A LETTER FROM AUSTRALIA.
JOHN had not moved from his easy-chair by the study-fire, where we
just now left him. His thoughts were wandering far-away, perhaps; or
he might have been cogitating a new chapter in the particular work
on which he had been some time engaged. Whatever the subject of his
meditations, they had been so engrossing that his fire had dwindled
down to a handful of embers, and he had been oblivious of the postman's
horn-blast and ring.
From these meditations, he was suddenly roused by the entrance of his
wife, in such a state of agitation that even he, absorbed as he was,
took alarm.
"My dear love, what is the matter? What has happened?" he exclaimed,
hastily looking up, and glancing first at Sarah's pale face, then at
her white linen apron, and lastly at an open letter she held in the
hand which bore traces of its late interesting occupation.
"John Tincroft, did I ever deceive you?" said poor Sarah, with a great
sob.
"My darling, no. Who ever thought of such a thing? Who has been saying
or writing anything to distress you, Sarah?"
"Did I ever have a letter from anybody, and you know nothing about it,
John?" she demanded, plaintively.
"I am quite sure you never did," replied John, gallantly venturing an
assertion which, undoubtedly, he had no means of confirming or proving.
"They told me, John, when I—when you—when you and I went to church
together, that I was only deceiving you—at least, some of them did; and
that I shouldn't be a true wife to you."
"Whoever told you so, told a great falsehood," said John, warmly. "No
truer wife than you ever lived; and if I were you, I wouldn't think
about such rubbish."
"But I can't help it sometimes, John, though I don't talk about it
to vex you, for I know I haven't been everything that another might
have been to you. I couldn't, John; but you have had the best I had to
give." And here again poor Sarah moaned sadly.
"I am sure of it, Sarah; and I have never asked for more. But why do
you bring this up? And why do you stand there when I am keeping my
seat, like a stupid clown as I am? And, bless me, if the fire isn't all
but out too! I declare forgot all about it."
So saying, John sprang from his chair, and gallantly taking his wife's
unoccupied hand, gently led her to it.
"Do sit down, my dear; you do not often honour me with your presence in
this dull room."
And thus gently constrained, Sarah took the seat, still holding in her
hand the open letter.
Then the wakened-up husband placed a billet or two of wood on his
expiring fire, and coaxed it to a cheerful blaze before he again spoke.
All this time Sarah was sobbing out her griefs—whatever they were—and
declaring (a very fertile theme of complaining with her) how badly she
had been treated by Uncle Matthew and her aunt, and Elizabeth, in times
gone by.
"So you were, my darling," John acquiesced, as he ceased blowing the
fire with the breath of his mouth, in which operation the wood smoke
had puffed out into his face end half-blinded him. "So you were," said
he, drawing another chair to the fireside, and seating himself. "But
why do you trouble about it? That's all past and gone, years ago. Or—"
and then he caught sight again of the open letter Sarah held in her
hand—"or, has any one of them been writing to you?"
"No, no; worse than that, John. He has been writing to me; he, his very
self. Oh, why can't he let me alone?"
"Do you mean that that letter is from your cousin in Australia, my
dear?"
"Yes, that is what it is."
"Well, my pretty, I don't know why he should not write to you. He
writes no harm, does he? He is a married man, you know. He does not
ask you to run away from your own husband, does he, love?" asked John,
gravely, but not without a gleam of humour, perhaps, on his countenance.
"How should I know what he writes?" cried Sarah, piteously.
"Have you not read the letter, then?" Tincroft asked, wonderingly.
"Read it! Read it! No, I should think not, John. You don't think I
could ever be so wicked, John, as to read a letter from him, do you?"
"I am not sure it would have been wicked; indeed, I am sure it would
not have been," said the husband, soothingly. "But if you have not read
it, how do you know it is from your cousin?" he asked.
"As if I didn't know his writing!" said poor weeping Sarah, adding,
"though it is so long since I saw any of it. But I did look at the
beginning and end; and it says, 'My dear cousin Sarah' at the top, and
'Your affectionate cousin, Walter Wilson,' at the bottom; and that is
how I know it. But I didn't read another word, John, indeed I didn't,"
said she, very earnestly. "And I have brought it for you to read, or to
put in the fire, just which you please, John."
"I think we had better read it before we burn it, at all events," he
gravely replied, as he held out his hand for the suspected treasonable
epistle.
"Don't read it out loud, please, if there is anything in it that I
shouldn't hear," said the frightened wife, as she gave it to him.
"Oh, certainly not," said the husband, smiling.
And then he commenced reading the first page of the letter, while Sarah
sat with her eyes directed to his, ready, as it seemed, like a timid
bird, to take wing on the first symptoms of displeasure or alarm.
But no such symptoms appeared, only that John's usually quiet and
sedate countenance gradually became sorrowful, and at last his eyes had
tears in them ready to start.
"Oh, John, what is it?" exclaimed Sarah, forgetting that she had not
wanted to hear a word of the letter.
Before answering the question, John read on to the end, then he turned
to Sarah.
"Your cousin is in great trouble," he said.
"Trouble?"
"Yes; listen. I will read the letter:"
"'My dear cousin Sarah,—It is so long since I heard anything about
you, that I am not at all sure of this reaching you, for I do not
even know whether you are yet living. I never have letters from England
now, since Ralph Burgess and his sister went to America, three years
ago.'"
("This is the first we have heard of this," quoth John, in a
parenthesis; and then he resumed reading):
"'For I never hear from home.'"
("Which is a great pity—" in another parenthesis).
