_CALEB WRIGHT_
_CALEB WRIGHT_
_A STORY OF THE WEST_
_BY
JOHN HABBERTON_
_Author of_
_"HELEN'S BABIES"
"THE JERICHO ROAD"
ETC._
_BOSTON
LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY_
_COPYRIGHT,
1901, BY
LOTHROP
PUBLISHING
COMPANY._
_ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED_
_ENTERED AT
STATIONERS'
HALL_
_Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith
Norwood, Mass._
_CONTENTS_
_Chapter_ _Page_
_I._ _Their Fortune_ 11
_II._ _Taking Possession_ 25
_III._ _Introduced_ 40
_IV._ _Home-making_ 54
_V._ _Business Ways_ 71
_VI._ _The Unexpected_ 94
_VII._ _An Active Partner_ 108
_VIII._ _The Pork-house_ 124
_IX._ _A Western Spectre_ 137
_X._ _She wanted to know_ 150
_XI._ _Caleb's Newest Project_ 163
_XII._ _Deferred Hopes_ 177
_XIII._ _Farmers' Ways_ 194
_XIV._ _Fun with a Camera_ 211
_XV._ _Cause and Effect_ 224
_XVI._ _Decoration Day_ 242
_XVII._ _Foreign Invasion_ 263
_XVIII._ _The Tabby Party_ 281
_XIX._ _Days in the Store_ 299
_XX._ _Profit and Loss_ 316
_XXI._ _Cupid and Corn-meal_ 332
_XXII._ _Some Ways of the West_ 348
_XXIII._ _After the Storm_ 366
_XXIV._ _How it came about_ 381
_XXV._ _Looking Ahead_ 406
_XXVI._ _The Railway_ 428
_XXVII._ _Conclusion_ 444
_CALEB WRIGHT_
I--THEIR FORTUNE
ALL people who have more taste than money are as one in the conviction
that people with less money than taste suffer more keenly day by day,
week by week, year by year, than any other class of human beings.
Of this kind of sufferer was Philip Somerton, a young man who had
strayed from a far-western country town to New York to develop his
individuality and make his fortune, but especially to enjoy the
facilities which a great city offers (as every one knows, except the
impecunious persons who have tried it) to all whose hearts hunger for
whatever is beautiful, refining, and also enjoyable.
To some extent Philip had succeeded, for he quickly adapted himself to
his new surroundings; and as he was intelligent, industrious, and of
good habits, he soon secured a clerkship which enabled him to pay for
food, shelter, and clothing, and still have money enough for occasional
books and music and theatre tickets, and to purchase a few articles
of a class over which the art editor of Philip's favorite morning
newspaper raved delightfully by the column. Several years later he
was still more fortunate; for he met Grace Brymme, a handsome young
woman who had quite as much intelligence and taste as he, and who,
like Philip, had been reared in a country town. That in New York she
was a saleswoman in a great shop called a "department store" was not
in the least to her discredit; for she was an orphan, and poor, and
with too much respect to allow herself to be supported by relatives as
poor as she, or to be "married off" for the sole purpose of securing
a home. When Philip declared his love and blamed himself for having
formed so strong an attachment before he had become financially able
to support a wife in the style to which his sweetheart's refinement
and cleverness entitled her, the young woman, who was quite as deep in
love as he, replied that in so large a city no one knew the affairs
of inconspicuous people, so there was no reason why they should not
marry, and she retain her business position and salary under the only
name by which her employers and business associates would know her, and
together they would earn a modest competence against the glorious by
and by.
So they married, and told only their relatives, none of whom was in New
York, and out of business hours the couple occupied a small apartment
and a large section of Paradise, and together they enjoyed plays and
concerts and pictures and books and bric-à-brac as they had never
imagined possible when they were single; and when there was nothing
special in the outer world to hold their attention they enjoyed each
other as only warm-hearted and adaptive married people can.
But marriage has no end of unforeseen mysteries for people who really
love each other, and some of these obtruded themselves unexpectedly
upon Philip and Grace, and gave the young people some serious moments,
hours, and days. At first these disturbers were repelled temporarily
by gales of kisses and caresses, but afterwards Grace's warm brown eyes
would look deeper than they habitually were, and Philip would feel as
if he had lost the power of speech. It was merely that each wished to
be more and do more for the sake of the other. Philip knew that Grace
was the sweetest, handsomest, cleverest, noblest woman in the world,
and that the world at large had the right to know it. Grace thought
Philip competent to illumine any social circle, and to become a leader
among men; but how was the world to know of it while he and she were
compelled to remain buried alive in a city in which no one knew his
next-door neighbor except by sight? In her native village deserving
young men frequently became partners of their employers, but Philip
assured her that in New York no such recognition could be expected. The
best he could hope for was to retain his position, be slowly promoted,
and some day rank with the highest clerks.
