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STORIES AND SKETCHES
BY
H.S. CASWELL,
AUTHOR OF ERNEST HARWOOD, CLARA ROSCOM, OR
THE PATH OF DUTY, &C.
MONTREAL:
PRINTED BY JOHN LOVELL, ST. NICHOLAS STREET.
1872
CONTENTS.
TERRY DOLAN 5
THE FAITHFUL WIFE 15
EMMA ASHTON 24
THOUGHTS ON AUTUMN 47
WANDERING DAVY 50
LOOKING ON THE DARK SIDE 57
EDWARD BARTON 62
THE WEARY AT REST 71
THE RAINY AFTERNOON 75
THE STUDENT'S DREAM 85
UNCLE EPHRAIM 88
STORY OF A LOG CABIN 93
HAZEL-BROOK FARM 106
OLD RUFUS 127
THE DIAMOND RING 135
THE UNFORTUNATE MAN 146
THE OLD SCHOOLHOUSE 150
ARTHUR SINCLAIR 154
THE SNOW STORM 173
THE NEW YEAR 177
TERRY DOLAN.
Some years since circumstances caused me to spend the summer months in
a farming district, a few miles from the village of E., and it was there
I met with Terry Dolan. He had a short time previous come over from
Ireland, and was engaged as a sort of chore boy by Mr. L., in whose
family I resided during my stay in the neighborhood. This Terry was the
oddest being with whom I ever chanced to meet. Would that I could
describe him!--but most of us, I believe, occasionally meet with people,
whom we find to be indescribable, and Terry was one of those. He called
himself sixteen years of age; but, excepting that he was low of stature,
you would about as soon have taken him for sixty, as sixteen. His
countenance looked anything but youthful, and there was altogether a
sort of queer, ancient look about him which caused him to appear very
remarkable. When he first came to reside with Mr. L. the boys in the
neighborhood nicknamed him "The little Old Man," but they soon learned
by experience that their wisest plan was to place a safe distance
between Terry and themselves before applying that name to him, for the
implied taunt regarding his peculiar appearance enraged him beyond
measure. Whenever he entered the room, specially if he ventured a
remark--and no matter how serious you might have been a moment
before--the laugh would come, do your best to repress it. When I first
became an inmate with the family, I was too often inclined to laugh at
the oddities of Terry--and I believe a much graver person than I was at
that time would have done the same--but after a time, when I learned
something of his past life, I regarded him with a feeling of pity,
although to avoid laughing at him, at times, were next to impossible.
One evening in midsummer I found him seated alone upon the piazza, with
a most dejected countenance. Taking a seat by his side I enquired why he
looked so sad;--his eyes filled with tears as he replied--"its of ould
Ireland I'm thinkin' to-night, sure." I had never before seen Terry look
sober, and I felt a deep sympathy for the homesick boy. I asked him how
it happened that he left all his friends in Ireland and came to this
country alone. From his reply I learned that his mother died when he was
only ten years old, and, also, that his father soon after married a
second wife, who, to use Terry's own words, "bate him unmercifully."
"It's a wonder," said he, "that iver I lived to grow up, at all, at all,
wid all the batins I got from that cruel woman, and all the times she
sint me to bed widout iver a bite uv supper, bad luck to her and the
like uv her!" He did live, however, but he certainly did not grow up to
be very tall. "Times grew worse an' worse for me at home," continued he,
"and a quare time I had of it till I was fourteen years of age, when one
day says I to mesilf, 'flesh and blood can bear it no longer,' and I ran
away to the city uv Dublin where an aunt by me mother's side lived. Me
aunt was a poor woman, but she gave a warm welcim to her sister's
motherless boy; she trated me kindly and allowed me to share her home,
although she could ill afford it, till I got a place as sarvant in a
gintleman's family. As for my father, he niver throubled his head about
me any more; indade I think he was glad to be rid uv me, an' all by
manes of that wicked woman. It was near two years afther I lift home
that I took the notion of going to Ameriky; me aunt advised me against
going, but, whin she saw that me mind was set on it, she consinted, and
did her best, poor woman, to sind me away lookin' dacent and
respectable. I niver saw me father or me stepmother agin. I had no wish
to see her; but, although I knew me father no longer loved me, I had
still some natral-like feelin's for him; but, as I had runaway from
home, I durst not go back, an' so I lift Ireland widout a sight uv him.
But I _could_ not lave it foriver, as it might be, widout one more sight
uv me mother's grave. I rached the small village where me father lived
about nightfall, and lodged in the house uv a kind neighbor who
befrinded me, an he promised, at my earnest wish, to say nothing to any
one uv my visit. Early in the morning, before any one was astir in the
village, I stole away to the churchyard where they buried me mother. I
knelt down, I did, an' kissed the sods which covered her grave, an'
prayed that the blessin' which she pronounced before she died, wid her
hand restin' on me head, might follow me wheriver I might go." The boy
took from his pocket a small parcel, carefully inclosed in a paper,
which he handed to me, saying: "I gathered these shamrocks from off me
mothers grave, before I lift it forever."
