RETRIBUTION.
Two years have passed away, and again we open the scene at the
homestead, which had not proved an altogether pleasant home to Mrs.
Hamilton. There was around her everything to make her happy, but she
was far from being so. One by one her servants, with whom she was very
unpopular, had left her, until there now remained but one. The
villagers, too, shunned her, and she was wholly dependent for society
upon Lenora, who, as usual, provoked and tormented her.
One day Hester, the servant, came up from the basement, saying there
was a poor old man below, who asked for money.
"Send him away; I've nothing for him," said Mrs. Hamilton, whose
avaricious hand, larger far than her heart, grasped at and retained
everything.
"But, if you please, ma'am, he seems very poor," said Hester.
"Let him go to work, then. 'Twon't hurt him more than 'twill me," was
the reply.
Lenora, whose eyes and ears were always open, no sooner heard that
there was a beggar in the kitchen than she ran down to see him. He was
a miserable-looking object, and still there was something in his
appearance which denoted him to be above the common order of beggars.
His eyes were large and intensely black, and his hair, short, thick,
and curly, reminded Lenora of her own. The moment she appeared a
peculiar expression passed for a moment over his face, and he half
started up; then resuming his seat he fixed his glittering eyes upon
the young lady, and seemed watching her closely.
At last she began questioning him, but his answers were so
unsatisfactory that she gave it up, and, thinking it the easiest way
to be rid of him, she took from her pocket a shilling and handed it to
him, saying, "It's all I can give you, unless it is a dinner. Are you
hungry?"
Hester, who had returned to the kitchen, was busy in a distant part of
the room, and she did not notice the paleness which overspread
Lenora's face at the words which the beggar uttered when, she
presented the money to him. She caught, however, the low murmur of
their voices, as they spoke together for a moment, and as Lenora
accompanied him to the door, she distinctly heard the words, "In the
garden."
"And maybe that's some of your kin; you look like him," said she to
Lenora, after the stranger was gone.
"That's my business, not yours," answered Lenora, as she left the
kitchen and repaired to her mother's room.
"Lenora, what ails you?" said Mrs. Hamilton to her daughter at the
tea-table that night, when, after putting salt in one cup of tea, and
upsetting a second, she commenced spreading her biscuit with cheese
instead of butter. "What ails you? What are you thinking about? You
don't seem to know any more what you are doing than the dead."
Lenora made no direct reply to this, but soon after she said, "Mother,
how long has father been dead--my own father I mean?"
"Two or three years, I don't exactly know which," returned her mother,
and Lenora continued:
"How did he look? I hardly remember him."
"You have asked me that fifty times," answered her mother, "and fifty
times I have told you that he looked like you, only worse, if
possible."
"Let me see, where did you say he died?" said Lenora.
"In New Orleans, with yellow fever, or black measles, or smallpox, or
something," Mrs. Hamilton replied, "but mercy's sake! can't you choose
a better subject to talk about? What made you think of him? He's been
haunting me all day, and I feel kind of nervous and want to look over
my shoulder whenever I am alone."
Lenora made no further remark until after tea, when she announced her
intention of going to the village.
"Come back early, for I don't feel like staying alone," said her
mother.
The sun had set when Lenora left the village, and by the time she
reached home it was wholly dark. As she entered the garden the outline
of a figure; sitting on a bench at its further extremity, made her
stop for a moment, but thinking to herself, "I expected it, and why
should I be afraid?" she walked on fearlessly, until the person,
roused by the sound of her footsteps, started up, and turning toward
her, said half-aloud:
"Lenora, is it you?"
Quickly she sprang forward, and soon one hand of the beggar was
clasped in hers, while the other rested upon her head, as he said,
"Lenora, my child, my daughter, you do not hate me?"
"Hate you, father?" she answered, "never, never."
"But," he continued, "has not she--my--no, not my wife--thank Heaven
not my wife now--but your mother, has not she taught you to despise
and hate me?"
"No," answered Lenora bitterly. "She has taught me enough of evil, but
my memories of you were too sweet, too pleasant, for me to despise
you, though I do not think you always did right, more than mother."
The stranger groaned, and murmured: "It's true, all true;" while
Lenora continued:
"But where have you been all these years, and how came we to hear of
your death?"
"I have been in St. Louis most of the time, and the report of my death
resulted from the fact that a man bearing my name, and who was also
from Connecticut, died of yellow fever in New Orleans about two years
and a half ago. A friend of mine, observing a notice of his death, and
supposing it to refer to me, forwarded the paper to your mother, who,
though then free from me, undoubtedly felt glad, for she never loved
me, but married me because she thought I had money."
"But how have you lived?" asked Lenora.
"Lived!" he repeated, "I have not lived. I have merely existed.
