AFTER a partial recovery from the fatigues of the journey to the
homestead, Mr. Richard Clifton appeared to be much improved in health,
and strong hopes were entertained that his recovery would be complete.
He manifested the proper showings of regret for the loss of his
companion, though he had felt towards her none of that ardor of
affection, and had enjoyed with her none of those felicities which had
mingled in his visions of domestic life before he had become a
prosperous man of the world. It was sad to have death enter his
dwelling; it was sad to be left with no one whom he could call his own.
Some of that loneliness which had long preyed upon him was, perhaps,
unconsciously set to the loss of her who had filled but a small place in
his heart, though she had been the wife of his bosom for a score of
years, and had found in him all she expected in a husband; perhaps it
would be scarce too much to say--all she desired.
In a few days, he was able to leave his chamber and sit with the family,
though his feeble step and sunken eye contrasted strangely with the
proud bearing which he exhibited but a few weeks before.
Susan devoted herself to his care, and his attachment for her seemed to
increase daily. While her father was busy with the labors of the farm,
and her mother was occupied with household cares, she talked with him,
read to him, sung to him, and in every way strove to make the time pass
pleasantly, and to woo back to his veins the tide of health.
For a time there was an encouraging prospect of success, but the
prospect was soon overcast. After the first rallying, he remained
stationary for a time, and then began, almost imperceptibly, to decline.
The cough, that grew more and more distinct and hollow, and profuse
night sweats, awoke the most anxious solicitude on the part of his
loving friends. Susan had, from the first, feared that he would not
recover; but she had given no expression to her fears. Her father had
entertained the most confident hopes, till the symptoms above noticed
forced upon him the conviction that his brother was passing to the tomb.
The faithful physician could not lessen that painful conviction. If the
air of the country and careful nursing could not raise the patient, the
case was hopeless. The soft breezes of autumn, and the ministerings of
pure affection, seemed to be in vain.
"Brother," said Richard, one morning, "I should be glad to have you sit
with me to-day, if your business will permit. If you should suffer a
little loss thereby, it will be abundantly made up to you before long."
This was the first allusion he had made to the probable result of his
disease. A tear stood in every eye, but no word was spoken, except in
reply to his request.
"I will make arrangements in course of half an hour," said Henry, "that
will allow me to be with you."
He did so, and from that hour was seldom absent from his brother's side.
"What has become of Harry Ford?" said Richard as they were sitting in
the warm sunlight in the piazza, where they used to sit together long
years ago. Autumn was creeping on apace, but the air was still bland and
balmy. Harry was one of their early and most intimate playmates--a fine,
cheerful, open-hearted boy, whose parents were the practical advocates
of "the let-alone, do-nothing policy," in regard to education. Still, to
the surprise of many, Harry conducted himself well in boyhood, and gave
promise of becoming a worthy man.
"Harry Ford," replied Henry, "died a few years ago in the poor-house."
"Died in the poor-house! How came that to pass?"
"He became very intemperate, and, of course, very poor; and, in his last
days, he was so abusive to his family, that they were obliged to send
him to the poor-house."
"Whom did he marry?"
"Jane Sullivan. You remember her?"
"Yes, very well; though I do not know that I have thought of her for
twenty years. I remember we used to sit near each other in school, and I
could never whisper to her without causing her to blush."
"She has led a very unhappy life. Harry's prospects were good when she
married him, but he soon joined an infidel club in the next town, and
his course was then rapidly downwards till it ended in the drunkard's
grave."
"Jane was a lovely girl; next to"--. It was in his mind to say--next to
Margaret Gray, she was the finest girl in school. "What has become of
James Rogers?"
"He lives in the southern part of the township. He is poor, and lives by
days' work. He has a large family, and has had a great deal of sickness
in it; but he is one of the happiest men I know. He is poor in this
world's goods, but is rich towards God."
"He appeared to be one of the most promising young men in the place,
when I left it."
"He was; and, for a while, he was very successful in the business in
which he was engaged, but a reverse overtook him, and he lost all. He
paid all his debts, and since then has been very poor."
"A hard case!"
"He has often expressed joy at his failure."
"Is he insane?"
"By no means. This failure was the means of securing a title to a more
enduring inheritance."
"Is Amy Brace living?"
"Yes. She is also poor. Her husband is a well-meaning, but most
inefficient man."
"All my old acquaintances seem to be poor."
"None have been prospered in this world as my brother has. There are
some who are comfortably well off, and a few who have an undoubted title
to the riches of eternity."
The rich man sighed deeply, but made no reply. After a long interval of
silence, he remarked--
"Life has been, to most of us, a very different thing from what we
expected."
"You have realized your expectations as to wealth."
"Yes; but if I had my life to live over again, I would not pay the price
at which I gained it. I have never been happy, but only preparing to be
so. Sickness has come, and death is coming! What has all my life been
worth? The few hours that I have spent with your family this summer have
been almost the only happy ones I have passed for years, and they gave
me almost as much pain as pleasure, by making me feel that I had thrown
away my life."
"It is not too late to repair, in part, your error."
"I cannot live my life over again. Oh that I could!"
The emotion with which these words were uttered so deeply affected
Henry, that, for a moment, he could not speak. Hope sprung up in his
heart that the seed sown in early life, by a pious father's hand, might,
though long buried beneath the cares of the world, spring up and bear
fruit ere the winter of death should come.
"You cannot," said he, "undo what you have done; but you can repent and
receive the pardon of Him before whom we must all shortly stand."
"I am too proud, too hard-hearted, to repent. I have delayed it, or
rather, refused to do it, too long. I feel exhausted, and must retire to
my room."
He rose, and, leaning on the arm of his brother, Went to his apartment.
That brother retired to pour out his heart in prayer for the prodigal
who gave such hopeful indications of coming to himself.