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THE PATH OF DUTY,
AND OTHER STORIES,
BY
H. S. CASWELL,
Montreal:
JOHN LOVELL, 28 AND 25 ST. NICHOLAS STREET.
1874.
CONTENTS.
CLARA ROSCOM; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY;-- Page.
CHAPTER I.
A Sudden Bereavement 1
CHAPTER II.
Success at School 6
CHAPTER III.
Clara at Mrs. Wentworth's Boarding School 12
CHAPTER IV.
Governess in Mr. Leighton's Family 18
CHAPTER V.
Willie Leighton's Return from England 26
CHAPTER VI.
An Evening Party 32
CHAPTER VII.
Failing Health of Clara's Mother 39
CHAPTER VIII.
A Bright Dream and Peaceful End 45
CHAPTER IX.
Friendly Attentions 56
CHAPTER X.
A Surprise 60
CHAPTER XI.
Embarrassing Interviews 65
CHAPTER XII.
A New England Home 76
CHAPTER XIII.
New Occupations 83
CHAPTER XIV.
School at Mill Town 91
CHAPTER XV.
A Happy Re-union 96
CHAPTER XVI.
Miss Simmond's Story 105
CHAPTER XVII.
Penitent and Forgiven 117
CHAPTER XVIII.
A New Joy 123
CHAPTER XIX.
Uncle Charles 127
CHAPTER XX.
Lights and Shadows 132
CHAPTER XXI.
Reconciled 140
CHAPTER XXII.
Clara's Marriage 145
CHAPTER XXIII.
A Pleasing Incident 148
TERRY DOLAN 151
THE FAITHFUL WIFE 163
EMMA ASHTON 175
THOUGHTS ON AUTUMN 199
WANDERING DAVY 205
LOOKING ON THE DARK SIDE 215
EDWARD BARTON 223
THE WEARY AT REST 233
THE RAINY AFTERNOON 239
THE STUDENT'S DREAM 251
UNCLE EPHRAIM 257
STORY OF A LOG CABIN 265
HAZEL-BROOK FARM 281
OLD RUFUS 301
THE DIAMOND RING 311
THE UNFORTUNATE MAN 323
THE OLD SCHOOLHOUSE 329
ARTHUR SINCLAIR 335
THE SNOW STORM 355
THE NEW YEAR 361
EARNEST HARWOOD; OR, THE ADOPTED SON 367
CHAPTER I.
A SUDDEN BEREAVEMENT.
"Awake, my dear child, awake!" These were the words I heard: I started
up, gazing in a bewildered manner into the face of my mother, who had,
with some difficulty, succeeded in arousing me from the sweet, healthful
sleep of childhood. My mother drew nigh to me and whispered, "My dear
Clara, your papa is dying." With a frightened cry, I threw my arms
around her neck, and begged her to tell me what had happened. I was
unable to comprehend the meaning of her words. Since my earliest
recollection, my father had never experienced a day's illness, and so
the reader may be able to form some idea of the shock occasioned by her
words--uttered, as they were, at the hour of midnight. When my mother
had succeeded in soothing me, in some degree, to calmness, she informed
me, in a voice choked with sobs, which, for my sake, she tried to
suppress, that my father had, two hours since, been stricken with
apoplexy, in so severe a form that his life was despaired of. She
further informed me that his attending physician thought he would not
live to see the light of another morning. Well do I remember the nervous
terror with which I clung to my mother as we entered my father's
apartment, and the icy chill which diffused itself over my body, as I
gazed upon the fearfully changed features of my father. I had never
before seen death in any form. I believe the first view of death is more
or less terrible to every child; it certainly was terrible for me to
first view death imprinted upon the countenance of a fond father. I have
ever since thought that my father recognized me when my mother led me to
his bed-side; but power of utterance was gone. It was a fearful trial to
me, who had seen but ten years of life. After the first shock, a strange
calm took possession of me. Though many years have passed since that
period, I remember, as though it were but yesterday, how I sat during
those long hours, scarcely for an instant removing my eyes from my
father's face, but shed not a tear; for, after the first burst of grief,
tears refused to come to my relief. Just as the day began to dawn I
heard the physician say, in a whisper, to a kind neighbor who stood by,
I think he is going. At that moment my father opened his eyes, and,
looking upward with a pleasant smile, expired without a struggle. I
could never clearly remember how I passed the intervening days between
my father's death and burial. I have an indistinct recollection of the
hushed voices and soft footsteps of friends and neighbors, who kindly
