Democratic Sentinel, Volume 5, Number 50, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 January 1882 — RETRIBUTION. [ARTICLE]

RETRIBUTION.

He wits a pretty little fellow of perhaps 5 years, and he looked through the window of the restaurant with hungry, longing eyes at the big cakes and rows of tempting pies; at last flattening his little nose against the glass as if to be nearer the beautiful viands was more satisfying. There was something in his appearance which was so different from the ordinary little street boy that I first stopped and looked, then addressed him with : “ Are you hungry, little boy?” He then turned quickly, gave a little nod, and said laconically : “ Awful 1” “ Well, suppose we go in there and get something to eat ?” The child’s face brightened ; then he hesitated and said, dubiously ; “Maybe mamma wouldn’t like me to.’’ “Where is your mamma? How came you hero alone ?” “She’s home, sick. I’ve runned awayand ho looked n p in my face witli Ing, brown eyes in which there was a sparkle of mischief. “Run away, have you? lam afraid that is very naughty; won’t your mamma bo anxious ?” “Oh, she’s sick, she’s awful sick! And I ain’t had anything to eat to-day.” “ Have you any brothersand sisters?” The little face sobered at once as he said : “ No, only Eloise, and she’s gone away, and papa’s gone aw r ay, and mamma says maybe she’s going away, and she don’t know what'll come of me." “ Who is Eloise? Your sister?” “ Yes’m.” ‘ ‘ Where has she gone ? Won’t she come back ? ” . .. _.. “No, she ain’t never coming back; they put her in a little black box and took her to heaven, and mamma cried; she said she wouldn’t never come back again, and I haven’t anybody to play with now.” “Eloise!” The name had struck a chord in my heart which awakened painful memories, and while the little fellow was talking my mind had strayed back to years ago, and a vision of a *J>eautiful false friend rose before my eyes. Suddenly I asked the child his name. “ Edwin Alexander Anderson.” For an instant I felt faint and sick, happy wife and mother though I now am. That name brought back to me a time of wretchedness never to be forgotten, and I almost felt like turning away and leaving the child— his child—to his fate. But, thank Heaven ! the impulse was only for a moment; I knew now why those brown eyes thrilled me so; but with the impulse to turn away came a whisper from my good angel : “Do good to those who despitefully use you.” And, seeing the little, fellow still looked longingly at the cakes, I took him in, gave him some buns and a glass of milk, and a bag of cookies to take home; but he could not go alone probably, if, as ho said, he had run away; so I asked him where ho lived, and if he knew the way home. “ We lives now in No. 10 Pine street, but I dunno whore ’tis.” I was not at all sure of the locality myself, so hailing an omnibus I requested to bp carried to my destination; and then the awkwardness of meeting his father flashed across me, till I recollected ho had said “Papa’s gone away.” “ Where has your papa gone?” “ He’s gone to the dogs.” I'ho answer was certainly startling, and notwithstanding, or perhaps in consequence of my nervousness, I smiled, and felt in m.y throat a mingled inclination to laugh and cry.* Then I said seriously ; “ What do yon mean ? Who told you that?” “ Oh, I heard a man tell the doctor so when he came to see Efbise, and I found it in the big map-book mamma let me have to ’muse me.” “Found what?” * “Isle of Dogs ; that’s where he’s gone. I guess he ain’t coming back.” A little pause, then in a low, frightened tone, “he’s awful cross ; he made mamma cry, he did.” I felt guilty of learning family secrets, so I turned away from that subject and sa : d : “ Is your mother very ill ?” “ Oh, she’s dread ul sick ! She coughs and coughs, and spits up lots of red spits ; it’s awfulj ” Poor Eloise, the brilliant beauty, was indeed dying ! I looked down at the little boy in his shabby clothes, and I remembered the elegance of his mother’s attire when we were girls together ; I remembered, oh, so well! But I was awakened from my painful revery by my little c impaniou’s exclaiming: “ Here we. are ! ” I paid the driver, and we got out and mounted three flights of stairs in a shabby lodging house. He opened a door, and there, lying on a stretcher, with a hard mattress, was the wreck of the brilliant beauty I had not seen for ten years, and who, but for the child, I should never have recognized. Not so with her, however ; as the door opened and her child entered she held out her hand, saying in a low, breathless voice : “ Eddy dear, where have you been ? ” Then she raised her eyes, and, seeing me standing in the doorway, she turned deathly pale, and, throwing up her hands, said, wildly: “Oh, God, she has come, she has come ! Alice, Alice, forgive me ! lam dying now 1 ” Forgive her? Yes, with the grim shadow of death hanging over her I could not do otherwise. I went to the bedside and took her hand. “I am glad to have found you, Eloise ; all is forgiven.” I could say no more ; the poor, thin face, feverish eyes and shrunken form made my heart ach». She raised herself up, and, clutching my hand, said : “ Listen, Alice, lam dying. I must speak now; my punishment is from Heaven ; he has left m \ You are revenged, and my little girl has gone, and he ’’-—pointing to the boy—“ the image of his father, will soon be alone, all alone ! My father and mother and sister are all dead, and his father—l do not know if he is living or dead, but he should not have my innocent boy to ruin. Oh, Alice, you look the same as ever; will you take care of my boy ? ” For an instant I recoiled; I take Edwin Anderson’s child to my house to live with my children ? It seemed impossible ; but those large, wistful eyes were fixed on me ; I must answer. “I will find a home for him, Eloise.” “You will not take him yourself, Alice?" And she herself up, sis

