What Came Afterwards CHAPTER 27.

The two interviews held by Henry Guyton, with Doctor Hofland and Mr. Larobe — left his mind in a state of doubt, anxiety and alarm. To him, the re-appearance of his father would be regarded as a calamity. No natural affection, no love of justice, no righteous indignation towards the alleged perpetrators of a dreadful crime, had power over his basely sordid spirit. "How will it affect me?" Beyond that, he had no concern — and asked no question. It was not his interest to have his father alive; and, therefore, he assumed the negative, instead of examining all affirmative evidence; and, because he wished his father dead, tried to accumulate arguments against the possibility of his being alive.

He could not help being profoundly disturbed. The fact that his father — or, as he had it, the person claiming to be his father — was with his sister Lydia, towards whom he had acted with such cold-hearted indifference, was particularly distasteful to him. On the presumption that this claim was valid, the fact suggested many unpleasant consequences. The meeting with Mr. Ewbank had left impressions and reflections by no means agreeable. He saw in him a man of superior mind and quality — one, so far as his sister was concerned, fully competent to maintain her rights in the impending contest.

Two or three days were spent by Henry Guyton, in perplexed debate concerning his own action in this strange complication. Then, with something of blind desperation, he resolved to call at his sister's and see for himself, the man who claimed to be his father. The time chosen was evening. In reply to a note written to Doctor Hofland, he got the location of his sister's house. It was late — past nine o'clock — when he stood at the door of a moderate sized dwelling in the western part of the city. In answer to his inquiry for Mrs. Ewbank, he was informed that she was not at home.

"Can I see Mr. Ewbank?" he then asked.

"He is out also," replied the servant.

Partly turning, he stood for a little while; then said like one who had constrained himself to speak —

"Is Mr. Guyton at home?"

"No, sir. They all went away together."

"Went where?"

"To Mr. Larobe's, I think I heard Mr. Ewbank say — down by the Monument."

"When did they go?"

"This morning; and the children went with them."

Henry Guyton turned away without a word more. He was confounded. What could this mean? Affairs were rapidly assuming most unwelcome shapes. All the family had gone to the residence of his late step-mother!

He had returned to the central portion of the city before reaching a decision on the course to be pursued. Still undetermined, he yet walked in the direction of the Monument, and at last found himself in front of the house where, for the time, all his thoughts centered. Acting more from impulse than from any clear judgment of the case in hand, he ascended to the door and rang the bell. He had not even decided the question as to who should be inquired for; and this decision had to be made in the face of an expectant servant.

"Is Mr. Larobe at home?" He knew that he was not there, when he asked the question. But this would give him time.

"No, sir. Mr. Larobe does not live here now." The answer dashed him a little.

"Are Mr. Larobe's children still here?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Guyton turned away partly, and stood with an irresolute air for some moments.

"Is Mr. — Mr. — Ewbank — " He hesitated and faltered in his speech, leaving the sentence imperfect.

"Yes, sir. Mr. Ewbank is here," promptly answered the servant.

"Can I see him?"

"Walk in, sir." And the servant moved back. Henry Guyton entered and stood in the hall. The parlor doors were open, and a strong light from the chandelier poured through them. The sound of voices was on the air.

"I would like to see Mr. Ewbank here. And the yet undecided visitor, shrank back from the glare of gaslight towards the dim vestibule. In the few moments that elapsed from the time the servant left him until Mr. Ewbank appeared, Mr. Guyton sought in vain to bring his thoughts in order, and to determine some line of action. Mr. Ewbank did not recognize him.

"Mr. Guyton," said Henry, introducing himself.

"Oh!" Mr. Ewbank's ejaculation was in a surprised tone. He made no other response, but stood in a waiting attitude, for Henry to speak his wishes. But, what had he to say? All his thoughts were still in confusion. Half stammering, he uttered the sentence —

"I called at your house this evening, and they told me you were here."

"Yes, sir."

