The Garies and Their Friends Part 55

"In my trunk there," said he, in a dying whisper,--"in my trunk is the will. I found it that night amongst his papers. I kept it to get money out of his children with when old Stevens was gone. Here," continued he, handing his key from beneath the pillow, "open my trunk and get it."

Mr. Balch eagerly unlocked the trunk, and there, sure enough, lay the long-sought-for and important doc.u.ment.

"I knew it would be found at last. I always told Walters so; and now," said he, exultingly, "see my predictions are verified."

McCloskey seemed anxious to atone for the past by making an ample confession. He told them all he knew of Mr. Stevens's present circ.u.mstances--how his property was situated, and every detail necessary for their guidance. Then his confession was sworn to and witnessed; and the dying man addressed himself to the affairs of the next world, and endeavoured to banish entirely from his mind all thoughts of this.

After a life pa.s.sed in the exercise of every Christian virtue--after a lengthened journey over its narrow stony pathway, whereon temptations have been met and triumphed over--where we have struggled with difficulties, and borne afflictions without murmur or complaint, cheering on the weary we have found sinking by the wayside, comforting and a.s.sisting the fallen, endeavouring humbly and faithfully to do our duty to G.o.d and humanity--even after a life thus pa.s.sed, when we at last lie down to die the most faithful and best may well shrink and tremble when they approach the gloomy portals of death. At such an hour memory, more active than every other faculty, drags all the good and evil from the past and sets them in distinct array before us. Then we discover how greatly the latter exceeds the former in our lives, and how little of our Father's work we have accomplished after all our toils and struggles. 'Tis then the most devoted servant of our common Master feels compelled to cry, "Mercy! O my Father!--for justice I dare not ask."

If thus the Christian pa.s.ses away--what terror must fill the breast of one whose whole life has been a constant warfare upon the laws of G.o.d and man?

How approaches he the bar of that awful Judge, whose commands he has set at nought, and whose power he has so often contemned? With a fainting heart, and tongue powerless to crave the mercy his crimes cannot deserve!

McCloskey struggled long with death--died fearfully hard. The phantoms of his victims seemed to haunt him in his dying hour, interposing between him and G.o.d; and with distorted face, clenched hands, and gnas.h.i.+ng teeth, he pa.s.sed away to his long account.

From the bedside of the corpse Mr. Balch went--late as it was--to the office of the chief of police. There he learned, to his great satisfaction, that the governor was in town; and at an early hour the next morning he procured a requisition for the arrest of Mr. Stevens, which he put into the hands of the man with the keen grey eyes for the purpose of securing the criminal; and with the result of his efforts the reader is already acquainted.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

And the last.

With such celerity did Mr. Balch work in behalf of his wards, that he soon had everything in train for the recovery of the property.

At first George Stevens was inclined to oppose the execution of the will, but he was finally prevailed upon by his advisers to make no difficulty respecting it, and quietly resign what he must inevitably sooner or later relinquish. Lizzie Stevens, on the contrary, seemed rather glad that an opportunity was afforded to do justice to her old playmates, and won the good opinion of all parties by her gentleness and evident anxiety to atone for the wrong done them by her father. Even after the demands of the executors of Mr. Garie were fully satisfied, such had been the thrift of her father that there still remained a comfortable support for her and her brother.

To poor Clarence this accession of fortune brought no new pleasure; he already had sufficient for his modest wants; and now that his greatest hope in life had been blighted, this addition of wealth became to him rather a burden than a pleasure.

He was now completely excluded from the society in which he had so long been accustomed to move; the secret of his birth had become widely known, and he was avoided by his former friends and sneered at as a "n.i.g.g.e.r." His large fortune kept some two or three whites about him, but he knew they were leeches seeking to bleed his purse, and he wisely avoided their society.

He was very wretched and lonely: he felt ashamed to seek the society of coloured men now that the whites despised and rejected him, so he lived apart from both cla.s.ses of society, and grew moody and misanthropic.

Mr. Balch endeavoured to persuade him to go abroad--to visit Europe: he would not. He did not confess it, but the truth was, he could not tear himself away from the city where little Birdie dwelt, where he now and then could catch a glimpse of her to solace him in his loneliness. He was growing paler and more fragile-looking each day, and the doctor at last frankly told him that, if he desired to live, he must seek some warmer climate for the winter.

