It touched the honest heart of her son, and he said: “Mother, I know
there’s a great sorrow you wish to keep from me. I have found out that
my father is living, but why he is an exile from his home I know not, as
you have always avoided telling me of him.”
Paul looked wistfully at his mother, hoping she would respond favorably
to his last few words and tell him something about his father, whose
picture hung over the piano, in the parlor. She had taught him to love
it and call it papa, yet would always avoid telling anything about him
when Paul in childish prattle would say: “Mamma, where is my papa?”
The answer was always the same: “Paul, my darling son, your papa is
gone, gone;” then would break out weeping violently.
His childish questions were quickly hushed, as it always awed him into
silence to see his mother in trouble. Yet the same thought had grown up
with him, and in later years had troubled him very much. “Why does not
mother tell me more about my father—whether he is dead or alive;” these
were his thoughts.
He was sitting under a tree one Sunday evening musing, when he exclaimed
aloud: “Is my father dead or alive? Why does mother not tell me and not
keep me in misery?”
An old negro servant was passing by and heard him. He went quietly to
him, and laying his hand on Paul’s shoulder said: “Young massa, fadda is
alibe and is a roving ober the earf, missa and massa had a quarrel and
massa went away when you was a little babe. He laid you in my arms and
said, ‘Pompey, watch ober dis boy as if he was your own, and God will
bless you always; and my prayer will always be for you and my poor
little boy, who will neber know he has a fadder.’”
Great tears rolled down the negro’s dusky cheeks and fell on the young
man’s shoulder as he said: “Paul, I has always watched you grow up to be
a man, and a good, kind man you is, too, and now I is ready to die.”
“No, no,” answered Paul, “do not say die, Pompey. You have tried to fill
the place of father to me, and I can remember many acts of kindness you
have shown to me in my childhood and I want you to live long with me,”
and he grasped the hand of his faithful old servant.
This was how Paul came to know his father was living; and when he was
last speaking to his mother and she did not say anything about his
father he turned to go and she saw he was deeply moved: she said, “Paul,
who is this little girl you spoke so highly of?”
“I do not know, mother, but perhaps I shall before the week is out.” So
saying, he went slowly to the barn.
He was the owner of a fine farm of two hundred acres, surrounded by the
beautiful forest. Here he had lived ever since he could remember. It had
always seemed strange to him why his mother would not live in the city.
She would only go to town occasionally and always avoided company while
there. She seemed very low-spirited at times, and Paul many times
wondered what made her act so strange. She had given him a fine
education and taught him to be a good farmer, as she thought he would be
compelled personally to go to farming to save the farm, as she, a few
years before the opening of our story, had mortgaged it to save her
father from ruin. She had always managed to pay the interest on it in
the strictest secrecy, always preserving the papers in a little drawer
in the closet in the garret. She thought no one knew where it was. Paul
knew nothing of what o’er-shadowed his birthplace. Happy was he at the
age of twenty-one when his mother deeded him the farm, saying, “My son,
I freely give this beautiful mansion and large farm to you, my only
child. I know you love your mother and will take care of her as long as
she lives, and when she is dead will place a plain marble stone at her
grave to mark the resting place of her who gave you birth.”
“Yes, mother,” answered her son. “Never will I forsake you or do aught
to give you pain;” and so far he had kept his word.
At this time or period in his career, time was changing with him; there
was a little being stepping between him and his mother, or in other
words his love was being divided between them. He dearly loved the
mother who had nursed him up to manhood and freely resolved ever to do
only what was just and right by her. He went to the barn to see his
beautiful team of horses, a finer span of blacks there was not for miles
around. They were the envy of all the boys in the country. Whenever he
drove out to parties they always attracted attention and comment, and
their owner was highly esteemed for his true manliness. All the girls
said he was too fastidious, as none of them could please him so well as
to keep him from fishing. At last all the girls of his acquaintance said
he could never be suited. At last his fastidious taste was pleased. The
lovely, dreamy girl he met by the lake had won his honest heart. As he
cared for his horses he was deeply thinking of her whom he saw at the
lake, and he mused: “I will saddle Nellie and go to town this evening by
the way of Hilton’s, and perhaps I will see or hear of this city cousin,
as I am very anxious to see this little lady.”
Hastily throwing the saddle on his horse he brought him out of the barn,
and handed the reins to his faithful old servant, who was standing near
by, and went and told his mother of his intentions, omitting of course
his going by the way of Hilton’s. As he came out of the house and took
the horse by the bridle, Pompey said, “Where now, massa Paul, at dis
time ob day.”
“To see my girl and tell her what a good old boy you are,” said Paul,
laughing as he went away.
