When Annie Standish read this letter she swooned at her husband’s feet,
for she had been so sure that her father would forgive her and tell her
to come home immediately, that he would take them both into his heart
and home.
Victor Standish took the letter in his hands as he supported his wife’s
tottering steps and swore that he would make this father-in-law retract
his words and welcome his daughter Annie home again.
As he sat watching her a load of pain seemed to rest upon his heart,
for he had brought her to this great agony, and by insisting that she
marry him he had separated her from home kindred, and nothing was left
to her but him, and he must make up for all, and bring into her life
every bit of pleasure in his power.
Annie stirred and opened her eyes.
“It isn’t true, is it, Victor?” cried she. “Oh, I had such a dreadful
dream, and I thought that papa wouldn’t forgive me, and the thought was
more than I could bear.”
The tears started into the young husband’s eyes. The pale face leaning
against his arm was so inexpressibly dear to him.
“Sweetheart,” murmured he, “would you feel that you could not live for
your husband, if----”
“Then it is true, it is true. Oh, papa, papa, how could you do so to
your little girl,” and the cry that went up from the slender throat was
never forgotten by the young husband.
“Don’t, don’t, Annie, you will break my heart.”
After that they were silent, each suffering for the sin committed.
They heard no more from the rich father, and his pride would not bend.
When the summer came, and the fall ushered in the red leaves Annie rose
from a bed of sickness and brought a little child with her, and with
tears in her eyes she whispered to her husband:
“Sweetheart, I shall name her Helen after my mother. I am sure that it
will please my father.”
So the wee bit of humanity was christened, and Annie Standish began to
be happier.
Still the news of the little child’s birth did not soften the banker’s
heart, as he had said that he would not forgive, and forgive he would
not.
So the days went by until one afternoon Victor came in with the news
that his regiment had been ordered out for active service.
“It will be a chance for me to make a name for you and the baby,”
said he lovingly. “Oh, Annie, that is all I want to do, for I have an
ambition to make your father change his mind.”
“But, but,” faltered Annie, “you might get killed, Victor, and then
what would Helen and I do? There would be no one left to us then.”
The soldier husband kissed away the bright tears which flowed down her
cheeks.
“There, there, Annie, we are going to pray that I may come back to you
very soon, when the war is over, and, think of it, little wife, I may
bring back some stripes upon my sleeve, and you know that will mean
honor for us all.”
“And reconciliation with my father,” sighed the girl.
The days seemed to fly between the time he was ordered away and the day
that her husband started. Annie’s heart felt now that she had nothing
to live for but the dear baby, which had filled up such a large gap
in her life. Helen was now nearly two years old, and her mother over
eighteen. She looked like a little girl herself, and few would believe
that the large rosy baby was the offspring of the childish woman.
For two whole years the wife patiently waited, waited for the
home-coming of the soldier. Twice she had written her father, and once
had visited his home. She had been told by her cousin George that it
was by the command of her father that she was sent from his door almost
starving.
Again she waited, but as a reward for her patience there came a message
from one of Victor’s companions that he had died after receiving a
bullet in his body, and the only thing she had from that foreign
country was a little package of her own letters and one partly finished
by him to her.
The night she received the package she sat up long after Helen had
retired, for the child was too young to understand the mother’s grief.
“If father would only let us come home,” whispered she after re-reading
the letter. “I must do something, and my health is growing poorer every
day.”
With this thought in her mind all the time, she one morning took her
baby and went to her father’s home.
He surely would not send her away when he knew that her husband was
dead, and that she and Helen were starving.
[Illustration: “MAMA I AM SO HUNGRY.”]
She carried the tottering child part of the way.
“Ah, little girl,” pleaded she when they were in sight of the mansion,
“won’t you be a good girl and walk now? Mother’s arms are so tired.”
“Helen will walk, mother dear,” answered the child, “but I’se so
tired.”
The tears sprang into the mother’s eyes as she heard this plaintive
wail.
