Democratic Sentinel, Volume 7, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 June 1883 — LOSS AND DAIN. [ARTICLE]

LOSS AND DAIN.

BY MRS. A. R. FERRIN.

“It’s of no use talking about it any more, Percy. The necessity is laid upon ns, and all that is left for us to do is to take up our separate duties and do them bravely for the Master’s sake. If I had remained free from other tie*, Heaven knows how willingly I would have become your wife. B.ut as it is—” “O, Mercie, how can I ever give you up ? For two years it lias been the one absorbing dream of my life to call you my own. And now, within a few days of the consummation of my hopes, to have that dream so rudely broken. After all, Mercie, she was not your mother. The ties you speak of are more imaginary than real. Has she no relatives or friends with whom you could place the children until they shall be old enough to take care of themselves ?” “Not that I know of, Percy. Her parents are both dead and her sister, too, I think. She had one brother living in the State of Illinois, from whom she had several letters after her marriage with papa. But I have never seen him. And besides all that, Susan Browne was just as true a mother to me as if I had been her own child. She came into our home when I was a wild, neglected, untutored girl, and what I am to-day, her love and kindness made me. I shall try to be just as true a mother to her children as she was to me. I shall never give them into the hands of strangers while I have health and strength to take care of them.” Mercie Browne laid down her knitting work, and, opening the oven door, took out a couple of pies and set them on the cleanly-sooured kitchen table, while the firmlv. drawn lines about her mouth, and the decisive set-look in her eyes, convinced her lover of the earnestness of her purpose. “And this is your final deoiision, Mercie ?” “My final decision,” she answered. Percy Harrington arose to his feet, with a bitter, cynical laugh. “I had hoped, Mercie, that you cared more for me than for any one else. But I see I have been mistaken. Of course, you do not expect me to wait for you until these youngsters are grown ?” “No, Percy, I dp not expect you to wait for me. Here are all the presents you have ever given me, all the letters you have ever written to me. I shall expect a similar return on your part.” with a low, mocking bow, Percy Harrington passed out of the wide kitchen, door, while Mercie, unable longer tn restrain her feelings, fell upon her knees\by the lounge, and, burying her face in her hands, sobbed aloud. But, what was done was done; and, like the law of the MedefHlnd Persians, unalterable. \ “Heaven heljrine to be patient and true,” she moapel in her distress. Mercie Brown’afather had been dead two years, and nW the gentle stepmother had been lari by his side in the quiet church yard, having three small children to be cared for by somebody. Mercie had at once concluded that this “somebody” meant hersdf, and quietly all other claims, had set reso- / about the test. The. reader has already gleaned that S’ie wat the promised wife of Percy arringttn. But, while that gentleman felt perfectly willing, nay, anxious to assume thp responsibility of Mercie’s maintenause, he did not, as he said, feel called upO; to take upon him-elf the care of her Hep-mother’s children. Mercie reasonedthat they were her father’s children as such, entitled to her services. The consequence, as already seen rupture of' their engagement. Sri months later Percy married Elsie Htvtins, a gentle, fairfaced girl, and moed away into an adjoining county. While David Bro ne lived, he had found his small estavuy careful management quite his family since his death, debts bad ohAwufllnted, and Mercie found that whenNri estate was Bold, and these debts paio^^|. e -would be but a eomparatively-snii amount left for the support of. thpchildrep. This she must invest as judici> B i y an< j economically as possible. an «|or the rest she must depend upon L own labor.

Being a neat and rapid \,’ter Bhe, with the aid of a few influujJ friends, at length obtained a situil n as copyist in a respectable law-offidL a neighboring city. As the pay tv good and the children old enough to V left alone during the day, she thought perhaps, it was the best she -could dc and, renting a small house, she remove thither with her three small charges.

