Chapter 24 of 24 · 6575 words · ~33 min read

CHAPTER XXIV.

CONCLUSION.

The next day old Mrs. Burns sat in the little family-room up stairs, quite alone, for Anna had gone round to their old home to see their kind friend, and the boys proceeded to their work, as usual, immediately after breakfast. She was reading; for the necessity of constant toil had been taken from her, and with this pleasant home, many of her old lady-like wants had come back, asking for a place in her life.

So the old lady sat reading near the window, looking neat and tranquil, as if care had never visited her. Quantities of soft, fine muslin were folded over her bosom, and softer lace fell over her calm, old forehead, from which the hair was parted in all its snowy whiteness. Her dress of black alpaca, bright as silk, and of voluminous fulness, swept down from the crimson cushions of the easy-chair, and covered the stool on which her foot rested. She formed a lovely picture of old age, sitting in that cool light, with the leaves twinkling their shadows around her, and softening the whole picture into perfect quiet.

As she sat thus absorbed in her book, the gate opened, and an old man came up the garden-walk. She lifted her head and looked out, but her glasses were on, and she could only see some figure moving through the flowers with dreamy indistinctness. Then she heard the door open, and a step in the hall—a step that made her heart leap till the muslin stirred like snow on her bosom.

Who could it be? Not one of the boys, the step was too heavy for that; perhaps, that is, possibly, it might be young Savage, coming to explain conduct that she much feared was breaking poor Anna’s heart. The possibility that it might be him kept her still. After neglecting them so long, she would not compromise Anna’s pride, by appearing eager to meet him; so she sat, with book in hand, gazing wistfully at the door through her spectacles.

The door opened slowly, and old Mr. Gould stood on the threshold, where he paused a moment gazing on her.

The old woman answered the gaze with a half-frightened look through her spectacles, then drew them slowly off, as if that could help her vision, and stood up.

“Mary!” said the old man, coming toward her. “Mary!”

The old woman sat down again, helpless and trembling.

“Mary, will you not speak to me?”

“Yes, James, yes. I—I wish to speak, but—but I cannot.”

“And why, Mary? What have I done? What did I ever do that should make you hate and avoid me so?”

“Hate! I never hated you, James. At the worst, I never hated you!”

“But you left me—hid yourself; kept my son from me all his life. How could you find the heart to do that?”

The old lady sat upright in her chair; a faint red came into her face—she trembled from head to foot.

“You speak as if I had done wrong, James; as if you were an innocent man.”

“I speak as I feel, Mary—as I am. What fault had I committed which warranted the separation of a lifetime?”

He questioned her almost sternly; but there was a quiver of wounded tenderness in his voice which made that gentle old bosom swell with gathering tears.

“Was it nothing,” she said, faltering, in spite of herself, “that you left me and married another woman?”

“Mary Gould, are you a sane woman?”

“I saw her with my own eyes; heard her speak; watched her when she read your letters. Nothing short of that would have driven me from you.”

“You saw all this? When—how?”

“At your warehouse in H——. She kissed your letter; she told me that you were her husband—all the time I held our boy by the hand; he heard it. What could I do? Arraign my husband before the courts—disgrace him? Kill an innocent woman, perhaps? I loved you too well for that; so went away with my child. I wished myself dead, but even wretched women cannot die when they wish. I was young and healthy; grief tortured me, but it could not quite kill the strong life in my bosom. I had the boy, and struggled for his sake. We went away into another State, and in the heart of a great city buried ourselves. I gave you up. I gave up your name and worked on through life alone. But God kept my son, and gave me grandchildren; the wound in my life was almost healed. Why come at this late day to shake the last sands of a hard life with old memories? I have forgiven you long ago, James—long ago.”

The old man listened to her patiently. Once or twice he started and checked some eager words as they sprang to his lips; but he restrained himself and heard her through. Then he reached forth a trembling hand and drew a chair close to her side, bending toward her as he seated himself.

“Mary, did you believe this base thing of me?”

“Believe it? God help me, I knew it!”

