor beg.
But I leave you to decide.”
Harry did decide, without hesitation; and the very
next day found him at the door of the prison in L—.
| CHAPTER XIV.
A DYING CONFESSION. The boy of Mount Rhigi | |