CHAPTER XVII.
THE WINTER IN ROME.
BUT day after day passed and every inquiry proved unavailing. No one knew any thing of a man by that name. Mr. Wallingford then engaged the police to continue the search, which was equally unsuccessful; and they were forced to the conclusion that Mr. Dudley was not a resident in Rome.
"But may he not have taken another name?" suggested Gertrude.
"I have thought of that; but what good will it do you to see him? What object is there in hunting for one who when found very likely will cause you fresh grief. You were forgetting him; and I consider it very unfortunate that he ever came in your path."
"I have never forgotten to pray for him one day since we parted," faltered Gertrude, turning to leave the room.
Mr. Wallingford did, indeed, consider it a misfortune, when he witnessed the effect of this incident on his sister. She grew nervous and excitable; restless when in doors; and when out, continually on the watch for one who never came.
November was half through, when late one night a boy came to the villa, asking a servant to let him see the mistress. Gertrude sat alone in her chamber, having removed her dress, and wrapped herself in a rich cashmere robe. She directed the servant, in an indifferent tone, to send the boy to her door.
He addressed her in Italian; "I was to give you this," putting a soiled paper in her hand.
She took it in the ends of her fingers, went toward the light, supposing it to be an application for alms; but no sooner did her eye fall on the signature, than her whole being seemed changed.
She rang the bell repeatedly, sending one servant to her brother's room to ask him to come to her immediately; another, she directed to call a carriage, while a third was despatched for all the luxuries the house could afford.
Then locking the door of her room she threw herself on her knees.
"My God, I thank thee," she murmured. "Give me this soul in answer to my earnest prayers. Help me to forgive my poor, erring husband, even as my Saviour has forgiven me."
A knock at the door interrupted her, and presently she put the paper into Edward's hands.
"Read that," she exclaimed. "Read it and come with me to the bed of a dying man."
She was fearfully excited, more than he had ever seen her. He put his hand on her shoulder saying, firmly:
"Gertrude, you must be more calm. I will not allow you to go, until you promise to control yourself."
There was a flash in her eye which reminded him of former years.
"You cannot prevent me. You have no right to keep me from my husband."
"He is not your husband, Gerty. You do not know but he may have married again."
She gasped for breath, throwing up her hands in horror. "I never thought that possible," she murmured faintly.
He left her for a moment; and then returned to find her making a great effort to control herself.
"The carriage has come," he said, "and I am prepared to accompany you to the poor sufferer as I would to any distressed countryman; but, Gerty, for the sake of the respect you owe yourself, do not allow him to suspect that your affection for him has survived his neglect."
She bowed her head without speaking; and they went to the carriage, the boy who brought the letter mounting on the box with the driver.
Not a word was said during the drive. Both were too absorbed for speech; and at length the messenger called out:
"This is the house."
Gertrude jumped from the carriage and gave a searching glance around the locality, as if to judge by it, what Paul's associations had been. Taking Edward's arm, she followed the lad up a flight of creaking stairs. The door of the room was ajar; and as they stopped a moment, Gerty heard a feeble voice ask eagerly:
"Did you find the lady? Will she come?"
"She is here."
Turning his head Paul Dudley saw Gertrude standing at the entrance.
He was lying on a low couch against the wall propped up with every article that could be turned to such a use. By his side was an unpainted bench holding a bowl of drink, and a common earthen plate with a piece of hard bread.
When he saw her whom he had won in her girlhood, the recollection of all he had made her suffer rushed to his mind. He gasped out:
"Go away again! I can't endure that you should see my disgrace." But she did not go. She advanced to the side of the bed, and stood looking down upon him with such an expression of sorrow that he hid his face.
"I have come at your bidding," she said in a voice so calm that Edward, who remembered how he had found her almost frantic with excitement, gazed at her in wonder.
"I couldn't die till I had seen you once more."
"How long have you been ill?"
"Ever since the day I met you at the studio. For years I had been trying to forget. In one moment the labor was undone."
"Have you had medical advice?"
He laughed bitterly; "I, had advice! Why for weeks together I have not owned a dollar."
"How have you lived? I mean what has kept you from starving?"
"It is a long story," he answered, "and I am very weak."
She turned to her brother, who gave a whispered message to the lad, sending him from the room.
