FROM MEREDITH'S DIARY.

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!