THE FIGURE ON THE HEARTHSTONE.
For a while after Alice left him, Mr. Warren lay perfectly quiet, trying
to number the minutes, by counting each tick of the clock, and wondering
if it were not time for Alice to return. While thus engaged he fell
asleep, and when at last he woke there was a death-like faintness at his
heart; his lips were dry and parched, and he felt a strong desire for
water with which to quench his burning thirst.
“Alice,” he said feebly, “Alice, is that you? are you here?” but to his
call there came no answer, and throughout the room there was heard no
sound save the steady ticking of the clock.
Why then did the blind man raise himself upon his elbow and roll his
sightless eyes around the silent apartment. Did he hear aught in the
deep stillness? He thought he did—ay, he was sure he did, and again he
called:
“Alice, Alice, are you here?”
But Alice made him no reply, and as the minutes went by, the sick man
grew delirious, talking of the past, which seemed present with him now.
Then, as reason for a moment returned, he moaned:
“Oh, Alice, will you never come? The fire is going out and I am growing
cold. Oh, must I die alone at last?”
No, not alone; for, crouched upon the hearthstone, there sat a human
form. It was the figure of a man—a dark, hard-featured man; and often,
as the wailing cry came from the humble bed, it bowed its head upon its
hands and wept. Carefully, stealthily through the door it had come while
Mr. Warren slept, and the deep black eyes, which glowed at first like
coals of living fire, grew dim with tears as, glancing hurriedly around
the room, they saw how poor it was.
“Isn’t there somebody here with me?” the sick man said at last, as his
quick ear caught the sound of breathing. “Speak, isn’t there somebody
here?” he continued, while the figure on the hearthstone glided
noiselessly to the bedside, where it stood erect, gazing pitifully upon
the white, worn face which, with the lamp-light shining on it, seemed of
a deathly hue.
It was a strange sight, that statue standing there so silently, and that
blind old man trying in vain to penetrate the darkness and learn who it
was that stood there beside him. Raising himself at last in bed, and
stretching out his arm, he touched a hand colder even than his own, for
guilt and fear had chilled the blood of him who remained immovable,
while the trembling fingers passed nervously over the face, through the
hair, down the side, until they reached the left hand, from whose
fore-finger a joint was gone. That missing joint, though we have made no
mention of it heretofore, was well remembered by Hugo Warren, and it
needed but this proof to tell him who was there.
“William Huntington,” he hoarsely whispered, and falling back upon his
pillow, he wiped the drops of perspiration from his face, for the
presence of that man, coming to him thus, awakened all the bitter
memories of the past. “William Huntington,” he gasped, “why are you here
on this night of all others, when my lost wife seems present with me,
and my ruined hopes pass in sad review before my mind. Say, have you
come to add the last drop in the brimming bucket?”
There was a moment’s silence, and then, falling upon his knees, William
Huntington made answer to the man he had so wronged.
“I did not come to insult you, but rather to seek the forgiveness which
I know I do not merit. Only say that you forgive me, Mr. Warren—let me
once hold your hand in token of reconciliation, and then do with me what
you will. A life within a felon’s cell is preferable far, to the remorse
which I have carried with me for two long, dreary years. Say, will you
not forgive me?” he continued, and the strong man’s voice was choked
with tears.
“Forgive you, William,” Mr. Warren replied, “I might perhaps forgive
you, were my fortune all you wrested from me, but when I think of my
lost Helen, my heart is turned to steel, for you killed her, William
Huntington—you killed my precious wife.”
“Yes, yes, it was my base act which killed her, it is true, still I have
made you some amends. I saved your daughter’s life, you know, else I had
never dared to seek your face again,” said Mr. Huntington, interrupting
him.
“You saved Alice’s life?” the excited man rejoined, and the hand which
had withdrawn itself beneath the bed-clothes now came forth again,
feeling eagerly for the bowed head, on which it rested forgivingly,
while he continued, “It was you, then who took her from the river, and
laid her in my arms—you who saved me from a darker night than any I have
ever known. Yes, William, because you did this good to me, you are
forgiven, fully, freely forgiven—but why have you not told of it before?
Where have you been, and did your family know aught of this?”
“My family know aught of this?” repeated Mr. Huntington. “Can it be I am
deceived?” and then, with the shaking hand still resting on his head, he
told how he had wandered far and wide, seeking rest and finding none,
for ever present to his mind was a white-haired, sightless man, weeping,
o’er his pale, dead wife.
In the far off California land he had dug for gold, vainly hoping by
this means some time to make amends for the ruin he had wrought. At
last, as the burden of remorse grew heavier to bear, he sought his home
to see once more the faces of his wife and child, hoping, too, that the
forgiveness he so much desired might be obtained.
“I found them here,” said he—“found my wife and Adelaide working hard
and secretly, lest the world should know how poor they were. I met my
daughter first, and Heaven forgive me if I do her wrong, I thought she
was not glad to see me. I questioned her of you, and learned that you
were here, too, and very poor. You were fully determined, she said, to
revenge yourself on me should I ever be found, and she urged me not to
let my presence here be known, until she had tried to procure for me
your forgiveness. My wife did not seem to understand your feelings, for
she had never seen you, and she wished me to remain; but my daughter’s
fears and my own dread of a convict’s fate prevailed, and trusting to
Adelaide’s promise that she would eventually obtain your pardon for me,
I left them again and became a second time a wanderer. I intended to
take the cars at West Oakland, and was following the course of the
river, when, pausing for a moment to rest, I saw you approaching, and
hid behind the alders, one moment resolving to throw myself at your
feet, and again fearing to do so, for guilt had made me cowardly and
weak. The rest of that day’s incidents you know. I saved your daughter’s
life, but I dared not speak, lest I should be betrayed. My wet clothes
made it necessary for me to return to the house, where I told what I had
done, and asked if this would not atone. My wife said yes, but Adelaide
was fearful still. She would see you herself, she said, and she did see
you that very day, but you refused. ‘The law must take its course,’ you
said, ‘even though I saved a hundred lives.’”
