"HOME, SWEET HOME"
On the high-street of the little town of Plainton, Maine, stood the neat
white house of Mrs. Cliff, with its green shutters, its porchless front
door, its pretty bit of flower-garden at the front and side, and its neat
back yard, sacred once a week to that virtue which is next to godliness.
Mrs. Cliff's husband had been the leading merchant in Plainton, and
having saved some money, he had invested it in an enterprise of a friend
who had gone into business in Valparaiso. On Mr. Cliff's death his widow
had found herself with an income smaller than she had expected, and that
it was necessary to change in a degree her style of living. The
hospitalities of her table, once so well known throughout the circle of
her friends, must be curtailed, and the spare bedroom must be less
frequently occupied. The two cows and the horse were sold, and in every
way possible the household was placed on a more economical basis. She had
a good house, and an income on which, with care and prudence, she could
live, but this was all.
In this condition of her finances it was not strange that Mrs. Cliff had
thought a good deal about the investments in Valparaiso, from which she
had not heard for a long time. Her husband had been dead for three years,
and although she had written several times to Valparaiso, she had
received no answer whatever, and being a woman of energy, she had finally
made up her mind that the proper thing to do was to go down and see after
her affairs. It had not been easy for her to get together the money for
this long journey,--in fact, she had borrowed some of it,--and so, to
lessen her expenses, she had taken passage in the _Castor_ from San
Francisco.
She was a housewife of high degree, and would not have thought of
leaving--perhaps for months--her immaculate window-panes and her spotless
floors and furniture, had she not also left some one to take care of
them. A distant cousin, Miss Willy Croup, had lived with her since her
husband's death, and though this lady was willing to stay during Mrs.
Cliff's absence, Mrs. Cliff considered her too quiet and inoffensive to
be left in entire charge of her possessions, and Miss Betty Handshall, a
worthy maiden of fifty, a little older than Willy, and a much more
determined character, was asked to come and live in Mrs. Cliffs house
until her return.
Betty was the only person in Plainton who lived on an annuity, and she
was rather proud of her independent fortune, but as her annuity was very
small, and as this invitation meant a considerable reduction in her
expenses, she was very glad to accept it. Consequently, Mrs. Cliff had
gone away feeling that she had left her house in the hands of two women
almost as neat as herself and even more frugal.
When Mrs. Cliff left Edna and Ralph in San Francisco, and went home,
nearly all the people in the little town who were worth considering
gathered in and around her house to bid her welcome. They had heard of
her shipwreck, but the details had been scanty and unsatisfactory, and
the soul of the town throbbed with curiosity to know what had really
happened to her. For the first few hours of her return Mrs. Cliff was in
a state of heavenly ecstasy. Everything was so tidy, everything was so
clean, every face beamed with such genial amity, her native air was so
intoxicating, that she seemed to be in a sort of paradise. But when her
friends and neighbors began to ask questions, she felt herself gradually
descending into a region which, for all she knew, might resemble
purgatory.
Of course, there was a great deal that was wonderful and startling to
relate, and as Mrs. Cliff was a good story-teller, she thrilled the
nerves of her hearers with her descriptions of the tornado at sea and the
Rackbirds on land, and afterwards filled the eyes of many of the women
with tears of relief as she told of their escapes, their quiet life at
the caves, and their subsequent rescue by the _Mary Bartlett_. But it was
the cross-examinations which caused the soul of the narrator to sink. Of
course, she had been very careful to avoid all mention of the gold mound,
but this omission in her narrative proved to be a defect which she had
not anticipated. As she had told that she had lost everything except a
few effects she had carried with her from the _Castor_, it was natural
enough that people should want to know how she had been enabled to come
home in such good fashion.
They had expected her to return in a shabby, or even needy, condition,
and now they had stories of delightful weeks at a hotel in San Francisco,
and beheld their poor shipwrecked neighbor dressed more handsomely than
they had ever seen her, and with a new trunk standing in the lower hall
which must contain something.
Mrs. Cliff began by telling the truth, and from this course she did not
intend to depart. She said that the captain of the _Castor_ was a just
and generous man, and, as far as was in his power, he had reimbursed the
unfortunate passengers for their losses. But as every one knows the
richest steamship companies are seldom so generous to persons who may be
cast away during transportation as to offer them long sojourns at hotels,
with private parlors and private servants, and to send them home in
drawing-room cars, with cloaks trimmed with real sealskin, the questions
became more and more direct, and all Mrs. Cliff could do was to stand
with her back against the captain's generosity, as if it had been a rock,
and rely upon it for defence.
But when the neighbors had all gone home, and the trunk had to be opened,
so that it could be lightened before being carried up-stairs, the remarks
of Willy and Betty cut clean to the soul of the unfortunate possessor of
its contents. Of course, the captain had not actually given her this
thing, and that thing, and the other, or the next one, but he had allowed
her a sum of money, and she had expended it according to her own
discretion. How much that sum of money might have been, Willy and Betty
did not dare to ask,--for there were limits to Mrs. Cliff's
forbearance,--but when they went to bed, they consulted together.
If it had not been for the private parlor and the drawing-room car, they
would have limited Captain Horn's generosity to one hundred dollars. But,
under the circumstances, that sum would have been insufficient. It must
have been nearly, if not quite, two hundred. As for Mrs. Cliff, she went
to bed regretting that her reservations had not been more extended, and
that she had not given the gold mound in the cave more company. She hated
prevarications and concealments, but if she must conceal something, she
should have concealed more. When the time came when she would be free to
tell of her good fortune, even if it should be no more than she already
possessed, then she would explain everything, and proudly demand of her
friends and neighbors to put their fingers on a single untruth that she
had told them.