“Mary Gould, it is false, every word of it. I have never loved any woman but you. I never had, and never will have another wife.”

The little old woman held out her two hands in pitiful appeal.

“Oh, James, don’t! I am an old woman and cannot bear it. Only ask me to forgive you, and I will. Indeed, I will.”

“Mary, my poor deceived wife, there is nothing between us to forgive. I do not know how this terrible idea has been fastened on your mind; but, as God is my judge, no husband was ever more faithful to a wife than I have been to you.”

He held her two hands firmly. She lifted her eyes to his and found them full of tears.

“James, James, is it I that have done wrong?” The old woman fell down upon her knees before him, and pressed her two withered hands on his bosom. “Have I done wrong—and is it you who must forgive me? Oh, my husband! I am so thankful that it is me!”

He lifted her back to the easy-chair, and drew that sweet, old face, with its crown of snowy hair, to his bosom; his tears fell over her; his hands shook like withered leaves as they tenderly folded her to his heart.

She believed in his truth; and that sweet, solemn love, which is so beautiful in old age, filled her heart with a joy that no young bride may even hope to know.

“We are old and close to the end of our lives, Mary; but God has given us to each other again, and the best part of our existence will be spent together.”

“But I have cast away our youth, trampled down your mid-age; hid our son away from you, and now he is dead—he is dead!” she cried, with anguish, the more piteous because her utterance was choked by the tremor of old age.

“But you have suffered more than I have, for, during all this time till the war commenced, I thought both you and my son dead; while you, knowing me alive, thought me a guilty man. Poor Mary! your unhappiness has been greater than mine.”

“Thank God for that!” she said, meekly.

“And now it must be my pleasure to lead you down the path which is lost in the valley and shadow. You need me now more than ever, and I need you, Mary, as we grow weaker and older; such companionship as you and I can give each other becomes the sweetest and most precious thing in life. Do not cry, Mary; but rather let me see if the old smile lives for me yet.”

She looked up, and the wrinkles about her mouth softened into the sweetest expression you ever saw on a human face.

“God has been very good to us,” she said; “but for our son’s death I could, indeed, smile. Now I feel as if I had robbed you of him.”

“Never think that again. But remember that it is a good thing to have loved ones waiting for us on the other side. I shall see our son; of that be certain.”

“Yes, yes, we shall both see him; and his children—have you seen them?”

“Yes; the lad Robert is with me—a fine little fellow.”

“Anna, too?”

“Pretty as you were long ago, and I think as good.”

“But Joseph, dear little Joseph, you must love him above all; he is the very image of his father.”

“I have seen him, too. I saw you all sitting in a picture together.”

“And recognized us?”

“At the first glance; for then I knew that my wife was alive. More—after our son went to the war, he wrote to me, told me that his mother was living, and besought me to find her, should he fall, and save his family from want. He gave no name but his own—no address; but referred me to a gentleman in New York, who would tell me where to find you. This letter was sent from the army, and met with the usual delays before it reached me. Only two days before I saw you in that picture did I know of your existence. I telegraphed to the person who held your address, and was answered that he was away from home. Then I saw you for that one moment, and you were lost to me again. I searched for you for days to no avail. Then I went to New York; the man I sought had gone to Europe. I followed him, learned the name you have borne, and where you could be found—learned that our grandchild was already under my care. But I am an old man, Mary, and have learned how to wait. Did you know that this house is mine—that I sent you here; that Anna is my friend; and that little Joseph has made a small fortune in selling me papers?”

“I know that I am this moment the happiest old woman that ever lived.”

“I am glad of that. If I can help it, Mary, you shall never be unhappy again. We will enter on our second childhood with tranquil hearts; knowing so well what loneliness is, we shall feel the value of loving companionship as few old people ever did. Now tell me how it was that the terrible mistake which separated us arose.”

She told him all, exactly as she had related the facts to Anna only a short time before.

“I can understand now,” he said, thoughtfully. “This lady was my brother’s wife; he had just come over from England, and took the western trip with me. The poor young man never came back, but died in the wilderness. It was his wife you saw; his letters she was reading.”

