Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.19 #113 (Oct 1859).
"And now men see not the bright light which is in the clouds; but the wind passeth and cleanseth them."
"You are mean—you are as mean as you can be, Esther!"
Esther Howland looked up into the flashing eyes before her. Oh how like her dead father's, at that instant, the passionate face seemed! But even that did not move her.
"I can not help it, Albert. I dare say you think so: I do—I must seem unkind to you, but I can not give you the money."
"Why?" said the boy, fiercely.
"For more reasons than I can tell you—for more than you can understand. One of these days you will see, and thank me for it."
"I see all I want to now—that you try to keep me like a baby—and I won't bear it any longer. All the boys say so."
"All the boys?"
"Yes. George West, and—and—well, Dick Haswell said so only this afternoon."
A flush stole up to the fair forehead, plainly visible through the curling, wavy masses of brown hair tossed over it in the carelessness of play.
"Dick Haswell!" said Esther, proudly. "And my brother listens to such an advice, and allows him to speak disrespectfully of me?"
"He's not half so bad as people say he is," the boy answered, doggedly, shunning Esther's clear eyes as he spoke.
"You have made me still more decided if possible, Albert," she began, coldly; but she saw another face—her mother's—wistful and pleading, and she heard those last grieving words—"He will be a trial to you, Esther, and perhaps a heartache; but it was born with him, his willfulness; so be gentle—always gentle, as I would have been."
Her voice softened, and the proud, disdainful look, that for the moment had marked the likeness between brother and sister so strongly, passed away.
"I would explain it all to you if you would listen, but you never believe me when I tell you that those boys only follow you about and flatter you because you do have more spending money than they, and it is partly to keep you from them that I do not give it to you."
"It's a lie, Esther! You lie! You know you do! You want to spend it all on yourself, and I—"
"Oh stop, Albert, stop; you will be sorry!"
"No, I won't. I swear I'll have it yet."
"Please stop—listen, Albert."
"I've listened long enough!" and in his rage the boy's face grew livid, and the veins stood out upon his temples. Where had Esther seen that look before? She knew only too well, and hid it from her with her hands.
It was the very attitude in which her mother shrank that last miserable day from her father's menaced blow, but which fell nevertheless—a death-blow, as it proved, to a heart that had borne on patiently for years.
'You've done every thing you could to drive me to it. It's your own fault. You have thwarted me in every way—you know you have—because you happened to be the oldest. You took possession of every thing when mother died, and I should like to know if it's not as much mine as yours? You make me wear old clothes, and keep me without a cent to spend, that you may save, and save, for your own purposes. Give me some of that money!"
The young girl gathered up the shining gold pieces scattered on the desk before her with a quick, resolute movement; but in a second another hand was over hers; she uttered a cry of pain as the sharp edges of the coin were pressed into her slender fingers; there was a momentary useless struggle—a sudden dimness of sight; then the ring of the metal as the hand was forced open and its contents dashed to the floor, and a dull, heavy echo of the house door clashing to behind retreating footsteps.
Esther stooped down mechanically to gather up her little hoard, dizzy and stupefied with what had passed; but when it suddenly came upon her in its full extent and all its miserable consequences, she sat still, crouching down in her shame and misery.
"It is so undeserved—so undeserved!" she moaned, rocking to and fro. "I have tried so hard to be patient with him, I have toiled so hard, and denied myself every thing for his sake. Is this the recompense? Is it just—is it merciful? Oh, mother, thou knowest how I have struggled on! Oh, my Father, that seest in secret!" and as she raised her wrung hands toward heaven, an answering thought came gliding into her heart bearing the peace of the Comforter.
"Thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly!"
The table was spread for the evening meal, to which her brother had come when he surprised her at her desk, laying aside the little hoard that had excited this outburst. There lay a part of it, still shining from the faded velvet cover of the desk, and a part she had recovered from the floor: but after a long and fruitless search she found that he had made good his word—he had taken two pieces with him. It was not the loss that she cared for—a little added to her daily self-sacrifice, and it could be made good; but the cutting, reproachful words, the theft by violence, stung her to the soul.
Sad experiences had taught her thus early in life the unusual forethought. She had seen her father delirious with fever, brought on by the want his wastefulness had entailed; she had seen her mother sinking day by day, without the cordials, and even the nourishing food, her feebleness required; she had been put to shame, child as she was, by the insults of the hard men who carried them both to their burial, and stripped the house of even its necessities for their hire. It was a strange thing to see one in the first freshness of life and youth laying aside, from day to day, a reserve for sickness and death; yet such it was, and as such sacred in her eyes. Of late, too, Esther had commenced to make provision for her brother's education. He was beyond the lessons which she gave to the village children in her little class—the means of their livelihood—and at the district school, allowing that he gained instruction, which she doubted, he was exposed more directly to the very associations from which she sought to keep him.
