John Barton and his wife, Anna, with whom Amy was to make her home for
a while, could fully sympathize with the girl in her sad position,
though one would never dream that the quiet, reserved John knew more
of life than of his pigs and cattle, or that his jolly-faced, motherly
companion had ever been beyond the quiet fields that surrounded her
simple dwelling. Years before, they had been rescued from the world
in which Amy had so nearly perished, by the same kind hand that had
been stretched out to her, the Salvation Army; and now well on in
middle life, happy and prosperous, they showed scarce a trace of the
trouble that had driven them to labor on a farm. As hired help, they
had gained their experience, and by ceaseless industry and careful
economy, had at last come to own the place where they now lived. With
no child of her own, Mrs. Barton took a mother's place in Amy's life
from the first, and was very patient with the girl who had never been
taught to do the simplest household task. Amy returned the loving
kindness full measure, and, determined to be a help to those who so
much helped her, advanced rapidly in the knowledge of her homely duties.
Dressed in the plain working garb of a farm girl, with arms bare and
face flushed by the heat of the kitchen, one would scarcely have
recognized in her the beautiful young woman who moved with Boyd City's
society leaders, or the brilliant novice who stood hesitating at the
entrance to a life of sin in Madam's wine-rooms; and certainly, one
would never have classed the bright eyes, plump cheeks, and well-rounded
figure, with the frightened, starving, haggard thing that roamed about
the streets of Cleveland a few short months before.
But great as was the change in Amy's outward appearance, the change
within was even greater. She was no longer the thoughtless, proud,
pleasure-loving belle that her parents had trained; nor was she the
hard, reckless, hopeless creature that the world had made. But she was
a woman now, with a true woman's interest and purpose in life. The
shallow brilliance of the society girl had given place to thoughtful
earnestness, and the dreary sadness of the outcast had changed to
bright hopefulness.
One warm day in June, Mrs. Barton laid the last neatly ironed garment
on the big pile of clothes nearby, and noisily pushing her irons to
the back of the stove, cried, "Thank goodness, that's the last of that
for this week." And "Thank goodness, that's the last of that," exclaimed
Amy, mimicking the voice of her friend as she threw out the dishwater
and hung the empty pan in its place.
Anna wiped the perspiration from her steaming face. "Come on; let's
get out of this Inferno for a while and do our patching in the shade.
I shall melt if I stay here a minute longer." And the two were soon
seated in their low chairs on the cool porch, with a big basket of
mending between them.
"Hello, there's our man back from town already," suddenly exclaimed
Anna a few minutes later, as her husband drove into the barnyard; then
with a mischievous twinkle in her blue eyes, she called, "Hurry up,
John, Amy wants her letter." John smiled in his quiet way as he came
up to the porch and handed the girl an envelope with the Boyd City
postmark. Then the old people both laughed at the other's pretty
confusion when Anna, rising, said in her teasing voice, "Come on hubby,
I'll fix your dinner. We've kept it warm. Can't you see the selfish
thing wants to be alone with her treasure?"
But when Mrs. Barton returned to her mending, after a long talk with
her husband, her jolly face wore an expression of seriousness that was
unusual, and she failed to notice that Amy's hands were idle and her
work was lying untouched in her lap as she sat looking wistfully far
away across the sunlit meadows and pastures.
Both took up their tasks in silence and plied their needles with energy,
while their thoughts were far away; but one thought of a great city
in the far-away east; the other of a bustling mining town in the nearer
west.
At last Anna spoke with a little sigh: "Amy dear, I suppose you will
be leaving us one of these days before long."
The girl answered with a loving smile: "Are you so tired of me that
you are going to send me out into the world again?"
"No, no, dear. You have a home with John and me as long as you live.
Surely you know that, don't you, Amy dear?" There was a wistful note
in the kind voice, and dropping the stocking she was darning, Anna
leaned forward and placed her hand on the arm of Amy's chair.
