CHAPTER XXII.
THE CRASH AT LAST.
"YOU think there is no doubt," Helen was saying to her brother, holding her pen suspended, while beaming smiles played about her mouth. "I would not like to awaken expectations, if there is a doubt."
Frank's face reflected his sister's cheerfulness, as he answered: "God willing, we shall leave here in a fortnight, to be in season for the steamer the first of the month. Thanks to the elixir from the Golden Spring, I feel as well as ever, and mean to take hold of work with a will. Do you know, I have made arrangements to carry a couple of hundred bottles of the water with me. I mean to have it analyzed, and,—"
"Take care, Frank," she said, interrupting him, "I may have a word to say. You know Monsieur has given me a clean title, as he calls it, to the Golden Spring, with a strip of land leading from the chateau to the road." She laughed merrily as she held up the legal document to view, but presently added:
"Keep quiet, now, while I finish my letter, and then we will walk to the office and post it."
They were just in time to drop it into the bag. And then the rosy-faced girl gave them a letter which had come by the morning diligence.
"Whose hand-writing is that?" asked Helen.
"I do not know," was the grave reply. And then each waited quietly for the envelope to be unsealed, the same fear suggested to the minds of both.
"It contains bad news for us."
The name at the bottom of the sheet afforded no information; and so, with a sigh for which it would have been difficult to account, Frank proceeded to read the first page, his sister leaning against his arm, and looking over his shoulder.
"MR. FRANCIS J. EDMOND: I regret to be the bearer of ill tidings, but
necessity knows no law of kindness. I therefore proceed to inform
you, that through the perfidy of your guardian, Monson P. Tracy, your
entire fortune, with the exception of the estate in Maytown, has been
sacrificed. I write this at the request of the son of my partner, who
was Mr. Tracy's bondsman for the faithful execution of the will.
"The circumstances, as far as I can learn them, are these (Mr. Tracy
not being in a state to afford information on any subject): More than
a year ago, the lead mines came into the market. Mr. Tracy purchased,
from the agent, one hundred shares for you and your sister, paying ten
thousand dollars for the same, on the condition that one hundred shares
more be given him outright. For a short time the market for shares was
very brisk, the agent pressing their claims to public favor with equal
skill and shrewdness. Maps or charts of the locality were exhibited,
with the railroad, and a pretty village in the foreground, but all this
ended in moonshine.
"Further inquiry proved that there was not a-house within twenty miles,
and that the nearest railway was more than a hundred. The lead mines
sank, therefore, into the ground. Mr. Tracy, on ascertaining this fact,
quietly transferred his hundred shares to your side of the sheet, on
the conviction that you could afford the loss better than he could.
"All this occurred some months ago. But in January of this year,
another agent came on with charts, and specimens of the ore, which was
decided to be of the best quality. He established a new company, and
finally persuaded Mr. Tracy once more to give it his confidence, and
the influence of his name. This he consented to do for a price. He sold
out city stock by the consent of his bondsman, who was also infected
with the mania of speculation, and invested fifty thousand more of your
fortune, together with an equal amount of his own; which last, however,
it has been ascertained, he never paid for.
"Engineers were engaged to lay out and build a railroad to the spot.
And everything looked prosperous, when the crash came.
"On Wednesday of last week, Mr. Tracy was known to have received
letters which nearly rendered him frantic. He rushed to the broker's
office, and sold, at a ruinous discount, seventy-five thousand dollars
worth of stock belonging to you. But what he did with it, or what he
intended to do with it, cannot now be ascertained. By noon, of the same
day, the bulletins announced to all interested parties, that the lead
mine speculation was a failure. A party of scientific men sent to the
spot for the purpose of thorough examination, had reported the fact
that there was little or no lead there.
"To my partner, who had become too deeply involved to recover, it was a
fatal blow. He committed suicide the next morning under the influence,
it is charitably believed, of a sudden attack of insanity.
"Of Mr. Tracy I can only say, that the entire community have received
a shock. He was, as you are aware, a professor of religion. His name
has for years been before the public as a warm supporter of the great
benevolent objects of the day. He was a regular attendant on the
preaching of Mr. Manning, and his opinion was sought, almost equally,
in matters pertaining to religion and finance.
"Now the researches of Mr. Seymour, who was bondsman for him in the
case of young Quincy's fortune, has brought to light a series of crimes
worthy of a fiend.