Reluctantly Clarence obeyed; in the fall he left New York, and during the cold months wandered through the West India islands. For a while his health improved, but when the novelty produced by change of scene began to decline he grew worse again, and brooded more deeply than ever over his bitter disappointment, and consequently derived but little benefit from the change; the spirit was too much broken for the body to mend--his heart was too sore to beat healthily or happily.

He wrote often now to Emily and her husband, and seemed desirous to atone for his past neglect. Emily had written to him first; she had learned of his disappointment, and gave him a sister's sympathy in his loneliness and sorrow.

The chilly month of March had scarcely pa.s.sed away when they received a letter from him informing them of his intention to return. He wrote, "I am no better, and my physician says that a longer residence here will not benefit me in the least--that I came _too late_. I cough, cough, cough, incessantly, and each day become more feeble. I am coming home, Emmy; coming home, I fear, to die. I am but a ghost of my former self. I write you this that you may not be alarmed when you see me. It is too late now to repine, but, oh! Em, if my lot had only been cast with yours--had we never been separated--I might have been to-day as happy as you are."

It was a clear bright morning when Charlie stepped into a boat to be conveyed to the s.h.i.+p in which Clarence had returned to New York: she had arrived the evening previous, and had not yet come up to the dock. The air came up the bay fresh and invigorating from the sea beyond, and the water sparkled as it dripped from the oars, which, with monotonous regularity, broke the almost unruffled surface of the bay. Some of the s.h.i.+p's sails were shaken out to dry in the morning sun, and the cordage hung loosely and carelessly from the masts and yards. A few sailors lounged idly about the deck, and leaned over the side to watch the boat as it approached. With their aid it was soon secured alongside, and Charlie clambered up the ladder, and stood upon the deck of the vessel. On inquiring for Clarence, he was shown into the cabin, where he found him extended on a sofa.

He raised himself as he saw Charlie approach, and, extending his hand, exclaimed,--"How kind! I did not expect you until we reached the sh.o.r.e."

For a moment, Charlie could not speak. The shock caused by Clarence's altered appearance was too great,--the change was terrible. When he had last seen him, he was vigorous-looking, erect, and healthful; now he was bent and emaciated to a frightful extent. The veins on his temples were clearly discernible; the muscles of his throat seemed like great cords; his cheeks were hollow, his sunken eyes were gla.s.sy bright and surrounded with a dark rim, and his breathing was short and evidently painful. Charlie held his thin fleshless hand in his own, and gazed in his face with an anguished expression.

"I look badly,--don't I Charlie?" said he, with a.s.sumed indifference; "worse than you expected, eh?"

Charlie hesitated a little, and then answered,--"Rather bad; but it is owing to your sea-sickness, I suppose; that has probably reduced you considerably; then this close cabin must be most unfavourable to your health. Ah, wait until we get you home, we shall soon have you better."

"Home!" repeated Clarence,--"home! How delightful that word sounds! I feel it is going _home_ to go to you and Em." And he leant back and repeated the word "home," and paused afterward, as one touches some favourite note upon an instrument, and then silently listens to its vibrations. "How is Em?" he asked at length.

"Oh, well--very well," replied Charlie. "She has been busy as a bee ever since she received your last letter; such a charming room as she has prepared for you!"

"Ah, Charlie," rejoined Clarence, mournfully, "I shall not live long to enjoy it, I fear."

"Nonsense!" interrupted Charlie, hopefully; "don't be so desponding, Clary: here is spring again,--everything is thriving and bursting into new life.

You, too, will catch the spirit of the season, and grow in health and strength again. Why, my dear fellow," continued he, cheerfully, "you can't help getting better when we once get hold of you. Mother's gruels, Doctor Burdett's prescriptions, and Em's nursing, would lift a man out of his coffin. Come, now, don't let us hear anything more about dying."

Clarence pressed his hand and looked at him affectionately, as though he appreciated his efforts to cheer him and felt thankful for them; but he only shook his head and smiled mournfully.

"Let me help your man to get you up. When once you get ash.o.r.e you'll feel better, I've no doubt. We are not going to an hotel, but to the house of a friend who has kindly offered to make you comfortable until you are able to travel."

