Samantha in Europe by Marietta Holley - HTML preview

CHAPTER XL.

“GOOD-NIGHT, LITTLE PARDNER.”

Wall, that night after the funeral I wuz called down into the parlor to see a stranger—a good deal devolved on me in that awful time; I kep’ calm, or tried to, and that calmness wuz like a paneky to ’em round me, and they didn’t see the tumult of pity and grief that wuz a-goin’ on inside of my heart onbeknown to ’em.

I went down into the hall, and there I found a handsome, noble-lookin’ young man, whose face wuz so white with anguish and dread that I knew before he spoke who he wuz, and sez I right out the first thing, a-holdin’ out both my hands—

“Alice is better.”

He grasped holt of my hands as if he wouldn’t never let go.

Sez he, “God bless you for saying that!” He wouldn’t go into the parlor, nor set down, or nothin’. But it got to be my stiddy practice to go down into that hall two or three times a day to gin him news, and as the news grew brighter every day, jest so his face grew brighter, till it got luminous with joy and gratitude the day I told him that Alice wuz out of danger.

Wall, there come a day, long to be remembered, when Martin sent for me. I wuz the first one he asked to see. He couldn’t talk much, and I jest grasped his hand and sez—

“I have been prayin’ for you, Martin.”

“I knew it,” he whispered, “I knew you would.”

And that wuz about all I could say. But I spoze he felt the pity and sympathy that oozed out of my sperit onbeknown to me as I looked down onto that broken-hearted man, and he seemed to like to have me round his room.

Wall, it wuz weeks before I could go home, Josiah a-bearin’ up nobly, aided by Philury, and a-bravely eatin’ pancakes in her hours of too burdened haste, and a-writin’ to me to stay if I could be of any comfort to ’em.

Noble man that he is, though small boneded I am proud of him—a good deal of the time I am.

Wall, there come a time when Martin, a-settin’ up in his study and a-lookin’ over his papers, sent for me, and spoke to me for the first time of Adrian.

He didn’t cry. His speechless grief wuz beyend that relief, but he gin me to understand that his life wuz a blank to him now.

Sez I, “Martin, remember that Alice is left to you—you have one child left.”

“Yes,” sez he, “but I want my boy!!” and he busted right out into tears, and buried his face in his hands.

HE BUSTED OUT INTO TEARS AND BURIED HIS FACE IN HIS HANDS.

Sez I, “Martin, do you remember what the dear little boy said—he wuz a-goin’ to be your pardner?”

He groaned, “Why do you speak of that? Do you want to kill me?”

“I want to help you, Martin.”

“Do you ever think that Adrian can be your pardner now, better than he ever could if he wuz on earth—as much better as the glorified sperit is above our common humanity?”

But agin he groaned out, “I want my boy!”

“It is hard, Martin,” sez I, a-layin’ my hand on his bowed-down shoulders.

“It is hard to know that the sweet little voice is silent on earth, but he can hear you—he is a-hearin’ you this minute; he hears the language of your sperit as you vow to ondo the past so fur as you can—to go on in the futer and work for the poor, as he wanted to.

“You can’t go agin these strong desires of your little pardner, Martin—you’ve got to hear to ’em. He is your pardner now jest as much as he ever wuz, and more, only he has gone over the deep waters into another country to tend to the interests of the firm there. It is a country where the Right is always done, where things that are wrong here are made right—he will help you, Martin. He wanted to work for the poor; why not let him?”

He lifted his white face, tears a-streamin’ down it, but as my meanin’ dawned on him his mean grew a little mite brighter.

Sez I, “He is a-workin’ now for ’em.” Sez I, “I see in the new look in your eyes the divine work of your pardner.

“He is helpin’ you this minute to think softer thoughts. He is helpin’ you to remember that you are to spend your money and his—for you told him that it belonged to you both equally—in helpin’ the poor, in helpin’ to surround their lives with safeguards,” sez I, a-wantin’ to strike while the iron wuz hot.

“You are a-goin’ to git some fenders right off, Martin.”

“Order five hundred of them right off—send for a thousand of them.”

“No,” sez I, “Martin, be megum. You’ve got to be megum in fenders as well as any other goodness. Why order a thousand fenders for one hundred cars?

“But,” sez I, “Martin, I will send for ’em.” And I did, that very day, not knowin’ but he would be some like Pharaoh, and his heart would be hardened before night. I told his secretary within a hour, and he ordered ’em before sundown on my word. Oh, they think high on me—all on ’em! He dassent refuse to take my orders.

But I’d no need to have worried—no, indeed! I felt ashamed to think I had let my mind sally back to that old Egyptian Pharaoh.

Martin’s repentance didn’t prove to be short-lived and evanescent—no, indeed!

He divided his property equally between himself and his little pardner. He invested his pardner’s money to the best of his knowledge, and every cent of the interest of that money, and it is a immense sum—millions of dollars. He uses it only as the steward of his pardner. It all goes to help the poor—to try to defend ’em from dangers, temporal and speritual, from want, and from the worst of all dangers—Ignorance and Crime.

Dear little Silent Pardner! I wonder if you know it? I wonder if, when grateful hearts rise in prayer, callin’ you the saviour of their lives and happiness—I wonder if them prayers and grateful thoughts bloom out in some divine way, as they reach the Heavenly country, so you can see the desire of your little heart, and know that it is granted?

Are you ever permitted to come down in the stillness of a Summer evenin’ and stand clost by the side of that white-haired old man, who grew old so fast after you left him, whose heart yearns for you, and who is a-tryin’ so faithfully to carry out his little pardner’s wishes? He sez that sometimes he feels that you are so near to him that he almost expects to see your face blossom out of the dark, like the evenin’ star out of the misty twilight. And so he can live, he sez.

Did you stand in the church when Alice wuz married to the man she loved? A ray of gold light shone out sudden and luminous and lit her sweet face as she took her solemn vows.

Wuz it you, little Pardner? wuz the joy and glory in your face permitted to shine for a moment on the one you loved, in the supreme hour of her life?

We can’t tell this, little Adrian, but we see your work goin’ on from day to day, and we bless you for it.

We see it in the safety and protection thrown around the masses, protectin’ ’em from physical and moral ills; in the great free school which bears your name; in the Adrian Home, where sick and poor children find a home and tender care; in the University, where your picter hangs over the doorway—a doorway where any poor, ignorant boy may enter, and go out a scholar; in the large, plain church, whose best ornament is the stained-glass winder bearin’ your name in gold letters, where a pure Christianity is taught to all, rich and poor, and the Blessed Master is brought near to sad lives by the anointed lips of consecrated genius—where rich and poor worship the God man together. The poor givin’ their strength and good-will, the rich givin’ their wealth and learnin’, and so becomin’ a strong bulwark, protectin’ society from the high flood of undisciplined passions—Ignorance and Crime.

Do you see it all, little Pardner? Sometimes I think you do.

I am writin’ this at the open winder you looked out of as you sed you would work for the poor.

And as I think how you have worked for ’em, and are still a-workin’, my heart is as full of the thought of you, little Adrian, as the voyalets you loved are filled with their strong, onseen perfume.

And as I set askin’ these questions, the twilight shades are fallin’, the evenin’ star shines bright above the golden west.

And wuz that the odor of English voyalets that swep’ by the open winder on the night breeze? There’s a bed of ’em down in the garden. Did the soft breeze come from that way—or further off?

But I stop and lean out of the winder and say—

“Good-night, little Adrian—good-night, little Pardner—till mornin’.”

And wuz that a soft, fur-off echo, or wuz it my own thoughts that repeated—“Till mornin’”?

FINIS.