PS 
 
 3505 
 
 .L23 
 
 M356 
 
 1908 
 
• • • TTtiG « • • 
 
 Major's Story 
 
 BY 
 
 ANNIE M. L. CLARK 
 
George Washington Flon&jers-" ^ 
 Memorial Collection <r *-? ~ ' 
 
 DUKE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 ESTABLISHED BY THE 
 FAMILY OF 
 COLONEL FLOWERS 
 
THE MAJOR'S STORY 
 
 By ANNIE M. L. CLARK 
 
 Author of "The Alcotts in Harvard," "Olive Loring's 
 Mission," "Elias Sawyer of the Nashawog 
 Plantation," Etc., Etc. 
 
 " Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, 
 And man below, and saints above : 
 For love is heaven, and heaven is love." 
 
 LANCASTER, MASS., U. S. A. 
 Printed for the Autror by The W. J. Coulter Press, 
 Glinton, Massachusetts. 
 1908 
 
CftX 
 
 to the beloved friends of the lancaster current 
 Topics Club, and The Clinton Literature Class, 
 this little story is most gratefully and affection- 
 ately dedicated, by the author 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 IT is often said that 4 'Truth is stranger than fiction," 
 a saying verified in the following story of real life, 
 in which the seemingly most improbable incidents are 
 the really true ones. 
 
 All the persons concerned in the tale have passed on, 
 so no one will be troubled at the telling, and the Major 
 shall tell the story himself. 
 
Digitized 
 
 1 by 
 
 the Internet 
 
 Archive 
 
 
 
 
 in 2015 
 
 
 
 https://archive.org/details/nriajorsstory01clar 
 
The Major's Story 
 
 It was morning in New Orleans, that 
 city of perpetual summer; birds were sing- 
 ing as if their very existence depended upon 
 filling the air with melody ; the chorus led 
 by that pollyglot of all the feathered song- 
 sters, the mocking-bird. 
 
 Roses ran riot everywhere — camelias 
 and jasmines, magnolias and olives, orange 
 blooms and oleanders, each gave its quota 
 of beauty and fragrance, while thousands 
 upon thousands of wall -flowers added their 
 subtle, seductive sweetness to the already 
 heavily laden breezes. 
 
 It was not very long after the protracted 
 investment of Vicksburg had ended in a 
 surrender, and in company with several of 
 my fellow officers, I was spending part of 
 
8 
 
 my welcome and much needed furlough in 
 the Crescent City, making my headquarters 
 at the old St. Charles Hotel, which brought 
 me in easy distance to the places of most 
 interest. 
 
 Among the pleasant acquaintances I 
 made at the hotel was a Mr. Allan from 
 Chicago, a man of middle age, who with his 
 son, a lad of perhaps seventeen, was spend- 
 ing a short time in the city, partly for busi- 
 ness and partly for pleasure. He was a 
 manufacturer of machinery, and evidently 
 a man of means. 
 
 On this particular morning he had asked 
 me to take a stroll with him, and reaching 
 Chartres Street we had stopped to look at 
 the beautiful cathedral of St. Louis, and 
 the curious old court houses, built by the 
 Spaniards when Louisiana was a Spanish 
 province, and quaintly Moorish in their 
 style of architecture. 
 
 The great clock of the cathedral struck 
 nine, and passing on down St. Anne Street, 
 past the Pontalba Buildings, their iron ver- 
 
9 
 
 andas thickly hung with blooming vines, 
 we turned into the square and walked on 
 past the Jackson statue, Mr. Allan remark- 
 ing as we neared it, u Clark Mills achieved 
 a triumph when he made that ; you know 
 it is said to be the first statue ever made of 
 a horse in the act of rearing." 
 
 Reaching a seat shaded by an immense 
 magnolia, covered with its wax- like blos- 
 soms, my companion said, "I had a purpose 
 in asking you to walk with me this morn- 
 ing; will you sit here with me and let me 
 tell you about it?" 
 
 "With pleasure," I answered, inwardly 
 puzzled at the seriousness of his manner. 
 