With the a.s.sistance of Charlie and the servant, Clarence was gradually prepared to go ash.o.r.e. He was exceedingly weak, could scarcely totter across the deck; and it was with some difficulty that they at last succeeded in placing him safely in the boat. After they landed, a carriage was soon procured, and in a short time thereafter Clarence was comfortably established in the house of Charlie's friend.

Their hostess, a dear old motherly creature, declared that she knew exactly what Clarence needed; and concocted such delicious broths, made such strengthening gruels, that Clarence could not avoid eating, and in a day or two he declared himself better than he had been for a month, and felt quite equal to the journey to Philadelphia.

The last night of their stay in New York was unusually warm; and Clarence informed Charlie he wished to go out for a walk. "I wish to go a long distance,--don't think me foolish when I tell you where. I want to look at the house where little Birdie lives. It may be for the last time. I have a presentiment that I shall see her if I go,--I am sure I shall," added he, positively, as though he felt a conviction that his desire would be accomplished.

"I would not, Clary," remonstrated Charlie. "Your health won't permit the exertion; it is a long distance, too, you say; and, moreover, don't you think, my dear fellow, that it is far more prudent to endeavour, if possible, to banish her from your mind entirely. Don't permit yourself to think about her, if you can help it. You know she is unattainable by you, and you should make an effort to conquer your attachment."

"It is too late--too late now, Charlie," he replied, mournfully. "I shall continue to love her as I do now until I draw my last breath. I know it is hopeless--I know she can never be more to me than she already is; but I cannot help loving her. Let us go; I may see her once again. Ah, Charlie, you cannot even dream what inexpressible pleasure the merest glimpse of her affords me! Come, let us go."

Charlie would not permit him to attempt to walk; and they procured a carriage, in which they rode to within a short distance of the house. The mansion of Mr. Bates appeared quite gloomy as they approached it. The blinds were down, and no lights visible in any part of the house.

"I am afraid they are out of town," remarked Charlie, when Clarence pointed out the house; "everything looks so dull about it. Let us cross over to the other pavement." And they walked over to the other side of the street, and gazed upward at the house.

"Let us sit down here," suggested Clarence,--"here, on this broad stone; it is quite dark now, and no one will observe us."

"No, no!" remonstrated Charlie; "the stone is too damp and cold."

"Is it?" said Clarence vacantly. And taking out his handkerchief, he spread it out, and, in spite of Charlie's dissuasions, sat down upon it.

"Charlie," said he, after gazing at the house a long time in silence, "I have often come here and remained half the night looking at her windows.

People have pa.s.sed by and stared at me as though they thought me crazy; I was half crazy then, I think. One night I remember I came and sat here for hours; far in the night I saw her come to the window, throw up the cas.e.m.e.nt, and look out. That was in the summer, before I went away, you know. There she stood in the moonlight, gazing upward at the sky, so pale, so calm and holy-looking, in her pure white dress, that I should not have thought it strange if the heavens had opened, and angels descended and borne her away with them on their wings." And Clarence closed his eyes as he concluded, to call back upon the mirror of his mind the image of little Birdie as she appeared that night.

They waited a long while, during which there was no evidence exhibited that there was any one in the house. At last, just as they were about to move away, they descried the glimmer of a light in the room which Clarence declared to be her room. His frame trembled with expectation, and he walked to and fro opposite the house with an apparent strength that surprised his companion. At length the light disappeared again, and with it Clarence's hopes.

"Now then we must go," said Charlie, "it is useless for you to expose yourself in this manner. I insist upon your coming home."

Reluctantly Clarence permitted himself to be led across the street again.

As they were leaving the pavement, he turned to look back again, and, uttering a cry of surprise and joy, he startled Charlie by clutching his arm. "Look! look!" he cried, "there she is--my little Birdie." Charlie looked up at the window almost immediately above them, and observed a slight pale girl, who was gazing up the street in an opposite direction.

"Little Birdie--little Birdie," whispered Clarence, tenderly. She did not look toward them, but after standing there a few seconds, moved from between the curtains and disappeared.

"Thank G.o.d for that!" exclaimed Clarence, pa.s.sionately, "I knew--I knew I should see her. _I knew it_," repeated he, exultingly; and then, overcome with joy, he bowed his head upon Charlie's shoulder and wept like a child.

"Don't think me foolish, Charlie," apologized he, "I cannot help it. I will go home now. Oh, brother, I feel so much happier." And with a step less faint and trembling, he walked back to the carriage.