THE HOUSE OF MOURNING.
The third day came and passed, and as the twilight shadows fell upon the
city, Alice and her mother pushed back the heavy curtain which shaded
the window of their pleasant sitting-room, and looked anxiously down the
street for one who seldom tarried long. An hour went by, and another
still, and then he came, but far more helpless than when he left them in
the morning. The blind eyes were red with tears—the stately form was
bent with grief—the strong man was crushed with the blow which had
fallen so suddenly upon him. He was ruined—hopelessly, irretrievably
ruined, and in all the world there was nothing he could call his, save
the loved ones who soothed him now, as one had done before, when a
mighty sorrow overshadowed him.
As well as he could he told them of the fraud which for many years had
been imposed upon him and how he had trusted and been betrayed by one
whom he would not suffer the officers to follow.
“It will do no good,” he said “to have him brought back to a felon’s
cell, and I will save the wife and daughter from more disgrace,” and so
William Huntington was suffered to go at large, while in the home he had
desolated there was sorrow and mourning and bitter tears shed; the blind
man groping often through the familiar rooms which would soon be his no
longer; and the daughter stifling her own grief to soothe her father’s
sorrow, and minister to her mother’s wants.
As has before been hinted, Mrs. Warren was far from being strong, and
the news of the failure burst upon her with an overwhelming power,
prostrating her at once, so that before two weeks were gone her husband
forgot everything, save the prayer that the wife of his bosom, the light
of his eyes, the mother of his child, might live.
But she who had been reared in the lap of luxury, was never to know the
pinching wants of poverty—never to know what it was to be hungry, and
cold, and poor. All this was reserved for the gentle Alice, who, younger
and stronger, too, could bear the trial better. And so, as day after day
went by, the blind man felt what he could not see—felt the death shadows
come creeping on—felt how the pallor was deepening on his wife’s
cheek—knew that she was going from him fast—knew, alas, that she must
die, and one bright, beautiful morning, when the thoughtless passers-by,
pointing to the house, said, one to another, “He has lost everything,”
he, from the depths of his aching heart, unconsciously made answer,
“Lost everything—lost everything!” while Alice bowed her head in
anguish, half wishing she, too, were blind, so she could not see the
still, white face which lay upon the pillow.
Suddenly the deep stillness of the room was broken by the sound of
footsteps in the hall below, and, lifting up her head, Alice said, “Who
is it, father?” but Mr. Warren did not answer. He knew who it was and
why they had come, and going out to meet them, he stood upon the stairs,
tall and erect, like some giant oak which the lightning stroke had
smitten, but not destroyed.
“I know your errand,” he said; “I expected you, but come with me and
then surely you will leave me alone a little longer,” and turning, he
led the way, followed by the men, who never forgot that picture of the
pale, dead wife, the frightened, weeping child, and the blind man
standing by with outstretched arm as if to shield them from harm.
The sheriff was a man of kindly feelings, and lifting his hat
reverentially, he said:
“We did not know of this, or we would not have come,” and motioning to
his companion, he left the room, walking with subdued footsteps down the
stairs, and out into the open air; and when the sun went down not an
article had been disturbed in Hugo Warren’s home, for sheriff,
creditors, lawyers—all stood back in awe of the mighty potentate who had
entered before them, and levied upon its choicest treasure—the
white-haired blind man’s wife.