 For a little while he was silent as though 
 loath to begin, but at last with evident effort 
 he said : 4 'Twenty -five years ago I graduated 
 from Harvard, and having no taste for either 
 law, medicine or the ministry, I decided to 
 become a practical machinist, and having 
 some cousins in this city, I concluded to 
 come here. I should have said my home 
 was in Ohio, and I hardly realized the con- 
 
10 
 
 ditions here which made my plan a some- 
 what unwise one. I had not however the 
 pronounced ideas in regard to slavery I now 
 have, and had I left love alone, even the 
 fact that I was a Northener might not have 
 proved a great obstacle to my success. 
 
 "One of the wealthiest citizens of the city 
 was a haughty aristocrat of French descent, 
 Alphonse Gordon, and my ill fate led me to 
 fall desperately in love with his only daugh- 
 ter, one of the very loveliest girls I ever 
 saw. I met her at an evening party to 
 which my cousin took me soon after my 
 arrival, and I felt my fate was sealed. I 
 well knew how unwise it was for me to think 
 of asking the lovely heiress of so much 
 wealth, and within whose veins flowed the 
 bluest blood New Orleans could boast, to 
 share the fortunes of one like me, whose 
 life for years must be one of effort; but 
 when was a youth in love wise 0 ? And I 
 surely had a good excuse, for Louise Gordon 
 was beautiful enough to turn the head of a 
 wiser man than I was. It so happened that 
 
11 
 
 we were often thrown into each other's 
 society, and it was not long before I told 
 her of my love and received the assur- 
 ance that she returned it in full measure. 
 We were very soon convinced that her 
 father disapproved of our acquaintance, but 
 foolishly yielding to what we both knew to 
 be a false hope, that if we were really mar- 
 ried, he would forgive us. and urged on by 
 our impetuous love, we went one evening 
 to a little chapel in the outskirts of the 
 city and were married. 
 
 "From Mrs. Gordon's manner, half 
 frightened, half affectionate. I feel sure 
 Louise must have told her what we had 
 done, and for a little while we enjoyed a 
 sort of fearful happiness, while we waited 
 for a favorable time to divulge our secret, 
 but that time never came. 
 
 "One day several weeks after we were 
 wedded I met Mr. Gordon on the street; he 
 stopped, and with a look which seemed a 
 little short of fiendish, said very curtly. 'It 
 seems to me it will be the best thing for 
 
12 
 
 your health to go North ; New Orleans is 
 likely to have a bad effect upon you.' I 
 knew instantly what that meant, it was a 
 threat, and a deadly one, and having no de- 
 sire to die just then, I concluded it was best 
 to hasten my departure. I wanted to see 
 my wife before leaving the city, but I found 
 all my efforts to do so frustrated, and at 
 last, after a twice repeated threatening let- 
 ter from Mr. Gordon, I was forced to leave 
 without either seeing or hearing from her. 
 Day after day I wrote to her, assuring her 
 of my undying affection, and asking her to 
 love and trust me till such a time when she 
 could join me in a Northern home; but I 
 never received one word of reply, and to 
 this day I have never heard directly .from 
 her. My relatives did not know of our mar- 
 riage, so I was somewhat guarded in my 
 enquiries of them, but they did write that 
 Louise had been very ill, then that she was 
 better ; after that her name was never men - 
 tioned, and as letters passed very infre- 
 quently between us I was soon left in total 
 
13 
 
 ignorance of anything that might have hap- 
 pened. 
 
 u Sometimes I thought I would go back 
 and endeavor to effect a reconciliation with 
 her father, and win his consent to take her 
 home with me, but I well knew this plan 
 was hopeless, and soon gave it up. 
 
