Sarah Brooks - My Fire Opal, and Other Tales

"Did you find the door unhooked, Cicely?" I inquired, aware that something must be said.

"Unhooked, is it?" replied she, "indade an' it was thin! an' wide open! Holy Mary! but it's the narrow escape ye's had!"

"Cicely," I said, decisively, "put these shavings back in the barrel. They will kindle as well as ever, and the sheets will come out, unharmed, from the wash. As for this fishy coat, when Dennis comes for the ashes, you may as well give it to him . There is some wear in it yet. And, upon the whole, Cicely, you had better say nothing of the tramp to Mr. Simpleton and the young gentlemen. It would only frighten them, and to no purpose, as it's now all past and gone."

That afternoon, during my visit to the State Prison, I related to the warden so much of the above adventure as pertained to my transaction with Adam Beale. I found that he had been discharged as stated, and had declared his intention of recruiting while in the country, before returning to his home in New York, "but as for your diamond ring, my dear lady," said the astute official, "make up your mind that you have parted with it for good and all; for, as I know the convict, not one in a hundred could resist the temptation of retaining it."

"Well," I said, resignedly, "let it go, then; life is replete with mishaps, and I have already survived many a disaster, far more heavy than the loss of a diamond."

When my little family were again re-united, it was Alcibiades who first observed and commented on the continuous absence of my diamond ring from my left-hand middle finger.

"Oh, my ring?" I said, lightly, "well, I am just leaving it off for a time. One does not care to appear eternally in diamonds, like a fat frau of a German Jew."

Alcibiades, least inquisitive of mortals, thus easily put off, I resigned myself to the loss of my ring, confident that, at the worst, it had not (as "Mantalini" would have put it) quite "gone to the demnition bow-wows."

More than six months had elapsed, when, one day, the expressman handed me a small package, addressed in a fine, clear hand, and marked "valuable — with care ."

Luckily, I was alone, and could, unquestioned, receipt for the parcel. It was, as I had suspected, my ring; and glad was I to receive it, but still more rejoiced to have found, unaided by the lantern of any Diogenes, an honest man!

And now, my story might, with propriety, end. It does not, however, for I have yet to relate how it was that I, the wife of a clerk in the post-office, drawing but an indifferent salary, came into possession of so sumptuous an adornment as a Mexican fire opal, superbly set in diamonds of the very first water.

Ten years had passed since the adventure which resulted in the loaning of my ring to Adam Beale. Our boy had gone honourably through Harvard. We no longer trembled at Miss Pettingrew's "awful nod." We had left C – for good and all. My health no longer permitted me to engage in hospital work, and I had ceased to visit the prison. We were on the eve of our silver wedding, and one evening, as we sat round our hearth in Roxbury, cheerfully talking over the event, which was to be celebrated by a little party, the door-bell rang, and was followed by the entrance of our expressman.

Taking a long breath of relief, he deposited on the hall table a small, carefully-sealed parcel, which, as he said, "had 'bout been the rounds, he reckoned, for, near's he could find out, it started from New York, paid through to C – . Then it came back to the office in Boston, an arter they had had a time on't there , lookin' up the folks 'at was wanted, he got wind on't himself, and here now it is," he concluded, triumphantly, "landed at last."

As it was directed to me, I wrote my name in his greasy book, Alcibiades paid the accumulated expressage, and the man at once left us.

We were a little curious in regard to this much-traveled parcel – some simple silver-wedding present, no doubt. But "great the wonder grew," when a magnificent fire opal ring, with superb diamond setting, flashed out from its nest of rose-coloured cotton, like a condensed rainbow, circled with sunbeams.

In the package, with the box, was a note directed to "The Prisoner's Friend." It ran thus:

"Dear Lady: I am now a rich man. Your kindness will ever be held in remembrance; and may I ask your prayers for my future prosperity in this life, and a pleasant meeting with you in the life to come.

"Pray accept the enclosed ring, with warmest wishes for the health, prosperity, and happiness of you and yours. I remain, with great respect,

That night, from a full heart, I confided to my family the story of that strange midnight adventure, whose touching sequel was this costly gift. Dear Alcibiades (to his eternal credit be it recorded) did not on this occasion harrow my soul with a single "I told you so!" On the evening of my silver wedding I wore Adam's ring. My friends were informed that I had resolved never to disclose the name of the donor of this superb opal; yet, now that I am an old woman, in the hope that it may afford some slight encouragement to others who are seeking to lighten the heavy human burden of sin, and its consequent misery, I have thought that it might not be unwise or indelicate to reveal the long-kept secret of my Fire Opal.

JOHN GRAVESEND, being neither goblin, sprite nor fairy, it is but logical to infer that his existence was derived from a mortal father; albeit of that father, he, John, had not the faintest conception.

Poor little Jack! He was, what men (misusing the holiest of words) have named, a "love-child."

His father was plainly but an inference; and, as to his mother, she was scarce more than a recollection.

He recalled, from some vague long ago, the face of a sad-eyed woman at whose knee he had said "Now I lay me," with his sleepy little head half-buried in the soft folds of her silken gown. He remembered the same sweet face more pale and still and icy cold. He was not saying his prayer then . He thinks he was crying. Be that as it may; Jack cried a good deal in those days. He cried because he was cold, hungry, tired, or beaten; and, later on, he fell into a way of crying for an undefined good – a something which neither warmth, food, nor rest could afford him. This vague sense of irrepletion had first dawned upon the forlorn boy when, on a certain day, creeping about Long Wharf like a half-starved rat, he had seen another boy in a velvet jacket, and with lovely cornsilk hair, folded in the arms of a beautiful lady, but just landed from a newly-arrived steamer. From that hour a nameless longing for that undefined something, which the other lad had gotten from that gentle lady, haunted his love-lorn days.

Sometimes he actually found himself crying for it. Of this – and all other crying – Jack, being a manly little fellow, was so heartily ashamed that (to use his own words) he "swowed never to let on to his folks." Jack's "folks" were – a reputed uncle, by trade a shipwright. A creature habitually red of face; cross in the morning and nasty at night; chronically glum on week-days, and invariably sprightly on Sundays; for then it was the shipwright's prerogative to get superbly drunk!

During these Sabbath celebrations, the man (having no children of his own body to maltreat) often diverted himself by belabouring his ragged little nephew; who, more or less battered, wriggled dexterously from his clutch, and, seeking his familiar haunt, the wharf, there wore out the weary day. Jack's other "folk" was the wife of the aforesaid uncle; a poor, cowed creature, with pinched, wan face and pale, carroty hair. When the boy, upon a Sunday, did not come readily to hand, the aunt was beaten in his stead. She did not run away, this poor, spiritless scapegoat, but wearily mounting a ladder-like staircase, took sanctuary in the loft. Later, when a drunken slumber enwrapped her lord, she reappeared upon the scene, with set lips, and face so white and ghastly, that little Jack, remembering vaguely that other still, white face, crept uneasily out into the sunlight, and tried to forget it.