After placing the picture carefully in his pocket he picked up the
papers one by one and read each of them carefully. The first proved to
be the marriage certificate of his parents; the second and several
others the receipts of the interest paid on the mortgage before spoken
of; the last was a letter in the familiar handwriting of his mother.
With the trembling hands he opened it. It read thus:
“My dear son and only child: My career on earth is nearly run; I
feel it my duty to make an explanation. I sincerely hope I may
find courage to tell you all about your father and the secret
mortgage, but if anything should happen this note will be found
and explain my strange conduct. This mortgage was given when you
were small. I have tried to pay it but could not get enough
money ahead, as it took so much money to pay doctor bills and
hired help. I gave the mortgage to save my father from prison.
He promised to pay it, but never did, and I have only managed to
pay the interest on it. The face of the mortgage is three
thousand dollars. I did not care to let everyone know there was
a shadow over your birthplace, so I have kept it a profound
secret. The mortgagee and our old servants are the only beings
who know of it. My dear son, I have taught you to be a good
farmer, and I pray to God you may be able to raise the mortgage
when it becomes due. It was given for twenty years at ten per
cent. interest. I would have told you before now, and perhaps we
could have paid it. But I could not; I have always told you it
was free from debt and I deeded it to you as the same. God
forgive my weakness! I was born a deceptive child and I have
lived a deceitful life the last twenty-five years. I loved your
father, as noble and kind a husband as ever lived. I deceived
him cruelly, and after our marriage I quarreled with him about a
picture he had, and finally to torment him I told him I had
burned it. It made him very angry. One day he went to the
village and I never saw him any more. My child, I feel as if he
is alive and if you ever meet him give him the picture and ask
him to forgive me. Tell him I died loving him and our child, he
who has never seen me out of temper. My son you will never see
these lines until I am clasped in death’s repose. I have erred,
but I must die. As God forgives his erring creatures I pray of
you to forgive me.”
Your affectionate mother.
As Paul folded up the letter tears were falling on the table, and he
exclaimed aloud. “My mother, Oh, my mother! if I had only known your
trouble I could have made it lighter for you to bear. I freely forgive
you in all. Who would not forgive a mother’s errors?—she who has borne
many trials for us while young.”
“Massa,” exclaimed Pompey, breaking in on Paul’s murmurings, “you is
just like your fadder; he would have forgiven her if she would have done
what was fair by him after they were married. You see she liked to
torment him, and she did, once too often. Well, Paul, is you going away
tomorrow now?” asked the negro, looking fondly at his young master.
“Yes, Pompey, I am going if nothing happens to prevent me, as I have a
great mystery to solve and I cannot do it if I stay here.”
“Why Massa, de ’riginal ob dat picture is dead; Massa told Missus so; I
heard him tell her.”
“My man, there is a mystery about it and I must find it out!” exclaimed
the young man in a decisive tone.
He placed the papers carefully back and handed the box to his servant,
saying, “Keep this carefully, Pompey, as by and by the papers will be of
great importance to me.”
“I will do as you tells me,” answered the servant, taking the box from
his young master’s hand.
Many injunctions were given for the future, then each one returned to
his respective chamber, but not to sleep, as Pompey was thinking of his
young master, who was going away early the next morning and would not
tell him where he was going or when he should hear from him.
“Poor soul, I’s afraid he will neber come back. Oh, how I lub dat boy.
May de good Lawd watch ober him and keep him from bad company!”
Thus the negro mused until daylight dawned.
Paul threw himself on the bed but could not sleep. He was deeply
troubled as he lay thinking of his mother’s troubles, the mortgage, and
lastly of his journey on the morrow, and as morning dawned he had made
up his mind where he should go.
“I do not care; I will take the stage for New York and trust to
Providence for the rest.”
Thus he pondered until the servant’s bell rang.
He hastily dressed and went down stairs. As he made his appearance
earlier than usual Pompey said, “Guess you did not rest bery well,
Massa?”
“No,” answered Paul, “I did not. Please hurry breakfast, as I have a
long ride this morning, Pompey, and should be on the road.” Soon
breakfast was ready, and after eating Paul bade his servants goodbye and
started for the village.
Soon the same stage that bore Nettie on her homeward journey bore the
sad, broken-hearted young man from his once happy home. One desire
caused him to travel. Perhaps he would be able to find a person who
resembled the picture he had closely hidden in his pocket, or, find his
lost love.
It was a year since Nettie returned home. Time drearily passed by and
brought momentarily each day the same longing thought: “Where is Paul?”
She had read of Paul’s mother’s death in the village paper and it deeply
grieved her to hear that he was all alone with no relative to bear the
sorrow with him—no one to console him in this trial. Warren had written
her a letter, stating Paul had started to the city.
