A SAD STORY.
To describe the scene which followed, I will quote from the words of
an eminent author.
"Have you ever watched the sun rise upon a landscape that has been,
but a few moments before, a world of gray and black shadows? Have you
seen the rosy flush of dawn creeping in lines of tender light across
the hills, and shining down into the valleys?" If you have seen this
beauteous birth of day, and felt its full significance of life
renewed, then your imagination can fancy the dawn of the new and
perfect joy with which the young pastor received the intelligence
contained in the letters.
"I have come at your call," he had said, as he entered her parlor,
where she met him with outstretched hands. Looking full into his face
she saw there the change of which Annie had written. His eyes shone
with a quiet courage, more touching than the wildest despair. It was
as though he had said, "My Father has sent me a cross. I will bear it
manfully, looking to Him for strength."
Marion had been for hours planning how she would break the news
to the pastor. All was forgotten now. Her voice rang with joy, as she
said,—
"I have news for you,—good news. I knew your Stella. She gave me
this for you. Only this morning I first knew the address."
She put the precious parcel in his hands, adding, "When you have read
it, I will come back and tell you of her happy death. Please touch
the bell when you are ready."
It was more than an hour before the signal was given. When she
re-entered the parlor his face bore the marks of deep emotion;
but the new light I have described at the beginning of my chapter
was shining from it.
"Have you read this?" he asked, leading her to a seat, and taking one
beside her,—"No, I do not mean that,—did she tell you?"
"When I first found her, she talked of one who had blighted her life.
She never named you. I had no idea she alluded to a brother.
After she went to the Home she became a humble Christian, loving and
tender to every one."
He was struggling hard to control his emotion, but presently said:
"How wonderful that, when you were tending her and ministering to her
wants like a sister, I was within a hundred feet of her, crying and
praying God so to soften her heart that she might accept His
forgiving love! How wonderful that my Father, in His wisdom,
has withheld this," holding up the letters, "till by His grace
He enabled me to say from the heart, 'Thy will be done'!"
"And gave me the privilege of restoring to you the last token of her
affection."
As she spoke, Marion's tears flowed fast. "Will you thank Him
for me?"
As they knelt, he poured from a full heart words of praise and
thanksgiving. He consecrated his life and all its powers anew to the
service of the Saviour. He asked that through these events,
so mysterious, bringing to him, after the lapse of so many years,
the knowledge of his sister's acceptance of Christ as her Saviour,
they might both be more trustful, resting all their cares upon Him
who had done all things well.
Again and again Mr. Angus asked for reminiscences of his sister.
Again and again Marion related in detail the account of their first
meeting,—Stella's despair when first told she could not live,
her removal to the blessed Home, the sermon on forgiveness from the
chaplain, the arrow of the Spirit which sent it home to her heart,
the sweet and abiding peace which followed when she gave up her
burden of sin and sorrow to Christ.
"Where is her grave?" he asked, concealing his face.
"In Greenwood. I will take you there in the morning, and you will
want to see Dr. B- at the Home."
"In what words can I thank you, Miss Howard? You not only befriended
a poor orphan while living, but provided a place for her in that
lovely home for the dead."
"It was a precious privilege, Mr. Angus."
Seizing her hand for a moment, he dropped it suddenly and walked away
to the window.
"Tea is served," announced James, opening the door.
"One word, Miss Howard. Will you listen to my story? I want you to
read my sister's letters. If you will listen to me first, you will
then understand the cause she had to consider me her enemy."
"I should consider it a sacred privilege."
"My good Hepsey, Miss Prime, Mr. Angus," she added, advancing to the
table, where Hepsey sat. "Mr. Angus is my Grantbury pastor, Ethel's
friend," she explained, as they took their seats.
After grace had been said, the conversation turned naturally to the
family of Mr. Asbury, and especially to Ethel.
After a while Mr. Angus asked,—
"Have you heard from Mrs. Douglass of late?"
"Yes, she has revived in a wonderful manner. I intend to visit her as
soon as my doctor removes the embargo he has placed on me. He has the
lowest opinion of my prudence, and imagines me incapable of caution."
"And he is right," insisted Hepsey, laughing. "Once you begin your
visits, there is no knowing when they will end, until you are brought
up again by some other contagious disease."
"I am engaged this evening, James, if any one calls," remarked
Marion, as they rose from the table and returned to the parlor.
"Now, Mr. Angus I want to introduce you to my dear friends, Mr. and
Mrs. Mitchell, who have kindly made a home for me."
The conversation for a few moments was of a general character, and
then Mrs. Mitchell said,—
"We should be happy to entertain you to-night, Mr. Angus. James will
show you to your room, when you wish to retire. I will not say
good-by, as I shall see you at the breakfast-table."