“Never mind, sweety, there is grandpa’s home, and he will let us come
in, and you shall see him.”
The great mansion loomed up mysteriously before them, and the woman
shuddered as she looked, for she wondered if the hard-hearted old man
would turn his own child from his door again starving.
She slowly crawled up the steps and rang the bell. A strange butler
answered and partly closed the door when he saw the rags.
“I want to see Mr. Benson,” faltered Annie.
“Mr. Benson, senior or junior?”
“Oh, senior. He is my father. I must see him to-day.”
The man did not ask her to come in, but shut the door in her face.
He went hastily back to the library, and then seeing but an old
grey-haired man sitting there he softly closed the door and ran
upstairs.
“What do you want?” came the voice from the inside in answer to the
slight knock.
“The person is at the door you told me never to allow in,” said the
butler.
It took but a moment for George Benson to get down stairs.
“Why, Annie,” said the soft voice, “I am very sorry to see you in this
condition, and you shall have money, but do not come in. Your father is
so incensed against you that I would not answer for the consequences if
you should.”
“Oh, I want to see him, George, so much. Do not turn me away. My child
and I are starving.”
“Oh, well, as far as money is concerned, I will give you some, but I am
sure your father will refuse you admittance.”
“Ask him, any way, George,” pleaded she.
“Then, wait,” and the man swung gracefully along the hallway.
The wasted old man sitting in the chair looked up as his nephew entered.
“Want me, uncle?” asked the younger man.
“No, George,” replied the old man; “I was just thinking of Annie and
wondering if I should ever see her again. Oh, George, do you ever
think that she will forgive me for turning from her?”
A dark shadow settled over the handsome young face.
“I’m sure I don’t know, uncle dear. It seems if she were very anxious
she would write to you or in some way answer your letters.”
“That’s so, that’s so,” was the reply. “I suppose she is satisfied in
her husband’s love.”
“I suppose so.”
With this George Benson came back to Annie and said: “Poor little girl,
he absolutely refuses to see you.”
He slipped some money into the woman’s hand, and she turned away with a
broken heart.
* * * * *
Millionaire Benson sat in his library after the departure of his
nephew. He wanted his daughter sorely, was willing to forgive her
all, even her husband, if she would but return, but there was an evil
influence at work about him, and many times George Benson would spend
hours in telling him of Annie’s sin.
As he sat there this morning and his nephew had gone, another young man
just out of college ran up the stairs and burst into the library.
“Uncle,” said he lightly, “how are you to-day?”
“Pretty well, my boy, pretty well. How are you?”
“Oh, more than well, and I do like my work so much. They say at the
bank that I am going to be able soon to take a better position.”
“Bravo, Tom,” cried the old man; “you shall have any position in
that bank you can earn; and labor, boy, labor; that is the secret of
success.”
“So it is, uncle, and you shall be proud of your boy some day.”
The old gentleman sighed.
“I believe that, Tom,” replied he, “and I would be satisfied with all
my children if I could only see my girl. One would think so sweet a
character as Annie would forgive her old stubborn father, would they
not?”
“Yes,” reluctantly replied the young man.
It is not hard to recognize in this lad the youth who had fallen in
love with Annie when he was but a mere child. He had gone to college
and graduated. It had been a proud day when he was installed in the
bank as one of its employees, and now he was telling his benefactor how
willing he was to work hard and climb to the top.
“I wish, too, that you could find Annie,” said the lad, after a time
of silence. “It seems as if she would be willing to forgive you, even
if for nothing else, for what you could do for them. Have you ever
thought, uncle, that she might not have gotten your letters?”
“I have not thought of that, but probably that is it. Could you try and
find out for me now?”
“Indeed I could and gladly would,” cried Tom, “and maybe I shall bring
her back. Now, where was she when you last heard from her?”
The address was looked up and the old man said:
“Now, if you find them, Tom, bring the whole family back with you.”
