"Here I am in Baltimore, but it seems no nearer finding our child
than when I was in New York. The firm in whose employment Wilmer was
shortly after his arrival in Baltimore, has been dissolved some
years; and I am told that neither of the partners is now in this
city. I have not been able to learn the name of a single clerk who
was in their store. I feel disheartened, yet more eager every day to
find our lost one. Where can she be?
"A day more has passed since my arrival here, and I have a little
hope. I have found one of his former fellow-clerks. He says, that he
thinks Wilmer is still in town. I do not want to advertise for him,
if I can help it, but shall do so before I leave the city, if other
means fail. This young man tells me, that when he knew him he had
three children. He never saw our Constance. He represents Wilmer as
having been in bad health, and as generally appearing dejected. He
says, all his furniture was once seized and sold by the sheriff for
rent, but that it was redeemed next day by his employers, who
treated him very kindly on the occasion. I have heard nothing of the
poor boy that has not prepossessed me in his favour. I fear he has
had a hard time of it. How much happiness have we lost--how much
misery have we occasioned!--Surely we have lived in vain all our
lives! I feel more humbled every day since I left home.
"Since yesterday I have learned that he was in the city less than a
year ago--and that Constance was living. How my heart throbs! Shall
I see my own dear child again? Theodore, I fear, is in very bad
health, if still alive. He had to give up a good situation about a
year ago, as book-keeper in a large establishment here, where he was
much esteemed, on account of his health giving way so fast under the
confinement. I believe he took another situation as salesman in a
retail store, on a very small salary. Some one told me that
Constance had been under the necessity of taking in sewing, to help
to get a living--and all this time we had abundance all around us! I
call myself, 'wretch,'--and so I would call any other man who would
cast off his child, as I have done--a tender flower to meet the cold
winds of autumn.
"I have seen my child! my poor dear Constance! But oh, how changed!
While passing along the street to-day, almost in despair of ever
finding her--a slender female, about the same height of Constance,
passed me hastily. There was something peculiar, I thought, about
her, and I felt as I had never yet felt, while near a stranger. I
followed her, scarce knowing the reason why. She entered a
clothing-store, and I went in after her, and asked to look at some
article, I scarce knew what. Her first word startled me as would a
shock of electricity. It was my own child. But I could not make
myself known to her there. She laid down upon the counter three
vests, and then presented a small book. in which to have the work
entered. The entry was made, and the book handed back.
"'There are just three dollars due you,' said the man.
"'Three-and-a-half, I believe it is, sir.'
"'No, it's only three.'
"'Then I have calculated wrong. I thought it was three-and-a-half.'
"How mournful and disappointed was her tone!
"After standing for some time looking over her book, she said in a
lighter voice, 'well, I believe I _am_ right. See here; I have made
twenty-eight vests, and at twelve-and-a-half cents each, that is
three dollars and a half.'
"'Well, I believe you are right,' said the man, in a changed tone,
after looking over the book again.
"'Can you pay me to-day? I am much in want of it.'
"'No, I can't. I have a thousand dollars to pay in bank, and I
cannot spare anything before two or three days.'
"She paused a moment, and then went slowly towards the door;
lingered for a short time, and then turned to the man again. I then
saw for the first time, for ten long years, her face. How thin and
pale it was! how troubled its expression!--But it was the face of
our dear Constance. She did not look towards me; but turned again to
the shop-keeper, and said,
"'Be kind enough, sir, to let me have one dollar. I want it very
much!'
"'You give me more trouble about your money than any other workman I
have,' said the man roughly, as he handed her a dollar.
"She took it, unheeding the cruel remark, and before I could make up
my mind how to act, glided quickly away. I followed as hastily, and
continued to walk after her, until I saw her enter a large,
old-fashioned brick building. About this dwelling, there was no air
of comfort. In the door sat a little girl, and two boys, pale, but
pleasant-looking children. One of them clapped his little hands as
Constance passed them, and then got up and ran after her into the
house. They all had her own bright eyes. I would have known them for
(sic) her's anywhere.
