[Illustration: Sarah K. Bolton]
A COUNTRY IDYL
AND
OTHER STORIES
BY
SARAH KNOWLES BOLTON
AUTHOR OF “POOR BOYS WHO BECAME FAMOUS,” “GIRLS WHO BECAME
FAMOUS,” “FAMOUS AMERICAN AUTHORS,” “FAMOUS AMERICAN
STATESMEN,” “FAMOUS MEN OF SCIENCE,” “FAMOUS
EUROPEAN ARTISTS,” “FAMOUS TYPES OF
WOMANHOOD,” “STORIES FROM LIFE,”
“FROM HEART AND NATURE” (POEMS), “FAMOUS ENGLISH
AUTHORS,” “FAMOUS ENGLISH STATESMEN,”
“FAMOUS VOYAGERS,” “FAMOUS
LEADERS AMONG WOMEN,” “FAMOUS
LEADERS AMONG MEN,” “SOCIAL
STUDIES IN ENGLAND,” “THE
INEVITABLE, AND OTHER
POEMS,” ETC.
NEW YORK: 46 EAST FOURTEENTH STREET
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY
BOSTON: 100 PURCHASE STREET
COPYRIGHT, 1898,
BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY.
ROCKWELL AND CHURCHILL PRESS, BOSTON.
TO
CHARLES
AND
ETHEL
CONTENTS.
PAGE
A COUNTRY IDYL 5
THE SECOND TIME 14
FIFTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS 22
THE RING OF GOLD 27
FOUR LETTERS 35
REWARDED 47
THE UNOPENED LETTER 58
THREE COLLEGE STUDENTS 61
THE TWILIGHT HOUR SOCIETY 78
SLAVE AMY 90
LIKE OUR NEIGHBORS 93
TWO AT ONCE 97
THE HOUSE-WARMING 101
HANNAH AND JOE 106
BURTON CONE’S REASON 114
UNSUITABLE 134
PLAYING WITH HEARTS 143
DUTY 153
WAIFY 165
THE BLACK AND TAN 179
THE CHRISTIAN HUNTER 188
LOVE’S CHRISTMAS GIFT 193
AN UNFORTUNATE SAIL 200
A NEW KIND OF WEDDING 213
LOST HIS PLACE 221
STRUCK IT RICH 229
FOOD AT THE DOOR 236
HOW THE DOG TAX WAS PAID 242
THE STORY OF DOUGLAS 252
A COUNTRY IDYL
AND OTHER STORIES.
A COUNTRY IDYL.
IN THE midst of New England mountains, covered with pine and cedar,
lies the quiet town of Nineveh, looking towards the sea. Years ago it
had mills where lumber was sawed and grain was ground; but now the old
wheels alone are left, the dams are broken, and the water falls over
the scattered rocks, making music in harmony with the winds among the
pines. The houses have gone to decay; the roofs have fallen in, leaving
the great, rough chimneys standing like the Druid towers of Ireland.
In one of these old houses, before the young men of New England had
gone West to seek their fortunes, lived a miller and his wife. The
Crandall family were happy, save that no children had come into the
home. Finally a sister of the wife died, bequeathing her little girl
to the Nineveh household.
Nellie Crandall grew from babyhood the picture of health, an innocent,
cheerful girl, in sweet accord with the daisies of the fields and the
old-fashioned flowers she cared for in her foster-mother’s garden.
In the house across the way lived John Harding, a tall, awkward boy,
the pride of the country school for his good scholarship, and in
principle as strong as the New England hills he lived among.
John and Nellie had played together from childhood. He had made chains
for her neck of the pine needles; she had fastened golden coreopsis in
his homespun coat; and, while no word had been spoken, the neighboring
people expected that a new house would sometime be built in Nineveh,
and a young couple begin anew the beautiful commonplaces of life.
There was considerable excitement one morning in the quiet town.
Byron Marshall, a city youth, had come to Nineveh to visit the Monroe
family, cousins of the Hardings. Byron was a handsome, slender lad,
well-mannered, just leaving college and ready for a profession. He met
Nellie Crandall, and was pleased with the natural country girl.
“No good’ll come of it,” said one of the old ladies of Nineveh. “I
never believed in mismating. John Harding would give his life for that
girl, while the city youth, I know, is a selfish fellow.”
The summer wore away with rides and picnics, and if John’s heart was
pained at the attentions given to Nellie, and accepted by her, he said
nothing.
After Byron’s return to the city a correspondence was begun by him.
One Sunday evening, when John came as usual to see Nellie, and they
were sitting in the moonlight beside the old mill at the bridge, he
said abruptly, “I’m going away from home, Nellie. I have begun to think
you wouldn’t mind since Byron came.”
“But I do mind,” said the girl. “I like Bryon, and he seems fond of me;
but, John, I don’t want you to go, we’ve been such good friends.”
“Yes, but we must be all in all to each other or I can’t stay. I’ve
loved you all these years with never a thought of another. I’ve loved
every flower in your garden because you have tended it. This old mill
seems precious because you have sat here. All Nineveh is sacred to me
because it is your home, but I cannot stay here now.”
Nellie was young; she had seen little of the world, did not know the
true from the false, and, half captivated with the college youth, she
dare not give her promise to John.
They parted in the moonlight, he heavy of heart at going and she
regretting that two loved her. John went to a distant State and found
employment. No word came from him, and Nellie, who missed him sadly,
depended more than ever on the letters which came from Byron.
