A frequent caller at the Wycliff home was “Uncle Jerry” Barnaby. He
was always welcome, being an old friend, the acquaintance between
the two families dating back to the time when both occupied farms in
Sprucemont--the little hill-town, richer in broad views and fresh air
than in salable commodities.
“Oh, I was a king, then!” said Uncle Jerry. “Only think of those
beautiful fields of grass and grain that I used to have.”
“And how much labor you spent in getting out the rocks and improving
the land, before you could have those crops,” replied Mrs. Wycliff.
“Yes, I was the first farmer in all that region to use dynamite, both
on my farm and on the highways. Oh, I was a king then; king of my
own farm, anyway. And now I am a slave to these sleek villains, the
Baldwins. The tears come to my eyes whenever I think of those old
times; and of those sleek cattle that had been petted so much by my
wife and the girls that it seemed like sacrilege to sell them; they
seemed to belong to the family.” And Uncle Jerry burst into tears at
his own recital of former glories.
“To think that I should have come to this,” exclaimed Uncle Jerry.
“To be a slave,--a poor, despised, down-trodden slave for the
Baldwins,--and I used to be a king of two hundred acres in Sprucemont.
“And those colts, the beautiful creatures. When I went into the pasture
they would come up to me and lay their noses on my cheeks, and almost
talk to me. How many colts I have raised to be fine horses, and sold
for good prices, and my wife and daughters could always ride anywhere
they chose, and to-day--” and Uncle Jerry could not proceed for some
minutes for sobbing.
“To-day,” he continued, at length, “My poor dear girl is pining away
for the fresh air. I heard yesterday that Zack Baldwin had an old
horse that he was going to kill. I might have known that I would be
refused, but I was thinking only of my poor dear girl, and I went and
begged him to let me have the old horse. I promised him it should never
do anything but draw the poor girl the little way she is able to ride.”
“Didn’t he let you have it?” asked Mrs. Wycliff, full of sympathy.
“Of course not. It wouldn’t make any big sound, you know, like giving
a half a million dollars to a library. It might, possibly, have saved
my daughter’s life. He ordered the horse taken out and shot before my
eyes. I felt as if those shots sounded my daughter’s doom. I might have
known that a man who would discharge me for getting the policemen’s pay
raised, would refuse me an old horse which might save my daughter’s
life.”
“Did he discharge you for that?”
“Surely. He came to me after town-meeting, and said:--‘A man who works
against my interests in town-meeting will never get another day’s
work from me. I have no use for such men as you and Wycliff. He got
offended at me once before. It was a year ago. Fifty of us were making
a lawn for him. He paid us only a dollar and a half a day, although
everybody else about here was paying a dollar and three-quarters for
that kind of work. I circulated a petition, which most of the workmen
signed, asking for one dollar and seventy-five cents per day, and
presented the petition to Zack Baldwin. He finally agreed to split
the difference with us, and pay us a dollar and sixty-two and a half
cents a day, but he was revenged on us. Those who refused to sign the
petition were given work much longer than the rest. That is the Baldwin
brand of Christianity,--paying lower wages than other employers pay,
and discharging those who ask for fair wages; and at the same time
making princely gifts to public libraries and other institutions. It
was because outside work was dull, just then, that Zack Baldwin took
advantage of us, to get our work at less than market price.’”
“But I thought,” said Mrs. Wycliff, “that Zechariah and David Baldwin
were in company.”
“They are,--in the mills. Congressman Baldwin isn’t a bit better than
Old Zack, the old Shylock. The man who shuts his eyes to tyranny isn’t
a bit better than the tyrant. Since town-meeting I’ve had to walk three
miles up to the Wendell Farm, for work. These little hands were not
made for handling heavy stone.” And he exhibited a pair of hands almost
as small and fine as a lady’s.
“You look like a light and feeble man to walk six miles and handle
stone all day, and you must be getting a little too old for hard work.
How old are you, Uncle Jerry?”
“I can’t tell. I’ve even written back to the old country,--I was born
in Ireland,--and tried to find out, but I think the records must
have been destroyed. I could not get any information about it. I
can remember once shaking hands with Abraham Lincoln, in the city of
Hartford. That is a landmark in my life. I was grown up then and able
to do a man’s work.”
John Wycliff arose, took down a volume from his bookcase, and examined
it a moment.
“Lincoln was in Hartford on the fifth day of March, 1860, and, I think,
never at any other time. Very likely you are about sixty-five years old
now.”
“What is the matter with your daughter?” asked Mrs. Wycliff.
“I cannot tell you, because the doctors cannot tell me. It seems to be
a sort of melancholy.”
“What caused it?”
“Well, there’s a point I don’t like to speak of.”
“Don’t mention it, then. Please forgive me for asking.”
