After supper had been served, the guests retired to the grand salon. The entrancing tones of the music soon led couple after couple to dance to its rhythm, and the revelry ran high.
It struck twelve by the big church clock. Suddenly there flashed over the faces of the a.s.sembled guests, consternation and horror. The music stopped--the dancers seemed rooted to the floor. A sudden stillness, broken only by the echoing tones of the clock, or here and there a gasp of fear or an exclamation of surprise, hovered over all. In one instant the doors had been thrown open, and there on the threshold, clad in black, and with a countenance pale as death, stood George Acton.
If he had really returned from the grave, the fear and shock that his appearance caused could not have been greater.
All present felt a shudder pa.s.s over them, as they realized the certainty of his return. However courteous it would have been for them to have hidden their displeasure and to have extended their greetings to him, not one came forward. The loss of their fortune was too distasteful to them; the awakening from a happy dream, from a life of joyous forgetfulness of right and duty, to a life of hard work was too revolting for them. Mr. Bond had been obliged to seat himself to recover his strength. Some swooned and had to be carried out.
The n.o.ble George Acton had not for one moment thought that his entrance would have caused his relations such a shock. So he withdrew to another room. Then the questions were heard: "Do we sleep or dream? Was it really he, or was it an apparition?"
The heirs could not understand how George Acton, who was considered as dead by everyone, even by the courts, could have the audacity to live, and by his unexpected return to give them such a blow; but it came about in a very natural way.
George Acton had, on the night of the shipwreck, swung himself from the fast sinking vessel to a plank. Wind and waves soon carried him many miles. Then the storm had subsided and a gentle wind had arisen. He found himself very much exhausted, for it had taken all his strength to cling to the plank.
After a while he managed to seat himself upon the board. At dawn, all he could see on every side was water and sky. Completely drenched, and faint from hunger and cold, he pa.s.sed the day.
As the sun was beginning to sink, he felt that there was nothing for him but death. He raised his eyes to heaven and prayed silently. Suddenly, in the distance he saw the smoke-stacks of a ship, lighted by the rays of the declining sun. The ship came nearer and nearer. At last, he was spied by the captain and saved. His thanks to G.o.d and man for his rescue were as hearty as his prayers had been fervent. When George had been warmed and nourished, he begged the captain to land him at the nearest port.
The captain expressed his willingness to do all that lay in his power; but, said he, "This is an English warship. I dare not deviate one hair"s breadth from my appointed course. You will be obliged, unless we meet another vessel, to continue with us on the journey to St. Helena."
The ship reached its destination, and after a weary wait of several months, George was advised to take pa.s.sage on board a coaling steamer, then in port, and bound for Lisbon. "From there you can easily get to London," said the captain.
George accepted this good advice, but found himself in a very great dilemma. He, the son of a rich merchant, was, what he had never thought possible, without one penny. As he sat lost in thought, the captain aroused him and said: "What is it that troubles you?"
George looked up at him abashed, and said: "How can I make this trip when I am entirely penniless?"
"Is that all?" said the captain. "Well, I have provided for that."
Whereupon he counted out to the astonished George a good round sum of money. "Now all I want is a receipt."
"What?" cried George. "You intend to trust me, a person of whom you know so little, with this large amount of money! You know nothing of my circ.u.mstances, but what I have told you."
"I know your sentiments, your thoughts," said the captain, "and that is sufficient. I would willingly give you more, if I had it to give. But the amount will be sufficient to carry you to your destination. Were I not able to trust a boy like you, I should not want to deal with anyone.
Now perhaps you would not mind doing a little favor for me. When you arrive in London, please deliver this money to my old mother, who needs my help." George promised faithfully to carry out the captain"s wish.
On the morning of departure, George bade the captain and his crew farewell, and after a devious journey, he at last arrived in London. He hurried to the home of his father"s friend, at whose house he had so recently sojourned.
The merchant was speechless with astonishment when he recognized George, whom he had reckoned among the dead. But greater still was George"s grief and despair when he learned that his kind, loving father had pa.s.sed away.
Without further delay, he transacted the business which the captain had deputed to him, bought some clothing for himself, and sailed with the next steamer to Havre. From there he took the train to his native town, arriving late at night.
With a heavy heart, he walked through the streets to his father"s house.
He expected to find it quiet and gloomy, but the brightly illuminated windows were a painful sight. The joyous laughter and the music all wounded his saddened heart. He could not resist the temptation to present himself, unannounced, and end this wild revelry, this dreadful disrespect for the dead. So, it happened that he appeared on the threshold of the grand ball-room--an uninvited guest.
