Chapter THE LAST

A few weeks had elapsed, and a small group were gathered one evening at Harson's fireside. It was composed of three persons beside Harson. The first was a man of about fifty; he might have been younger; and the heavy wrinkles which were scored across his forehead may have been the fruit of trouble and care, for they were almost too deep for his years; his mouth was firmly compressed, like that of one in the habit of mastering strong feelings; and the whole character of his face would have been stern, but for his dark, gray eye, which at times brightened up almost to childish playfulness. This was Mr. Colton, the father of Harson's protege, Annie. The child herself was seated on Harson's knee, sound asleep, with her head resting on his breast. The only other person in the group was the wife of Mr. Colton. She was quite young, and had once possessed great beauty--the beauty of youth and happiness; but that was gone, and in its place was the patient look of one who had suffered much, and in silence. She spoke seldom, and in a low tone, so soft and musical that one regretted when the voice ceased.

'Your letter,' said Mr. Colton, in continuation of a previous conversation, 'put an end to all my plans respecting my poor niece. I had hoped to assist her; for knowing her father's hostility to her, I feared that she might be in want. Her death was a very melancholy one.'

He looked in the fire in deep thought, and for a short time a silence ensued which no one seemed inclined to break.

'I never saw her,' said his wife, after some moments; 'I think _you_ did.'

'Yes, once--at the trial,' replied he, uttering the last words with an effort, as if the subject were painful. 'She was very beautiful.'

'Did she resemble her father?' inquired Mrs. Colton.

'Perhaps I can settle that question more easily than any one,' said Harson, rising up, 'by letting you judge for yourself.'

He went to a small curtain which hung against the wall, and drawing it aside, disclosed a portrait of Rust's daughter--the same which Rust had brooded over with such mingled emotions on the night previous to the murder. The same childlike, innocent smile, played round the small, dimpled mouth; the same calm, thoughtful expression of intellect mingled with gentleness, shone out of the eyes. All was as it was when father and child last looked upon it--the criminal and her accuser. Every line was unaltered; but where were they? DUST! They had acted their part on earth; their love, their hate, their fears, their remorse, were past. The tide of time was hurrying on, bringing life and death, and hopes and fears to others, but sweeping from the earth all trace of their footsteps. To them forever, aye even until the last trump, time and thought, and care and feeling, had no existence!

Mrs. Colton's eyes filled with tears as she gazed upon the picture. 'She deserved a happier fate,' said she, in a subdued tone, as if she feared to disturb the spell which seemed to hang about it.

'It was ordained for the best,' replied Harson, in a grave tone, as he regarded the portrait with a kind of solemn interest. Then, after a moment, he added: 'That _was_ her, before want and suffering had laid their iron finger upon her. When I saw her, she was dead. She was very beautiful even then; but in the short time that had elapsed since her father's imprisonment, the work of years had been performed; she seemed much older and thinner, and more care-worn.'

'How did you get this?' inquired Mr. Colton, pointing to the picture.

'A friend of mine, the person who aided the girl in her last moments, accidentally learned that it was for sale, and begged me to buy it. He was too poor to do it, and I was willing to gratify him; and so the picture became mine.'

Mr. Colton looked at him for a few moments, as if on the point of making some remark, and then walked to the other end of the room and took a seat without a word. He was aroused by the child climbing on his knee, and putting her arms about his neck.

'God protect you, my child!' said he, laying his hand affectionately on her head; 'may you never know the misery which has fallen upon that poor girl!'

The words were intended to be inaudible, but they reached the ear of his wife, who going up to him, and laying her hand on his arm, said in a low voice: 'Come, come, George, do not give way to these feelings. You must not be gloomy.'

He looked at her sadly, and then placing his finger on his heart, said: 'Is not what has been going on here, for years, enough to wither to the root every feeling of cheerfulness, so that it should never again put forth a blossom?'

'Hush! hush!' interrupted his wife, in a whisper; 'if you _have_ suffered, you have gained at last what you have always prayed for; while _he_, the one who caused it all, has paid the penalty of his misdeeds. Remember what his fate was.' She pointed to the picture: 'Remember too, the fate of his only child. George, George! his punishment has been terrible, even in _this_ world!'

'You are right, Mary--GOD forgive me! I'll think of it no more. _He_ and I were nursed in the same arms, and watched by the same fond mother. From the bottom of my heart I forgive him. It would be sacrilege to her memory, for me to harbor an unkind feeling toward even a stranger, if she had loved him.'

He was silent for a moment, and then addressing Harson, enquired:

'Who is this Mr. Kornicker?'

'A poor fellow, with little to help him through the world but careless habits and a good heart.'

'What character does he bear?' inquired the other.

'Such as might be expected from his position,' replied Harson; 'full of flaws, but with a vein of gold running through it. Nature has given him fine feelings, and fortune, unluckily, has placed him in a situation where such feelings are impediments rather than otherwise. But he is a noble fellow for all that.'