My own eyes; grew moist as I gazed upon the now withered shamrock leaves
which the poor boy prized so highly. Would that they had proved as a
talisman to guard him from evil! I listened with much interest to
Terry's story till our conversation was suddenly interrupted by Mr. ----
calling him, in no very gentle tones, to go and drive home the cows from
the far pasture. To reach this pasture he must needs pass through about
a quarter of a mile of thick woods. He had a great dread of walking
alone in the woods, which his imagination filled with wild animals. When
he returned that evening he seemed very much terrified, and, when
questioned as to the cause, he replied that he "had met a wild baste in
the woods, and was kilt entirely wid the fright uv it."
We endeavoured to gain from him a description of the animal he had seen,
but for some time were unable. "What color was the animal?" enquired
Mrs. ----, "Indade Ma'am an' its jist the color uv a dog he was,"
answered Terry. This reply was greeted with a burst of laughter from all
present, at which he was highly offended. In order to pacify him I said,
"we would not laugh at you, Terry, only that dogs are of so many
different colors that we are as much in the dark as ever regarding the
color of the animal you saw." "Well thin," replied he, "if you must
know, he was a dirthy brown, the varmint, that he was." From what we
could learn from him we were led to suppose that he had met with one of
those harmless little creatures, called the "Woodchuck," which his
nervous terror aided by the deepening twilight, had magnified into a
formidable wild beast.
A few evenings after, two or three friends of the family chanced to
call; and in course of conversation some one mentioned an encampment of
Indians, who had recently located themselves in our vicinity, for the
purpose of gathering material for the manufacture of baskets, and other
works of Indian handicraft. Terry had never seen an Indian, and
curiosity, not unmixed with fear, was excited in his mind, when he
learned that a number of those dark people were within three miles of
us. He asked many questions regarding their personal appearance, habits,
&c. It was evident that he entertained some very comical ideas upon the
subject. After sitting for a time silent, he suddenly enquired, "Do they
ate pratees like other people?" A lady, present, in order to impose upon
his credulity, replied, "Indeed Terry they not only eat potates, but
they sometimes eat people." His countenance expressed much alarm, as he
replied, "Faix thin, but I'll kape out o'their way." After a short time
he began to suspect they were making game of him, and applied to me for
information, saying, "Tell me, sir, if what Mrs ---- says is true?" "Do
not be alarmed, Terry," I replied, "for if you live till the Indians eat
you, you will look even older than you now do."
This allusion to his ancient appearance was very mischievous on my part,
and I regretted it a moment after; but he was so much pleased to learn
that he had nothing to fear from the Indians that he readily forgave me
for alluding to a subject upon which he was usually very sensitive. I
remember taking a walk one afternoon during the haymaking season to the
field where Terry was at work. Mr. ---- had driven to the village with
the farm horses, leaving Terry to draw in hay with a rheumatic old
animal that was well nigh unfit for use. But as the hay was in good
condition for getting in, and the sky betokened rain, he told Terry,
upon leaving home, to accomplish as much as possible, during his
absence, and he would, if the rain kept off, draw in the remainder upon
his return. As I drew nigh I spied Terry perched upon the top of a load
of hay holding the reins, and urging forward the horse, in the ascent of
a very steep hill. First, he tried coaxing, and as that proved of little
avail, he next tried the effect of a few vigorous strokes with a long
switch which he carried in his hand. When the poor old horse had dragged
the heavy load about half way up the hill, he seemed incapable of
further exertion, and horse, cart, Terry and all began a rapid backward
descent down the hill.
Here the boy's patience gave way entirely. "Musha thin, bad luck to ye
for one harse," said he as he applied the switch with renewed energy.
Just then I arrived within speaking distance and said, "Do you think,
Terry, you would be any better off if you had two of them." "Not if they
were both like this one," answered he. I advised Terry to come down from
his elevated position, and not add his weight to the load drawn by the
overburdened animal. He followed my advice, and when with some
difficulty we had checked the descending motion of the cart-wheels, we
took a fair start, and the summit of the hill was finally gained.
"Its often," said Terry, "that I've seen a horse draw a cart, but I
niver before saw a cart drawing a horse." There was one trait in the
character of the boy which pleased me much; he was very grateful for
any little act of kindness. He often got into difficulties with the
family, owing to his rashness and want of consideration, and I often
succeeded in smoothing down for him many rough places in his daily path;
and when he observed that I interested myself in his behalf, his
gratitude knew no bounds. I believe he would have made almost any
sacrifice to please me. He surprised me one day by saying suddenly,
"Don't I wish you'd only be tuck sick." "Why, Terry," replied I, "I am
surprised indeed, that you should wish evil to me." "Indade thin,"
answered he, "its not for evil that I wish it, but for your good, jist
to let ye see how tinderly I would take care uv ye." I thanked him for
his kind intentions, saying that I was very willing to take the will for
the deed in this case, and had no wish to test his kindness by a fit of
sickness.
