PENITENT, AND FORGIVEN.
On a stormy evening, like this, we were sitting together in this room
when our attention was arrested by a timid knock at the door. My father
opened the door, and I heard some one, in a feeble voice, ask permission
to enter the house. My father conducted the stranger in, and gave him a
seat by our cheerful fire. When the stranger entered the room, and I
gained a view of his face, I at once knew that I stood face to face with
George Almont. When I suddenly pronounced his name, my father made a
hasty movement as if to speak with anger, but I gave him an imploring
look and he remained silent. Although greatly changed, it was,
nevertheless, George Almont who was now in our presence. After a few
moments of silence, for after my exclamatory utterance of his name,
neither of us had spoken, he turned his eyes, in which the light of
disease painfully burned, and said,--'You do well not to reproach me;
the time for that is past, for I am, as you may see, on the verge of the
grave. I have striven with disease, that I might reach this place, and
if possible, obtain your forgiveness 'ere my eyes shall close in death.
I know I have darkened a life, which, but for me, might have been bright
and joyous. It is too much for me to expect your forgiveness, yet I
would hear you pronounce that blessed word before I die. You may _now_
believe me when I say, that it was my love for you which led me to
deceive you. Knowing my wife's dread of any publicity being attached to
her name, I thought the knowledge that I had a living wife would never
reach you. Of the sinfulness of my conduct I did not at that time pause
to think. I now sincerely thank my wife for preventing a marriage which
in the sight of God, must have been but mockery. I now speak truly when
I say to you, I never loved my wife; I married her for money. As I had
no affection for her, my former habits of dissipation soon regained
their hold on me. It will afford me some comfort to know that I have
made strictly true confession to you. I have not, to my knowledge, a
living relation in the wide world; and, till I met with you, I knew not
the meaning of the word love; and I still believe that, had I met you
earlier in life, your influence would have caused me to become a useful
man and an ornament to my profession. But it is useless to talk now of
what cannot be recalled. When I left this village, years ago, I was
equally indifferent as to whither I went or what I did. I felt no wish
to return to my wife; and, had I been then inclined, I well knew the
just contempt and scorn I should meet with, although I believe she had
once loved me. But I knew them to be a proud family, and I felt certain
they would never overlook the disgrace and sorrow I had brought upon
them. I have never since seen my wife, but I lately learned that she,
with the rest of her family, removed to a western city some years ago.
Since leaving this place I have wandered far and wide, never remaining
long in one place. My mind has never been at rest, and, for that reason,
I have been a lonely wanderer all these years. But my dissipated habits
have done their work, and I feel that my earthly course is well nigh
ended. I have dragged my feeble body to your dwelling, with the hope of
obtaining your forgiveness 'ere I am summoned into eternity.'
"While listening to him, I had seated myself at my father's side. As
he concluded, I said to my father, in a low voice,--'If we forgive not
our fellow-mortal, how can we expect the forgiveness of our Heavenly
Father for our many sins?' I rose from my seat and extending to him
hand, said,--'You have, Mr. Almont, my entire forgiveness for all the
sorrow you have caused me, and I hope you will also obtain the
forgiveness of God.' My father also came forward, and, taking his hand,
granted him his forgiveness. When he finished speaking he seemed
entirely exhausted. My father led him into the adjoining room, and
assisted him to lie down upon his own bed. He also gave him a little
wine, which seemed somewhat to revive him. Observing that he rapidly
grew worse, my father summoned our physician, who was an old friend, and
knew all the circumstances connected with our former acquaintance with
Mr. Almont. When the physician arrived, he expressed the opinion that
death was fast approaching; said he,--'I do not think he will see
another sun rise,'--and he did not. He said but little, and suffered but
little pain; but he sank rapidly. His mind was clear to the last. A
short time before his death, he turned his eyes, over which the film of
death was gathering, to my father, and, with much difficulty,
said,--'Pray--for--me.' My father knelt and implored the mercy of heaven
on the soul that was departing. I could not bear that he should leave
the world without one word in regard to what were his feelings in the
near prospect of death. Going near, I said,--'Do you feel willing to
trust yourself to the Saviour's mercy to penitent sinners?' He gave a
sign of assent, and a more peaceful expression settled on his
countenance. 'I know,' said he in a whisper, 'that I have been a
grievous sinner for many long years, yet the forgiveness guaranteed by
you, whom I have so deeply injured, gives me a hope that God will also
forgive the sins, for which I now trust I feel deeply penitent.' After
this, he lay for a short time in a kind of stupor. Suddenly, he opened
his eyes, and they rested upon my father, who stood by his bed-side. His
lips moved slightly, and my father distinguished the words,--'Pray for
me.' He again knelt and prayed earnestly, in a subdued voice, for the
spirit that was then entering the unknown future. A few moments after,
and the soul of George Almont was summoned to leave its earthly
tenement. When the small procession that had followed his remains to
their last resting-place turned from the new-made grave, the two
following lines from Gray's Elegy came unbidden to my mind:--
No further seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode.'
"Perhaps, Clara," continued Miss Simmonds, "you may, in your walks
through what is now called 'The Old Burial-ground,' a short distance
from the village, have observed a lonely grave, marked by a plain marble
headstone, and shaded by the branches of an aged tree; you may have
noticed this grave, and never given a thought to the poor mortal who
sleeps there. That is the grave of George Almont. Three years later, my
father died, and I was left alone. Since that period I have lived
sometimes alone, and occasionally spending a short time with any family
who happen to require my services, as I find it necessary to do
something for my own support. I have been able to support myself in
comfort and respectability, and even occasionally to bestow charity in a
small way to those less favored than myself. I know not why I felt so
much inclined to relate these circumstances to you this evening, for you
are the first stranger to whom I ever related the story connected with
my early life. I am no longer young, but the memory of my early sorrows
time can never efface; although, aided by religion, I have learned
resignation and cheerfulness. One thing more," continued Miss Simmonds,
"and I have done."
Rising, she opened a drawer and, taking a locket therefrom, she placed
it in my hand, saying,--
"You may, if you wish, Clara, look upon a picture of George Almont,
taken when he was twenty-five years of age."
Opening the locket, I looked upon the picture of what must have been a
very fine looking young man. I never beheld a more prepossessing
countenance. No one who looked upon that picture would have dreamed of
the sad story attached to the life of the original. Closing the locket,
I gave it back to Miss Simmonds, who replaced it in the drawer without
once looking upon the picture it contained. In conclusion, Miss Simmonds
said,--
"I hope you are not wearied with an old woman's story."
I assured her that it had deeply interested me, although I feared the
recital had been painful to her.