Did it ever seem to Mercie Browne during all these days that it was a cruel dispensation of Providence which compelled her thus, at 19 years of age, to

exchange all her bright dreams and pleasant anticipations for these hard, stem duties? If it did, she made no outward sign, but bravely tqok up her. allotted task and worked on, meeting always her reward, the reward of a heart at peace With itself, through a

consciousness of duty faithfully performed. ‘ - The time came, however, when she knew when she could realize, with an intense thankfulness, that it was “all for the best.” For two years she heard nothing at all from Percy Harrington. Then there came vague rumors of the fast life he was living, of his often going to his home in the small hours of the night, grossly inebriated; then of the seizure of his goods and chattels by the exe* cutioners of the law; lastly, of the sudden death of his gentle, patient, heartbroken young wife. Then his’name ceased to be mentioned, and be dropped, as it were, entirely out of her world. Another year dragged its slow length along the stream of time, bringing into Memo's life but little of its sunshine and sweetness. By dint of unceasing industry and patient economy, she bad managed to keep the wolf from her door. Nav, more, she had kept her little family comfortably clothed, and Millie at schpol most of the time. Millie was now 12 years old, Jack 9, and little Herbert 6.

But hard work, anxiety and-constant confinement were making sad inroads on the once robust constitution. The erewJfcdle rosy, blooming country lass, was now a pale, leaden-eyed, care-worn woman. Would her strength hold out? It must, it must. It was only the spring weather making her feel so weak and exhausted now. Bhe would ask the doctor for a tonic. She would ask her employers for a couple of week’s vacation in June, and she would run down to G , her native town, and get a smell of the wild roses and a taste of the sweet, fresh air, which would be sure to bring the color into her cheeks again, and strength into her limbs. Alas! alasl for all her little plans. The doctor decided that the tonic would do little if any good, without rest and quiet, and her employers utterly refused the much needed vacation, “on account of a stress of business, ” they said. So, with the hot, unshed tears hanging heavily under her eyelids, and her limbs growing weaker eveiy day, Mercie worked on.

But when fragrant, breezy June had given place to the burning, sultry skies of July, there came a cessation of it aIL She was returning to her home one evening, after a busier day than usual, feeling almost too tired and ill to care much whether she lived or not. In attempting to cross the street, she became aware that a furious, runaway horse was dashing directly toward her. A sudden weakness came over her; a swift darkness closed in around her. knew she was falling; knew she was under the very feet of the frantic animal, and then all was blank. When she came to herself, she was lying on a rudely-improvised couch in a small grocery store, surrounded by a crowd of gaping spectators. Her head was pillowed on the arm of a tall man, whose face was covered with a long, brown, silky beard, and who seemed to be anxiously regarding her. She raised her head and attempted to speak, but fell back with a groan. “Thank heaven, she lives!” exclaimed the brown-bearded man fervently. “Doctor, do your best now. Let her be removed to some place where she can be taken care of, and provide good nurses. It was my horse that caused the damage, and I wilTfoot the bills. Let there be no expense spared.” “Take me to my own home, ” moaned Mercie. “And where might that be, little woman ?” the brown beard interrogated. Mercje gave the name of the street and the number of the house. Then she was lifted in the arms of strong men, placed upon a hastily-constructed litter, and carried to her home. Before they reached it she had fainted again, and her unconscious form was borne in and laid upon the bed amid the distressed cries of the frightened children. While the doctor aud the women who had been summoned,were caring for the unfortunate girl, the brown-bearded stinger drew the children into the little kitchen, told them all about the accident, and elicited such information as he could concerning their circumstances. Millie proved to be rather reticent, but from the boys he gathered the facts of their orphanage, of Mercie’s relation to them, of her failing health, and of her employer’s refusal to grant her a holiday when she needed it so much.

“What was your father’s name V” he asked at last, mainly for the sake of saying something to hold their attention. “David Browne.” The stranger started curiously. “Your mother’s name ?” “Susan Browne,” was answered just as promptly. He was getting some vh at excited now. ’’Where did you live before you moved here?” “In the town of G., in the southern part of this county. ” “My dear childred,” he exclaimed eagerly, “I’ve got good news for you. lam your own uncle; your mother was my sister. I’m so g'ad I’ve found you at last. ” “Are you Uncle Herbert Hazelton ? And have you been looking for us?” asked Millie with a sudden accession of intere t.

“I am Uncle Herbert Hazelton, and I have been looking for you. At least, heard a rumor of your father’s death and wrote several times to your mother. Failing to get any answer, I concluded that she must either have died too, or changed her place of residence.” “Having business to transact in this city,” he went on' “I thought I would come myself and attend to it, then go down to G , find out what I could about it, and try and hunt you up. But here you are, and I should be very glad if only that poor girl hadn’t got hurt.” “Are yoti Mercie’s uncle, too?” asked little Herbert, suddenly jealous for her •share in this new acquisition of relationship.