"He has for forty years been living on his character for piety; and a
profitable speculation he has made of it. But the end came before he
expected. His iniquities have been brought to light, and the revelation
is one to amaze the most hardened villain.
"The miserable victim of his own avarice was found in a small room in
his own house. And when the sheriff broke into the apartment, he was
lying upon the floor in a fit, sheets of paper covered with figures,
and leaves from the account books, lying open near him, torn from the
binding, and still clutched in his hands. He was removed at once to an
upper chamber, where he was put under guard, but where, at the earnest
pleading of his wife, she was allowed to be with him."
"Frank, you ought to be there," Helen burst out, her eyes wildly protruded. "You might save something from the wreck."
The young man stood still for one moment, then crushing the letter in his hand, he answered hoarsely:
"We must start by the diligence to—night."
"I always knew he was a villain." faltered Helen, the tears streaming down her checks. "Dear papa, how cruelly he was deceived!"
But presently recovering her self-control, she exclaimed: "I have no time for regrets now. I must ride to the chateau and bid my scholars good-by. Mr. Tracy can't throw away what we've given to them."
The hardest task remaining, was to bid farewell to the good clergyman, who had become so dear to them both. It was well they had not much time to dwell upon the parting. With his wrinkled hands on their bowed heads, the tears coursing over his furrowed cheeks, he called upon God, their father's God, to bless them, and keep them to the end. Then he turned away, weeping as he went. But Helen ran after him, and throwing her arms around his neck, kissed him again and again, saying:
"We shall never forget your kindness and love. Write us, dear father; write everything that concerns you; and don't forget to pray that we may meet again."
"We shall meet there," he said, reverently pointing his finger upward. "I shall not be long here, but while I live, I shall never cease to pray for you."
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE BRIDAL PAIR.
IN less than three weeks from the hour when they bade adieu to Monsieur D'Ortey, they landed on the shores of their native land, and lost no time in proceeding to the city where their guardian resided.
From this place Helen at once hastened to Morrisville by the new line of cars which carried her within a hundred rods of her aunt's house.
Reaching the handsome depot finished during her absence, she left her baggage in the care of the depot-master and with her travelling bag on her arm started to walk home.
It was nearly nine o'clock, and she was hastening her steps when she overtook an old gentleman, and to her delight recognized Mr. Knowles. Putting her arm in his, she began to ask a multitude of questions concerning those she loved.
"Frederic is in the city," he said. "Your aunt is in her usual health, and will welcome you with open arms."
"How long has Frederic been gone?"
"Less than a week. He is engaged with lawyers in trying to ferret out some of the iniquities which have been going on under a cloak of piety. I suppose you have heard—"
"Yes, sir, all," she exclaimed, interrupting him. "You see I read Mr. Tracy's character correctly.
"When will Frederic be back," she added, with some impatience. "Frank is in the city to attend to business."
"Immediately, I should suppose. He sent for me to supply his pulpit next Sabbath."
Helen found her aunt stronger than when she left home. She received her niece with tears of joy. And when Helen hung over her with words of love, said with emotion:
"Dear child, I did not realize what your presence was to me until you went away."
In the excitement of meeting old friends, Helen did not notice the change which had taken place in Mr. Knowles. The next morning she was much pained to see that he looked exceedingly feeble, and that his gait was less firm than when they parted.
He explained his weakness by saying: "The late revelations concerning Mr. Tracy have shattered my nerves. I am an old man. I have lived more than the three score and ten years allotted to man. You know what the good book says, 'and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.'"
Helen's eyes were dim as she pressed his hand. She had no voice to speak.
"Yes, my dear child, I am near my end; or rather I am near the beginning of a new life; a life, as I humbly believe, with God in heaven. I am looking forward with bright anticipations to the hour when I shall receive my summons. I shall see my Saviour then, and unite in the wonderful song: 'Worthy the Lamb.'"
"Do you think the saints are always engaged in singing?" timidly inquired Helen. "When papa died, I used to wonder how the good people employ their time in heaven."
"My child, eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, the joys that are prepared for those who reach that happy place. But still, I think the children of God may form some conception of the employment and bliss.
