THE LETTER
"G."
BY MRS. MARY C.
HAZLETT.
The Craftsman -
1867
"No, Mary,
you shall never be the wife of George Stanford," said old Mr. Carleton,
with a lowering brow, and a determined eye.
"And why
not, father?" said the gentle Mary, striving to conceal her emotion.
"Is he not of a good family; is he not regarded as a high-minded,
honorable young man; are not his business prospects. flattering, and is not his
attachment to me as strong and sincere as you or I would wish ?"
"That may
all be very true, my child; but he has associated himself with a society which
dares not to unfold its secret workings to the world, and which the world has
never been able to discover as accomplishing any good. In short, Mary, Stanford
is a Freemason.
"And is that
your only objection, Father?"
"Is not that
a sufficient one?" he said, sternly. "Dare you, a mere child, presume
to array your feeble judgment against my age and experience?"
"I do not
wish to be disrespectful my father, but I cannot help thinking you judge
Masonry unjustly. I have known, for a long time, that George was a Mason, and
this fact has led
me to investigate
its principles. Elder Williams, who lives next door to us, is a Mason, and he
has allowed me to read his Monitor, magazines, and other Masonic works; and if
Masonry is what
those works describe it to be, it is a good institution, and the world would
suffer from its loss."
"You can
tell nothing about it by the books they publish. They are only printed for effect, and to
conceal the real corruptness of the institution. If there was anything good
about it, it
would not be kept secret. The Bible commands risen not to hide their light
under a bushel."
"But,
father, the Bible says also, 'let not thy left hand know what thy right hand
doeth;' and I think I have discovered some good deeds by Masons. There is old
Mr. Strong, who
lives down by the
mill, and who has not been able to work for nearly a year. The Masons have
taken care of him for a long time. They bring him provisions and every thing
else he
needs, and every
night one or two of them come to stay with him - for he is ailing very fast,
and it would not be safe to leave him alone.'
"Then he is
one of their number, and their care of him is owing to a species of honor among
thieves," said Mr. Carleton.
“No,”
said Mary, “he is not and never has been a Mason. He told me so himself;
only this morning, when I went to carry him some fruit and flowers, and he said
he should have died of want long ago but for their kindness, and he hoped God
would bless and reward them. And then,” continued Mary, “there is
dear Mattie Dow, whose father belonged to the society, the Masons are sending
her to the young ladies’ boarding school, and preparing her for a
teacher. They are paying all her expenses, and she told me they had cared for
her ever since the death of her parents, and that she loved them as much as if
they were her own brothers. Oh, father! it cannot be that those who perform
such good deeds are bad men, for a tree is known by its fruits.”
But old Mr.
Carleton was not a man to be turned from his purpose. His prejudice against
Masonry had grown stronger and deeper as he had grown older and the gentle
pleading of his beautiful daughter only served to irritate him.
“Mary,”
he said very sternly, “it is of no use to talk to me about Masonry; and
it is worse than folly for you to attempt to gain my consent to your marriage
with George Stanford. You were eighteen
years of age yesterday, and can, of course, do as you please in this matter;
but, if you dare to disobey my wishes, you are no longer my child. I would
sooner sink my wealth in the depths of the ocean, or give it to the most
miserable beggar in this great city of New York than bestow it upon a daughter
who is so ungrateful as to marry against her father’s will. Choose,
therefore, between your father’s wealth and love, and George Stanford,
the Freemason. I shall expect your decision tomorrow morning.
Mary Carleton arose
and left her father’s presence with slow, unsteady step, she sought her
own room. She felt that the crisis of her life had arrived, and she knew not
how to decide. Her father had encouraged the attentions of Stanford until
within the last few days. Discovering that he was a Freemason, Mr. Carleton had
told him haughtily that he must renounce all connection with the institution or
discontinue his visits to his house. The young man had met this unreasonable
demand with the proper spirit, and firmly, but respectfully, asserted his
determination to be a Freemason while he lived. He had been ordered from the
house, and told never to enter it again. Such were the circumstances leading to
the above conversation between Mr. Carleton and his daughter.
Mary knelt at her
bedside, and implored her God to give her strength and wisdom. She felt that
her father was in the wrong, but could she meet his frowns and lasting
displeasure? She thought she could not; but there rose before her the vision of
her affianced husband, the noble, upright, generous George Stanford, and she
realized that his loss would cause her a life of misery.
