Rensselaer Republican, Volume 18, Number 3, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 September 1885 — THE MESSAGE. [ARTICLE]

THE MESSAGE.

It was midnight, and two women awaited different messengers nnder one roof. To the elder, the slow-paced hours were bringing death; to the younger, a ’bridegroom. The faded mistress of the rich parvenu’s home had lain down to die, facing the doom of all with the cold stoicism of the unloved. Heady to take her place, impatient to clutch at the gauds the other despised, and to parade a triumph which should have been her dishonor, was her rival. She was a young woman, of course. Subtler feminine charms than bright eyes, rosy lips always parting in a smile, a slender figure, and audacious, girlish ways, were hardly likely to fascinate a man of John Harden’s character—a man who had risen from the meanest ranks of life, spent his years in moneygetting, and shunned rather than sought good company, in tho true sense of the word. To be put out of countenance by no one had been a leading maxim of tbe money-maker’s career; whilst, therefore, surrounding himself with all the glitter of opulence, he remained the blunt, plain-spoken homely John Harden of early days. He was just 60, and lhe girl busied with such affectation of demureness on some foolish boarding-school bead-work could hardly be twenty. The pair sat opposite to each other by the fire, onlv interchanging a word from time to time, betraying nothing of their secret thoughts to chance eavesdroppers at the door. Yet, despite such gauded speech, a qnick observer must have seen at a glance how it stood with both; the girl’s flushed cheek and sparkling eyes, the man’s look of suppressed satisfaction, told their own story. The dread messenger whose name is Death, as he passed through this hußhed house, made way for a joyous successor whom, under various guises, men call Love. The hand of tbe costly time-piece on the mantle-shelf pointed to 12, and the mere sign seemed to chill the air, Mr. Harden rose to make up the fire, as he did so letting one hand fall on his companion’s. “It is growing late and cold. Better go to bed, Constance,” he said, in a voice of tender concern. ( The girl, allowing herself for a moment to be carried away by impulse, leaned forward. Her bright brown curls just touched his scanty gray locks; her softly rounded cheek just camd in contact with his own, lined and corrugated with care. “Should I leave you alone at such p time?” she whispered. He said nothing, but, kneeling before the fire, making it up after methodical fashion, contrived at the same time to transfer from his waistcoat pocket to her not unwilling fingers a minute box of crimson leather lined with velvet Within gleamed a wedding ring, and as Constance Emery gazed upon it furtively, her lover’s face showed exultation equal to her own. To this shallow girl, the first glimpse of her wedding ring meant everything that life itself could mean. She was nothing, possessed nothing; the ring would give her all she set store by, and render her exactly what she wished to become. It would throw the responsibility of her own existence upon another’s shoulders, relieve her from tho odious burden of bread-winning, afford her luxury, social power, and the kind of sway over an ordinary nature that by such women is made to do duty for affection. The ring, in short, was to open wide the portals of a career after her own heart, without it, unattainable as a crown. To the man also the ring symbolized the aspect of life most agreeable to him. In one respect money-making had not rendered him caliou-*. To his mind a certain feminine type ever remained ’irresistible. Of ideal loveliness, of spiritual or intellectual beauty, it was not at. all likely that he should have the remotest conception; but he owned the sway of frolicsome girlhood, the easy assurance of young, handsome, reckless women. To surface charms of look or manner he was ever ready to do homage. But the ring had other and graver meaning for him. His first marriage had been childless. The enormous wealth, amassed so laboriously, lacked an heir. Might not a young wife make him the proud father of blooming children ? The tiny box consigned to its hidingplace, Mr. Harden fetched from the lobby close by a carriage cloak lined with rare far, and bestowed it about the girl's shoulders. He next went to the sideboard, and, half-filling a glass with wine, “Do not let yourself get ehilly or faint then,* he said, softly, standing over her, glass in hand. Bbe just sipped 'the wine and put back the glass, smiling gratefully- He returned to the sideboard, swallowed tbe remainder of the wine, then sat down in his old place by the fire. Just then thedeor was tapped lightly,

and an elderly, homely woman-servant made her appearance. “If you please, sir,” she said, without looking at the girl, “mistress is herself again, and asks for you.” • Such a summons, unwelcome although it might be, was imperative. "With a lingering look at the vision of life, youth and jollity left behind, Mr. Harden followed his hushed conductress to the chamber of death. 11. It was a strikingly luxurious room, hung with arras of crimson silk, and carpets to match, in which the feet sunk noiselessly. On each side of the Venetian looking-glass were handsome oandelabras, supported by little loves in tinted porcelain. On the dressingtable glittered silver-topped scent bottles and a woman’s small watch, set with diamonds. The fire had been allowed to bu ( rn low, and only one small lamp lit up the silent room ahd its solitary occupant—a worn, whitehaired woman, whose life was nearing its close.

