Volume 4 — THE SPENDTHRIFT'S DAUGHTER. IN SIX CHAPTERS. (continued 2)

"'Consumption had set in when I saw her. What was to become of her? We knew of no such place as this, then.

"'The lady whom I served was kind and considerate. When I came to her in tears, she bade me fly to my sister, and not return until I had settled her somewhere in comfort. But where was that to be? We had not a friend in the world except one. She had been our under nursery-maid. She was now a baker's wife; but she had always loved us. She had such a heart! And she did not fail us now.

"'She took my sister home, and insisted upon keeping her. We could not allow this to be done without offering what compensation we could. My sister's little purse was reserved for extraordinary expenses; and I contrived out of my own salary to pay a little weekly stipend to our good Matty. She would not have taken it; but she had a husband, and upon this point we were resolved.'

"Here she paused, and raising her head from her pillow, rested it upon her hand, and looked round the room with an expression of satisfaction which it gave me great pleasure to see. The little apartment was plainly furnished enough; but the walls were of a cheerful color, and the whole furniture was scrupulously clean. The windows stood open, looking upon a space in which a few green trees were growing. The scene was more open, airy, and quiet than one can usually obtain in London. The air came in fresh and pleasant; the green trees waved and bowed their heads lovingly and soothingly.

"'It is not until we are sick that we know the value, that we feel the necessity, of these things,' she began again. 'This I may venture to say for us both. We had been cradled in luxury and elegancies, surrounded by every thing that the most lavish expenditure could bestow. We gave them all up without a sigh. So much unhappiness had attended this unblest profusion, that it seemed almost a relief—something like an emancipation—to have done with it, and be restored at once to simplicity and nature. Whilst our health and spirits lasted, we both of us took a pleasure in defying superfluity, in being easy and content upon a pallet bed, and with a crust of bread and a glass of water; but, oh! when sickness comes—deadly sickness! The fever, and the languor, and, above all, the frightful susceptibility to external influences. When upon the hard bed you cannot sleep, though sleep is life to the exhausted frame. When the coarse food you cannot touch—though your body is sinking for want of nourishment—when the aching limbs get sore with the rugged unyieldingness of that on which they lie—when you languish and sicken for fresh air, and are shut up in a little close room in some back street—when you want medicine and care, and can command no services at all—or of the lowest and most inefficient description—then—O then! we feel what it is to want—then we feel what it is to have such an asylum prepared for us as this. Poor thing! she was not so fortunate as I have been.'"

Here, the broken man who had until now sat listening in what might almost be called a sullen attention, suddenly lifted up his head, looked round the room where he sat, and through the large cheerful window upon the branches of the trees and the blue unclouded sky; and, suddenly, even his heart seemed reached.

He rose from his chair, he sat down again, he looked conscious, uneasy, abashed. It was so long since he had felt or expressed any grateful or amiable sentiment, that he was almost ashamed of what he now experienced, as if it had been a weakness.

"Pray have the kindness to go on," he said at last.

"It was some days before I learned much more of the history of my poor young invalid, but one day when I came to see her, I found a very respectable looking woman, though evidently not belonging to the higher class, sitting with her. She was a person whose appearance would have been almost repulsive from the deep injuries her face had received—burned when a child, I believe—if it had not been for the sense and goodness that pervaded her expression. Her eyes were singularly intelligent, sweet, and kind.

"I found she was the wife of the baker—she, who had once been nursery-maid in your family. The only friend the poor young creature seemed to have left in the world, and the only person from whom she could bear, as it afterwards appeared, to receive an obligation. This excellent person it was, who advanced the guinea a-week, which the laws of the institution required should be contributed by a patient.

"When she took her leave I followed her, to inquire further particulars about my patient. She then told me, that the sister had died about three years before, leaving a heavy debt to be discharged by the one remaining; consisting of her funeral expenses, which were considerable, though every thing was conducted with all the simplicity compatible with decency; and of the charges of the medical man who had attended her: a low unprincipled person, who had sent in an enormous bill, which there were no means of checking, and which, nevertheless, the high-spirited sister resolved to pay. But the first thing she did, was to insure her own life for a certain sum, so as to guard against the burden under which she herself labored, being in its turn imposed upon others.

