GOOD FOR EVIL.
FOR some days, the sick man continued in a convalescent condition.
He enjoyed his food, partaking heartily of whatever was brought him;
coughed but little, and was evidently much stronger than when they
found him, in his wretched garret. Every morning Gertrude went in to
read to him and had once sung the beautiful hymn commencing:
"Just as I am, without one plea,
But that thy blood was shed for me,
And that thou bid'st me come to thee,
O Lamb of God, I come!"
This sentiment of the author deeply affected the invalid, who did not
speak for some time after her voice ceased. Gertrude longed to ask him
why he delayed to throw himself upon the mercy of Christ; but she saw
the Holy Spirit was working on his heart; and she trembled lest an
untimely word should do harm.
Edward, also, was unwearied in his attention to his old classmate;
though each of them had, as if by tacit consent, avoided all reference
to their former intimacy.
When they were alone Paul could not refrain from speaking of Gertrude,
though every word seemed to rend his heart asunder.
"She says she forgives me; but how can she? You saw how I neglected
her for others, whose attractions were nothing in comparison to hers,
but you never suspected one half the torture to which I subjected her.
Not that such was my intention; but I had been taught at home that all
women were inferiors. Mother and sisters always yielded to me. I was
moody and irritable, often giving her a harsh word, when I ought to
have been most considerate and kind."
One day when the sick man seemed unusually feeble, Gertrude brought in
a glass of wine and smilingly told him the physician had ordered it.
"Take it away!" he exclaimed with a shudder. "The love of stimulating
drinks has been my ruin."
"Mrs. Wallingford," he went on, for the first time addressing her
by this title, "did you never suspect what it was that made me so
irritable, so unjust; so much more like a fiend than like the tender
husband I had promised to be?"
"Yes, Paul, I knew that you loved wine, and drank more than was good
for you."
"I did. I learned to drink a glass or two at our club, before you came
to Chicago. It did not affect me as it does many. I never staggered,
or lost my consciousness; but I thought it quickened my intellectual
powers. If I were going to plead a case I took an extra quantity.
Many called my pleading a brilliant success. I knew that it was the
excitement of liquor. The secondary effect was on my temper; and
as I dared not vent my irritability on others, I tortured my poor
long-suffering wife."
"It was this; and the consciousness that some of my clients began
to class me with intemperate men that led me to accept Mr. Curtis'
proposition to accompany him to Europe."
"No, no, I will never touch my lips to the wineglass. When I think what
I have lost by it, I loathe and abhor it as I loathe and abhor myself.
I might have been the happiest husband and father in the world; but I
was blind! I was blind!"
As he had never made the most distant allusion to her letter announcing
the birth of little Paul, she had been urged by her brother to make no
mention of the child. Indeed, she was not sure she could control her
own emotions if the subject were introduced.
Once a fortnight, a letter from Marion, filled with news of the little
fellow, came to gladden the mother's heart. His sayings and doings,
even the most trivial, were treasured up by her. In the last letter
there had come a photograph of the boy, dressed in his winter outfit,
in which he looked so bright and beautiful, that she could scarce
refrain from rushing into Paul's chamber to exhibit it; but Edward's
entreaties, and her own reflections prevailed. So far, the sick man had
never in direct terms told her that his affection for her was stronger
than it was during the days of their first acquaintance; but should
she lessen the dignity and reserve of manner which she had carefully
maintained in all their intercourse, she could readily perceive it
would be far more difficult for him to conceal the feelings which were
growing too strong for him.
Paul learned from Pedro that every evening the parlors were crowded
with visitors; often mentioning persons of distinction, with whom he
himself had never aspired to associate. From his physician he heard of
the estimation in which his benefactors were held. Mrs. Wallingford
was considered the most elegant, highly educated and attractive
American who had visited Rome for years; and her brother the model of a
gentleman.
"There is a certain English nobleman," he added, without a suspicion of
the eagerness with which his patient hung on his words, "who is greatly
enamoured. At first, Mrs. Wallingford was supposed to be a wife,
instead of sister to the gentleman; and his delight may be imagined
when the relationship became known."
"Is he a man of wealth and influence?" inquired Paul, trying in vain to
keep his voice from trembling.
