A LETTER FROM THE DEAD
In the entry Luke met a girl of fourteen with fiery red hair, which
apparently was a stranger to the comb and brush. She was the
landlady's daughter, and, though of rather fitful and uncertain
temper, always had a smile and pleasant word for Luke, who was a
favorite of hers.
"Well, Nancy, how's mother?" asked the newsboy, as he began to ascend
the front stairs.
"She seems rather upset like, Luke," answered Nancy.
"What has happened to upset her?" asked Luke, anxiously.
"I think it's a letter she got about noon. It was a queer letter, all
marked up, as if it had been travelin' round. I took it in myself, and
carried it up to your ma. I stayed to see her open it, for I was kind
of curious to know who writ it."
"Well?"
"As soon as your ma opened it, she turned as pale as ashes, and I
thought she'd faint away. She put her hand on her heart just so," and
Nancy placed a rather dirty hand of her own, on which glittered a
five-cent brass ring, over that portion of her anatomy where she
supposed her heart lay.
"She didn't faint away, did she?" asked Luke.
"No, not quite."
"Did she say who the letter was from?"
"No; I asked her, but she said, 'From no one that you ever saw,
Nancy.' I say, Luke, if you find out who's it from, let me know."
"I won't promise, Nancy. Perhaps mother would prefer to keep it a
secret."
"Oh, well, keep your secrets, if you want to."
"Don't be angry, Nancy; I will tell you if I can," and Luke hurried
upstairs to the third story, which contained the three rooms occupied
by his mother, his little brother, and himself.
Opening the door, he saw his mother sitting in a rocking-chair,
apparently in deep thought, for the work had fallen from her hands and
lay in her lap. There was an expression of sadness in her face, as if
she had been thinking of the happy past, when the little family was
prosperous, and undisturbed by poverty or privation.
"What's the matter, mother?" asked Luke, with solicitude.
Mrs. Walton looked up quickly.
"I have been longing to have you come back, Luke," she said.
"Something strange has happened to-day."
"You received a letter, did you not?"
"Who told you, Luke?"
"Nancy. I met her as I came in. She said she brought up the letter,
and that you appeared very much agitated when you opened it."
"It is true."
"From whom was the letter, then, mother?"
"From your father."
"What!" exclaimed Luke, with a start. "Is he not dead?"
"The letter was written a year ago."
"Why, then, has it arrived so late?"
"Your father on his deathbed intrusted it to someone who mislaid it,
and has only just discovered and mailed it. On the envelope he
explains this, and expresses his regret. It was at first mailed to our
old home, and has been forwarded from there. But that is not all,
Luke. I learn from the letter that we have been cruelly wronged. Your
father, when he knew he could not live, intrusted to a man in whom he
had confidence, ten thousand dollars to be conveyed to us. This wicked
man could not resist the temptation, but kept it, thinking we should
never know anything about it. You will find it all explained in the
letter."
"Let me read it, mother," said Luke, in excitement.
Mrs. Walton opened a drawer of the bureau, and placed in her son's
hands an envelope, brown and soiled by contact with tobacco. It was
directed to her in a shaky hand. Across one end were written these
words:
This letter was mislaid. I have just discovered it, and mail it,
hoping it will reach you without further delay. Many apologies and
regrets. J. HANSHAW.
Luke did not spend much time upon the envelope, but opened the
letter.
The sight of his father's familiar handwriting brought the tears to
his eyes, This was the letter:
GOLD GULCH, California.
MY DEAR WIFE: It is a solemn thought to me that when you receive this
letter these trembling fingers will be cold in death. Yes, dear Mary,
I know very well that I am on my deathbed, and shall never more be
permitted to see your sweet face, or meet again the gaze of my dear
children. Last week I contracted a severe cold while mining, partly
through imprudent exposure; and have grown steadily worse, till the
doctor, whom I summoned from Sacramento, informs me that there is no
hope, and that my life is not likely to extend beyond two days. This
is a sad end to my dreams of future happiness with my little family
gathered around me. It is all the harder, because I have been
successful in the errand that brought me out here. "I have struck it
rich," as they say out here, and have been able to lay by ten thousand
dollars. I intended to go home next month, carrying this with me. It
would have enabled me to start in some business which would have
yielded us a liberal living, and provided a comfortable home for you
and the children. But all this is over--for me at least. For you I
hope the money will bring what I anticipated. I wish I could live long
enough to see it in your hands, but that cannot be.
I have intrusted it to a friend who has been connected with me here,
Thomas Butler, of Chicago. He has solemnly promised to seek you out,
and put the money into your hands. I think he will be true to his
trust. Indeed I have no doubt on the subject, for I cannot conceive of
any man being base enough to belie the confidence placed in him by a
dying man, and despoil a widow and her fatherless children. No, I will
not permit myself to doubt the integrity of my friend. If I should, it
would make my last sickness exceedingly bitter.
Yet, as something might happen to Butler on his way home, though
exceedingly improbable, I think it well to describe him to you. He is
a man of nearly fifty, I should say, about five feet ten inches in
height, with a dark complexion, and dark hair a little tinged with
gray. He will weigh about one hundred and sixty pounds. But there is
one striking mark about him which will serve to identify him. He has a
wart on the upper part of his right cheek--a mark which disfigures him
and mortifies him exceedingly. He has consulted a physician about its
removal, but has been told that the operation would involve danger,
and, moreover, would not be effectual, as the wart is believed to be
of a cancerous nature, and would in all probability grow out again.
For these reasons he has given up his intention of having it removed,
and made up his mind, unwillingly enough, to carry it to the grave
with him.
I have given you this long description, not because it seemed at all
necessary, for I believe Thomas Butler to be a man of strict honesty,
but because for some reason I am impelled to do so.
I am very tired, and I feel that I must close. God bless you, dear
wife, and guard our children, soon to be fatherless!
Your loving husband,
FREDERICK WALTON.
P.S.--Butler has left for the East. This letter I have given to
another friend to mail after my death.