THE WALK AND THE WILL.
Now do I drop my heavy load of woe,
As some wet mantle saturate with rain,
And rise as a soft spirit that doth glow
In rays of light beyond the realm of pain.
W. W. FORDICK.
The Mayor walked home very slowly, for remorse, while softening into
penitence, had sapped the foundations of his life; and he had grown a
feeble old man in so short a time, that those who look upon God as an
avenger, rather than a chastiser, might have supposed that old age had
fallen as a judgment upon him. But the All-wise one knows best how to
redeem the souls he has created, and that weary man as he walked home
in the darkness, was a thousand times more worthy of respect, than he
had ever been in his whole lifetime before.
There was a private room in the lower story of his house, in which Mr.
Farnham had usually received his constituents and persons who came to
his residence on private business. It had been little used of late,
for the routine of his old life was broken up, and when he went to
this apartment, it was usually to be secure of the solitude which
daily became more necessary to his habits of self-communion. That
night he found company in the drawing-room. Mrs. Farnham had guests
from the South; other friends were invited to meet them, and the lower
portion of the house was in a blaze of magnificence. This scene was so
at variance with his state of feelings, that the Mayor recoiled from
its glitter, as the sick man shrinks from a noonday sun.
His wife, who was standing in the centre of a group near the door,
resplendent with jewels and brocade, saw him pass through the hall,
and playfully shaking her fan called after him.
Either he did not hear, or he did not heed her, and with the usual
obstinacy of a silly woman, she called to her son and bade him go
bring his father back.
Frederick went and found Mr. Farnham in his private room, looking cold
and weary. The greatest retribution that had fallen upon this man for
his evil act had been the effect it had produced upon his own son.
Frederick had known and loved Chester. With his energy and quickness
of character, it was impossible that he should not have gathered all
the facts regarding his trial and death. The very silence which he
maintained on the subject was a proof of this. His manner too had
changed so completely that it was a constant reproach to the suffering
man. There had always existed a certain reserve between the father and
son, but now it amounted almost to coldness. Perhaps this repulsion
had driven the unhappy man to seek sympathy in the child of another,
for it became a weary trial to seek his home day after day, and find
all affection chilled there.
That night Farnham's heart was softened toward the whole world, and
most of all did he yearn for the old look of confidence from the now
constantly averted eyes of his son. Just as these feelings were
strongest in his bosom, Frederick entered the room where he sat. The
Mayor looked up wistfully.
"My mother wishes me to call you, sir; she has company in the drawing
room." The cold respectfulness of his manner fell like snow upon the
Mayor.
"I cannot come, Frederick; tell your mother that I am not well enough
for company," he said, so mournfully that the warm heart of the lad
was touched.
"Are you really ill, father?" he said.
The Mayor could not answer. It was the first time that his son had
called him father since Chester's burial.
The boy was struck by his silence.
"Tell me--speak to me father, are you ill?"
The Mayor held out his hands.
"Frederick!"
It was enough--the boy fell upon his knees and kissed those trembling
hands.
"Father, forgive me, I had no right to make myself your judge."
"God bless you, my boy, and remember this night you have made your
father very happy."
After Frederick left him, Mr. Farnham began to write. His strength had
returned, and his whole energies of soul and body were concentrated in
the work he was doing. After he had written an hour, pausing now and
then in deep thought, there lay before him a legal document, carefully
drawn up, which he read twice. Then he arose and rang the bell; a
servant came, and he directed her to go to the drawing-room and tell
two gentlemen who were his guests at the time, that he wished to see
them. The gentlemen came up flushed and laughing. Champagne had freely
circulated below, and they were in splendid spirits.
"I will only detain you a moment," said the Mayor, "but here is a
document which requires witnesses. Will you sign it?"
The gentlemen laughed gaily.
The Mayor laid his finger on the signature. Again the gentlemen
laughed.
"What is it, a marriage contract, or your last will and testament?"
said one, delighted with his own wit.
"It is my last will and testament," answered the Mayor, quietly.
Again the men laughed; they did not believe him.
"Well, well, give us hold here, at any rate, we know it's all right,
so here goes!"
They signed their names and went out laughing. The next morning they
started South without seeing their host, and with a confused sense of
what they had signed over night.
But with all these sources of agitation the Mayor was breaking down.
He went up to his bed-room after signing the will, greatly exhausted.
His wife passed through the room an hour after, and saw the document
on the table. It was late, and she resolved to read it over at leisure
in the morning before her husband was up; so dropping it quietly into
her pocket she went up stairs.
Three days after the city was in mourning. The public building and
military banners were all draped with black. It was the first time in
years that a Mayor of New York had died in office, and the people were
lavish of funereal honors to Farnham's memory.