“Oh, foolish, wicked woman that I was, so readily to believe ill of you!” cried the old lady.

“Do not blame yourself. The evidence, false as it was, might have deceived any one. You did not know that my brother was in the country, for he came on me unannounced. It was a natural mistake, and you acted nobly. It has cost us dear, but we will not spend the precious time left to us in regretting it.”

“Thank heaven! I had no bitterness; it was for your sake I hid myself.”

“Bitterness! No, no! It was for me—and when you thought me unworthy. I shall never forget that. Now let us put all these things aside and think only of the present.”

“Oh! that is so beautiful!” she said, looking around, but turning her eyes on him at last. “After all, James, you do not look so very old.”

He laughed gayly, and would have smoothed her hair in the old fashion, but feeling the lace of her cap, desisted, ending off his laugh with a little sigh, which she heard with a sad sort of feeling, as if the ghost of her youth were passing by.

“This is a pleasant place,” said the old man, looking out into the balcony, where gleams of sunshine were at play with the leaves. “Do you know, Mary, I have never seen a place that seemed so like home since we parted in England.”

She smiled pleasantly, and holding out her withered little hand, and blushing like a girl, said,

“Then stay here with us. It is so pleasant here.”

“And my old castle is so gloomy. Yes, Mary, I am coming home to help take care of the grandchildren. But I must go now, or they will catch me here earlier than I wish. Yes, yes; it is a pleasant little home.”

He went out suddenly, the old lady thought with tears in his eyes, and she stole into the balcony to watch him as a girl of twenty might. She saw him pick a rosebud and put it into his buttonhole, smiling to himself all the while. Then she stole away and went into her bedroom; and there Anna found her, when she came home, upon her knees, and with such benign joy on her face that the young girl closed the door, and went off on tiptoe, as if she had disturbed an angel.

After awhile the old lady came out; but judging of her husband’s wishes by that intuition which needs no instruction, she said nothing of his visit, but waited for him to explain, as best pleased him.

“Grandmother,” said Anna, “you and I are wanted at the old house. Our friend is driven beyond any thing with her work, but must go out especially this afternoon. Will you go with me and help her sewing forward. I have set out the boy’s supper.”

The old lady consented at once, and put on that soft woollen shawl with a smile, knowing who it was that had given it to her. It was rather warm for the season, but she would not have gone without it for the world.

That night there was a great commotion in the cottage, in which the boys joined, in high excitement, without understanding any thing about it, except that a surprise was intended for grandmamma and Anna. A long table was spread in the dining-room; china, glass, and silver, unknown to the house before, glittered and sparkled upon it; flowers glowed up from the sparkling glass, and flung their rich shadows across the snow-white tablecloth; fruit lay bedded in the flowers, filling the vases with a rich variety, which Robert and Joseph kept rearranging every instant. Then came plates full of plump little birds, partridges, and so many dainties, that the boys got tired of naming them. But when the table was entirely spread, the effect was so magnificent that they danced around it, clapping their hands in an ecstasy of delight. Up stairs the rooms were radiant with flowers, and a rich perfume came up from the gardens, scenting every thing as with the breath of paradise.

Scarcely were the rooms ready when the company came in. First, Georgie greeted her stately grandmother, Miss Eliza, and a fine-looking gentleman, whom she introduced as her father. Then came another stately-looking person, who walked in with Mrs. Savage on his arm; and after them appeared Horace Savage, natural and pleasant as ever, chatting merrily with young Gould, with whom he walked up the garden arm-in-arm, while Georgie was peeping at them from one of the balconies. When these persons were all assembled, our landlady of the tenement-house proclaimed her determination of going home at once and bringing Mrs. Burns and Anna up to their surprise. Just twenty minutes from the time she left the door they were to turn every light in the house down, except that in the hall. Robert and Joseph were to take their posts in the parlors and take charge of the chandeliers. In short, every thing was ready, and the little parlors took a festive aspect exhilarating to behold.