"When you first gave yourself up to the Saviour's care, trusting him to do for you what you found you could not do for yourself, did you not then, and have you not since, at favored intervals, enjoyed precious views of the Father's condescension, in giving his Son to die for the guilty? Of the boundless love which led the Lord of glory to resign his throne, and come to earth to bear in his own body the sins of all mankind? Have you never realized, if but for a moment, what priceless treasures of grace and blessedness his death would bring to you? And has not your heart burned within you, till you could only find relief in praise? If so, and I should fear for the professed Christian who is a stranger to such joys, then you have had a foretaste of what the happiness and employment of heaven may be.
"Think of it, my dear. We shall see Abraham, the father of the faithful, Isaac, Jacob, and all the patriarchs, Moses, the great lawgiver, Joshua, the captain of Israel's hosts, Samuel, the prophet, David, the sweet Psalmist, Solomon, the wise king, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and all the host of worthies who followed. We may hope to converse with Matthew, the Publican, with Mark, the Evangelist, Luke, the physician, and John, the beloved disciple; we may hear from Paul the account of his wonderful conversion, of his stripes and suffering, cheerfully endured for the sake of his divine Master; and more than all, we may see our Saviour; we may examine the print of the nails. We may look on his matchless form, may hear his voice full of love and tenderness. We may do all this, while exempt from the infirmities which subject us in this world to sin and sorrow. Can we not imagine what the bliss of heaven will be?"
"Thank you," murmured the young girl, "I shall always remember what you have told me."
Mr. Knowles then explained that an aged member of the church had died and was to be buried this day. "I came," he said, "by my son's request, to aid him in the funeral services; and I then expected to remain over the Sabbath while Frederic who would be near to Maytown, preached for me. Now as Frederic will naturally desire to be here, I shall probably return to-morrow."
"I can't spare you yet, I have so much to tell you, and—if I consent to be what Frederic wishes, I must have you here."
He patted her glowing cheek, with a smile as free from care as if no thought of death had entered his mind.
At this moment Betsey opened the door.
"Will you come to breakfast, Miss?" she asked, trying to speak in a formal tone, but failing most lamentably. Her eyes were so full of mirth and her whole manner so different from the usually grave Betsey, that Helen stared at her in surprise.
But she turned to the aged man and gave him her youthful arm for a support. She had, however scarcely left the hall before she heard a familiar voice talking to her aunt in hurried, excited tones:
"Where is she? Has she left her room?"
Leaving her companion in the hall, Helen bounded up the stairs, and in a moment more was in the young clergyman's arms. For one instant he gazed into her blushing face, and then whispered:
"Thank God, I have you once more."
"Not a rich heiress, Frederic, but a poor ignorant girl, who will need constant care and teaching to make her good for anything."
"We wont quarrel the first moment of meeting," he said, "but I give you warning that I will not hear my wife slandered in that way; and by the by, Helen, it must be soon.
"That's a good child," he went on, taking her silence for consent. "With the help of God, I'll make you so happy you shall never regret it."
"I have already made the arrangements with your father," she answered, with one of her roguish glances. "He is to perform the ceremony."
"Of course, and when is the ceremony to be? Remember how patient I've been."
"Must I promise to obey?" she asked, with mock solemnity.
"You shall promise nothing but to be my wife, and that in all the duties arising from the relation, you will take the Bible for your rule. That is easy, isn't it?"
"Oh, Frederic! I forgot to tell you that breakfast is ready; and that I left your father standing in the hall."
"Not one step do I go until this question is settled. Shall it be to-day?"
"No; no indeed!"
"To-morrow, then?"
"Why, I can't even get unpacked."
He noticed the quiver in her voice, and, taking her hand within his arm, led her down to the table where Mr. Knowles was seated, with a cup of coffee before him.
"Have you any message for Maytown, father?" he asked, quietly. "One of my neighbors will start for that place directly after breakfast, to accompany mother and Sybil back here. Helen wishes them to be present at our wedding, which will take place on Thursday evening."
"Oh, Frederic! I didn't say so."
"We will also procure a preacher for Maytown, so that you can extend your visit here, and notify Frank of the time of the ceremony."
The young girl darted from the room, and ran up to talk with her aunt.
"Mr. Knowles has deserved your submission to his wishes, my child. It was a severe trial to him to have you leave the country last fall."
"I wish," faltered the blushing girl, "that my return might be kept secret, at least, until after—after the wedding."
"I think we can manage that, my dear."