The next summer Byron spent at Nineveh, and it was talked about the
little town that Nellie was engaged, and would soon be a city lady,
living in comfort and prominence.
Two years later there was a wedding at the Crandall home, and the
pretty bride said good-by to the old mill and the great pines, and
left the miller and his wife desolate. Two years afterwards, when she
brought back a little son, named Samuel, after the miller, they were
in a measure comforted, though they never liked Byron as well as John,
“who was of their kind.”
When John Harding knew that Nellie was really lost to him and married
to another, he, longing for companionship, married a worthy girl,
prospered in business, and was as happy as a man can be who does not
possess the power to forget. He had learned what most of us learn
sooner or later—that life does not pass according to our plan, plan we
ever so wisely; that, broken and marred, we have to take up the years
and make the mosaic as perfect as we can.
As time passed some of the Nineveh families died, and some moved away
to other and busier scenes. Samuel Crandall had been laid in the little
cemetery, and Mrs. Crandall was more lonely than ever.
One night there came a wagon to the door, and Nellie Marshall, her face
stained with tears, alighted, with her three children. “We have come to
stay, mother,” said the broken-hearted woman. “Byron has gone, nobody
knows where. He has used the money of others, and we are penniless.”
Mrs. Crandall wept on her daughter’s neck, as she told somewhat of the
hardships of her life with her unfaithful and dishonest husband.
Other years passed, and another grave was made beside that of Samuel
Crandall, and Mrs. Marshall, now grown white-haired, lived for her
three children, and reared them as best she could in their poverty.
One day there was a rumor in the town that John Harding was coming to
Nineveh on a visit. He was well-to-do now, and would come in a style
befitting his position. Mrs. Marshall wondered if he would call upon
her, and if he would bring Mrs. Harding to see the woman so changed
from her girlhood in looks, but nobler and sweeter in character.
Mr. Harding had been in Nineveh for a week. Nellie Marshall had
heard of it, and her heart beat more quickly at any footstep on the
threshold. One moonlight night she could not resist putting just one
spray of golden coreopsis in the buttonhole of her black dress, for if
he should come that night he would like to see it, perhaps; for, after
all, women do not forget any more than men.
About eight o’clock there was a knock at the door; she was agitated.
“Why should I be? He is married,” she assured herself.
She opened the door, and John, grown stouter in form and more
attractive in face than ever, stood before her. He met her cordially,
talked with the children, and seemed more joyous than when a boy.
“And where is Mrs. Harding?” Nellie finally found the courage to ask.
“She is not with me,” was the answer.
The call, really a long one, seemed short.
“When do you leave for the West, Mr. Harding?” She had almost said
“John,” for she had thought of him all these years by the old familiar
name.
“Not for two or three weeks, and I shall see you again.”
Day after day passed, and he did not come. And now she realized, as she
had never before, that this was the only man she had ever loved; that
his presence made day, his absence night; that she had loved him from
childhood. And now all was too late.
The time came for him to return to the West, and once more he stood by
the flower-beds along the walk to the Nineveh house, this time just as
the sun was setting over the cedars. He kissed the children. “I have
none of my own,” he said, and took Nellie’s hand, holding it a little
longer than he had held it before. Her lips trembled, and her eyes must
have told all her heart.
“I have felt so deeply for you,” he said; and his own voice grew
tremulous. “And will you let me leave this little remembrance for the
children?” He slipped a roll of bills into her hand, and was gone in a
moment.
Weeks passed, and finally a letter came. She knew the handwriting. What
could John wish of her? Perhaps he was inclined to adopt one of her
children, and, if so, which could she spare?
Not the oldest boy, for he was her pride; not the second, a girl, who
was her comfort and companion; not the youngest, for somehow he looked
like John, and he was dearer to her than all beside. When Byron was
unkind her heart always turned to John, and perchance stamped her
thoughts upon the open, frank face of her youngest child.
She put the letter in her pocket; she must be calm before she read it.
She would go out and sit by the mill where he and she sat together. She
opened it there and read:
MY DEAR OLD-TIME FRIEND: I am alone in the world. I told you my wife
was not with me. She died some years ago. I wanted to see if you
loved me, as I believed you did. I hope and believe you do still. You
know me better than any one else, and you know whether I should care
tenderly for your children. If you are willing to come and brighten my
home, say so. How I longed to fold you in my arms as I left you, but
restrained myself! Telegraph me if I shall come to take you.
A message was sent from Nineveh: “Come.”
The Crandall home has fallen like the others. The flower-beds have
vanished, save here and there a self-sown golden coreopsis grows among
the weeds. The moon shines silently upon the mill as of old. The few
remaining aged people of Nineveh still tell of the faithful love of
John Harding for the miller’s adopted daughter.
THE SECOND TIME.
THE HON. John Crawford had become a prominent man in his community. He
had begun life in poverty, had learned economy early, and fortunately
had married a girl with tastes and habits similar to his own. Both
desired to rise in the world, and she, forgetting herself, bent all her
energies toward his progress and success. She did her own housework for
years, made her own clothes and those of her children, and in every way
saved, that John might be rich and influential. Her history was like
that of thousands of other New England women—she wore herself out for
her family. She never had time for social life, and not a very great
amount of time for reading, though she kept up as well as possible with
the thought of the day; but her one aim was to have her husband honored.
