father; on me alone must rest my sin, for had I obeyed your kind
counsels, and those of my dearest friend, (pointing to me) I should
never have been the guilty wretch I am to-day." Turning to me, he said:
"Many a time within the last few months have I called to mind the
lightness with which I laughed away your fears for my safety, when I
left home for the city. O! that I had listened to your friendly
warning, and followed the path which you pointed out for me. When I
first came to the great city, I was charmed with the novelty of its
never ceasing scenes of amusement and pleasure. I began by mingling with
company, and participating in amusements, which, to say the least of
them, were questionable; and I soon found my salary inadequate to meet
my fast increasing wants for money; and, as many an unfortunate youth
has done before, I began the vice of gambling with the hope of being one
of the lucky ones. My tempters, no doubt, understood their business, and
at first allowed me to win from them considerable sums of money; till,
elated with my success, I began playing for higher stakes, and when I
lost them, I grew desperate, and it was then that I began adding the sin
of theft to the no less heinous one of gambling. But it is no use now to
talk of the past; my character is blasted, and all I wish is to die and
hide my guilt in the grave, and yet I am ill prepared to die." He became
so much excited, that we endeavored to soothe him by kind and
encouraging words. His father bade him amend his conduct for the future,
and he would freely forgive and forget the past. In my pity for my early
friend, I almost forgot the wrong he had done, and thought only of the
loved companion of my boyhood and youth. I cannot describe my feelings,
as I gazed upon the shame-stricken young man, whom I had so often
caressed in the days of our boyish affection and confidence. Little did
I then think I should ever behold him thus. The utmost secrecy was
observed by all parties; and it was decided that we would remain for the
night with Mr. Worthing, and, accompanied by Arthur, set out early the
next morning on our homeward journey. But it was ordered otherwise. The
next morning Arthur was raving in the delirium of brain fever, brought
on doubtless by the mental torture he had endured. Mr. Sinclair
dispatched a message, informing his wife of Arthur's illness, and three
days later she stood by the bed-side of her son. For several days the
fever raged. We allowed no strangers to watch by him, for in his
delirium his mind dwelt continually upon the past, and no one but
ourselves must listen to his words. Mr. Worthing was very kind, and
shared the care of the poor young man with his parents and myself. At
length came the crisis of his disorder. "Now," said the physician, "for
a few hours, his life will hang, as it were, upon a thread. If the
powers of life are not too far exhausted by the disease he may rally,
but I have many fears, for he is brought very low. All the encouragement
I dare offer is, that while there is life there is hope." He sank into a
deep slumber, and I took my place to watch by him during the night. Mr.
Worthing persuaded his parents to seek a few hours rest, as they were
worn out with fatigue and anxiety; and exacting from me a promise that I
would summon them if the least change for the worse should take place,
they retired, and I was left to watch alone by my friend. All I could
do, was to watch and wait, as the hours passed wearily on. A little
before midnight the physician softly entered, and stood with me at his
bed-side; soon after he languidly opened his eyes, and in a whisper he
pronounced my name. As I leaned over him, and eagerly scanned his
countenance, I perceived that the delirium of fever was gone. The
physician, fearing the effect upon him of the least excitement, made a
motion to me enjoining silence, and mixing a quieting cordial, held it
to his lips. He eagerly quaffed the cooling draught, and again fell into
a quiet slumber. "Now," said the physician, "I have a faint hope that he
may recover, but he is so weak that any excitement would prove fatal;
all depends upon keeping him perfectly quiet for the next few hours."
The doctor departed and again I was left alone to watch over his
slumber. Before morning, anxiety brought Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair to the
room, to learn if there had been any change. In a whisper I informed
them of the favorable symptoms he had evinced upon waking, and persuaded
them again to retire from the apartment. When Arthur again awoke, the
favorable symptoms still continued, and the physician entertained strong
hopes of his recovery. By degrees he was allowed to converse for a few
moments at a time. It seemed to him, he said, as though he had awakened
from a frightful dream; and he begged to know how long he had been ill,
and what had happened during the time. We were all very cautious to say
nothing to excite him; and by degrees as his mind grew stronger,
everything came back clearly to his mind, his father's visit, and the
circumstances which had brought him to the city. It is needless for me
to dwell upon the long period, while he lay helpless as an infant,
watched over by his fond mother, who felt that he had almost been given
back from the dead. But he continued slowly to recover, and being unable
to remain longer, I left his parents with him, and returned to my home
in Littleton, and soon after went back to my employer. Mr. and Mrs.