One evening Philip, who ordinarily reached home later than his wife,
stood in the door of the apartment when Grace appeared. He quieted the
young woman with a rapturous smile, and said, with much lover-like
punctuation:--
"All of our troubles are ended, dear girl. We can live as we wish,
and buy everything we wish. To-night--at once, if you like--we can
afford to tell the whole world that we are no longer a mere clerk and a
saleswoman."
Grace at once looked more radiant than her husband had ever seen her;
she exclaimed:--
"Oh, Phil! Tell me all about it! Quick!"
"I will, my dear, if you'll loosen your arms--or one of them--for a
moment, so that I can get my hand into my pocket. I've inherited old
Uncle Jethro's property. I don't know how much it amounts to, but
he was a well-to-do country merchant, and here's a single check, on
account, for a thousand dollars."
"Phil!" exclaimed Grace, placing her hands on her husband's face and
pushing it gently backward, while her cheeks glowed, and her lips
parted, and her eyes seemed to melt.
"That makes me far happier than I was," said Phil, "though I didn't
suppose that could be possible. Your face is outdoing itself. I didn't
suppose money could make so great a difference in it."
"'Tisn't the money," Grace replied slowly, "and yet, I suppose it is.
But we won't reason about it now. We can do what we most wish--tell the
world that we're married; for that, I'd gladly have become a beggar.
But do tell me all about it."
Philip placed his wife in an easy chair, took a letter from his pocket,
and said:--
"I suppose this will explain all more quickly than I could tell it.
'Tis a lawyer's letter. Listen:--
"'PHILIP SOMERTON, ESQ.,--
"'DEAR SIR: We are charged to inform you that your
uncle, Jethro Somerton, died a few days ago, and made
you the sole beneficiary of his will, on condition that
you at once proceed to Claybanks, and assume charge of
the general store and other business interests that
were his, and that you provide for his clerk, Caleb
Wright, for the remainder of said Wright's natural
life, and to the satisfaction of the said Wright. In
the event of any of these stipulations not being met,
the entire property is to be divided among several
(specified) benevolent associations, subject to a life
annuity to Caleb Wright, and you are to retire from the
business without taking any of the proceeds.
"'By the terms of the will we are instructed, (through
your late uncle's local attorney) to send you the
enclosed check for One Thousand ($1000) Dollars, to
provide for the expenses of your trip to Claybanks, and
to enable you to procure such things as you may wish to
take with you, the Claybanks stores not being stocked
with a view to the trade of city people; but our bank
will defer payment of the same until we are in receipt
of enclosed acknowledgment, duly signed before a notary
public, of your acceptance under the terms of your
uncle's will, a copy of which we enclose.
"'Yours truly,
"'TRACE & STUBB,
"'_For counsel of Jethro Somerton, deceased_.'"
"How strange!" murmured Grace, who seemed to be in a brown study.
"Is that all it is?" asked Phil.
"No, you silly dear; you know it isn't. But you've scarcely ever
mentioned your uncle to me; now it appears that you must have been very
dear to him. I can't understand it."
"Can't, eh? That's somewhat uncomplimentary to me. I suppose the truth
is that Uncle Jethro couldn't think of any one else to leave his money
to; for he was a widower and childless. My dear dead-and-gone father
was his only brother, and he had no sisters, so I'm the only remaining
male member of the family."
"But what sort of man was he? Do tell me something about him."
