GRANT HEARS FROM HOME.
Tom Cooper reached San Francisco two weeks after his letter. “I stopped
at Sacramento to see father,” he said. “I found the old gentleman doing
well, and fully persuaded that I had made a mistake in not staying with
him. He offered me four dollars a day to work in the shop. When I told
him that I owned ten lots in San Francisco, was entitled to two thousand
five hundred dollars for my share of the claim, and had considerable
loose money besides, you ought to have seen him open his eyes. He was
speechless for a minute; then he said: ‘You’re smarter than I thought,
Tom. I guess you’d better go your own way, and I will look after the
shop. I’m too old to dig for gold, but I am making a good living at my
trade.’”
Tom cashed a check for five thousand dollars, and made over half to
Grant.
“There’s some more money due you, Grant,” he said, “from the gold-dust I
have brought with me.”
“Keep it all, Tom,” rejoined Grant. “I am rich enough without it, and
you deserve some commission for selling the claim.”
Tom objected to this at first, but Grant insisted upon it. Tom took
possession of his lots, and sold three on very advantageous terms within
a month.
“I think you brought me luck, Grant,” he said. “Till you joined me I was
plodding along comfortably, but making little more than I could have
done at my trade. But after you and I began to work together in double
harness, everything has prospered with me.”
“Not just at first, Tom. You remember our small earnings at Howe’s
Gulch.”
“That’s true, but prosperity came afterward. It was your meeting old Mr.
Gilbert that set us on our feet.”
“How is he? Did you call on him?”
“Yes. He is pretty well for him, but what a forlorn life he leads! Do
you know he thinks a great deal of you?”
“I thought he did.”
“He inquired particularly after you, and said you were a fine boy.”
“It is well to have one admiring friend,” said Grant, smiling.
“You have many friends who are attached to you,” returned Tom.
“I have certainly received much kindness,” said Grant. “I seem to be
appreciated considerably more here than at home.”
“How are things going on at home?”
“Not very well. Mr. Tarbox is sick, and his daughter has installed
herself in his chamber, and is not willing that my mother should see
him.”
“Does that trouble you?”
“No, for I am able to provide for mother better than her husband. When I
go back I shall establish her in a home of her own.”
The very next day Grant received a letter from his mother, the contents
of which were most important.
We reproduce it here:
DEAR GRANT:
Mr. Tarbox died last week. No one anticipated that his sickness would
end fatally, but I attribute it to worry of mind. It appears that his
daughter, Mrs. Bartlett, succeeded some time since in inducing him to
deed the farm to her. I believe the argument she used was, that should
he die, I would claim a good share of it as his widow. The law would no
doubt have given me a claim to some portion of it.
Mr. Tarbox had scarcely given away the property than he repented it, and
tried to persuade Sophia to give it back. She didn’t exactly refuse, for
she knew that he had considerable other property which he could leave
her at his death. But she made delays, and raised objections, till he
saw that there was no hope of recovering the farm. You know how fond he
was of money, and the fact that he had alienated so large a share of his
property preyed upon his mind and actually made him sick. Then his
daughter came and established herself in his room.
“Give me back the farm, Sophia,” I overheard him say one day. “It’ll be
yours some day, but I want to keep it while I live.”
“Wait till you get well, pa,” she answered. “You are too sick to trouble
yourself about business now.”
“I shall be sick till I get the farm back,” he answered.
“It’ll be all right. Don’t worry yourself.”
But he continued to worry, and the doctor says he fretted himself to
death. It may be uncharitable in me, but I don’t think Sophia grieved
very much over her father’s taking away, though she put on a suit of
deep black at the funeral.
Well, the will was read the next day, and all the property outside of
the farm goes to Sophia and Rodney. The farm being already hers, of
course there is nothing left for me. My friends are very indignant, and
Mr Tower, the lawyer, tells me that I have good reason to contest it. I
am certainly very poorly paid for all I’ve done in the five years since
we were married.