Ever since she had been compelled to place him there he had grown more and more rebellious, and his birth-right of fierce, ungovernable passion rose in opposition to every suggestion or restriction she had attempted. Yet her heart bore her witness that she had sought for a firm and patient spirit, and that no love of threatening or power had influenced her in word or deed.
"He must see it—he will come to himself again, and be sorry for this, if I do not meet him harshly," she thought; so she drove out the natural feeling of resentment, and in all gentleness watched for his return.
The evening passed—oh, how slowly!—now thinking that she heard him at the door, and then listening—listening until the solitary footsteps drifted off into the darkness, looking with strained and weary eyes from the shutterless windows—stirring the fire and trimming the lamp, so that an assurance of forgiveness and reconciliation might go forth to meet him, in their brightness; and at last, falling asleep from very weariness beside the hearth, and starting up, chilled and miserable, and still alone, to find it midnight.
He had often staid away for hours after the altercations that had become more frequent of late, but his bed had never been empty before; and when morning came, and she saw its undisturbed outlines, a sick foreboding came over her that went with her on her anxious search.
No one had seen him, or would acknowledge that they had, since the very hour in which he left the house. The Howlands had not many friends. They came to Woodburn a broken-down family, to hide their poverty and misfortunes, and so shrank with natural reserve from the well-meant civilities of its inhabitants. But now, in Esther's new trouble, a universal sympathy was awakened, and after search and inquiry, all agreed, from the little she told them (how he had left the house in anger, with some money in his possession), that he was missing voluntarily, and not through violence or accident. With this hope she was forced to be content, quiet, and outwardly calm at least, but with what restless anxiety no looker-on could tell. She had not, like most young girls, a confidante of her own age, if, indeed, we except the friendship that had grown up between herself and a casual acquaintance—a stranger the past year, when Agnes Graham had come as an invalid to pass the summer among the Berkshire hills. An accidental meeting, a chance conversation, mutual friends among the poets, and the two girls, without calling themselves friends, became such in feeling, and in many a pleasant token of continued remembrance since their separation.
But Agnes Graham, in her beautiful city home, surrounded with all that care and competence could give to an only daughter, had little in common with Esther's toilsome, much-enduring life. There was no help for her that way; only the blessed book of promises to sustain her through those weary days and wakeful, anxious nights. Her school-duties would have given her the relief of routine, but it was now vacation—her needle was no check to thought, and so the week wore away.
It was Thursday night—he had been gone six days before the least clew came, and then it well-nigh barred all hope.
A letter from Albert himself, dated from the city, relieved her worst apprehensions, for sometimes she fancied that he had stumbled from the bridge, and was floating away with the tide into some shallow bay, where she could see the white upturned face drifting to and fro. It was a fierce, angry message, excusing his own conduct, and throwing the blame of all that might grow out of it on her.
"I did not steal that money, Esther," he said. "I took ten dollars—it was as much mine as yours, for I am sure my share of what mother left would come to that; and now you can have every thing in peace. I will not trouble you any longer. I am old enough to make my own way in the world, and rise by my own exertions as many a fellow has done before me. So you can hold on to your gold! I have shipped in the Greyhound, to sail on the 20th, and I have counted the days, so that when you get this it will be useless to come after me."
He had counted well—the very next day would be the 20th, and the Greyhound on its way to its unknown destination. Too late to rescue him from the miserable life he had invested with all a boy's freedom and romance, but not too late to attempt it; and though the shriek of the last evening train had sounded before the letter reached her, she laid it down to make instant preparations for her departure.
Something might detain the ship—such things did chance —the captain would listen to her, and release him. She would win him to trust her and love her again. She would tell him the sad secret of her suffering childhood, even of that blow, as a warning to help him restrain his anger; and though she had kept her plans for him a secret through fear of failure, he should know all now, and perhaps the prospect would help him to be careful and self-denying too!
These were her thoughts all that lonely day—doubly lonely for the crowd and bustle around her—and then came an unlooked-for hinderance, a breaking of machinery, a loss of hours, when time was life almost, passed by her with nervous, restless movements of hand and foot, and an unconsciously anxious gaze into the faces of those who passed in and out in listless wonder and questioning.