"Does it not seem strange that I hesitated to go in at once to my
child. But I am at a loss what to do. Sometimes I think that I will
wait until you come on, and make her heart glad with the presence of
both at once. To-morrow I will write you again. The mail is just
closing; and I must send this."
After Wilmer had received the kindly proffered relief from his
employers, in an increase of salary, he was less troubled about the
daily wants of his family. But other sources of keen anxiety soon
presented themselves. His own health began to give way so rapidly as
to awaken in his mind, fearful apprehensions of approaching
inability to support his family; and Constance was not strong. Too
often, the pain in his breast and side was so severe as to make his
place at the desk little less than torture. A confirmed, short, dry
cough, not severe, but constant, also awakened his liveliest fears.
At the end of a year from the time when his employers began to feel
a kind interest in him, he was removed from the desk, and given more
active employment as salesman and out-of-door clerk. The benefit of
this change was soon felt. The pain in his breast and side gradually
gave way, his appetite increased, and his cough became less and less
irritating. But this improvement was only temporary. The disease had
become too deeply rooted. True, he suffered much less than while
confined at the desk, but the morbid indications were too constant
to leave him much of the flattery of hope.
Another year gradually rolled away, and with it came more changes,
and causes of concern. A little stranger had come into his family,
making three the number of his babes, and adding to the list of his
cares and his expenses; and it must also be said, to his pleasures.
For what parent, with the heart of a parent, be his condition what
it may, but rejoices in the number of the little ones whose eyes
brighten at his coming? But there was a change of greater importance
in his prospects. The firm in whose service he was, became involved
and had to wind up their business. All the clerks were in a short
time discharged, and Wilmer among the rest. The time was one of
great commercial pressure, and many long-established houses were
forced to yield; others were driven to great curtailment of
expenses. The consequence was that few were employing clerks, and
many dispensing with their services. Under the circumstances, Wilmer
found it impossible to obtain employment. Daily did he call at the
various stores and counting-rooms in the hope of meeting with a
situation, only to return to his dwelling more depressed and
disheartened.
By great economy, in view of approaching ill health, he had managed
to lay up, since the increase in his wages, nearly the amount of
that increase. He had done this, by living upon the same amount that
he before found to be inadequate to the support of his family. How
this was done, they only can know who have resolutely, from
necessity, made the same experiment, and found that the real amount
necessary to live upon is much smaller than is usually supposed.
This sum, about one hundred dollars, he had when he was thrown out
of employment scarcely enough to last for three months, under their
present expenses. It was with painful reluctance that Wilmer
trespassed upon this precious store, but he found necessity a hard
task-master.
Amid the gloom and darkness of his condition and prospects, there
was one bright star shining upon him with an ever-constant light. No
cloud could dim or obscure it. That light, that cheerful star, was
the wife of his bosom. The tie that bound her to her husband was not
an external one alone; she was wedded to him in spirit. Her
affection for him, as sorrow, and doubt, and fearful foreboding of
coming evils gathered about him, assumed more and more of the
mother's careful and earnest love for the peace of her child. She
met him with an ever-cheerful countenance; gently soothed his fears,
and constantly referred him to the overruling care of Divine
Providence. Affliction had wrought its proper work upon her
affections, and as they became gradually separated from the world,
they found a higher and purer source of attraction. From a
thoughtless girl, she had become a reflecting woman, and with
reflection had come. a right understanding of her duties. An angel
of comfort is such a woman to a man of keen sensibilities, who finds
his struggle in the world a hard and painful one.
Two months passed away in the vain effort to obtain employment.
Every avenue seemed shut against him. The power of endurance was
tried to its utmost strength, when he was offered a situation in an
iron-store, to handle iron, and occasionally perform the duties of a
clerk. Three hundred dollars was the salary. He caught at it, as his
last hope, with eagerness, and at once entered upon his duties. He
found them more toilsome than he had expected. The business was a
heavy one, and kept him at fatiguing labour nearly the whole day.