"'So, madam,' said the good Mrs. Lacy, with simplicity, 'you must not think that the guinea a-week is any thing more than an advance on our part—there will be money enough to repay us—or my dear Miss Ella would never, never have taken it. She would die in the street first, she has such a noble spirit of her own. She told me to provide for her sister's debts,—she had made an arrangement with a publisher to be a regular contributor to a certain periodical,—she had likewise produced a few rather popular novels. To effect this she had indeed labored night and day,—the day with her pupils, half the night with her pen. She was strong, but human nature could not support this long; and yet labor as she did, she proceeded slowly in clearing away the debt. I cannot quite account for that,' said Mrs. Lacy, 'she dressed plainly, she allowed herself no expense, she made no savings, she paid the debt very slowly by small instalments, yet she worked herself into a decline. There seemed to be some hidden, insatiable call for money....'"

If the lady who was recounting all this, had looked at her listener at that moment, she would have been moved, little as she liked him. A wild horror took possession of his countenance—his lips became livid—his cheek ghastly—he muttered a few inarticulate words between his teeth. But she was occupied with her own reflections, and noticed him not.

"This could not go on for ever," said the lady, presently. "She was obliged to throw up her situation; soon afterwards the possibility of writing left her; and she was brought here, where I found her."

"And that it was—that it was, then!" cried the wretched man. 'O Ella, my child!—my child! I was living, in indolence and indifference, upon her hard-earned labors! I was eating into her life! And when the supply ceased, I—I never knew what it was to have a heart!—I thought she was tired of ministering to her father's wants, and I came to England to upbraid her!"

"It was too late. She was gone where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest," said the lady.

"You need not—you need not—my heart is hard, but the dagger has pierced it at last. You need not drive in the steel: it has done its work," he rather gasped than said.

The lady felt that she had been too severe. His apparent insensibility had, it is true, irritated her almost beyond bearing, after all he had done, and after all that had been suffered for his sake.

"I am sorry if I give you pain. I ought to be sorry for you, not angry."

"Did she never mention me?" he asked, in a tone of agony. "And there was another, on whom her young heart doted, only too fondly. Did she never speak of either of us?"

"She spoke of both."

"Tell me what she said."

The lady hesitated.

"I pray tell me—I can bear it."

"I am afraid I have given you too much pain already. It is over now. Let it be over. Go home; and may God give you grace at the eleventh hour, and bring you and yours together again at last!" she said fervently, and the tears starting in her eyes.

"I have no home but one; and to that I shall shortly go. But let me not depart tormented with a yearning desire to hear all. Tell me; I ask it of you as a favor. What was her state of mind as regarded her mother—her father—and her lover?"

"God gave her grace to find him at last. The darkness and the doubts that had distressed her, gradually disappeared. That grace took possession of her heart which the world can neither give nor understand; and all was hope and tranquillity at the last hour.

"As she grew worse, her spirit became more and more composed. She told me so one day. Then she asked me whether I thought she could recover.

"I was silent.

"She turned pale. Her lips moved as she said, 'Do I understand your silence rightly?'

"'I am afraid you do.'

"She was silent herself for a short time; then she said,

"'And so young!'

"'It is not for us to know the times and seasons which the Father hath kept in his own power,' said I.

"'But must I—must I die? I am not ashamed to own it,—I did so wish to live. Did you never hear that I had a father living?' she asked in so low a voice, that it was almost a whisper.

"'Yes,' I answered.

"'Then, you have heard his most unhappy history?'

"'Most of it, I believe, I have.'

"'He seems to you, I fear, a very—very erring man.'

"I was silent.

"'There is good in him still,' she cried; 'believe it or not who may, there is good in him still.'