She did not heed any of them—but her loneliness, her strange, preoccupied manner, and the despairing look with which she sought their faces, when hour after hour passed by, attracted the notice of her fellow-travelers—among them one who longed, yet did not dare to offer her the passing civility of the book he had finished, or the wine which a careful mother's hand had provided, and which she seemed so much to need. He said to himself that it was fancy, doubtless, that impressed him with the feeling that she was in some sore trouble or needed any protection, yet he found himself turning again and again for another look into those haunting eyes, and wondering what was the shadow that brooded there. He knew, none better, how quickly these passing interests die out—how mistaken our purest instincts often are—how soon he should lose sight of her, never to cross her path again, yet so long as it was possible his looks followed her.
He heard the low sighs of relief when the announcement "All right again!" went to and fro among the passengers, and that for the time she seemed at rest as the train flew swiftly on; then came the early twilight, the total darkness, and when the lamps flashed through it the troubled face gleamed out white and still from the partial obscurity. Secure in her self-absorption, he watched her through their journey. He noticed the anxiety with which she listened to hear from casual remarks whether they were nearing the city, and the lateness of the hour; evidently she was a stranger, and alarmed at the prospect of an arrival after night; he saw her confused start when the express-man came with his monotonous, stereotyped inquiry, "Any baggage?" She did not seem to know what she wished, or have any definite plan. But she had formed one before they arrived; for when the curious traveler turned from securing his parcels overhead, resolved to risk her displeasure by a respectful offer of service, she was gone; and when he sprang to the pavement, it was to see her entering a carriage and urging the driver to haste.
It was true that Esther Howland had formed no definite plan up to the moment of the inquiry which had so disturbed her. She had counted on two hours of daylight, at least, after her arrival—enough to confirm her hope or seal her disappointment—beyond that she did not look. But night came on so suddenly, and for the first time she realized the actual loneliness of her position, appalling for a moment.
It was then that she suddenly recollected Agnes Graham, and resolved to go to her; the unlooked-for necessity of the moment would certainly excuse the intrusion into a family where only one member was known to her; and it was well that she had the distraction of wondering what her reception might be, for otherwise the certainty of an approaching disappointment would have disheartened her. Past ten o'clock on Friday the 20th, and the ship was to have sailed at sunrise!
How interminable the dull streets stretched before her! How dreary the pattering of the rain on the windows—the damp, mouldy smell of the close vehicle—the complete isolation of an utter stranger among all those hundred houses she was passing! How would her friend's family look upon this late and unlooked-for intrusion? It kept her from realizing how little hope there was.
There was a jolting halt at length; then another movement of the half-drenched horses, and an exclamation from their driver. They had come very slowly, for all his promises, and she knew that it must be very late. He found the number at last, and opened the carriage door, holding out his hand for the fare at the same time—"Since the night was so bad an' the lady alone, would she be plazed to settle the thrifle at ounst?"
She looked up to the house as she gave him the money. It was suspiciously dark and still; but there was a hall lamp burning, and taking her carpet-bag in her hand she went up the steps with what courage she could summon; the man urging on his horses and rattling away down the street as she rang the bell.
"Miss Graham—is Miss Graham at home?" she asked of the wondering maid-servant who answered her summons, and made a movement as if to enter the hall, for the shower was drenching her; but the answer held her to the threshold:
"Miss Agnes, Miss? She won't be home till next week from Philadelphy. Was she expecting you, Miss?"
Suddenly Esther's courage deserted her. This was a difficulty that had never crossed her mind. She could not force herself upon entire strangers—the carriage was gone—it was almost midnight in this wilderness of a city!
The girl waited her reply respectfully. The hall was broad and well furnished; she turned toward the street again in her uncertainty—how black and gloomy it was by contrast!
"Shall I speak to Mrs. Graham, Miss?" said the girl, at a loss to decide upon this mysterious arrival. Kindly feeling prompted her to show the lady in at once; but were not the papers full of warning against unexpected robberies, perpetrated by people who were outwardly as respectable? and thinking of this, her duty to the family, and the recollection of her own Sunday shawl and gown, forbade.
Just then a flood of light came streaming into the hall from a door at the opposite end. There was a table handsomely laid, and from it a gentleman came forward a step or two, then suddenly retreated, and his place in the picture made by the cheerful door-way was supplied by a lady, who stood as if listening to something he said to her, and then came quickly forward with outstretched hands.
"Come in, come in, my dear. Nora, open the door to the lady."
"It's Miss Agnes she's wantin', ma'am," explained Nora, relieved at the permission to give place to kindly instincts.
"My daughter is away, but come in all the same," said the lady, taking the light traveling bag from Esther's hand and drawing her forward.
"You are very kind. I don't know—I don't know what to do. I am in great trouble," was all that the weary girl could articulate.
"Yes, to be sure you are; we know it; but you did not tell me what to call you. Have I heard my daughter speak of you? But come right in all the same," and the parlor door was thrown open, and Nora took the heavy shawl at a signal from her mistress.