John Crawford was a good husband, though not always considerate. He
thought nobody quite so good and helpful as Betsey, nobody cooked so
well, nobody was more saving, and he was proud to rise by her help. He
failed sometimes to consider how large a matter that help had been in
his life. If he had been asked who made his money he would have replied
without hesitation, “I made it.” That Betsey was entitled to half, or
even a third, would never have occurred to him. He provided for her and
the children all they seemed to need. He was the head of the family,
and that headship had made him somewhat selfish and domineering.
As the children grew older, and Mrs. Crawford looked out into the
future and realized the possibility of leaving the world before her
husband, she thought much of their condition under a changed home.
Mr. Crawford would marry again, probably, and her children might have
little or none of the property which they together had struggled to
earn.
One evening she said, as they sat before the open fire, the children
having gone to bed: “John, it seems to me things are unequal in the
world. You and I have worked hard, and I have been proud to have you
succeed. We both love the children, and want everything done for
them. What if I should die, and you should marry again and have other
children?”
“Why, Betsey! You don’t think I could forget our own precious children?
No second wife could or would influence me against my children. You and
I have worked together, and I should feel dishonorable to leave them
helpless and care for others. You must think me a villain.”
“Oh, no, John! But I have seen cases like that. Only the other day
the Rev. Cornelius Jones married a young wife, and gave her all his
property, leaving nothing to his three daughters. Now, if a minister
would do that, what should we expect of others?”
“There must have been peculiar circumstances. He could not have been in
his right mind.”
“You know, John, if you were to die I should receive a third of what I
have helped you earn, and the rest would go to the children; while if I
were to die nothing would go to the children. I should like to have at
least the third which the law considers mine go to them at my death,
as it does in some countries of the Old World, where a man cannot marry
a second time till he has settled a portion on his first children.”
“But that would be a great inconvenience,” replied Mr. Crawford. “A man
has money in business, and to take out a third if his wife dies might
sadly embarrass him. Or even the use of a third, set apart for them,
might cripple him.”
“Better that there be a little inconvenience than a wrong done to
children,” said Mrs. Crawford. “The husband may lose every cent of what
the wife has struggled and saved all her life to help him accumulate.
Marriage is a partnership, and, like other partnerships, must suffer
some change and inconvenience, it may be, if one of the partners dies.
There must, necessarily, be a new adjustment of interests.”
“But the law allows you to make a will and give away your property, my
dear, just as it does me.”
“Yes, what I have inherited before or since my marriage; but I have
inherited none, and you have not. We have made ours together, and you
have often said that you owe as much to my skill and economy as to your
foresight and ability.”
“And so I do, it is true; but the law makes no provision about our
common property.”
“But make it yourself then, John, if the law does not. Make a will so
that in case of my death my two daughters shall have at least a third
of all you are worth at that time, or, if you prefer, put a third—I
might feel that it ought to be half—in my name, or perhaps the home,
and let that go to our daughters.”
“But if I put the home in your name, so that in case of losses
something would be saved from creditors, I should want it willed back
to me at your death, so that I could still have a home and do as I
liked with it.”
“And then nothing would go to the children at my death? That is not
fair, John, and I have worked too hard and long to be willing.”
“Well, Betsey, you can trust me to do the right thing. I will think it
over,” and he kissed her as they closed the not altogether satisfactory
conversation.
As was to be expected, Betsey Crawford broke down from the wear and
tear of life, and died, leaving her two daughters to the care of a fond
and not ungenerous father. The loss was a great one to John Crawford.
She had been his competent adviser, with tact and good sense to keep
matters right. She had guided more than he ever suspected. He mourned
her sincerely, as did her two devoted daughters.
He was lonely, and in time married again, a woman considerably younger
than himself, a member of the same church, an ambitious and not
over-scrupulous woman. When her son was born she became desirous that
every advantage should be placed before him, that he might attain to
wealth and honor. She convinced Mr. Crawford in a thousand nameless
ways that the boy would need most of the property for business,
to marry well, and to carry down the family name. The girls would
doubtless marry and be well provided for by their husbands. She talked
with Mr. Crawford about the uncertainty of life, and, with tact, urged
that other things besides a spiritual preparation for death were
necessary. A man should think of the younger members of his family who
would be left comparatively helpless.
People said that the strong-willed John Crawford had become very much
under the sway of his younger wife; that he had grown less dominant,
more appreciative, and more thoughtful of her needs and wishes. He
idolized his son, but he seemed no dearer than the daughters of Betsey.
He was a more expensive child, for he needed all sorts of playthings,
the best schooling, the best clothes, and a somewhat large amount of
spending money. It was evident that John Crawford, Jr., would require
more money than his half-sisters.
In course of time, Mr. Crawford, having served a term in Congress
through good ability and the discreet use of money in organizing his
forces, and having done well for his constituency, followed Betsey to
the other world. To the surprise of all save the second Mrs. Crawford
the property was left to her and her son, with the merest remembrance
to the unmarried daughters of hard-working Betsey Crawford.
“I wouldn’t have thought it,” said a prominent lady in the church.
“Why, John Crawford was a deacon, and professed to live according to
right and justice! There must have been undue influence. His first wife
worked like a slave to help earn that money. I never supposed a man
would be unfair to his children.”