"Is that Edward Wallingford?" murmured the sick man. "I did not send for him."
"This is not a place for a lady to be seen alone," was Edward's reply; "but that is not the only reason I came. I heard you were in distress; and I came to relieve you if possible."
"Nobody can do that. I have thrown away the best chance for happiness a man ever had. You know what I might have been. And you," turning to Gertrude, "know how wickedly I broke my vows to you. This is what sin has brought me to."
"We are all sinners," said Gertrude earnestly, "and Christ came to save those who feel themselves to be lost without his aid. Cannot you throw yourself upon his mercy, his infinite love?"
"No, no. I've no hope of happiness in this world or the next. I only wanted to see you once more. You can go away now."
"I would not leave a stranger to die alone in a strange land; and I will not leave you till some one comes to your assistance."
Her voice, from the effort she was making to keep calm, sounded cold and constrained. "I have brought food," she added, "Will you have some?"
He immediately stretched out his bony hand eagerly.
Ina few moments steps were heard on the stairs; and Edward went hastily forward, detaining the physician for whom he had sent, to explain that a countryman had called for aid, and that he would pay for every attention shown him.
It was a late hour before Gertrude could be persuaded to leave, and then only to take a few hours rest, before she made hurried preparations for the sick man to be removed to her villa. The physician had told her, Paul had but a few weeks to live; and she had persuaded her brother to allow him to die under their own roof.
One sight of that haggard face, upon which vice and poverty had left their mark, had dissipated forever all hope of a reunion in this life, though she earnestly prayed they might spend an eternity together in heaven. But she felt that God had given her a work to do; and in order to accomplish it she must have the dying man where she could readily gain access to him. "My dream is over," she said to her brother. "The first shock was when you suggested that he might have married again; an idea which never had occurred to me. Then when I saw the seal crime had stamped on his once handsome face, I realized that he is not the Paul to whom I had given my heart. But he has a precious soul to be saved; and for that I must labor while he has life."
"You shall have all the help that I can give," was his reply, more relieved by her words than she could well imagine; "and may God bless our endeavors."
Early in the forenoon Edward went out to make arrangements for Paul's removal. It was three hours before he returned, and Gertrude had grown very impatient. When the carriage stopped at the door, she started to go forward; but her brother motioned her back, saying:
"The exertion has been too much for the poor fellow; and he has fainted. You must wait till he has had time to rest."
The physician had accompanied his patient, wishing every sick foreigner might find such friends. He prescribed perfect quiet for the rest of the day, adding, "Mr. Dudley is so weak the least excitement may prove fatal."
This was very trying to Mrs. Wallingford, who yearned to commence her work. She comforted herself by returning to her closet and besieging the throne of grace in his behalf.
The next morning Edward reported that the medicine, proper food and quiet, had produced a most happy result. He had enjoyed some hours of refreshing sleep; and was now partaking of a bountiful breakfast his nurse had prepared.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE EFFECTS OF CRIME.
GERTRUDE opened the door and walked quietly to the bed. There was a great change in Paul's appearance since the previous day. In dress and appurtenances he was a gentleman once more; and when the visitor remembered how fastidious he had formerly been in all matters pertaining to his person, she could well realize how much this would add to his comfort.
Pedro, a young Italian, was removing the small silver tray upon which the exquisite dishes of china had been placed; and Paul, hurriedly taking his napkin from his neck turned to the lady with a pleading earnestness which deeply moved her.
"I am glad to hear you are more comfortable," she said, smiling.
"Yes, I slept well." He kept his eyes on her face as if fascinated; not seeming to notice that the earnestness of his gaze brought the eloquent blood to her cheeks.
"What shall I call you?" he asked, softly. "I mean, have you changed your name?"
"Yes, I am Mrs. Wallingford now."
He sighed repeatedly, burying his emaciated features in his more emaciated hands.
"We will both forget the past," she said seriously. "You are a countryman; a stranger in a strange land; and we are friends, anxious to do you good."
"It's no use. I've given up trying long ago. The first temptation that came I was overcome."
"Does it tire you to talk?" she asked, with lively interest.
"Not so much as it comforts me to feel I have one friend near."