Never having been used to do hard work, he found on the morning of
the second day, that the muscles of his back, arms, and legs, were
so strained, that he could hardly move himself. He was as sore as if
he had been beaten with a heavy stick. This, however, in a great
measure, wore off, after he began to move about; but he found his
strength giving way much sooner on this day than on the preceding
one. At night, his head ached badly, he had no appetite, and was
feverish. On the next morning, however, he went resolutely to work;
but he felt so unfit for it, that he finally, referring in his own
mind to what he had suffered on a former occasion by not explaining
his true situation, determined to mention to his new employer how he
felt. and ask a little respite for a day or two, until his strength
should return. He, accordingly, left the large pile of iron which he
had commenced assorting, and entered the counting-room. He felt a
great degree of hesitation, but strove to keep it down, while he
summoned up resolution to utter distinctly and mildly his request.
The man of iron was busy over his bill-book when Wilmer sought his
presence, and looked up with a stern aspect.
"I feel quite sick," began Theodore, an older man than his employer,
"from working beyond my strength for the last two days, and should
be very glad if you could employ me at something lighter for as long
a time, until I recover myself, when I will be much stronger than
when I began, and able to keep steadily on. I have never been used
to hard labour, and feel it the more severely now."
Mr.--looked at him with a slight sneer for a moment, and then
replied,--
"I can't have any playing about me If my work suits you, well; if
not, there are a plenty whom it will suit."
Silently did Wilmer withdraw from the presence of the unfeeling man,
and turned with aching limbs to his toilsome work.
At night he found himself much worse than on the preceding evening;
and on the ensuing morning he was unable to go to the store. It was
nearly a week before he could again find his way out, and then he
was in a sadly debilitated state, from the effects of a fever
brought on by over-exertion. He went to the iron-store, and formally
declined his situation. No offer was made to reengage him, and as he
turned away from the door of the counting-room, he heard the man
remark, in a sneering under-tone to a person present, "a poor
milk-sop!"
Generally, the unfortunate are stung to the quick by any reflection
upon them by those in a better condition; and few were more alive to
ridicule than Wilmer. Both the condition and the constitutional
infirmity combined, made the remark of Mr.--produce in his bosom a
tempest of agitation; and for a moment he was roused from his usual
calm exterior; but he recovered himself as quick as thought, and
hurried away. He did not go directly home, but wandered listlessly
about for several hours. When he returned at the usual dinner hour,
he found his wife busily engaged in preparing dinner. Her babe was
asleep in the cradle, by which sat the eldest boy, touching it with
his foot, while the other little one, about four years old, was
prattling away to her baby-doll.
"Why Constance, where is Mary?"
"She has gone away," was the smiling reply.
"How comes that? I thought she appeared very well satisfied."
"She was very well pleased with her place, I believe; but as I have
taken it into my head to do without her, and am a very wilful
creature, as you know, why, there was no remedy but to let her get
another place. So I told her as much this morning, and she has
already found a pleasant situation--not so good, however, as this,
she says. Come, don't look so serious about it! Theodore can bring
water for me, and you can cut the wood, and among us we will do very
well. It is a pity if two people can't take care of themselves, and
three other little bodies besides. And just see what we will
save?--Four dollars a month for her wages, and her boarding into the
bargain. And you know, Mary, though a kind, good sort of a body, and
very industrious and obliging, eat almost as much as all the rest of
us together."
"Well, Constance, put as good a face upon the matter as you can, but
I feel that stern necessity has brought you to it."