"Miss Howland—Esther Howland; perhaps she has mentioned me," said Esther, faltering, yet oh, so thankful for the shelter and the uncalculating kindness!
"Oh, to be sure, she has read me all your letters. I feel as if I knew all about you and your school, and your handsome little brother. How is your brother, my dear?" for, with a maternal instinct, the kind heart had divined that the trouble of which the young girl spoke was a heartache, perhaps from this very source.
"I wish I knew. He has gone away; I am looking for him. Oh, Mrs. Graham—" and here the faltering voice gave place to sobs, and, yielding to the pressure of the moment, the proud, reserved Esther Howland wept bitterly.
"There, there, tell me all about it by-and-by. If he's here in New York we will find him for you; and you must make yourself at home as much as if Agnes was here. I'll send for her, and we'll all help you. Mr. Graham can't get out just now, but Richard will see to it for you. You must have some supper now. Come, Miss Esther, you must eat something, and it's so fortunate that the table was all laid for Richard; he hasn't been home more than half an hour."
Laying aside the evening paper, in which he was apparently absorbed when they entered, Richard Graham came forward to be presented to his sister's friend, and then resumed it again, sipping his tea from time to time that she might feel more at ease while his mother pressed her to eat and drink. The table glittered in the sea-coal fire with glass and silver, and the little supper was evidently provided with especial care, but Esther could only moisten her lips for all she felt so ill and faint. Now that shelter was secured to her, the restless anxiety returned.
"Do you know where to look for your brother?" asked Mrs. Graham, presently, when the chit-chat upon indifferent topics had failed.
"Oh, yes—that is, he wrote me that he was going to sea, and the name of the ship; it was to have sailed to-day, but I don't know where it was going."
The face behind the broad sheet looked out for a moment with visible interest—far more than had lighted it in perusing the same paragraph of a leader five times over—as their guest spoke of the detention which had thrown her upon their courtesy.
"Can you remember the name of the vessel, Miss Howland?"
"It was the Greyhound," said Esther, simply, unconscious of the look and the eager interest of the speaker.
A quick rustle of the page and a rapid glance down the column of 'Ship News" filled the pause.
"She has not gone to-day—that is something."
"Ah, are you sure?" and Esther looked up so relieved, so grateful for the good news. "Are you quite sure?"
"Yes, I think so—she would have been reported; I will see if I can find out where she is bound. 'Clipper-ship Greyhound, up for Valparaiso,'" he read a moment afterward—"'to sail on the 20th.' Yes, she was to have sailed to-day, the Greyhound."
"Why, isn't that Captain Moulton's ship?" said Mrs. Graham, with sudden recollection. "Don't you remember the lady that Agnes called on at the Astor House last week? I'm sure that was their ship, and they were going about this time."
"Do you know the Captain? oh, I am so thankful; it is so very fortunate;" and Esther's heart rose up with hope. The ship still in port, the Captain known to her new friends! surely her uncertain steps had been rightly directed.
Mrs. Graham's pleasant face brightened up, "Now you see you were quite right to come straight to us, my dear; and it's all very plain. Richard shall see the Captain in the morning, and we shall have your brother back to dine with us, sick enough of sea-fare, even in port, I guess. Now I hope you will have a good night on the strength of it—you look as if you needed it."
"I shall certainly do my best, Miss Howland, and had better be off very early, if the ship sails to-morrow. It won't be exactly at sunrise, though, as all consignees know to their cost. Still it is best to start early. Perhaps we may have the young gentleman to breakfast." He drew out his watch as he spoke, though the mantle clock in plain sight pointed to half past eleven.
"Too late to do any thing to-night," he said, in answer to Esther's eager look; "but I will wind myself up to wake at day break."
On this promise she must rest, and certainly it did not seem difficult to sleep in the beautiful guest chamber to which she was shown by Mrs. Graham herself, who left her with an instinctive motherly kiss.
Exhaustion brought activity instead of repose, however; strange, feverish dreams, of following Albert through the crowded streets, where he eluded her outstretched hand—waking with a start of terror to the strange aspect of all around her, and then sleeping again to live over the agony of their separation. She could not rest, and the faintest ray of daylight found her dressed, and listening with strained senses to every stir without and within. Presently there came a tap at her door, and the cheerful face of her first acquaintance, Nora, shone in upon her.
"Mr. Richard said I was to waken you, Miss, and ask you to come down to the dining-room. You're up early the mornin', though; an' it's well the furnace goes at night, or you'd be froze entirely."
The close straw bonnet and brown vail she had worn the day before were lying upon the table. Esther took them up, with a sudden understanding of the summons. It was an intense relief to her; she had been feeling as if she should go wild to sit there inactive and await the issue.