She motioned to Pedro, who was leaving the room, to remain, and drawing a chair to the bed, said tenderly:
"You have one Friend, Paul, who has never left you. It is He who caused our paths to cross; and who ordered this meeting. Have you never felt anxious to secure the blessings he can give you?"
She was astonished to witness the emotions this question excited. The poor man's breast heaved and fell; his face became agitated, till his features were almost convulsed.
"I thought my heart was dead long ago," he gasped, "dead and buried. It's no use to revive that old grief; I've tried hard enough to forget it."
"What do you mean? You say you gave up trying to do right. Did you rely on your own strength? Don't you remember how Dr. Gilbert used to tell us to seek help from above? There is a fountain from which we are allowed to draw freely."
"I'm too weak to talk much," was the weary answer. "I wish I could lie here forever and look out on the fleecy clouds."
"Would it tire you for me to read?"
"No; but you'll get the Bible; and it's no use. I'm past that long ago."
She took a small testament from the table, and turning to Luke xv, 7; read this verse, "I say unto you that, likewise, joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons which need no repentance."
Then turning to Pedro, she said in Italian; "See that your master has every attention. If he has any friend whom he wishes to see, send for him."
When she saw her brother she related what had passed, adding; "I wish I knew how his life had been spent during all these years. He refers to temptation and crime with a shudder, from which I hope conscience is not dead."
"I can tell you the general outline," was Mr. Wallingford's reply. "I passed an hour with him this morning, while Pedro was preparing his food; and he seemed relieved at being allowed to confess the depths of sin into which he had plunged."
"Has he formed any other tie?" she asked in some confusion.
"No, he says he could not legally. By our laws, though you are released from him, he is still bound to you."
"Edward. Is this true?" She shook from head to foot.
"A short time before he received the paper I forwarded," continued the gentleman; "he met a lady from New York who had frequently seen you in that city. Knowing nothing of the relation existing between you, she was enthusiastic in her praise, commenting warmly on your brilliancy in conversation, etc., etc.; adding that your beauty, grace, and accomplishments made you the centre of attraction wherever you went. Finding him greatly interested she went on to say that there were circumstances in your life connected with a lady, Miss Gilbert, who accompanied you into society which reflected greatly to your credit,—stating that you married when a mere child, but regretting your want of education had spent every possible moment in making up your deficiencies in the hope of keeping the respect, as well as affection of your husband, who was a professional man."
"Paul says when he heard all this, the scales fell from his eyes. When once they were opened, he wondered at his blindness; and nothing but the recollection of the shameful life he had led, kept him from returning to New York, throwing himself at your feet, confessing his crimes, and begging your forgiveness. While pride and affection, which had revived in full force, were struggling in his breast, he heard, first, by the printed report; and, afterwards through his sister Anna, that the law had made you free."
"This was the most terrible disappointment he ever experienced. It was followed by a sickness which carried him to the borders of the grave; and when he recovered, he plunged into every kind of vice, drinking and gambling until he often was on the verge of starvation. Do you remember rising from your couch one night soon after the death of dear little Rose, and kneeling by the bed when you thought your husband asleep, to pray for him? He could never forget those petitions; they haunted him whenever he attempted to sleep. He says he had treated you in the most cruel manner through all that trying scene; and that you bore it like a saint, never complaining, though often gazing mournfully in his face, but rendering good for evil continually. He told me your face, just as it looked the morning Rose died, was so continually before him that when he caught one glimpse of you at the door of the studio, he thought at first it was the vision in another form."
"The sight of us there so affected him, that he could scarcely stagger to the wretched garret he called home. He found out where we lived; and while we were searching in every part of the city for Paul Dudley, he, by the name of John Hastings, was lingering near our villa, waiting hours in the hope of one glance in your familiar face. He says you and I have passed him again and again, as he was seated near the gate, and that once he heard you say:
"Edward, there's that poor man again. I must throw him some money."
"Oh, brother what a terrible retribution for him! Since he remembered the prayer so well, did it do him any good?"
"I should think it only harrowed up his soul with remorse. Poor Paul; his has been a sad instance of total recklessness, resulting from want of religious principle."
"Did he seem pleased to come to us?"