He came in one evening fatigued with a hard day's work, and retired
early to bed. His sleeping apartment adjoined the sitting-room. I had
several letters to write which occupied me till a late hour; the family
had all retired. I finished writing just as the clock struck twelve. At
that moment, I was almost startled by Terry's voice singing in a very
high key. My first thought was that he had gone suddenly crazy. With a
light in my hand I stepped softly into the room, to find Terry sitting
up in bed and singing at the top of his voice, a song in the "Native
Irish Tongue." By this time he had roused every one in the house; and
others of the family entered the room. By the pauses which he made, we
knew when he reached the end of each verse. He sang several verses; at
the time I knew how many, but am unable now to recall the exact number.
He must surely have been a sound sleeper, or the loud laughter which
filled the room would have waked him, for the scene was ludicrous in the
extreme: Terry sitting up in bed, sound asleep, at the hour of midnight,
and singing, with a loud voice and very earnest manner, to an audience
who were unable to understand one word of the song. At the close of the
last verse he lay quietly down, all unconscious of the Musical
Entertainment he had given. The next morning some of the family began
teasing him about the song he had sung in his sleep. He was loth to
believe them, and as usual, enquired of me if they were telling him the
truth. "I'll believe whatever you say," said he, "for its you that niver
toult me a lie yet." "You may believe them this time," said I, "for you
certainly did sing a song. The air was very fine, and I have no doubt
the words were equally so, if we could only have understood them."
"Well thin," replied he, "but I niver heard more than that; and if I
raaly did sing, I may as well tell yee's how it happint. I dramed, ye
see, that I was at a ball in Ireland, an' I thought that about twelve
o'clock we got tired wid dancin and sated ourselves on the binches
which were ranged round the walls uv the room, and ache one was to sing
a song in their turn, an' its I that thought my turn had come for sure."
"Well Terry," said I, "you hit upon the time exact at any rate, for it
was just twelve o'clock when you favoured us with the song."
Soon after this time I left the neighborhood, and removed to some
distance. Terry remained for considerable time with the same family;
after a time I learned that he had obtained employment in a distant
village. The next tidings I heard of him was that he had been implicated
in a petty robbery, and had run away. His impulsive disposition rendered
him very easy of persuasion, for either good or evil; and he seldom
paused to consider the consequences of any act. From what I could learn
of the matter it seemed he had been enticed into the affair by some
designing fellows, who judged that, owing to his simplicity, he would be
well adapted to carry out their wicked plans; and, when suspicion was
excited, they managed in some way to throw all the blame upon Terry,
who, fearing an arrest, fled no one knew whither. Many years have passed
since I saw or heard of Terry Dolan, but often, as memory recalls past
scenes and those who participated in them, I think of him, and wonder if
he is yet among the living, and, if so, in what quarter of the world he
has fixed his abode.
THE FAITHFUL WIFE.
It was a mild and beautiful evening in the early autumn. Mrs. Harland
is alone in her home; she is seated by a table upon which burns a shaded
lamp, and is busily occupied with her needle. She has been five years a
wife; her countenance is still youthful, and might be termed beautiful,
but for the look of care and anxiety so plainly depicted thereon. She
had once been happy, but with her now happiness is but a memory of the
past. When quite young she had been united in marriage to William
Harland, and with him removed to the City of R., where they have since
resided. He was employed as bookkeeper in a large mercantile house, and
his salary was sufficient to afford them a comfortable support,--whence
then the change that has thus blighted their bright prospects, and
clouded the brow of that fair young wife with care? It is an unpleasant
truth, but it must be told. Her husband has become addicted to the use
of strong drink, not an occasional tippler, but a confirmed and habitual
drunkard. His natural disposition was gay and social, and he began by
taking an occasional glass with his friends--more for sociability than
for any love of the beverage. His wife often admonished him of the
danger of tampering with the deadly vice of intemperance, but he only
laughed at what he termed her idle fears. Well had it been for them both
had the fears of his wife proved groundless! It is needless for me to
follow him in his downward path, till we find him reduced to the level
of the common drunkard. Some three months previous to the time when our
story opens his employers were forced to dismiss him, as they could no
longer employ him with any degree of safety to their business. It was
fortunate for Mrs. Harland that the dwelling they occupied belonged to
her in her own right--it had been given her by her father at the period
of her marriage--so that notwithstanding the dissipated habits of the
husband and father they still possessed a home, although many of the
comforts of former days had disappeared before the blighting influence
of the demon of intemperance. After being dismissed by his employers Mr.
Harland seemed to lose all respect for himself, as well as for his wife
and children, and, but for the unceasing toil of the patient mother, his
children might have often asked for bread in vain.
So low had he now fallen that almost every evening found him in some low
haunt of drunkenness and dissipation; and often upon returning to his
home he would assail his gentle wife with harsh and unfeeling language.