came to aid in performing the last offices of love and friendship to the
remains of my departed father. I also remember being led by my almost
heart-broken mother into the darkened room, where lay the lifeless body
of my father, now prepared for the grave; but I have a more vivid
recollection of standing with my mother beside an open grave, and
hearing our pastor, in a solemn voice, utter the words, "Earth to
earth--ashes to ashes--dust to dust." Oh! the falling of that first
earth upon my father's coffin, shall I ever forget the sound? Child as I
was, it seemed to me that my heart would break; but tears, the first I
had shed since my father's death, came to my relief. Those blessed
tears. I may well call them blessed, since the physician afterwards told
my mother that they saved either my reason or my life. Kind friends
besought my mother and me to allow ourselves to be conveyed home and not
await the filling up of the grave. But no. We could not leave the spot
till the last earth was thrown upon the grave, and a mound covered with
grassy sods was to be seen, where a little before was only a mournful
cavity. Then indeed we felt that he was gone, and that we must return to
our desolate home--the home which ever before his presence had filled
with joy and gladness.
I must pass over, with a few words only, the first year of our
bereavement, as even now I shudder to recall the feeling of loneliness
and desolation which took possession of us, when we found ourselves left
alone in the home where everything reminded us so strongly of the
departed one. There was a small apartment adjoining our usual
sitting-room which my father was wont to call his study, and, being fond
of books, he used there to pass much of his leisure time. It was quite a
long time after his death before my mother could enter that apartment.
She said to me one day, "Will you go with me, Clara, to your father's
study?" I replied, "Can you go _there_, Mamma?" "Yes, dear," said my
mother, and led the way to the door. No one had entered that room since
my father left it on the last night of his life, the door having been
locked on the day succeeding his death. As my mother softly turned the
key and opened the door, it seemed almost that we stood in my father's
presence, so vividly did the surroundings of that room recall him to our
minds. There stood his table and chair, and his writing desk stood upon
the table, and several books and papers were scattered carelessly upon
the table. The last book he had been reading lay open as he had left it;
it was a volume of Whitfield's sermons; it was a book which my father
valued highly, and is now a cherished keep-sake of my own. My mother
seemed quite overcome with grief. I know she had striven daily to
conceal her grief when in my presence, for she knew how I grieved for my
father; and she was aware that her tears would only add to my sorrow, so
for my sake it was that she forced herself to appear calm--almost
cheerful; but upon this occasion her grief was not to be checked. She
bowed her head upon the table, while convulsive sobs shook her frame. I
tried, in my childish way, to comfort her. I had never seen her so much
moved since my father's death. When she became more composed, she rose,
and I assisted her in dusting and arranging the furniture of the room;
and after this first visit to the room, we no longer avoided entering
it. Since quite a young man my father had been employed as book-keeper
in a large mercantile house in the city of Philadelphia, where we
resided. As he had ever proved trustworthy and faithful to the interests
of his employers, they had seen fit, upon his marriage, to give him an
increase of salary, which enabled him to purchase a small, but neat and
convenient dwelling in a respectable street in Philadelphia, where we
had lived in the enjoyment of all the comforts, and with many of the
luxuries of life, to the time of the sad event which left me fatherless
and my mother a widow. I had never, as yet, attended any school. My
mother had been my only teacher, and as her own education had been
thorough, she was amply qualified for the task.