Gambling and drinking, drinking and gambling, have been the business
of my life, and have reduced me to the miserable wretch whom you see."
"Oh, father, father," cried Lenora, "reform. It is not too late, and
you can yet be saved. Do it for my sake, for, in spite of all your
faults, I love you, and you are my father."
The first words of affection which had greeted his ear for many long
years made the wretched man weep, as he answered: "Lenora, I have
sworn to reform, and I will keep my vow. During one of my drunken
revels, in St. Louis, a dream of home came over me, and when I became
sober I started for Connecticut. There I heard where and what your
mother was. I had no wish ever to meet her again, for though I greatly
erred in my conduct toward her, I think she was always the most to
blame. You I remembered with love, and I longed to see you once more,
to hear again the word 'father,' and know that I was not forgotten. I
came as far as the city, and there fell into temptation. For the last
two months I have been there, gambling and drinking, until I lost all,
even the clothes which I wore, and was compelled to assume these rags.
I am now without home or money, and have no place to lay my head."
"I can give you money," said Lenora. "Meet me here to-morrow night,
and you shall have all you want. But what do you purpose doing? Where
will you stay?"
"In the village, for the sake of being near you," said he, at the same
time bidding his daughter return to the house, as the night air was
damp and chilly.
Within a week from that time a middle-aged man, calling himself John
Robinson, appeared in the village, hiring himself out as a porter at
one of the hotels. There was a very striking resemblance between him
and Lenora Carter, which was noticed by the villagers, and mentioned
to Mrs. Hamilton, who, however, could never obtain a full view of the
stranger's face, for without any apparent design, he always avoided
meeting her. He had not been long in town before it was whispered
about that between him and Lenora Carter a strange intimacy existed,
and rumors soon reached Mrs. Hamilton that her daughter was in the
habit of frequently stealing out after sunset, to meet the old porter,
and that once, when watched, she had been seen to put her arms around
his neck. Highly indignant, Mrs. Hamilton questioned Lenora on the
subject, and was astonished beyond measure when she replied:
"It is all true. I have met Mr. Robinson often, and I have put my arms
around his neck, and shall probably do it again."
"Oh my child, my child," groaned Mrs. Hamilton, really distressed at
her daughter's conduct. "How can you do so? You will bring my gray
hairs with sorrow to the grave."
"Not if you pull out as many of them as you now do, and use Twiggs
Preparation besides," said Lenora.
Mrs. Hamilton did not answer, but covering her face with her hands
wept, really wept, thinking for the first time, perhaps, that as she
had sowed so was she reaping. For some time past her health had been
failing, and as the summer days grew warmer and more oppressive she
felt a degree of lassitude and physical weakness which she had never
before experienced; and one day unable longer to sit up, she took her
bed, where she lay for many days.
Now that her mother was really sick, Lenora seemed suddenly changed,
and with unwearied care watched over her as kindly and faithfully as
if no words save those of affection had ever passed between them.
Warmer and more sultry grew the days, and more fiercely raged the
fever in Mrs. Hamilton's veins, until at last the crisis was reached
and passed, and she was in a fair way for recovery, when she was
attacked by chills, which again reduced her to a state of
helplessness. One day, about this time, a ragged little boy, whose
business seemed to be lounging around the hotel, brought to Lenora a
soiled and crumpled note, on which was traced with an unsteady hand,
"Dear Lenora, I am sick, all alone in the little attic; come to me,
quick; come!"
Lenora was in a state of great perplexity. Her mother, when awake,
needed all her care; and as she seldom slept during the day there
seemed but little chance of getting away. The night before, however,
she had been unusually restless and wakeful, and about noon she seemed
drowsy, and finally fell into a deep sleep.
"Now is my time," thought Lenora; and calling Hester, she bade her
watch by her mother until she returned, saying, "If she wakes tell her
I have gone to the village, and will soon be back."
Hester promised compliance, and was for a time faithful to her trust;
but suddenly recollecting something which she wished to tell the girl
who lived at the next neighbor's she stole away, leaving her mistress
alone. For five minutes Mrs. Hamilton slept on, and then with a start
awoke from a troubled dream, in which she had seemed dying of thirst,
while little Willie, standing by a hogshead of water, refused her a
drop. A part of her dream was true, for she was suffering from the
most intolerable thirst, and called loudly for Lenora; but Lenora was
not there. Hester next was called, but she, too, was gone. Then,
seizing the bell which stood upon the table, she rang it with all her
force, and still there came no one to her relief.
Again Willie stood by her, offering her a goblet overflowing with
water; but when she attempted to take it, Willie changed into Lenora,
who laughed mockingly at her distress, telling her there was water in
the well and ice on the curbstone. Once more the phantom faded away,
and the old porter was there, wading through a limpid stream and
offering her to drink a cup of molten lead.