Many there were who advised Mrs. Harland to return with her children to
her parents, who were in affluent circumstances, but she still cherished
the hope that he would yet reform. "I pray daily for my erring husband,"
she would often say, "and I feel an assurance that, sooner or later, my
prayers will be answered; and I cannot feel it my duty to forsake him."
But on this evening, as she sits thus alone, her mind is filled with
thoughts of the past, which she cannot help contrasting with the
miserable present, till her reverie is interrupted by the sound of
approaching footsteps, which she soon recognizes as those of her
husband; she is much surprised--for it is long, very long, since he has
returned to his home at so early an hour--and, as he enters the room,
her surprise increases when she perceives that he is perfectly sober. As
he met her wondering gaze a kind expression rested upon his countenance,
and he addressed her saying: "I do not wonder at your astonishment, dear
Mary, when I call to mind my past misconduct. I have been a fiend in
human shape thus to ill-treat and neglect the best of wives; but I have
made a resolve, 'God helping' me, that it shall be so no longer."
Seating himself by her side, he continued: "If you will listen to me,
Mary, I will tell you what caused me to form this resolution. When I
went out this evening I at once made my way to the public house, where I
have spent so much of my time and money. Money, I had none, and, worse
than this, was owing the landlord a heavy bill. Of late he had assailed
me with duns every time I entered the house; but so craving was the
appetite for drink that each returning evening still found me among the
loungers in the bar-room, trusting to my chance of meeting with some
companion who would call for a treat. It so happened that to-night none
of my cronies were present. When the landlord found that I was still
unable to settle the 'old score,' as he termed it, he abused me in no
measured terms; but I still lingered in sight of the coveted beverage;
and knowing my inability to obtain it my appetite increased in
proportion. At length, I approached the bar, and begged him to trust me
for one more glass of brandy. I will not wound your ears by repeating
his reply; and he concluded by ordering me from the house, telling me
also never to enter it again till I was able to settle the long score
already against me. The fact that I had been turned from the door,
together with his taunting language, stung me almost to madness. I
strolled along, scarce knowing or caring whither, till I found myself
beyond the limits of the city; and seating myself by the roadside I
gazed in silent abstraction over the moonlit landscape; and as I sat
thus I fell into a deep reverie. Memory carried me back to my youthful
days, when everything was bright with joyous hope and youthful ambition.
I recalled the time when I wooed you from your pleasant country home,
and led you to the altar, a fair young bride, and there pledged myself
before God and man to love, honour and cherish you, till death should us
part. Suddenly, as if uttered by an audible voice, I seemed to hear the
words 'William Harland, how have you kept your vows?' At that moment I
seemed to suddenly awake to a full sense of my fallen and degraded
position. What madness, thought I, has possessed me all this time, thus
to ruin myself and those dear to me? And for what? for the mere
indulgence of a debasing appetite. I rose to my feet, and my step grew
light with my new-formed resolution, that I _would_ break the slavish
fetters that had so long held me captive; and now, my dear wife, if you
can, forgive the past and aid me in my resolutions for amendment there
is hope for me yet." Mrs. Harland was only too happy to forgive her
erring but now truly penitent husband; but she trembled for the future,
knowing how often he had formerly made like resolutions, but to break
them. She endeavoured, however, to be hopeful, and to encourage him by
every means which affection could devise.
Through the influence of friends, his former employers were induced to
give him another trial. He had many severe struggles with himself ere he
could refrain from again joining his dissipated companions; but his
watchful wife would almost every evening form some little plan of her
own for his amusement, that he might learn to love his home. In a short
time their prospects for the future grew brighter, his wife began to
smile again; and his children, instead of fleeing from his approach, as
they had formerly done, now met him upon his return home with loving
caresses and lively prattle. Some six months after this happy change,
Mrs. Harland one evening noticed that her husband seemed very much
downcast and dejected. After tea, she tried vainly to interest him in
conversation.
He had a certain nervous restlessness in his manner, which always
troubled her, knowing, as she did, that it was caused by the cravings of
that appetite for strong drink, which at times still returned with
almost overwhelming force. About eight o'clock he took down his hat
preparatory to going out. She questioned him as to where he was going,
but could obtain no satisfactory reply; her heart sank within her; but
she was aware that remonstrance would be useless. She remained for a few
moments, after he left the house, in deep thought, then suddenly rising
she exclaimed aloud, "I will at least make one effort to save him." She
well knew that should he take but one glass, all his former resolves
would be as nothing. As she gained the street she observed her husband a
short distance in advance of her, and walking hastily she soon overtook
him, being careful to keep on the opposite side of the street, that she
might be unobserved by him. She had formed no definite purpose in her
mind; she only felt that she must endeavor to save him by some means. As
they drew nigh the turn of the street she saw two or three of his former
associates join him, and one of them addressed him, saying, "Come on,
Harland; I thought you would get enough of the cold water system. Come
on, and I'll stand treat to welcome you back among your old friends."