excitement lent strength to her voice. “ Alice, I heard of your marriage to a good man. Have you children “ I have a little girl 3 yean old and a baby.” “ Then for God’s sake take my boy and make him good; let him be your child, and, when he gets old enough to understand, give him that desk,” pointing to one on a table at her side. “ I have written out my history as a warning to him, and all my papers of any value are there; I have nothing left of my father’s property ; he has sold it all and squandered the money. I believe he went to Europe and is living somewhere in Italy with another of his dupes ; my boy is portionless. Will you, oh, Alice, will you forgive ail and take him?” “ I will.” I could say no more, and, the excitement being over, she fell back exhausted. I summoned assistance from one of the other rooms, and begged them to go lor the nearest physician ; but it was too late ; he came but to say that she was going fast, and ere night she died with her head on my shoulder. I had sent a note to my husband explaining my absence, and he was there with a carriage to take home myself and our new child. He knew all. I had told aim the sore secret of my heart before I married him. As Eloise had said, he was a good man, and when I told him her wish about her boy he said quietly: “ The child is ours now.” There was a quiet funeral, and Eloise Anderson was laid beside her lost little girl. And this is the story of our two lives. Years before, Eloise Grayson and I, Alice Browne, were together at Madame G. ’« boarding-school for young ladies. Her father was called wealthy, and she and a sister several years her senior were all that were left of a large family. Eloise was very beautiful, and, when at school she had admirers who would meet us and bow in our daily walks. After we left school I made her a visit of a few days and invited her to come and see me in our quiet country home when she liked. She had, however, too gay a life and too many admirers to care to accept my invitation then. Meanwhile I settled down at home and helped my mother ’sew and learned to keep house, and also learned something else —to love with all my heart a handsome, dashing young man who had come to our quiet village to stay for a few days, but had lengthened out those days into weeks. Edwin Anderson almost lived at my father’s house, and, at last, with iny father’s full consent, we were engaged. Of course in the fullness of my joy I wrote to all my friends, and Eloise among the others. Not long after, she wrote to say she was coming to make me that long-promised visit. Well, she came, and at her very first meeting with Edwin she completely monopolized his attention; she came to my room that night and declared herself charmed with him —“a perfect Adonis.” She envied me, called me a sly puss for catching such a handsome man in that out-of-the-way place; then kissed me good-night and left me with a strange chill at my heart. Ido not know how it was, but she was always with us ; we never seemed to be alone, and she engrossed him completely; sometimes she would and say so carelessly: “ Oh, Ally, you must not mind; but your Edwin’s voice just chords splendidly with mine; you will lend him to me, won’t you? ” So they sang together and I listened. I, too, could sing, but my voice was nothing to hers. She was very fond of riding, and we had but one lady’s horse and she had forgotten to bring her habit: so nearly every morning she would borrow mine, and the two would go off for a ride and not return until din-ner-time.. My father began to look coldly at her, and my mother often sighed as she saw them together. I was too proud to show what I felt, but I locked my door at night now; I could not bear to hear Eloise rhapsodize about my lover, whom I never saw now except in her society. She stopped for six weeks—six weary weeks to me. Then one day, after a longer ride than usual with Edwin, she announced that she must go home at once. Her talk and manner were flighty all day, and until late at nighrwe heard her moving about her room packing her trunk—such elegant clothes as she had, putting my quiet muslins and cambrics in the shade. Next morning she bade us good-by - and went away, father remarking after she had gone: “ Well, Idon’t want to be inhospitable, but I hope that girl won’t come here again very soon.” All day I waited and watched for Edwin. Now, I thought, I will have him to myself once more; but he did not come. The next day passed, and still he did not come. On the third day of weary waiting I took up the newspaper after my father had got through with it and looked carelessly and absently at the advertisements, the local items, and when my eye wandered to the marriage list. There I saw the marriage of Alexander Anderson to Eloise Greyson. I did not faint nor scream. I only felt numb for a while, then I quietly handed the paper to my mother, pointing to that place, and as quietly left the room and went up-stairs to my own chamber, where I sat by the window, looking out on the moonlit garden, and tried to understand. My mother soon followed me, and then passed the most miserable hours of my existence ; my first love and faith and joy all shattered. Of course I felt as if I must die ; but I was proud ; I would not be pitied by the neighbors ; and so I threw off the awful pain when I was with others. Youth is very buoyant ; I had good health, a good home and good parents ; and soon two bright, teasing cousins were invited to make us a visit; so in time I crushed this love, which was sin now, from my young heart. Five years afterward I met and learned to love with a quieter, deeper affection, born of respect, my good husband, Henry Halford, an elderly lawyer, who came to see my father about a lawsuit, and having come once came again and again, until at last he came to carry me to a beautiful house in the city as its mistress and his honored wife. We have two dear little children, and I am very happy, and very proud of my “ elderly ” husband. We call our new son Alexander Halford, dropping the old name forever; and I pray that he may be as good and honorable a man as his adopted father is.