"You must not talk so much about 'stern necessity,' Theodore. It is
surely no great hardship for me to sweep up the house every morning,
and get the little food we eat. I know that our income is cut off,
for I don't suppose you are going back to that iron-store again. But
there will be a way opened, for us. The kind Being who is trying us
for our good will not leave us in our last extremity. It is for us
to do the best we can, with what we can get. Now that our certain
resources are withdrawn, it is for us to limit our expenses to the
smallest possible sum. We have, it is true, lived quite frugally for
the past year. But it is possible for us to live on much less than
the five hundred dollars that it has cost. Our servant's wages and
boarding were at least one hundred dollars; and by the present
retrenchment we save that sum, and shall live just as comfortably,
for now we will all help to take care of each other."
"So far so good, my comforter! But where will the four hundred
dollars come from?"
"Well, let us go on. We pay one hundred and fifty dollars for this
house. By going out upon the suburbs of the town, we can get a
pleasant little house for five dollars a month."
"O, no, Constance, you are too fast."
"Not at all. I have seen just the little place that will suit us.
The house is not old, and everything around is sweet and clean. And
it's plenty big enough for us."
"Well, Constance, suppose by so doing we reduce our expenses to
three hundred and ten dollars. Where is that sum to come from? I
can't get any work."
"Don't despair, Theodore! We shall not be forsaken. But we must do
for ourselves the best we can. I have been turning over a plan in my
head, by which we can live much cheaper and a great deal happier;
for the less it takes us to live, the less care we shall have about
it."
"Go on."
"By moving into a smaller house, we can dispense with a great many
things which will then be of no use to us. These will bring us from
two to three hundred dollars, at public sale. Good furniture, you
know, always brings good prices."
"Well."
"With this money, we can live in a smaller house, without any
servant, for nearly a year; and surely you will get something to do
by next spring, even if you should be idle all winter."
Wilmer kissed the cheek of his wife, now glowing with the excitement
of cheerful hope, with a fervent and heartfelt affection, and
murmuring in a low voice--"My comforting angel!" turned with a
lighter heart than had beat in his bosom for months, to caress the
little girl, who was clamouring for her usual kiss.
That afternoon was spent in discussing the proposed retrenchment,
and in going to look at the little house which Mrs. Wilmer had
mentioned. It was small, but neat, and had a good yard, with a pump
at the door. They decided at once to take it, and obtained
possession of the key.
No time was lost in offering their superfluous furniture at public
sale; and to the satisfaction of both Wilmer and his wife, the
auctioneer returned them, after deducting his commissions, the net
sum of three hundred dollars.
In one week from the time of Mrs. Wilmer's proposition, they were
snugly packed away in their new residence.
Late in the fall, Wilmer obtained a situation as collector for one
of the newspaper offices, on a salary of four hundred dollars. This,
under the reduced expense system, and with the surplus on hand,
afforded them ample means. The exercise in the open air which it
allowed him, was greatly conducive to his health, and he soon showed
considerable improvement in body and mind. Things went on smoothly
and satisfactorily until about Christmas, when he took a violent
cold, on a wet day, which fell upon his lungs, and soon brought him
to a very weak state. From this, his recovery was so slow, and his
prospect of health so unpromising, that he found it a matter of
necessity to decline his situation, which was retained for him as
long as the office could wait.
During the whole of the remaining inclement weather of the winter
season, he found it necessary to keep within doors, as he invariably
took cold whenever he ventured out.
Perceiving the failure of her husband's health to be certainly and
rapidly progressing, Mrs. Wilmer dwelt in her own mind with painful
solicitude upon the probable means of support for them all, when his
strength should so entirely give way, as to render him altogether
unfitted for business. The only child of over-fond parents, rich in
this world's goods, she had received a thorough, fashionable
education, which fitted her for doing no one thing by which she
could earn any money. Her music had been confined to a few
fashionable waltzes and overtures; her French and Spanish were
nearly forgotten, and her proficiency in drawing and embroidery had
never been very great. In her girlish days she could dance
gracefully, and talk fashionable nonsense with a bewitching air when
it became necessary to amuse some sprig of fashion, or wield good
plain common sense with common sense people, when occasion called
for it. But as to possessing resources in herself for getting a
living in the world, that was another matter altogether. But there
is a creative power in necessity, which acts with wonderful skill
when the hour of trial comes. That hour had come with Constance, and
she steadily cast about her for the means of earning money.