CHAPTER III
THE FLOWERING PLANT
On the following morning, George wended his way to the cemetery to visit his father"s grave. After wandering about for some time, he thought: "How strange it is that I can not find it." At last he met a worker there, to whom he said: "Friend, would you be so kind, as to direct me to the tomb-stone that marks the grave of the late Mr. Acton."
The old grave-digger thrust his spade into the newly, upturned sod, and said to George, whom he did not recognize, "Yes, I can show you the grave, but the tomb-stone is still missing. His heirs have set up no stone, and probably will never erect one. They have forgotten the good, n.o.ble old soul."
By this time, they had reached the grave, which was graced by a beautiful hydrangea, handsomer than any plant of its kind that George had ever seen. A ma.s.s of beautiful flowers crowded forward between the dark-green leaves and thousands of dew-drops hung on the plant and sparkled in the morning sun.
George stood there silent, with his hands clasped tightly before him, and his head bowed in grief, while the tears fell on the grave. The beauty of the plant was a little comfort to him.
After he had spent some moments thinking of his departed father, he turned to the grave-digger, and said: "Who planted this beautiful bush?"
"Oh, that good child, Lucy, the oldest daughter of Mr. Richmond who was the book-keeper for the late Mr. Acton, she planted it. She was very much concerned because it seemed as if the good man were never to have a tomb-stone.
""Oh, that we were rich" said she, "then he certainly should have the finest monument here in the church-yard. However, I will do what I can.
I will plant this bush and, though it be not costly like a monument, yet it represents no less in good intentions."
"She bought the bush last April and brought it here; and with the spade I loaned her, she dug the earth with her tender hands and set it here.
You see it is a long distance from yonder stream and yet, she brought the water that distance, to wet this plant whenever she visited the grave. She really felt grateful to Mr. Acton for his kindness to her father. All her people, too, loved him."
While George listened with interest to the grave-digger"s recital, a young man from the village happened along. He joined the group and admired the bush. After a pause, he added; "I, too, remember Mr. Acton, everyone speaks of his goodness. It would have been better for the old, honest Mr. Richmond and his children had Mr. Acton lived a little longer, for then, they would have suffered no want. Nor would Mr.
Richmond have been thrust out of business so shamelessly.
"As one misfortune seldom comes alone," continued the stranger, "so it happened that Mr. Richmond had put all his savings into Mr. Acton"s business, where he thought it would be well invested. The heirs accused him of falsifying the accounts and brought him to court. But the case was deferred, and put on the calender for some distant date. In the meantime Mr. Richmond lost his all.
"His daughter"s needle is now his only support, as Mr. Richmond"s failing sight keeps him unemployed. The other members of the family are too young to earn anything."
George had been deeply touched by these revelations. He picked a flower from the bush, and put it into his b.u.t.ton-hole. Then he slipped a golden coin into the old man"s hand, asked for the street and number of the humble house where the Richmonds now resided, and turned his steps in that direction.
CHAPTER IV
THE TWO FAMILIES
The report that George Acton had returned was the talk of the town and had reached the ears of the Richmond family in their out-of-the-way home. Mr. Richmond had gone forth in search of more facts on the subject. He returned highly elated, with the good news confirmed, and stood in the midst of his family relating it to them. Lucy stopped sewing and her hands dropped in her lap, for the news was such a wonderful surprise to her. Mr. Richmond closed his remarks by saying that he regretted his inability to find George Acton anywhere, and n.o.body seemed to know what had become of him. To search for him in the cemetery had not occurred to anyone.
Just then a knock at the door announced a visitor. The door was opened, and George stepped into their midst. Everyone was dumbfounded. The old Mr. Richmond ran forward and pressed him to his breast. Lucy and her brothers kissed his hands and wet them with their tears. "Oh, that your father were with us," was all Mr. Richmond could say.
George then seated himself and learned the history of his father"s last days. Mr. Richmond told everything as he remembered, and every eye was moist. He told, too, how rough, mean and cruel the heirs had been, particularly Mr. Bond.
Hours pa.s.sed like seconds to George, who listened breathlessly. He a.s.sured them of his good will and promised them soon to return and better their condition. He then left to make a few visits and to attend to some important business.
In the meantime, the affairs in Mr. Bond"s household were not very agreeable. Following the unfortunate feast and revelry, Mr. Bond and his wife and daughter had pa.s.sed the remainder of the night planning what they would do next.
"Nothing worse could have befallen me," said Mr. Bond, "than the return of this boy. I would rather that this house had tumbled in on us, and killed us all as we stood there. When I return my inheritance to George Acton, I become a beggar. What we have wasted, is twice as much as we ever had, and nothing will be left for us."
"Oh," said his wife, "then we must sell our jewels and our carriages, and I must again walk to the theatres, like other ordinary people. I shall never survive it!"