"Not at all. At first he absolutely refused. 'I'm dying,' he said; 'and I'd rather end my days in quiet.' But when I insisted that I would not leave any countryman in such a state of destitution, he hesitated; and I took advantage of his weakness to send for a barber, and tailor and have him made ready to be moved."
"Will you please come with me?" inquired Pedro, knocking at the door.
Gertrude rose instantly, and followed the servant to his master's side.
His eyes looked wild; and he turned to his visitor almost fiercely.
"Are you alive?" he asked. "What makes you haunt me so? You and your dead baby; I can't bear it, and I wont."
"Paul," she murmured softly; for the first time putting her hand on his head.
He clutched eagerly at it; and was carrying it to his lips, when with a shriek he let it fall, gasping out:
"I forgot! I forgot!!"
The deep humility of his voice and tone touched her as nothing else had done.
Her eyes filled with tears of compassion as she gazed at his haggard countenance; when suddenly taking his hand from his eyes he observed traces of her emotion.
"May I ask one question?" he inquired.
"Certainly."
"When I am dead and buried will you forgive me?"
"I will forgive you now. I forgave you long ago, freely and fully, as I hope my Saviour has forgiven me."
"Say it again," said he, gasping. "It seems too strange to be real."
She repeated her words, adding; "God will forgive you, if you humbly ask him for the sake of his Son."
"No, you don't understand. Your brother will tell you I've lost all chance of being saved."
"'The Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.' If you had not sinned you would not have been under the law. Now you confess yourself a sinner too vile to enter heaven by your own merits. Christ offers to make atonement for you. He says, 'I have died the death of the cross to satisfy divine justice and reconcile you to your offended God. I have taken your sins, and now offer you my righteousness' Can you refuse such an offer?"
"If you knew how I'd spent these last years, you'd say it was impossible. But you've promised to forgive me; and I never knew you to say what you didn't mean. I never shall forgive myself. I never can. I'd give my right hand; both my hands, if I could forget how I broke all my promises to you; and after taking you away from your pleasant home trying to break your heart."
"I thought we were to forget all the past. I can truly say all is forgiven and forgotten. My only desire is to do you good. If you really wish to give me greater happiness than any thing else can give, submit yourself, with all your sins, to your Saviour. He will take care of you. His promise is sure. He says, I came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance!' You confess that remorse for the past has made your life very bitter. Pray God now to give you true penitence, 'that godly sorrow,' not for the consequences of your sin, but for sin itself, because it is displeasing to a holy God,—'which is not to be repented of.'"
She placed the Bible within his reach, repeated her command to Pedro to order whatever his master fancied in the way of food; and left the room.
CHAPTER XIX.
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:
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.
CHAPTER XX.
SALVATION BY CHRIST.
THE rest of the day was spent in retirement; and the following morning found her suffering from a severe headache, in consequence of the intense excitement of feeling through which she had passed. She sent a servant to inquire after Paul, and tried to find relief in sleep.
In the afternoon, her brother knocked at her door, and found her just about to leave her room. His face denoted unusual agitation and he said at once:
"I passed the entire morning in Paul's chamber. If he were to die before I see him again, I should hope he had found the mercy he needs in order to enter heaven."
"God be praised!" was her fervent ejaculation.
"I found him," Mr. Wallingford went on, "propped up on his couch, reading the fifty-first Psalm, large tears coursing down his cheeks.
"He looked up as I entered and holding out the blessed book, exclaimed:
"See, what I have found! Why have I never seen it before? It was written for me. No other man ever needed such words so much as I. Every syllable; every letter expresses my wants. Just hear what a plea this is. 'Have mercy upon me, according to thy loving kindness.' His kindness is infinite, else I should have been long ago cut off, 'therefore, according to thy infinite love and tenderness to the most vile and hardened of all thy creatures, so let thy mercy abound.'"
"Then here again. 'Hide thy face from my sins.' The thought that a holy God, who abhors sin to such a degree that he allowed his only Son to die on the cross to win men from its corrupt paths; has witnessed all the crimes of my whole life, has made me tremble before him. Yes, with my whole heart I can say, 'hide thy face from my sins.' 'Let not thine eyes of purity rest upon them;' and 'blot out all mine iniquities.'"