How glad she always was she consented. Mr. Knowles appeared as well as usual on Wednesday and Thursday morning. But in the afternoon he had a long talk with Frank, who, in answer to Frederic's hasty summons, had just arrived; and afterward complained of extreme languor. He lay on the sofa resting, for an hour or more, and then said he was relieved.
Once or twice Sybil heard him talking to himself: "I am grieved. It is a reproach to religion. It has dishonored Christ."
He referred to Mr. Tracy, of whom Frank had been speaking.
"I wouldn't worry about it, father," Sybil expostulated.
"No," he answered, "the day will come when the chaff will be winnowed from the wheat. Christ will know his own and claim them. There will be no hypocrites in heaven, none to wound the Saviour in the house of his friends."
A cup of tea, which Helen insisted on preparing to his taste, with her own hands, much refreshed him, so that he went through the marriage service with a firm voice.
After the ceremony, he placed his hands on the heads of the new couple, as they instinctively knelt to receive his blessing. And every eye grew moist as they listened to his words of love.
"My son, it will hereafter give you pleasure to remember the testimony of your father. Your dutiful conduct in youth rendered you my joy. Your course in later years has left me nothing to wish for, except that your labors for Christ may be crowned with abundant success. In your sweet home, I have here," imprinting a kiss on Helen's upturned face, "a pledge that you will be richly blessed. She is of all the world your parent's choice for you."
"And mine," murmured Sybil.
"A good wife is from the Lord, my son. Cherish her as His gift."
CHAPTER XXIV.
MONSON P. TRACY.
ON Friday, Mrs. Prescott was busily engaged in her room with her lawyer. Two or three times when Helen sought to gain admittance, Betsey, who stood guard at the door, smilingly remarked, that her mistress had denied herself to all visitors.
The next morning, just as the wedded pair were about to leave for a few weeks, the old lady put into her niece's hand a roll of parchment tied with the ominous red tape.
"I suspected a plot," exclaimed the bride, warmly kissing her aunt. "I suspected it when I saw you closeted with that old lawyer; now I'm sure of it. I don't know what this parchment contains, but if it is intended to make me any richer than I am, I must refuse it. My husband, the Reverend Frederic, does me the honor to say that I'm a fortune in myself, and I wouldn't like to tempt a parson with two fortunes.
"No, aunty," as the old lady refused to take it. "We are young, and willing to work. I had rather be dependent on my husband."
"Helen, you wouldn't refuse, if you knew how my heart was set on this. I am only anticipating a few months, or years, as it may be. All is yours at my death, by another will than mine."
The tear-dimmed eyes and trembling accents affected Helen.
"Well, Frank," she urged, "you are a lawyer, read and tall me what to do."
"Aunt Prescott has made over to you the entire farm, with all her improvements, the furniture, plate, carriages, horses and cattle, with the sole condition of being allowed a living under her paternal roof, with her faithful Betsey to minister to her wants. A sum of money," still reading from the paper, "now invested in railroad stock, and yielding a profitable interest, will be yours at her decease."
"A clergyman should have a home," urged the old lady. "If you deny me this pleasure, my child, you will deprive me of the means of showing how entire is my confidence in you and my nephew."
"I can't refuse a request so worded, dear aunty," faltered the bride, throwing her arms around the old lady's neck; "but please bear witness, every person here, that I accept under protest. Only think, Frederic, that beautiful Alderney heifer is my own, to pet as much as I please."
Everybody laughed, which was much the wiser plan; and then the parties were obliged to separate. The bridal pair took the cars for Niagara and the lakes, leaving Mr. Knowles, with his wife and Sybil, to depart by a later train for Maytown.
Frank returned at once to the city to carry forward sundry investigations in regard to his own and his sister's fortune. He had already ascertained that Mr. Tracy had secured a large sum of money, by making it over to his wife. If it could be proved that this had been done within six months of the failure, closely following the discovery of his fraud, the whole transaction would be illegal.
Monson P. Tracy had been removed from his own house to the Penitentiary. But as his mind was entirely shattered, he did not feel the disgrace. He wondered indeed at the shabbiness of his room, supposing himself at a hotel, and used to complain to the wardens who frequently passed his cell that the waiters neglected their duty, that if they did not look out, he would move to better quarters and bid the public beware of them.
Roswell's absence continued for a long time unexplained, but at last some notorious facts became public.
In the midst of his researches at the bank, etc., Frank Edmond came across a check for twelve thousand five hundred dollars, on Monson P. Tracy, presented and receipted for by his son.
