THE CRUEL LETTER.
George Alden, with satchel in hand, stepped from a train just arrived
from the East, at Chicago; his pale face, blood-shot eyes, and whole
manner betokening a nervous condition. A stranger in a strange city,
scarcely knowing which way to go, he felt almost like a guilty wretch
fleeing from justice. The events of the past three days passing before
his mind like a row of spectres, his haggard face told plainly of his
anguish.
The sun was sinking beneath the western plains as the fugitive walked
the streets of the strange city, not knowing whither to turn. He was
faint from lack of nourishment, for he had not taken sufficient food
to preserve his strength; while severe pains in his back recalled to
his mind the fearful experience in the burning factory, when he lay in
the hallway held down by the firebrand. He entered a restaurant, and
seating himself at a small table in a recess, ordered food. Then, taking
a photograph from his pocket, he imprinted many kisses upon the pictured
face of his wife.
"Poor child!" he murmured. "She has already received my letter--God help
her! I am sure, though, she will bid me return, as soon as she reads the
letter."
The waiter soon returned, and Alden said:
"Can you direct me to an inexpensive, respectable private
boarding-house, where I can find comfort? I am not well."
"Yes, sir," replied the waiter, "I can direct you to just such a place
as you desire."
His supper finished, he paid his bill, and with directions from the
waiter he started in search of the boarding-house, which he soon found.
Making known his wants, the good lady, after asking a few questions
and looking into his honest face, decided to take him as a boarder. It
was fortunate for him that she did, for Mrs. Nash afterward proved a
valuable friend at a time when Alden stood in need of care and attention.
In the solitude of his room he threw himself into a chair and gave way
to a paroxysm of mental anguish, reproaching himself for deserting his
home and friends, for the act was an acknowledgment of guilt. Retiring
at an early hour, exhaustion made him sleep soundly. In dreamland he
forgot his troubles, again living over those happy days passed with his
loving wife and sister.
Sancho Panza uttered the sentiments of every living creature, when he
invoked God's blessing upon the man who invented sleep.
As the morning sun crept into Alden's apartment its rays fell upon the
sleeper's face and caused him to move his head upon the pillow. In a
moment he opened his eyes, gazing about the room as if in doubt of his
whereabouts; gradually the painful realities of life drove the happy
dreams from his mind, filling his heart with sad thoughts, his only
companions the past few days. Quitting his bed, he dressed himself, and
involuntarily glancing into the mirror he started back in affright, and
said:
"My God! is that haggard-looking face mine? Here I am, far away from
home and kindred, hiding in Chicago. For what? Because I was a coward.
Yes; having braved the dangers of fire, I did not have courage to face
my false accuser. Oh, why did I run away like a thief?"
Overcoming his agitation, he bathed, dressed, and was soon ready to
descend to the breakfast-room. At the table he met others, to whom he
was introduced, but his heavy heart usurping the whole space within him,
he talked little and ate less.
His meal finished, he returned to his room to wait for expected letters.
Two long days passed, and the suspense was straining his nerves to
their utmost tension; unable to divert his mind by reading, he watched
the passage of time, which never moved so slowly. Saturday evening he
sent Mrs. Nash's son to the post-office, instructing him to inquire for
letters for George Howard, the latter his mother's maiden name, assumed
by him on leaving Cleverdale; but the lad returned without tidings from
either wife or sister.
On Sunday, leaving his room for a walk, he cared nothing for the sights
that another time and under different circumstances would have pleased
and interested him. Attending morning service at church, his thoughts
were far away, an eloquent discourse failing to arouse him from his
abstraction. The service over, he sought his boarding-house, and was
going directly to his room, when Mrs. Nash accosted him, and said:
"Mr. Howard, you seem ill; can I do anything for you?"
Halting to see whom she was addressing, he recalled his assumed name,
and replied:
"No, I am weary, that is all. Thank you for your interest in me."
"But, sir, you do not look strong. Pardon me, but have you been ill?"
"Yes, I have been very ill for many months, but am getting stronger now,
and will soon be well again."
The sigh that escaped him convinced the good woman his sufferings were
mental. Observing the paleness overspreading his face, her heart was
touched, but not wishing to appear impertinent, she said:
"I have a son about your age, far away in a foreign clime, and you must
forgive me, if I, a mother, take an interest in you. If I could only
know the whereabouts of my own boy, I could close my eyes in peace
instead of lying upon my pillow each night imagining him surrounded by
all kinds of danger and temptations," and she raised her handkerchief to
her eyes.
"I pity any person in trouble," Alden said, "for I have had my share of
sorrow and suffering." He would have said more, but at that moment the
door-bell rang, and Mrs. Nash said:
"If you are in trouble confide in me, and I will try and give you the
consolation I hope some good person will give my own poor boy."
George Howard--we must for the present call him by that name--passed on
to his room, while the good woman went to answer the door-bell. At the
supper table she spoke kindly to the new boarder, who ate but little,
and soon re-entered his room.
The following day, sending again to the post-office, the boy returned
bearing in his hand a letter addressed to George Howard, Chicago, Ill.
Seizing it with trembling hands, Alden hastily tore open the envelope,
looked at the few lines it contained, and holding the sheet before his
eyes, with a trembling voice read aloud:
"CLEVERDALE, 187-.
"SIR: On receipt of your letter, I immediately returned to
Cleverdale. When I thought you an honest man, I respected and loved
you, but your crime has aroused me from this dream. Never dare
address me again, for I abhor a villain. BELLE HAMBLIN."
He crushed the letter and tore it into shreds. As the pieces fell from
his hand his pale face became suffused with scarlet, and large cords
rose on his temples and brow as he said:
"My God!--And she too believes it? I did not think that--Oh, my head is
bursting--_I am dying--God, have mercy--I--I_--"
He staggered and fell heavily to the floor. Mrs. Nash hastily entering
the room beheld him lying senseless upon the carpet. The good woman,
seeing the scattered pieces of paper, at once comprehended the
situation, for she knew her young son had brought a letter which must
have contained bad news.
"Poor fellow! I am afraid he is gone." Stooping, she placed her hand
over his heart. "No, he is not dead," she continued.
She stepped into the hall and summoned help; and two women lifted
the insensible form to the bed. A physician was called at once, and
attempted to resuscitate him. Remaining in a partial stupor all day,
toward night Alden began to show signs of returning consciousness.
The following day, as he lay upon his bed looking at the kind-hearted
woman watching over him, his mind seemed utterly broken down, for his
appearance was that of listless disinterestedness. His face was pale,
with the exception of a bright-red spot on either cheek.
For three long weary months he kept his room, yet never murmured at
fate's decrees. His hostess constantly watched her patient, and never
troubled him with questions; her only desire being for his recovery.
The physician gave orders that he must be kept perfectly quiet, and all
letters withheld from him, unless containing cheering news. No letters
came, however, and the good woman wondered; but had she known of the
scenes taking place elsewhere, she would have been filled with greater
wonder.