“You never can tell what folks will do,” said another church member.
“Youth and tact are great forces in the world. John Crawford never
meant to be unjust, but he couldn’t help it. A third of that property
ought to have gone to those daughters. Why didn’t his wife make him fix
it before she died?”
“Maybe she tried, who knows?” said the person addressed. “If the law
didn’t make him do his duty, how could you expect his conscience to do
it? We need some new laws about the property which men and women earn
together.”
Mr. Crawford’s injustice resulted in the early death of one daughter,
and left bitter memories of her father in the heart of the other.
FIFTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS.
JASON and Eunice Kimball had always longed for money. They had spent
their fifteen years of married life on a New England farm, with all its
cares and hardships, its early rising, long hours of labor, and little
compensation.
The white house, with its green blinds, roof sloping to the rear, and
great fir-trees in the front yard, had grown dingy with dust and rain,
and there had been no money to repair it.
The children, Susie, James, and little Jason, fourteen, twelve, and ten
years old, had worked like their thrifty parents, gaining the somewhat
meagre schooling of a half-deserted New England town.
Now a great change had come to the Kimball family. A relative had died
and had left to Mrs. Kimball fifteen thousand dollars. It seemed an
enormous amount in one way, but not enormous in another. The children
must be better dressed and prepared for college, the father must give
up the slow gains of the farm and go into business, and Mrs. Kimball
must make herself ready in garb and manner for the new life. It was
evident that they must move to some village where schools were good and
business would be prosperous. What town and what business? These were
the exciting topics that were discussed by night and by day. Jason knew
how to till the soil, to harvest grain, to be an industrious and good
citizen and a kind husband, but he knew little about the great world of
trade.
“I might buy out a small grocery, Eunice,” said the husband one
evening. “People must eat, whether they have decent clothes or books or
schools.”
“Ah, if you once looked at Mr. Jones’s books and saw the uncollectible
bills, even from so-called ‘good families,’ you would not undertake
that business!”
“I might buy a tract of land in a growing town and sell lots.”
“But what if a panic came, and you lost all?” said the conservative
wife.
As soon as it became known that the Kimballs had fallen heir to fifteen
thousand dollars, Mr. Kimball was besought on all sides to enter one
kind of business or another. One applicant had invented a unique
coffee-pot, which would make good coffee out of even a poor berry,
and a fortune could certainly be made, if only capital were provided.
Another person had a new style of wash-boiler, and experimented with it
on Mrs. Kimball’s kitchen stove, breaking every lid in the operation.
Fortunes seemed lying about at every corner of the street, and the only
wonder was that everybody did not get rich. Mr. Kimball was besought
to take out life insurance, to buy acres of land in the far West,
unseen by buyer or seller, to give to every charity within the State,
where-ever the knowledge of the fifteen-thousand-dollar inheritance had
permeated.
Finally the town for a home was decided upon, and the business—that of
selling coal.
A pretty house was purchased, his children placed in school, a seat in
church rented, and a shop for the sale of hard and soft coal.
Mr. Kimball knew nothing of the coal business; but he formed a
partnership with a man who knew everything about it—in fact, too much,
for at the end of a year the firm failed, the five thousand dollars
that Mrs. Kimball gave to her husband having melted away like snow in
spring.
Mrs. Kimball’s patience had not increased with her gift of money. She
blamed her husband for losing, blamed herself for giving the money to
him, blamed the world in general.
Mr. Kimball tried other matters, and failed. It was difficult to find
a situation in which to work for others, as he was of middle age and
young men were preferred. He tried life insurance, and either lacked
the courage to visit people in season and out of season, or he lacked
volume of speech or multiplicity of argument.
It became evident to the neighbors and to the minister of the parish
that matters were going wrong in the Kimball home. The husband wished
to go into business again; the wife felt sure that he would lose, and
nothing would be left for the children. They reasoned, they quarrelled,
and Mrs. Kimball became ill from anxiety.
At last it was noised about that a separation might come in the divided
family. Friends interposed, but nothing satisfactory was accomplished.
The few thousands that remained were safe in the bank; and this amount
Mrs. Kimball had decided should not be touched.
One morning the little village was thrown into consternation. The bank
had lost all its funds through the speculation of one of its officers.
Save for the little home, the Kimballs were penniless.
Sorrow is sometimes a great strengthener. Mrs. Kimball rose from
her illness to face the problems of life. Both parents loved their
children, and they were too young to be thrown upon the world.
“Let us sell our home,” said Mrs. Kimball, “buy back the old farm, and
live together till the end.”
And Jason said, “Yes, wife, we shall be happier in the old place
without the fifteen thousand dollars.”
THE RING OF GOLD.
MARTIN DALY had become discouraged. Like many another miner in the far
West, he had made money and lost it, had prospected for mines, found
ore, and been cheated out of his rights, had grown poor and ill, and
had thrown himself under a tree, careless whether he lived or died.
The great snowy mountain-peaks and the rich verdure had lost their
attraction for him. He had hoped and been disappointed so many times
that he had come to believe himself unlucky; that he should never
possess a dollar; that there was neither happiness nor home for him.
He had seen more prosperous days. His large dark eyes, his broad brow,
his well-shaped mouth and chin, bespoke refinement in the years that
were gone. He had been well educated, had tried many things and failed
in them, not from lack of energy nor from lack of judgment, but his
fate seemed to be an adverse one.