"When I came to that verse I asked myself, 'But how can a wise ruler do this? If the law is set aside, anarchy is at once established.' At this moment the mission of Christ as a mediator rushed into my mind with the vividness of a flash of lightning. He is the being, part human, part divine, who can mediate between the offended Judge, and his guilty subjects. With the name of this Mediator on our lips we can even dare to make a plea so bold! 'Cast me not away from thy presence, take not thine Holy Spirit from me?' 'Create in me a new heart,' this wicked heart which has been in all manner of uncleanness I loathe, I abhor. Create a new one, with holy desires, with pure affections, and renew a right spirit within me."
"I can scarcely give you an idea," continued the gentleman, after watching for an instant the gush of joyful tears which streamed down his sister's cheeks; "of Paul's fervor in repeating these petitions. 'Why, oh, why, did I never see that the way of salvation is so clear? I was blind indeed not to find it. Oh, the matchless love, and wisdom that formed the wondrous plan!'"
"He grew so pale at last that I thought he would faint, and called Pedro to give him medicine. 'You must sleep,' I said, 'and when you are rested I will come again.'"
Just at dusk Gertrude was hesitating whether to go to Paul's room lest he had already talked too much, when he sent a request to see her.
His chair was drawn near the western window, where the gorgeous rays of the setting sun were illuminating the entire horizon.
He pointed to a divan near him, and began at once:
"You will rejoice with me, dear friend. I begin to see things once invisible. I know what the name of Jesus means. I understand now what you meant when you prayed so long ago. 'Blessed Jesus, save him from the corruption of his own heart.' I have pondered on those words for hours; but they had little meaning to me. Now I realize his wondrous power. In his own body he carried my sins to the cross. He made atonement by his precious blood, one drop of which would have been enough to save me."
"And here I have been doubting his ability to wash me clean."
He looked in her face with a smile so full of heavenly joy, her assumed composure was overcome, and burying her head in her hands she wept freely.
"I knew you would rejoice," he went on, gazing tenderly at her bowed form. "You would not leave me to perish. You dragged me out of my pit and brought me where the light of heaven has shone upon me. You held up my Saviour and made me look upon him whom I had pierced."
At this moment the physician came in. He had not seen his patient for some days, and looked in wonder at the new expression on his once gloomy countenance.
Paul held out his hand with a smile. "You may count the beats in my pulse," he said; "and if you tell me this is my last night on earth, they will not vary in the least. I acknowledge my crimes and throw myself on the mercy of the Judge of all the earth. I have an Advocate who has promised to save me, one whose word has never failed."
"What does he mean?" queried the Doctor, wonderingly.
"It means, that whereas I was once blind, now I see. Whereas, I once loved sin and rolled it as a sweet morsel under my tongue, now I hate it and long to escape from it. In heaven I shall be free, and I long to be there."
"Your wish will soon be realized," murmured the Doctor, putting his ear down to the sick man's breast. "A week at farthest and you will have done with time."
"And eternity will have commenced," Paul added, clasping his hands.
But the physician's prophecy was not fulfilled. The very next day, Paul was so much worse, his kind friends gathered around his bed to bid him farewell. For the first time since their reunion he held Gertrude's hand in his, saying feebly, as he grasped it:
"Only this once;" then thanked her for all her forbearance and kindness. He earnestly reiterated his request for forgiveness, pleading; "The words are so sweet, so sweet."
Then he repeated the inspired command; "'Be not overcome of evil but overcome evil with good.' That is what you have done; what Christ has helped you to do; what he himself has done for me; good for evil; blessing for cursing."
Suddenly he requested all but Mr. and Mrs. Wallingford to leave the room, and pointing to a small box, asked Gertrude to take from, it a letter. Enclosed in a soiled, worn envelope, was the epistle she had written him, announcing the birth of a son, whom she had named Paul, for his father; and in which she plead with him to come home to a wife who loved and trusted him as well as ever.
"I did not receive it till after I got the paper from Edward," he explained, gasping. "I want you to keep it. It is the only treasure I have in the world; and if you are willing, tell our boy his father repented of his sins and trusted in the mercy of God through Christ. Tell him to make up to his mother for all the sorrow I have caused her. I shalt want to see him in heaven."
After awhile his distress became so great, Gertrude was wholly unnerved, and her brother led her from the room.