“Never! so help me Heaven!” Mr. Warren exclaimed. “Such words as those
never passed my lips, and till this moment I knew not who it was that
saved my child. Forgive me, William, but she lied, that girl Adelaide.
There was treachery in her voice when she sat at my feet and asked me
not to tell of your misdeeds, lest disgrace should fall on her. People
thought her mother was a widow, she said, and she would rather they
should not know that you ran away to escape a prison home.”
“Oh, Adelaide, my child, my child, why did you thus deceive me?” the
wretched father groaned, while Mr. Warren continued:
“I never tried to find you, William, or sought to do you harm; but go on
and tell me where you have been since that time.”
“I remained at home a day or two, hiding from the sight of men,” Mr.
Huntington replied, “and then one night I went away, thinking to make
for my family a home in the distant West, where you would never find me.
But no spot could be home to me with that load upon my mind, so at last
I determined to see you myself, and beg for your forgiveness. They think
me far away, my wife and Adelaide, for I only paused a moment at their
door. Looking through the half-closed blind I saw your daughter there,
and knowing that you must be alone I hastened on, entering your dwelling
while you slept, and now it remains for you to do with me what you
will.”
“Nothing, William, I shall do nothing—only raise me up, my breath is
going from me,” Mr. Warren gasped.
The faintness he had experienced once before had returned again, brought
on by the excitement of what he had heard, and Mr. Huntington, when he
saw the corpse-like pallor stealing over his face, feared that he was
dying. He was not afraid of death, but the world, he knew, was a
suspicious one, and he would rather the man he had so wronged should not
die alone with him. Just then he heard without, a footstep coming near,
and thinking it must be Alice, he hurried to the door, exclaiming:
“Be quick! your father, I fear, is dying!”
In a moment the person thus addressed stood at Mr. Warren’s bedside, and
when the fainting man came back to consciousness he whispered softly:
“God bless you, Mr. Howland, for coming here again.”
It was Richard Howland who stood there side by side with one whom he
readily recognized as the stranger who had saved the life of Alice
Warren. He had started for the party, going through the hollow as the
shortest route, and was passing Mr. Warren’s gate, when the words, “Be
quick! your father, I fear, is dying,” arrested his attention, bringing
him at once into the presence of the blind man whom he had so long
neglected.
“I did not know you were so ill,” he was about to say, when Alice
entered the room.
“Father,” she cried, bounding to his side, “are you worse?” and then, as
her eyes fell upon Mr. Huntington, the hot blood stained her face and
neck, for she knew who he was, and marveled much that he was there.
“Alice,” said Mr. Warren, “I have forgiven William Huntington because he
saved your life, though he dared not let us know it then, for Adelaide
had said I thirsted for revenge. He has suffered much, my child, and
you, I am sure, will sanction my forgiveness.”
It was in vain that Alice attempted to speak, so astonished was she at
what she had heard, and, misinterpreting her silence, Mr. Huntington
advanced toward her, saying, imploringly:
“Hear, me, young lady, and you will perhaps be willing to forgive.”
Then very rapidly he repeated in substance the story he had told her
father, touching as lightly as possible on Adelaide’s duplicity, but
still making the matter plain to Alice and clear to him, who, with
clasped hands and wildly beating heart, listened breathlessly to the
strange tale he heard. Richard Howland was undeceived at last, and the
girl he had almost loved was revealed to him in her true character, as
an artful, designing woman. The father, who he supposed was dead, stood
there, a living, breathing man, identical, he was sure, with the agent
of whom he had often heard, and, worse than all, the people against whom
she had breathed her dark insinuations, were innocent of evil; the wrong
was on the other side, and he had been her dupe; had even thought it
possible to call that girl his wife. His wife! how he loathed the very
idea now that he knew her guilt, and how his conscience smote him for
having ever wronged in thought the helpless old blind man and his
gentle, fair-haired daughter. They had suffered, too, from his neglect,
but he could make amends for that, and his heart went out in pity toward
Alice as he contrasted her former life with her present dreary lot. The
party was forgotten, and while Adelaide, in a most impatient mood,
watched each fresh arrival, he, for whom she watched in vain, smoothed
the tumbled pillow, bathed the burning brow, or brought the cooling
draught, and then spoke words of comfort to the weeping Alice, who read
upon his face, and that of Mr. Huntington, a confirmation of her fears.
But not that night did Mr. Warren die, though the physician, for whom
Mr. Huntington was sent, would give no hope. The disease had assumed a
most alarming form, he said, and Mr. Howland’s hand rested pityingly on
the bowed head of the young girl who was soon to be an orphan. The
morning came, and then, as it was necessary for him to go home for a
time, he left both father and child to the care of Mr. Huntington,
promising to send down one of his domestics, and to return himself ere
long.