Richard Graham came forward with almost the grave courtesy of age—a manner that placed the young girl at ease, yet left her assured of kindly interest.
"I have been thinking, as the time is so short, and I am not personally known to Captain Moulton, it will be best for you to be at hand, though I hesitated to call you so early after your fatiguing journey. You must eat something—try to, for you are already overtaxed. It is not romantic—beef-steak," he added, carving for her as he spoke, so daintily that she could not refuse the morsel; "but it is the best tonic I know of, next to a cup of Mocha. May I trouble you to give me one in return?"
She was seated near the tray, and, though Nora was at hand, he chose to ask the household service of her to cover the strangeness of her position; and it pleased his taste, too, to watch her ready hand preparing the cup she sent to him; and if he had felt that she was a lady the night before, he saw in her early morning toilet and habitual ease of her movements enough to confirm even his fastidiousness in the impression.
"We had better go to the hotel first. In all probability the Captain is still there, and we shall have no further trouble, except to chastise the young gentleman properly, which duty I hope you will leave to me, in payment for the loss of my morning nap," he added, pleasantly. "And now your bonnet and shawl. Nora, get Miss Howland's shawl; the storm is over, but it is raw and cold this morning. Have you thick shoes? There was snow on the ground before the rain commenced."
There was nothing but the purest brotherly kindness in the glance that he gave toward the shapely foot just resting on the hearth, and he shook his head as Esther put it out a little more from the hem of her dress, without a thought of prudery.
"Not strong enough for walking, if we have much to do, and we don't know. Perhaps you can manage to wear sister's overshoes. Nora, run up and bring a pair."
It was a little thing, but no one had cared for her personal comfort in such a long, long time that Esther looked her thanks, and yielded herself to the new experience of being guided.
Poor Nora, bent on being helpful in the emergency which she could not comprehend, had quite forgotten her most important mission. They were all ready, and she had hurried to the door to open it for them, when she suddenly recollected that she was to have called a carriage. Mr. Graham's face clouded—not with vexation, however.
"Every minute is precious," he said, "and they are so slow at the stable!"
"Do not let us wait, I can walk very well; I am always accustomed to it—indeed I had rather; every moment will seem an hour now!" pleaded Esther.
"We can take a car at the corner directly to the Astor; perhaps we can get there all the sooner, if you do not mind." And Nora seeing that the young lady did not "mind" was comforted.
It seemed almost impossible to realize her own identity as Esther found herself seated in a corner of the car, guarded by Mr. Graham on the other hand from contact with the peculiar class of occupants at this early hour. The men were mostly haggard and unshorn; the young girls—and there were so many of them that she wondered—were at once fine and untidy in their dress—coarse but showy materials, gaudy jewelry conspicuously displayed, marked their false taste and extravagant expenditure. Some concealed their faces with thick green vails, and others stared around, especially at Mr. Graham and herself, with a boldness that made Esther shrink, she could scarcely tell why.
Swiftly they glided on to their daily toil—all this crowd of busy operatives, that were building up the wealth and reputation of the great warehouses in the lower part of the city, by their own aimless and joyless lives; through crowded streets, past gloomy half-shut manufactories, down into denser haunts of labor, and drearier existences. It chilled the young girl's heart to look out upon even the brighter exterior; she felt the burden of humanity pressing more heavily with every moment, and the warning of the voice that cries, "Tremble, ye careless ones, that dwell at ease!"
"There is the City Prison—the Tombs," Mr. Graham said, presently; and she looked out again with a shudder at its massive, gloomy walls, as though the child she sought was to be found there. Early as it was, and sharply as the wind swept in their faces, three haggard-looking women sat before the iron gates, with babies in their arms, and one with children at her knees, waiting, doubtless, for confirmation of some wild report that the husband and father was inclosed in those hopeless walls.
Gloom and desolation sitting so close to palaces!—for before she had roused herself from the pitiful prayer sent up as hopeless of all other aid for the sin and suffering of her kind, they had reached their destination.
All the agony of her past suspense seemed to gather about her as she stood upon the threshold. Yet the waiter answered their summons as leisurely as if the hope of a lifetime did not hang upon his reply.
"Captain Moulton? Oh! yes, certainly, this way, Madam, if you please;" and his badge of office—the whisk broom—pointed her to the drawing-room. "What name shall I say?"
"I am so glad!" and Mr. Graham's looks did not belie his words. "You are very fortunate. I will find him myself, and bring him in; there is no one here to disturb you," and he drew a lounging chair to the fire and seated her in it. "Make yourself comfortable;" and she was left alone, trying to realize that her search was happily ended.
