Chapter XXII: A Letter From Australia

JOHN had not moved from his easy-chair by the study-fire, where we just now left him. His thoughts were wandering far-away, perhaps; or he might have been cogitating a new chapter in the particular work on which he had been some time engaged. Whatever the subject of his meditations, they had been so engrossing that his fire had dwindled down to a handful of embers, and he had been oblivious of the postman's horn-blast and ring.

From these meditations, he was suddenly roused by the entrance of his wife, in such a state of agitation that even he, absorbed as he was, took alarm.

"My dear love, what is the matter? What has happened?" he exclaimed, hastily looking up, and glancing first at Sarah's pale face, then at her white linen apron, and lastly at an open letter she held in the hand which bore traces of its late interesting occupation.

"John Tincroft, did I ever deceive you?" said poor Sarah, with a great sob.

"My darling, no. Who ever thought of such a thing? Who has been saying or writing anything to distress you, Sarah?"

"Did I ever have a letter from anybody, and you know nothing about it, John?" she demanded, plaintively.

"I am quite sure you never did," replied John, gallantly venturing an assertion which, undoubtedly, he had no means of confirming or proving.

"They told me, John, when I—when you—when you and I went to church together, that I was only deceiving you—at least, some of them did; and that I shouldn't be a true wife to you."

"Whoever told you so, told a great falsehood," said John, warmly. "No truer wife than you ever lived; and if I were you, I wouldn't think about such rubbish."

"But I can't help it sometimes, John, though I don't talk about it to vex you, for I know I haven't been everything that another might have been to you. I couldn't, John; but you have had the best I had to give." And here again poor Sarah moaned sadly.

"I am sure of it, Sarah; and I have never asked for more. But why do you bring this up? And why do you stand there when I am keeping my seat, like a stupid clown as I am? And, bless me, if the fire isn't all but out too! I declare forgot all about it."

So saying, John sprang from his chair, and gallantly taking his wife's unoccupied hand, gently led her to it.

"Do sit down, my dear; you do not often honour me with your presence in this dull room."

And thus gently constrained, Sarah took the seat, still holding in her hand the open letter.

Then the wakened-up husband placed a billet or two of wood on his expiring fire, and coaxed it to a cheerful blaze before he again spoke.

All this time Sarah was sobbing out her griefs—whatever they were—and declaring (a very fertile theme of complaining with her) how badly she had been treated by Uncle Matthew and her aunt, and Elizabeth, in times gone by.

"So you were, my darling," John acquiesced, as he ceased blowing the fire with the breath of his mouth, in which operation the wood smoke had puffed out into his face end half-blinded him. "So you were," said he, drawing another chair to the fireside, and seating himself. "But why do you trouble about it? That's all past and gone, years ago. Or—" and then he caught sight again of the open letter Sarah held in her hand—"or, has any one of them been writing to you?"

"No, no; worse than that, John. He has been writing to me; he, his very self. Oh, why can't he let me alone?"

"Do you mean that that letter is from your cousin in Australia, my dear?"

"Yes, that is what it is."

"Well, my pretty, I don't know why he should not write to you. He writes no harm, does he? He is a married man, you know. He does not ask you to run away from your own husband, does he, love?" asked John, gravely, but not without a gleam of humour, perhaps, on his countenance.

"How should I know what he writes?" cried Sarah, piteously.

"Have you not read the letter, then?" Tincroft asked, wonderingly.

"Read it! Read it! No, I should think not, John. You don't think I could ever be so wicked, John, as to read a letter from him, do you?"

"I am not sure it would have been wicked; indeed, I am sure it would not have been," said the husband, soothingly. "But if you have not read it, how do you know it is from your cousin?" he asked.

"As if I didn't know his writing!" said poor weeping Sarah, adding, "though it is so long since I saw any of it. But I did look at the beginning and end; and it says, 'My dear cousin Sarah' at the top, and 'Your affectionate cousin, Walter Wilson,' at the bottom; and that is how I know it. But I didn't read another word, John, indeed I didn't," said she, very earnestly. "And I have brought it for you to read, or to put in the fire, just which you please, John."

"I think we had better read it before we burn it, at all events," he gravely replied, as he held out his hand for the suspected treasonable epistle.

"Don't read it out loud, please, if there is anything in it that I shouldn't hear," said the frightened wife, as she gave it to him.

"Oh, certainly not," said the husband, smiling.

And then he commenced reading the first page of the letter, while Sarah sat with her eyes directed to his, ready, as it seemed, like a timid bird, to take wing on the first symptoms of displeasure or alarm.

But no such symptoms appeared, only that John's usually quiet and sedate countenance gradually became sorrowful, and at last his eyes had tears in them ready to start.

"Oh, John, what is it?" exclaimed Sarah, forgetting that she had not wanted to hear a word of the letter.

Before answering the question, John read on to the end, then he turned to Sarah.

"Your cousin is in great trouble," he said.

"Trouble?"

"Yes; listen. I will read the letter:"

"'My dear cousin Sarah,—It is so long since I heard anything about you, that I am not at all sure of this reaching you, for I do not even know whether you are yet living. I never have letters from England now, since Ralph Burgess and his sister went to America, three years ago.'"

("This is the first we have heard of this," quoth John, in a parenthesis; and then he resumed reading):

"'For I never hear from home.'"

("Which is a great pity—" in another parenthesis).

