"To tell the truth, I had not thought of myself as dead, and that is
probably where I made the greatest mistake. It did not occur to me, that
you were thinking of yourself as a widow; therefore, I did not realize
the risk. But when the news came of your death, if it were really you,
as I finally made up my mind it must be--"
An indignant gesture, accompanied by a sob, expressed Mrs. Greyfield's
state of feeling on this head.
"I fell into a state of confirmed melancholy, reproaching myself
severely for not having searched the continent over before stopping to
dig gold! though it was for you I was digging it, and our dear boy, whom
I believed alive and well, somewhere, until I received Mr. Seabrook's
letter.
"My dear Anna, I come now to that which will try your feelings; but you
must keep in view that I have the same occasion for complaint. Having
made a comfortable fortune, and feeling miserable about you and the boy,
I concluded to return to the Atlantic States, to visit my old home.
While there I met a lovely and excellent girl, who consented to be my
wife, and I was married the second time. We had one child, a girl, now
eighteen years of age; and then my wife died. I mourned her sincerely,
but not more so than I had mourned you.
"At last, after all these years, news came of you from a reliable
source. The very man to whose charge I committed you when I expected to
die, returned to the States, and from him I heard of your arrival in
Oregon, your marriage, and your subsequent divorce. Painful as this last
news was to my feelings, I set out immediately for California (I had
learned from him that you were probably in this State), and commenced
inquiries. An advertisement of mine met Benton's eye only two days ago,
and you may imagine my pleasure at the discovery of my only and dear
son, so long lost to me. He is a fine, manly fellow, and good; for which
I have to thank you, of course."
"You see, he appropriates Benton at once. Never so much as 'by your
leave.' But Benton will not quit me to follow this new-found father,"
Mrs. Greyfield said, with much feeling.
"He may not be put to the test of a choice. You have a proposition to
consider," I replied. "Let me read it."
"No, no! Yet, read it; what do I care? Go on."
"My daughter, Nellie, is the very picture of her mother, and as sweet
and good as one could desire. Benton seems to be delighted with her for
a sister. And now that the young folks have taken such a fancy to each
other, there is something that I wish to propose to you. It cannot be
expected, after all that has passed, and with the lapse of so many
years, we could meet as if nothing had come between us--"
"Who suffered all this to come between us?" cried Mrs. Greyfield, much
agitated.
"But I trust we can meet as friends, dear friends, and that possibly in
time we may be re-united, as much for our own sakes, as the children's."
"Oh, how can I ever forgive him? Does it not seem to you that if Mr.
Greyfield had done his duty, all this terrible trouble and illegal
marrying would have been avoided? Do you think a man should consider
anything in this world before his wife and children, or fail of doing
his utmost in any circumstances for them? How else is marriage superior
to any illicit relation, if its duties are not sacred and not to be set
aside for anything? I could never have done as he has done, blameless as
he thinks himself."
The condition of Mrs. Greyfield's mind was such that no answer was
written or attempted that day nor the next. She sent a brief dispatch to
Benton, asking him to come home, and come alone. I wished to go away,
thinking she would prefer being left quite to herself under the
circumstances, but she insisted on my remaining until something had been
decided on about the meeting between her and Mr. Greyfield. Benton came
home as requested, and the subject was canvassed in all its bearings.
The decision arrived at was, that an invitation should be sent to Mr.
Greyfield and daughter to visit Mrs. Greyfield for a fortnight.
Everything beyond that was left entirely to the future. When all was
arranged, I took my leave, promising and being promised frequent
letters.
The last time I was at Mrs. Greyfield's, I found there only herself and
her daughter Nellie.
"I have adopted her," she said, "with her father's consent. She is a
charming girl, and I could not bear to leave her motherless. Benton is
very much attached to his father. They are off on a mountaineering
expedition at present, but I hope they will come home before you go
away."
"Are you not going to tell me," I asked, "how you finally settled
matters between Mr. Greyfield and yourself."
"He is a very persistent suitor," she replied, smiling, "I can hardly
tell what to do with him."
"You do not want to break bark over his head?" I said, laughing.
"No; but I do almost wish that since he had stayed away so long he had
never come back. I had got used to my own quiet, old-maid ways. I was
done, or thought I was done, with passion and romance; and now to be
tossed about in this way, on the billows of doubt--to love and not to
love--to feel revengeful and forgiving--to think one way in the morning
and another way by noon, is very tiresome. I really do _not_ know what
to do with him."
I smiled, because I thought the admission was as good as Mr. Greyfield
need desire, for his prospects.
"I think I can understand," I said, "how difficult it must be to get
over all the gaps made by so many years of estrangement--of fancied
death, even. Had you been looking for him for such a length of time,
there would still be a great deal of awkwardness in the meeting, when
you came together again."
"Yes," said Mrs. Greyfield, "it is inevitable. The most artistic bit of
truth in the _Odyssey_ (you see I have read Homer since you called me
PENELOPE), is where the poet describes the difficulty the faithful wife
had in receiving the long-absent, and now changed, Ulysses as her true
husband."
"But she did receive him," I interrupted, "and so will you."
"The minister will have to bless the reception then. And to confess the
whole truth to you, we are corresponding with my friend of long ago in
Portland. He has promised to come down to perform the ceremony, and as
his health is impaired, we have invited him to bring his family, at our
expense, and to remain in our home while Mr. Greyfield and I, with
Benton and Nellie, make a tour to and through Europe."
"How much you and Mr. Greyfield must have to talk over! It will take a
year or two of close association to make you even tolerably well
acquainted again."
"No; the 'talking over' is _tabooed_, and that is why we are going to
travel--to have something else to talk about. You see I am so
unforgiving that I cannot bear to hear Mr. Greyfield's story, and too
magnanimous, notwithstanding, to inflict mine upon him. To put
temptation out of my way, I proposed this European excursion."
"You are commencing a new life," I said. "May it be as happy as your
darkest days were sad. There is one thing you never told me, what became
of Mr. Seabrook."
"I saw his death in a Nevada paper, only a few days ago. He died old,
poor and alone, or so the account ran, in a cabin among the mountains.
'The mills of the gods,' etc., you know?"
"Then I am not to see Mr. Greyfield?"
"O yes; if you will stay until Mr. ---- comes from Portland. I shall be
glad of your presence on that occasion. Mr. Greyfield, you must
understand, is under orders to keep out of the way until that time
arrives. You can be of service to me, if you will stay."
I staid and saw them off to Europe, then went on my way to Lake Tahoe,
to meet other friends; but I have a promise from this strangely reunited
couple, to spend a summer in Oregon, when they return from their
trans-Atlantic tour; at which time I hope to be able to remove from Mrs.
Greyfield's mind the painful impression derived from her former
acquaintance with the city of my adoption.