“No, dear, I’m not Mercie’s unele,” adding under his breath, “and I’m very glad of it, too,” though I doubt if he could have told why he was glad. Mercie’s injuries proved to be less serious than was at first anticipated. A dislocation of the right shoulder and a fraction of the arm below the elbow, were the most serious ones she had sustained. Under the care of competent burses, with a liberal supply of the

pmforts and luxuries of life, and, Hthal, the daily visits of Herbert VLeton. she became rapidly convales-

TrVbert was the only son of the family. Like a certain per--8?n golden times, he hod taken his ? father’s goods and gone mto a \ coun t r y»—that is, a distant him, he had not wasted addedthfc rioto .f H . vix f.- but “ La w «k from time to time, until now ne wa* prosperous

man in every sense of the word. Add to this that he was 4 bachelor and yon have a very interesting combination Of circumstances, They say that pity is akin to love. It may be so, for certain it is that from pitying Mercie Browne there crept into Herbert Hazleton’s heart a deeper, tenderer feeling, and at last he acknowledged to himself that life would be nothing to him without heir. And Mercie. Who shall say how often she looked forward with sad foreboding to the time when Herbert would go away to his own home, and carry all the light and beauty and warmth of the world with him ? Who shall say how often during those long, happy days of convalescence, when he brought to her books and papers and magazines, and read to her, or marked for her reading all the choicest thoughts of the best thinkers; and talked to her, and led her out into a new world, into which Bhe had often looked, but had never dared to dream she might enter. She thanked Heaven for for this man’s friendship. Perhaps she contrasted his broad culture and intelligence and noble generosity with the narrow views and selfish motives of her farmer lover. Who shall dare to blame her if she did ? At last Mercie had so far reoovered that she began to talk about resuming her place at the office. It had been supplied for the time being, with the understanding that she was to go back as soon as she should be able. And still Herbert Hazleton tarried. With no ostensible purpose, he yet stayed, and he yet made his daily visits to the little house where Mercie lived with his sister’s children. “Mercie,” he said one day, looking up from the book he had been reading, “do you know that I intend to take Susan’s children home with me when I go?” “I had feared tliat was your intention,” she replied, in a low voice, without lifting her eyes from the sewing she held in her hand. “Yes,” he said, “I have a large, comfortable house, and plenty of money that is doing nobody any particular good, and I feel it to be my present duty to take care of them; to give them a good education, and a chance in the world.”

“It is your privilege, certainly, Mr. Hazelton,” she said, still without looking up. “I have done the best I could for them. Of course I know that you can do much better, and, if you insist upon taking them, I shall have to submit, however painful the parting may be. ” Tears' fell upon the snowy fabrio through which her needle was flashing nervously. He regarded her in silence for some moments. She felt his keen gaze fixed upon her, and thought that he was testing her to see whether she really cared for the children or not. Burning blushes suffused her neck and face at the bare idea that he could mistrust her motives. She had never dared to think that he cared sufficiently for her to ask her to share his home with them. “Mercie,” he burst out, suddenly, “I shall want some one to help me take care of those children.” “Of course you trill,” she answered, very quietly, “but I think you will find no difficulty in hiring a good, capable woman to oversee the arrangements of the household.” “But that isn’t what I want,” he answered, impetuously; “I want you to go.” “Me?” with a swift, surprised upflashing of the blue eyes. “Yes, you.. Why not?” Down west those blue eyes again, while a look of exquisite happiness crept into her face, glorifying every feature. She understood him now. “Yes, Mercie,” taking the little trembling hands in his own, “yon oannot be blind to the fact that I have learned to love you. Your sublime self-abnegation in taking care of my sister’s children won my respect, your heroic patience under the ordeal tff suffering compelled my admiration, and you, your own sweet loving self, have captured my heart. Yes, Mercie, I want you for my very own. Can you love me, little one ? Wiil you be my wife ?” It were needless to record Mercie’s answer. Suffice it to say that two weeks later there was a quiet sale of her few effects, a quieter wedding, and then a happy little party embarked upon an outward-bound train, seeking Herbert Hazelton’s distant home.

Securely anchored in the sure haven of her husband’s love, resting her tired spirit for support upon his strong; noble and generous nature, Mercie Browne forgets that she has ever suffered, or remembers it only to be thankful that out of her trial and loss there has come to her an infinitely greater gain. —Chicago Ledger.