The agent looked puzzled for a minute, but as the bill was a good one, and other pa.s.sengers were waiting, he picked out a ticket, stamped it, and thrust it out under the gla.s.s, with the remark:
"Take the train that leaves from the other side of the middle platform."
Mr. Bright folded the ticket without looking at it, and taking "Dodd"s"
arm, started for the train, which was already waiting. As they went along, "Dodd" said:
"Let me see where I am going to, please!"
"Not now," returned his guide, and they boarded the train.
The conductor came in presently, and to him Mr. Bright spoke in a subdued tone.
"Here is a ticket for this young man," he said. "I want you to take it, and see to it that he reaches the destination that this piece of paper calls for. Don"t ask me what that is. Don"t let me know. But take the ticket, and do as I ask."
The official looked wise for a minute, then took the ticket and pa.s.sed on.
"Dodd" and Mr. Bright sat in the same seat in the car till the train was ready to go. Not much was said; for the time of words was not then. But just as the bell rang for leaving, the elder man took the hand of the younger, and clasped it almost pa.s.sionately. The eyes of the two met. "Dodd" remembered the day when they walked to school together, hand in hand.
"My boy," whispered Mr. Bright, "if ever the time comes when you can stand on your own feet, let me hear from you and know of your success; but if you continue in the old way, let the world be as a grave to you, so far as I am concerned; and never let me hear from you again. But,"
he added, as he turned away, "I faintly trust the larger hope." And without another word he left the car. He went directly home. It was many a year before he referred again to that day.
There was a hissing of pent-up air as the engineer tried the brakes before moving out his train, then a slow motion of starting, then away and away.
"Dodd" Weaver sank back in his seat, and pulled his cap over his eyes.
He did not cast one lingering look behind. Indeed, what had he to care for, in all that great city?
"I faintly trust the larger hope," repeated "Dodd" to himself, as the train rushed along. He remembered the day when they had read the lines in the reading cla.s.s of Mr. Bright"s school.
CHAPTER XXIII.
On a Christmas morning, ten years after the scenes recounted in the last chapter, Mr. Bright was surprised to receive a letter addressed in "Dodd"s" well known characters. He broke the seal without comment, wondering what story of destiny he held in his hand. A thrill of joy suffused him as, on unfolding the sheets of the bulky ma.n.u.script, a bill of exchange fell upon the table. It was the most favorable sign he could have desired. It augured all that followed.
[Remark (as reads the foot-note in Scott"s bible): The first sign of regeneration in a man who has been a dead-beat is the payment of his honest debts.]
Mr. Bright opened the letter and read as follows:
New York City, December 22, 188--
Mr. Charles Bright.
Dear Sir:--Enclosed I hand you exchange, payable to your order, to the amount of $237.45, the sum due you for money advanced to me years ago, with legal interest on the same. Respectfully, D. W. Weaver.
This was the first page of the epistle, brief, business-like, and to the point. But having thus entered a voucher for his manhood, and, as it were, won the right to speak further, on the second page there was a continuation as follows:
Beloved Teacher:
What precedes will tell you where I am. You told me the last time I saw you, that if ever I redeemed myself, you would be glad to hear from me. I believe you, and hence I write.
I can never commit to paper all that I have to say to you; words spoken face to face can only tell what is in my heart; but neither the written nor the spoken word can convey to you a t.i.the of the grat.i.tude I feel for all that you have done for me.
As I look back I can hardly understand how you ever bore with me as you did, with me who abused you to such unbounded lengths. Nevertheless, the more I fail to understand this, the more thankful I am to you.
I am sure you will care to know something of my career in the past ten years, and I briefly relate the princ.i.p.al items of interest.
And first, let me say, I have entirely quit the use of liquor. From the day when you left me in the car, limp as a whipped dog, to this very hour, I have not tasted intoxicating drink. I mention this first, because a breaking away from that habit was the first step toward a better life. Had I not stopped there, short off, I know that all hope of further reformation would have been vain. A drunkard has nothing, absolutely nothing, on which to build a new life, so long as he continues to be a slave to drink.
But with the abandonment of this vice, I began to change my other habits, and by degrees I have gained a mastery over them. It has been a long, hard fight, and I am well aware that there are battles yet to be waged; but I have reached the point where I have ceased to be afraid of myself--of my baser nature. As Cardinal Wolsey says to Cromwell: "I know myself now." You remember we used to read the lines out of the old reader when I went to school to you at Emburg.
I cannot tell you how much I thank G.o.d for the help that has come to me. But I am forced to say that you are ent.i.tled to almost equal thanks. And, indeed, as I review the past, I know that without you, even the G.o.d of heaven could not have received the grat.i.tude I now give Him. For you were the means by which I was lead to a point where I could receive His aid. It is you, therefore, my benefactor and my n.o.ble friend, whom I have first to thank. I say this in simple justice to you, who bore with me so long and patiently, and who remained faithful to me when it seemed to me you were terribly unjust and cruel.