"'Hoping, however, that you still live and are happy, I take up my
pen to do what ought to have done long and long ago.'"

"'Dear Sarah, I write first of all humbly to ask you to forgive me all the wrong I did you so many years ago. You knew partly how it was, but not all that was said. But I don't blame anybody so much as myself. I used you cruelly, shamefully, Sarah; and now I am made to feel it, now my great trouble is on me. And I ask you again for your forgiveness. Not but what it has been better for you, I make no doubt; for I know you got a good—'"

("I think I had better not read the next line or two, my dear," said John, looking up from the letter; so he skipped that part, and went on again).

"'And I have to ask Mr. Tincroft's pardon too, which I ought to have done long ago, for the way I treated him. He didn't deserve it; but I was blinded with obstinacy and jealousy, and didn't know what I did. And I know now, and have long known—'"

("Well, never mind that part; it is only a little that he may have heard, somehow or other, about me, my dear," said John, once more looking up. All this time Sarah had silently listened; but now she sobbed quickly, "If it is anything good he writes about you, John, it can't be too strong; for you have always been a good, kind husband, I know." "As far as I have known how, I have tried to be," said John, softly; "but I would rather leave that out," and he then proceeded):

"'I daresay'" (continued the letter) "'you have heard—but perhaps not—that after I came out here—a good bit after—I married a young person I met with. Her name was Helen; and my life from that time became a very happy one, for I loved my wife very dearly; and she gave all her love to me.'" (Here a deep sigh escaped from Sarah.) "'And we lived together all through many years, God prospering me in His providence, until—until God saw fit to take my Helen from me three months ago.'"

("Poor Walter!" whispered Sarah, softening.)

"'This is the great trouble I mentioned; and since then my life has been a blank to me, or it would be, only I have a daughter whom I dearly love. She is about fifteen years old, and I am troubled about her. For I feel I have not long to live. The doctors out here tell me I have had a mortal disease hanging over me for years and years, and that it has laid hold of me all the sooner because of my fretting about my poor dear Helen who is gone. I am in a hopeless decline, they say; and I feel it to be true. I am worn away to a shadow of what I was; and they tell me if I want to prolong my life, even for a few months, I must have a sea-voyage, and get to my native climate.'"

"'My dear cousin, I would not care to prolong my life, even for a single day, if it were not for my poor young Helen (for that is my daughter's name, named after her mother). If it wasn't for her, I seem as if I could have done with this world to-morrow. But I am bound to care for my poor motherless girl. And if she were left here, all alone and unprotected, it would be bad for her. So, as soon as I heard what the doctors said, I made up my mind what to do. I have sold my small property here to a person who knows how to manage it, and I mean to take passage home for my Helen and myself by next month's mail ship. It may be that I shall not live to reach England; but if I don't, I have left my affairs in proper order, so that there will not be any trouble about them. There will be enough for poor Helen after I am gone.'"

"'Now, my dear cousin,'" John went on reading, after a little pause, "'I have done a very bold thing. I have put in my will, and the instructions to my London lawyer, that your husband, Mr. Tincroft, is to be my sole executor, and my daughter's guardian, if he will be so kind as to undertake all the trouble for one who used him, and you too, so badly as I did. I know his goodness. I know more of it than you would think, Sarah; and there isn't anybody in the world I would so soon have as Mr. Tincroft and you for my poor Helen's friend.'"

("Oh, John, does Walter Wilson say that?" said Sarah, interrupting the reading.)

"Yes; and he goes on to say that, trusting to our being willing to befriend his Helen, he intends to give directions, in case of his not living through the voyage, that notice shall be sent to us when the ship comes in, so that his daughter may have friends to take care of her and do the best for her. And he says that if he should reach England himself, he will write to us directly he gets to London. That's all, Sarah. No, not quite; for he writes down the name of the ship they are coming by. It is the Sea Bird."

"There, my wife, that is your cousin's letter," said John, when he had finished reading it. "There is no harm in it, you see, though there is a good deal of trouble."

"Poor Walter!" sobbed Sarah. "But, John, you wouldn't like that trouble put upon you—and you with all your books to write, that keep you so busy always; besides—"

"My books may go to the bottom of the Red Sea, for anything I care," quoth John, with unwonted alacrity.

"Oh, John, John! And you so fond of writing!"

"I won't write another line," said John, heroically, "while there is anything better to do. And there is something better to do now, Sarah; we must get our best rooms ready for your cousin and his dear girl; and we must look out for the Sea Bird, and go and meet them when it comes in; and we must make them come down here, and get Walter strong again if we can. And if he hasn't got money enough to set him up in a farm, why, I must help him; and there, I think that's all I have to say about it just now."

"But, John, dear John!" remonstrated Sarah.

"Why, isn't it what you would like to be done?" said he.

"But think how he used you, John, when you were trying to help him out of his troubles once," said she. "You can't have forgotten," Sarah added, "how he used you then."

"I shall never forget that I have had you to love and cherish ever since then, my dear," said John, gallantly.

And then, fairly broken down, poor Sarah, with a thrill of joy she had not felt for a long time, fairly broke out into a childlike cry,—

"Oh, John! I love you, I love you; I do love you, and only you!"

And then, in the midst of their newly-found happiness, came a sharp tap at the study door, with a—

"Please, ma'am, it is two o'clock, and there's that pie-crust on the board as you left it."