Next door to where she lived was a widow woman with three grown-up
daughters, who were always busy working for the clothing-stores, or
"slop-shops," as they were called. She had made their acquaintance
during the winter, and found them kind and considerate of others,
and ever ready with an encouraging word, or serious advice when
called for. The very small compensation which they received for
their work, encouraged her but little, when she thought of obtaining
something to do in the same way. But the more she thought of other
means, the less she found herself fitted for doing anything else,
and at last determined to learn how to make common pantaloons, that
she might have some resource to fly to, when all others failed. She
found her kind neighbours ready to give her all the instruction she
needed, and they also kindly offered to introduce her to the shops
whenever she should determine to take in work. It did not take her
long to learn, and soon after she had acquired the art, as her
husband's health still continued to decline, she began, in odd
times, to make common pantaloons and vests, for which she received
the meagre compensation of twelve-and-a-half cents each. It took her
about one-half of her time, actively engaged, to attend to her
family.
During the remaining half of each day and evening, she would make a
vest or a pair of pantaloons, which at the end of the week would
bring her in seventy-five cents. When she looked at this small sum,
the aggregate of a week's labour, during leisure from the concerns
of her family, she felt but little encouraged in prospect of having
the whole of her little family dependent upon her; and for some
weeks she entertained, in the silence of her own heart, a sickening
consciousness of coming destitution, which she might in vain
endeavour to prevent. Gradually her mind reacted from this painful
state, and she gave daily diligence to her employments, entertaining
a firm trust in Divine Providence.
As the spring opened, her husband's health revived a little, and he
found employment at a small compensation in a retail dry-goods
store. This just suited his strength and the state of his health,
and he continued at it for something like three years. During this
period nothing of material interest occurred, and we pass it over in
silence.
The long-looked-for, long-dreaded time, when Wilmer's health should
entirely give way, at length came; and although through the kindness
of his employers he had been retained in the store long after he was
able to do his full duty, yet at last he had to give up.
It would require a pen more skilled to portray the workings of the
human heart, than mine, to sketch his real feelings, when he
received his last month's wages; the last that he felt he would ever
earn for his family, and turned his steps homeward. He loved the
wife who had forsaken the wealth and comfort of a father's house,
and had been all in all to him through sunshine and storm, with deep
and tearful affection; he would have sacrificed everything for her;
and yet for years had he been compelled to see her toil for a
portion of the bread that nourished her and her children. He loved
his little ones, with a yearning tenderness; the more fervently and
passionately, now that he could no longer minister to their wants.
How could he meet them all on this evening, and see their dear faces
brighten up on his entrance, when he could no longer earn them food,
or provide them with comforts? It was with a strong effort that he
kept down his feelings. as he entered his home, now comprised in two
rooms in the second story of an old house in Commerce street, where
they had removed, to be nearer his place of business, the long walk
having been too fatiguing for him, after standing behind the counter
all day.
Mrs. Wilmer's quick eye at once detected a change in the expression
of her husband's countenance, but she said nothing. After tea, the
children were all put to bed in the next room, and they were then
alone. Wilmer sat in deep thought by the table, shading his face
with his sand when his wife came in from the chamber where she had
been with the children. Twining her arm round his neck, she bent
over him, and said, in a tone of tender concern--
"Why so thoughtful, Theodore?"
He did not reply for some moments, nor lift his head, and Constance
was about to repeat her question in a more earnest voice, when a hot
tear fell upon her hand. She had seen him often sorely tried and
painfully exercised, but had never known him to shed a tear. There
had always been a troubled silence in his manner when difficulties
pressed upon him, but tears moistened not his eyes. Well might her
heart sink down in her bosom at that strange token of intense
suffering.
"Dear Theodore!" she said, in a changed tone, "tell me what it is
that troubles you!"