"I would like to have a few words with you."

"On what subject?"

"About this person who assumes to be my father."

"Ah! He is here, Henry. Perhaps you had better see him for yourself," said Mr. Ewbank.

"Just what I desire. It was with this end in view that I called at your house."

"Walk in." And Mr. Ewbank moved back, followed by Henry, who, never in all his life before, had experienced such strange, confused, and oppressed feelings. Before he had recovered himself, he was ushered into the parlor, where he found nearly a dozen people, old and young, assembled. On one of the sofas lay a pale-faced boy, whose large bright eyes turned wonderingly on him as he entered. Sitting in a large chair with purple linings and cushions, close by the sick boy, and with one hand on his forehead, was a man, against whom leaned a singular looking girl, whose half vacant, half intelligent face, expressed wonder and delight. The moment he entered, he was transfixed by the eyes of this man, who leaned slightly forward, with contracting brows. All doubt left the mind of Henry Guyton. He knew this man. As if the dead had been raised up — his father was before him! He stood still, all power of speech and motion for an instant suspended.

"At last," said his father, speaking sternly. "At last, Henry!"

There followed a breathless silence. Henry then came forward slowly, pausing within a few feet of his father, and looking at him with straining eyes.

"My father!" dropped from his lips — not coldly — not with constraint — but with a kind of wild, gushing surprise, mingled with so much feeling that every person felt the throb in his voice. "My father!" he repeated. Then covering his face, he stood trembling.

"Henry!" The old man's voice softened a little; and he made an effort to rise from his chair. Lydia was by his side in a moment, and her lips were at his ear.

"Forgive him!" she whispered — and Henry heard her words — "He is your son. Forgive the past, father — the dark and dreadful past — and bless God's love for the sunshine which lies around us now. Don't let anger shadow this happy hour, dear father!"

"Henry!" Mr. Guyton reached forth his hand. It was grasped and held tightly for a little while. Both father and son were strongly moved. Henry was first to recover himself. With returning composure, came a measure of embarrassment. The position he had maintained towards all his family — his conduct and language with reference to his father since becoming aware of his presence in the city — his conscious selfishness and avarice — all had their effect. He felt humbled, unworthy, if not debased in the presence of his father, and of the sister he had despised, cruelly neglected and basely insulted. The sister who now said to his father — "Forgive him! He is your son!" — and said it with a manifest power that showed her influence.

At the earliest opportunity, Henry Guyton, took Doctor Hofland aside, and asked —

"What of Larobe?"

"He has confessed everything," replied the Doctor.

"I am amazed! Confessed that he kept my father imprisoned for ten years!"

"Yes. We have the painful narrative in his handwriting, and sworn to — thus every impediment to the restitution of your father's legal rights is removed."

"But, such a confession must consign him to a criminal's cell. I wonder that he made it."

"He has fled from the city."

"And betrayed his fortune!" said Henry. "So, dishonor is the twin of crime."

"Your father will abandon the prosecution."

"Was this agreed to?"

"It was, no doubt, understood. Barred away from the city of his nativity — stripped of fortune — broken in health and spirits — and bearing with him the undying memory of all he had madly risked and lost — I think his bitterest enemy might willingly abate the prison cell. Let not man follow him with retribution. His punishment, like Cain's, will be greater than he can bear. He is in the hands of the Just God — and we may safely leave him there."

"I am not of your spirit, Doctor. I would hunt him to the death," answered Henry. "No retribution is too severe for such an notorious crime. He should never have been permitted to escape!"

"Your father thought differently," replied Doctor Holland. "As you have evidence tonight, he is under the influence of those who draw him towards forgiveness. Your sister and her husband, Henry, are not of your hard, stern, unrelenting quality; else, reconciliation would have been a more difficult thing than you found it. You owe them much, if you set any value upon this reconciliation. A word, a motion, from Lydia or her husband, would have thrown up a wall between you and your father that you might have striven in vain to pass. But, they are above such base and selfish action. Lydia has been learning in a new school, under a new teacher, lessons of humanity and forgiveness, that you and all the members of your family should learn also."