Just as Mrs. Burns and Anna came in sight of the house, following the landlady, who insisted on seeing them home, old Mr. Gould joined them, and quietly gave his arm to the old lady. Anna was a little surprised, but they were close by the gate, and she had not much time to notice it.

“The boys have got tired of waiting and have gone out,” she said, regretfully. “I wish we had come home before dark.”

They were in the hall now, the house was still as death. There seemed something strange about this, which made Anna look anxious as she took off her things.

“Walk in,” she said, opening the parlor door, through which Mr. Gould led the old lady. That instant a blaze of light broke over the room, revealing bewildering masses of flowers, and a group of smiling faces all turned upon the new-comers.

Robert and Joseph jumped down, after turning on the light, and softly clapped their hands, unable to restrain the exuberance of their spirits. But Anna saw nothing of this. A voice was whispering in her ear; a hand clasped hers with a force that sent the blood up from her heart in rosy waves.

“My mother has told me all; they have consented,” he whispered.

She did not answer; for Mr. Gould had led her grandmother into the midst of the room, and was welcoming all these people as if the house had been his own.

“This lady,” he said, gently touching the little hand on his arm, “is a little agitated just now, and leaves me to welcome you; but first let me present her. She is my wife, and has been rather more than forty years These boys and that girl yonder are my grandchildren. Their father, my only son, was killed in battle. For many years, by no fault on either side, I have been separated from my family. Thank God! we are united now. Gould, come and kiss your aunt. Anna, have I performed my promise?”

Anna sprang toward him, and threw both arms around his neck.

“My own, own grandfather!” she cried, lavishing such kisses on him as fatherly old men love to receive from rosy lips.

He returned her kisses, patting her on the head as he gently put her away.

“James, James, I have seen that face before. Who is this lady?” said Mrs. Burns, clinging to his arm, as old Mrs. Halstead came up with her congratulations.

“Yes, Mary, this lady was my brother’s wife—not the mother of this young fellow. His father came over later; but she is the lady whom you once saw.”

“And one who hopes to see her many a time after this; especially as she has been the means of reconciling me with this unreasonable man, who never would have forgiven me for marrying again, but for the interest I took in this family. For years and years, dear lady, we had been strangers to each other. This is, in all respects, a family reunion.”

With this little speech, the handsome old lady held out her hand; but Mrs. Gould, remembering all she had done for her, instead of shaking the hand reached forth her arms, and the two old women embraced with tender dignity, which filled more than one pair of bright eyes with mist.

The old man stood by well pleased and smiling. He saw that young Gould had retreated toward Georgiana; and that Savage was bending over the chair to which Anna had gone.

“There is no objection in that quarter, I fancy!” he said, looking at Mrs. Halstead, and nodding toward the young couple.

“He already has our consent,” answered Mrs. Halstead, smiling.

“As for these young people,” said the old man, approaching Anna, “it is but just to say that Horace Savage had his parents’ sanction to his marriage with my granddaughter, before they knew that she would inherit one fourth of my fortune; the other portion going in equal parts, to my nephew and grandsons. Where have the little fellows hid themselves?”

“I am here, grandfather,” said little Joseph, lifting his beautiful eyes to the old man’s face, and stealing a hold on his grandmother’s hand as he spoke; “and so is Robert, only he’s so surprised.”

“I’m so glad, you mean,” said Robert, coming into the light; “for now Josey can go to school; and Anna—hurra for sister Anna!”

When the bustle, which followed this speech, died away, it was followed by a hysterical sob, piteous to hear, which came from a sofa in the little parlor, on which Miss Eliza had thrown herself.

“What is the matter?” cried half a dozen voices—and the sofa was instantly surrounded. “What is the cause of this?”

“Oh! leave me alone! leave me alone to my desolation!” she cried; “the last link is broken; there is no truth—no honor—no chivalry in the world!”

Old Mr. Gould, as master of the house, felt himself called upon to offer some consolation for the disappointment, which he supposed had sprung out of her unreasonable hopes regarding his nephew; but as he came close to her, she sprang up and pushed him violently backward.