He had done many good acts, had always helped his brother miners, had
tried to look on the bright side of life, had fought manfully, and been
defeated in the battle. He had imagined sometimes that the clouds had a
silver lining, but the storms always came sooner or later. He meditated
thus as he lay under the tree, and finally, more dead than alive from
want and exhaustion, fell asleep.
Two men passed along under the brow of the mountain, by the tree. They
were tall and straight, and from their dark hair and skin it was easy
to perceive their Indian blood.
“The white man is dead,” said one of the men, as he bent on his knee
beside the sleeper.
“No, there is a twitching of the eyelids,” said the other. “He is pale
and sick. I will take him home, and Mimosa will care for him.”
The conversation, carried on in a low tone, awakened the miner.
“Come with us, and you shall have food and shelter,” said the friendly
Indian.
Scarcely able to bear his weight, Martin leaned upon the arms of the
two men, and soon found himself in the humble Indian cabin.
“Mimosa, here is a stranger. Take care of him. Red Cloud never left a
human being to die. He will get well, and then we will send him back to
his people.”
A shy, pale Indian girl came forward and did as she was bidden. She did
not speak, but looked very pityingly out of her fawn-like dark eyes.
When Martin had been placed in the simple bed she prepared food for
him, and fed him as though he were a child. Day by day she came and
went, speaking little, but doing gently the things which only a woman’s
hands can do.
After a time the miner, still a young man, gained in strength, and
began once more to hope for a successful future.
“Mimosa,” he said one day, “I owe my life to you, and if I am ever rich
I will come back and reward you.”
“I shall miss you,” said the girl shyly. “But I want no money. I shall
be happy because you are well again and happy.”
“I shall yet find gold, Mimosa. I used to think I should be rich, and
then I became poor and sick and lost heart. You wear a ring on your
finger and sometimes a chain about your neck, both of beaten gold. Did
the metal come from mines near here?”
“My father gave them to me,” she replied, and nothing more could be
learned from her on the subject.
“Would you care, Mimosa, if I wore the ring until I went away? Perhaps
I can find the place where the gold came from.”
“You may wear it till you come back rich,” she said, smiling.
Days grew into weeks, and the time drew near for the miner to say
good-by to the girl who had become his comrade as well as deliverer.
Tears filled her eyes as they parted. “You will forget Mimosa,” she
said.
“No, I will bring back the ring, and you shall give it to the man who
makes you his bride. I shall never forget Red Cloud nor his daughter.”
Strong and hopeful again, Martin took up life, obtained work, and
believed once more that he should find gold.
But he missed the Indian girl. The pines on the snowy mountain-peaks
whispered of her. The evenings seemed longer than formerly; the
conversation of the miners less interesting. He was lonely. He was
earning a fair living, but of what use was money to him if he was to
feel desolate in heart? Mimosa was not of his race, but she had a
lovable nature. He remembered that she looked sad at his going away.
He wondered if she ever thought about him. If she had some Indian
suitor, would she not wish for the ring again? He would like at least
to see the man and his daughter who had saved his life. He would carry
back the ring. Ah! if he knew where the gold in it came from, perhaps
he would indeed become rich, and then who could make him so happy as
Mimosa?
Months only increased the loneliness in Martin’s heart. He was becoming
discouraged again. He even began to fear that Mimosa was married, and
his soul awakened to a sense of loss. He would go back just once and
see her, and on his journey back he would sit for a half-hour under the
tree where Red Cloud had found him.
“What ails Martin?” said one miner to another. “He must be in love—no
fun in him as in the old days. Going to quit camp, he says.”
After Martin had decided to go to see Red Cloud his heart seemed
lighter. If Mimosa were married he could at least show her his
gratitude. And if she were not? Well, it would be very restful to see
her once more!
He started on his journey. The full moon was rising as he neared
the old tree where Red Cloud had found him. As he approached he was
startled by a white figure. He turned aside for a moment, and then went
cautiously up to the great trunk. Two dark eyes full of tears gazed up
into his eyes, at first with a startled look and then with a gleam of
joy and trust.
“Mimosa!” he exclaimed, and clasped the Indian girl in his arms. “Why
are you here, child, at this time of night?”
“I came here to think of you, Martin, and the moonlight is so sweet and
comforting. The green trees and the mountains tell me of you.”
“I have brought you back the ring, Mimosa.”
“And are you rich yet? You were to keep it till you were rich.”
“No, but I would be rich, perhaps, if you would tell me where the gold
in the ring was found.”
“My father gave it to me,” she replied quietly.
“Mimosa, would you love me if I were rich?”
“Perhaps I should be afraid of you if you were.”
“Would you love me if I remained poor as I am now?”
“Yes, always.”
“And if I became sick and could not care for you, what then?”
“_I_ would care for _you_, Martin.”
“I have brought back the ring, Mimosa, that you may give it to the man
who shall make you his bride.”
“And would you like to keep the ring yourself, Martin?”
“Yes, dearest.”
They went back to the home of Red Cloud, happy because promised to each
other in marriage.
After a quiet wedding Mimosa said one day: “Come with me, Martin, and I
will show you where the gold in the ring and the necklace were found.”
Not very far from the tree where the miner had lain down discouraged
Mimosa pointed out the shining ore, the spot known only to the few
Indians.