She murmured as she sat in the little arbor by her home, “Oh, God, why
did I leave him as I did; he is alone, all alone; no kindred friends to
comfort him; Oh, why did I leave him?”
She was weeping piteously when a hand was laid on her head, and the
owner said, “Found at last, my own. Were you weeping for me?” asked the
manly voice by her side.
Nettie looked up in the manly face as she answered, “Forgive me, love,
for doubting you.”
She was overcome with joy, and fell fainting at his feet. He picked her
up and bore her into the cottage.
As he laid her down on the lounge he called, and Nettie’s mother came to
her side. As she returned to consciousness Paul stood motionless, gazing
at the mother and daughter.
“Can it be!” he exclaimed aloud.
“Can it be what?” asked the mother, looking up at the young man for the
first time, as she had been busily applying restoratives to her child
and had forgotten everything else, whom she had never seen in this
condition before. She noticed how thin and pale Nettie had grown lately,
and it grieved her deeply.
When she looked at the stranger she turned as white as her daughter and
sank on the floor by the side of the lounge.
“Sir, why did you come here? What have I done to be persecuted in this
way,” she asked.
She was gazing wildly at him, and it troubled him very much.
“My dear madam, you are laboring under a great mistake, as there is a
mystery here we must try to solve,” said the young man, taking the
picture out of his pocket and handing it to her saying, “Madam, did you
ever see this?”
She took it with trembling hands and opened it and exclaimed
passionately, “Sir, where did you get this?”
“It was left in a little tin box for me by my mother,” answered Paul.
“How came she to have it? It was my picture I gave to a young man many
years ago. It is the same one, as here is the lock of hair and the
initials of my maiden name,” said the lady as she sat gazing at it
earnestly and deeply thinking.
It brought back memories of the past.
“How happy I was when I gave the picture to him; no shadow obscured the
fair horizon of my life; but time will change all things; babes will
grow to be men and women, and soon will grow to old age if God spares
them to this world of sorrow. I for one have borne many trials. Whenever
cast down, the thought will ever arise, ‘God doeth all things well.’ How
strange it is that a stranger should have a picture given to a friend
twenty-five years ago,” said the lady in meditation.
“Madam, it is strange, very strange indeed. It is a mystery. My father
supposed you dead and in time married my mother. Yet one of my servants
told me my father loved the picture so much that when he was told it was
burned up he went away and never has been heard of since. He left home
when I was a babe on my mother’s breast. I am going to find him if he is
alive,” said the young man vehemently.
“I must find him if he is in the land of the living.”
He bent over the couch where Nettie lay listening to her mother’s and
lover’s passionate words and she said, “My little love, your mother
thinks she had been deceived by my poor father, and now his son is
trying to deceive her only child. I am going away, and when I find my
father or hear something definite about him then I will return. All I
ask is to prove faithful to me until I return.”
He pressed a kiss on her fair brow as he said, “God bless and keep you
both until I return.”
In a moment the door closed on the manly form of Paul Burton.
He went directly to the hotel where he was stopping and packing his
little wardrobe prepared to travel.
He thought of going to England but decided he would first go to the
pleasure seekers’ sea-side resorts.
Days and weeks went slowly by to the ones left in the cottage. At last
it was nearly Christmas; the inmates were looking out of the window at
the people hurrying along the thoroughfare. Presently the mother said,
“Nettie, I wonder if anyone thinks enough of us to give us something.
Our little money is nearly gone and what we have we cannot spare for
niceties as it is all we have to keep the wolf from the door.”
“God will provide for us,” answered Nettie.
“I wonder where Paul is today. It is a long time since he went away. Oh,
if he would only come back to us it would be all the pleasure I would
ask. I care not for presents. Oh, why does he not come!” exclaimed
Nettie, looking wistfully at her mother while the tears were springing
to her eyes.
“My child, God grant that he may come back and bring good news. We can
only wait, watch, and pray,” answered the mother sorrowfully.
A few days after the above conversation they were looking out on the
busy people along the way. Many happy faces were to be seen. It was the
long-looked-for, happy day among the little children. One little one was
standing in the street viewing the shop windows when a runaway horse
came dashing along, and before she could have gotten out of the way a
middle aged man came running out of a shop near and caught her up in his
arms, not soon enough, however, to clear the danger as they were thrown
down violently on the sidewalk.
Mrs. Spaulding was the first to lend a helping hand, as it was just
before her door. Soon she bore the little inanimate form of the child
into her own cottage and laid her on lounge, where Nettie once lay, and
began applying restoratives. Soon she had the pleasure of seeing her
open her bright blue eyes and feebly ask for ‘mama.’
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