A shuddering sob was the only reply, as he leaned his head back upon
her bosom.
"Say, dearest, what has happened?"
The tears now fell from his eyes like rain, and sob after sob shook
his frame convulsively.
Constance waited in silence until the agitation subsided, and then
gently urged him to tell her what it was that troubled him so
painfully.
"I am broken in spirits now, Constance. I am a weak child. I have
received the last blow, and manhood has altogether forsaken me."
"Tell me! oh, tell me! Theodore, all, all! Do not distress me by
further silence, or mystery!"
A pause of some minutes succeeded, during which Wilmer was making
strong efforts to overcome his feelings.
"Constance," he at length said, mournfully, "I have tried long, and
much beyond my strength, to earn the small sum that it took to
support our little ones; but nature has at last given way. Here is
the last dollar I shall probably ever earn, and now I shall be a
burden upon you, eating the bread of my children, while they, poor
things, will hunger for the morsel that nourishes me. I do not
wonder that manly feelings have passed away with my strength.
Constance, what shall we do?"
An angel of comfort is woman to life's last extremity.
Fragile as a reed, that bends to the passing breeze, when the
sunshine of prosperity is bright above and around, she becomes the
tall oak, deep-rooted and strong-branched, when the wintry storms of
adversity sweep over the earth. No trial subdues her, no privation
brings a murmur of discontent. She will hope to the last, and still
have a smile of assurance for those who, in their despondency, have
even cast away hope. Constance Wilmer was a woman, and as a woman,
her worth was felt more and more, as troubles came thicker and
faster.
"Dear husband!" she said, in a steady and cheerful voice, "you have
forgotten that line, so true and so comforting--"'Despair is never
quite despair'--
"I see no cause for such painful feelings. Pinching want is not upon
us yet, and I am sure the time will never come when our children
shall ask food at our hands in. vain. Trial, which is always for our
good, will never reach beyond the point of endurance."
"The burden is all upon you, Constance. Heaven grant that you may
have strength to bear it!"
"I fear not for the strength. That will come in due time. Now we
have food and raiment, and therewith let us be content. If God so
clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is
cast into the oven, will he not clothe us? He that feedeth the young
ravens when they cry, will not turn away from us. Are we not of more
value than many sparrows?"
"Bless you! bless you! Constance."
"Do not, then, dear husband! cast away your confidence. If the
burden is to be all upon me, it will be lightened by your cheerful
countenance and encouraging words. I shall need them both,
doubtless; then do not withhold them."
Her voice lost its steadiness, trembled a moment, and then she hid
her face, in silence and in tears, upon his bosom.
As Wilmer had foreseen, the strength for further labour was gone for
ever. He lingered about for a few weeks, and then took to his bed.
And now came the time for the full trial of Mrs. Wilmer's mental and
bodily strength.
Notwithstanding all her close application at the needle, the small
sum that had been saved from former earnings, slowly, but steadily
diminished. Daily she increased her exertions, and encroached
further upon the hours of rest; but still there was a steady
withdrawal of the hoarded treasure. At first, her confidence in the
Divine Providence was measurably shaken; but soon the wavering
needle of her faith turned steadily to its polar star. Her own
health, never vigorous, began also to give way under the increased
application which became necessary for the support of the beloved
ones, now entirely dependent upon her labour for food and raiment.
Her appetite, never very good, failed considerably, and consequently
there was a withdrawal instead of an increase of strength. But none
knew of her pain or weakness. Her pale face was ever a cheerful one,
and her voice full of tenderness.
When the next spring opened, Wilmer was not only confined to the
house, but unable to sit up, except for a few hours at a time
through the day. His wife's health had suffered much, and all the
hours she sat at her needle, were hours of painful endurance. Spring
passed away, and summer came. But the milder airs had no kind effect
upon the fast sinking frame of her husband. He was rapidly going
down to the grave, his last hours embittered by the sight of his
wife and children suffering before him.