 U I subscribed for the New Orleans Pica- 
 yune, hoping in its pages I might see some 
 mention of the Grordon family, and not long 
 after my return North I read an account of 
 a duel in which Mr. Grordon killed his an- 
 tagonist, a young German who had made 
 some outspoken remarks against slavery. 
 Public opinion upheld Mr. Grordon, and I 
 saw clearly what my own fate would be if 
 I placed myself in his power. Sometimes 
 I called my fear cowardly, and was ready to 
 risk everything to gain my wife, and I don't 
 know what desperate thing I might have 
 attempted had I not read in the Picayune 
 the death of Louise Gordon, at the age of 
 nineteen, and although my Louise was a 
 year older than this, I put it down as a 
 
14 
 
 newspaper mistake and felt no doubt that 
 my wife was dead. I had told none of my 
 relatives of my marriage, and up to this day 
 I have never mentioned the subject, and 
 five years after I returned North I married 
 again, a young lady of Chicago, where I had 
 located myself in business. 
 
 "To -day I have been startled out of this 
 belief in Louise's death, and I have great 
 need of help and advice ; there is something 
 about you which leads me to trust you ; will 
 you be my friend?" 
 
 I silently held out my hand ; the sadness 
 of the story, the pathetic way in which it 
 was told, robbed me of the power of speech. 
 He pressed my hand warmly and went on : 
 "I am convinced she is not dead, and am 
 sure I have seen her. I went yesterday to 
 the cemetery just out of the city to see about 
 a monument I have been commissioned to 
 have erected over the grave of a cousin who 
 formerly lived here, and whose daughter 
 was not able to come herself to see about it. 
 In my rambles about the grounds I found a 
 
15 
 
 tall shaft to the memory of Alphonse Gor- 
 don, his wife and two sons, but no mention 
 made of Louise. Indeed, the four graves 
 seemed to be all there were in the enclosure. 
 This puzzled me, and when on my return 
 to the city I met a middle-aged lady with 
 just such glorious dark eyes as Louise had, 
 the feeling grew to a certainty that she was 
 yet alive, and that I had seen her." 
 
 "But," I interrupted, "in this land of 
 dark -eyed loveliness, eyes could not be 
 much of a proof ; was there nothing else 
 for you to base your belief upon?" 
 
 He hesitated. "Nothing tangible, a 
 something plain to me, but nothing I could 
 make clear to any one else. But I must be 
 sure about it, and I want you should help 
 me; I want you should find out who the 
 lady I saw is." 
 
 "How can I," I exclaimed, "when I 
 don't know where she lives ? Indeed I do 
 not know a single lady in the city excepting 
 those I have met at the hotel. If you only 
 knew where she lives it would be different/ ' 
 
10 
 
 u Oh ! but I do know ; I followed her and 
 saw where she evidently lived ; it is," he 
 continued, after consulting his note-book, 
 u 116 St. Louis Street, and I want you to go 
 and see her for me." 
 
 "But what excuse can I make for thus 
 intruding on a perfect stranger'?" 
 
 "Why, if she proves to be Louise, just 
 tell her as much of what I have told you as 
 you please, and if I am mistaken you can 
 surely think of something to say. But I 
 must hnotv; the horror of the thought so 
 possesses me I can neither eat nor sleep." 
 
 For a little while we sat in silence, then 
 I said, "I will go, but I cannot go alone; 
 Colonel Bent, who is better acquainted here 
 than I am, will go with me I am sure, and 
 if so we will go this morning." 
 
 After a little further talk, I went to find 
 the colonel, who readily consented to ac- 
 company me, and we started, leaving Mr. 
 Allan at the hotel to await our return. I 
 can't say I felt very happy at the prospect 
 of this interview with a stranger under such 
 
17 
 
 peculiar circumstances, but Colonel Bent 
 looked upon it as what he called u a regular 
 lark," and rather troubled me with his un- 
 seemly jokes. 
 
 We easily found the house, a queer, 
 rambling old mansion, covered with flower- 
 ing vines, and set back in a lovely garden, 
 where fragrance and beauty, sunshine and 
 shade, and the cool drip of water as it fell 
 into a marble basin, and then from the 
 overflow sped away in a tiny brook, united 
 in making a charming picture. 
 
 A pretty quadroon girl answered my ring, 
 and when I asked for Miss Gordon, and 
 then for Mrs. Allan, told me most em- 
 phatically that no such persons lived there. 
 I was turning away when a sweet voice 
 called, u Ask the gentlemen in, Letty, I will 
 be down in a minute." 
 
