Elsie's Widowhood

by Martha Finley

  CHAPTER VIII.

  "'Tis easier for the generous to forgive Than for offence to ask it." --_Thomson._

  The only noteworthy incident of the journey of our friends took place atNew Orleans, where they halted for a few days of rest to all, andsight-seeing on the part of the young people.

  Mr. Horace Dinsmore, who had some business matters to attend to inconnection with Elsie's property in the city, was hurrying back to hishotel one afternoon, when a beggar accosted him, asking for a littlehelp, holding out a very forlorn hat to receive it.

  There seemed something familiar in the voice, and Mr. Dinsmore stoppedand looked earnestly at its owner.

  A seamed, scarred face, thin, cadaverous, framed in with unkempt hairand scraggy beard--an attenuated form clothed in rags--these were whatmet his view, surely for the first time, for there was nothing familiarabout either.

  No, not for the first time; for, with a start of recognition and amuttered curse, the mendicant dropped his hat, then stooped, hastilysnatched it from the ground, and rushed away down an alley.

  "Ah, I know you now!" cried Mr. Dinsmore, giving instant pursuit.

  He could not be mistaken in the peculiarly maimed hand stretched out toregain the hat.

  Its owner fled as if for his life, but, weak from disease and famine,could not distance his pursuer.

  At last, finding the latter close at his heels, he stopped and facedhim, leaning, panting and trembling, against a wall.

  "George Boyd, is it you? reduced to such a condition as this!" exclaimedMr. Dinsmore, eying him searchingly.

  "You've mistaken your man, sir," panted the fugitive. "My name'sBrown--Sam Brown at your service."

  "Then why did you run away from me?" coolly inquired the gentleman. "No,I cannot mistake that hand," pointing to the maimed member.

  "And you'd like to hang me, I suppose," returned the other bitterly."But I don't believe you could do it here. Beside, what's the use? I'llnot cumber the ground much longer, can't you see that? Travillahimself," he added, with a fierce oath, "can hardly wish me anythingworse than I've come to. I'm literally starving--can hardly get enoughfood to keep soul and body together from one day to another."

  "Then come with me and I will feed you," Mr. Dinsmore said, his wholesoul moved with pity for the miserable wretch. "Yonder is a restaurant;let us go there, and I will pay for all you can eat."

  "You don't mean it?" cried Boyd in incredulous surprise.

  "I do; every word of it. Will you come?"

  "A strange question to ask a starving man. Of course I will; only toogladly."

  They crossed the street, entered the eating-house, and Mr. Dinsmoreordered a substantial meal set before Boyd. He devoured it with wolfishvoracity, his entertainer watching him for a moment, then turning awayin pained disgust.

  Time after time plate and cup were filled and emptied, but at last hedeclared his appetite fully satisfied. Mr. Dinsmore paid the reckoning,and they passed out into the street together.

  "Well, sir," said Boyd, "I'm a thousand times obliged. Shall be more soif you will accommodate me with a small loan--or gift if you like, for Ihaven't a cent in the world."

  "How much do you think you deserve at my hands?" asked Mr. Dinsmoresomewhat severely, for the request seemed to him a bold one under thecircumstances.

  "I leave that to your generosity, sir," was the cool reply.

  "Which you expect to be great enough to allow you to escape the justicethat should have been meted out to you years ago?"

  "I've never harmed a hair of your head nor of any one belonging to you;though I owe a heavy scare to both you and Travilla," was the insolentrejoinder.

  "No, your imprisonment was the due reward of your lawless and crueldeeds."

  "Whatever I may have done," retorted the wretch with savage ferocity,"it was nothing compared to the injury inflicted upon me. I sufferedinconceivable torture. Look at me and judge if I do not speak the truth;look at these fearful scars, these almost blinded eyes." He finishedwith a torrent of oaths and curses directed at Travilla.

  "Stop!" said Mr. Dinsmore authoritatively, "you are speaking against thesainted dead, and he entirely innocent of the cause of your sufferings."

  "What! is he dead? When? where? how did he die?"

  "At Ion, scarce two months ago, calmly, peacefully, trusting withundoubting faith in the atoning blood of Christ."

  Boyd stood leaning against the outer wall of the restaurant; he wasevidently very weak; he seemed awe-struck, and did not speak again fora moment; then, "I did not know it," he said in a subdued tone. "So he'sgone! And his wife? She was very fond of him."

  "She was indeed. She is in this city with her family, on her way toViamede."

  "I'm sorry for her; never had any grudge against her," said Boyd. "Andmy aunt?"

  "Is still living and in good health, but beginning to feel theinfirmities of age. She has long mourned for you as worse than dead. Youlook ill able to stand; let me help you to your home."

  "Home? I have none." There was a mixture of scorn and despair in thetones.

  "But you must have some lodging place?"

  "Yes, sometimes it is a door-step, sometimes a pile of rotten straw in afilthy cellar. On second thoughts, Dinsmore, I rather wish you'd have mearrested and lodged in jail," he added with a bitter laugh. "I'd atleast have a bed to lay my weary limbs upon, and something to eat. Andbefore the trial was over I'd be beyond the reach of any heavierpenalty."

  "Of human law," added Mr. Dinsmore significantly, "but do not forgetthat after death comes the judgment. No, Boyd; I feel no resentmenttoward you, and since your future career in this world is evidently veryshort, I do not feel called upon to deliver you up to human justice.Also, for your aunt's sake especially, I am inclined to give you someassistance. I will therefore give you the means to pay for a decentlodging to-night, and to-morrow will see what further can be done, ifyou will let me know where to find you."