During the month of August, Wilmer declined so fast, and needed such
constant attention, that his wife could find but little time to
devote to her needle. What she thus lost in the day-time, she had to
make up, as far as possible, by encroaching upon the night hours,
and often the lamp by her side would grow dim before the light of
day, while she still bent in weariness and pain, over the work that
was to give bread to her children.
For some months her work had been confined to one shop, the master
of which was not always punctual in paying her the pittance she
earned. Instead of handing her, whenever she called, the trifle due
her, he made her procure a little book in which he would enter the
work, promising to pay when it would amount to a certain sum. In
anxious hope would Mrs. Wilmer wait until her earnings rose to the
required amount; but not always then could she get her due; there
would too frequently be a part payment, or a request to call in a
day or two.
One day towards the first of September, she found that both food and
money were out. She was just finishing a couple of vests for the
clothing-shop, and there were more than three dollars due to her.
While turning over in her own mind the hope that Mr.--would pay
her the small sum due, when she carried in the work, and troubled
the While with fears lest he should deny her, as he had often done
before; her husband, whose bright eye had been upon her for some
time, and whose countenance, unseen by her, had expressed an
earnest, yet hesitating desire to ask for something, said--
"Constance, I don't know whether you are able to get them, but if
you can, I should like, above all things, to have some grapes."
"Then you shall have some," Constance replied, earnestly and
affectionately. "I am sure they will help you. Why did I not think
of this for you long ago?"
Resuming her needle, she plied it with double swiftness, her heart
trembling lest when she asked for her money at the shop, it should
be refused her. At last the work was done and she carried it in. It
was entered, and her book handed back to her. She paused a moment,
then turned to go out, but she could not go home without some money.
Hesitatingly she asked to have her due, but it was refused on some
excuse of having a large payment to make on that very day. Again she
turned to go, but again turned to ask for only a part of what was
her own. One dollar was thrown her with an unkind remark. The first
she seized with avidity, the last passed her ear unheeded.
How swiftly did she hurry home with her little treasure! more
precious than a hundred times the sum had ever been before. It was
to meet the first expressed want of her husband, to gratify which
she would herself have abstained days from food.
The grapes were soon obtained, with some bread, and a small portion
of meat, for the children. They proved very grateful and refreshing
to Wilmer, who, soon after he had eaten a few of them, fell into a
gentle sleep.
The food which Mrs. Wilmer had bought would last them probably about
two days--not longer. Two months' rent would be due in a week,
amounting to eight dollars. Their landlord had threatened to take
some of their things to satisfy the last months' rent, and she had
little hope of his being put off longer than the expiration of the
two months. There were still two-and-a-half dollars due her by the
keeper of the clothing-store, which she knew it would be almost as
hard to get as to earn.
Not disposed, however, to sit down and brood over her difficulties,
which only made them worse, she went to work in the best spirit
possible to overcome them. She obtained more work, and bent herself
again over her daily employment.
She was sitting with an aching head and troubled heart at her work
on the next morning, having only sought a brief repose through the
night, when a smart tap at the door roused her from her abstraction
of mind.
"Does Mrs. Wilmer live here, ma'am?" asked a man.
"That is my name."
"Then I am directed to leave this basket,"--and the man deposited
his burden on the floor, and was gone before another word could be
spoken.
Mrs. Wilmer stood for a moment in mute surprise, and then removed
the covering off the basket. It contained tea, coffee, sugar, rice,
meat, bread, and various other articles of food; and also, a letter
directed to "Constance Wilmer." She broke the seal with an anxious
and trembling heart. It contained a fifty dollar note, and these
brief words:--
"_Put by your work--you are cared for--there is help coming, and now
very nigh--be of good cheer!_"
The coarse garment she still held in her hand, fell to the floor.
Her fingers released themselves from it by an instinctive effort
which she could not control. Her head reeled for a moment, and she
sunk into a chair, overcome by a tumult of contending feelings. From
this, she was aroused by the voice of her husband, who anxiously
inquired the contents of the letter. He read it, and saw the
enclosure, and the supply of food in the basket, and then clasped
his hands and looked up with mute thankfulness to heaven. Mrs.