“Touch me not, ingrate! household fiend! traitor! You have broken my heart, trifled with the affections of an innocent, loving, confiding, transparent nature. Do not dare to touch me. Turn those craven eyes on the antiquated being that you have preferred to my youth and confiding innocence.”

She sat down, panting for breath, still pointing her finger at the astonished old man; while her brother stood appalled, and old Mrs. Halstead sat down in pale consternation.

“I do not understand this,” said old Mr. Gould, looking dreadfully perplexed.

“I do,” whispered the nephew, laughing. “It wasn’t me, but another chap she was after.”

Just then a sharp ring came to the door. Robert opened it, and there stood his early friend, the newsboy, with a torn hat in his hand.

“Excuse me for coming when you’ve got company, old fellow; but I’m awfully stuck—had my pockets picked. Look a-there! lost every cent I’ve got in the theatre jest as that new tragedy chap was a-dying beautifully! Broke up, if you can’t lend me something to start on in the morning.”

The boy hauled out a very dirty pocket, and shook its emptiness in proof of the reality.

“I haven’t got a dollar myself.”

“Jest so. Can’t be helped. I’m up a stump this time and no mistake. Good-night, old fellow.”

“Stop, stop a minute; I’ll ask my grandfather. Come back, I say.”

The boy came back, and stood with one hand in the rifled pocket, waiting.

“Grandfather! grandfather!” said Robert, breathless and eager, “I want some of those funds of my quarter in advance. I’ve got a friend out there in distress.”

The old man laughed, everybody laughed except Miss Eliza, who stopped sobbing to listen, and Joseph, who said, “Oh, Robert! how can you! He hasn’t been our grandfather more than an hour!”

Robert heeded nothing of this, but drew his grandfather to the door, and pointed out his friend.

“He was good to me once, sir—good as gold. It was he who took me to your counting-room, and recommended me.”

The old man was feeling in his pocket. He recognized the boy.

“How much will do, my boy?” he said, in high good humor.

“Say five—that’ll set me up tip-top.”

The old man handed him a bank-note.

“Twenty dollars, by golly!” cried the boy, putting his hat on with a swing of the arm. “Old gentleman, you’re a trump, and he’s a right bower! Good evening! I’m set up for life, I am!”

As Mr. Gould was turning to go in again, the mistress of the tenement-house passed him.

“Every thing is right,” she said. “You wont want me.”

“But I want you,” said Mr. Gould. “No woman who has been the friend to my wife that you have, must pass me without thanks. Tell me, what can I do for you?”

“Nothing, sir; that is, nothing in particular; only if you would just tell that agent of yourn not to be quite so hard about the rent of that house. I shall have to give it up if he is.”

“What! do you live in a house of mine?”

“Yes, sir; and have these six years.”

“Where is it?”

She told him.

“What! that old tenement? Come to my office in the morning, and I’ll give you a deed for it. Don’t forget.”

“Oh, sir!”

“Don’t forget. You know the place.”

“Never fear, sir; I wont let her forget,” said Robert, rejoicing in his heart.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” said the old man, entering the parlor, “let us see what the fairies have brought us for supper. Mr. Halstead, will you take Mrs. Gould? Your mother and I are good friends now—I will take her.”

“Miss Eliza, shall I have the honor?”

It was young Gould, prompted by Georgiana.

“No, no! I am faint—I am ill; pray leave me!”

“Oh, do come!” said Robert, who was everywhere that night. “Such birds! Such partridges! Such chicken-salad!”

“Mr. Gould, to oblige you, I will make an effort,” said Miss Eliza. “Sometimes a mouthful of chicken-salad brings me to when nothing else will. Forgive me if I lean heavily.”

She did lean heavily; and beside that one mouthful of chicken-salad, there was considerable devastation among the birds in her neighborhood, to say nothing of the breast of a partridge that disappeared altogether. Then came champagne in large glasses, which gave light to Miss Eliza’s tearful eyes, color to cheeks that did not need it, and warmth to that poor heart, just broken for the twentieth time. That is all I have to say on the subject.

THE END.

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