"I wish I knew a lot of pleasant things to tell, but I know little
of him except what I heard when I was a boy. Father, in whom
family affection was very strong, loved him dearly, yet used to be
greatly provoked by him at times; for uncle's only thought was of
money--perhaps because he had nothing else to think of, and he wrote
advice persistently, with the manner of an elder brother--a man whose
advice should be taken as a command. When I started East I stopped
off and tramped three miles across country to call on him, for the
letter he wrote us when father died was a masterpiece of affection and
appreciation. I had never seen him, and I'm ashamed to say, after what
has just occurred, that after our first interview I had no desire to
see him again. His greeting was fervent only in curiosity; he studied
my face as if I were a possible customer who might not be entirely
trustworthy. Then he made haste to tell me, with many details, that he
was the principal merchant and business man in the county, where he
had started thirty years before, with no capital but his muscles and
wits. He intimated that if I cared to remain with him a few months on
trial, and succeeded in impressing him favorably, I might in time earn
an interest in his business; but I thought I had seen enough of country
stores and country ways to last me for life; so I made the excuse
that as my parents were dead and my sisters married, I felt justified
in going to New York to continue my studies. When he asked me what I
was studying, I was obliged to reply, 'Literature and art,' at which
statement he sneered--I may say truthfully that he snorted--and at once
became cooler than before; so I improved my first opportunity, between
customers' visits, to say that it was time for me to be starting back
to the railway station. In justice to myself, however, as well as
to him, I could not start without telling him how greatly his letter
about my father had affected me. For a moment he was silent: he looked
thoughtful, and as tender, I suppose, as a burly, hard-natured man
could look; then he said:--
"'Your father was one of the very elect, but--'
"I quickly interrupted with, 'I'm not very religious, but I won't
listen to a word of criticism of one of the elect--least of all, of my
father. Good by, uncle.' He made haste to say that the only two men
of the Somerton family shouldn't part in anger; and when he learned
that I had walked three miles through the darkness and November mud,
and intended to walk back to the station, he told a man who seemed
to be his clerk,--Caleb Wright, evidently the man mentioned in this
extraordinary letter,--to get out some sort of conveyance and drive me
over. While Caleb was at the stables, my uncle questioned me closely as
to my capital and business prospects. I was not going to be outdone in
personal pride, so I replied that, except for some mining stocks which
some one had imposed upon my father, and were down to two cents per
share, I'd exactly what he had told me he began with,--muscle and wits.
He saw that I had no overcoat,--boys and young men in our part of the
country seldom had them,--so he pressed one upon me, and when I tried
to decline it, he said, 'For my dead brother's sake,' which broke me
down. When I reached the train, I found in the overcoat pockets some
handkerchiefs, gloves, hosiery, neckwear, and several kinds of patent
medicines, which evidently he thought trustworthy; there was also a
portemonnaie containing a few small notes and some coin. I wrote,
thanking him, as soon as I found employment; but he never answered
my letter, so I was obliged to assume that he had repented of his
generosity and wished no further communication with me."
"How strange! But the man--Caleb--who drove you to the station, and who
seems to be a life pensioner on the estate, and is to be dependent upon
us,--how did he impress you?"
"I scarcely remember him, except as a small man with a small
face, small beard, a small gentle voice, and pleasanter eyes than
country clerks usually have. I remember that his manner seemed very
kindly,--after my experience with my uncle's,--and he said a clever
or quaint thing once in a while, as any other countryman might have
done. For the rest, he is a Civil War veteran, and about forty years of
age--perhaps less, for beards make men look older than they are."
"And the town with the odd name--Claybanks?"
"I saw it only in the dark, which means I didn't see it at all. I
believe 'tis the county town, and probably it doesn't differ much
from other Western villages of a thousand or two people. 'Twill be a
frightful change from New York, dear girl, for you."
"You will be there," replied Grace, with a look that quickly brought
her husband's arms around her. "And you will be prominent among men,
instead of merely one man among a dozen in a great office. Every one
will know my husband; he won't any longer go to and from business as
unknown as any mere nobody, as you and most other men do in New York.
'Tis simply ridiculous--'tis unnatural, and entirely wrong, that my
husband's many clever, splendid qualities aren't known and put to their
proper uses. You ought to be the manager of the firm you are with,
instead of a mere clerk. I want other people to understand you, and
admire you, just as I do, but no one is any one in this great crowded,
lonely, dreadful city."
"There, there!" said Philip. "Don't make me conceited. Besides, we've
neglected that check for at least ten minutes. Let's have another look
at it. A thousand dollars!--as much money as both of us have had to
spend in a year, after paying our rent! A tenth part of it will be more
than enough to take us and our belongings to Claybanks; with the other
nine hundred we'll buy a lot of things with which to delight ourselves
and astonish the natives,--silk dresses and other adornments for you,
likewise a piano, to replace the one we have been hiring, and some
pictures, and bric-à-brac, and we'll subscribe to a lot of magazines,
and--"
"But suppose," said Grace, "that after reaching there you find the
business difficult or unendurable, and wish to come back to New York?"
"Never fear for me! I'm concerned only for you, dear girl. I know
Western country places, having been brought up in one; I know the
people, and among them you will take place at once as a queen. But
queens are not always the most contented of creatures. Their subjects
may not be--"
"If my first and dearest subject remains happy," said Grace, "I shall
have no excuse for complaining."