"He's just gone," the physician said, hearing the ominous rattle in his throat; but at this moment, the crisis came. A large ulcer, which had been forming on his lungs broke; and for a few moments he seemed to be suffocating. Then he fell back completely prostrated, and for an hour there was scarcely any sign of life.
But God's time had not yet come. Paul gradually rallied from this attack and enjoyed several months of comparative comfort, during which he gave good evidence of a radical change in heart and life. He remained with his friends until February, when they started for England; having made every arrangement for him to follow in June, if his life should be spared till that time.
The voyage he was well aware would be attended with great risk and fatigue; but there were objects and desires he yearned after. His parents for years had mourned him with a more bitter sorrow than if he had been laid beneath the sod. With his whole soul he longed to see them once more, and urge them to accept the only support which would comfort them when on the bed of death.
There was another wish, growing stronger every day, which he never had gained courage to mention; and which a consciousness of his past misdeeds reminded him that he did not deserve. But this he felt must be left with Him who ordereth all events for the best good of his children.
CHAPTER XXI.
CONSCIENTIOUSNESS.
THE letters from Rose Cottage had been highly satisfactory until the last. In that, Marion wrote that Hannah was slowly recovering from an attack of fever which had much prostrated her strength.
"Paul," she said, "I brought home with me; and he has been my special care ever since. Bridget has proved herself a wonderful nurse; and at the same time has superintended the dairy work, so that all has gone on as orderly as usual. We hope Hannah will be entirely recovered in a few weeks."
"In the mean tithe papa and mamma have become so much attached to my boy, as I proudly call him, that it will be difficult to separate them when it is time for him to go back to Rose Cottage. Indeed, if I did not take him in for a call every day, neither Hannah nor Bridget could be pacified. He grows more beautiful every hour; and what you will care for more than all the rest, he grows so conscientious. Papa has a large book of engravings of which he is very choice. Once or twice I have shown them to Paul, explaining the scenes they were intended to represent; but the child had been told not to take the volume from the shelf as it is too large for him to handle without injury."
"I went out on an errand for mamma a few days ago, not taking my usual companion on account of the rain. Mamma was busy in her chamber, and papa out on parish duty. I gave Paul a game of dissected pictures to keep him employed; and left him in the study. When I returned, I noticed he looked uneasy, his face flushed, and his eye avoiding mine. I glanced around the room fearing he had been trying to write, as he loves to do; and had spilled the ink; but I saw no marks of disorder, and concluded not to urge him to tell me what ailed him."
"I took a book into the bow window, and he sat near me sighing repeatedly. At last his lip began to quiver, and with an exclamation:"
"'I want my mamma to come home quick,' the poor little fellow burst into tears."
"I caught him in my arms where he sobbed a long time before he could explain."
"'I've been naughty, aunt Marion. I took that nice book of pictures down from the shelf.'"
"'Oh, I'm sorry, darling!'" I said. "'Did you enjoy seeing them?'"
"'No, I didn't. I was afraid somebody would come; and then I knew God could see right through the sky. I'm so sorry now.'"
"How could I utter one word of reproof? The gentle monitor in his breast had done that. I only reminded him how ready God is to forgive us when we have sinned; and we knelt down together to ask him to have compassion for the sake of his Son Jesus Christ."
"He jumped up from his low chair, with such a bright face, and asked quickly:"
"'Has he forgiven me, aunt Marion?'"
"'Yes, dear, I think he has; and you will not touch the book again.'"
"'No, I wont till you show it to me. That is the way I like to see it best. Now I feel glad.'"
"I longed for you to see him then. His eyes sparkled with happiness, and a heart at ease; his cheeks were mantled with roses; and his cherry lips were dimpled with smiles. Do you wonder we all love him so dearly?"
Mr. Wallingford's health was now confirmed. A regular correspondence had been kept up between him and Marion, in which they had learned to understand each other well. There seemed to be a peculiar harmony in their views, as well as in the principles which actuated their conduct.
The travellers' return was fixed for June, when it was arranged that a certain ceremony at the parsonage should be followed by a tour to Canada, the lakes, Chicago, and home by the Southern route; via, Washington, Philadelphia and New York.