"'Hoping, however, that you still live and are happy, I take up my
pen to do what ought to have done long and long ago.'"
"'Dear Sarah, I write first of all humbly to ask you to forgive me
all the wrong I did you so many years ago. You knew partly how it was,
but not all that was said. But I don't blame anybody so much as myself.
I used you cruelly, shamefully, Sarah; and now I am made to feel it,
now my great trouble is on me. And I ask you again for your forgiveness.
Not but what it has been better for you, I make no doubt; for I know
you got a good—'"
("I think I had better not read the next line or two, my dear," said
John, looking up from the letter; so he skipped that part, and went on
again).
"'And I have to ask Mr. Tincroft's pardon too, which I ought to have
done long ago, for the way I treated him. He didn't deserve it; but I
was blinded with obstinacy and jealousy, and didn't know what I did.
And I know now, and have long known—'"
("Well, never mind that part; it is only a little that he may have
heard, somehow or other, about me, my dear," said John, once more
looking up. All this time Sarah had silently listened; but now she
sobbed quickly, "If it is anything good he writes about you, John, it
can't be too strong; for you have always been a good, kind husband, I
know." "As far as I have known how, I have tried to be," said John,
softly; "but I would rather leave that out," and he then proceeded):
"'I daresay'" (continued the letter) "'you have heard—but perhaps
not—that after I came out here—a good bit after—I married a young
person I met with. Her name was Helen; and my life from that time
became a very happy one, for I loved my wife very dearly; and she gave
all her love to me.'" (Here a deep sigh escaped from Sarah.) "'And
we lived together all through many years, God prospering me in His
providence, until—until God saw fit to take my Helen from me three
months ago.'"
("Poor Walter!" whispered Sarah, softening.)
"'This is the great trouble I mentioned; and since then my life has
been a blank to me, or it would be, only I have a daughter whom I
dearly love. She is about fifteen years old, and I am troubled about
her. For I feel I have not long to live. The doctors out here tell me
I have had a mortal disease hanging over me for years and years, and
that it has laid hold of me all the sooner because of my fretting about
my poor dear Helen who is gone. I am in a hopeless decline, they say;
and I feel it to be true. I am worn away to a shadow of what I was; and
they tell me if I want to prolong my life, even for a few months, I
must have a sea-voyage, and get to my native climate.'"
"'My dear cousin, I would not care to prolong my life, even for a
single day, if it were not for my poor young Helen (for that is my
daughter's name, named after her mother). If it wasn't for her, I seem
as if I could have done with this world to-morrow. But I am bound to
care for my poor motherless girl. And if she were left here, all alone
and unprotected, it would be bad for her. So, as soon as I heard what
the doctors said, I made up my mind what to do. I have sold my small
property here to a person who knows how to manage it, and I mean to
take passage home for my Helen and myself by next month's mail ship. It
may be that I shall not live to reach England; but if I don't, I have
left my affairs in proper order, so that there will not be any trouble
about them. There will be enough for poor Helen after I am gone.'"
"'Now, my dear cousin,'" John went on reading, after a little pause,
"'I have done a very bold thing. I have put in my will, and the
instructions to my London lawyer, that your husband, Mr. Tincroft, is
to be my sole executor, and my daughter's guardian, if he will be so
kind as to undertake all the trouble for one who used him, and you too,
so badly as I did. I know his goodness. I know more of it than you
would think, Sarah; and there isn't anybody in the world I would so
soon have as Mr. Tincroft and you for my poor Helen's friend.'"
("Oh, John, does Walter Wilson say that?" said Sarah, interrupting the
reading.)
"Yes; and he goes on to say that, trusting to our being willing to
befriend his Helen, he intends to give directions, in case of his not
living through the voyage, that notice shall be sent to us when the
ship comes in, so that his daughter may have friends to take care
of her and do the best for her. And he says that if he should reach
England himself, he will write to us directly he gets to London. That's
all, Sarah. No, not quite; for he writes down the name of the ship they
are coming by. It is the Sea Bird."
"There, my wife, that is your cousin's letter," said John, when he had
finished reading it. "There is no harm in it, you see, though there is
a good deal of trouble."
"Poor Walter!" sobbed Sarah. "But, John, you wouldn't like that trouble
put upon you—and you with all your books to write, that keep you so
busy always; besides—"
"My books may go to the bottom of the Red Sea, for anything I care,"
quoth John, with unwonted alacrity.
"Oh, John, John! And you so fond of writing!"
"I won't write another line," said John, heroically, "while there is
anything better to do. And there is something better to do now, Sarah;
we must get our best rooms ready for your cousin and his dear girl; and
we must look out for the Sea Bird, and go and meet them when it comes
in; and we must make them come down here, and get Walter strong again
if we can. And if he hasn't got money enough to set him up in a farm,
why, I must help him; and there, I think that's all I have to say about
it just now."
"But, John, dear John!" remonstrated Sarah.
"Why, isn't it what you would like to be done?" said he.
"But think how he used you, John, when you were trying to help him out
of his troubles once," said she. "You can't have forgotten," Sarah
added, "how he used you then."
"I shall never forget that I have had you to love and cherish ever
since then, my dear," said John, gallantly.
And then, fairly broken down, poor Sarah, with a thrill of joy she had
not felt for a long time, fairly broke out into a childlike cry,—
"Oh, John! I love you, I love you; I do love you, and only you!"
And then, in the midst of their newly-found happiness, came a sharp tap
at the study door, with a—
"Please, ma'am, it is two o'clock, and there's that pie-crust on the
board as you left it."
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