“GOOD-NIGHT, LITTLE PARDNER.”
Wall, that night after the funeral I wuz called down into the parlor to
see a stranger--a good deal devolved on me in that awful time; I kep’
calm, or tried to, and that calmness wuz like a paneky to ’em round me,
and they didn’t see the tumult of pity and grief that wuz a-goin’ on
inside of my heart onbeknown to ’em.
I went down into the hall, and there I found a handsome, noble-lookin’
young man, whose face wuz so white with anguish and dread that I knew
before he spoke who he wuz, and sez I right out the first thing,
a-holdin’ out both my hands--
“Alice is better.”
He grasped holt of my hands as if he wouldn’t never let go.
Sez he, “God bless you for saying that!” He wouldn’t go into the
parlor, nor set down, or nothin’. But it got to be my stiddy practice
to go down into that hall two or three times a day to gin him news, and
as the news grew brighter every day, jest so his face grew brighter,
till it got luminous with joy and gratitude the day I told him that
Alice wuz out of danger.
Wall, there come a day, long to be remembered, when Martin sent for me.
I wuz the first one he asked to see. He couldn’t talk much, and I jest
grasped his hand and sez--
“I have been prayin’ for you, Martin.”
“I knew it,” he whispered, “I knew you would.”
And that wuz about all I could say. But I spoze he felt the pity and
sympathy that oozed out of my sperit onbeknown to me as I looked down
onto that broken-hearted man, and he seemed to like to have me round
his room.
Wall, it wuz weeks before I could go home, Josiah a-bearin’ up nobly,
aided by Philury, and a-bravely eatin’ pancakes in her hours of too
burdened haste, and a-writin’ to me to stay if I could be of any
comfort to ’em.
Noble man that he is, though small boneded I am proud of him--a good
deal of the time I am.
Wall, there come a time when Martin, a-settin’ up in his study and
a-lookin’ over his papers, sent for me, and spoke to me for the first
time of Adrian.
He didn’t cry. His speechless grief wuz beyend that relief, but he gin
me to understand that his life wuz a blank to him now.
Sez I, “Martin, remember that Alice is left to you--you have one child
left.”
“Yes,” sez he, “but I want my boy!!” and he busted right out into
tears, and buried his face in his hands.
[Illustration: He busted out into tears and buried his face in his
hands.]
Sez I, “Martin, do you remember what the dear little boy said--he wuz
a-goin’ to be your pardner?”
He groaned, “Why do you speak of that? Do you want to kill me?”
“I want to help you, Martin.”
“Do you ever think that Adrian can be your pardner now, better than he
ever could if he wuz on earth--as much better as the glorified sperit
is above our common humanity?”
But agin he groaned out, “I want my boy!”
“It is hard, Martin,” sez I, a-layin’ my hand on his bowed-down
shoulders.
“It is hard to know that the sweet little voice is silent on earth, but
he can hear you--he is a-hearin’ you this minute; he hears the language
of your sperit as you vow to ondo the past so fur as you can--to go on
in the futer and work for the poor, as he wanted to.
“You can’t go agin these strong desires of your little pardner,
Martin--you’ve got to hear to ’em. He is your pardner now jest as much
as he ever wuz, and more, only he has gone over the deep waters into
another country to tend to the interests of the firm there. It is a
country where the Right is always done, where things that are wrong
here are made right--he will help you, Martin. He wanted to work for
the poor; why not let him?”
He lifted his white face, tears a-streamin’ down it, but as my meanin’
dawned on him his mean grew a little mite brighter.
Sez I, “He is a-workin’ now for ’em.” Sez I, “I see in the new look in
your eyes the divine work of your pardner.
“He is helpin’ you this minute to think softer thoughts. He is helpin’
you to remember that you are to spend your money and his--for you told
him that it belonged to you both equally--in helpin’ the poor, in
helpin’ to surround their lives with safeguards,” sez I, a-wantin’ to
strike while the iron wuz hot.
“You are a-goin’ to git some fenders right off, Martin.”
“Order five hundred of them right off--send for a thousand of them.”
“No,” sez I, “Martin, be megum. You’ve got to be megum in fenders
as well as any other goodness. Why order a thousand fenders for one
hundred cars?
“But,” sez I, “Martin, I will send for ’em.” And I did, that very day,
not knowin’ but he would be some like Pharaoh, and his heart would
be hardened before night. I told his secretary within a hour, and he
ordered ’em before sundown on my word. Oh, they think high on me--all
on ’em! He dassent refuse to take my orders.
But I’d no need to have worried--no, indeed! I felt ashamed to think I
had let my mind sally back to that old Egyptian Pharaoh.
Martin’s repentance didn’t prove to be short-lived and evanescent--no,
indeed!
He divided his property equally between himself and his little pardner.
He invested his pardner’s money to the best of his knowledge, and every
cent of the interest of that money, and it is a immense sum--millions
of dollars. He uses it only as the steward of his pardner. It all goes
to help the poor--to try to defend ’em from dangers, temporal and
speritual, from want, and from the worst of all dangers--Ignorance and
Crime.