"Henry, pardon me; but, it has so happened in the order of divine Providence, that my relation to your father and some members of his family, has assumed features that make it my duty to use plainness of speech — and I now say to you — Let there be laid as heavy a mantle as possible over the past; and let the present, as it unfolds itself, be accepted in a new and better spirit than you have ever shown. Against you, Henry, as the oldest son and brother — all have cause of complaint. You did not act well the part assigned you in the Providence of God; but drew away from the weak and the helpless and left them to the world's mercies. If they are ready to forgive — accept the offer. Of all your sisters and brothers, Lydia was most cruelly neglected; yet, is she the first to speak for you — the first to step in and turn aside your father's anger."

Henry was visibly affected. He saw his own image as he had never seen it before — distorted and hideous, in contrast with the beautiful image of his sister. Not answering, Doctor Hofland resumed —

"As for her husband, I have, during several months, observed him closely, and my testimony to his worth is without abatement. A purer, truer man, I do not know. And he is, also, a man of education and enlarged views. One of superior quality in all respects. Of necessity, taking all the peculiar circumstances of your father's restoration to society, Mr. Ewbank will, hereafter, exercise much influence over him, and I need not add, after what has just been remarked, that this influence will be for good. In everything, it will, I know, for I have talked with him freely, and towards family reunion on the right basis. Accept him, Henry, as a true friend — a wise, unselfish friend. Don't assume a hostile attitude; this will hurt only yourself, for he is a strong, clear-seeing man, and as brave as strong. In the line of duty, he can be as inflexible as iron. I say all this freely, that you may know just where you stand."

Mr. Ewbank joined them at this moment, and Doctor Hofland saw, by Henry's subdued and respectful manner, that his counsel would be heeded. He left them together, and was pleased to see them in earnest conversation, for a long time.

"My son," said the father, holding Henry's hand, as the latter was about to leave — Lydia stood with an arm drawn in one of her father's, and leaning her face against him tenderly — "My son, there is for us all a better and a truer life, if we will lead it. Your sister and her good husband have helped to open for me the door of this better and truer life, and my feet, I trust, are on the threshold, trying to enter. Will you not enter with me? Concerning the past, my son, I have much to complain of you" — Lydia moved uneasily, and looked up into her father's face. He went on — "But I will throw a mantle over the past; and I beg you, Henry, not to remove it. This is now my home, and the home of Lydia and her husband. Let there be no jealousies towards them, for they will provoke none. Had my impulses ruled, you and I would not now be standing face to face; for my anger was likefire when I learned all that you had been, and all that you had done. But for them, I would not have forgiven you. Under this roof, my son, a new home is to be constructed, in which love and peace are to dwell. We have heard from your sister Frances. She is in the west, and is now returning to make one with us. Edwin has not been here. May I trust you to see him, and take a message from his father?"

"I will do faithfully, all you may desire." Adam's voice trembled.

"Say to him, that I know all that he has recently done; and that I understand the motives from which he acted. Say also, that I have laid it away with the past which I haveforgiven, and desire to forget. I wish to see him. Do you understand me, Henry?"

"I do."

"And the spirit in which I speak?"

"Yes."

Father and son held each other's hands with a tightening clasp for some moments. When Henry turned away and left the room, his eyes were dim with moisture; and wet eyes looked after him.

"May God's peace be on this dwelling," said Doctor Hofland, taking the hand of his old friend, as Henry retired.

Mr. Guyton lost his self-control, and leaning down, laid his face on the head of Lydia, who was still at his side, and sobbed aloud.

On this last scene in our drama of life — the curtain falls. Its foreshadowings of days to come are full of promise — so full, that their blessing will be counted dear even at the great price through which the purchase came. The fire is never too hot, which burns out the dross, leaving only precious gold!

THE END.

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