Incalculably selfish and corrupt, Well may man need a sacrifice divine To expiate infinity of sin. Few but a priest can know the fearful depth
Of human wickedness. At times I shrink Faint and amazed at what I have to learn: And then I wonder that the Saviour said His yoke is easy and his burden light.
Ah! how these very murmurs at my lot Show that not yet into my heart has crept That peace of God which passeth understanding! Among my hearers lately there has been
A lady all attention to my words: Thrice have I seen that she was deeply moved; And to confession yesterday she came. Let me here call her Harriet. She is
By education Protestant, but wavers, Feeling the ground beneath her insecure, And would be led unto the rock that is Higher than she. A valuable convert;
Not young; in feeble health; taxed for two millions; And she would found, out of her ample means, A home for orphans and neglected children. Heaven give me power to lead the stray one safe
Into the only fold; securing thus Aid for the church, salvation for herself! A summons took me to her house to-day. Her mother and her step-father compose
With Harriet the household. I refrain From putting real names on paper here. Let me then call the man's name, Denison; He's somewhat younger than his wife, a lady
Advanced in years, but her heart wholly set On the frivolities of fashion still. I see the situation at a glance: A mercenary marriage on the part
Of Denison, whose hungry eyes are fixed Upon the daughter's property; the mother Under his evil influence, and expecting The daughter to die soon, without a will,
Thus leaving all to them;— and Harriet Not quite so dull but she can penetrate Denison's motive and her mother's hope! A sad state for an invalid who feels
That any hour may be her last! To-day Harriet confessed; for she has been alarmed By some bad symptoms lately. As she urged it, I sent word to the bishop, and he came,
And she was formally confirmed, and taken Unto the bosom of the Church, and there May her poor toiling spirit find repose! Another summons! In the drawing-room,
Whom should I meet but Denison? His stare Had something vicious in it; but we bowed, And he remarked: “I hear that Harriet, Caught in your Catholic net, is turning saint.
No foul play, priest! She's not in a condition To make a will, or give away her money. Remember that, and do not waste your words.” My color rose, and the brute Adam in me
Would, uncontrolled, have surely knocked him down. But I cast off temptation, and replied: “Sir, I'm responsible to God, not man.” I left him, and passed on to Harriet.
I found her greatly moved; an interview She had been having with her mother caused The agitation. “Take me hence!” she cried; “I'll not remain another day or hour
Under this roof. I tell you, I'm not safe With these two, watching, dogging, maddening me.” She rang the bell, and to the servant said: “My carriage, and that quickly!” Then to me:
“I'll show them that I'm mistress of my fortune And of myself. Call on me in an hour At the Fifth Avenue Hotel, for there Henceforth I make my home.” And there
I called, as she had ordered, and we met In her own parlor. “What I wish,” said she, “Is to give all I have, without reserve, For the foundation that I've planned. I'll send
Directions to my lawyer, and the papers Shall be prepared at once.” — “Before you do it, Let me learn more of you and yours,” said I: “Who was your father?” Then, to my surprise,
I learnt that he was one whom I had met Some years before,— in his death-hour had met. “But you've a sister?” suddenly I asked. Surprised, she answered: “A half-sister — yes —
I've seen her only once; for many years I lived in Europe; she's in England now, And married happily. On three occasions I've sent her money.” — “Do you correspond?”
“Not often; here are letters from her, full Of thanks for all I've given her.” — “In your will Shall you remember her?” — “If you advise it.” “Then I advise a liberal bequest.
And now I must attend a sufferer Who waits my help.” — “Father, I would confess.” “Daughter, be quick: I listen.” Harriet Then gave a sad recital of a trial
And a divorce; and ( but reluctantly ) Told of a terrible suspicion, born Of a remark, dropped by a servant once, Concerning her unlikeness to her father:
But never could she wring a confirmation Of the distressing story from her mother. “Tell her,” said I, “you mean to leave your sister A handsome legacy.” She promised this.
Then saying I would call the following day, I hurried off to see poor Ellen Blount. A new surprise! There, by the patient's bed, I came on Linda, Harriet's half-sister!