There came a rap
at her door, a servant handed her a sealed note, and departed. She opened it
and found it to be a few lines from Stanford, inclosing a ring entirely plain,
with the exception of the small letter G on the upper side. The note was as
follows:
“MY DEAR
MARY:- Your father has forbidden our further correspondence; but both duty and
inclination prompt me to seek a knowledge of your pleasure before conceding to
his wishes. I love the Masonic institution, and cannot, consistently with my
feelings, and with my sense of duty and honor, renounce it. The ring I send
you, is ornamented with the letter G - a Masonic emblem. If you are willing to
become the wife of a Freemason, wear the ring for my sake, and I will protect
you while I live; if not, its return will signify to me that we must henceforth
be strangers. GEORGE.”
On the following
morning, Mary sought the presence of her father. She was very pale and moved
wearily, for sleep had not visited her eyelids.
“Well,
child,” said Mr. Carleton, “I trust a few hours’ reflection
has served to show you your duty, and that I have this morning an obedient
daughter.”
For reply, she
held up her hand, upon which was the ring sent her by Stanford.
“What means
that ring?” said the old man, starting violently.
“It
means” said Mary, in a voice low, but firm, “that I have decided to
wear it while I live, for the sake of Mr. Stanford, who will soon be my
husband.”
Mr. Carleton was
dumb with astonishment. He had not believed his daughter would dare to meet his
displeasure.
Mistaking the
cause of his silence, Mary advanced to his side, and, twining her arms about
his neck, she kissed his cheek.
“Oh, father!”
she said, “do not, I pray you, turn me from you. You will be lonely without me, and I
cannot endure your frowns. Let me beg of you to consider that Washington,
Warren, Lafayette, and the pious Wesley, were Masons. Surely that cannot be evil which was
honored and loved by so much nobleness and talent.”
Mr. Carleton
pushed his daughter from him angrily “Go, foolish child,” he
exclaimed, “never dare to speak to me again. You have no longer a father
or a home.”
Poor Mary was too
wretched to reply; but the yearning look she cast upon her father, as she
glided, ghost-like, from the room, haunted him for years afterwards.
In a week she and
Stanford were married. With a view to remove his wife from all unpleasant
associations, George emigrated to a western city, and became a partner in a
mercantile house. His business prospered, and a beautiful house was purchased
on the shore of one of those crystal lakes so common in the West.
But the tocsin of
war was sounded, and leaving his business in the care of his partner; Stanford
collected a company of volunteers, and bidding adieu to his wife and infant
son, hastened to Washington.
It was now Mary
Stanford’s lot, with thousands of others, to watch eagerly for news from
the army, to pray for a husband’s safety, and wait for his return.
But there came a
day when news of a terrible battle went flashing over the country, and a
telegram reached the city of L-, stating that Company A had suffered severely,
and that Captain Stanford was among the missing. Gently as possible was Mary
made to understand that she was a widow: but the shock was too great for her
delicate frame, and for weeks she raved in the delirium of fever.
When at length
she slowly recovered, it was to find that her husband’s partner ad proved
recreant to his trust. He had taxed the credit of the firm to the utmost, by
borrowing, and with the money thus obtained left the country.
“Mary’s
elegant house was hers no longer. She now wrote to her father, acquainting him
with her bereavement and misfortunes, and begged him to receive her again into
the home of her childhood. Long and anxiously she waited for a reply, but none
came. Then she determined to go to her father, and in person entreat him to
receive and care for her child, while she would support herself by teaching.
With what means
she had remaining - only about three hundred dollars - she set out upon her
journey to New York. She proceeded
in safety until she arrived at the city of B-. Here a brief but severe illness of her
child detained her for a few days; and when she was ready to proceed, she found
that she had been robbed of all the money she possessed. Deprived of the means of going to her
father, she determined to make one more effort to communicate with him. She
addressed a letter to a gentleman who had been a friend of her father’s,
asking him to inform her whether he still lived, and if he was in the city. In
a few days came a reply to the effect that Mr. Carleton had left New York some
two months previously, and that he was not expected at home for a year, as
business would detain him in a distant city.
It now seemed to
Mary Stanford that heaven had indeed deserted her, and she could only caress
her child, and pray that God would interpose in her behalf. There remained but
one course for her to pursue. She sought for and obtained an humble room in an
obscure street; and disposing of her ,jewelry and some few articles of wearing
apparel, discharged her indebtedness to the landlord of the W- hotel; and,
taking the little Willie by the hand, set out for her new lodgings with a sad
heart. She hoped to be able to earn a subsistence by her needle, until her
father should return to his home, when she firmly believed he would relieve her
sufferings, if not for her own, for his grand-child’s sake.