 So we were ushered into a pleasant sit- 
 ting-room, where we were soon joined by 
 a lovely woman of evidently some forty -five 
 years, who looked the surprise she must 
 have felt when I asked, "Am I addressing 
 
18 
 
 Mrs. Allan?" There was a most pathetic 
 quiver in her voice as she answered, "That 
 was once my name; I am now Mrs. Lans- 
 downe. I do not recognize you." "No," I 
 said, "you never saw me before," and then 
 as briefly as possible I told the object of my 
 mission, adding, "and now will you tell me 
 something about yourself, as my friend will 
 be anxious to hear." 
 
 Her lips quivered as she answered, "I 
 am a widow ; ten years after Richard went 
 away, when for all that time not a syllable 
 from him had ever reached me, my father 
 insisted that I should apply for a divorce, — 
 he had been obliged to own my marriage, 
 because of the birth of my son, — and a year 
 later I married Mr. Lansdowne, a friend 
 from childhood, who knew my sad story ; 
 he died five years later, and my father a few 
 months afterwards — my brothers and moth- 
 er had all died years before — and it was 
 only after my father's death that I learned 
 how I had been deceived about Richard. 
 Evidently he had written to me many times. 
 
19 
 
 I found in my father's desk several letters, 
 which he had failed to destroy, and from 
 them I could not but see that there must 
 have been many more. But it was too late 
 for me to make any attempt to find out any- 
 thing about Richard, even if I had known 
 where to address him." 
 
 "And the notice of your death — was that 
 to deceive Mr. Allan?" 
 
 "Oh, that was my cousin ; Richard never 
 saw her. She came back from Paris just 
 after he went away, and so of course he 
 knew nothing about her." 
 
 "Have you children?" I asked. 
 
 "Only one, Richard's son, whose name 
 is also Richard. He is now in the army at 
 Richmond; but when can I see Richard? 
 This all seems like a strange dream." 
 
 Then it was arranged that Mr. Allan 
 should call during the late afternoon, and I 
 went back to the St. Charles to tell the re- 
 sult of my call. Of course Mr. Allan was 
 anxiously looking for me, and when to end 
 my story I told him of his son, a soldier in 
 
20 
 
 the rebel army, his surprise and excitement 
 were almost beyond bounds, and over and 
 over again he exclaimed, "My son, my son, 
 I must have him." 
 
 At his request I went with Mr. Allan to 
 make the call arranged for, but strolled 
 about the lovely garden while the so long 
 separated pair had a long and what must 
 have been a painfully sweet interview. 
 When they parted it was in silence, but on 
 our way back to the hotel Mr. Allan con- 
 fided to me his plans. 
 
 "I shall," he said, "try to get my son 
 discharged from the army. I think I will 
 write a letter to President Lincoln, telling 
 him the whole story and asking him to write 
 to Jefferson Davis at Richmond, appealing 
 to him as one kind heart to another, in view 
 of the unusual circumstances, to send my 
 son back to his mother. Louise says if 
 such a letter can be procured, she will her- 
 self take it to Richmond, if she can be 
 promised safe conduct. Then if she is suc- 
 cessful I shall take him home with me." 
 
21 
 
 "And rob her of her only comfort!" I 
 could not help the remark for my heart had 
 gone out to the sweet woman who had borne 
 so many sorrows. " She wishes it so," he 
 answered. "She tells me that though free 
 from pain the doctors have told her, — and 
 she has consulted the best specialists, — that 
 she can hardly live a year, and it will re- 
 move her last cause for anxiety if he is with 
 me." 
 
 So the letter was written to that great- 
 hearted friend of all sorrowful ones, and in 
 due time an answer was received, and then 
 preparations were quickly made for Mrs. 
 Lansdowne to start on her mission. 
 