Alas! as she watched the door she saw him reappear—alone.
Richard Graham's lately radiant face mirrored the baffled feeling of the moment, but his voice had regained its cheerfulness as he said,
"The Captain has gone on board ship this morning, not half an hour ago, imagine; but the wind is not fair, and they would never go to sea in the face of this gale. Will you wait here?"
"Oh! no no, I can not sit still."
"But it will be rough walking—maybe an ugly search. Perhaps you had better not attempt it."
"Please let me go."
"Just as you think, but we have no time to lose;" and Esther found herself hurried down stairs and out in the wet, slippery street again, standing by Mr. Graham's side as he signaled an omnibus.
The early wagons and carts from the ferry blocked up the street as they neared the wharves. Mr. Graham sat still for a few moments with what patience he could summon, and watched the miserable beasts driven and beaten and cursed, this way and that, but the delay was only increased by the noise and confusion. He looked at Esther. "We should gain by walking, I think, Miss Howland."
"Let us go, then; do not consider me an instant; any thing to reach the ship in time."
"Take my arm, then, it is so thronged just here;" and with the other hand he jerked aside the dray-horse urged into their very faces. "Those gratings may be loose, take care how you tread. That is the market, and the ship lies two or three squares above."
He looked down at her feet as he pointed to the market-house. "It will save you some exposure, perhaps, if we go through it; the pavements will be dry at least."
That was well thought of; for, notwithstanding her precautions, the heavy folds of her dress were saturated with the dampness and clung with a dreary chill about her feet; they were aching and benumbed—but courage, a little further, and the goal was reached. At any other time she would have delighted in the Flemish picturesqueness of this strange interior; the heaps of vegetables, the smoking coffee, the ruddy joints, the faces so full of character, that presided over the stalls, the affected indifference of the keen purchaser. All this was a study for a mind less preoccupied, but hers was filled, and with one thought.
The great clock of the market-place struck eight.
"Is it so late! are we not almost there?"
"Almost"—and he felt a strange desire to take her in his arms, as if she had been a child, when he met that wistful look, and bear her above the crowd and the mire of the street on which they had come again.
"You see that broad yellow and blue flag out there on the wharf, it must lie somewhere near." He saw, as he looked at the flag, that the wind had changed. "Can you walk a little faster?"
"I will try;" but her limbs were trembling with anxiety and fatigue. "Do not wait for me. I will come as well as I can. I know there is more reason for haste than you will tell me."
He had caught a glimpse of a signal flying from a tall mast, "G" in white, on a dark blue ground—it was the token he had watched for. "I see the ship!" he cried out, joyfully. "Keep as close to me as you can;" and on they hurried once more, brushing past half intoxicated sailors swaggering on the side-walk, stumbling over heaps of cordage and rusty chains, assailed by strange and sickening stenches, hindered by throngs of rude and boisterous men staring, leering in her face, through ice and snow and mud commingled—on and on, toiling to keep her guide in sight, she struggled as in her dream the night before, and with the same horrible dread of loss.
But no, there was the signal again, standing out steadily to the fair wind, which had not been reckoned upon as an adversary; and there was her protector too, pausing, with an effort that cost him much in the ardor of the race, until she could reach him, and then dashing on before out upon the long, crowded pier. She almost expected to see the vessel glide away as they neared it; but it stood still and stately, its huge hull rising out of the water, and no bustle of immediate departure around. How inaccessible it seemed for all the staging lowered from its side!
"Can you climb this?" and, breathless with haste and excitement, Richard Graham held out his hand.
"Steady—take hold of the rope—do not look down, it will make you dizzy."
She had one glance down into the deep, turbid water that came lapping and circling beneath her; but she clung to that outstretched hand as for life; her head swam, and she slipped at the damp cleets on which she tried to gain a foothold. One moment more, and he had passed his arm around her waist, and lifted her to the deck—and now?
They looked around; it was strangely still and deserted; only one man at his watch, who saluted them gruffly as they approached.
"I wish to see Captain Moulton?"
"Don't know him, Sir."
"Isn't he the Captain of this ship?"
"No, Sir."
"Who is?"
"Captain Allen—always has been—he built her."
"Is not this the Greyhound?"—surely this was the pier to which he had been directed. Richard Graham sent a troubled look around, then up to the mast-head—the blue signal was there above them.
"No, Sir, the Gosport—just in from Liverpool"—the man said more civilly, as he saw the lady's lip quiver, and a strange blank of disappointment in her face.
"Where does the Greyhound lie, then—do you know?" and as he asked the question Richard Graham avoided the look he knew he should meet in his companion's face.