It was evidently a relief that the restraint of others' presence was
removed. The pastor wanted time to realize his new situation,—freed
from the harrowing reminiscences which had so long oppressed him,—
and especially he wanted to narrate to the dear friend who had done
so much for him and his sister the actual experiences she now only
surmised. He sat quietly following with his eyes her movements as she
placed a screen on the gas-shade, moved a vase of flowers to the
table, folded a newspaper, and performed those little acts of womanly
refinement which make the delight and comfort of a home.
"May I tell you now," he said, softly, as she seated herself opposite
him; "and will you be charitable toward the faults of a wayward
youth, as you have been to the failings of the man?"
Her bright smile encouraged him, and he dashed into his story
at once.
"I was born in Doncaster, Yorkshire, twenty-nine years ago.
Two years later I had a sister Stella. When I was ten and Stella
eight, my mother died, leaving behind her an infant boy, whom father
named Wilson, for his maternal grandfather. A sister of my father
came to keep house, and care for the baby. I might have helped her,
but I fear I made her hard task harder. Stella was naturally wilful,
strong in her likes and dislikes, capable of the warmest affections.
She took little Will, as we always called him, to her heart, and made
an idol of him.
"Father never seemed the same after mother's death. I can remember
him sitting, his arms folded, lost in his own thoughts and memories
of the past.
"I grew up with little restraint. To do myself justice, I pitied
father so much that I often went away and wept. I loved Will too;
but Stella was jealous if I separated him from her, and I gradually
let him alone, except as I wanted to tease her.
"Occasionally, when I was too abusive, she appealed to father;
otherwise she took Will and shut herself in a room with him, where I
could not get at her.
"In my thirteenth year father woke to the face that I needed
a master. He sent me to a military school, and promised that if I
would do my best he would purchase a commission for me in the army.
I did fairly well in my studies, and went home in my uniform,
carrying a prize for good conduct. As I recall my actions at that
time, I must have been a great nuisance. Stella told me frankly that
she wished I would go back to school and never return. Aunt Sarah was
almost beside herself, settling disputes between us. Poor little Will
used to scream and run away when I went near him, at which I did not
wonder, for he was taught to consider me an enemy.
"Father was more feeble than ever, and passed much of his time in his
chamber. I might have been a comfort to him, but I was not.
"It was nearly three years before I was allowed to go home again.
Aunt Sarah told me that Stella persuaded father to keep me away.
I had grown in that time from a boy to a man. My military drill had
made me strong and vigorous. I was fond of athletic games, and my
companions thought I excelled in them. I could hunt and row all day
long without fatigue, and was never so happy as when excited by
competition in study or in athletic exercise.
"But there were hours when I longed for home, for a mother's
unexacting affection. I accompanied my classmates to their homes and
witnessed the mother's pride in her boy, her lavish affection poured
out on him, notwithstanding his faults. I realized that I should be
better with the incentive of a mother's approbation to spur me on.
"I was fond of children too, and in my long, enforced absence, I came
to idealize my little brother. I planned how I would win his
confidence, and help him to a happier life than I had had.
"I was summoned home to father's death-bed. Dear father! When it was
too late, he realized that he had allowed his grief to swallow up
every other feeling. He—asked my forgiveness,—dear father!"
His choking voice interrupted the story for a few moments, and
Marion's moistened eye; showed that her interest was intense.
After pause, he went on,—
"Father had settled his worldly affairs before my return.
His property was not large. It was equally divided between my sister,
my brother and myself. Part of mine was to be spent in the purchase
of a soldier's commission. He lived two days after I reached home.
I am glad to remember that he forgave me all my waywardness and
folly, commending me at the last to the care of my mother's God.
"This affliction drew Stella and myself together and for a few weeks
we lived more peaceably than we ever had done; but she was still
jealous of any interference with Will, so that my dreams of winning
his love ended suddenly.
"I had my gun at home, and Will used to beg Stella to let him go
with me. He was continually saying that he would be a soldier when he
was a man. He used to look after me as I went out with my gun over my
shoulder. I gratified him a few times firing at a mark, and then
I allowed him from the window to see me load my gun.
"One morning,—oh, how vividly every circumstance comes back to my
mind! even the fragrance of the white rose-bushes, and the pretty
hedge all in bloom,—I was unusually aggravated by poor Stella's
unreasoning jealousy, and I answered with some hard words.
I reproached her with having made my life miserable. I told her
I came home resolved to be loving and patient. I reminded her that
we were orphans, and ought to love each other; and then, as she
called me some undeserved names, I retorted angrily that I was the
eldest, the proper guardian of the family, and that I would use
my authority to take Will from her to prevent his being ruined.