A rush of tears was her answer, as the girl caught the toil-stained
hand and carried it passionately to her lips. "Of course I know. Mother
forgive me; I was only 'funnin' as little Jimmie Clark says."
"But I am not 'funnin,'" replied the other. "I'm awfully in earnest."
There seemed to be a hidden meaning in her words and Amy looked at her
anxiously. "I do not understand why you think that I should leave you,"
she said earnestly.
"Because--because--I--this life must be so degrading to you. You could
live so differently at home. You must feel this keenly."
Amy looked at her steadily. "That is not your reason, Mother," she
said gently. "You know that a woman degrades herself when she does
nothing useful, and that I count my present place and work, far above
my old life at home. Why just think"--with a quiet smile--"John said
last night that he couldn't tell my biscuits from yours. And wasn't
the dinner all right to-day? And isn't that a beautiful patch?" She
held up her work for inspection.
The other shook her head, while she smiled in answer. "I know, dear
girl, you do beautifully; but that's not it. There is your father and
mother and brother; you know you can't stay away from them always."
Amy's face grew troubled, while her hand nervously sought the letter
hidden in her bosom. "You do not understand, mother," she replied
slowly; "My people do not want me to come home. My father said I should
not, until--until--" she hesitated.
"But your father has surely forgotten his anger by this time, and when
he sees you he will be glad to forgive and take you back."
The brown eyes looked at her in startled surprise. "When he sees me?"
But the other continued hurriedly, "And there are the letters you
know."
Amy's face grew rosy. "Why the letters?" she murmured in a low voice.
"Because he loves you, dear, don't you see?"
"He has never told me so."
"Not in words perhaps."
Amy was silent.
"He will come for you one of these days and then you will go with him."
The girl sadly shook her head, and turning her face, looked away across
the fields again, where silent, patient John sturdily followed his
team.
The shadow of the big sycamore was stretching across the barn lot
almost to the gate, where the cows stood watching for the boy to come
and let them in; a troop of droning bees were paying their last visit
for the day to the peach-tree, that flung its wealth of passionate
blossoms almost within reach of the porch, and over the blue distant
woods the last of the feathery banks of mist hung lazily, as though
tangled in the budding branches, reluctant to say good-night.
Suddenly leaving her chair, Amy threw herself on the floor and burying
her face in the older woman's lap, burst into tears. Anna's own eyes
were wet as she softly smoothed the brown hair of the girl she had
taken to her mother's heart. "You do love him, don't you dear?"
And Amy answered, between her sobs, "Because I love him so, I must
never see him again. He--he--is so strong and good and true--he must
not care for one who would only bring reproach upon his name."
"I know, dear girl, and that is why you must go home; take your own
place in the world again and then the way is clear."
Amy lifted her head. "Oh, if I only could--but you do not know--my
going home would only widen the distance between us. My father--" She
paused again, her quivering lips could not form the words.
"Amy, I am sure you are mistaken; you must be. When you meet your
father it will all come right, I know."
Again there seemed to be a hidden meaning in her words. "When I meet
my father?" Amy repeated slowly.
Anna grew confused. "Yes--I--we--you know John has been trying to sell
for a long time; we want to go back to Cleveland; and to-day he learned
that a buyer was coming from Boyd City to--"
Amy's face grew white as she rose, trembling, to her feet. "My father,"
she gasped--"coming here?"
Anna took the frightened girl in her arms--"There, there, dear, don't
be afraid. All will be for the best, I am sure. John and I will stand
by you and you shall go with us if you wish. But I am sure your father
will be glad to take you home with him; and you ought to go; you know
you ought; not for your family's sake alone, but for his, you know."
And so they talked as the shadows grew, until in the twilight John
came from the field with his tired team, when they went into the house
to prepare the evening meal.