  Time and place were fixed upon, money enough to pay for bed andbreakfast was given to Boyd, and they parted company, Mr. Dinsmorehastening on his way to his hotel--the very best the city afforded--witha light, free step, while Boyd slowly dragged himself to a very humblelodging in a narrow, dirty street near at hand.

  Mr. Dinsmore found his whole party gathered in their private parlor andanxiously awaiting his coming. As he entered there was a generalexclamation of relief and pleasure on the part of the ladies and hisfather, and a joyous shout from Rosie and Walter as each hastened toclaim a seat upon his knee.

  "My dears, grandpa is tired," said their mother.

  "Not too tired for this," he said, caressing them with all a father'sfondness.

  "Are you not late, my dear?" asked his wife; "we were beginning to feela trifle anxious about you."

  "Rather, I believe. I will explain the cause at another time," he saidpleasantly.

  Tea was brought in, family worship followed the meal, and shortly afterthat Elsie retired with her little ones to see them to bed; the othersdrew round the table, each with book or work, Harold pushing Molly'schair up near the light; and Mr. Dinsmore, seating himself beside hiswife, on a distant sofa, gave her in subdued tones an account of hisinterview with Boyd.

  "Poor wretch!" she sighed, "what can we do for him? It is too dreadfulto think of his dying as he has lived."

  "It is, indeed! We will consult with Elsie as to what can be done."

  "The very mention of his name must be a pain to her; can she not bespared it?"

  "I will consider that question. You know I would not willingly painher," he said, with a tenderly affectionate glance at his daughter asshe re-entered the room; then rising he paced the floor, as was hishabit when engaged in deep or perplexing thought.

  Elsie watched him a little anxiously, but without remark until all theothers had retired, leaving her alone with him and Rose.

  Then going to him where he sat, in a large easy chair beside the table,looking over the evening paper, "Pap
a," she said, laying her handaffectionately on his arm, "I fear you are finding my affairstroublesome."

  "No, my dear child, not at all," he answered, throwing down the paperand drawing her to a seat upon his knee.

  "It seems quite like old, old times," she said with a smile, gazinglovingly into his eyes, then stealing an arm about his neck and layingher cheek to his.

  "Yes," he said, fondling her; "why should I not have you here as I usedto twenty odd years ago? You are no larger or heavier nor I a whit lessstrong and vigorous than we were then."

  "How thankful I am for that last," she returned, softly stroking hisface, "and it is very pleasant occasionally to imagine myself your ownlittle girl again. But something is giving you anxiety, my dear father.Is it anything in which I can assist you?"

  "Yes; but I fear I can hardly explain without calling up painfulmemories."

  He felt her start slightly, and a low-breathed sigh met his ear.

  "Still say on, dear papa," she whispered tremulously.

  "Can you bear it?" he asked; "not for me, but for another--an enemy."

  "Yes, the Lord will give me strength. Of whom do you speak?"

  "George Boyd."

  "The would-be murderer of my husband!" she exclaimed, with a start andshiver, while the tears coursed freely down her cheeks. "I thought himlong since dead."

  "No, I met him this evening, but so worn and altered by disease andfamine, so seamed and scarred by Aunt Dicey's scalding shower, that Irecognized him only by the mutilated right hand. Elsie, the man isreduced to the lowest depths of poverty and shame, and evidently verynear his end."

  "Papa, what would you have me do?" she asked in quivering tones.

  "Could you bear to have him removed to Viamede? could you endure hispresence there for the few weeks he has yet to live?"

  She seemed to have a short struggle with herself, then the answer camein low, agitated tones.

  "Yes, if neither my children nor I need look upon him or hold anycommunication with him."

  "That would not be at all necessary," her father answered, holding herclose to his heart. "And indeed I could not consent to it myself. He isa loathsome creature both morally and physically; yet for his aunt'ssake, and still more for His sake who bids us 'Love your enemies, blessthem that curse you, do good to them that hate you,' I shall gladly doall in my power for the wretched prodigal. And who can tell but theremay yet be mercy in store for him? God's mercy and power are infinite,and He has 'no pleasure in the death of him that dieth,' but wouldrather that he turn from his evil way and live."

  There was a little pause, then Elsie asked if her father had arrangedany plans in regard to Boyd's removal.

  "Yes," he said, "subject of course to your approval. I have thought itwould be well to send him on at once and let him be settled in hisquarters before the arrival of our own party. You must decide what roomhe is to occupy."

  She named one situated in a wing of the mansion, and quite distant fromthe apartments which would be used by the family.

  "What more, papa?" she asked.

  "He must have an attendant--a nurse. And shall we not write to his aunt,inviting her to come and be with him while he lives? remain through thewinter with us, if she can find it convenient and agreeable to do so?"

  "Yes, oh yes! poor dear Mrs. Carrington; it will be but a melancholypleasure to her. But I think if any one can do him good it will be she.I will write at once."

  "Not to-night; it is too late; you are looking weary, and I want you togo at once to bed. To-morrow morning will be time enough for theletter."

  "What, sending me to bed, papa!" she said with a slightly amused smile."I must be indeed your little girl again. Well, I will obey as I usedto in the olden time, for I still believe you know what is best for me.So good-night, my dear, dear father!"

  "Good-night, my darling," he responded, caressing her with all the old,fatherly tenderness. "May God bless and keep you and your dearchildren."