Chapter IX: The Figure on the Hearthstone

For a while after Alice left him, Mr. Warren lay perfectly quiet, trying to number the minutes, by counting each tick of the clock, and wondering if it were not time for Alice to return. While thus engaged he fell asleep, and when at last he woke there was a death-like faintness at his heart; his lips were dry and parched, and he felt a strong desire for water with which to quench his burning thirst.

“Alice,” he said feebly, “Alice, is that you? are you here?” but to his call there came no answer, and throughout the room there was heard no sound save the steady ticking of the clock.

Why then did the blind man raise himself upon his elbow and roll his sightless eyes around the silent apartment. Did he hear aught in the deep stillness? He thought he did—ay, he was sure he did, and again he called:

“Alice, Alice, are you here?”

But Alice made him no reply, and as the minutes went by, the sick man grew delirious, talking of the past, which seemed present with him now. Then, as reason for a moment returned, he moaned:

“Oh, Alice, will you never come? The fire is going out and I am growing cold. Oh, must I die alone at last?”

No, not alone; for, crouched upon the hearthstone, there sat a human form. It was the figure of a man—a dark, hard-featured man; and often, as the wailing cry came from the humble bed, it bowed its head upon its hands and wept. Carefully, stealthily through the door it had come while Mr. Warren slept, and the deep black eyes, which glowed at first like coals of living fire, grew dim with tears as, glancing hurriedly around the room, they saw how poor it was.

“Isn’t there somebody here with me?” the sick man said at last, as his quick ear caught the sound of breathing. “Speak, isn’t there somebody here?” he continued, while the figure on the hearthstone glided noiselessly to the bedside, where it stood erect, gazing pitifully upon the white, worn face which, with the lamp-light shining on it, seemed of a deathly hue.

It was a strange sight, that statue standing there so silently, and that blind old man trying in vain to penetrate the darkness and learn who it was that stood there beside him. Raising himself at last in bed, and stretching out his arm, he touched a hand colder even than his own, for guilt and fear had chilled the blood of him who remained immovable, while the trembling fingers passed nervously over the face, through the hair, down the side, until they reached the left hand, from whose fore-finger a joint was gone. That missing joint, though we have made no mention of it heretofore, was well remembered by Hugo Warren, and it needed but this proof to tell him who was there.

“William Huntington,” he hoarsely whispered, and falling back upon his pillow, he wiped the drops of perspiration from his face, for the presence of that man, coming to him thus, awakened all the bitter memories of the past. “William Huntington,” he gasped, “why are you here on this night of all others, when my lost wife seems present with me, and my ruined hopes pass in sad review before my mind. Say, have you come to add the last drop in the brimming bucket?”

There was a moment’s silence, and then, falling upon his knees, William Huntington made answer to the man he had so wronged.

“I did not come to insult you, but rather to seek the forgiveness which I know I do not merit. Only say that you forgive me, Mr. Warren—let me once hold your hand in token of reconciliation, and then do with me what you will. A life within a felon’s cell is preferable far, to the remorse which I have carried with me for two long, dreary years. Say, will you not forgive me?” he continued, and the strong man’s voice was choked with tears.

“Forgive you, William,” Mr. Warren replied, “I might perhaps forgive you, were my fortune all you wrested from me, but when I think of my lost Helen, my heart is turned to steel, for you killed her, William Huntington—you killed my precious wife.”

“Yes, yes, it was my base act which killed her, it is true, still I have made you some amends. I saved your daughter’s life, you know, else I had never dared to seek your face again,” said Mr. Huntington, interrupting him.

“You saved Alice’s life?” the excited man rejoined, and the hand which had withdrawn itself beneath the bed-clothes now came forth again, feeling eagerly for the bowed head, on which it rested forgivingly, while he continued, “It was you, then who took her from the river, and laid her in my arms—you who saved me from a darker night than any I have ever known. Yes, William, because you did this good to me, you are forgiven, fully, freely forgiven—but why have you not told of it before? Where have you been, and did your family know aught of this?”

“My family know aught of this?” repeated Mr. Huntington. “Can it be I am deceived?” and then, with the shaking hand still resting on his head, he told how he had wandered far and wide, seeking rest and finding none, for ever present to his mind was a white-haired, sightless man, weeping, o’er his pale, dead wife.

In the far off California land he had dug for gold, vainly hoping by this means some time to make amends for the ruin he had wrought. At last, as the burden of remorse grew heavier to bear, he sought his home to see once more the faces of his wife and child, hoping, too, that the forgiveness he so much desired might be obtained.

“I found them here,” said he—“found my wife and Adelaide working hard and secretly, lest the world should know how poor they were. I met my daughter first, and Heaven forgive me if I do her wrong, I thought she was not glad to see me. I questioned her of you, and learned that you were here, too, and very poor. You were fully determined, she said, to revenge yourself on me should I ever be found, and she urged me not to let my presence here be known, until she had tried to procure for me your forgiveness. My wife did not seem to understand your feelings, for she had never seen you, and she wished me to remain; but my daughter’s fears and my own dread of a convict’s fate prevailed, and trusting to Adelaide’s promise that she would eventually obtain your pardon for me, I left them again and became a second time a wanderer. I intended to take the cars at West Oakland, and was following the course of the river, when, pausing for a moment to rest, I saw you approaching, and hid behind the alders, one moment resolving to throw myself at your feet, and again fearing to do so, for guilt had made me cowardly and weak. The rest of that day’s incidents you know. I saved your daughter’s life, but I dared not speak, lest I should be betrayed. My wet clothes made it necessary for me to return to the house, where I told what I had done, and asked if this would not atone. My wife said yes, but Adelaide was fearful still. She would see you herself, she said, and she did see you that very day, but you refused. ‘The law must take its course,’ you said, ‘even though I saved a hundred lives.’”