* * * * *
Adam Goodrich had by no means forgiven his beautiful daughter for the
blow dealt his pride, though one would not easily detect from his
manner that there was anything but supreme self-satisfaction in the
life of this worthy member of the Jerusalem Church. Mrs. Goodrich's
health was broken, but she still remained the same society-loving,
fashion-worshipping woman, who by her influence and teaching had ruined
her child. It never occurred to the mother that Amy's conduct was the
legitimate outcome of her training or associates, but she looked at
it always as a weakness in the girl; and Frank, true son of his father,
never mentioned his sister but with a curl of his lip, and lived his
life as though she had never existed. The family still attended church
once each week, still contributed the same amount to the cause, and
still found fault with Cameron for his low tastes and new-fangled
methods; while they laughed at the new Association as a dream of fools
and misguided enthusiasts.
Adam had long wanted to add a good farm to his possessions, and after
some correspondence with the agent who had advertised the Barton
property, he boarded the train one bright day, to pay a visit of
inspection to his contemplated purchase. Reaching the little city of
Zanesville in the evening, he spent the night at a hotel. In the morning
he called upon the agent, and the two were soon whirling along the
road behind a pair of wiry little ponies.
The drive of eight or ten miles passed very pleasantly between the
real estate man and his prospective customer in such conversation as
gentlemen whose lives are spent in the whirl of the money world indulge
in between moments of activity.
At last they neared the farm, and bringing the ponies to a walk, the
agent began pointing out the most desirable features of the property:
the big barn, the fine timber land in the distance, the rich soil of
a field near by, the magnificent crop of corn, the stream of water
where cattle stood knee-deep lazily fighting the flies, and the fine
young orchard just across the road from the house.
"Yes, the building is old"--as they drove up in front of the big gate;
"but it is good yet, and with just a little expense, can be converted
into a model of modern convenience and beauty."
As they drove into the yard and got out to hitch the ponies,
Mrs. Barton came to the door.
"Just come right in, Mr. Richards, John is over in the north field;
I'll go for him."
"Oh No, Mrs. Barton, I'll go. This is Mr. Goodrich, who wishes to look
at the farm. Mr. Goodrich, just wait here in the shade and I'll go
after Mr. Barton."
"I believe," said Adam, "if you don't mind, I'll walk through the
orchard until you return."
"Certainly, certainly," said both the agent and the farmer's wife; and
the woman added, nervously, "just make yourself at home, Mr. Goodrich;
you'll find the girl out there somewhere. Dinner will be ready in about
an hour."
Leisurely crossing the road, Adam paused at the orchard gate, to watch
some fine young shoats that were running about with their mother nearby.
From the pigs, his gaze wandered about the farm buildings, the fields,
and the garden. Turning at last to enter the orchard, he saw a young
woman, clad in the homely every-day dress of a country girl; her face
hidden beneath a large sun-bonnet of blue gingham. She was gathering
apple blossoms. Something in her manner or figure struck him as being
familiar, and with his hand on the gate, he paused again. As he stood
watching her all unconscious of his presence, she sprang lightly from
the ground in an effort to reach a tempting spray of blossoms, and at
her violent movement the sun-bonnet dropped from her head, while a
wealth of brown hair fell in a rippling mass to her waist. Then as she
half turned, he saw her face distinctly, and with a start of surprise
and astonishment, knew her as his daughter.
Under the first impulse of a father's love at seeing his child again,
Adam stepped forward; but with the gate half open, he checked himself
and then drew back, while the old haughty pride, that dominant key in
his character, hardened his heart again; and when he at last pushed
open the gate once more, his love was fairly hidden.
When Amy first caught sight of her father advancing slowly toward her
beneath the blossom-laden trees she forgot everything and started
quickly toward him, her face lighted with eager welcome, ready to throw
herself in his arms and there pour out her whole tearful story and beg
his love and forgiveness. But when she saw his face, she dared not,
and stood with downcast eyes, trembling and afraid.
"So this is where you hide yourself, while your family faces your shame
at home," began Adam, coldly. "Tell me who brought you here and who
pays these people to keep you."