Sinclair remained with Arthur till he was able to bear the journey to
Littleton, and it was to them a happy day, when they arrived safely at
their home, accompanied by their son, who seemed to them almost as one
restored from the dead. The unfortunate circumstances connected with
Arthur's illness, were a secret locked in the bosoms of the few faithful
friends to whom it was known. Arthur arose from that bed of sickness a
changed man, and it was ever after to him a matter of wonder how he
could have been so far led astray, and he felt the most unbounded
gratitude to Mr. Worthing, for the kindness and consideration he had
shown him. His father did quite an extensive business as a merchant in
Littleton, and as Arthur became stronger he assisted in the store; and
after a time his father gave him a partnership in the business, which
rendered his again leaving home unnecessary. A correspondence, varied
occasionally by friendly visits, was kept up between the Sinclairs and
the family of Mr. Worthing; for Arthur never could forget the debt of
gratitude he owed his former employer. I have little more to tell, and I
will bring my long and I fear somewhat tedious story to a close, by
relating one more event in the life of my friend. I resided at quite a
long distance from Littleton, and some two years after Arthur's return
home, I was surprised by receiving an invitation from him to act as
groomsman at his wedding, and the bride was to be Miss Merril. I know
not exactly how the reconciliation took place. But I understood that
Arthur first sought an interview with the young lady, and humbly
acknowledged the wrong of which he had been guilty, saying, what was
indeed true, that he had ever loved her, and he knew not what
infatuation influenced him in his former conduct. Many censured Miss
Merril for her want of spirit, as they termed it, in again receiving his
addresses, but I was too well pleased by this happy termination of the
affair to censure any one connected with it. The wedding-day was a happy
one to those most deeply concerned, and such being the case, the opinion
of others was of little consequence; and the clouds which had for a time
darkened their sky, left no shadow upon the sunshine of their wedded
life. Arthur and his father were prospered in their business, and for
many years they all lived happily together. In process of time his
parents died, and Arthur soon after sold out his share in the business
to a younger brother, as he had received a tempting offer to remove to
Boston, and enter into partnership with Mr. Worthing's son, as the old
gentleman had some time before resigned any active share in the
business. When Arthur learned their wishes he was very anxious to return
to them; "For," said he, "it is to Mr. Worthing I owe my salvation from
disgrace and ruin." For many years he has carried on a lucrative
business with the son of his former employer and friend. An interesting
family of sons and daughters have grown up around him, and I may with
truth call them a happy family. Old Mr. Worthing has been for some years
dead; and his earthly remains quietly repose amid the peaceful shades of
Mount Auburn. My own life has been a busy one, and twenty years have
passed away since I met with Arthur Sinclair; but the object of this
journey is to visit my early friend, who as well as myself is now an old
man." As the old gentleman finished the story, to which we had all
listened with much interest, we arrived at our stopping-place for the
night, and fatigued with the day's journey, we were soon conducted to
our several apartments. The next morning we parted with the kind old
man, as his onward route lay in another direction, but I could not help
following him in thought, and picturing the joyous meeting between
himself and his early friend Arthur Sinclair.
THE SNOW STORM.
The event I am about to relate, happened many years ago; but I have
often heard it mentioned by those to whom all the circumstances were
well known; and when listening to this story, I have often thought that
there is enough of interest attached to many events which took place
during the period of the early settlement of that portion of Eastern
Canada which borders on the River St. Francis, to fill volumes, were
they recorded.
The morning had been clear and pleasant, but early in the afternoon the
sky became overcast with dark clouds, and for several hours the snow
fell unceasingly, and now the darkness of night was added to the gloomy
scene. As the night set in, the snow continued to fall in a thick
shower, and a strong easterly wind arose, which filled the air with one
blinding cloud of drifting snow; and the lights in the scattered
habitations, in the then primitive settlement of D. could scarcely be
distinguished amid the thick darkness. It was a fearful night to be
abroad upon that lonely and almost impassible road; and Mrs. W. fully
realized the peril to which her husband was exposed on that inclement
night. He had set out that morning, on foot, to visit a friend, who
resided at a distance of several miles, intending to return to his home
at an early hour in the evening. It was a lonely road over which he had
to pass; the habitations were few and far between, and as the storm
increased with the approach of night. Mrs. W. strongly hoped that her
husband had been persuaded to pass the night with his friend; for she
feared that, had he been overtaken by the darkness of night, he would
perish in the storm; and the poor woman was in a state of painful
anxiety and suspense. The supper-table was spread, but Mrs. W. was
unable to taste food; and, giving the children their suppers, she
awaited with intense anxiety the return of her husband. The storm
increased till it was evident that it was one of unusual severity, even
for the rigorous climate of Canada, and, as the wind shook the windows
of their dwelling, the children often exclaimed in tones of terror: "O!
what will become of poor father if he is out in this storm." Bye-and-bye
the tired children fell asleep, and Mrs. W. was left alone by her
fireside. She endeavoured to quiet her fears by thinking him safe in the
house of his friend, but she could not drive away the thought that he
had set out upon his return home, and she feared, if such was the case,
he had met his death in that pitiless storm. She was two miles from any
neighbour, surrounded by her family of young children; so all she could
do was to wait and watch as the hours wore on. Sleep was out of the
question, and the dawn of day found her still keeping her lonely vigil.
