The Door in the Heart; or Woman's Influence.
By Rev. Wm. M. Blackburn
HE was an old man. Not so very old either, for the wrinkles that marked his cadaverous visage were not the autograph that time's finger had laid there, and the hand that placed upon the low pine table the well-drained glass, did not tremble so with the weakening that age induces; yet very old and very wretched looked the sole occupant of that narrow room, with its red curtain, and floor stained with tobacco saliva, and an atmosphere abundantly seasoned by the bar-room into which it opened. A hat—it must have been intended for one—half concealed the owner's uncombed locks; and unmistakable evidence of a familiar acquaintance with brickbats and the gutter did that same hat produce. Then there was a coat, out of whose sleeves peeped a pair of elbows in rejoicing consciousness that they "could afford to be out." Add to these, reader, a shabby pair of faded pants, and you have the tout ensemble of the wretched being who had just commenced his daily potations in the only "grog-shop" he was allowed to enter. And yet the wretched, friendless man that sat there, under the stupefying effect of his morning dram, had a heart; and far away up a great many pair of winding stairs in that heart, was a door easily passed by; and on that door, covered with cobwebs of time and neglect, was written "MAN." But nobody dreamed of this; and when the temperance men had gone to him, and promised him employment and respectability, if he would "sign the pledge;" and others (well-meaning men) had rated him soundly for his evil ways; and he had turned a deaf ear to all these things, and gone back with pertinacity to his "cups," everybody said old Bill Strong's case was a hopeless one. Ah! none of these had patiently groped their way up the heart's winding stairs and read the inscription on the hidden door there. But while he sat by the pine table that morning, the bar-keeper suddenly entered, followed by a lady with a pale, high brow, mild, hazel eyes, and a strangely winning expression on her mild face. The man looked up with a vacant stare of astonishment, as the bar-keeper tendered the lady a seat and pointed to him, saying, "That's Bill Strong ma'am;" and, with a glance that indicated very plainly his wonder at what she could want there, left her alone with the astounded and now thoroughly sobered man. The soft eyes of the lady wandered with a sad, pitying expression over old Bill's features, and then in a low, sweet voice, she asked:— "Am I rightly informed? Do I address Mr. William Strong?" Ah! with those few words, the lady had got farther up the winding stairs, and nearer the hidden door, than all who had gone before her. "Yes, that is my name, ma'am," said old Bill, and he glanced down at his shabby attire, and actually tried to hide the elbow that was peeping out. It was a long time since he had been addressed as Mr. William Strong, and somehow it sounded very pleasant to him. "I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Strong," responded the lady; "I have heard my father speak of you so often, and of the days when you and he were boys together, that I almost feel as if we were old acquaintances. You surely cannot have forgotten Charles Morrison?" "Oh! no; Charlie and I used to be great cronies," said old Bill, with sudden animation, and a light in his eye, such as had not shone there for a long time, except when rum gave it a fitful brilliancy. Ah, the lady did not know, as perhaps the angels did, that she had mounted the stairs, and was softly feeling for that unseen door. So she went on:— "I almost feel, Mr. Strong, as if I could see the old spot upon which your homestead stood; I have heard my father describe it so often—the hill, with its crown of old oaks at the back of your house, and the field of yellow harvest grain that waved in front. Then there was the green grass before the front door, with the huge apple-tree that threw its shadows across it; and the old 'portico,' with the grapevine that climbed over it, and the white roses that peeped in at the bed-room window; and the spring that went shining and bubbling through the bed of green mint at the side of the house." Old Bill moved uneasily in his chair, and the muscles around his mouth twitched occasionally; but, unmindful of this, the lady kept on in the same low, melting voice:— "Many and many were the hours," so father would say, "that Willie and I used to pass under the shadow of that old apple-tree, playing at hide-and-seek or lolling on the grass and telling each other the great things we meant to do when we became big men, while Willie's blue eyes would sparkle with hope and happiness; and, when the sunset laid a crown of gold on the top of the oaks on the hill, Willie's mother might be seen standing in the portico, with her snowy cap and checked apron, and we would hear her cheerful voice calling, Come, boys, come to supper." One after another the big, warm, blessed tears went rolling down old Bill's cheeks and falling on the pine table. Ah, the lady was at the door then! "I was always at home at Willie's," father would say, "and used to have my bowl of fresh milk and bread, too; and, when these had