The girl lifted her head proudly. "No one pays them sir; I am supporting
myself."
The man looked at her in amazement. "Do you mean that your position
here is that of a common servant?"
"There are worse positions," she replied sadly. "The people here are
very kind to me."
"But think of your family; you are a disgrace to us all. What can I
tell them when I go back and say that I have seen you?"
"Tell them that I am well, and as happy as I ever expect to be."
She pressed her hand to her bosom where a letter was hidden.
"But what will people say when they know that my daughter is working
on a farm for a living?"
"They need never know unless you tell them."
Then the man lost all control of himself; that this girl who had always
yielded to his every wish, without so much as daring to have a thought
of her own, should so calmly, but firmly, face him in this manner,
enraged him beyond measure. He could not understand. He knew nothing
of her life since that night he had refused to listen to her
explanation, and in his anger taunted her with being the plaything of
Dick Falkner, and then, because her face flushed, thought that he had
hit on the truth and grew almost abusive in his language.
But Amy only answered, "Sir, you are mistaken now, as you were when
you drove me from home; Mr. Falkner had nothing to do with my leaving
Boyd City."
"You are my daughter still," stormed Adam, "and I will force you to
leave this low position and come home to us. You cannot deceive me
with your clever lie about supporting yourself. What do you know about
a servant's work? That cursed tramp printer is at the bottom of all
this, and I'll make him suffer for it as I live. I will force you to
come home."
Amy's face grew pale, but she replied quietly, "Oh no, father, you
will not do that, because that would make public my position you know.
I have no fear of your proclaiming from the housetops that your daughter
is a hired girl on a farm."
"But father," she said, in softer voice, as Adam stood speechless with
rage; "Father, forgive me for this, for I know that I am right. Let
me stay here and prove that I am not useless to the world, and then
perhaps I will go to you. In the meantime, keep my secret and no one
shall know that your claim on society has teen lessened because your
daughter is learning to do a woman's work."
Just a shade of bitter sarcasm crept into her voice, but Adam did not
notice, for he saw the agent and the farmer coming. "Very well," he
said hurriedly, "you have chosen your path and must walk in it. But
you cannot expect me to acknowledge a servant as my daughter." And
turning his back, he went to meet the men, while Amy slipped off to
the house with her blossoms.
Mrs. Barton needed no word to tell her of the result of the interview
from which she had expected so much, and with a kiss and a loving word,
permitted the girl to go upstairs, where she remained until Mr. Goodrich
had left the place.
After completing the purchase of the farm, Adam wrote his daughter
from the office of the agent in Zanesville: "The place where you are
living now belongs to me, and the Bartons must give possession at once.
If you will promise never to speak to that man Falkner again, you may
come home and be received into your old place, but on no other terms
will I acknowledge you as my daughter. Refuse and you are thrown on
the charity of the world, for you cannot remain where you are."
Amy carried the letter to her friends, together with her reply, and
they, by every argument of love, tried to induce her to go with them
back to Cleveland; but she refused in tears. And when she would not
be persuaded, they were compelled to leave her. With many expressions
of love, they said good-bye, and departed for their old home in the
eastern city; but before going, they arranged with a kind neighbor to
give her a place in their already crowded home until she could find
means of support.
Upon Dick's return from his Cleveland trip, he had thrown himself into
his work with feverish energy, while in his heart the struggle between
love and prejudice continued. But as the weeks went by and Amy's letters
had come, telling of her life on the farm, and how she was learning
to be of use in the world; and as he had read between the lines, of
her new ideas and changed views of life, his love had grown stronger
and had almost won the fight. Then a letter came, bidding him good-bye,
and telling him that she was going away again, and that for her sake,
he must not try to find her; that she was deeply grateful for all that
he had done, but it was best that he forget that he had ever known her.
Dick was hurt and dismayed. It seemed to him that she had given up,
and the devil, Doubt, ever ready to place a wrong construction upon
the words and deeds of mortals, sent him into the black depths of
despair again.