It was easy to see that, like her husband, Mrs. Harden had not been born to such luxury as this; her physiognomy, as well as his own, indicated a homely origin. Her thin hands 'still showed evidence of laborious toil. Tbe heavy silk curtains of w arm red, and downy quilt, covered with satin, were in strange contrast with the look of the mistress. Twenty years of opulence had never familiarized her with it. To the last she looked, as indeed she felt, a stranger in her own house. “Go away, Anna,” she said, gently, to the faithful peasant woman who had grown old in her service. “Leave us alohe.” ■ ' • • ' The husband realized at a glance what had happened. She had remembered something, been reminded of something she wanted to say to him at the last, and, as will often happen in. the case of the dying, a brief return of consciousness was accompanied by a momentary recovery of physical strength—last, bright, ovanescent flicker of the flame of life.^ The servant withdrew', and Mrs. Harden now beckoned tbe shrinking, conscience-stricken man to her bedside. . ", '

There bad been no leave-taking between him and the faithful partner of w'ell nigh forty years. From the beginning of her illnes, greatly to his relief, she had avoided anything approaching to close, confidential talk, any allusion to the past or the futuro, as they more immediately concerned themselves. He had taken care that everything money could do was done for her. A London physician had been summoned in consultation; all the concern that decorum exacted under the circumstances had been testified -by him; he was constantly in the sickroom. But the solemn confidence, the final understanding, the supreme valediction that might be looked for from two human beings who had passed almost a lifetime together, had never been uttered. How it became clear to him that they were not to be separated thus. The opportunity for a last word had come, and she clutched at it with almost frenzied eagerness. The expression on her face he could not misread—she was determined to say what she had to say. She felt confident that death would afford her this grace—consent to bold aloof a little while. * “John," she began, gathering fire and force with every word, all the pent-up indignation of years poured forth at the last, “I have had something to say to yop. for years past. Now I must speak; or not at all.” “You ought not to agitate yourself, Bessie,” he said, nervously; “it will do yon harm.”

“Harm!” she said, with a gesture of contempt. “You speak of harm to a dying woman. But do not interrupt me. My time is short.” “John, lam not afraid to die. I have never been what is called a religious woman. I was never so tenderhearted to the poor and afflicted as I see now that I ought to have been. But I have done my duty. As d wife, as a woman, I have acted uprightly. When the same moment comes to you, when the door stands open before you as it does to me, between life and death, and yon know yon must go the dark way, can you say even so much for yourself?” She' leaned forward, not looking exactly at him (he could have borne that better), but peering as if into futurity, seeing, so he seemed to think, what lay behind the grave, and was veiled from his own and from all mortals’ gaze. The meanness, tbe homeliness of- the woman vahished indeed then. Something more than personal feeling, the indignation born of silently endured wrong, almost spectral features. It was not the injured wife, the outraged woman, so much that spoke now to John Harden’s guilty soul as the voice of conscience itself, of awful justice, of awarding doom. “I have been a hypocrite to you all these years. I have never once opened my lips to you on the subject of your conduct to me," she went on, in a supernatural voice. “But do you suppose I was blind or a fool ? Those long, winter evenings I dragged out as best I could alone, did I not know how they were spent by you ? I was not going to flaunt myself before the world as an insulted wife, to court tbe neighbors’ pity for the slights put upon me by my husband. No; I sat alone amid all this show so hateful to me, with ‘ unspoken curses in my heart. What right had you to treat me thus ? Was I the only one es us two to grow old and wrinkled ? If our marriage was not blessed with children, thu misfortune was mine as well as yours. These things rest with the Almighty." For a moment, a moment only, her voice swayed to real feeling as she con-