disappeared, Willie would draw his little stool to his mother's feet, and she would tell him some pleasant story of Joseph, or David, or some good boy, who afterwards became a great man. And then she would part Willie's brown curls from off his forehead, and say, in a trembling voice I can never forget, Promise me, Willie, when you are a man, and the gray hairs of your mother are resting in the churchyard yonder, you will never disgrace her memory. And Willie would draw up his slight form, lift his blue eyes proudly to his mother, and say, Never fear, mother; I will make a good man and a great one, too. And then, after we had said our evening prayers, we would go, contented and happy as the bird that nestled in the old apple-tree, to rest. Then, just as we were sinking into some pleasant dream, we would hear a well-known footfall on the stairs, and a kind face bending over us would inquire if we were nicely tucked up. It is a long, long time, father would say, 'since I heard from Willie; but I am very sure he has never fallen into any evil ways. The words of his mother would keep him from that.'" Rap! rap! rap! went the words of the lady at the door in old Bill's heart. Creak! creak! creak! went the door on its rusted hinges. Angels of God, held ye not your breaths to listen?93 The lady could only see the subdued man bury his face in his clasped hands, and, while his frame shook like an aspen leaf, she heard him murmur, amid childlike sobs, "My mother, O my mother!" And she felt as though the tears that were washing those wrinkled cheeks were washing out a long, dark record of old Bill's past life. So, with a silent prayer of thankfulness, she resumed:— "But there was one thing my father loved to talk of better than all the rest. It was of the morning you were married, Mr. Strong. 'It was enough to do one's eyes good to look at them,' he would say, 'as they walked up the old church aisle,—he, with his proud, manly tread, and she, a delicate, fragile creature, fair as the orange blossoms that trembled in her hair. I remember how clear and confident William's voice sounded through the old church, as he promised to love, protect, and cherish the bright, confiding creature at his side; and I knew he thought, as he looked down upon her, that the winds of heaven would never visit her face too roughly. And then my father would tell us of your pleasant home and of the bright-eyed boy and the fair-haired girl that came after a while to gladden it. And then, you know, he removed to the West, Mr. Strong, and lost sight of you.'" Once again the lady paused, for the agony of the strong man before her was fearful to behold; and then, in a lower tone, she spoke:— "I did not forget the promise I made my father, previous to his death, that, if ever I visited his native State, I would seek out his old friend. But when I inquired for you, they unfolded a terrible story to me, Mr. Strong. They told me of a desolate and broken household; of the blue-eyed boy, that a father's heart might so well delight in, who had left his home in disgust and despair for one on the homeless waters; of the gentle, suffering wife, who, faithful to the last, went down, with a prayer on her lips for her erring husband, broken-hearted to the grave; and of the fair-haired orphan girl, who followed her mother in a little while. Oh, it is a sad, sad story I have heard of my father's old friend!" "It was I! it was I that did it! I killed them!" cried old Bill, lifting his bowed head, and gazing on the lady, every feature expressive of such wild agony and helpless remorse, that she shuddered at the despair her own words had aroused. (Wide, wide open stood the door then, and the lady passed in.) A soft hand was laid soothingly upon old Bill's arm, and a voice full of hope murmured, "Even for all this, there is mercy. There is redemption through the atoning merits of Jesus, and you well know your first step toward it. Sign the pledge. In the name of the last prayer of your dying wife, and of the child that sleeps by her side, I ask you, Will you do it?" "I will," said old Bill, while he brought down his closed hand with such force on the rickety pine table, that it rocked beneath it; and a gleam of hope lighted up his features, as he seized the pen and paper the lady placed before him, which paper contained a pledge, binding all who signed it to abstain from the use of intoxicating beverages; and when he returned it to her, in bold, legible characters, there lay written beneath it the name of WILLIAM STRONG. There was an expression almost ludicrous, from its intenseness of curiosity, on the bar-keeper's physiognomy, as the lady, after her long interview with old Bill, passed quietly through the shop, and the expression was not lessened when old Bill, a few moments after, walked through without taking another glass of grog; and he never passed over the threshold again. Earnest-hearted reader, you whose soul may be glowing with sympathy for your erring brother man, who would gladly raise him from the depths of sin and degradation, and point him to the highway of peace and prosperity, remember there is a door in every human breast. See that you pass not by it!—Rev. Wm. M. Blackburn.