"I never saw such a man," declared George Udell to Clara Wilson, one
evening, as they caught a glimpse of him bending over a desk in Mr.
Wicks' office, "he works like a fiend."
"Like an angel, you'd better say," replied Clara. "Didn't I tell you
that he was no common tramp?"
"Yes, dear, of course; and you never made a mistake in your life; that
is, never but once."
"When was that?" asked Clara curiously.
"When you said 'No' to me night before last. Won't you reconsider it,
and--"
"Where do you suppose Amy Goodrich is now?" interrupted the young lady.
"Do you know, I have fancied at times, that Mr. Falkner learned
something on his trip last fall, that he has not told us?"
George opened his eyes. "What makes you think that?"
"Oh, because; somehow he seems so different since he returned."
But George shook his head. "I thought so too for a while," he replied;
"but I talked with him just the other day, and I'm afraid he's given
up all hope. He works to hide the hurt. But I'll tell you one thing,
girlie, if anything could make a Christian of me, it would be Dick's
life. There's something more than human in the way he stands up against
this thing."
Then Dick received another letter, from a post office in Texas.
"Dere Dikkie: I take my pen in hand to let u no that Ime wel an hoape
u ar the same. Jim Whitly is ded he don tried to nife me an i fixed
him. he wanted to hire me to kil u fer some papers an we was in you
ol caben kross the river from the still. He said ter tel u thet he
lied to u an that Amy is pure. I don't no what he means but thot u ort
ter no. I skipped--burn this. your daddys pard.
"JAKE THOMPSON."
The Association building was finished at last, and the pastor of the
Jerusalem Church sat in his little den looking over the morning mail.
There were the usual number of magazines, papers, and sample copies
of religious periodicals, with catalogues and circulars from publishing
houses; an appeal to help a poor church in Nebraska whose place of
worship had been struck by lightning; a letter from a sister in
Missouri, asking for advice about a divorce case; one from a tinware
man in Arkansas, who inquired about the town with a view of locating;
and one that bore the mark of the Association, which informed him,
over the signature of the Secretary, that he had been unanimously
called to take charge of the new work. Cameron carried the letter, in
triumph, to the kitchen.
"Well," said the little woman; "didn't I tell you that one preacher
would have a hand in whatever work was started here? Of course you'll
accept?"
"I don't know," Cameron answered. "We must think about it."
A day later he called for a consultation with Elder Wicks, and Uncle
Bobbie said:
"To-be-sure, it's mighty hard for me to advise you in a thing like
this; for as a member of the church, I'm bound to say stay; and as a
member of the Association, I say, accept. I jing! I don't know what
to do." And for a few moments, the old gentleman thoughtfully stroked
his face; then suddenly grasping the arms of the chair fiercely, he
shouted: "As a Christian, I say, accept, an' I reckon that settles it."
And so Cameron became the manager of the new work; and his first
recommendation to the directors was that they send their Secretary
away for a vacation. And indeed Dick, poor fellow, needed it, though
at first he flatly refused to go. But Dr. Jordan came down on him with
the cheerful information that he would die if he didn't, and Uncle
Bobbie finished matters by declaring that he had no more right to kill
himself by over work, than he had to take Rough on Eats, or blow his
head off with a gun; "and besides," added the old gentleman, "you aint
paid me that hundred dollars yet. To-be-sure, the note aint due for
sometime; but a fellow has got to look after his own interest, aint
he?"
The first address delivered by Cameron in the auditorium of the
Association building, was from the text, "Ye shall know the truth, and
the truth shall make you free." The audience room was crowded, and the
young minister had never appeared to better advantage, or declared the
teaching of his Master with greater freedom, earnestness and vigor;
and to the astonishment of the people, who should come forward at the
close of the service, to declare his belief in, and acceptance of
Christ as the Son of God, but the so-called infidel printer, George
Udell.