“Never! so help me Heaven!” Mr. Warren exclaimed. “Such words as those never passed my lips, and till this moment I knew not who it was that saved my child. Forgive me, William, but she lied, that girl Adelaide. There was treachery in her voice when she sat at my feet and asked me not to tell of your misdeeds, lest disgrace should fall on her. People thought her mother was a widow, she said, and she would rather they should not know that you ran away to escape a prison home.”

“Oh, Adelaide, my child, my child, why did you thus deceive me?” the wretched father groaned, while Mr. Warren continued:

“I never tried to find you, William, or sought to do you harm; but go on and tell me where you have been since that time.”

“I remained at home a day or two, hiding from the sight of men,” Mr. Huntington replied, “and then one night I went away, thinking to make for my family a home in the distant West, where you would never find me. But no spot could be home to me with that load upon my mind, so at last I determined to see you myself, and beg for your forgiveness. They think me far away, my wife and Adelaide, for I only paused a moment at their door. Looking through the half-closed blind I saw your daughter there, and knowing that you must be alone I hastened on, entering your dwelling while you slept, and now it remains for you to do with me what you will.”

“Nothing, William, I shall do nothing—only raise me up, my breath is going from me,” Mr. Warren gasped.

The faintness he had experienced once before had returned again, brought on by the excitement of what he had heard, and Mr. Huntington, when he saw the corpse-like pallor stealing over his face, feared that he was dying. He was not afraid of death, but the world, he knew, was a suspicious one, and he would rather the man he had so wronged should not die alone with him. Just then he heard without, a footstep coming near, and thinking it must be Alice, he hurried to the door, exclaiming:

“Be quick! your father, I fear, is dying!”

In a moment the person thus addressed stood at Mr. Warren’s bedside, and when the fainting man came back to consciousness he whispered softly:

“God bless you, Mr. Howland, for coming here again.”

It was Richard Howland who stood there side by side with one whom he readily recognized as the stranger who had saved the life of Alice Warren. He had started for the party, going through the hollow as the shortest route, and was passing Mr. Warren’s gate, when the words, “Be quick! your father, I fear, is dying,” arrested his attention, bringing him at once into the presence of the blind man whom he had so long neglected.

“I did not know you were so ill,” he was about to say, when Alice entered the room.

“Father,” she cried, bounding to his side, “are you worse?” and then, as her eyes fell upon Mr. Huntington, the hot blood stained her face and neck, for she knew who he was, and marveled much that he was there.

“Alice,” said Mr. Warren, “I have forgiven William Huntington because he saved your life, though he dared not let us know it then, for Adelaide had said I thirsted for revenge. He has suffered much, my child, and you, I am sure, will sanction my forgiveness.”

It was in vain that Alice attempted to speak, so astonished was she at what she had heard, and, misinterpreting her silence, Mr. Huntington advanced toward her, saying, imploringly:

“Hear, me, young lady, and you will perhaps be willing to forgive.”

Then very rapidly he repeated in substance the story he had told her father, touching as lightly as possible on Adelaide’s duplicity, but still making the matter plain to Alice and clear to him, who, with clasped hands and wildly beating heart, listened breathlessly to the strange tale he heard. Richard Howland was undeceived at last, and the girl he had almost loved was revealed to him in her true character, as an artful, designing woman. The father, who he supposed was dead, stood there, a living, breathing man, identical, he was sure, with the agent of whom he had often heard, and, worse than all, the people against whom she had breathed her dark insinuations, were innocent of evil; the wrong was on the other side, and he had been her dupe; had even thought it possible to call that girl his wife. His wife! how he loathed the very idea now that he knew her guilt, and how his conscience smote him for having ever wronged in thought the helpless old blind man and his gentle, fair-haired daughter. They had suffered, too, from his neglect, but he could make amends for that, and his heart went out in pity toward Alice as he contrasted her former life with her present dreary lot. The party was forgotten, and while Adelaide, in a most impatient mood, watched each fresh arrival, he, for whom she watched in vain, smoothed the tumbled pillow, bathed the burning brow, or brought the cooling draught, and then spoke words of comfort to the weeping Alice, who read upon his face, and that of Mr. Huntington, a confirmation of her fears.

But not that night did Mr. Warren die, though the physician, for whom Mr. Huntington was sent, would give no hope. The disease had assumed a most alarming form, he said, and Mr. Howland’s hand rested pityingly on the bowed head of the young girl who was soon to be an orphan. The morning came, and then, as it was necessary for him to go home for a time, he left both father and child to the care of Mr. Huntington, promising to send down one of his domestics, and to return himself ere long.