tinued: - . ’ ' “There waa a 'time when life was a hard struggle to ns, and you behaved kindly to ma I would havp laid down my life to make you happy. And I was ever a true wife to you, John; you cannot deny that. Do yon remember when We kept our little shop, how I used to sit up till past midnight ironing your shirts, and mending your clothes? And the first time you were summoned to sit on a jury I was proud to have you go. I never told you that I sold my father’s wateh, the very watch he left me, to buy your black coat, and turn

yon out like a gentleman. And now— * Yet one tremor more as she got out the rest of the sentence, f ] < “And now, had you treated me with consideration due to a wife, had you cared for me at all, I should be the first to say to you on my dying bed—‘Do not fret, my dear; marry some good woman; try and be happy for my sake.’” Then she did indeed look at him penetratingly, and with a startling fixedness that seemed to search his very soul. Clenching her hand as if between himself and her stood her deadliest foe, she added: “Do I not know what will happen as sdon as I am put in my grave ? In spite u ctt your caution, I see well who is waiting to take my place. Marry that ungrateful girl w r e picked out of the gutter. Ring the joy bells a year hence at the birth of a son and heir. No good will come of it. Conscience will crush you, unclean heart, perjured tongue! You will tremble when Death stands near you, beckoning as he now beckons me, and tremble in vain ” White as the dying woman, the husband leaned forward with a word of exculpation, an entreaty for pardon On his trembling lips. But it was too late. The force of ebbing life had already spent itself. Mrs. Harden fell back unconscious oh the pillow, and as he caught her in bis arms he saw that the end had come. The faithful Anna, hearing his cry for help, hastened to the bedside of her mistress. •

hi. So enticing the warmth of that luxurious fur-lined cloak, so soft and easy the arm-chair in which her patron had settled her, that Constance Emery felt ready to drowse. But her brain was too busy with the future to indulge in sleep. She must, would keep awake, in order to think out the future as it opened itself to her enlarging gaze. Perhaps the girl was not deserving of wholesale condemnation, after all. Vulgarity may indeed be a piece of ill-for-tune, as much as a wry nose or misshapen foot; only' to the rarely endowed ones is it possible to burst the chains of custom, bringing up and heredity. . In the midst of foolishly bewildering dreams of silks and trinkets, carriages and lacqueys, boudoirs and fashionable receptions, she was aroused by the abruptest intrusion. Rising to her feet (for she knew well who the intruder must bo), she was fain to clasp his hand, to whisper an endearing word, to greet him fondly as she had done surreptitiously scores of times before. But at a glance toward her, patron, her heart stood still. Clever she was not, feminine tact she possessed in a moderate degree, yet she realized in a moment, without knowing the cause, the nature of the transformation that had come over him. She stood aghast, hot venturing a step forward, lacking courage even so much as to utter his name.

He came close up to the table by which she stood, holding in his hand a small strip of paper barred with pink. “Constance,” he said, in that brief, hard, unanswerable voice she knew so well, though now used for the first time to her —“Constance, I cannot marry you. I shall never marry again. Here is a compensation for a broken promise.” He turned up tbe lamp in order that she might see wliat he had given her. There it was, plain enough; nothing could be plainer; a check for .£5,000. The astonished girl was . dumb, and he hardly knew whether as yet she fully understood the meaning of his words. Something else he had to say, however, unmistakably clear and to the purpose also. “It will be better for you not to stay here any longer. I have ordered coffee to be ready by 6 o’clock, and the brougham at half-past, in time to catch the early express. William will drive you to the station and give you a firstclass ticket. Mind and be ready.” Still not a word from the scarletcheeked, mortified, trembling girl. Had anyone half an hour before assured Constance Emery that she should thus stand silent and abashed in the presence of this man, she would have laugned the prognostication to scorn. But with that quick, unerring instinct of the dull, the instinct born of fear and self-preservation, she now recognized the fact for herself. There was nothing she could say to soften him, even were she mistress of herself; blandishments, exhortation, tears, would all prove ineffectual as children’s dams to keep out the tide. Something had happened she vaguely, guessed the truth—to shut him from her, to harden him toward her forever.

