Chapter XVIII: The Effects of Crime

GERTRUDE opened the door and walked quietly to the bed. There was a great change in Paul's appearance since the previous day. In dress and appurtenances he was a gentleman once more; and when the visitor remembered how fastidious he had formerly been in all matters pertaining to his person, she could well realize how much this would add to his comfort.

Pedro, a young Italian, was removing the small silver tray upon which the exquisite dishes of china had been placed; and Paul, hurriedly taking his napkin from his neck turned to the lady with a pleading earnestness which deeply moved her.

"I am glad to hear you are more comfortable," she said, smiling.

"Yes, I slept well." He kept his eyes on her face as if fascinated; not seeming to notice that the earnestness of his gaze brought the eloquent blood to her cheeks.

"What shall I call you?" he asked, softly. "I mean, have you changed your name?"

"Yes, I am Mrs. Wallingford now."

He sighed repeatedly, burying his emaciated features in his more emaciated hands.

"We will both forget the past," she said seriously. "You are a countryman; a stranger in a strange land; and we are friends, anxious to do you good."

"It's no use. I've given up trying long ago. The first temptation that came I was overcome."

"Does it tire you to talk?" she asked, with lively interest.

"Not so much as it comforts me to feel I have one friend near."

She motioned to Pedro, who was leaving the room, to remain, and drawing a chair to the bed, said tenderly:

"You have one Friend, Paul, who has never left you. It is He who caused our paths to cross; and who ordered this meeting. Have you never felt anxious to secure the blessings he can give you?"

She was astonished to witness the emotions this question excited. The poor man's breast heaved and fell; his face became agitated, till his features were almost convulsed.

"I thought my heart was dead long ago," he gasped, "dead and buried. It's no use to revive that old grief; I've tried hard enough to forget it."

"What do you mean? You say you gave up trying to do right. Did you rely on your own strength? Don't you remember how Dr. Gilbert used to tell us to seek help from above? There is a fountain from which we are allowed to draw freely."

"I'm too weak to talk much," was the weary answer. "I wish I could lie here forever and look out on the fleecy clouds."

"Would it tire you for me to read?"

"No; but you'll get the Bible; and it's no use. I'm past that long ago."

She took a small testament from the table, and turning to Luke xv, 7; read this verse, "I say unto you that, likewise, joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons which need no repentance."

Then turning to Pedro, she said in Italian; "See that your master has every attention. If he has any friend whom he wishes to see, send for him."

When she saw her brother she related what had passed, adding; "I wish I knew how his life had been spent during all these years. He refers to temptation and crime with a shudder, from which I hope conscience is not dead."

"I can tell you the general outline," was Mr. Wallingford's reply. "I passed an hour with him this morning, while Pedro was preparing his food; and he seemed relieved at being allowed to confess the depths of sin into which he had plunged."

"Has he formed any other tie?" she asked in some confusion.

"No, he says he could not legally. By our laws, though you are released from him, he is still bound to you."

"Edward. Is this true?" She shook from head to foot.

"A short time before he received the paper I forwarded," continued the gentleman; "he met a lady from New York who had frequently seen you in that city. Knowing nothing of the relation existing between you, she was enthusiastic in her praise, commenting warmly on your brilliancy in conversation, etc., etc.; adding that your beauty, grace, and accomplishments made you the centre of attraction wherever you went. Finding him greatly interested she went on to say that there were circumstances in your life connected with a lady, Miss Gilbert, who accompanied you into society which reflected greatly to your credit,—stating that you married when a mere child, but regretting your want of education had spent every possible moment in making up your deficiencies in the hope of keeping the respect, as well as affection of your husband, who was a professional man."

"Paul says when he heard all this, the scales fell from his eyes. When once they were opened, he wondered at his blindness; and nothing but the recollection of the shameful life he had led, kept him from returning to New York, throwing himself at your feet, confessing his crimes, and begging your forgiveness. While pride and affection, which had revived in full force, were struggling in his breast, he heard, first, by the printed report; and, afterwards through his sister Anna, that the law had made you free."