"And now her tears began to flow fast, as she went on,

"'The will of God be done! The will of God be done! But if it had been His pleasure, I hoped to have lived! to have had that father home; to have joined our two desolate hearts together; to have brought him to the knowledge of One whose yoke is easy, and whose burden is light. O, was that wish wrong, that it was not granted! O, my father! who shall seek you out now!'

"'Remember,' I said, gently, 'we are in the hands of One, wiser and more merciful than ourselves. He would spare, surely, where we would spare, if it were good it should be so. If means would avail, He would provide the means. His work will not stand still because the instruments (as we regard things) seem taken away. Your death, dear girl, may do more for your father's soul than your life could ever have done.'"

And now, he bowed his head—humbly—and he covered his face with his hands, and the tears ran through his fingers.

"Thus," the lady went on, "I comforted her, as I could; and she died: with her last breath commending her father to the mercy of God.

"Her lover was dear—but not dearer than her father. She told me that history one day. How she had loved; how devotedly, how passionately. But that when her name was disgraced, she had resolved never to unite it with his. She had withdrawn herself; she had done it in a way such as she believed would displease him. 'I thought he would feel it less if he were angry,' she said. 'I often wished in my desolation I could feel angry.' She told me his name; and I promised to make inquiries. I had fortunately the opportunity. I had the pleasure to tell her, that he had made the greatest efforts to find her out, but in vain; that he had remained unmarried and constant to her memory: that what had happened had given a new turn to his character. Habits of dissipation, which had been gradually acquiring power over him, had been entirely broken through. He had accepted an office in a distant colony, where he was leading a most useful and meritorious life. Never shall I forget the glow of joy that illuminated her face when I told her so. She looked already as if she had entered into the higher and more glorious existence!

"'I shall not see him again,' said she; 'but you will write to him and tell him all. You will say that I died true and blest, because he was what he was; and that I bade him a fond adieu, until we should meet again in a better world. For, O! we shall meet again; I have a testimony within, which shall not deceive me!'

"She then reverted to her father.

"'He will come back,' she said; 'you will see that he will come back, and he will inquire what is become of me—why his child has forgotten him and is silent. It will be the silence and forgetfulness of the grave. Perhaps he will come back as he went; his heart yet unchanged: defying and despairing. Tell him not—be patient, with him, good kind friend, for my sake. There is good in him:—good he knows not of, himself; that nobody knows of, but his loving child, and the God who made him—weak and erring as he is. Tell him, he must no more be weak and erring; tell him there is forgiveness for all who will return at last, but that forgiveness supposes newness of life. Tell him—"

The sentence was unfinished by the lady, for he who listened fell prostrate on his face upon the floor.

They raised him up; but his heart seemed broken. He neither moved nor spoke. Life, however, was not extinct; for in this condition he remained many days.

They could not keep him where he was, for this benevolent institution was strictly devoted to women of the more refined orders. He was carried to a Hospital. There was nowhere else to carry him.

Seven days he lay without speaking; but not absolutely senseless. The spirit within him was at work. In his worst days he had never wanted energy. His heart was ever strong for good or for bad. What passed within him, in those seven days, was between his soul and the Highest. He came out of his death-trance an altered creature.

The once handsome, dashing, profane, luxurious Julian Winstanley, looked now a very old, old man. Quite gray, very thin, and stooping much. From that time, he continued to earn his bread honestly, as an attendant in the very hospital where he had been recovered. He had a little room to himself, and it was filled with certain simple treasures, hallowed by his recollections.

His patient and tender attendance upon the sick, his assiduous discharge of all his duties, was beyond praise.

One day, a man who had risen to a very high post in one of our colonies, came to visit him. The two were long together. When, they parted, it was evident that both had wept much.

The old man, after that, faded rapidly. One morning they found him dead in bed. His hands were clasped together, as if he had departed in the act of prayer. He lies buried in a neighboring churchyard, under a simple mound of earth, such as covers the humblest and the poorest.

He had left behind him a scrap of paper, earnestly imploring that so it might be. So it was. May God forgive us all!