 We all know the stories of the make- 
 shifts resorted to by our Southern sisters, 
 to supply the lack of many things we con- 
 sider requisite for every -day comfort, and 
 when it was learned that Mrs. Lansdowne 
 was going to Richmond, many were the 
 little packages she was asked to carry ; even 
 her travelling cloak, a quite unneedful gar- 
 ment, the weather was so warm, was made 
 
22 
 
 of a fine piece of army grey, with a cape 
 almost as long as the cloak itself, and cut 
 into as little as possible, really containing 
 cloth enough for a full suit, and which was 
 merely a consignment from a New Orleans 
 wife to her husband in Richmond. 
 
 As soon as possible she started under 
 convoy of a flag of truce, and then the weary 
 days of waiting began. To while away the 
 time Mr. Allan proposed a trip to Cuba, 
 which invitation I was glad to accept as I was 
 still so much of an invalid as to be unable to 
 take up my duties in the army again. Mr. 
 Allan was frightfully nervous, and I could 
 see his thoughts were much concerned with 
 his wife to whom he had written the strange 
 story, and the question could not but be 
 constantly with him as to how she would 
 bear it. Harold, the son, seemed to think 
 that it would be u great fun," as he expressed 
 it, to have a brother, but his light-hearted 
 nonsense must have been somewhat of a 
 trial to his anxious father. 
 
 Mr. Allan had been married several 
 
23 
 
 years before Louise procured her divorce, 
 and now the question of the legality of Ms 
 marriage stared him in the face ; this was 
 a serious matter, and he knew how it must 
 be troubling his wife. 
 
 We came back to New Orleans the day 
 before Mrs. Lansdowne reached home, and 
 my friend scarcely ate or slept, and when 
 the summons came for him to go and meet 
 his son he was so overcome he begged me 
 to go with him. 
 
 Of course Harold accompanied us, and it 
 seemed as if his presence saved the inter- 
 view from being utterly pathetic. He was 
 a happy soul, and the idea of having a 
 brother had so appealed to him, he was all 
 ready with a hearty welcome. Mrs. Lans- 
 downe was delighted with him, and he fell 
 an immediate prey to her charms of manner, 
 so there was less stiffness than one might 
 have feared. The older son was much like 
 his mother in face, but with little tricks in 
 smile and manner that reminded one con- 
 stantly of Mr. Allan. He treated his mother 
 
24 
 
 with a pretty mixture of tender gallantry 
 and loving reverence very pleasant to see. 
 
 All the little group tried hard to be 
 cheerful, but it was inevitable that to the 
 older ones there must be an under- current 
 of sadness. 
 
 Mr. Allan delayed his departure for 
 home to first hear from his wife in relation 
 to the strange, sad tale he had written to 
 her, and one day he came to my room with 
 an open letter in his hand, which he handed 
 to me with the remark, "This is really too 
 sacred for any eyes but my own, but you 
 have known so much about this whole sor- 
 rowful affair, I want you should read it, and 
 see what an angel I have for a wife ; ' ' and 
 I read until my eyes were well-nigh blinded 
 with tears. 
 
 "My dear, dear husband: 
 
 "How sorry I am for you, and at the 
 same time how glad I am ; sorry for all the 
 pain and regret you have had to endure, and 
 must still endure, and glad that you have 
 found another son, and you may be sure I 
 will give him a mother's welcome. But 0, 
 
25 
 
 Richard, have I really any right to say even 
 this? Am I really your wife? We were 
 married when your Louise was certainly 
 your wife, and if so, what am I? I don't 
 blame you, but I feel so disgraced I can 
 hardly think; and then our children, what 
 will their standing be ? I can't bear to think 
 of their having to bear any disgrace for this 
 unintentional mistake. It can't really be 
 called a sin, can it? We thought we were 
 doing right, but what shall we do now? 
 Sometimes it seems as if my heart would 
 break; I want to see you, and yet I don't 
 know as I have any right to my place in 
 your home. I can hardly wait to see you, 
 and I dread it too, for I cannot help but 
 think that maybe the old love for your first 
 wife may be stronger than you feel for me, 
 and if I have never truly been your wife 
 then you could marry her and be happy. 
 Your happiness is more to me than my own, 
 and if you love her best I will go away if it 
 breaks my heart. O, come soon and let me 
 know the worst, for I cannot bear this sus- 
 pense much longer. I must stop, for the 
 more I write the more frantic and perplexed 
 I am. 
 
