A SUDDEN BLOW.
Harry Raymond, after receiving the congratulations of his school-mates,
took his way homeward. He was not obliged to travel by the road, as there
was a short cut across the field.
At the end of ten minutes he threw open the door, and went into the
house. His mother was ironing, and Katy sat near by, reading a book.
“See what I’ve got, mother,” said Harry, holding up his prize.
“What is it, Harry?”
“It’s the prize for declamation. The boys took a vote, and it was awarded
to me by forty-seven votes out of fifty.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Raymond, and her face wore a proud
look, as she glanced at the bright and animated face of her son.
“Who were the three boys that didn’t vote for you?” asked Katy.
“I was one of them,” said Harry, smiling.
“Who did you vote for?”
“For Walter Sheffield.”
“Is he a good speaker?”
“Yes.”
“But he isn’t as good as you are.”
“That isn’t for me to say.”
“Who got the other two votes?”
“James Turner.”
“He’s an awful disagreeable boy,” said Katy. “He puts on all sorts of
airs just because his father is rich. I wish father was as rich as Squire
Turner.”
“Perhaps you’d like to have him for a father.”
“No, I shouldn’t,” said Katy, quickly. “He’s just as bad for a man, as
James is for a boy.”
“So, you see, money isn’t everything,” said her mother.
There was a deeper meaning in these words than her children knew. There
was one passage in her early life, known only to herself and her husband,
with which the rich Squire Turner was connected.
As a girl, Mrs. Raymond had been very handsome, and even now, at the age
of thirty-six, she retained much of her good looks. It was not generally
known that Squire Turner had been an aspirant for her hand. But though he
was even then rich, and could have given her an attractive home—so far
as money can make a home attractive—she quietly rejected his suit, and
accepted Mr. Raymond, a journeyman carpenter, with less than a hundred
dollars.
This rejection Squire Turner never forgot nor forgave. He was not a
forgiving man, and his resentment was bitter, though he did not choose
to show it publicly. Indeed, he treated Mr. and Mrs. Raymond, to all
appearance, as though nothing had happened; but none the less he nursed
his anger, and waited patiently for an opportunity to repay, by some
grievous injury, the wrong which he fancied he had suffered. About the
same time with Mr. Raymond, Squire Turner also married a Miss Ellis, a
sharp-tempered spinster from a neighboring town, whose only redeeming
point was the possession of ten thousand dollars in her own right. Her
husband cared nothing for her, but only for her money, and the marriage
was far from being a happy one. Domestic dissension, and almost continual
wrangling, were what James had witnessed from his babyhood up to the time
of his mother’s death, a year previous; and perhaps it is not surprising
that the son of such parents should have been unpopular, and possessed of
disagreeable traits.
Yet Mr. Raymond had applied to Squire Turner for money to assist him in
building his house. The squire had two objects in granting this request.
First, the security was ample, and the investment a good one; and,
secondly, a debtor is always to some extent in the power of his creditor.
Squire Turner was by no means averse to establishing this power over the
husband of the woman who had rejected his suit. The time might come when
he could make a use of it.
“What piece did you speak to-day, Harry?” asked his mother.
“The supposed speech of John Adams. You remember how it begins: ‘Sink or
swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this
vote.’”
“Yes, I remember it.”
“I have been thinking, mother,” continued Harry “that I shall take my
motto from it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this: Sink or swim, I am going to do my duty, and try to succeed
in life. I am not going to be frightened by obstacles, but am going to
push on as well as I can.”
“It’s a good motto, Harry. I hope you’ll have strength to adhere to it.”
“I think I’ll go out and split a little wood, now, mother.”
“I wish you would. I always burn a good deal on ironing days.”
“I think I’ll split up enough to last two or three days. I have more time
Wednesdays than Mondays.”
On Wednesday the only afternoon exercise was declamation, so that,
instead of closing at four, the school was usually out, as to-day, at
half-past two. At half-past five Harry re-entered the house.
“Isn’t supper ready, mother?” he asked. “I’m as hungry as a bear.”
“Yes, Harry, it is ready; but your father has not got home yet. I have
been waiting for him.”
“Where is he at work?”
“On Doctor Lamson’s house, just across the railroad. The doctor is in a
hurry to get it finished as soon as possible, and perhaps the carpenters
are working extra hours.”
“Did father say anything about it before he went away this morning?”
“No, he didn’t mention any intention of stopping. But he stopped on
Monday a little over time, and perhaps he has done so to-night.”
“Well, I hope he’ll return soon, for I feel uncommonly hungry.”
“If your father isn’t here by six, we’ll sit down. I can keep the tea hot
for him.”
Not a shadow of apprehension was in Mrs. Raymond’s mind as she spoke,
but already a heavy calamity had fallen upon her, of which she was
unconscious.
Six o’clock came, and Mr. Raymond had not returned.
“I think you had better sit down to tea, children,” said their mother.
“I am not very hungry, and I will wait for your father.”
They sat down accordingly, and Harry made a hearty supper, quite
justifying the report he had given of his appetite.
Another hour passed away.
It was now seven o’clock, and Mr. Raymond was still absent.
“I wonder your father does not come,” said Mrs. Raymond, with a little
vague restlessness, which had not yet been converted into anxiety. “He
has not often been so late as this, without telling me beforehand that he
meant to stay away.”
“I think I will go out and meet him,” said Harry.
To this Mrs. Raymond made no objection, feeling, on the whole, rather
relieved by the proposal of her son.
She set the tea once more on the stove, and the bread and pie were also
placed on the hearth of the stove to keep warm.
“Your father must be hungry,” she said to Katy, “as it is so late.”
Harry went out of the gate, and walked slowly up the road in the
direction of his father’s probable return. He strained his eyes to see
through the gathering twilight, but could see nothing of his father.
Rather surprised at this, he kept on, until he happened to meet in
the street Hiram Payson, who he knew had also been employed on Doctor
Lamson’s house.
“Good-evening, Mr. Payson,” he said.
“Good-evening, Harry; where are you going? To the store?”
“No; I thought I would come out and see if I could meet my father.”
“Meet your father? Why, where has he gone?”
“He hasn’t got home from work yet. Did you start before him?”
“No; he started before me.”
“He did!” exclaimed Harry, in surprise. “What time was that?”
“About five o’clock. I know it was not later than that.”
“Where can he be?”
“Haven’t you seen anything of him?”
“No. Did he say anything about going anywhere before he returned home?”
“No.”
“Where can he be?” asked Harry, again; and this time there was anxiety in
his tone.
“I’ll tell you what, Harry,” said Hiram Payson, “if you are going to look
for him, I’ll join you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Payson. I wish you would.”
The two pushed on in the direction of Doctor Lamson’s new house. It was
probably about a mile distant in all, the railroad being three-quarters
of the way. They reached the railroad, and, as if by mutual consent,
paused and looked about them.
“Your father sometimes walks on the railroad a little distance, as far as
Carter’s pasture. Perhaps we had better take that way.”
Harry assented. There was a scared look on his face, and a fear which he
did not dare to define to himself.
It was realized all too soon. About fifty rods distant, they came upon
the mangled remains of his father, lying stretched across the track.
His hearing had been affected by a fever, which, he had three years
previous. It was evident, that as he was walking on the track, the train
sweeping round a curve had come upon him unawares, and his life was the
forfeit. Harry uttered one shriek of horror, and sank down beside his
father’s body, now cold in death.