"Did lie there, Sir;" and the man pointed with the back of his hand to an empty space near by. "Went to sea this morning—full an hour ago—just as the wind changed."
There was no hope, then; and standing there surrounded by tokens of the sea, Esther Howland realized all that was before the delicately-reared, misguided boy. Had she not prayed to find him? Had not God's own providence seemed to direct and guide her on her search? Why, why were her prayers made void—her hopes baffled? She could not tell.
"I am very sorry for you, Miss Howland." Her friend did not know what else to say. "Sorry that my own eagerness misled you so."
"Oh you have been very kind"—kind as a brother, she was going to say; but how little she had received from hers! "Kinder than a brother," she added; and though he knew very well with what simplicity the words were spoken, they thrilled to his heart as if they had had a deeper significance.
They could only turn their faces homeward, and leave the self-willed boy to his own choice; yet the sad stillness with which they walked for a little time was as if they had left behind them a new-made grave.
"We shall find a carriage soon—you are not fit to walk—this has exhausted you," said Mr. Graham, as he felt the slight weight droop more and more heavily on his arm; yet he was selfishly glad thus to feel her clinging to him in her trouble, as he had longed to have her do when her face had arrested him the night before.
The excitement of fear and hope was gone now, and with it the fictitious strength it had lent. Her brain whirled with strange, unconnected thoughts; she was weaker than a child, and a shivering chill ran through every limb. Even after they had reached the house which she had left so full of hope, all things seemed as if seen through the mist of a dream.
"I must go home now," she repeated again and again, when Mrs. Graham tried to comfort her, to rouse her from this dreary apathy; and when they heard it, the mother and son looked at her feverish cheek and glassy eyes with sad forebodings.
All through the long and dangerous illness which came upon her then, Esther Howland was watched over by a mother's care and a sister's love; and from the wanderings of delirium those who bent over her learned more of the suffering that had brought it upon her.
"I do not care for the money, Albert," she would say, piteously. "I only live for you—it was all for you—who else have I to live for? Do not strike me! Come back! oh come back! You hurt my hands—let me go—you shall have the money! Oh God! will nothing save him? Must he sink into vice and sin, and break my heart?" And man though he was, Richard Graham covered his face for the tears that came when Agnes told him of these things, and of what she knew of the toiling, self-denying life Esther had lived for the boy's sake.
He trembled like a woman the first time that he went in to see her after reason returned. She remembered all without questioning, and had asked for him. The rounded outlines of her face were gone, and her cheek was still almost as white as the lace that shaded it.
"You will let me thank you," she said, for he could not articulate a word for pity and surprise at the work of illness, and for such a yearning desire to say some word of comfort.
The slight, wasted hand lay unresistingly in his own for a moment.
"You were very kind, and I shall never—never—forget it." This was all that passed; yet he went out from the darkened room with a fixed determination to win her for his wife if it were possible.
After a time she came down stairs among them, still fragile, and helpless as a child, lying upon the pile of snowy pillows that the delighted Nora followed her every where with, or walking slowly about the room leaning upon Agnes or her father, who seemed to adopt her as the rest had done. If she wondered that Richard never offered his assistance she did not say so; and one night when Agnes had left her alone with him for a moment he stirred the fire until it sent a cheerful gleam among the gathering shadows of twilight, then came and sat down near her. He knew from the look of pain that passed over her face from whence she had recalled her thoughts to meet him as he entered the room.
"What if I had some good news for you?" he said, watching to see her face brighten.
"News of Albert? but I know it is not time yet—only two months. Have I been here two months? But I am getting stronger every day. I shall soon be able to go home again." And as she said it the loneliness and care she must return to after all this cherishing rose up before her.
Mr. Graham held out a paper. "You shall read it for yourself by-and-by; it is too dark now, so I will tell you that the Greyhound has been spoken, and all on board are well. That is something to know."
Little enough it may seem to those who pass indifferently over the crowded columns of shipping intelligence, but very precious to the longing eyes that essayed vainly to read it for themselves. Her unsteady hands closed about it presently, and she sat quite still again.
"So you think of leaving us," Mr. Graham said, to draw those same eyes upward that he might look into them, miser that he was. "I am sorry that you can not feel contented here," he added. Why would his lips deny him all but such mere commonplace?
"Contented?—here? if I could ever reach content again! I used to wish to be happy, but now content would be all I could desire. It will not come though—not until I see him again—and so I rest upon resignation."
Mr. Graham looked from her face to the picture of Evangeline that hung above her. He had often thought them alike, but never so much as now, when she sat almost in the very attitude—her hands clasping the paper she still held—her eyes looking thoughtfully into the fire-light.