For the next day or two, Mrs. Cliff's joy in living again in her own home
banished all other feelings, and as she was careful to say nothing to
provoke more questions, and as those which were still asked became
uncertain of aim and scattering, her regrets at her want of reticence
began to fade. But, no matter what she did, where she went, or what she
looked at, Mrs. Cliff carried about with her a millstone. It did not hang
from her neck, but it was in her pocket. It was not very heavy, but it
was a burden to her. It was her money--which she wanted to spend, but
dared not.
On leaving San Francisco, Edna had wished to give her the full amount
which the captain had so far sent her, but Mrs. Cliff declined to receive
the whole. She did not see any strong reason to believe that the captain
would ever send any more, and as she had a home, and Ralph and Edna had
not, she would not take all the money that was due her, feeling that they
might come to need it more than she would. But even with this generous
self-denial she found herself in Plainton with a balance of some
thousands of dollars in her possession, and as much more in Edna's hands,
which the latter had insisted that she would hold subject to order. What
would the neighbors think of Captain Horn's abnormal bounteousness if
they knew this?
With what a yearning, aching heart Mrs. Cliff looked upon the little
picket-fence which ran across the front of her property! How beautiful
that fence would be with a new coat of paint, and how perfectly well she
could afford it! And there was the little shed that should be over the
back door, which would keep the sun from the kitchen in summer, and in
winter the snow. There was this in one room, and that in another. There
were new dishes which could exist only in her mind. How much domestic
gratification there was within her reach, but toward which she did not
dare to stretch out her hand!
There was poor old Mrs. Bradley, who must shortly leave the home in which
she had lived nearly all her life, because she could no longer afford to
pay the rent. There had been an attempt to raise enough money by
subscription to give the old lady her home for another year, but this had
not been very successful. Mrs. Cliff could easily have supplied the
deficit, and it would have given her real pleasure to do so,--for she had
almost an affection for the old lady,--but when she asked to be allowed
to subscribe, she did not dare to give more than one dollar, which was
the largest sum upon the list, and even then Betty had said that, under
the circumstances, she could not have been expected to give anything.
When she went out into the little barn at the rear of the house, and saw
the empty cow-stable, how she longed for fresh cream, and butter of her
own making! And when she gazed upon her little phaeton, which she had not
sold because no one wanted it, and reflected that her good, brown horse
could doubtless be bought back for a moderate sum, she almost wished that
she had come home as poor as people thought she ought to be.
Now and then she ordered something done or spent some money in a way that
excited the astonishment of Willy Croup--the sharper-witted Betty had
gone home, for, of course, Mrs. Cliff could not be expected to be able to
afford her company now. But in attempting to account for these
inconsiderable extravagances, Mrs. Cliff was often obliged to content
herself with admitting that while she had been abroad she might have
acquired some of those habits of prodigality peculiar to our Western
country. This might be a sufficient excuse for the new bottom step to the
side door, but how could she account for the pair of soft, warm
Californian blankets which were at the bottom of the trunk, and which she
had not yet taken out even to air?
Matters had gone on in this way for nearly a month,--every day Mrs. Cliff
had thought of some new expenditure which she could well afford, and
every night she wished that she dared to put her money in the town bank
and so be relieved from the necessity of thinking so much about
door-locks and window-fastenings,--when there came a letter from Edna,
informing her of the captain's safe arrival in Acapulco with the cargo of
guano and gold, and inclosing a draft which first made Mrs. Cliff turn
pale, and then compelled her to sit down on the floor and cry. The letter
related in brief the captain's adventures, and stated his intention of
returning for the gold.
"To think of it!" softly sobbed Mrs. Cliff, after she had carefully
closed her bedroom door. "With this and what I am to get, I believe I
could buy the bank, and yet I can only sit here and try to think of some
place to hide this dangerous piece of paper."
The draft was drawn by a San Francisco house upon a Boston bank, and Edna
had suggested that it might be well for Mrs. Cliff to open an account in
the latter city. But the poor lady knew that would never do. A
bank-account in Boston would soon become known to the people of Plainton,
and what was the use of having an account anywhere if she could not draw
from it? Edna had not failed to reiterate the necessity of keeping the
gold discovery an absolute secret, and every word she said upon this
point increased Mrs. Cliff's depression.
"If it were only for a fixed time, a month or three months, or even six
months," the poor lady said to herself, "I might stand it. It would be
hard to do without all the things I want, and be afraid even to pay the
money I borrowed to go to South America, but if I knew when the day was
certainly coming when I could hold up my head and let everybody know just
what I am, and take my proper place in the community, then I might wait.
But nobody knows how long it will take the captain to get away with that
gold. He may have to make ever so many voyages. He may meet with wrecks,
and dear knows what. It may be years before they are ready to tell me I
am a free woman, and may do what I please with my own. I may die in
poverty, and leave Mr. Cliff's nephews to get all the good of the draft
and the money in my trunk up-stairs. I suppose they would think it came
from Valparaiso, and that I had been hoarding it. It's all very well for
Edna. She is going to Europe, where Ralph will be educated, I suppose,
and where she can live as she pleases, and nobody will ask her any
questions, and she need not answer them, if they should. But I must stay
here, in debt, and in actual want of the comforts of life, making believe
to pinch and to save, until a sea-captain thousands and thousands of
miles away shall feel that he is ready to let me put my hand in my pocket
and spend my riches."