“After all, it doesn’t matter, seeing there are no strangers here;” and
Uncle Jerry lowered his voice and looked inquiringly toward the doors.
“There is no one except ourselves within hearing,” said Mrs. Wycliff,
reassuringly.
“It was years ago, but after you left the hills,” continued Uncle
Jerry, in a low voice. “Pet,--that’s what we called her,--was gay as
a bird till then. Pet got acquainted with a fine young man up in the
country,--a fine fellow he was every way. I’d say that if ’twas the
last thing I was to say in this world. Never a likelier fellow ever
grew up on the hills, if I do say it. Well, he took a liking to our
Pet, and I guess there was as much love on Pet’s part as on his.”
Uncle Jerry paused. After a little Mrs. Wycliff ventured to ask:
“Why didn’t they marry?”
“Well, you see,--” and Uncle Jerry’s voice dropped lower still. “I said
he was as fine a fellow as ever grew up on the hills, and I wouldn’t
take it back if it was to be the last thing I ever said, but--he was a
Protestant.” Uncle Jerry was silent a few moments.
“Looking back now, it seems to me that we were both, Pet’s mother
and I, willing to ruin Pet for life rather than have her marry a
Protestant. While I cannot say positively that this is the reason for
Pet’s long sickness, yet of one thing I am certain--she has not been
like her former self since that time.”
“But what became of him?”
“He went away, to the West it was believed. No one on the hills, so
far as I know, has heard from him since. But this whole subject is
one which I do not like to think about, much less talk about. I have
learned one lesson, and a pretty costly one,--when God has taught two
persons to love one another no one should be guilty of keeping them
apart.”
“And here am I,” continued Uncle Jerry piteously, “Sixty-five years
old, at least, discharged by those sleek villains, the Baldwins,
because I dared to champion the policemen, and obliged to walk six
miles a day to work, and then,--only think of it,--this slender body
and these weak hands to build stone wall all day. The only work I can
get to do with these little hands is to lift and tug at heavy stone
all day. Merciful God! What shall I do? I can’t stand this work a great
while. My back is almost broken. These thin arms are as sore as boils.
These little hands are covered with blisters. And my poor, dear girl
pining for the fresh air. That horse that Zack Baldwin ordered shot
to-day, might have saved my daughter’s life. What does he care? He will
kill me, in time, too, for I can’t walk six miles and build stone wall
all day, and follow it up a great while.” And Uncle Jerry paced the
floor in agony, his face drawn and white, and wringing his small, thin
hands.
“You have a fine house, Uncle Jerry,” said Mrs. Wycliff.
“Yes; but we can’t eat or drink it, or if we could, how long would it
last? If I began to use up the value of my home how long would it be
before I should be ‘on the town?’”
“But I mean could you not rent furnished rooms?”
“No; Pet is so nervous I can hardly live with her myself, much less
have strangers in the same house with her. We try to economize, but
economy is difficult to practice with sickness. There is only one thing
I can do. I must sell my place, and buy a little farm back in the
country again. I was born under king-rule. I am not going to die under
it.”
“But you are not able to do the work on a farm,” protested Mrs.
Wycliff, “or even if you are able to do it to-day you will not be able
to do it long. Your wife and daughters used to help you a great deal on
the farm. They are not able to do it now. I think I know of a better
arrangement.”
“What is it?” asked Uncle Jerry, much as a drowning man might grasp at
a straw.
“You have a good house, which would bring you in a large rent. Then you
could get a job at superintending a small farm. You would not need to
work, yourself, any more than you felt able to.”
“Who would give old Jerry Barnaby a job as a farm boss, especially when
he could not get a recommend from the Baldwins? Don’t try to fool a
poor old man. It’s cruel, and besides it isn’t like you, either, John
Wycliff.” And Uncle Jerry looked reproachfully at the younger man.
“It’s no fooling, Uncle Jerry,” said Wycliff rising, and placing his
hands on Barnaby’s shoulders. “Do you know the Twin Mountain Farm?”
“Every rod of it.”
“Now, if you are not too steep with your price, you can take charge
of that farm. You will have your fuel, vegetables, meat, maple
sugar--indeed, most of your living off the farm. You will not need a
very big cash salary, along with your rent, to take care of you and
your family in good shape, and your wife and daughter will have a horse
to drive whenever they wish.”
“Who owns the place?” asked Barnaby.
“A one-eyed crank named Wycliff.”
“Do you own that place? Well, we shan’t have any trouble about the
price, if you think I can fill the bill.”
“Yes, yes, Uncle Jerry. Come around in the morning and we will make
a bargain in five minutes. Then we will drive off and buy stock and
tools.”
“Very well. I must get home and tell Pet and her mother. We are willing
to shake the dust of Papyrus off our feet any day.”