"Will you not stay here and wait for him?" She did not see his meaning. Kind as he was, gentle and thoughtful for her, she took the tribute of his attentions as to her misfortunes, not to herself; she blessed them all in her heart, and prayed for them daily in her trustful way, Richard among the rest; but looking out upon the lonely future she had not paused to read her own heart closely.
"I have been idle too long already," she answered, a smile brightening about her mouth. "You will make me forget that I belong to the work-a-day world. I have trespassed too long as it is; but you are all so good that I sometimes forget it is trespassing, and take it as my right."
"I wish you would make it your right."
It was the still quiver of his lips as he said it, and the light that came into his eyes, rather than his words, that made her understand then, and the bending down and covering her clasped hands with his. She could not release them without paining him, and that she did not wish to do; the heavy lids drooped lower as she tried to think how to answer him.
"Will you leave us, Esther?—will you leave me? Will you not give me some claim besides that of a friend?"
It helped her to speak as she wished to.
"There is a higher claim upon my life," she said, "than any I could grant. It was laid upon me years ago; I bear it willingly, and nothing must dispute it in my heart."
"You mean your brother; I know, I acknowledge it; I love you because of it." And then he told her of the strange sympathy he felt for her in their accidental meeting; how wonderful it seemed that while he should be speaking of it to his mother—good son that he was, making her his confidante still—she had come to them for help; how gladly it had been given; how heavily he had felt her disappointment; how interest and sympathy had grown into love; and how willingly he would share her affection with the wandering boy.
It was very grateful to her, very luring; but she did not waver.
"My first duty is to Albert still," she said, "my friend—my true friend. I could not rest while he is bearing hardships and dangers; and your happiness must not wait upon my release. It would not be right to bind you to such a dreary uncertainty."
And with this he must abide, hard as it was to resist the separate and united entreaties of them all; though they loved her none the less for her brave constancy, and the resolute patience with which she went out from the shelter in which they desired to enfold her to the toil, and loneliness, and waiting of her separate life.
Sometimes the weary spirit flagged for the lack of nearer love and sympathy, and the dumb silence of the future that she questioned seemed too heavy to bear. White-winged messengers of temptation came in the letters that sought from time to time to turn her purpose; but the struggle was renewed only to end in higher self-conquest—so long as only letters came.
But one memorable evening in the chilly autumn the brooding despondency triumphed for a time. Doubts of the goodness of her Father in heaven—of His truth in answering her many prayers—of His very providence over her life, since He had wrested from her the care for this erring child, and abandoned him to the soiling contact and degrading influences from which she had struggled to keep him; these miserable murmurings came between her and "the light behind the cloud" which had so far led her on.
She was sitting by the open window, late and chill as it was, only drawing her shawl closer as she leaned her head down upon her hands. She did not even hear the approaching footsteps that warned her of intrusion; but a hand was laid softly on her head, and she looked up to find Richard Graham before her.
"Oh! why did you come?" she said, bitterly. "I did not expect this!"
"See! I have brought my welcome with me!" and he held up a letter in the cold moonlight. "May I not come now?"
He saw with foreboding how weak she still was, for all her assurances to the contrary, and he made her sit still, holding the precious letter to be sure that it was no dream, while he found the light and set it down before her; but even when she had broken the seal she could not read a line, and held it out to him, the only one in the world with whom she could have shared it.
"My own precious sister—" And those few words told her all that she most desired to know; all that the letter could explain of shame, and repentance, and amendment; more of love and devotion to herself than she had asked or expected; for she did not seek reward, only his rescue from ingratitude and sin.
Afterward she dwelt upon the blotted pages on which the proud, passionate boy had poured out his very heart, with glad thanksgivings; but then she felt above all else the reproof to her narrow wisdom, as she listened to the story of the storm that had been God's message to his heart, the hardships that had recalled her tenderness, the loneliness of the wide sea that had deepened and strengthened good resolves; and she knew that God's own hand had removed him from her gentler lessons to the sterner teaching his willfulness had chosen.
But he was not coming back to her, he said, until he had proved the sincerity of the change; "until I can help take care of you, Esther," the boy said, in his own proud way. "And I thank your friend, Mr. Graham, for writing to the Captain and to the consignees, which made them offer me the place. I wish I knew Mr. Graham, for his letter was splendid—just as you talk, only with a man's ideas—and it did me good. I knew I deserved every word of it."
"Are you going to wait his three years to see him again before you can be contented, Esther?—contented to come back to us, I mean?"—Mr. Graham said, as he laid the letter down. "Shall I write and ask his consent? I rather think he would be disposed to give it to me."
And Esther smiled through her tears as she was folded to the heart that echoed the gladness of her own at this "good news from a far country."