"Will stood by me, and listened to all the talk. Then, as I angrily
left the house, he ran after me and had to be carried back by force.
I was frightened at the violence of his temper, and, to soothe him,
said,—
"'If you'll go back, you may play soldier with my gun.' I had fired
it off in the early morning, and left it standing behind the door.
"I soon repented of my anger, and was ready as usual to blame myself.
I will be more patient, I said, over and over again. I had always
trusted in my own strength, and of course had failed. I turned back
and entered the house. Will was alone. Stella, not expecting me,
had left him by himself, for a punishment. He looked guiltily in my
face, and I said, 'Come, let's make up and be friends. I'll teach you
to be a soldier.'
"I took the gun and playfully aimed it at him, knowing it was not
loaded. Alas! alas! There was a loud report, and Will, my poor little
Will, fell to the floor.
"My aunt and Stella rushed to the room and found me with the gun in
my hand, dumb and immovable with horror. With a shriek I shall never
forget, Stella caught Will in her arms; but when I approached she
waved me off, calling me a murderer, and shouting again and again,
'I will never forgive you,—never! Never!'"
"Aunt Sarah helped move Will to a bed, sent for the doctor, and then,
beckoning me into another room, shut the door, and said,—
"Harold, tell me truly. How did it happen?'"
"Somebody loaded the gun after I went out. I thought it was empty.
I wish it had killed me, instead of my brother.' Six feet tall as
I was, I laid my head on the table and sobbed like a child.
"'You must get away from here,' Aunt Sarah said, putting her hand
softly on my head,—the first caress I had had for years. 'Stella is
wild with anger. Will is dyin and she will say you murdered him.'"
"'Where shall I go?' I cried. 'I'm an outcast, like Cain; and yet the
moment it happened loved my brother better than I ever did in my
life.'"
"I was delirious with grief and remorse. I went from the house, and
passed the night on mother's grave. I can recall little after that
time, till found myself on board a vessel bound for the United
States. Stella's letter will tell you what happened in the interim.
What comfort the knowledge of those weeks would have been to me all
these years, you can scarcely imagine. Will died of the wound
inflicted by my hand, but not until he had confessed that he had
loaded the gun while left alone. He called for me continually but
poor Stella was, as she expresses it, possessed of a devil, and would
not send for me. She continually denounced me as a murderer, and Aunt
Sarah had to explain again and again how it had happened.
"I resolved then and there to leave the money father left me for her
use. I was reckless, and did not desire to live.
"As you will read in her letter, Stella says that she saw me at the
funeral, and almost repented when she perceived how changed I was.
I have not the slightest recollection of being there.
"I landed in Charleston, S. C., and made my way to Philadelphia,
where I found the means of living while I pursued my studies. I gave
up military life, and thought I should be content if I could fit
myself for an editor of a paper. I was in an editor's office in
New York, when I was seized with fever and carried to the Home for
the Sick. I came away with new aims, and only longed to benefit some
poor afflicted ones as I had been benefited there. You know the rest.
I studied three years at the seminary, working among the poor
meanwhile, and had just begun to preach when I was requested
to supply the pulpit for a pastor who had been my most faithful
adviser. I was called to Grantbury, and accepted the call. How nearly
I retracted my acceptance, weighed down with a sense of my unfitness
for the work, how I besought God with strong crying and tears to
appear for me and let me know His will, no on but He knows.
"There are poor Stella's letters. I have blamed her, but not half so
much as she blames herself."
Marion covered her face with her handkerchief. The story was sad
indeed.
"Perhaps I have done wrong to tell you all this," he urged, rising
and walking the room. "You are the only confident I ever had."
"No, no, not wrong. I thank you. If deal Stella could only have lived
to tell you herself how fully she forgave you, how earnestly she
longed for your forgiveness!"
"At first," added Mr. Angus, "I used to pity myself; but when I had
received forgiveness of my heavenly Father, my pity was for her.
I remembered that the unforgiving cannot receive forgiveness of God.
I felt that my life was rendered desolate, but I was willing
to receive that as a chastisement. My prayer was, 'Lord, let her
forgive that she may be forgiven.' The idea of her suffering from
poverty never occurred to me. Of late, when I have witnessed the
happiness of home life,—fathers and mothers with their children
growing up around them,—I have thought that, had my life been
different, I might have been blessed with a paradise of a home."
"All the sadness is over now," murmured Marion, softly.
"Do you think a man with such a past as mine has a right to ask any
one to share his future?"
What Marion might have answered had there not been a knock at the
door, I cannot tell. James entered, and carried to his mistress
a note on a salver.
"I told you I could see no one to-night."
"Yes, miss, but the messenger persists. He's from the Home for the
Sick."