“Mimosa, there is a mine here! This gold is the outcropping of the
veins. I shall yet be rich, my darling.”
“Would you surely love me as much, Martin, if you were rich?”
“I would give you everything your heart desired.”
“And not go to an Eastern country, and be great, and forget Mimosa?”
“Never!”
With a happy heart Martin Daly took his pick to the mountains. The
golden ore opened under his touch. His claim each day showed more
value. He had, indeed, become rich through the ring of Mimosa.
Times have changed. The children of the Indian girl, educated, gentle
as their mother and energetic as their father, are in a handsome house.
Love in the home has kept as bright as the gold in the mountain.
FOUR LETTERS.
DEAR ERNEST: I am sitting under a great oak this summer afternoon,
just as the sun is setting. The western sky is crossed with bands of
brilliant red and yellow, while overhead, and to the east, pink fleecy
clouds are floating like phantom ships of coral. The green forest
of beech and oak at my right mellows in the deepening gray of the
twilight, and the white mansion at my left, with its red roof, looks
like some castle in a story. The grand blue lake in the distance seems
closer to me in the subdued light, and I almost question if this be a
picture or reality.
How I wish you were here to sit beside me, and talk as we used to do in
college days! Then we wondered where each would be, what experiences
would fill each heart, and what the future had for us in its shadowy
keeping.
You have been a wanderer, and seen much of the world. I have had, for
the most part, a quiet life of study, have finished a book, have had
anxieties, as who has not, but, best of all, I have found my ideal.
You will perhaps smile at this, and recall to me my love of athletic
sports, my disregard of the affections, my entire ability to live
without the gentler sex. Not that you and I both did not admire a
brilliant eye, or a rosy lip, or a perfect hand, but life was so
full without all this that we looked at women as one does at rare
pictures—expensive luxuries, to be admired rather than possessed.
But all has changed with me. I have met one who will, I think, fill
my vision for life. She is not strictly beautiful. Her blue eyes are
calm and clear. Her manner is not responsive, and she would seem to
a stranger like one to be worshipped from afar. She has depth of
affection, but it is not on the surface.
Edith Graham is to most persons a mystery. She loves nature, sits with
me often to enjoy these wonderful sunsets, makes me feel that I am
in the presence of a goddess, and goes her way, while I continue to
worship her.
Yes, I think I have used the right word—“worship.” I walk a thousand
times past the house where she lives because she is there. I linger in
the pathways where she daily walks, with the feeling that her footsteps
have given them a special sacredness. I know well the seat in the
forest near here where she comes to read and look upon the distant
lake. Every friend of hers is nearer to me because her friend. The
graves, even, of her dear ones are precious to me. Every tree or flower
she has admired is fairer to me. The golden-rod of the fields I keep
ever in my study because she loves and gathers it. I have planted red
carnations in my garden because she delights to wear them. The autumn
leaves are exquisite to me because she paints them, and I recall the
sound of her feet among the rustling leaves with the same joy which
I feel in remembering the music of the priests of Notre Dame, or the
voices of the nuns of the Sacré Cœur in Rome, at sunset.
The moon, from new to full, has an added beauty because when Edith and
I are separated she speaks to us both the eternal language of love.
When I watch the clouds break over her majestic face I know that Edith
too enjoys the beauty of the scene.
The song of the robins among our trees is sweeter because Edith hears
it. The little stream that wanders near us and glides over the stones
at the foot of the hill in a white sheet of spray is a bond between us,
for we have both looked upon it. Edith’s name seems as musical to me as
the waterfall. I can fancy that it is graven upon my heart.
I know every change of her features,—she is almost always quiet,—and
her every word and act I have gone over and over in my mind ten
thousand times. We have read together, and I hope she loves me.
This companionship is so blessed that I dread to speak to her of
love—though my face must always tell it—lest, possibly, the dream be
dispelled, and I wake to the dreadful knowledge that she cannot be mine.
Do you know all these feelings, Ernest? Whatever you may think of me, I
have grown a nobler man through them. All womanhood is more sacred to
me. I can do work I never thought myself capable of before. It would
be a pleasure to work for Edith as long as I live. I am going to Europe
soon, and I must settle this matter. I will write you then.
Yours,
JOHN.
DEAR ERNEST: The scene has changed since I wrote you months ago. I am
at the foot of the Jungfrau, whose snowy top, gilded by the sun, is
ever a thing of beauty.
The day I dreaded has come and gone. I have told Edith all my heart,
and, alas! she is not mine. She was already half plighted to a young
naval officer, whom she met when she was away at school. I believe she
was fond of me, for our tastes are similar, but she has been the true
woman through it all.
I blame her? Never! I would not allow my heart to cherish such a
thought for a moment.
Do I love her less? No. Shall I think a flower less beautiful and
fragrant because another owns it and enjoys it? Edith will be to me
ever the same lovely picture of youthful womanhood—the same blessing,
though to me unattainable. Do not imagine that I shall forget her.
A man loves as deeply as a woman, often more deeply, and not seldom
remembers as long as she does. Other faces may interest me; other women
be companionable; but they will not be Edith.
I shall go back to our old home beside the lake, because she will
sometime come there, and it will always be a comfort and pleasure to
see her, even if she does not see me. Perhaps it is a foolish wish, but
I shall hope sometime to rest in the same cemetery where she rests.