Bravely she
entered upon her new life. Morning, noon and night found her bending over her
sewing or embroidery. Her form drooped, her cheek grew paler and paler, her
eyes were dim with weeping. No answers came to the many letters she addressed
to her father, and hope at length died out of her heart. To add to her misery,
the winter was at hand, and she was forced to the conviction, that the avails
of her needle were not sufficient to supply her wants. But there was no
alternative, and, with a sort of dumb despair, she still toiled on.
The morning of
January 1st, 1864, found Mrs. Stanford placing in the grate the last of her
little store of fuel. The cold was intense, and she covered closer the form of
the sleeping Willie, now nearly three years of age. She knelt by his side, and
imprinted kiss after kiss upon his pallid brow. Never before had she felt as
now the meaning of the sunken cheeks and bloodless lips. She shuddered with a
new fear, for the conviction that he was slowly starving had fastened itself
upon her mind.
“Oh,
God!” she cried, clasping her hands in agony, “hast Thou indeed
forsaken me? or art Thou still the widow’s support, and the friend of the
fatherless? I pray Thee, stretch forth Thine hand and save my child.”
Tenderly she laid
her hand upon his curling locks, and as she did so, her eye fell upon the ring
and the letter G, which years before she had placed upon her finger as the seal
of her destiny. She gazed at it vacantly, as her mind busied itself with the
past. Swiftly the various scenes of her checkered life passed in review before
her; all finally terminating in the misery of the present. What was to be done?
Willie would soon awake, and she had no bread to appease his hunger. The fire
would soon die out, and then both must perish with cold. The ring must be of
some value, and she could sell it and obtain enough to preserve them a day or
two at the least. It was the last article she possessed that would procure
bread. Her heart gave a great, painful throb; but she looked at her child, and
her decision was taken.
Wrapping a faded
shawl around her emaciated form, she stirred the expiring fire, and closing the
door softly behind her, descended into the street, and walked rapidly in the
direction of the shop, where, months before, she had disposed of her jewelry.
Although the distance was short, she reached her destination benumbed and
shivering, and paused for a moment before the glowing grate before making known
her errand. An old gentleman enveloped in a great, warm cloak, entered, and
advanced directly to the counter.
“I wish to
purchase a bracelet, as a New Year’s present - for my daughter,” he
said, cheerily.
The shop man
placed a case of jewels before him, and then turned to his poorer customer.
“How much
will you give me for this ring?” she said, with emotion.
“Its actual
value is but trifling,” he replied; “it is very old. I will give
you one dollar.”
“Oh, sir!
is it not worth more than that?” she said. “It is very dear to me
for its associations, and nothing but the most pressing want would induce me to
part with it. I pray you to give me all it is worth.”
“I can give
no more,” he said, dropping it on the counter carelessly.
Mrs. Stanford
grasped it, and pressed it to her lips; then she laid it down reverently and
extended her hand for the money.
The old gentleman
who had come to purchase a bracelet, had listened in silence to this little
dialogue between the poor woman and the shopkeeper; but he now moved to her
side and said, respectfully:
“You seem very unwilling to part with this ring, madam; will you
allow me to examine it?”
“Certainly,
sir,” said Mrs. Stanford, passing it to him.
The man started
as his eyes fell upon the letter G, and he asked, quickly:
“Where did
you obtain this?”
“Oh, sir
!” said Mary, “it was a gift from my husband, previous to our
marriage. I prize it very highly, for he is dead, and it is the last memento I
have. But his child is starving, and it must be sold.”
“Do you
know the meaning of this letter?” he said.
“No, sir,
except that my husband told me it was a Masonic emblem, and if I was willing to
become the wife of a Freemason, I was to wear it for his sake.”
“Well,
well,” said the old man, “I presume you are in haste to return to your
child. I have taken a fancy to this ring, and I will give you more for it than
the shopkeeper can afford to give,” and placing a ten dollar note in her
hand, he deposited the ring in his vest pocket.
“Oh, sir, a
thousand thanks, and may heaven bless and reward you,” said Mrs.
Stanford.
“How far is
it to your house?” said the gentleman.