The teller, and even the cashier, well remembered the circumstances connected with the check, it being for a considerable amount, and the young man excessively impatient at the necessary delay, in counting. This check being put into the hands of experts, the signature was pronounced a forgery, and a remarkably skilful one. Of the amount, twelve thousand five hundred dollars, seven thousand was the property of Frank and Helen.
A search for the criminal was commenced at once. And a miniature of him found in his room was placed at the disposal of the chief of police, who caused it to be struck off and printed in all the secular papers, with his name and crime attached.
As I shall have no occasion to refer to Roswell again, I will now add, that a year later he was killed in a street brawl in St. Louis, where he had resided for months, notorious for his crimes, under the alias, Robert Tolman. A coat and vest marked with his full name, were redeemed by a pawnbroker's ticket found in his pocket, and the fact published at once with the sad, but true moral affixed:
"The way of transgressors is hard."
It was the intention of Mr. and Mrs. Frederic Knowles, to pass their honeymoon in travelling. But on receiving a letter from Sybil, stating that her father had fainted in the pulpit, after offering a prayer just before the sermon, they left Montreal, where they were spending a few days at the St. Lawrence, and reached Maytown the third morning following the receipt of the intelligence.
They found the good man looking much as usual, and engaged in writing a sermon for the next Sabbath.
His son warmly expostulated, urging his late feebleness, but though another pastor had been hired to officiate for a few weeks, the silver-haired man expressed an earnest desire to say a few last words to his beloved people.
"Your father eats heartily, and sleeps as quietly as an infant," explained Mrs. Knowles, "but I feel sure he has not long to live. His daily prayer is for the grace of patience, patience to wait God's time."
"I long to be there—" he said to his son, "there with my Saviour. I long to be free from this body of sin, and behold his face in righteousness."
On Saturday evening Helen seated her self at his feet, and sang at his request.
The words she selected were the following:
"Behold the glories of the Lamb,
Before his Father's throne,
Prepare new honors for his name,
And songs before unknown.
Let elders worship at his feet,
The church adore around,
With vials full of odors sweet,
And harps of sweeter sound."
When she had commenced, the young clergyman who was to supply his pulpit entered, and quietly took a seat. Every one present noticed a peculiar expression on the countenance of the old man. It was as if he already heard the heavenly music for which he panted. When her voice ceased, he still listened as if entranced, no one daring to break the silence and call his rapt spirit back to earth.
At length he seemed to become aware of the presence of those so dear to him.
"Glorious vision! Glorious! Glorious!" he repeated, every feature radiant with holy light. "Jesus my Saviour, seated on his throne, receiving the adoration of the saints. Shall I ever be permitted to join them, and unite my voice with theirs in the anthems of praise?
"'Who is this King of glory? The Lord of hosts, He is the King of glory.' Yes, I shall see him, for he has promised it. 'Father, I will that they . . . thou hast given me, be with me where I am; that they may behold my glory,' . . . 'which I had with' the Father 'before the world was.'"
Helen still retained his hand, and yielding to an impulse she could not control, she raised it to her lips, large drops falling upon it from her eyes.
"Do not weep, my child," he exclaimed, in a loud voice. "Rejoice, rejoice that the day of my salvation is near at hand. A wretched sinner will, by God's unspeakable mercy, be converted into a blessed saint."
"But we shall not see your face," she murmured. "We shall so miss the sound of your voice, your counsels and your prayers."
"It will be but for a moment,—" he answered, "a moment in ages of years, an eternity of years. Your mother will very soon follow me, and when you have accomplished your work, we shall unite with thousands of choirs of angels in welcoming you home."
Sybil, who had been sitting bolt-upright, disdaining to exhibit her emotion at what was so evident to all, that dying grace had been bestowed on her beloved father, rose suddenly and left the room. Presently the sound of her violent sobs was distinctly heard, and her brother hastened to her side.
CHAPTER XXV.
DEATH OF A POSSESSOR.
EARLY the next morning, the young minister called to ascertain whether Mr. Knowles still wished to enter the pulpit.
Frederic hastened to the study, but started back at one view of his father's face.
"It shone like that of an angel," he said afterward.
"Yes," he answered, when the young man's question was put to him. "Yes, I do wish it, but I have thrown aside the sermon I had prepared. Helen has given me a text, and I shall speak of the glories of heaven to the redeemed."
