Married and Single CHAPTER 19.
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Late in the afternoon of an autumn day, a passenger on board of a steamboat which was rapidly approaching one of our Atlantic cities, stood gazing eagerly upon the spires and clustering houses that were coming nearer and nearer every moment. He was in the prime of life. His face wore the dark hue given by a southern sun, and had upon it some lines that strong passions, too freely indulged, had impressed. But over the whole was cast a softened shadow, showing that there were gentler feelings ruling in his heart. As he leaned upon the railing of the boat, his eye upon the distant city, a man came near and leaned likewise against the railing. At first the stranger felt inclined to look upon the new comer as an intruder; but, in a little while after, he said to him,
"Do you live in this city?"
"Yes. I have lived here all my life."
A pause.
"You are well acquainted with its business-men?"
"I am."
Another pause.
"Do you know Henry Trueman?"
"The old man? Oh yes, very well."
The face of the stranger flushed.
"Is he still in business?" was next asked.
"Oh no. He has been out of business for at least five years."
"Did he retire with a comfortable support?"
"He paid off all his debts, and then came out even with the world, for which he was, no doubt, thankful, as he ought to have been, after having raised and educated a large family."
"But how has he since lived?" inquired the stranger, with an interest he could scarcely conceal.
"With his son John, one of our most prosperous merchants and most estimable citizens."
"He had a daughter, Edith, who married badly, I believe?"
"Yes. She is with her brother John, and devotes all her time to her father, who has grown old and feeble."
"But his wife — Mrs. Trueman? What of her?"
"She has been dead for two years."
"Dead!" ejaculated the stranger, half to himself, in a tone that caused the individual he had been questioning to look into his face with surprise.
"Yes, she died, and left the old man quite lonely. He has seemed to droop ever since, although from his children he receives the kindest attentions. Edith, in fact, lives only for her father."
"You seem well-acquainted with the family," was remarked, after some thoughtful moments.
"I ought to be," replied the citizen. "I married one of his daughters."
"Which one?"
"Ellen."
"And Mary? What of her?"
"She was married two years ago to a physician."
"Happily married?"
"You would think so if you were to see her. But, in turn, I must remark that you seem well acquainted with the family."
No reply was made to this. After a little, as if to change the subject, the stranger said,
"Have you been absent long?"
"For about three weeks," was replied.
He then sunk into a deep revery, and showing a disinclination for farther conversation, the individual who had answered his interrogatories walked away to another part of the boat. Just as they were about touching the shore, he felt a hand upon his arm; turning, he saw the stranger by his side.
"May I trouble you for the address of John Trueman?" he said.
It was given verbally. The crowd separated them, and although the husband of Ellen Trueman sought with curious interest the individual who had inquired so particularly after the family into which he had married — he could not find him.
At the time the above conversation was passing, old Mr. Trueman was on his death-bed, surrounded by his children. A sudden illness had prostrated him. When the disease abated, it was found that his feeble frame would not survive the shock. He was declining rapidly. None expected him to live over a few hours. But his mind was calm and clear, and he shrunk not from the trial that awaited him. None felt the approaching separation so keenly as Edith. Since her mother's removal, she had given herself up to her father, and ministered to all his needs with the tenderest care. In thus living for him, he had become almost necessary to her life. The prospect of his sudden departure, made her heart tremble and sink in her bosom. She felt as if she could not bear to lose the old man who had leaned so confidingly on her for two years. Anxiously did she bend over him, and watch every change in his time-worn face. But there was little to inspire her with hope.
"Edith, child," he said, as his end drew near, and he saw the tears glistening on her cheek, "I want my children to give me up willingly. Let there be no weeping and mourning for theweary old man who gladly lays down his burdens. Life has passed with me as with other men: there has been storm and sunshine, doubt and fear, hope and disappointment. But, as the day has drawn near its close, the clouds have separated, and all passed from the sky, except one dark spot. A bright sunset, the fair promise of a clear day-dawning in the world beyond the tomb — now smiles on me."
"What dark spot — "
But, before Edith had finished the sentence, the door was quietly opened, and a stranger entered. He was tall, of a dark complexion, and apparently about forty years of age. He walked slowly up to the bed on which lay the dying man, supported by pillows, and seeming not to notice the little group that surrounded him. For a moment he looked steadily into the old man's face, then leaning forward, and clasping, with a sudden emotion, the thin hand which lay upon the coverlet, and carrying it to his lips, he said, in a tremulous voice,
"My father!"
The dying man rose up in bed, and gazed eagerly into the face of him who had called him by so dear a name.
"Is it — can it be — my William? my long lost, long mourned child?" he at length said.
"It is — it is — your long absent, erring child," sobbed the stranger.
"The Lord be praised for this last best token of his goodness!" was fervently uttered by the dying man, as he lifted his almost sightless eyes upward, while he grasped tightly the hand of William. "All is bright now. The dark spot in my sunset sky has disappeared. I can lay me down in peace and sleep sweetly."
Closing his eyes and sinking back upon his pillow, old Mr. Trueman fell off into what seemed a quiet slumber; but it was nature's final repose. When the voice of Edith, which first broke the deep stillness of the death-chamber, called his name, he heard it not.
What more need be said? Can anything further be written in elucidation of our subject? Nothing, we believe. Some may feel an interest in the wandering son, unsatisfied by the brief notice of his return. Suffice it to say of him, that he had led, for far too long a period, a life of evil. Two years previous to the time of his return, on the very day and at the very hour of his mother's death, as he learned afterward, he was sitting alone, just about sunset, when, on lifting his head, without thinking why, he perceived her standing before him, and regarding him with a look of the most tender solicitude. The vision was so perfect that, with an exclamation, he rose to his feet. But all vanished instantly. He was alone. The impression then made upon his mind, could not be obliterated. That sad, earnest, tender face was ever before him.
The constant thought of his mother, brought back states of childhood. He was affected by the innocent thoughts that then ruled in his mind. The prayers he then said at his mother's knee were remembered, and sometimes repeated without his being aware of what he was doing. Then came a struggle against these good impressions; a strong, determined struggle of the evil principles he had made his own, by actual life. This went on month after month, good gradually gaining the predominance, until finally he returned, as has been seen, to those he had so long a time before, forsaken. To do this, and thus bend his haughty spirit, was a hard struggle. He came just at the right moment. The death of his father, fixed all his good impressions. It was the great turning point in his life, when the current that had been evil, changed its course and became good.
After the burial of his father, he remained a short time with his brother and sisters, and then went back to the South, where business, and ties nearer and dearer than even fraternal bonds, claimed him. He went back with a heart lighter than when he came, for good principles had been confirmed, and he felt more strength, and a more confident assurance of being able to overcome every evil thing which strove to hinder him from walking in right paths; and he did overcome, even to the end of life.
THE END.
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