For a moment he paused as if irresolute; then his wife grew sick at
heart, as she saw him follow his companions into a drinking saloon near
at hand. Mrs. Harland was by nature a delicate and retiring woman; for a
moment she paused; dare she go further? Her irresolution was but
momentary, for the momentous consequences at stake gave her a fictitious
courage. She quickly approached the door, which at that moment some one
in the act of leaving the house threw wide open, and she gained a view
of her husband in the act of raising a glass to his lips; but ere he had
tasted its fiery contents it was dashed from his hand, and the shattered
fragments scattered upon the floor. Mr. Harland, supposing it the act of
one of his half-drunken companions, turned with an angry exclamation
upon his lips; but the expression of anger upon his countenance suddenly
gave place to one of shame and humiliation when he saw his wife standing
before him, pale but resolute. In a subdued voice he addressed her,
saying, "Mary, how came you here?" "Do not blame me, William," she
replied; "for I could not see you again go astray without, at least,
making an effort to save you. And now will you not return with me to
your home?" The other occupants of the room had thus far remained silent
since the entrance of Mrs. Harland; but when they saw that Mr. Harland
was about to leave the house by her request, they began taunting him
with his want of spirit in being thus ruled by a woman. One of them, who
was already half drunk, staggered toward him, saying, "I'd just like to
see my old woman follerin' me round in this way. I'll be bound I'd teach
her a lesson she would'nt forget in a hurry," Many similar remarks were
made by one and another present. The peculiar circumstances in which
Mrs. Harland found herself placed gave her a degree of fortitude, of
which upon ordinary occasions she would have found herself incapable.
Raising her hand with an imperative gesture she said in a firm voice:
"Back tempters, hinder not my husband from following the dictates of his
better nature." For a few moments there was silence in the room, till
one of the company, more drunken and insolent than the others, exclaimed
in a loud, derisive voice; "Zounds, madam, but you would make a capital
actress, specially on the tragedy parts; you should seek an engagement
upon the stage." Mr. Harland's eyes flashed angrily as he listened to
the insulting words addressed to his wife, and, turning to the man who
had spoken, he addressed him, saying, in a decided tone of voice: "I
wish to have no harsh language in this room while my wife is present,
but I warn each one of you to address no more insulting language to
her." The manner in which Mr. Harland addressed them, together with the
gentle and lady-like appearance of his wife had the effect to shame them
into silence. His voice was very tender as he again addressed his wife,
saying, "Come Mary I will accompany you home--this is no place for you."
When they gained the street the unnatural courage which had sustained
Mrs. Harland gave way, and she would have fallen to the earth, but for
the supporting arm of her husband. For a few moments they walked on in
silence, when Mr. Harland said, in a voice choked with emotion, "You
have been my good angel, Mary, for your hand it was which saved me from
violating a solemn oath; but I now feel an assurance that I have broken
the tempter's chains forever." I am happy to add that from this hour he
gained a complete victory over the evil habit which well-nigh had proved
his ruin; and in after years, when peace and prosperity again smiled
upon them, he often called to mind the evening when his affectionate and
devoted wife, by her watchful love, saved him from ruin, and perchance
from the drunkard's grave.
EMMA ASHTON.
It was a sad day for Emma Ashton, when, with her widowed mother, she
turned from her father's new-made grave, and again entered their
desolate home. None but those who have experienced a like sorrow can
fully understand their grief as they entered their now lonely home,
where a short time since they had been so happy. But the ways of
Providence are, to our feeble vision, often dark and incomprehensible,
and the only way by which we can reconcile ourselves to many trials
which we are called to endure is by remembering that there is a "need
be" for every sorrow which falls to our lot, in the journey of life.
Emma was an only child and had been the idol of her father's heart, and
no marvel if the world, to her, looked dark and dreary when he was
removed by death. Added to the grief occasioned by their bereavement,
the mother and daughter had yet another cause for anxiety and
disquietude, for the home where they had dwelt for so many years in the
enjoyment of uninterrupted happiness was now no longer theirs. Since
quite a young man, Mr. Ashton had held the position of overseer, in a
large manufactory in the village of W. Owing to his sober and
industrious habits he had saved money sufficient to enable him, at the
period of his marriage, to purchase a neat and tasteful home, to which
he removed with his young wife. He still continued his industry, and
began in a small way to accumulate money, when, unfortunately, he was
persuaded by one whom he thought a friend to sign bank-notes with him to
a large amount; but, ere the notes became due, the man he had obliged
left the country, and he was unable to gain any trace of him, and was
soon called upon to meet the claim. Bank-notes must be paid, and to
raise money to meet the claim he was forced to mortgage his house for
nearly its full value. His health failed; and for two years previous to
his death he was unable to attend to his business. The term of the
mortgage was five years, which time expired soon after his death. During
the few last weeks of his life his mind was very much disturbed
regarding the destitute condition in which he must leave his beloved
wife and daughter; for he was too well acquainted with the man who held
the claim to expect any lenity to his family when it should become due,
and he was sensible that the hour of his own death was fast approaching.