I love to think of her the last thing as I sleep, for then ofttimes in
my dreams she talks and walks with me, and I awake refreshed by the
memory.
Some one has said, “Happiness is not possession. It is giving and
growing;” and I know that I am growing more fit for her companionship,
even though it come only in another life.
The seas she sails upon, the harbors she enters, will all be nearer
and dearer to me. The world will grow larger instead of smaller to my
vision. I shall be lonely; yes, almost unbearably lonely. But, after
all, what a blessing to have known her—to have loved her—to have
offered her the best thing a man can offer a woman, the consecration of
his life to her! What if I had gone through these years and not have
seen such an ideal? How poor would be my heart! Now I can say with
Shelley, “Love’s very pain is sweet.”
Of course I can but think of what I have missed. To have seen her in a
pleasant home and to come to her after the day’s work was done would
have been bliss indeed. To have seen the sun set and the moon rise; to
have walked over the hills and meadows together; to have read by our
open fire; to have laughed and wept and prayed and grown gray-haired
together—all this would have made life complete. Even silence together
would have made earth seem heaven.
Life is indeed a mystery. It brings us development, if not happiness.
For a time after I left home I seemed unable to put myself to any
labor, but I have come to be grateful that for me there is so beautiful
an ideal—one that sheds a halo about even the saddest day. But there
come times of anguish, when I long to hold Edith’s hand in mine; to
press her to my heart with all the rapture of a perfect love. Then I go
out under the blue sky and walk, if I can, always towards the sunset,
getting out of the rich color all the balm possible for an unsatisfied
soul.
I sometimes wonder if she realizes how I worship her—if she knows all
the bliss of loving, and the eternal sorrow of losing. Ah! I know it
all.
Yours always,
JOHN.
DEAR ERNEST: How the years have come and gone since I wrote you from
Switzerland! I have just seen Edith home from a voyage to Japan. And
she has brought her little girl of three, with her own blue eyes and
the same reserved, quiet ways. The child came across the hill with her
nurse to our grove, and I made friends with her and held her on my knee
and kissed her. She could not know how very dear she is to me, and why.
She could not guess that the golden hair which I fondled took me back
to other days, and quickened the flow of blood in my veins. Her smooth,
fair skin is like her mother’s. I could not help wishing that she might
stay with me forever, and look out upon the lake and the sunsets.
It will be a dreadful wrench to my heart when they go back. Japan is so
far away. Edith looks paler than formerly, and smiles less frequently.
I have heard it hinted that she is not happy. Can it be possible that
her husband does not appreciate the treasure which he has won?
If I could only speak a word of comfort to her—but that cannot be. She
is very pleasant, but calm, with me, and seems glad to have me love
her little daughter. I thought I saw tears in her eyes as we sat with
the child between us under the oak last night at sunset, but she rose
hastily, and said she should take cold in the falling dew.
She is more beautiful to me than when a girl. Her face has more of
thought and feeling in it, and a trace of suffering as well, and that
heightens her beauty to me, and to men generally, I think. We love to
care for others, especially if they need our care, if there is any
manhood in us.
Ah, there is nothing on earth so interesting as a woman, with her
tenderness, her solicitude for our welfare, her quiet reserve, her
gentle listening, her brightness, her nobleness, her grace!
After Edith left me, taking her little girl by the hand, I confess I
was desolate, overwhelmingly desolate. Why is it that one person can
make night seem day to us; can bring perfect rest and content? I should
not have cared if years could have passed while we sat there together.
She will go away soon, and I shall have to fight the old battle with
self over again, and conquer, and go back to daily duties.
Come and see me here at this lovely outlook. I will show you her
child’s picture—so like the mother. What will the end be? I suppose
you ask. The same as now, probably. I do not look for anything
different. I try to be happy and thankful that I live in the same world
and now and then in the same city with Edith.
Faithfully,
JOHN.
DEAR ERNEST: You and I are growing older, but we have kept the same
true friendship through all the years. Your life has been full of love
and sunshine, and mine so desolate, except for one ennobling affection.
But a great change has come into my life. Edith has come back with her
daughter, and both are in mourning. They have been here for months, but
I have seen little of them.
A few evenings ago I sat with them among the trees surrounding their
lovely home, and as I left I dared to tell Edith that I had not buried
all hope for the future. She looked at me gravely, I thought with
an appealing expression in her blue eyes, as though she longed for
a place where her heart might rest. You know how the eyes can speak
volumes. I had never seen her look thus before. Every woman loves to be
worshipped. “She must at least be gratified that I love her,” I said to
myself.
* * * * *
I have been to see Edith this evening at sunset. She and I have walked
in the ravines, and I have pushed away the underbrush from her lovely
head, and told her that I longed to care for her always, and she has
laid her white hand on my arm and said, “I love you.”
I scarcely know what I am writing. To have her and her child in my home
forever! To have the peace and satisfaction and rest of a reciprocal
affection! To have her mine to kiss and be proud of, and to live for!
To gather golden-rod and carnations for her as when she was a girl!
To see the curling smoke of ships on the blue lake, and the golden
sunsets, and the rich autumn coloring together, and to know that we
shall live side by side till death parts us, and then shall rest
together under the same myrtles and red berries of the mountain ash in
the cemetery!
Life has begun anew. I seem almost a boy again, while Edith is sweet
and grave and happy. I sometimes half fear that it is a dream, it is
all so beautiful. The world never seemed half so attractive as now.