“Bless his young heart; just like his fadder when a boy. How I lobe him.
If he only knowed what I does, how sad he would be. I can neber tell
him, but will watch all the same;” thus mused Pompey as he went out to
see if everything was all right, before retiring.
Paul rode quickly down the road and soon Hilton’s fine farm was in
sight. As he passed slowly by the house he heard someone singing. He
stopped and listened, and these words came floating out on the evening
breeze:
But drops of grief can e’er repay
The debt of love I owe.
Here, Lord, I give myself away—
’Tis all that I can do.
As the sound of the sweet voice died away, he rode off saying, “It is
her voice, and it sounds as melancholy as it did down by the lake.” His
whole soul seemed to go out to her; his heart was beating violently, as
the words just uttered seemed to echo through his whole being. “Can such
bliss ever be mine to enjoy? If I can only win the little girl I saw
today, I shall be the happiest man on earth.” Thus the young man mused
until the village was in sight. He rode up to one of the principal
stores, when Ralph Harding, an old chum, came up to him saying, “Paul,
have you had a bid to Hilton’s to a party Friday night?” Not waiting for
an answer he said: “I have, and I am going too. They say there is going
to be a New York girl there, and won’t we have jolly fun. She will call
us ‘moss backs’ and stick up her nose at us. They say she is so
aristocratic that a fellow can’t talk with her, even. Anyway, I am going
up to see her.”
Paul stayed to hear no more, as he said: “You had better stay away from
there or keep your foolish clack to yourself, as no decent man would
talk as you do about a person he never saw.”
“Perhaps you have seen her and fallen in love with her, as you speak in
such high terms of her,” answered Ralph, winking knowingly.
“I have never had the honor of seeing her as I know of. What would
Warren Hilton say if he heard what you say about his cousin? He would
take you for less than a gentleman,” said Paul, springing lightly on his
horse.
“I don’t know and I don’t care; better go and tell him,” said Ralph in a
sneering tone.
“Sir,” answered Paul, “it is a very foolish plan to strike a fool, or I
would pitch you in the street,” springing from his horse down on the
sidewalk as he said: “Ralph, you and I have never had any words before,
and it is very strange we should now, over a stranger; yet I cannot hear
you speak ill of a woman you know no harm of. I never heard you speak so
hateful before of anyone. Why should you now, Ralph?”
“I don’t know,” said Ralph meekly. “I will take it all back, and we will
be friends as of yore if you choose.”
“Thanks,” answered Paul; “kind words are better any time than cruel
ones. My mother always told me to shun a quarrel, and I would find it
better in the end, as no good ever sprung out of one. I must be going,
as it is nearly nine o’clock and I will not get home now until ten and
mother will be very anxious about me,” said Paul. “I would like to see
you at the party, Ralph, as I am going too, if mother is as well as
usual. She has not been very well lately. She went to town some time
ago, and since then has been very poorly.”
“I am very sorry,” answered Ralph, and he felt deeply moved as he said:
“Paul, your mother is all the relative you have living, and it would be
very bad indeed to see her die. She has been a good, kind mother to you
and you would miss her very much.”
“Yes,” answered Paul, “a kinder mother there never was, and may she live
long to see what a dutiful son she has.” As he said this tears were in
his eyes. “Good night, Ralph!” Suiting the action to the word he sprang
lightly on his horse and rode away. He went homeward thinking of all
Ralph had said about Warren’s cousin and his mother, and he was deeply
troubled. His mother he loved deeply and feared for her health. He soon
arrived and all were to bed except his mother who met him at the door,
saying: “My son, I am very glad to see you come.”
“Why, mother, did you think the wolves would get me?” said her son
laughing, as he bent down and kissed her. “You see I am here and looking
well, so you need not worry any more, but go right to bed, as you are
very pale. Mother, have you any objections to my going to John Hilton’s
to a party Friday night? I will not stay long.”
“No, my son, I should be pleased to have you go, as it is very lonesome
for you to stay here all the time with only me as company,” said his
mother, the tears springing to her eyes.
“No, no, mother, it is not lonesome here. It would be, though, if I had
no mother to kiss me good night.”
He went to his mother and kissed her again, saying: “Drive those tears
away, dear mother, and let me see you smile again. You have been
thinking too deeply about me since I went away this evening.”
If he only knew what troubled her day and night he would have been
troubled too, but as it were he only thought it was because he went away
and left her alone, which he seldom did in the evening, lately. He went
to bed thinking of all that had transpired since morning—the little lady
he met by the lake—Ralph’s cruel and kind words—and seeing his mother in
tears, which he seldom ever did.
“’Tis strange, very strange,” mused Paul as he fell asleep.
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