 "Yours forever, no matter what comes, 
 
 \ 'Fannie." 
 
 I laid down the letter with my whole 
 heart throbbing with sympathy for the poor 
 
26 
 
 woman thus suddenly overwhelmed with so 
 strange a calamity, and turning to my com- 
 panion asked what certainly was a very 
 foolish question, "What will you do? I 
 have never thought of the matter in this 
 aspect before, and to Mrs. Allan there alone 
 - it must be truly awful." 
 
 The light that rilled my friend's face was 
 beautiful to see, as he replied, 4 'What will 
 I do? Why, I shall go home as soon as I 
 possibly can, and love her to the end of our 
 lives here, and after that I believe to all 
 eternity. I shall consult the best authority 
 when I get home, and if it is thought wisest 
 I shall be remarried privately, so as to make 
 as little talk as possible. I have no feeling 
 toward Mrs. Lansdowne other than a tender 
 sympathy, and something the same feeling 
 we have towards the loved and gone before ; 
 nor do I think she feels otherwise towards 
 me. She has told me how tenderly attached 
 she was to Mr. Lansdowne, and I think she 
 cherishes his memory as the sweetest part 
 of her life. Even her son seems to occupy 
 
27 
 
 the second place in her affections. Fannie 
 is the love of my mature manhood ; she sat - 
 isfies every wish of my heart. I hope you 
 will sometime see what a well-nigh perfect 
 woman she is. But now I must go and 
 allay her fears as well as I can by a tele- 
 gram." 
 
 Two days later the little party started 
 for Chicago, and for the remainder of the 
 time I staid in the city — a little over a week 
 — I made a point of calling each day on Mrs. 
 Lansdowne. as she seemed to desire to have 
 me do so. She was less sad than I feared 
 she would be; she was at ease about her 
 son. and the mystery and doubt which had 
 so overshadowed her youth had all been 
 cleared away, she was at peace with all men. 
 and her clays were devoted to doing good to 
 those who stood in need of aid. More than 
 once she spoke of her probable nearness to 
 the other life, never with sadness, but with 
 a serene trust and steadfast hope of a 
 blessed hereafter. And so I bade her fare- 
 well, to see her no more on earth. 
 
28 
 
 Mr. Allan asked me to stop on my way 
 North and spend a few days with him at his 
 Chicago home, an invitation I was very glad 
 to accept. I found his wife all he had 
 painted her, one of the loveliest women I 
 ever saw. He told me it was thought best 
 that they should be remarried, all the more 
 that the story had leaked out, as it could 
 not help but do in consequence of the pres- 
 ence of the new son, and it had been 
 arranged that the ceremony should take 
 place on the evening of my arrival. It was 
 a solemn as well as a pathetic scene — the 
 husband and wife of some twenty years' 
 tender affection, again pledging their troth, 
 with their children beside them. It seemed 
 to me a particularly holy hour. I have 
 often heard mention made of the indescrib- 
 able look of trust and sweetness that illu- 
 mines a young bride's face when she stands 
 at the altar, but no young bride ever wore a 
 more lovely expression than did Mrs. Allan. 
 
 As the years went by I was often a guest 
 in my friend's beautiful home, and I never 
 
29 
 
 entirely lost the feeling that of all those con- 
 cerned in this tragic story, Mrs. Allan bore 
 for a time the heaviest cross. 
 
 Mrs. Lansdowne passed quietly away a 
 few months after we bade her farewell, and 
 her son found in his new home a true moth - 
 er's affection. Then came a series of be- 
 reavements, which at last left him alone of 
 all the family. Mr. Allan died suddenly of 
 apoplexy, and when the next morning 
 dawned, his devoted wife was found kneel- 
 ing beside him, her head resting on his 
 pulseless bosom, dead also. 
 