( Reputed so, at least, but here's a doubt. ) I questioned her, and now am satisfied Treason and forgery have been at work, Defeating Harriet's sisterly intent;
Moreover, that the harrowing surmise, Waked by a servant's gossip overheard, Is, in all probability, the truth! And, if we so accept it, what can I
Advise but Harriet's complete surrender Of all her fortune to the real child And proper heir of Albert Percival? But ah!‘ tis now devoted to the Church!
Here's a divided duty; I must lay The case before a higher power than mine. I've had a long discussion with the bishop. I placed before him all the facts, beginning
With those of my own presence at the death Of Linda's parents; of her father's letter Received that day, communicating news Of Kenrick's large bequest; the father's effort
In dying to convey in legal form To his child Linda all this property; The failure of the effort; his decease, And all I knew of subsequent events.
And the good bishop, after careful thought, Replied: “Some way the mother must be brought To full confession. Of her guilt no doubt!” I told him I had charged it on the daughter
To tell her mother of the legacy Designed for Linda; this, perchance, might wring Confession from the guilty one. He seemed To think it not unlikely, and remarked:
“When that is got, there's but a single course For you to urge on Harriet; for, my son, I need not tell a Christian gentleman, Not to say priest, that this peculiar case
We must decide precisely as we would If the Church had in it no interest: Let Harriet at once give up, convey, Not bequeathe merely, all she has to Linda.
Till she does this, her soul will be in peril; When she does this, she shall be made the ward Of Holy Church, and cared for to the end.” I kissed his hand and left. How his high thoughts
Poured round my path a flood of light divine! Why did I hesitate, since he could make The path of duty so directly clear! Harriet's intimation to her mother
That she should leave a good part of her wealth To her half-sister brought things to a crisis. To-day my visit found the two together: Harriet, in an agony of tears,
Cried to me, as I entered,— “‘ Tis all true! God! She confesses it — confesses it! Confesses, too, she never sent the money, And that the letters were all forgeries!
And thinks, by this confession, to secure My fortune to herself! Ah! Can this woman Be, then, my mother?” Hereupon the woman,
Crimson with rage at being thus exposed, Exclaimed, “Unnatural daughter —” But before Her wrath could vent itself, she, with a groan, Fell in convulsions. Medical assistance
Was had at once. Then Denison came in, Aghast at what had happened; for he knew His wife's estate was all in lands and houses, And would, if she should die, be Harriet's,
Since the old lady superstitiously Had still put off the making of a will. All help was vain, and drugs were powerless. Paralysis had struck the heated brain,
Driving from mortal hold the consciousness: It reappeared not in one outward sign, And before midnight life had left the clay. Meek and submissive as a little child
Is Harriet now; she has no will but that The Church imposes as the will divine. “Your fortune, nearly doubled by this death, Must all,” said I, “be now conveyed to Linda.”
“Let it be done,” she cried, “before I sleep!” And it was done to-night — securely done,— I being Linda's representative. To-morrow I must take her the good news.
After the storm, the rainbow, child of light! Such the transition, as I pass to Linda! I found her hard at work upon a picture. With wonder at Heaven's ways she heard my news.
Shocked at the tragic death, she did not hide Her satisfaction at the tardy act Bringing the restitution of her own. Three things she asked; one was that I would place
At once a certain person in possession Of a large sum, not letting him find out From whom it came; another was to have This great change in her fortunes kept a secret
As long as she might wish; the third and last Was that she might be privileged to wait On Harriet with a sister's loving care. All which I promised readily should be,
So far as my poor human will could order. Said Linda then: “Tell Harriet, her scheme For others’ welfare shall not wholly fail; That in your hands I'll place a sum sufficient
To plant the germ at least of what she planned.” I've taken my last look of Harriet: She died in Linda's arms, and comforted With all the Church could give of heavenly hope.
Slowly and imperceptibly does Time Work out the dreadful problem of our sins! Not often do we see it solved as here In plain results which he who runs may read.
Not always is the sinner's punishment Shown in this world. May the Eternal Mercy Cleanse us from secret faults, nor, while we mark Another's foulness, blind us to our own!
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