It had never been Mr. Wallingford's intention to give up the practice of law. He believed it better for every man to have some regular business; and to endeavor to excel in it. Early in the spring, therefore, he had written Mr. Van Husen, requesting that gentleman to purchase him a handsome residence in a pleasant and healthy location. This was to be their winter home, where Gertrude and her boy would always be welcomed as part of the family. A wing, thrown out on the West side of Rose Cottage, would give ample accommodations to the two families in summer.
Under these circumstances, it is not strange that the lawyer should feel drawn toward his native land; nor that he should consider the caution of his medical adviser, to remain abroad until June, entirely needless.
The last days of February found them slowly making their way, in company with Mr. Radcliffe, the English nobleman, above mentioned, through France, pausing for a few days at Nice, where they had made some agreeable friends; and then crossing that country to England.
Reaching London the middle of March, they passed a month in making the tour of Great Britain, by which time Mr. Wallingford assured his sister, it was quite safe for him to embark for home. So without waiting to announce to their friends that they were about to anticipate the time of sailing, they took passage in the Steamship China, the last week in April, instead of waiting till the first of June.
There was one circumstance which decided Mrs. Wallingford not to oppose her brother leaving England sooner than the date they had written home. But in order to explain this, I must go back a little to their residence in Rome.
Sir Jones Radcliffe, from his first introduction to Gertrude, was charmed with the sweet gentleness of her manners; and the enthusiasm with which she conversed on literary and religious subjects. At that time he supposed her to be the wife of Mr. Wallingford; and remarked frankly to a friend who had often joked him upon his fastidiousness with regard to ladies:
"At last I have met one who is my beau ideal of what a wife should be; with beauty, accomplishments, and a mind enriched by culture; all softened by the pearl of meekness, and Christian principle."
Soon after he heard her address Edward as her brother; and the violent beating of his heart, showed him how easy it would be to surrender it to her keeping. From this hour, by the most constant, delicate attentions, he sought to win her affections; and nothing but her increasing reserve of manner, when she suspected his object, deterred him from making proposals for her hand.
When about to leave Rome she was rather annoyed to find that her brother had consented to the wish of Sir Jones, and allowed him to join their party to England. He proved a most agreeable travelling companion; and now that his whole heart was enlisted in her favor, he tried his utmost to excel in the powers of conversation for which he had long been distinguished. In the freedom of their intercourse he discovered that Gertrude had a son nearly six years of age; and that his image was scarcely ever absent from the mother's memory. This fact he turned to good account, leading her on to talk of his infantile ways, to tell of his wise sayings, and at last even to read from Marion's letters some of his childish messages. Before this Sir Jones thought he could not love her more than he did; but now he found his mistake. When talking of little Paul, the mother-light that beamed from her eyes and dimpled her mouth so enhanced his affection, that he determined to risk all, by a confession.
At home Gertrude had received proposals of marriage from several gentlemen of worth and distinction in her native state; but she had always shrunk from a new tie as an impossibility as long as Paul was alive. Now that she had seen him, who had once been her husband, under circumstances so affecting, she was more resolute in her former opinion than before.
One morning Sir Jones invited her to accompany him in a visit to a castle, famous for its historic associations; and supposing her brother was to be of the party she gladly consented. When it was too late to recede, she found Mr. Radcliffe had engaged only two horses; and that her brother was otherwise occupied. She could do nothing but resign herself to the arrangement in the best manner she was able.
He began to talk of Paul, telling her how the bright face of the little fellow had haunted him ever since she had shown him the picture. How it happened she never could recollect, but somehow his kindness and sympathy led her on, until she told him of the brief life of her little Rose, every word breathing such a sweet trust in the wisdom of her heavenly Father in taking the babe to its home in the skies, that he had no words to express his admiration.
Through all their intercourse he had noticed that she never had mentioned the name of her husband; now without a suspicion that he could be alive, he said, tenderly:
"Paul must have been a great comfort to you when his sister was taken away."
He was surprised and deeply pained by the burst of tears which accompanied her answer.
"Precious little Rose was my first born! I was just past my seventeenth birthday when that dream of happiness was over. Poor Paul has never seen his father."
"Let me be his father," he began; and once released from the violent restraint in which he had kept back expressions of his affection, he poured out his heart before her.
In vain she tried to check him, urging:
"It is impossible."
He had now lost self-command; and the tide of love would not be longer dammed up.