While she stood thus, shrinking, irresolute, unable to get out a syllable, yet feeling that she ought to say something on her own behalf, another significant act told her clearly enough, weTe proofs still wanting, of what was in Mr. Harden’s mind. The rich, furlined cloak in which he had so tenderly enveloped her just an hour ago, lay on the ground. In her startled surprise, it had fallen from her shoulders. She now saw him pick it up, and, with a gesture not to be mistaken, lay it, carefully folded, on his wife’s favorite chair, at the extreme end of the room. That cloak she was not to touch again. Then he left her, in a moment more to return. Constance Emery lqoked up, and once more her heart stood still. He had repentqd of his cruel abruptness, this undeserved coldness, and was come to whisper a tender word in her ear, to console her for what he had, perhaps, been forced into by a death scene. He came back to the table, leaving the door ajar. “Take good care of the piece of paper,” was all he said, as he pointed to the check. Again the door closed* and this time he was indeed gone). She heard him go to. his closet, on the same floor, and lock himself in that was a sign, also, she bad learned to understand. Nothing remained bat to do as she waa bid. After all, he was master in his own house. She might weep, lemonstrate, implore; she could not stay against his wilL . Humiliation, mortified vanity and dismay were succeeded by other feelings. Oa-the whole, perhaps, her sudden departure, would not create much talk in the neighborhood and in the kitchen. She was young, and no relation. Would it hot be quite natural for

Mr. Harden, in .the eyes of the world, her benefactor only, to send ber away? And certainly, as far as her own feelings and inclinations were concerned, she would rather be anywhere than in a house with the blinds drawn down, and the hush of death reigning over it In her heart of hearts, but for the errand, she was really glad to go. And lastly, that check, when she grew calm enough to think about it, altogether altered the aspect of things. She had no idea of Mr. Harden’s real wealth, but the sum he had just given her in lieu of a wedding-ring, seemed, to her simple eyes, enormous. Whatever happened, she was a great personage now. It was characteristic of the girl, as she deposited the check at the bottom of her trunk, and sullenly made her preparations for departure, that she never for a single moment regretted the affection of this man, or what had passed muster for his affection. She only thought of his rough flatteries, his unfigurative compliments, his homely admiration. But all these, and much more, surely, awaited her in the triumphant future. Why should she shed a tear for one who could part from her without a handclasp, a smile, a fond look? She almost felt that in time she should learn to hate him. True enough, punctual to the moment, William waited in the porch with the brougham; a moment later and a woman’s trunk was placed on top, a slender, girlish figure, wearing a small crimson hat with a white feather, and tight-fitting crimson mantle bordered with fur, stepped in, the door was shut, and, as if divining his master’s wishes, the old man-servant drove the carriage swiftly toward the lodge gate.

iv. What the rich man did with his inner life from that time, none knew. Outwardly, it was clear for all to see —a model of austereness, rectitude, and rigid adherence to duty. Mr. Harden made no affectation of piety, of conversion, as the phrase goes. He did not take to reading his Bible, or excessive church-going. The exactions of con~science ’aiSd bdltoxh 'terttuS"" ratter respect had oyer been fulfilled by him. But in his lonely, remorse-stricken widowhood he took to good company. Alike «in look, dress and manner, he affected the air of a gentleman. As if to challenge the world, moreover to say a syllable against his character, he generally had to reside with him some needy clergyman, or young man preparing for holy orders, with whom he took his meals and spent his evenings over chess or backgammon. He gave clerical dinner parties, too, delighting to assemble around his luxurious board all the clergy of the neighborhood; well pleased also, in turn, to accept invitations to their houses and be initiated into what is called good society generally. The world, of course, welcomed the millionaire into their ranks. He might have married half a dozen times, to his social and moral advancement, had he pleased. From the first, however, it was evident to all that, whatever John Harden might do for the church, and society, he would never marry again. Clerical ladies might get money out of him. No woman would ever persuade him to purchase a wed-ding-ring. These distractions relieved the tedium of solitude, and if he did not look cheerful, at least he invariably ■wore an expression of satisfaction. He might well look satisfied! He was satisfying himself; in other words, as he thought, balancing his moral affairs and putting himself on the right side of th banking book. Nor was the widower forsaken if moments of sickness, or when infirmi ties overtook him. The devoted Anna whose heart had once turned wholly against him, whose very feminine instincts had revolted against the slights put upon her mistress, now testified even affectionate solicitude for the changed, repentent man. And if there was one person in the world to whom he ever opened his lips on the subject of the past it was to his wife’s faithful servant and only friend. —Temple Bar.