Wilmer obeyed, with a confidence for which she could not account,
the injunction of her stranger-friend, and almost hourly for the
first day referred to the characters of the letter, which seemed
familiar to her eye. That she had seen the writing before, she was
certain; but where, or when, she could not tell.
Relieved from daily care and toil, she had more time to give to her
sick husband. She found him nearer the grave than she had supposed.
Four days more passed away, and Wilmer had come down to the very
brink of the dark river of death.
It was night. The two younger children were asleep, and the oldest
boy, just in his tenth year, with his mother, stood anxiously over
the low bed, upon which lay, gasping for breath, the dying husband
and father. The widow, who cannot forget the dear image of her
departed one; the orphan, who remembers the dying agony of a fond
father, can realize in a great degree the sorrows which pressed upon
the hearts of these lone watchers by the bed of death.
The last hours of Wilmer's life were hours of distinct
consciousness.
"Constance," he whispered, in a low difficult whisper, while his
bright eyes were fixed upon her face--"Constance, what will you do
when I am gone? I am but a burden on you now; but my presence I feel
is something."
His stricken-hearted wife could make no answer; but the tears rolled
over her face in great drops, and fell fast upon the pillow of her
dying husband.
"I cannot say, 'do not weep,'" continued Wilmer. "O that I could
give a word of comfort! but your cup is full, running over, and I
cannot dash it from your lips:--Dear Constance! you have been to me
a wife and a mother. Let me feel your warm cheek once more against
mine, for it is cold, very cold. Hark! did you not hear voices?" And
he strained his eyes towards the door, half-lifting himself up.
For a few moments he looked eagerly for some one to enter, and then
fell back upon the bed with a heavy sigh, murmuring to himself, in a
low disappointed tone--
"I thought they were coming."
"Who, love?" asked Mrs. Wilmer, eagerly. But her husband did not
seem to hear her question; but lay gasping for breath, the muscles
of his neck and face distorted and giving to his countenance the
ghastly expression of death.
"Who, love?--who were coming?" eagerly asked Mrs. Wilmer again, her
own heart trembling with a recurrence of the vague hopes with which
the mysterious letter and timely supply had inspired her,--hopes
that had never been hinted to her husband. But it seemed that he had
given the incident his own interpretation.
But he heeded not her question. For some time mother and son again
stood over him, in troubled silence. Perhaps half an hour had passed
since he had spoken, when a slight bustle was heard, on the steps
below, and then feet were heard quickly ascending, and hastening
along the passage towards their chamber door.
"They come! They come!" half-shrieked the dying man, springing up in
the bed, and bending over towards the door, which was hastily flung
open. His eyes glared upon the two persons, a man and woman, both
well advanced in life, as they entered. That one anxious gaze was
enough. Looking up into the face of Constance, against whose breast
his head had sunk, his countenance changed into an expression of
intense delight, and he whispered--
"They have come, Constance! they have come. Think of me as at rest
and happy. I die in peace!"
His eye-lids closed naturally--there was no longer any convulsive
play of the muscles, and as an infant sinking into slumber, so
quietly did Theodore Wilmer sleep the sleep of death.
One month from that night of sorrow, the darkest one in the many
gloomy seasons of Mrs. Wilmer's life, might have been seen this
child of many afflictions, with her three little ones, at home in
one of the most pleasant houses in the vicinity of New York. There
was something sad and subdued in the expression of her pale face,
but it was from the recollection of the past. Her mother, who ten
years before had cast her off as unworthy, now gazed upon her with a
look of the intensest affection; and the father, who had sworn never
to call her his child, sat holding her thin white hand in his, and
listening to her first recital of all she had passed through since
she left the home of her childhood, while the tears fell from his
eyes in large drops, upon the hand that lay within his own.