'Where can he be found?' asked his guest.

Harson probably anticipated the object of this inquiry, for he said with a laugh:

'He has been taken care of; he has been placed where the means of livelihood and competence are in his grasp, if he will but work for them. And what is better yet, he seems disposed to do so, although not much can be expected of him at first. I do not think,' added he, 'that it contributes to the happiness of a young man, with a long life before him, to be altogether idle. I will do all that I can to help him; but he must work. It will be more easy for him as he gets used to the traces.'

The stranger acquiesced in this remark, and then added: 'I will take his address, nevertheless, for I must see him when I return to the city, which will be very shortly; but you seem to have anticipated me in every thing. Even the lawyer, Mr. Holmes, declined to be paid for his services. He said that _this_ was not strictly a business matter, and that what he had done was out of friendship for you, and that I had better pocket the fee and drop the subject; at the same time, he said he was going to dinner, and asked me to join him, which I did, and a very pleasant time we had of it.'

A good-natured laugh was indulged at the peculiarities of the old lawyer, and many stories told of him, and of others who have figured in this history. Nor was it until the little clock over the mantel-piece seemed to give a very vehement wag of its pendulum as it struck twelve, and Spite, who had been asleep in the corner, bounced up, alarmed at the lateness of the night, and barked vociferously, that they dreamed of going to bed.

The strangers were Harson's guests that night; and the old man, having escorted them to their room, and wished them good night, was himself soon in bed and asleep.

Bright and early the next morning, they were astir; for they were to leave the city, and Harson was up and ready to see them off. It was a fine morning; the trees were just beginning to put forth their spring leaves, and the grass in the public squares was looking quite fresh and green, as they drove down to the wharf, where the steamer lay, whizzing and puffing, and groaning as if in mortal pain, and tugging at its cable like some shackled sea-monster struggling to escape to its home in the deep. Early as it was, crowds were hurrying to and fro; carts driving up and unloading; porters staggering along with trunks and bales on their shoulders; carriages dashing up at a gallop, filled with people afraid of being too late, and going off more leisurely after the passengers were deposited on the wharf. People were bustling hither and thither, elbowing their way to one place, merely to find out where to elbow it to the next; friends were bidding each other adieu; and in particular, a stout lady from the country, in yellow ribbons, from the upper part of the boat was sending a confidential message to her family and friends by a gentleman who stood in the crowd some sixty yards off.

Through this throng the coach containing our friends drove, and just in good time, for as they stepped on board, the last bell rang.

'All aboard!' shouted the captain; 'take in the plank.'

Harson shook hands with his friends. 'God bless thee, my child!' said he, pressing Annie in his arms. The next moment he stepped on shore; and the boat glided from the dock, and shot out upon the green water.

'Ah, Annie!' said the old man, as he stopped waving his hand, and turned away from the river, 'I had hoped that you would have been mine own as long as I lived; but it's all right as it is. Your brother,' added he, 'I did not miss much, when his parents took him, but _you_ had become a part of my home. Well, well!'

No doubt there was a great deal of hidden consolation in these last words; for Harson's face soon recovered its usual cheerful character, and he steadily trudged toward his home.

A few words respecting the other characters, and our task is ended.

Grosket was induced by Mr. Colton to remove to the country, where an intercourse with different and better men than those with whom he had hitherto associated tended in a great measure to soften his character, and temper his fierce passions--the offspring of persecution and suffering.

Mrs. Blossom, at first alarmed by the fear of the law, grew penitent and rigorous in the discharge of her moral obligations to society; but the Law being a notorious sleepy-head, and never appearing to have its eyes open, she gradually fell into her old habits, reoepened her 'seminary for lambs;' and from the great quantity of her disciples which frequent the thoroughfares of the city at present, I should judge is getting along prosperously. Mr. Snork was extremely desirous of becoming a partner in the concern, and made several overtures to that effect, which might have been accepted by the lady, had he not objected to being deprived of his eye-sight, and seated at a corner to receive pennies from passers-by. It was in vain that the lady represented to him that this would be the making of their respective fortunes; that blind beggars, particularly if they were remarkably disgusting, as was the case with him, had been known to retire with handsome fortunes, and that some of them even bought snug little farms in the country, and kept a horse and 'shay.' Mr. Snork however, was obstinate; his proposals were accordingly rejected, and he returned disconsolately to his abode, which was now lonely, his wife having paid a visit to the penitentiary, for the benefit of the country air.

The widow, Mrs. Chowles, still lives in her quiet, blinking little house, as cheerful and contented as ever; as happy as ever to hear Harry's heavy step, and to see his honest face in his old corner in her parlor; and although he is no longer accompanied by Spite, who has grown old and rheumatic, so that he is unable to stir from the chimney-corner, where he passes his time in crabbed solitude, except when he turns up his dim eyes to his old master, as he hears his voice, and feels his caressing hand on his head: all else is as it was in that little household; and that it may long continue, is our warmest wish.