 The only daughter died a year later, and 
 soon afterwards the younger son was killed 
 in a railroad accident, so Richard, who had 
 inherited his mother's great wealth, also 
 became possessed of all his father had left. 
 He had married an heiress, beautiful in face 
 and character, and for a few years all went 
 well, and during the few visits I made them 
 I thought their home-life beyond criticism. 
 Two children blessed their union, and it 
 seemed as if there was nothing to mar the 
 bliss of this truly happy home. 
 
30 
 
 Then there came whispers of unfaithful- 
 ness to his lovely wife, and of his wasting 
 time and means on unworthy companions, 
 and later of gambling and reckless betting. 
 Soon these whispers proved undoubted cer- 
 tainties. Then one of the lovely children, 
 a little boy of seven, died after a brief illness, 
 and the mother was alone through her 
 hours of agonized anxiety and distress, 
 while he who should have been her support 
 and shared her cares and sorrow, was be- 
 yond reach, having gone on a long cruise 
 with some of the vile companions who were 
 fast accomplishing his ruin. Alone she 
 watched beside her darling's bed of suffer- 
 ing; alone she saw him draw his last flut- 
 tering breath ; alone she laid the precious 
 little form in the grave, and alone she went 
 back to her desolate home. She wrote to 
 me in her anguish, and I reached her as 
 soon as I possibly could . She was well - nigh 
 heart-broken, and the future seemed to hold 
 no ray of light. "What shall I do?" was 
 the question she asked again and again. 
 
31 
 
 I staid with her until her husband came 
 home, and his grief at the loss of his child 
 and the sight of his wife's great sorrow, 
 seemed for a time to have a softening and 
 sobering effect upon him, and I could not 
 but hope he would conquer his evils and be 
 the noble man he was capable of being, but 
 my hopes were in vain ; he was soon worse 
 than ever. 
 
 At the time of their marriage all her 
 large fortune had been unreservedly placed 
 in his hands, and it soon became evident 
 that he was fast squandering it, and at the 
 same time it was almost impossible for her 
 to obtain the money needed for the expenses 
 of the family. No appeal from her availed 
 anything, and at last want threatened to 
 stare her in the face. 
 
 In the bright happy days of the past, she 
 had often amused herself and her intimate 
 friends by writing and reading short sketches 
 of home life, full of quiet sweetness, and 
 now without much hope of their being ac - 
 cepted, she sent some of them to the editor 
 
32 
 
 of a popular magazine, and to her grateful 
 surprise they were accepted and well paid 
 for, thus taking away the fear of immediate 
 want, and bringing to her the hope of future 
 success with her pen, a hope which was 
 verified, for her welcome to the world of 
 readers was phenomenal, and the new 
 friends she made were warm ones. At the 
 time when want had the most nearly con- 
 fronted her, she had sold some of her jew- 
 els, and left Chicago for New York, and 
 with what she was earning from her writ- 
 ings, was living very comfortably there with 
 her little girl. 
 
 It was soon known that the reckless 
 husband had squandered away their united 
 fortunes, and now with the loss of wealth 
 came also the desertion of the false friends 
 who had robbed him of his money and his 
 manhood, and he began to cause his poor 
 wife much trouble and mortification. He 
 did not hesitate to apply to her for money, 
 seemingly dead to all sense of honor. 
 Rather than have the disgrace of his pres- 
 
33 
 
 ence, for he was almost always under the 
 influence of liquor, she several times gave 
 him money on condition that he went away ; 
 but she knew it would be impossible for 
 her to continue to do so, and having an 
 opportunity offered her of going abroad with 
 an elderly lady who wished a companion, 
 she concluded to do so, begging of me as 
 she bade me "Good -bye/' to see if I could 
 not influence her husband to a better life. 
 
 I promised her I would do all I could for 
 him, and meeting him on the street the day 
 after she had sailed. I invited him to go on 
 a little excursion with me into the country, 
 although I must confess I was ashamed to 
 be seen in his company. It was a quiet, 
 lovely place to which I took him. and night 
 and day for two months I watched over him. 
 and kept him from temptation of every sort. 
 After the first fortnight he was ready to use 
 what little self-control he had, and second 
 my efforts in his behalf. At the end of the 
 two months he was in a fair way to become 
 again the lovable man of his earlier days. 
 