His wife tried to cheer him by hopeful words, saying: "Should it please
our Heavenly Father to remove you, fear not that He will fail to care
for the fatherless and widow." A short time before his death a sweet
peace and hopeful trust settled over his spirit, and the religion he had
sought in health afforded him a firm support in the hour of death. When
all was over, and the mother and daughter found themselves left alone,
their fortitude well-nigh forsook them, and they felt almost like
yielding to a hopeless sorrow. Emma was at this time but fifteen years
of age, possessed of much personal beauty, and also a very amiable and
affectionate disposition. Since the age of six years she had attended
school, and made rapid progress in her various studies till the sad
period of her father's death. As Mr. Ashton had foreseen, Mr. Tompkins,
the man who held the mortgage, soon called upon the widow, informing her
that the time had already expired, and, unless she found herself able to
meet the claim, her dwelling was legally his property; but, as a great
favor, he granted her permission to occupy the house till she could make
some arrangement concerning the future, giving her, however, distinctly
to understand, that he wished to take possession as soon as she could
find another home. Mrs. Ashton thanked him for the consideration he had
shown her, little as it was, telling him she would as soon as possible
seek another home, however humble it might be; and Mr. Tompkins departed
with a polite bow and a bland smile upon his countenance, well pleased
that he had got the matter settled with so little difficulty. I presume
he never once paused to think of the grief-stricken widow and her
fatherless daughter, whom he was about to render homeless. Money had so
long been his idol that tender and benevolent emotions were well-nigh
extinguished in his world-hardened heart. For a long time after Mr.
Tompkins left the house Mrs. Ashton remained in deep thought. There are,
dear reader, dark periods in the lives of most of us, when, turn which
way we will, we find ourselves surrounded, as by a thick hedge, with
difficulties and troubles from which we see no escape.
At such periods it is good for us to call to mind the fact, that the
darkest cloud often has a silver lining, and that if we discharged, to
the best of our ability, our duties for the time being, the cloud,
sooner or later, will be reversed, and display its bright side to our
troubled view. The time had now arrived, when Mrs. Ashton must come to
some decision regarding the future. She had no friends to whom she could
turn for aid or counsel in this season of trial. When quite young she
had emigrated from England with her parents and one sister, and settled
in Eastern Canada. About the time of her marriage and removal to W. her
parents, with her sister, removed to one of the Western States; and it
may be the knowledge that she must rely solely upon herself enabled her
to meet her trials with more fortitude than might have been expected.
Some fifty miles from W. was the large and thriving village of Rockford,
and thither Mrs. Ashton at length decided to remove. One reason for
this decision was the excellent institution for the education of young
ladies, which was there located. She was very anxious that her daughter
should obtain a good education, but was sorely puzzled as to raising the
money needful for defraying her expenses. There were a few debts due her
husband at the time of his death; these she collected with little
difficulty. Their dwelling had been handsomely furnished, and she
decided to sell the furniture, as she could easily, upon their arrival
at Rockford, purchase what articles were necessary for furnishing their
new home, which must, of necessity, be humble. One article she felt they
must retain if possible, and that was the piano given her by her father
at the period of her marriage. She did at first entertain the idea of
parting with it, thinking how far the money it would bring would go in
defraying the expenses attendant upon Emma's education, but upon second
consideration, she resolved that they would not part with her father's
parting gift to her, unless compelled to do so by actual want; and so
when their old home was broken up the piano was carefully packed and
forwarded to Rockford. The home where they had resided so long was very
dear to them, and it would have grieved them, to leave it at any time;
but to leave at the glad season of spring, when the trees which shaded
their dwelling were beginning to put forth their leaves, and the flowers
which adorned their garden were bursting into bloom, seemed to them
doubly sad. But their preparations for removal were finally completed,
and they left their home followed by the good wishes of many who had
long known and loved them. Upon their arrival at Rockford, Mrs. Ashton
hired a cheap tenement in a respectable locality, which she furnished in
a plain but decent manner. When they became settled in their new home
they had still in hand money sufficient to secure them from immediate
want, but as Mrs. Ashton wished Emma to enter at once upon her studies,
she was very anxious to devise some means of earning money to meet
necessary expenses. There was one family residing in Rockford with whom
Mrs. Ashton had several years before been intimately acquainted: their
name was Lebaron, and they had at one time resided in the same village
with the Ashtons. Mr. Lebaron had opened a store upon removing to
Rockford; the world had smiled upon him, and he was now considered one
of the most wealthy and influential men in the village.
It has been often said that "prosperity hardens the heart of man," but
if such is the case in general, Mr. Lebaron proved an exception to the
general rule. He had heard with much sorrow of the death of Mr. Ashton,
and also of the other misfortunes which had overtaken the family; and no
sooner did he learn of the arrival of the widow and daughter in
Rockford, than, accompanied by his wife, he hastened to call upon them,
to renew their former acquaintance, and in a delicate and considerate
manner to enquire if he could assist them in any way? Mrs. Ashton
thanked them for their kindness, saying that although in no immediate
need of assistance, yet she would be very thankful if they would assist
her in obtaining employment. "If such is the case," replied Mrs.