“Only two
blocks distant,” she replied.
“It is very
cold, I will accompany you, and lend you my cloak,” he said, kindly.
Wrapping it
carefully around her, he walked by her side in the direction of her poor
lodgings.
“I must
stop here, and purchase some bread for my child,” said Mary.
“Very well;
I will wait for you.”
In a few moments
she returned, and they proceeded.
A single glance
at the wretched room served to show the kind-hearted old man the full extent of
Mrs. Stanford’s poverty. Willie was awake, and sat shivering upon his
miserable bed. His great, hungry eyes lighted as they fell upon the package his
mother deposited upon the rickety table, and the only response to her caress
was, “bread, mamma; bread!”
The old man,
standing by the door, waited to hear no more; and when Mary turned to thank him
for his kindness, he had gone, leaving his cloak behind him.
A few moments
afterward, Mary opened her door in response to a loud rap, and found a large
basket of coal upon the threshold. The person who brought it had already
reached the foot of the stairway. But there could be no doubt for whom the coal
was designed, and Mrs. Stanford’s poor house was soon comfortably warmed.
A half hour
later, a supply of provisions arrived in the same mysterious manner, and the
loving mother wept and smiled by turns, as the greedy Willie, with hands
trembling with excitement, lifted package after package of wholesome food from
the basket to the table. At the bottom lay a note which read thus -
“Place your trust in God, and He will supply and guard you.”
On the following
evening, Humanity Lodge, No._, met in regular communication. The usual business
of the evening having been transacted, an old man arose and said:
“My
brethren, you all know a Freemason’s duty toward the widow and orphan,
especially the widow and orphan of a brother. At No. 6, E__ street, lives a poor
woman, who was forced to encounter the intense cold of yesterday morning, in
the effort to procure food for herself and child, and fuel to keep them from
freezing. I have placed them above present want by a small supply of provisions
and coal; and her landlady, who describes the poor woman as one who is worthy,
and has seen better days, will care for her until we can aid her further. I
first discovered her in a pawn shop, endeavoring to procure money by the sale
of a ring engraved with the letter G. The shop man would give her but a trifle
for, it, and I purchased it myself. She told me it was a present to her from
her husband previous to her marriage.”
“Have you
the ring with you?” said a strange voice, quivering with emotion.
“Yes,”
replied the old man, searching for it in his vest pocket.
“Any one
who wishes may examine it.”
The stranger, who
was a tall, fine-looking man, but very pale, as if from long sickness, crossed
the room quickly, and looked eagerly at the ring.
“Oh,
heaven!” he exclaimed, “it is Mary’s ring. Where did you say,
No. 6, E—street? My wife! my poor wife!”
He vanished from
the room, but the old man followed. When he reached the house of Mary, it was
to find her lying insensible upon her wretched couch, and her husband endeavoring
to restore consciousness by bathing her brow, and chafing the hands hardened by
toil.
Captain Stanford,
of Company A, had been indeed among the missing, but he was not dead. He had
pressed forward in advance of his men, and fallen where the fight was thickest. He had been borne from the field as a
prisoner, by Confederate soldiers, and it was many weeks before an exchange was
effected. Then, rewarded for his bravery with a colonel’s commission, but
still weak from the effects of a severe wound, he obtained a furlough, and
hastened to his western home. His wife had left for New York; his perfidious
partner had been discovered and arrested, and a large part of the money he had
purloined had been recovered. Leaving the case in charge of an attorney, Colonel
Stanford followed his wife.
Reaching New
York, no trace of her could be discovered. Thinking perhaps she might have
ascertained the locality of her father, and gone to him, Stanford resigned his
commission and went again in pursuit. He finally succeeded in finding Mr.
Carleton in St. Louis, prostrated with fever, which in a few days terminated
fatally. George remained with him until the last, and on his death bed, the old
man had repented his unjust treatment of his daughter, and instructed George to
bear to her his blessing.
Thinking that
perhaps Mary might have returned home in his absence, he again sought the city
of L--. But she was not there and, half-maddened with grief and anxiety, he
renewed his search.
But his cause
seemed hopeless, when, arriving at B--, he determined to visit the Lodge, and
request his brethren to assist in ascertaining if she was in that city. The
result we have already seen, and it only remains to say, Colonel Stanford, his
wife and the boy Willie - now the picture of health and happy childhood - are
dwelling again in their beautiful home on the banks of Lake W—
POTS