On hearing the church-bell, he made ready as usual, his wife with trembling fingers tying the knot in his white cravat as she had done for fifty years. And then arm in arm they proceeded across the well-beaten path to the house of God.
Never will those present forget the occasion. Leaving his wife at the pew-door, his son offered his stronger arm for support, but he refused aid and walked slowly but firmly up the pulpit steps.
Frederic performed the introductory service, gave out the hymns which his father had selected, offered the first prayer, and then sat down.
When the aged man arose and pronounced his text, scarcely a breath disturbed the intense stillness. It was this: "Who is the King of glory? The Lord of hosts, He is the King of glory."
Never, in the days of manhood's prime, had the utterances of the pastor been so impassioned, his voice so clear and sonorous, his style so pure and elevated, his persuasion so powerful.
After depicting the glories of Christ, as the present ruler and king of the church, he dwelt in the most enrapturing strain upon the future revelation of his glory, when he shall have delivered up the kingdom to God, even the Father; when he shall have put down all rule, and authority and power, and have put all enemies under his feet.
The close, with words of tenderness and love, besought every one of his beloved flock to yield submission to this glorious King, and meet him at the right hand of God. This was solemn and affecting beyond description. Weeping and sobbing were heard from every part of the house, and were only restrained by noticing that the customary prayer at the close of the sermon was omitted, and their dearly loved and venerated pastor was spreading his arms to pronounce the benediction:
"Now may the God of peace which brought again from the dead our Lord
Jesus Christ make you perfect in every good work."
A few words were spoken to his son and then Frederic repeated the request that the congregation would unite in singing the words:
"Praise God from whom all blessings flow."
Some near the pulpit afterward said they saw their pastor's countenance change as he took his seat, but he leaned forward and rested his head on the cushion. When the doxology was finished, he did not move. The congregation slowly left their slips, as if conscious that this was the last time they should hear warning or entreaty from his familiar voice.
Alas! His lips were already sealed in death. While the praises of God were sounding in his ear, his summons came,—"Friend come up higher!"
Wondering at length at his father's prolonged silence, Frederic gently touched his arm. There was no response. Then a dreadful terror seized him, and kneeling down, he looked into his father's face. What did he see there? Death had come and set his seal, but it was death deprived of his terrors; for a countenance so radiant as his when they reverently bore him out of the church, none ever remembered to have seen. It was as if the sound of the archangel's trump had met his ear, and as if his whole soul was entranced with ecstasy as he welcomed the messenger, sent to summon him home.
Thanks be to God for his unspeakable gift, the gift of one who has given us victory over death and the grave, even our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.
The parsonage, with seventeen acres of ground near it was owned by the good pastor. After the funeral, which was an occasion to be remembered for years, to be dated from and recalled with loving affection, a will characteristic of the writer was found in his desk. It bore date after Frederic's marriage and was as follows:
"I give my soul, redeemed by the blood of Christ from everlasting
death, to my Creator.
"I give my body to the worms that will feed upon it, resting on
the gracious promise, 'It is sown in corruption, it is raised in
incorruption: it is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory: it is sown
in weakness, it is raised in power.'
"I give to my beloved wife and my daughter Sybil, all of worldly goods
that I have to bestow, assured that He who styles himself the God of
the widow, the Father of the fatherless, will never forsake them.
"I give to my beloved Frederic and my beloved daughter Helen and to my
other children, a father's love and blessing."
The land near the parsonage was purchased more than fifty years before, at a time when such property was held of little comparative worth. It had gradually risen in value, until now it would command a high price. A new street had been laid out within a few years, the old pastor cheerfully yielding his consent that it be cut directly through his land. This arrangement more than doubled the value of his farm, giving him beautiful sites for houses on both sides.
It was Frederic's proposition that one house lot be sold, and the money put at interest for their immediate necessities. There was no occasion for other change. The farmer, under Sybil's practical training, would till the land and furnish nearly all they needed for their support.
The remainder of the month was passed by the newly wedded pair quietly at the parsonage. All felt it was a privilege to be there where the sound of the father's voice seemed still echoing in the familiar rooms.
But at last other duties called the young pastor away. He went buckling on his harness for his chosen work. He went followed by the prayers of many, that his father's mantle might fall upon him,—that his life experience might be as full of joy, and his death as full of peace.