"He is the owner of that, elegant villa on the Tiber," was the reply;
"and I am told is very prominent in the House of Lords."
The sick man groaned aloud; but presently inquired:
"Have you heard whether she favors his suit?"
"I think he would be better pleased if she would exhibit less dignity
and self-possession. I hope he will be successful."
"Pedro," said his master, one day, "I am afraid my being here so long,
will be a great expense."
"Mr. Wallingford is very rich," was the answer. "Money plenty; poor
people coming from morning till night and none sent away hungry."
The listener wondered much at this; and the next time Edward visited
him said with some confusion:
"I am here too long. I am an expense to you which I have no means to
pay."
"Don't give yourself uneasiness on that account, Paul. My sister and I
have enough to enable us to enjoy the luxury of giving to our friends.
You look surprised; did you never hear that we inherited half a million
between us?"
"Never; but I rejoice to hear it. Ger—I mean your sister," coughing
in great confusion, "will enjoy having money to do good with. I am
heartily glad; and shall feel more at ease. I have already lived much
longer than I expected; and I began to feel I ought to go away and
relieve you from the burden you so generously assumed."
"Mrs. Wallingford will give you due notice when she wishes you to
change your quarters," the brother answered, smiling:
"I have not seen her to-day."
"She left a message for you, which I might have forgotten. She has gone
with an English nobleman we have met here, to see some ancient ruins,
and is intending to read to you on her return."
When she entered the chamber he was alone; and she instantly rang the
bell for Pedro, who was sunning himself on the portico.
The occurrence was significant to the sick man; but with a sigh, trying
to put aside all useless regrets he held up the Testament she had left
him; and pointing to the page, said eagerly:
"I have found the rule which actuates you," reading aloud. "'Be not
overcome of evil; but overcome evil with good.' 'Recompense to no man
evil for evil.'"
"And this too is what you have done! 'Not rendering evil for evil, or
railing for railing, but contrariwise blessing; knowing that ye are
thereunto called that ye should inherit a blessing.'"
There was something in his expression as he glanced from the book with
a smile which carried her back so forcibly to other days, that for a
moment she was overcome. Covering her face the tears flowed freely down
her cheeks.
He was seated on a large couch or divan, and timidly laid his fingers
on hers, trying to remove them from her face.
"I didn't mean to pain you," he said humbly. "I have been reading the
book you lent me; and when I found that passage, I said to myself, that
exactly describes my—Mrs. Wallingford. I have treated her evil and she
has recompensed evil with good!"
"Paul, do you wish to know how you can reward me?"
"Yes, yes," his eyes sparkling.
"Love my Saviour. Let my poor words be the instrument of bringing you
to him, that I may have one jewel in my crown of rejoicing."
She was hurrying from the room to hide her tears, when he called softly:
"Gertrude. May I call you so once, just once? I would go to Christ;
but I don't know how. I tried last night to pray, and I repeated over
and over the words you used for me so long ago. 'Blessed Jesus, save
him from the corruption of his own heart; lead him to the foot of the
cross. May he find peace in believing on thee.' I need peace, my soul
is all adrift. Can't you tell me once more how to go to him?"
She took the Bible from his hands; and read the beautiful parable of
the prodigal son.
When she came to the words, "I will arise and go to my father," he
waved his hand for her to stop, and repeated them, after her slowly and
impressively.
She placed the book near him, hesitating whether to say more, when he
began:
"I know I don't deserve it. Perhaps you wont be willing; but if you
would pray with me once more."
She complied, without a word, kneeling by his side; and was much
affected to see that he rose slowly, and assumed the same position.
It was to her one of the most solemn moments of her life. Paul, once
related to her by the most endearing ties, just about to launch into
eternity, hesitating whether to accept or reject his Saviour. Her full
heart found vent in words. She went to her Father in heaven as a child
would address an earthly father, whom she knew loved her; and was ready
to grant her request. She heard her companion by her side, sobbing
aloud; and this inspired her to greater fervor. She wrestled for his
soul, like Jacob with the angel of the covenant, saying, "'I will not
let thee go unless thou bless me.'"
Then she arose and went softly from the room.