"This was the most terrible disappointment he ever experienced. It was followed by a sickness which carried him to the borders of the grave; and when he recovered, he plunged into every kind of vice, drinking and gambling until he often was on the verge of starvation. Do you remember rising from your couch one night soon after the death of dear little Rose, and kneeling by the bed when you thought your husband asleep, to pray for him? He could never forget those petitions; they haunted him whenever he attempted to sleep. He says he had treated you in the most cruel manner through all that trying scene; and that you bore it like a saint, never complaining, though often gazing mournfully in his face, but rendering good for evil continually. He told me your face, just as it looked the morning Rose died, was so continually before him that when he caught one glimpse of you at the door of the studio, he thought at first it was the vision in another form."

"The sight of us there so affected him, that he could scarcely stagger to the wretched garret he called home. He found out where we lived; and while we were searching in every part of the city for Paul Dudley, he, by the name of John Hastings, was lingering near our villa, waiting hours in the hope of one glance in your familiar face. He says you and I have passed him again and again, as he was seated near the gate, and that once he heard you say:

"Edward, there's that poor man again. I must throw him some money."

"Oh, brother what a terrible retribution for him! Since he remembered the prayer so well, did it do him any good?"

"I should think it only harrowed up his soul with remorse. Poor Paul; his has been a sad instance of total recklessness, resulting from want of religious principle."

"Did he seem pleased to come to us?"

"Not at all. At first he absolutely refused. 'I'm dying,' he said; 'and I'd rather end my days in quiet.' But when I insisted that I would not leave any countryman in such a state of destitution, he hesitated; and I took advantage of his weakness to send for a barber, and tailor and have him made ready to be moved."

"Will you please come with me?" inquired Pedro, knocking at the door.

Gertrude rose instantly, and followed the servant to his master's side.

His eyes looked wild; and he turned to his visitor almost fiercely.

"Are you alive?" he asked. "What makes you haunt me so? You and your dead baby; I can't bear it, and I wont."

"Paul," she murmured softly; for the first time putting her hand on his head.

He clutched eagerly at it; and was carrying it to his lips, when with a shriek he let it fall, gasping out:

"I forgot! I forgot!!"

The deep humility of his voice and tone touched her as nothing else had done.

Her eyes filled with tears of compassion as she gazed at his haggard countenance; when suddenly taking his hand from his eyes he observed traces of her emotion.

"May I ask one question?" he inquired.

"Certainly."

"When I am dead and buried will you forgive me?"

"I will forgive you now. I forgave you long ago, freely and fully, as I hope my Saviour has forgiven me."

"Say it again," said he, gasping. "It seems too strange to be real."

She repeated her words, adding; "God will forgive you, if you humbly ask him for the sake of his Son."

"No, you don't understand. Your brother will tell you I've lost all chance of being saved."

"'The Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.' If you had not sinned you would not have been under the law. Now you confess yourself a sinner too vile to enter heaven by your own merits. Christ offers to make atonement for you. He says, 'I have died the death of the cross to satisfy divine justice and reconcile you to your offended God. I have taken your sins, and now offer you my righteousness' Can you refuse such an offer?"

"If you knew how I'd spent these last years, you'd say it was impossible. But you've promised to forgive me; and I never knew you to say what you didn't mean. I never shall forgive myself. I never can. I'd give my right hand; both my hands, if I could forget how I broke all my promises to you; and after taking you away from your pleasant home trying to break your heart."

"I thought we were to forget all the past. I can truly say all is forgiven and forgotten. My only desire is to do you good. If you really wish to give me greater happiness than any thing else can give, submit yourself, with all your sins, to your Saviour. He will take care of you. His promise is sure. He says, I came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance!' You confess that remorse for the past has made your life very bitter. Pray God now to give you true penitence, 'that godly sorrow,' not for the consequences of your sin, but for sin itself, because it is displeasing to a holy God,—'which is not to be repented of.'"

She placed the Bible within his reach, repeated her command to Pedro to order whatever his master fancied in the way of food; and left the room.