They went forty miles out of their way to meet Frank in the city. The following letter was the occasion of their visit:—
"DEAR HELEN: I have concluded to take the journey of which I spoke in
my last. I have engaged a celebrated geologist to accompany me, and we
have provided everything necessary to facilitate our work. I found a
piece of ore among some rubbish in Mr. Tracy's sanctum, marked 'lead
mine.' My friend declares it a prophet of good for us. Still I do not
wish you to be too sanguine. The mine which has swallowed up two thirds
of our fortune may prove to be of no value. We expect to start next
Monday. I have some painful duties to perform before that, of which I
can at present say nothing.
"Your affectionate brother,
"FRANK."
On reaching the city, they drove directly to Mr. Edmond's boarding house. He was out, and it was doubtful when he would return. Much disappointed, they were about to leave a note of farewell for him and hasten to Morrisville by the next train, when the door opened and he entered.
One glance sufficed to convince the visitors that something unusual had occurred.
Frank's face was extremely pale, but there was an expression of satisfaction in his eye for which they could not account.
"You are just in time," he exclaimed, warmly embracing his sister. "There is a chance for you to show yourself a true Christian."
"What is it? Tell me all."
Glancing hurriedly at his watch, Frank threw himself into a chair, exclaiming:
"I must go at twelve, and you will go with me."
"Go where?"
"To the Penitentiary, with Mrs. Tracy. But let me begin my story. I came home the other night, worn and worried with my labors, when my landlady told me there was 'a person' waiting to see me in the parlor. It was Mrs. Tracy, but so changed I should never have recognized her.
"'Perhaps,' she began, 'you will think it strange I should come to you who have lost everything through my husband: but I have no other friend,—at least no one I would like to ask to do so much,—and then,—there is another reason why I think you will do it. You were staying with us, I was passing your door, and I heard you praying, not saying prayers,' she repeated earnestly, 'but praying: and you prayed for him as if you really meant it. If you did mean it, I think you will forgive him and take me to see him.'
"Her request was, as you see, not very intelligible. But her weakened frame, her trembling voice and pallid features so affected me, that I hastened to assure her whatever she required, if it were in my power, I would assist her. I did not calculate upon the effect of my words. She sank down on the floor at my foot, and cried aloud.
"When I had succeeded in partially soothing her, she began the story of her married life, how that little by little their happiness melted away; he, as she invariably called Mr. Tracy, became engrossed in business, writing speeches, etc., until his affection for her seemed wholly gone.
"'It is hard for me to accuse him,' she said hesitating, 'but I'm afraid his kind of religion didn't restrain him from doing whatever he thought for his own interest.'
"At any rate it wasn't of the kind to make him happy. As to his business, he never consulted me, and I never offered any advice. But once I begged him not to annoy Helen with Roswell's attentions. I saw she didn't fancy him, though I think if he could have had a happy home, he would have been a good man. Just before the—the crash,' she said, hesitating, 'he came up to my chamber and put this into my hands.'
"'"There Cynthy," he said, "I've made over this house and fifty thousand dollars to you. If anything happens to me in business, we can live on that."
"'When I heard what had been done, I was frightened, and if I could have got my husband out of the Penitentiary, I wont deny I should have kept the fifty thousand and gone off with him. But since it is as it is, I feel that I can't keep it, and so I brought it to-day.
"'"If he doesn't scorn me. If his prayer was an earnest one," I said to myself, "and he forgives my husband, I'll give it to him." Here it is!'
"I read it, not without emotion, of course, and then I explained to her that the paper wasn't worth a straw to her. But it was worth thirty thousand dollars to me, and fifteen thousand to young Quincy, her husband's other ward. I went to a memorandum book where I had noted down the amount of stock in this bank and that, which had mysteriously disappeared, and I showed her that on her paper the very same bank stock was made over to her for their joint use. I told her too, that Quincy's lawyer had obtained a clue to this very document, and that whenever she went to draw the money, he would pounce upon her as an accomplice in the fraud.
"Poor woman, I really pitied her more than I can express.
"'I knew nothing about it, nothing at all,' she repeated, tearfully. 'I'm so glad I didn't keep it. I never cared to be rich.'
"'Now,' I said, 'tell me how I can help you?'
"She hid her face in her handkerchief and wept.
"'They tell me,' she said, 'that he is not as he was, that he is not a proper subject for the Penitentiary. If you went with a physician, perhaps they would let him out. I'll promise to take care of him. He can't hurt anybody now. I'll work and support him.'