Come and see us in our home.
Ever yours,
JOHN.
REWARDED.
THE SNOW was falling on Christmas eve in the little village of West
Beverly. A good many young people were disappointed as they watched the
feathery crystals come floating down from a sky that seemed full of
snowbanks. They wished to go to a party, or concert, or home gathering,
and who could tell whether Christmas would be stormy and disagreeable?
Widow Wadsworth sat in her plain home with her four children, whose
faces were pressed against the window pane, guessing what the coming
day would bring. Not presents, no; the Wadsworths were too poor for
those. But if the day were sunny the sleigh bells would ring, and the
poor could slide and make merry as well as the rich.
Hugh, a bright boy of sixteen, had finished his education. By hard
work his mother had helped him through the High School, and now he was
ready to do his part in the world’s work. Not that he did not long for
college. Other boys had gone out from West Beverly across the hills to
Amherst and to Harvard, but they had fathers to assist them, or kind
friends who had furnished the money. Hugh must now aid in the support
of his two sisters and little brother.
He had earned something by working Saturdays, so that when Christmas
morning dawned Kate Wadsworth found some plaid for a new dress outside
her door, Jenny a doll, and Willie a sled.
Mrs. Wadsworth’s eyes filled with tears as she kissed Hugh. “It will
all come right in the end,” she said. “I wish you could go to college,
but many a man succeeds without it, and educates himself. It is blessed
that we are alive and well, and are able to work. There is as much room
in the world for my children as for anybody’s. You have been a noble
son, and we all love you. I wanted to buy you something, but the money
had to go for rent.”
“Oh, never mind, mother! I don’t need anything. I’m going over to Mr.
Carter’s to see if they want the snow shovelled from their walks. Tell
Willie to come over with his new sled and see me work.” And Hugh’s big
blue eyes brightened as he stepped out into the frosty air. Blessed
hope of youth, that carries us into the realities of middle life
stronger and happier for the burdens that must be borne!
The Carter mansion away on the hills belonged to the Hon. William
Carter, owner of the woollen mills. A man of kind heart, good to his
employees, he had always felt an interest in Hugh because the father
had worked in his mills. This Christmas morning the Carters wished
several walks cleared. The hired man could have done it, but Mr. Carter
preferred that Hugh should have the work.
The owner of the woollen mills watched the boy from the window as he
shovelled. “A very promising lad,” he said to his wife, a little lady
much younger than himself. “I wonder what he intends to do in the
world,” and putting his hands in his pockets he walked up and down the
floor. “Jerome Wadsworth was a good workman in the mills. I guess the
widow has had a hard time of it since he died.”
Mr. Carter walked towards the dining-room, where the breakfast dishes
were being removed from the table.
“Margaret, when the boy has finished clearing the walks, send him to
me.”
“Yes, sir,” responded the maid.
An hour later, his cheeks aglow from labor, Hugh stood in the doorway.
“Come in, Hugh, and sit down. What are you going to do?”
“I am ready for any honest work, Mr. Carter. I wanted to go to college,
but that is out of the question.”
“How much would it cost you?”
“From five to six hundred dollars a year, I suppose.”
“Would your mother like to have you go?”
“Very much indeed. She has always wanted it, but I think she really
needs my wages now to help her.”
“But you can help her better after you have an education. You could
earn more, and you would be an honor to her.”
“Yes, I know of nothing that would make her so happy.”
“Well, my son is young yet, and something may happen which will
prevent my sending James to college, so I will send you while I can.”
Hugh’s blue eyes grew moist. He was indeed to have a Christmas present:
a four years’ course at college.
“I will come over and talk with your mother about it,” said Mr. Carter.
Hugh hurried home, and entered the cottage quite out of breath. Calling
his mother aside, he whispered, “Mother, I have a secret to tell you.
Mr. Carter is going to send me to college, and then I can better help
you and the rest. Just think of it—to have it happen on Christmas Day!
And I never expected it.”
Mrs. Wadsworth could not speak as she folded her boy in her arms and
kissed him. What did it matter to her self-sacrificing heart whether
she worked early and late, if Hugh could only be educated! True, he
would no longer share her humble cottage, and she would miss his
help and companionship, but her life was nothing—his was all. If
anything in humanity touches divinity, it is motherhood, that loves and
sacrifices without hope of reward.
Busy days followed, when the little trunk was packed, prayers offered,
the good-bys said, and her boy Hugh went out into the world.
Four years passed—four years with their new friendships, eager plans,
broader outlook, and development of character.
Meantime Widow Wadsworth struggled on, Mr. Carter helping the family
somewhat, so that the sisters eventually could fit themselves for
teaching. When college days were over another time of anxiety came.
Should Hugh have a profession or go into business? He loved books, and
finally, after much consideration, he decided to enter the law, working
his way as best he could by teaching and writing. Steadily he won
success, and before thirty was on the road to fame and fortune.
The years had whitened Widow Wadsworth’s hair. All her family were
now earning, and life had become easier. The years, too, had brought
changes in the Carter family. The woollen mills had failed to bring
money to their owner, and the large home had passed into other hands.
Pretty Isabel Carter, whom it was whispered Hugh had desired to marry,
had thrown herself away on a showy youth, who married her with the
expectation of securing a fortune. James Carter, the only son, was
working his way through college.