 | CHAPTER XVIII.
LIGHT IN A DARK PLACE. The poor rich man, and the rich poor man |  |
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
LIGHT IN A DARK PLACE.
On the morning of Mr. Beckwith's call, another
and very different visiter knocked at Mrs. Aikin's
door, and inquired “If there was not a woman, or
creater, or something of that sort, by the name of
Smith, living there.” Mrs. Aikin boded no good,
and, fearful Paulina would overhear the inquiry,
she bade the man enter, answering him affirmatively
while she closed the door.
“You need not be so private, mistress; I am
none of her acquaintance, I can tell you, only as
she under-rented two rooms of me, and went away
owing me.”
When the stranger entered, Juliet was reading
to Mr. Barlow. She pressed his arm, whispering,
“I know that man. He is horrid cross.”
“Don't tremble so, my child, he'll not hurt you.”
“Oh, I ain't afraid of him now—but I used to
be.”
This was said while Mrs. Aikin was communicating
to the man the small likelihood that he
would get his debt.
“I don't expect much,” replied the man, “of the
like of her, but I've got something that will bring
something more.” He took from his pocket a
handkerchief, and, unrolling it, proceeded: “After
that woman left my house, she missed a packet,
but another tenant had moved in with a heap of
litter, and nothing could be found of the packet.
Since t'other tenant has packed off 'twixt two days,
and we found this stowed away in the closet.”
He took out a small locket and a letter.
“That locket was my mother's!” exclaimed
Juliet.
“Was, child? but it's mine now. I don't believe,”
continued the man, supposing of course that
Mrs. Smith was Juliet's mother, “that it ever did
belong to your mother; but you shall judge, good
woman,” to Mrs. Aikin. “Here is the letter—the
locket was in the letter.” He began reading.
“`My dear'—something, I can't tell that word;
it may be father, and it may be mother; but never
mind, it goes on: `On the bed of death, and with
my poor little girl beside me—”'
“Oh, it was my own mother that wrote it!”
screamed Juliet; “don't let him read it!”
Forgetting her fears, she sprang forward and
snatched it, repeating, with an imploring look to
Mr. Barlow and Mrs. Aikin, “It is mine! it was
my own mother wrote it!”
Mrs. Aikin soothed her, and Mr. Barlow drew
her to him, whispering an assurance that she
should keep it.
“What the deuse ails you, child?” asked the
man; “you are welcome to the letter, though I
guess it will make you all kind o' qualmish to read
it. The locket I'll keep myself—the casing, I
mean; the picture won't sell for any thing, though
I think it's a pretty, comely-looking person. What
do you think, neighbour?” holding it up to Mr.
he recognised an old likeness of himself; a sudden
paleness overspread his face; he took the letter
from Juliet's hand, to him unresisting; his eye
glanced rapidly over it: the blood rushed again to
his cheeks, coloured deeply his pale forehead, and
again retreated. He threw his arms around Juliet,
laid his head on hers, and sobbed out, “My child!
Mary! Mary! my child!”
Mrs. Aikin guessed the meaning of all this.
She dismissed the man with the assurance that he
should be paid the small sum due to him, and then
left Mr. Barlow to compose himself, and give to
Juliet the joyful explanation of what seemed to
her a riddle.
When she returned she found them calm, and as
happy as they could be; their joy tempered by the
following sad letter:—
Letter from Juliet's mother.
“My Dear Father: — On the bed of death,
and with my little girl, who will soon be an orphan,
beside me, I write this. My hand is stiff,
and a racking cough interrupts me. I can write
but a few lines at a time. Till last week I hoped
to get well, consumption is so flattering.
“Dear father, I never told you any thing but
truth about my situation in America; but I could
not bear to distress you and sister with the whole
truth. You could not help me, so I tried to suffer
patiently; and I never felt alone, for when we
have no human friend nor help, then it is we feel
God to be near. Ronald turned out what I might
have expected when he persuaded me to marry
headstrong—poor Ronald! We lived comfortably
in Canada for a while. Oh! what pleasure
I took in being saving, and making his pay
hold out. An ensign's pay is small, father; and,
for a while after Juliet was born, he seemed to feel
what it was to be a father, and what he owed to
the child God had given him, and it seemed happiness
enough for him to be with us. Then I wrote
you often, and you know all about that time, father!
How soon it passed! Bad people drew him away
from me, and bad people and hard drinking hardened
his heart; and often and often, when I have gone
to meet him in the damp night, wild with fear that
something had happened to him, and waited hours
and hours, he has come, and—; but, poor Ronald!
I can't bear to bring up his sins now! But,
oh! my poor little child, how she has suffered for
his faults! There were times when the sight of
her brought him to a momentary penitence; but
he had no true joy in her. I have seen what bitter
drops conscience has poured into the sweet fountain
of parental love. I have seen him when the
tones of innocence and the look of love were cutting
reproaches to him. Poor Ronald!”
“I suffered, father, in many ways—when, and
where, and how, there is no use in telling now.
I found patience a great help, and in the darkest
times I could pray for my poor husband. Had he
but turned to the right path, I would have welcomed
poverty, sickness, hardship of any sort; but
those we love, who can bear?”
“Ronald failed in military duty, and lost his
commission, and changed his name to Brown.
We came to New-York. This was a dark time,
father. I was sometimes, for weeks, alone with
my child. He came to me to die. I remembered
Him who forgiveth liberally, and upbraideth not.
I watched him, day and night, till he died. May
I not hope for him? but, alas!—alas! his life was
a continual violation of God's laws. Towards the
last his mind was gone.—Poor Ronald!”
“I went to the British consul. He was very
kind to me; and from some English people, with
true English hearts, he got money enough to send
me and Juliet home to you. I was on board the
ship when, as I wrote to you, symptoms of the
varioloid appeared. I was sent off. Juliet and I
both had the disease. My disappointment aggravated
it with me. I was left low. I have worked
a little since, and sometimes hoped to earn money
to go home to you. I had spent, in my sickness,
all that was given to me. I have written but once,
hoping always to have something better to write.
But it's all over now! Don't mourn about it,
father—nor you, dear sister,—it is God's will, and
never—never has it seemed hard to me to bend to
his will. When poor Ronald went astray from
His will—that I felt to be hard.”
“My little girl—I have laid her in His arms
who bade little children come unto Him. She is
now His; and, indeed—indeed, my heart is not
troubled about her.”
“Thank you, dear father, for long ago sending
me your forgiveness for what you were so kind as
to call my `only disobedience.' I think it is easy
for the good to forgive. As I draw near home, I
am always with you in my dreams. I see the
white cottage and the hedge; and last night you
and sister kissed me.”
“There is a woman here kind to me. I shall
leave a request to the British consul to send Juliet
to you. God has given me his peace, father.
Don't you and sister mourn for me. Let Juliet
take my place. Farewell!—once more I kiss
you and sister. “Your M. B.”
Death came sooner than Mary expected; and
ner child, instead of being placed in the consul's
hands, was apparently left with no other dependance
than the uncertain charities of a worthless
woman. But He who never forsakes the orphan
committed to him had, as Mr. Barlow expressed
it, led this lost lamb into the right fold. He
steeped Mary's letter in his tears—tears of natural
husband's unfaithfulness, that poverty and sickness,
had all been God's ministers to bring her to
heaven.
| CHAPTER XVIII.
LIGHT IN A DARK PLACE. The poor rich man, and the rich poor man | |