Dear little Silent Pardner! I wonder if you know it? I wonder if, when
grateful hearts rise in prayer, callin’ you the saviour of their lives
and happiness--I wonder if them prayers and grateful thoughts bloom out
in some divine way, as they reach the Heavenly country, so you can see
the desire of your little heart, and know that it is granted?
Are you ever permitted to come down in the stillness of a Summer
evenin’ and stand clost by the side of that white-haired old man,
who grew old so fast after you left him, whose heart yearns for you,
and who is a-tryin’ so faithfully to carry out his little pardner’s
wishes? He sez that sometimes he feels that you are so near to him that
he almost expects to see your face blossom out of the dark, like the
evenin’ star out of the misty twilight. And so he can live, he sez.
Did you stand in the church when Alice wuz married to the man she
loved? A ray of gold light shone out sudden and luminous and lit her
sweet face as she took her solemn vows.
Wuz it you, little Pardner? wuz the joy and glory in your face
permitted to shine for a moment on the one you loved, in the supreme
hour of her life?
We can’t tell this, little Adrian, but we see your work goin’ on from
day to day, and we bless you for it.
We see it in the safety and protection thrown around the masses,
protectin’ ’em from physical and moral ills; in the great free school
which bears your name; in the Adrian Home, where sick and poor children
find a home and tender care; in the University, where your picter hangs
over the doorway--a doorway where any poor, ignorant boy may enter,
and go out a scholar; in the large, plain church, whose best ornament
is the stained-glass winder bearin’ your name in gold letters, where
a pure Christianity is taught to all, rich and poor, and the Blessed
Master is brought near to sad lives by the anointed lips of consecrated
genius--where rich and poor worship the God man together. The poor
givin’ their strength and good-will, the rich givin’ their wealth and
learnin’, and so becomin’ a strong bulwark, protectin’ society from the
high flood of undisciplined passions--Ignorance and Crime.
Do you see it all, little Pardner? Sometimes I think you do.
I am writin’ this at the open winder you looked out of as you sed you
would work for the poor.
And as I think how you have worked for ’em, and are still a-workin’, my
heart is as full of the thought of you, little Adrian, as the voyalets
you loved are filled with their strong, onseen perfume.
And as I set askin’ these questions, the twilight shades are fallin’,
the evenin’ star shines bright above the golden west.
And wuz that the odor of English voyalets that swep’ by the open winder
on the night breeze? There’s a bed of ’em down in the garden. Did the
soft breeze come from that way--or further off?
But I stop and lean out of the winder and say--
“Good-night, little Adrian--good-night, little Pardner--till mornin’.”
And wuz that a soft, fur-off echo, or wuz it my own thoughts that
repeated--“Till mornin’”?
[Illustration: FINIS.]
Other Works by Josiah Allen’s Wife.
Poems.
A Charming Volume of Poetry. By “Josiah Allen’s Wife.”
Beautifully Illustrated by W. H. Gibson and other Artists.
Beautifully bound. Square 12mo, 216 pp. Cloth, $2.00.
“Will win for her an honorable place among American
poets.”--_Chicago Standard._
Samantha Among the Brethren.
By “Josiah Allen’s Wife.” 100 Illustrations. Square 12mo, 452 pp.
Cloth, $2.50.
“It is irresistibly humorous and true.”--_Bishop John P.
Newman._
“It is full of meat as an egg.... Calculated to do immense
good in that department of women’s rights which relates
to her participation in the great work of the Church
of Christ, _beyond the scrubbing and papering of the
meeting-house_.”--_Ex-Judge Noah Davis._
Sweet Cicely;
Or, Josiah Allen as a Politician. A Fascinating Story. Square 12mo, 390
pp. 100 Illustrations. Cloth, $2.00.
“The interest of the book is immense.... Never was such
a defender of women’s rights, never was such an exponent
of women’s wrongs! In Samantha’s pithy, pointed, scornful
utterances we have in very truth the expression of feelings
common to most thoughtful women, well understood among them,
but rarely finding voice except in confidential intercourses
and for sympathetic ears.... Alongside of the fun are
genuine eloquence and profound pathos; we scarcely know
which is the more delightful.”--_The Literary World, London,
Eng._
Samantha at the World’s Fair.
By Josiah Allen’s Wife. Over 100 Illustrations by C. de Grimm. 8vo, 700
pp. Elegantly Bound. Cloth, $2.50; Half Russia, $4.00.
“There is no brighter literary outgrowth of the great event
of 1893 than this volume (‘Samantha at the World’s Fair’)
from the pen of one of America’s happiest humorists.”--_The
Union Signal, Chicago, Ill._
“Aside from the fun of the book, it recites multitudes of
facts of positive value.”--_The Daily Inter-Ocean, Chicago,
Ill._
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO
Transcriber's Notes
A number of typographical errors were corrected silently.
Cover image is in the public domain.
Augmented Table of Contents with “Other Works by Josiah Allen’s Wife”.
Added caption “His Victim” to an illustration based on List of
Illustrations table.