Lebaron, "I can easily secure you employment, as I am acquainted with
many ladies who give out work, and will gladly use my influence in your
favor." "You will confer a favour upon me by so doing," replied Mrs.
Ashton, "for I must rely upon my labor for a support for the future."
Through the influence of these kind friends Mrs. Ashton soon obtained an
abundant supply of work; and, when she became somewhat acquainted with
the people of Rockford, her gentle and unobtrusive manner gained her
many warm friends. Agreeable to her mother's wishes, Emma soon became a
pupil in the seminary for young ladies, which was at that time under the
direction of Miss Hinton, a lady who possessed uncommon abilities as a
teacher, and was also aided by several competent assistants. Mrs.
Lebaron had two daughters attending the institution at the time, and
this circumstance, in a great measure, relieved Emma from the feeling of
diffidence she might have experienced in entering a large school a
stranger to both teachers and pupils; but her modest and unassuming
manners, added to her diligence in study, soon caused her to become a
general favorite with her teachers. In schools, as well as other places,
we often meet with those who are inclined to be jealous of merit
superior to their own, and the seminary at Rockford was no exception in
this matter. Her teachers were guilty of no unjust partiality; true,
they oftener commended her than some other members of her class, but not
oftener than her punctual attendance, perfect recitations, and correct
deportment generally, justified them in doing. But it soon became
evident that, if Emma was a favourite with her teachers, she was far
from being such with many members of her class. At the time she entered
school Miss Hinton found, after examining her in her various studies,
that her attainments were already superior to those of several young
ladies who had been for some time members of the school. Among the
pupils who at the time attended the institution was a Miss Carlton, from
the distant city of H. She was the petted and only child of wealthy
parents; and, as is often the case, her disposition, which, under proper
training, might have been amiable, had been spoiled by unwise indulgence
on the part of her parents. Her capacity for learning was not good; she
was also sadly wanting in application, and, at the time Emma entered the
school, although Miss Carlton had attended for more than a year, her
progress in study was far from being satisfactory to her teachers. She
was at much pains to inform her classmates of her wealth and position,
seeming to entertain the idea that this would cover every defect. Owing
to Emma's superior attainments, compared with her own, she soon learned
to regard her with a feeling of absolute dislike, which she took little
pains to conceal; and many were the petty annoyances she endured from
the vain and haughty Julia Carlton. She soon learned that Emma was poor,
and that her mother toiled early and late to defray the expenses of her
education; and more than once she threw out hints regarding this fact,
among the other pupils, even in hearing of Emma; and, as often as
opportunity offered, she slighted the unoffending girl, and treated her
with all the rudeness of which she was capable. "Let those who wish
associate with Miss Ashton," she would often say to her companions; "but
I am thankful that I have been better taught at home than to make a
companion of a girl whose mother is obliged to take in sewing to pay her
school bills." These and other remarks equally malicious were daily made
by Miss Carlton; and I am sorry that she soon found others in the school
who were weak enough to be influenced by her also to treat Emma with
coldness and contempt. Emma could not long fail to notice the many
slights, both direct and indirect, which she endured from many members
of the school, and she taxed her memory to recall any act by which she
might have given offence; but, finding herself unable to recollect any
thing on her part which could have offended any member of the school,
she was not a little puzzled to account for the rudeness with which she
was treated. It happened one day that during recess she remained at her
desk in the school-room to complete an unfinished French exercise.
Several of her companions soon after entered the adjoining recitation
room, and, as they were not aware of her proximity, she became an
unwilling listener to a conversation which pained her deeply. As Sarah
Lebaron entered the room one of the girls addressed her, saying:--"When
you first introduced Miss Ashton among us, I supposed her to be at least
a companionable girl, but I have lately been informed that she resides
in a cheap tenement, and, farther, that her mother takes in sewing, and,
if such is the case, I wish to cultivate no further acquaintance with
her." "But then," added another girl, "Miss Hinton thinks her almost a
saint, and sets her up as a model for us all; if there's any thing I do
detest, it's these model girls, and I don't believe she's half as fond
of study as she pretends; and, in my opinion, its only to hear the
commendations of the teachers that she applies herself with such
diligence; but Miss Hinton is so taken with her meek face and lady-like
manners that she places her above us all, and, I suppose, we must
submit, for as the old song says:
'What can't be cured must be endured.'