But to my history:
When you left me on the train, I cared next to nothing as to what became of me. I don"t believe I should have lifted a finger to save my life had the train been wrecked. I would not deliberately take my own life, but if it could have been taken from me I should have given it up without a regret. I cared not for man, and as for G.o.d, I neither feared such a being nor believed in his existence.
But your words stung me like burning lances. They were true, every one of them, and the "Other Fellow"--indeed, I have not forgotten him, nor has he forgotten me, and for this I have to thank you, also,--took them up and kept saying them over to me, as I rolled along to my destination, which as yet I did not know. I tried to be rid of them, but it was useless. The truth had been told me for once in my life, and I saw myself as I really was. It was not an inviting sight, but it is one I should have been forced to see, long before.
I reached the end of my journey, a place which, as you would not know its name then, it is perhaps well that you should never know. I had no money, and I was hungry. Ordinarily, I should have struck some one for a loan, but your words rang in my ears, and I would not do it. I applied for a job of work that I knew I could do. I got it, and did it as well as I knew how to. I hide my face even now, for very shame, as I confess that it was the first time, for years, that I had done as well as I knew how to do. I got my pay, and ate an honestly earned, though frugal supper, that evening. I think you will understand me when I tell you that I went to bed happier that night than I had before for a long time. The "Other Fellow" said, "It is all right, Old Boy!
Stand by!" I did "stand by," and I have been standing by ever since.
And first, as I learn you are still teaching, I want to ask you never to give up your boys, nor your way of managing them. You can never know how much you did for me in the Emburg school. Those old days come back to me almost every hour, and their essence is a part of my being.
I know that you must have thought, ten thousand times, that all your work was lost, and counted for nothing. You had every reason in the world for thinking so, and doubtless did think so. But I want to beg of you now, in the name of the new life that has eventually come to me through the medium of those old school days, not to be discouraged. I tell you, my dear teacher, that not one of such words and deeds will fail, at last, of reaching the purpose for which it was primarily intended. So please be patient with the boys, and keep on as you were, years ago, and do not be discouraged because it is long till the harvest. It will ripen in due time. The reapers shall come also, bearing their sheaves, and it is at your feet that they will lay them down.
But I wish especially to thank you for your wisdom and faithfulness in our last interview. On that occasion you struck the key note to the whole situation when you virtually kicked me out of your house, and told me that if I ever got up I must climb for myself. That was a new doctrine for me then, but I understand it thoroughly now. It is sound doctrine too, though it takes long to see it so.
You were wise, too, to watch me till I got out of town on that September afternoon. If you had given me ten dollars at your home and told me to buy a ticket, I doubt if I should have done it, even if I had promised to, and meant to do so when I promised. The chances are I should have spent the money for drink, and then have gone to jail.
That is the way of a man such as I was then. An habitual drunkard is not to be trusted, not even by himself.
I shudder as I write these things, and I only reveal them to you, hoping that they may, perchance, be the means of your helping some one else. I never refer to these scenes to others; in fact, no one here knows of these painful pages in my history.
You will care to know what I am doing. I have a studio here on Broadway, and am painting portraits. The old gift, that you were the first to discover in me, when you said a kind word for my burlesque sketch of you on the board, at Emburg (how often I do get back to that old school-room), at last proved my salvation. Gradually I found that I had talent in this direction, and I am making the most of it.
Carefully and honestly I took up the work, and with perseverance I have attained my present success. I have studied with the best artists here, and my work is well received. At the latest exhibition at the Academy I was the winner of the first prize, and this fact has already brought me more business than I can well attend to. I am delighted with my work, but shall never rest satisfied till a picture of yourself hangs in my room where it can watch me as I pursue my daily task.
Because, it is you who inspired me even to try to be a man and to do something in the world. The credit is yours.
My father and mother are still in Illinois. I have communicated with them several times recently. The children are grown, and several of them have left home. I hope to see the family all together on the day you receive this letter. I may also see you before I return to New York.
I cannot close this letter without telling you further of the change that has come to me in my religious and spiritual life. You know how blasphemously unbelieving I was ten years ago. I thought then that I had full cause for being so, but I was wrong there, as in all else. I wandered far and long, but as I began to do what I believe was G.o.d"s will, I began to know the doctrine, as the book says we shall. I am happy now in a religious life which I once believed it impossible for any one to experience. These are the main features in my life.
So now I wish you adieu, and pray the good Father in heaven to bless you all the days of your life. Your calling is the most n.o.ble in all the world, and I do you but justice when I say that you are wholly worthy of your profession. Remember me to your family, which I trust I may now have your permission to mingle with again (ah! that day); and believe me, ever sincerely yours, "Dodd."
Mr. Bright read the letter through to the end, then fell on his knees and in silence rejoiced and gave thanks.
You may talk about rewards, good people, but will you measure out in dollars about the worth of feelings that filled the heart of Mr.