"Merciful Heaven!" shrieked the sick woman, as she writhed from side
to side on her bed, which seemed changed to burning coals; "will no
one bring me water, water, water!"
An interval of calmness succeeded, during which she revolved in her
mind the possibility of going herself to the kitchen, where she knew
the water-pail was standing. No sooner had she decided upon this than
the room appeared full of little demons, who laughed, and chattered,
and shouted in her ears:
"Go--do it! Willie did, when the night was dark and chilly; but now it
is warm--nice and warm--try it, do!"
Tremblingly Mrs. Hamilton stepped upon the floor, and finding herself
too weak to walk, crouched down, and crept slowly down the stairs to
the kitchen door, where she stopped to rest. Across the room by the
window stood the pail, and as her eye fell upon it the mirth of the
little winged demons appeared in her disordered fancy to increase; and
when the spot was reached, the tumbler seized and thrust into the
pail, they darted hither and thither, shouting gleefully:
"Lower, lower down; just as Willie did. You'll find it, oh, you'll
find it!"
With a bitter cry Mrs. Hamilton dashed the tumbler upon the floor, for
the bucket was empty!
"Willie, Willie, you are avenged," she said; but the goblins answered:
"Not yet; no, not yet."
There was no pump in the well, and Mrs. Hamilton knew she had not
strength to raise the bucket by means of the windlass. Her exertions
had increased her thirst tenfold, and now for one cup of cooling water
she would have given all her possessions. Across the yard, at the
distance of twenty rods, there was a gushing spring, and thither in
her despair she determined to go. Accordingly, she went forth into the
fierce noontide blaze, and with almost superhuman efforts crawled to
the place. But what! was it a film upon her eyes? Had blindness come
upon her, or was the spring really dried up by the fervid summer heat?
"Willie's avenged! Willie's avenged!" yelled the imps as the wretched
woman fainted and fell backward upon the bank, where she lay with her
white, thin face upturned, and blistering beneath the August sun!
Along the dusty highway came a handsome traveling carriage, in which,
besides the driver, were seated two individuals, the one a young and
elegantly-dressed lady, and the other a gentleman, who appealed to be
on the most intimate terms with his companion; for whenever he would
direct her attention to any passing object, he laid his hand on hers,
frequently retaining it, and calling her "Maggie."
The carriage was nearly opposite the homestead, when the lady
exclaimed, "Oh, Richard, I must stop at my old home once more. Only
see how beautiful it is looking!"
In a moment the carriage was standing before the gate, and the
gentleman, who was Margaret Hamilton's husband--a Mr. Elwyn, from the
city--assisted his young wife to alight, and then followed her to the
house. No answer was given to their loud ring, and as the doors and
windows were all open, Margaret proposed that they should enter. They
did so; and, going first into Mrs. Hamilton's sick-room, the sight of
the little table full of vials, and the tumbled, empty bed, excited
their wonder and curiosity, and induced them to go on. At last,
descending to the kitchen, they saw the fragments of the tumbler
lying upon the floor.
"Strange, isn't it?" said Margaret to her husband, who was standing in
the outer door, and who had at that moment discovered Mrs. Hamilton
lying near the spring.
Instantly they were at her side, and Margaret involuntarily shuddered
as she recognized her stepmother, and guessed why she was there.
Taking her in his arms, Mr. Elwyn bore her back to the house, and
Margaret, filling a pitcher with water, bathed her face, moistened her
lips, and applied other restoratives, until she revived enough to say:
"More water, Willie. Give me more water!"
Eagerly she drained the goblet which Margaret held to her lips, and
was about drinking the second, when her eyes for the first time sought
Margaret's face. With a cry between a groan and a scream she lay back
upon her pillows, saying, "Margaret Hamilton, how came you here? What
have you to do with me, and why do you give me water? Didn't I refuse
it to Willie, when he begged so earnestly for it in the nighttime? But
I've been paid--a thousand times paid--left by my own child to die
alone!"
Margaret was about asking for Lenora, when the young lady herself
appeared. She seemed for a moment greatly surprised at the sight of
Margaret, and then bounding to her side, greeted her with much
affection; while Mrs. Hamilton jealously looked on, muttering to
herself. "Loves everybody better than she does me, her own mother, who
has done so much for her."
Lenora made no reply to this, although she manifested much concern
when Margaret told her in what state they had found her mother.
"I went for a few moments to visit a sick friend," said she, "but told
Hester to stay with mother until I returned; and I wonder much that
she should leave her."
"Lenora," said Mrs. Hamilton, "Lenora, was that sick friend the old
porter?"
Lenora answered in the affirmative; and then her mother, turning to
Margaret, said:
"You don't know what a pest and torment this child has always been to
me, and now when I am dying she deserts me for a low-lived fellow, old
enough to be her father."