"I'm afraid that will be impossible,' I answered, 'but I will try. I'll see the physician who attends the prisoners, at once, and do all I can for you.'
"She wrung my hand at parting. 'I believe it,' she exclaimed. 'I believe what our minister said once,—
"'"There is a difference between professing religion and possessing
it."
"''Tisn't every professor has the right sort. When I heard your prayer, I thought maybe yours was the sort the minister meant, that it might be a support in time of need. I know 'his' didn't help him.'"
CHAPTER XXVI.
END OF THE MERE PROFESSOR.
"POOR woman!" exclaimed Helen, wiping her eyes. "I never saw anything to dislike in her, except that she was Mr. Tracy's wife. I ought to have pitied her for that. And, only think, she loves him still; loves him better for his reverses, and the loss of his mind."
"Did you see Mr. Tracy?" inquired Frederic.
"I went to the Penitentiary within an hour. I can't tell you how her appearance and her devotion to her husband affected me. First, I went to the hospital, where I heard Monson P. Tracy spent the most of his time. He was not there. One of the wardens told me I might possibly find him in the cook's department, or in the blacksmith's shop, where he had taken a fancy to work.
"Then I went to the office of the physician. He told me that the Mogul, as Mr. Tracy was called, proved so harmless that he was allowed considerable freedom. That he often assisted in the kitchen, hanging clothes on the lines, preparing vegetables for the soups, etc.
"While we were talking, I heard a loud shouting, with suppressed laughter.
"'Look!' said Dr. Smalley, pointing to a scene under the window.
"I went forward, and there on a tub turned bottom-side up, stood Monson P. Tracy, haranguing the prisoners in their cells. From every grated window some hardened face might be seen, watching with a grin, the antics of the insane man.
"I listened. He was repeating one of his speeches, with all the bombast and pomp you can imagine. He fancied himself in the Senate chamber, and stopped continually for the applause he expected from his audience of convicts. The sight sickened me, and I turned away in disgust.
"'This is one of his most harmless fancies,' remarked Dr. Smalley. 'I am afraid he has been a very wicked man, corrupt to the core. Sometimes he imagines himself in a prayer-meeting, and makes remarks or offers prayer. Then in half an hour he is describing with a chuckle peculiar to himself' (you remember it, Helen), 'scenes in his past life, the advantage he has taken of others, his own shrewdness in evading the law, etc., etc.'
"'Is his case hopeless?' I asked.
"'If you refer to the recovery of his reason, that is simply impossible. He has softening of the brain.'
"'The Penitentiary does not seem the proper place for him,' I suggested cautiously.
"He looked fixedly in my face a moment, and then said: 'Of course not. He should be in the Insane Asylum.'
"'Would it be a difficult matter to have him transferred there?'
"'I thought, Mr. Edmond,' he exclaimed after a moment's pause, 'that Monson P. Tracy was left in charge of your property and that he was guilty of a breach of trust!'
"'You thought correctly.'
"'Still you wish his situation improved?'
"'As a Christian, Dr. Smalley, I am bound to forgive those who injure me; as a man of common humanity, I could not revenge injuries on an insane convict.'
"He coughed two or three times before he spoke, and walked away to the window where the speechifying continued. Then he held out his hand saying, cordially:
"'Perhaps, Mr. Edmond, you will never be a rich man, but if I can judge of your actions by your treatment of this prisoner, I am sure you will be a very happy one.'
"I then repeated Mrs. Tracy's request and asked him whether it would be safe to confide her husband to her care in case some quiet retreat could be provided.
"'Perfectly so!'
"'Could his discharge be obtained?'
"'Without a doubt, if you and his other wards make such a request.'
"I started to come away when he asked, 'Will you see him?'
"I hesitated and then assented, following the physician through various departments of labor till we came to a shop where there was a forge. Monson P. had donned a blacksmith's leather apron, his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows,—his hair dishevelled and his beard unshorn.
"He knew me at once, and with perfect 'sang froid,' began to talk about the lead mine.
"He had evidently studied the subject, and for a few moments talked rationally. But with one of the sudden changes Dr. Smalley tells me are common with him, he began to chuckle, and then disclosed a plot for defrauding us and others upon which he evidently prided himself, laughing and patting my shoulder meanwhile."