As the Sun rose the wind calmed, but the thick drifts of snow rendered
it impossible for her to leave the house, and she watched anxiously if
any one might chances to pass, to whom she could apply for assistance in
gaining tidings of her husband. Alas! her fears of the previous night
were but too well founded. He _had_ perished in the storm. His friend
tried his utmost to persuade him to remain for the night when the storm
began, but he was anxious to return to his home, fearing the anxiety of
his family: and he left his friend's house about four o'clock in the
afternoon. The weather was intensely cold, as well as stormy, and, owing
to the depth of snow which had already fallen, he could make but slow
progress, and, when overtaken by darkness and the increasing tempest,
benumbed with cold, and blinded by the whirling drifts of snow, he sank
down by the road side to die, and the suspense of his wife was at length
relieved by the painful certainty of his fate.
About noon on the day succeeding the storm, as Dr S. was slowly urging
his horse onward, in order to Visit a patient who resided in the
vicinity, he observed some object lying almost concealed in the snow.
Stopping his horse, he left his sleigh to examine it, and was
horrorstruck to find it the body of a man. Thinking that, possibly,
life was not extinct, he took the body into his sleigh, and made all
possible haste to the nearest dwelling, where every means was used for
the recovery of Mr. W.; but all was of no avail, he was frozen to death.
It was the kind physician himself who first bore the sad tidings to Mrs.
W. When the lifeless body of the husband and father was borne to his own
dwelling, I have heard the scene described by those who witnessed it, as
most heart-rending. On the day of his burial the settlers in the
vicinity came from a long distance to pay their last tribute of respect
to one who had been much esteemed as a friend and neighbour. The widow
of Mr. W. is still living, but she now is of a very advanced age. His
children grew up and settled in various places, and the elder ones among
them retained a distinct recollection of the sad death of their father.
THE NEW YEAR.
Another year has just glided away, and it seems but as yesterday that we
stood at its threshold, and looked forward over its then seemingly
lengthened way, and fancy was busy with many plans and projects for
future happiness and delight. We looked forward through the whole border
of its months, weeks, days, and hours, and life grew bright with pleased
anticipation. The year has now passed away, and how few, very few, of
all our bright hopes have been realized. With how many of us have
unexpected and unwished for events taken the place of those to which we
looked forward with so much delight.
As the hours and moments of the past year have slowly glided into the
ocean of the past, they have borne with them the treasures of many a
fond heart. The sun shines as brightly as ever, the moon and stars still
look placidly down upon the sleeping earth, and life is the same as it
has ever been; but for these their work is over, and they have done with
time. As I sat watching the fast gathering shadows over the last night
of the old year, I fell into a sort of waking dream, and I seemed to
hear the slow measured tread of one wearily approaching. Turning my eyes
in the direction of the approaching footsteps. I beheld the form of a
very aged man; his countenance appeared somewhat familiar, yet it was
furrowed by many wrinkles, and on his once high and beautiful forehead
were the deep lines of corroding care and anxiety. His step was slow and
heavy, and he leaned for support on his now well-nigh failing staff. He
bore the marks of extreme feebleness, and gazed forward with a manner of
timidity and uncertainty, and on his changeful countenance was expressed
all the multitudinous emotions of the human breast. His garments had
once been white and shining, but they were now stained and darkened by
travel, and portions of them trailed in the dust. As he drew nigh I
observed that the carried in his hand a closely written scroll, on which
was recorded the events of the past year. As I gazed upon the record, I
read of life begun, and of death in every circumstance and condition of
mortal being, of happiness and misery, of love and hate, of good and
evil,--all mingling their different results in that graphic record; and
I trembled as my own name met my view, with the long list of
opportunities for good unimproved, together with the many sins, both of
omission and commission, of which I had been guilty during the past
year; but there was nothing left out,--the events in the life of every
individual member of the human family were there all recorded in
legible characters. As the midnight hour struck, the aged, man who
typified the old year faded from my view, and, almost before I was aware
of the change, youth and beauty, stood smiling before me. The old year
gone, the new year had begun. His robes where white and glistening, his
voice was mirthful, and his step buoyant; health and vigor braced his
limbs. He too, bare in his hand a scroll, but white as the unsullied
snow; not a line was yet traced upon its pure surface except the title,
Record of 1872. I gazed on its fresh and gladsome visage with mingled
emotions of sorrow and joy, and I breathed my prayer for forgiveness,
for the follies and sins of the departed year.
End of Project Gutenberg's Stories and Sketches, by Harriet S. Caswell