He viewed it over and saw it opened with a peculiar spring. He touched it and the cover flew up and disclosed the contents. He drew the papers out one after another until all lay on the table. He discovered a picture case, and opening it the fair face of a young girl about eighteen met his view. He gazed at it a moment and in a trembling voice said, “It is like her; the same dreamy eyes and head. Who can it be?”
He took out the picture and in the case were the initials, M. H., and a small tress of auburn hair. He put it back in its place of concealment as he said, “My God, here is a mystery I cannot solve. It must be the picture Pompey supposed burned.”
As he viewed the picture he exclaimed, “Just the same form and features. I will keep this as my own, and if I can find her or any one it resembles I will show it to her. I am bound to find out this mystery sooner or later, as ‘where there’s a will there’s a way.’”
CHAPTER VII.
After placing the picture carefully in his pocket he picked up the papers one by one and read each of them carefully. The first proved to be the marriage certificate of his parents; the second and several others the receipts of the interest paid on the mortgage before spoken of; the last was a letter in the familiar handwriting of his mother. With the trembling hands he opened it. It read thus:
“My dear son and only child: My career on earth is nearly run; I feel it my duty to make an explanation. I sincerely hope I may find courage to tell you all about your father and the secret mortgage, but if anything should happen this note will be found and explain my strange conduct. This mortgage was given when you were small. I have tried to pay it but could not get enough money ahead, as it took so much money to pay doctor bills and hired help. I gave the mortgage to save my father from prison. He promised to pay it, but never did, and I have only managed to pay the interest on it. The face of the mortgage is three thousand dollars. I did not care to let everyone know there was a shadow over your birthplace, so I have kept it a profound secret. The mortgagee and our old servants are the only beings who know of it. My dear son, I have taught you to be a good farmer, and I pray to God you may be able to raise the mortgage when it becomes due. It was given for twenty years at ten per cent. interest. I would have told you before now, and perhaps we could have paid it. But I could not; I have always told you it was free from debt and I deeded it to you as the same. God forgive my weakness! I was born a deceptive child and I have lived a deceitful life the last twenty-five years. I loved your father, as noble and kind a husband as ever lived. I deceived him cruelly, and after our marriage I quarreled with him about a picture he had, and finally to torment him I told him I had burned it. It made him very angry. One day he went to the village and I never saw him any more. My child, I feel as if he is alive and if you ever meet him give him the picture and ask him to forgive me. Tell him I died loving him and our child, he who has never seen me out of temper. My son you will never see these lines until I am clasped in death’s repose. I have erred, but I must die. As God forgives his erring creatures I pray of you to forgive me.”
Your affectionate mother.
As Paul folded up the letter tears were falling on the table, and he exclaimed aloud. “My mother, Oh, my mother! if I had only known your trouble I could have made it lighter for you to bear. I freely forgive you in all. Who would not forgive a mother’s errors?—she who has borne many trials for us while young.”
“Massa,” exclaimed Pompey, breaking in on Paul’s murmurings, “you is just like your fadder; he would have forgiven her if she would have done what was fair by him after they were married. You see she liked to torment him, and she did, once too often. Well, Paul, is you going away tomorrow now?” asked the negro, looking fondly at his young master.