Neither the old nor the young man knew that there was a listener at the
door, and that a strangely handsome face was peering in with a look of
scorn upon the graceful, well-moulded lips.
“So he is going to find her, is he, and make my chances of a fortune
not worth a picayune? Well, his time is short in this mansion.”
He stole away, and Tom, with an affectionate embrace, left his uncle.
For a long time the old man sat and dreamed, dreamed of a woman, sweet,
in the long ago days when he was young and she was beautiful, dreamed
of that time when a little child, with light golden hair, had been born
to them, and of their happiness and joy. Then later, when the first
shadow fell upon the home and the gentle spirit of his wife took flight
and left him.
Then, after that, he had but the little girl, and she had lived and
reigned in his heart for sixteen short years, and had gone like a shade
of night, but it had been a great deal his own fault. Why did he not
overlook the foolish step and try to make something of her husband? As
he sat there he slumbered slightly, and then over his mind came a scene
of the past. A child, with long curls, flitted before him, and he saw
her flying away over the lawn and once in a while she looked back at
him, her eyes smiling sweetly and the tiny hand shaking him a farewell,
and then another dream as sweet as the last one flitted close upon his
brain.
A dignified girl, in a white dress, sat beside him, and he heard his
own voice say:
“Tell me, Annie, is there anything I can do to make you happy?” and
before he could stop her he saw her fading away and dissolving into the
shadows upon the wall.
He lifted his hands and gave a great groan.
“Annie,” murmured he, “come back to your father.”
“What is the matter, uncle?” shouted George Benson. “Why do you mutter
in your sleep? There, wake up, a dream is only a dream anyway.”
The old man sat up thoughtfully, and with tears in his eyes said:
“I dreamed that Annie was here, George, and, oh, I want my child, I
want my child.”
Impatiently George Benson sat down, for he had not patience with this
imbecile old man.
“I would not waste my energy upon the ungrateful girl,” said he, “for
she does not seem to care, or why should she not answer your letters?
It is shameful for a daughter to be so undutiful.”
There was something in the young man’s tone that caused the millionaire
to look keenly at him.
Then he closed his lips upon the words that were about to fall. He was
upon the point of confiding how Tom was going after Annie, but the rich
man noticed a glitter in the blue eyes, and he said nothing.
Then George spoke slowly:
“Uncle, will you keep to yourself what I am going to tell you?”
“Of course,” responded the rich man; “I have never betrayed your
confidence.”
“Never.”
“Then, I will not begin now.”
“Did you know that Tom Cooper thinks that you are going to leave him
half your fortune? I saw him just now as he went out, and he said that
you had asked him to help find Annie, and that he was not going to do
anything like it, but to give you the idea that he was working hard to
locate her, and he said that if she kept away from the house that you
would leave him half your fortune.”
The old man was rising from his chair slowly.
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Surely. He said that you two talked over the matter, and that you
asked him to aid you in finding the girl, and he said he had given you
the idea that he could bring her back to you.”
“So he did,” ejaculated the old man.
“And I fear that he intends to do you wrong, as much as I hate to say
it of the fellow whom I have grown up with, but then we could not
expect to have him care as much for Annie as I do, not being related to
her.”
For a long time the old man sat in his chair muttering to himself. He
had grown to love this boy, this very young boy, who had always sent in
the best reports from college to him, like his own son even. But the
last blow had fallen.
“Annie,” he whispered as he labored upstairs to his bedroom, “I shall
never see you again. You have had your revenge now, for I shall not be
upon the earth long.”
Then he sent for his nephew after his valet had put him in bed, and
said:
“If Tom Cooper comes here, he is to be refused admittance; also notify
the bank that he is to be discharged.”
After George Benson heard this he went down stairs, and with a
malicious smile upon his face wrote the letter, and as he dropped it in
the mail box, he said to himself:
“So you will find the girl, will you, Tom Cooper? We will soon see what
your future will amount to.”