The Poor Rich Man, and the Rich Poor Man/Chapter XVIII
CHAPTER XVIII.
LIGHT IN A DARK PLACE.
On the morning of Mr. Beckwith's call, another and very different visiter knocked at Mrs. Aikin's door, and inquired "If there was not a woman, or creater, or something of that sort, by the name of Smith, living there." Mrs. Aikin boded no good, and, fearful Paulina would overhear the inquiry, she bade the man enter, answering him affirmatively while she closed the door.
"You need not be so private, mistress; I am none of her acquaintance, I can tell you, only as she under-rented two rooms of me, and went away owing me."
When the stranger entered, Juliet was reading to Mr. Barlow. She pressed his arm, whispering, "I know that man. He is horrid cross."
"Don't tremble so, my child, he'll not hurt you."
"Oh, I ain't afraid of him now—but I used to be."
This was said while Mrs. Aikin was communicating to the man the small likelihood that he would get his debt.
"I don't expect much," replied the man, "of the like of her, but I've got something that will bring something more." He took from his pocket a handkerchief, and, unrolling it, proceeded: "After that woman left my house, she missed a packet, and came back and made a terrible rummaging; but another tenant had moved in with a heap of litter, and nothing could be found of the packet. Since t'other tenant has packed off 'twixt two days, and we found this stowed away in the closet." He took out a small locket and a letter.
"That locket was my mother's!" exclaimed Juliet.
"Was, child? but it's mine now. I don't believe," continued the man, supposing of course that Mrs. Smith was Juliet's mother, "that it ever did belong to your mother; but you shall judge, good woman," to Mrs. Aikin. "Here is the letter—the locket was in the letter." He began reading.
"'My dear'—something, I can't tell that word; it may be father, and it may be mother; but never mind, it goes on: 'On the bed of death, and with my poor little girl beside me—'"
"Oh, it was my own mother that wrote it!" screamed Juliet; "don't let him read it!"
Forgetting her fears, she sprang forward and snatched it, repeating, with an imploring look to Mr. Barlow and Mrs. Aikin, "It is mine! it was my own mother wrote it!"
Mrs. Aikin soothed her, and Mr. Barlow drew her to him, whispering an assurance that she should keep it.
"What the deuse ails you, child?" asked the man; " you are welcome to the letter, though I guess it will make you all kind o' qualmish to read it. The locket I'll keep myself—the casing, I mean; the picture won't sell for any thing, though I think it's a pretty, comely-looking person. What do you think, neighbour?" holding it up to Mr, Barlow. Mr. Barlow cast his eye on the locket: he recognised an old likeness of himself; a sudden paleness overspread his face; he took the letter from Juliet's hand, to him unresisting; his eye glanced rapidly over it: the blood rushed again to his cheeks, coloured deeply his pale forehead, and again retreated. He threw his arms around Juliet, laid his head on hers, and sobbed out, "My child! Mary! Mary! my child!"
Mrs. Aikin guessed the meaning of all this. She dismissed the man with the assurance that he should be paid the small sum due to him, and then left Mr. Barlow to compose himself, and give to Juliet the joyful explanation of what seemed to her a riddle.
When she returned she found them calm, and as happy as they could be; their joy tempered by the following sad letter:—
Letter from Juliet's mother.
"My Dear Father:—On the bed of death, and with my little girl, who will soon be an orphan, beside me, I write this. My hand is stiff, and a racking cough interrupts me. I can write but a few lines at a time. Till last week I hoped to get well, consumption is so flattering.
"Dear father, I never told you any thing but truth about my situation in America; but I could not bear to distress you and sister with the whole truth. You could not help me, so I tried to suffer patiently; and I never felt alone, for when we nave no human friend nor help, then it is we feel God to be near. Ronald turned out what I might have expected when he persuaded me to marry him against your will and consent. He was always headstrong—poor Ronald! We lived comfortably in Canada for a while. Oh! what pleasure I took in being saving, and making his pay hold out. An ensign's pay is small, father; and, for a while after Juliet was born, he seemed to feel what it was to be a father, and what he owed to the child God had given him, and it seemed happiness enough for him to be with us. Then I wrote you often, and you know all about that time, father! How soon it passed! Bad people drew him away from me, and bad people and hard drinking hardened his heart; and often and often, when I have gone to meet him in the damp night, wild with fear that something had happened to him, and waited hours and hours, he has come, and—; but, poor Ronald! I can't bear to bring up his sins now! But, oh! my poor little child, how she has suffered for his faults! There were times when the sight of her brought him to a momentary penitence; but he had no true joy in her. I have seen what bitter drops conscience has poured into the sweet fountain of parental love. I have seen him when the tones of innocence and the look of love were cutting reproaches to him. Poor Ronald!"
"I suffered, father, in many ways—when, and where, and how, there is no use in telling now. I found patience a great help, and in the darkest times I could pray for my poor husband. Had he but turned to the right path, I would have welcomed poverty, sickness, hardship of any sort; but the wounded spirit that cometh from the sin of those we love, who can bear?"
"Ronald failed in military duty, and lost his commission, and changed his name to Brown. We came to New-York. This was a dark time, father. I was sometimes, for weeks, alone with my child. He came to me to die. I remembered Him who forgiveth liberally, and upbraideth not. I watched him, day and night, till he died. May I not hope for him? but, alas!—alas! his life was a continual violation of God's laws. Towards the last his mind was gone.—Poor Ronald!"
"I went to the British consul. He was very kind to me; and from some English people, with true English hearts, he got money enough to send me and Juliet home to you. I was on board the ship when, as I wrote to you, symptoms of the varioloid appeared. I was sent off. Juliet and I both had the disease. My disappointment aggravated it with me. I was left low. I have worked a little since, and sometimes hoped to earn money to go home to you. I had spent, in my sickness, all that was given to me. I have written but once, hoping always to have something better to write. But it's all over now! Don't mourn about it, father—nor you, dear sister,—it is God's will, and never—never has it seemed hard to me to bend to his will. When poor Ronald went astray from His will—that I felt to be hard."
My little girl—I have laid her in His arms who bade little children come unto Him. She is now His; and, indeed—indeed, my heart is not troubled about her."
"Thank you, dear father, for long ago sending me your forgiveness for what you were so kind as to call my 'only disobedience.' I think it is easy for the good to forgive. As I draw near home, I am always with you in my dreams. I see the white cottage and the hedge; and last night you and sister kissed me."
"There is a woman here kind to me. I shall leave a request to the British consul to send Juliet to you. God has given me his peace, father. Don't you and sister mourn for me. Let Juliet take my place. Farewell!—once more I kiss you and sister. "Your M. B."
Death came sooner than Mary expected; and her child, instead of being placed in the consul's hands, was apparently left with no other dependance than the uncertain charities of a worthless woman. But He who never forsakes the orphan committed to him had, as Mr. Barlow expressed it, led this lost lamb into the right fold. He steeped Mary's letter in his tears—tears of natural sorrow for her sufferings, and of gratitude that a husband's unfaithfulness, that poverty and sickness, had all been God's ministers to bring her to heaven.