I remained at the farm for a day or two, but I found it so disagreeable,
as Mrs. Bartlett evidently wished me out of the way, that I took board
temporarily with Mrs. Draper in the village. You know I have some money
remaining from what you left with me. Before that is gone I think I can
get a chance to act as housekeeper for Mr. John Wilkins, whose wife
recently died.
I feel quite lonely, and wish you were at home, but I am afraid you
could not get any work that would pay you, and I am glad to hear that
you are doing well in California. Write soon to your affectionate
mother,
HELEN TARBOX.
“Tom, I must go home,” said Grant. “My mother needs me.”
“But, Grant, won’t you come back again?”
“Yes. I have too many interests in San Francisco to keep away. I want to
go home and establish my mother comfortably. Then I can return with a
cheerful heart.”
“How will you go back—over the plains?”
“No, once is enough for me. I will go to New York by steamer, and then
take the railroad to Iowa.”
The next day, and before Grant could get ready to start, he received
another letter.
This was from Tom Childs, a schoolfellow and intimate friend. Here it
is:
DEAR GRANT:
I got your address from your mother, and I am going to write you a short
letter. I wish I could see you, for you were one of my most intimate
friends. I hope you are doing well, and so do all the boys wish you well
except one. That one is Rodney Bartlett, who is now living here in
Woodburn. He and his mother are up at the old farm, and your mother has
been turned out. It is a great shame, I think, and so does the whole
village. Mr. Tarbox’s death seemed very sudden, but people think he
worried to death. Anyhow, Mrs. Bartlett has got the whole property,
except a thousand dollars, which were left to Rodney.
You ought to see that boy strut ’round. He ‘feels his oats’ as father
says. He’s got a gold watch, a very showy one, and takes it out every
five minutes to look at it. You would think he was a millionnaire by the
airs he puts on. The other day he asked me: “Do you ever hear from Grant
Colburn?”
I answered that I was going to write you.
“He was a great fool to go to California,” said Rodney.
“What was there to stay for here?” I asked. “His mother has been turned
out of the house without a cent, and you and your mother have taken
everything.”
“That’s perfectly proper,” said Rodney. “We are blood relations to Mr.
Tarbox.”
“And she was his wife,” I told him.
“Oh, well, she had her living for five years,” said Rodney. “She’ll get
along well enough. She can hire out in some family. She’s strong enough
to work.”
“She’s been treated mighty mean,” I said indignantly.
“Ma offered her twenty-five dollars,” replied Rodney, “but she was too
proud to take it. I s’pose she wanted more.”
“Well, it was a pretty mean sum to give your grandfather’s widow,” I
remarked.
“My mother understands what’s proper,” said Rodney stiffly. “Have you
seen my new watch?”
“Where did you buy it?”
“Ma sent to New York for it. It cost sixty dollars. I guess it’s as good
a watch as anybody carries in Woodburn.”
I wish, Grant, you could come home, and bring a better watch. How it
would take down the pride of that young snob!
Oh, I mustn’t forget to tell you that Mr. Jones—Abner Jones—is in
trouble. It seems that your step-father held a mortgage of a thousand
dollars on his farm, and it comes due in two or three months. Mrs.
Bartlett threatens to foreclose, and unless he can get some one else to
assume the mortgage, I am afraid the farm will be sold for much less
than its value. It is worth three thousand dollars, but father says it
won’t fetch, at a forced sale, much over two thousand, perhaps only that
sum. I pity Mrs. Jones. I was speaking to Arthur Jones yesterday. He
feels very bad about it.
But I have written you a long letter. Let me hear from you soon.
Your true friend,
TOM CHILDS.
“There’s another reason for going home,” observed Grant, as he folded up
the letter. “I shall start by the next steamer.”
“I will expect you back in three months,” said Mr. Crosmont. “While you
are away my son will take your place in the office, but I shall miss you
very much.”