[Illustration: “_I will have the kernel, his wife may have the husk._”]
Tom Darcy, yet a young man, had grown to be a very hard one. Although
naturally kind-hearted, active, and intelligent, he lacked strength
of will to resist temptation and had therefore fallen a victim to
intemperance.
He had lost his position as foreman of a great machine shop, and what
money he now earned came from odd jobs of tinkering which he was able
to do at private houses here and there; for Tom was a genius as well
as a mechanic, and when his head was steady enough, he could mend a
clock or clean a watch, as well as he could set up and regulate a steam
engine, and this latter he could do better than any man ever employed
by the Scott Falls Manufacturing Company.
One day Tom was engaged to mend a broken mowing machine and reaper,
for which he received five dollars; and, on the following morning,
he started for his old haunt, the village tavern. He knew that his
wife sadly needed the money, and that his two little children were
absolutely suffering for want of clothing; so that morning he held a
debate with his better nature, but his better nature had become weak,
and the demon of appetite carried the day.
So, away to the tavern Tom went, where, for two or three hours he felt
the exhilarating effect of the strong drink and fancied himself happy
because he could laugh and sing. He drank while he could stand, then
lay down in a corner where his companions left him.
It was almost midnight, when the landlord’s wife came to the barroom to
see what kept her husband up, and she quickly saw Tom.
“Peter,” said she, “why don’t you send that miserable Tom Darcy home?
He’s been hanging around here long enough.”
Tom’s stupefaction was not sound sleep. The dead coma had left his
brain, and the calling of his name stung his senses to keen attention.
He had an insane love for rum, but he did not love the landlord.
Long years ago, Peter Tinder and Tom Darcy had wooed the same
maiden,--Ellen Goss,--and Tom had won her, leaving Peter to take up
with the sharp-tempered damsel who had brought him the tavern. Tom knew
well enough that even lately Peter Tinder had gloated over the misery
of the woman who had once discarded him.
“Why don’t you send him home?” demanded Mrs. Tinder, with an impatient
stamp of her foot.
“Hush, Betsey, he’s got money. Let him be, and he’ll be sure to spend
it before he goes home. I’ll have the kernel of that nut and his wife
may have the husk.”
Betsey turned away, and shortly afterward Tom Darcy lifted himself upon
his elbow.
“Ah, Tom, are you awake?”
“Yes.”
“Then rouse up and have a warm glass.”
Tom got upon his feet and steadied himself.
“No, I won’t drink any more to-night.”
[Illustration: “_We’ll see!_”]
“It won’t hurt you, Tom,--just one glass.”
“I know it won’t!” said Tom, buttoning up his coat by the solitary
button left. “I know it won’t.”
The air was damp and cold, but Tom Darcy didn’t mind it. The fact was,
he was waking up at last. The words of Peter Tinder were sounding in
his ears. He would go home at once. Why had he not gone before? he
wondered, as he stepped out into the dimly lighted street.
Tom stopped a moment and looked up at the stars and then looked down
upon the earth.
“Ay,” he muttered, grinding his heel into the gravel, “Peter Tinder
is taking the kernel, and leaving poor Ellen the worthless husk,--a
husk more than worthless. I am robbing my wife of joy; robbing my poor
children of honor and comfort, and robbing myself of love and life, so
that Peter Tinder may have the kernel and Ellen the husk. We’ll see!”
It was a revelation to the man. The saloon-keeper’s speech, meant not
for his ears, had fallen upon his senses as fell the voice of the Risen
One upon the ears of Saul of Tarsus.
“We’ll see!” he repeated, setting his foot firmly upon the ground; and
then he wended his way homeward.
On the following morning he said to his wife, “Ellen, have you any
coffee in the house?”
“Yes, Tom.” She did not tell him that her sister had given it to her.
She was glad to hear him ask for coffee, instead of the old, old cider.
“I wish you would make me a cup, good and strong.”
There was really music in Tom’s voice, and his wife set about her work
with a strange flutter at her heart.
Tom ate a light breakfast,--there was not much left to eat in the
house,--and then went out, with a resolute step, and walked straight to
the great manufactory, where he found Mr. Scott in his office.
“Mr. Scott, I want to learn my trade over again.”