34 
 
 and to still further strengthen his powers of 
 resolution, he decided to place himself in 
 the care of a physician who had a small 
 hospital located in the village in which we 
 had been staying, and stay there until he 
 felt sure he could stand alone. The evils 
 arising from his wicked self-indulgence 
 were brought plainly before him, the grief 
 and shame he had caused his lovely wife, 
 and her faithfulness in refusing to apply for 
 the divorce she might easily have gained, 
 were all brought plainly before him, as well 
 as his need of strength from heaven if he 
 would really conquer his evils, and it was 
 pitiful to see the thorough abasement of the 
 once proud man. . 
 
 Some of the true friends who had known 
 and loved his father, and had watched his 
 career with pain, rallied to his aid, and it 
 was found a little could be saved from the 
 wreck of his fortunes; and so encouraged 
 and upheld till he could stand alone, he 
 struggled on, and at last stood once more 
 erect and in his right mind. 
 
35 
 
 In the meantime Mrs. Allan had not only 
 found her duties as a companion pleasant, 
 but had gained a standing as a writer, and 
 life was tranquil if not happy. We encour- 
 aged her by the tidings of her husband's 
 efforts for reformation, but I do not think 
 she realized the full extent of what was 
 being accomplished. The lady with whom 
 she went abroad died, and so she decided to 
 return home. It was now autumn and Mr. 
 Allan, who had started in business the pre- 
 vious May with a safe partner, was anxious 
 to have a home ready in which to welcome 
 her. Of course it was far from being as 
 fine in its appointments as their former 
 one, but it was comfortable and pleasant, 
 and with the aid of some of his father's 
 friends he had been able to secure some of 
 the treasures from the old home, those he 
 knew she prized the most. 
 
 Her letters betrayed her dread of the 
 home-coming, much as she desired to come, 
 and as for Richard he was almost beside 
 himself, but never more manly and lovable. 
 
36 
 
 I did not feel at all sure how she would 
 meet him, for she was a very proud woman, 
 and he had wounded her heart to its inmost 
 depths ; but I could not but hope all would 
 end well. 
 
 He had chosen to go into business in the 
 city where was my home, so, as he said, he 
 could come to me for comfort and advice, 
 and the home he had made ready was near 
 mine. When the time came for the steamer 
 to arrive he accompanied me to New York ; 
 but I could see he shrank from a public 
 meeting. u Iwill stay here," he said; u she 
 may not be glad to see me," and so I left 
 him at the hotel, and went alone to the 
 wharf. Perhaps I looked too anxious, for 
 he smiled as he said earnestly, "Don't 
 worry about me, I shall be helped whatever 
 comes; I've learned to lean on a mightier 
 arm than my own." 
 
 I had never seen Mrs. Allan look more 
 lovely than when she came down the gang- 
 plank, and when she glanced behind me as 
 if expecting some one else, the look of dis- 
 
37 
 
 appointment that crept over her face told 
 me that all our hopes would be realized. I 
 longed to speak a word of encouragement, 
 but my lips were sealed, and during the 
 gathering together of her baggage, the in- 
 terview with the custom officers, and the 
 driving to the hotel, the conversation was 
 never once allowed to flag. 
 
 I explained that we would go to the hotel 
 until the hour for the train we were to take, 
 as she could rest better there, and she asked 
 no questions. As we approached the door 
 of the room where I knew her husband was, 
 my heart almost stood still with the intens- 
 ity of my feelings. I opened the door, and 
 when she caught sight of her husband, his 
 face all aglow with the love and hope which 
 filled his heart, with a low cry of joy she 
 was in his arms. I softly closed the door; 
 the scene was too holy for mortal eyes. The 
 journey home was very pleasant, and the 
 new home opened its doors to welcome 
 hearts whose gladness was beyond the 
 telling. 
 
38 
 
 Years have passed since that day, and 
 the home that was then consecrated has 
 become the center of an ever -increasing 
 and uplifting helpfulness to the tempted, 
 the sorrowful and the seeker after holiness.