"Well, I for one shall try some method of cure, before I put up with
much more of her impudence and assumption," chimed in the amiable Miss
Carlton; "pay attention now, girls," continued she, "while I take my
place in the class like Emma Ashton;" and separating herself from her
companions, she crossed the room to one of the class-seats, with such a
ludicrous air of meekness and decorum, that the girls were almost
convulsed with laughter. Starting up and tossing her book from her hand
she exclaimed, "It is so disgusting to see a girl in _her_ position put
on such airs." Miss Lebaron had not before spoken, but, when at length
there was silence, she addressed her companions, saying, "if no other
young lady present has any further remarks to make, I will myself say a
few words if you will listen to me. I must say, I am surprised at the
unkindness, even rudeness, which many of you have exhibited towards Miss
Ashton. If she is poor it is death, and other misfortunes, which have
caused her to become so; and this circumstance should excite your
sympathy, but surely not your contempt and ridicule. Poor as she is, she
is my friend, and I am proud to claim her as such. As to her being
companionable that is a matter of taste; I shall continue to follow
mine, and each young lady present is at liberty to do the same; but be
assured that unless you can furnish some more satisfactory reason for
your disparaging remarks than you have yet done, they will bear no
weight with me." With much irony in her voice Miss Carlton replied,
"Really, Miss Lebaron, I am unable to reply to your very able defence of
your charming friend, and will only say that I shall avail myself of the
liberty you have kindly granted us, for each to follow her own taste in
the choice of associates, and avoid Miss Ashton as much as possible."
"As you please," replied Miss Lebaron, "it is a matter of perfect
indifference to me;" and just then the school bell put an end to further
conversation. As may be easily supposed, the delicate and sensitive
spirit of Emma was deeply wounded by the above conversation; and it was
with much difficulty that she maintained her composure for the remaining
portion of the day. For once her lessons were imperfect; and with a
heavy heart she returned to her home. That evening she, for the first
time, mentioned to her mother the daily annoyances she suffered from her
companions at school; and concluded by relating the conversation she had
that day chanced to overhear. Mrs. Ashton could not feel otherwise than
grieved; but as much as possible she concealed the feeling from her
daughter. "My dear Emma," she replied, "their unkind words can do you no
real harm; although they may render you unhappy for the time being. But
keep the even tenor of your way; and they will, probably, after a time
become ashamed of their folly. Should they make any further remarks
regarding my laboring to give you an education, you may tell them that
I esteem it at one of my chief blessings that I have health granted me
so to do." Time passed on; and the invariable kindness with which Emma
treated her classmates finally gained her several warm friends; and some
of them even apologised for their past unkindness. Miss Carlton still
regarded her with a feeling of enmity and dislike; but as Emma seemed
not to notice the many annoyances she experienced she was at length
forced to desist, although the same resentful feeling remained in her
heart. When Emma left the seminary, after attending it for four years,
her departure was deeply regretted by both teachers and pupils. As she
had pursued her studies in a very systematic manner, she had acquired,
before leaving school, a thoroughly good education, which she intended
turning to account by teaching. Miss Carlton also left school at the
same time to return to her elegant home in the city of H. It was
fortunate for her that she was not obliged, as was Emma, to teach as a
means of support; for, notwithstanding the unwearied pains of her
teachers, her education, when she left school, was very superficial.
Emma soon obtained a situation as teacher in a small village some twenty
miles from Rockford, where she remained for two years. During her
absence, her mother, to avoid being left alone, received as boarders two
or three young ladies who attended school in the village. Emma's
success as a teacher became so well known that she was at length offered
a high salary to accept of the position of assistant teacher in an
academy in the city of H., the same city where Miss Carlton resided. As
the salary offered was very liberal, she decided to accept of the
position, and as situation was likely to prove a permanent one she was
very anxious that her mother should accompany her; and after some
deliberation upon the subject, Mrs. Ashton consented, thinking they
would both much happier together than otherwise. Emma proved quite as
successful in this her second situation as in the first; and owing to
her position as teacher she soon formed acquaintance with several
families of cultivated tastes and high respectability. She often
received invitations to parties; but her tastes were quiet, and she
usually preferred spending her evenings with her mother in the quiet of
their own home, to mingling in scenes of mirth and gaiety; and it was
only upon a few occasions that she attended parties, that her friends
might not think her unsocial. At one of these parties she chanced to
meet her former schoolmate, Miss Carlton, whose only sign of recognition
was a very formal bow. This gave her no uneasiness; she cherished no
malice towards Miss Carlton; but her ideas and tastes so widely differed
from her own that she did not covet her friendship, even had she been
inclined to grant it her. Meanwhile, with the widow and her daughter,
time passed happily away. Emma's salary was more than sufficient for
their support, and they were happy in the society of each other. There
was one family, by the name of Milford, who had treated them with much
kindness since their residence in the city. Mrs. Milford at first placed
two little girls under Emma's instruction, and thus began an
acquaintance which soon ripened into intimate friendship; for, although
occupying a position of wealth and influence, Mrs. Milford was one of
the few who place "mind above matter," and respected true worth wherever
she met with it. Her eldest daughter, having finished her education at a
distant boarding school, returned home about the same time her two
sisters were placed in charge of Emma; and the little girls were so
eloquent in their praises of their teacher, that their elder sister
became interested, and decided to call upon her at her home; and the
lady-like appearance of both mother and daughter, together with the
appearance of good taste which their home exhibited, strongly interested
her in their favor.