“Eh, Tom, what do you mean?”
“I mean that it’s Tom Darcy come back to the old place, asking
forgiveness for the past, and hoping to do better in the future.”
“Tom,” cried the manufacturer, starting forward and grasping his hand,
“are you in earnest? Is it really the old Tom?”
“It’s what’s left of him, sir, and we’ll have him whole and strong very
soon, if you’ll only set him to work.”
“Work! Ay, Tom, and bless you, too. There is an engine to be set up and
tested to-day. Come with me.”
Tom’s hands were weak and unsteady, but his brain was clear, and under
his skillful supervision the engine was set up and tested; but it was
not perfect. There were mistakes which he had to correct, and it was
late in the evening when the work was complete.
“How is it now, Tom?” asked Mr. Scott, as he came into the testing
house and found the workmen ready to go home.
“She’s all right now, sir. You may give your warrant without fear.”
“God bless you, Tom! You don’t know how like music the old voice
sounds. Will you take your old place again?”
“Wait till Monday morning, sir. If you will offer it to me then, I will
take it.”
At the little cottage, Ellen Darcy’s fluttering heart was sinking. That
morning, after Tom had gone, she had found a dollar bill in the coffee
cup.
She knew that he had left it for her. She had been out and bought
potatoes and sugar and flour and butter and a little basket of
strawberries. All day long a ray of light had been dancing and
glimmering before her,--a ray from the blessed light of other days.
With prayer and hope she had set the tea-table and waited; but the sun
went down and no Tom came. Eight o’clock, and almost nine.
[Illustration: “_I kept you waiting, Nellie_”]
Hark? The old step! quick, strong, eager, yes, it was Tom, with the old
grime upon his hands and the odor of oil upon his clothing.
“I have kept you waiting, Nellie.”
“Tom!”
“I did not mean to, but the work hung on.”
“Tom! Tom! You have been to the old shop!”
“Yes, and I’m promised the old place, and--”
“Oh, Tom!”
And she threw her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss upon his lips.
“Nellie, darling, wait a little, and you shall have the old Tom back
again!”
“Oh, I have him now! God bless you, my husband!”
It was a banquet--that supper--with the bright angels of peace and love
and joy spreading their wings over the board.
On the following Monday morning, Tom Darcy resumed his place at the
head of the great machine shop, and those who thoroughly knew him had
no fear of his going back into the slough of dissipation.
A few days later, Tom met Peter Tinder on the street.
“Eh, Tom, old boy, what’s up?”
“_I’m_ up,--right side up!”
“Yes, I see; but I hope you haven’t forsaken us, Tom!”
“I have forsaken only the evil, Peter. The fact is, I concluded that my
wife and little ones had fed on ‘husks’ long enough, and if there was
any goodness left in my heart or in my manhood, it was high time they
had the benefit.”
“Ah! you heard what I said to my wife that night.”
“Yes, Peter, and I shall be grateful to you as long as I live. My
remembrance of you will always be relieved by that tinge of brightness.”
* * * * *
Ten years passed away. Peter Tinder had removed to a distant state.
Long ago people had ceased declaring that Tom Darcy “would be as drunk
as a fiddler before long.”
The little cottage had been exchanged for a larger and more commodious
home on one of the pleasantest streets. The two children, Paul and
Emily, were growing to be a great help and comfort to their parents.
But you will want to know what became of Peter Tinder, the saloon
keeper, into whose tills a large share of Tom Darcy’s hard-earned money
had found its way in the old days.
One bitter cold evening in mid-winter, the Darcy family sat around
their cozy fireside. Suddenly the door bell rang. Gentle Mrs. Darcy,
grown more sympathetic and charitable with the passing of the years,
hurried to open the door. But she stepped back with a look of mingled
pity and terror in her eyes.
There stood the most wretched creature she had ever seen. Trembling
with the cold and covered with rags, he undertook to make known his
errand:--
“Is this the home of Tom Darcy?”
By this time Tom was on his feet. “Come in, come in, man, don’t stand
out there, when there’s warmth inside; come right in, my poor fellow.”
“I don’t suppose you know me, Tom Darcy, or perhaps you wouldn’t be so
cordial,” shivered the stranger, turning his bleared eyes toward his
host.