Lenora's eyes flashed scornfully upon her mother, but she made no
answer, and as Mr. Elwyn was in haste to proceed on his journey,
Margaret arose to go. Lenora urged them to remain longer, but they
declined; and as she accompanied them to the door, Margaret said:
"Lenora, if your mother should die, and it would afford you any
satisfaction to have me come, I will do so, for I suppose you have no
near friends."
Lenora hesitated a moment, and then whispering to Margaret of the
relationship existing between herself and the old porter, she said,
"He is sick and poor, but he is my own father, and I love him dearly."
The tears came to Margaret's eyes, for she thought of her own father,
called home while his brown hair was scarcely touched with the frosts
of time. Wistfully Lenora watched the carriage as it disappeared from
sight, and then half-reluctantly entered the sick-room, where, for the
remainder of the afternoon, she endured her mother's reproaches for
having left her alone, and where once, when her patience was wholly
exhausted, she said:
"It served you right, for now you know how little Willie felt."
The next day Mrs. Hamilton was much worse, and Lenora, who had watched
and who understood her symptoms, felt confident that she would die,
and loudly her conscience upbraided her for her undutiful conduct. She
longed, too, to tell her that her father was still living, and one
evening when for an hour or two her mother seemed better, she arose,
and bending over her pillow, said, "Mother, did it ever occur to you
that father might not be dead?"
"Not be dead, Lenora! What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Hamilton, starting
up from her pillow.
Cautiously then Lenora commenced her story by referring her mother
back to the old beggar, who some months before had been in the
kitchen. Then she spoke of the old porter, and the resemblance which
was said to exist between him and herself; and finally, as she saw her
mother could bear it, she told the whole story of her father's life.
Slowly the sick woman's eyes closed, and Lenora saw that her eyelids
were wet with, tears, but as she made no reply, Lenora ere long
whispered, "Would you like to see him, mother?"
"No, no; not now," was the answer.
For a time there was silence, and then Lenora, again speaking, said,
"Mother, I have often been very wicked and disrespectful to you, and
if you should die, I should feel much happier knowing that you forgave
me. Will you do it, mother--say?"
Mrs. Hamilton comprehended only the words, "if you should die," so she
said: "Die, die! who says that I must die? I shan't--I can't; for what
could I tell her about her children, and how could I live endless ages
without water? I tried it once, and I can't do it. No, I can't. I
won't!"
In this way she talked all night; and though in the morning she was
more rational, she turned away from the clergyman, who at Lenora's
request had been sent for, saying:
"It's of no use, no use, I know all you would say, but it's too late,
too late!"
Thus she continued for three days, and at the close of the third it
became evident to all that she was dying, and Hester was immediately
sent to the hotel, with a request that the old porter would come
quickly. Half an hour after Lenora bent over her mother's pillow, and
whispered in her ear, "Mother, can you hear me?"
A pressure of the hand was the reply, and Lenora continued: "You have
not said that you forgave me, and now before you die, will you not
tell me so?"
There was another pressure of the hand, and Lenora again spoke:
"Mother, would you like to see him--my father? He is in the next
room."
This roused the dying woman, and starting up, she exclaimed, "See John
Carter! No, child, no! He'd only curse me. Let him wait until I am
dead, and then I shall not hear it."
In ten minutes more Lenora was sadly gazing upon the fixed, stony
features of the dead. A gray-haired man was at her side, and his lip
quivered, as he placed his hand upon the white, wrinkled brow of her
who had once been his wife. "She is fearfully changed," were his only
words, as he turned away from the bed of death.
True to her promise, Margaret came to attend her stepmother's funeral.
Walter accompanied her, and shuddered as he looked on the face of one
who had so darkened his home, and embittered his life. Kate was not
there, and when, after the burial, Lenora asked Margaret for her, she
was told of a little "Carrie Lenora," who with pardonable pride
"Walter thought was the only baby of any consequence in the world.
Margaret was going on with a glowing description of the babe's many
beauties, when she was interrupted by Lenora, who laid her face in her
lap and burst into tears.
"Why, Lenora, what is the matter?" asked Margaret.
As soon as Lenora became calm, she answered, "_That name_, Maggie. You
have given my name to Walter Hamilton's child, and if you had hated me
you would never have done it."
"Hated you!" repeated Margaret; "we do not hate you; now that we
understand you, we like you very much, and one of Kate's last
injunctions to Walter was that he should again offer you a home with
him."
Once more Lenora was weeping. She had not shed a tear when they
carried from sight her mother, but words of kindness touched her
heart, and the fountain was opened. At last, drying her eyes, she
said, "I prefer to go with father. Walter will, of course, come back
to the homestead, while father and I shall return to our old home in
Connecticut, where, by being kind to him, I hope to atone, in a
measure, for my great unkindness to mother."