MRS. JONES'S STORY.--THE GRAY WOLF.
"Was it so _very_ different east, mother," asked Tom, one day, "where
you came from, from what it is here?"
"Different in what respects?" she inquired.
"O," he answered, hesitatingly, "I mean, were folks as poor and
ignorant as--as--"
"As we are, you were going to say," said she, placidly, finishing his
sentence for him.
"I don't think that you and father are _ignorant_," he replied,
looking confused; "but--"
"I understand what you mean, Tom. No; where your father and I were
born, and where we were married, the country was thickly settled. All
the children went to school, and there were no such cabins as the one
we live in, but nice, framed houses of wood, stone, or brick."
"Were there no poor people there?"
"Yes, as many as there are here,--a great many in the large
cities,--and they found it very hard getting along."
"Were yours and father's folks very poor?"
"No; they were in comfortable circumstances."
"Then why, mother, did you come west, and why do we live as we do
now?"
As she did not at once reply, the lad, busy once more with his own
thoughts, forgot that he had asked the question. He had often revolved
the matter in his own mind, but had never before ventured to speak of
it. His mother's conversation with him, after his injury by the gun,
had shown him the folly of his plan of leaving home clandestinely; but
dissatisfaction with his lot grew with his growth and strengthened
with his strength. It was a great mystery to him how his mother could
consent to live so, for so many years. He would look at the black and
crazy loggery, with its clay "chinking," that was ever more cracking,
and crumbling, and falling to the floor, leaving holes between the
logs, through which the wind and rain entered; and the one rickety
chair, and the rude benches and boxes for sitting accommodations, and
the bedsteads, composed of rough oaken slabs, spiked at the head and
side to the walls, and a rough post at the unsupported corner, and the
cracked and rusted stove and leaky funnel; and then he would look at
his mother, who, despite her coarse and dingy dress, seemed so
superior to her condition; and the more he realized the contrast, the
more he marvelled. When he was younger, he had noticed this
incongruity between his gentle mother and her wretched surroundings;
and now he sometimes wished he could be insensible to it, it made him
so unhappy. How restless he became--how like a caged eaglet, as he
pondered the subject by night and by day--none knew save the watchful
friend who moved so gently about the dark-lighted cabin, and kept so
uncomplainingly at her tasks.
And his father seemed to him, in his way, as much of a mystery as his
mother. Was he contented with the roving life he led? and did he never
realize the deprivations of his wife and children? Did father and
mother ever know brighter days? and were they never to see them again?
And was it duty for him to keep on in the same way, sacrificing every
rising aspiration and pure taste, and getting nothing in return but
poor food and clothing, a comfortless home, and a mind undeveloped and
unfurnished?
Seated on the end of a box, shelling corn by drawing the ears against
the back of a broken scythe, he had been working and thinking through
the evening, while the children slept, with no one to notice his
absent-minded labor but his ever-wakeful mother.
"I will not endure it," he mentally exclaimed; and, by way of
emphasis, he drew the ear of corn he held against the edge of the
scythe with unusual force, at the same instant springing to his feet
with a cry of pain, and a finger in his mouth, upsetting his seat, and
sending the contents of the box rolling across the floor, and into the
gaping cracks.
"O, I've scraped my finger awfully!" he said, with grimaces that added
nothing to his personal attractions.
"Why, how did you do it, my son?" asked the mother, although she knew
very well.
"Why, you see, I was thinking about something, and pulled my finger,
instead of the cob, against the edge."
Mrs. Jones laid back the strip of bleeding flesh into the place from
which it had thus unceremoniously been torn, and from which it hung by
a bit of skin, and carefully bound up the wound.
Then, sweeping the scattered kernels into a heap, and restoring them
to the box, she seated herself in a little dislocated chair, and
said,--
"There, don't shell any more now, Tom; I have something to say to you.
You asked why we came west. The time has come when you had better know
something of our history; it may help you decide your course of
action.
"Your father and I were born in Connecticut, in the same town. We
attended school together in our early childhood, and often played
together. Both of our families were respectable--your father's quite
so, although not so well off as to property as mine. He was a bright,
promising boy, quick to learn, warm-hearted, and conscientious. I
never knew him guilty of any of the petty meannesses too common among
school children. He was sensitive to a fault, but had high notions of
honor, and despised falsehood and deception in any form. When I was
seventeen I became secretly engaged to him. My parents did not suspect
this, nor did any of the household, except a younger sister, to whom I
confided my secret. I now think it would have been better for all
concerned had I from the first been open in the matter, and frankly
stated to my mother what my preference was. But I knew that he was not
their choice for me. They were ambitious to have me marry brilliantly,
as the phrase went,--that is, wealthily and in style,--and he was
young, and had his fortune to carve out pretty much for himself. He
knew what their hopes were concerning me, matrimonially, and, that I
might be perfectly free to break the engagement, should I repent of
it, rarely saw me, nor did any correspondence pass between us. My
regard for him did not lessen on this account, for I understood his
motives. When he was of age, his father died, leaving him a thousand
dollars as his portion. With this he went into business, with good
prospects, in a neighboring city. I shall never forget how earnestly
he spoke, one evening, as we parted after a brief interview.
"'Mary,' said he, 'I will be rich. I've set my mind on that; and then
your father won't be ashamed to own me as a son-in-law, and I shall
come and claim you.'
"It seemed noble and heroic for him to speak thus; but my heart smote
me with foreboding, and I answered,--
"'But what if you do not succeed?'
"'I _will_ succeed;' he replied, impetuously. 'What a man _wills_ he
can do.'
"Ah, how foolish and sinful it is to worship money and show, as my
parents did; how much suffering it has caused me! and how equally
unwise and presumptuous it was for a young man, stung by the pride of
others, to make that the rule of his life, and go forth in his own
strength to build up a fortune, so that he might _demand_ me of my
parents as an equal, and thus gratify his own pride! I see it now, but
not clearly then.
"Joseph, for a time, was prosperous. Everything he turned his hand to
was remunerative; and when we met, his manner was confident and
hopeful.
"'Let the old gentleman look down upon me now if he chooses,' he would
say; 'he won't always do it.'
"He had been a year in business when a partnership was proposed to him
by a man of education and gentlemanly appearance. Joseph spoke to me
about it, and I said,--
"'You are doing well enough now. Why not be contented to go alone? I
have often heard that partnerships are poor ships to sail in.'
"'Well,' said he, 'there's something in his appearance that I do not
quite like, and I think I shall not take him in.'
"But as the man came with the highest testimonials as to his
character, ability, and influence, with the hope of greatly enlarging
his business, a copartnership was entered into. Mr. Jacques, the
partner, was Joseph's senior in age--a stout, robust man, with a high
forehead, light hair, always carried a cane, was jovial, and
good-natured in the extreme, fond of telling a good story, but sharp
in trade. I met him on one occasion, and there was something in the
turn of his eye--a restless, jerking, selfish expression--that made me
shrink from him. Joseph was proud of his acquisition, and, remembering
my caution, asked me what I thought of him. I well remember the reply
that leaped to my lips.
"'Didn't you say that he was religious?'
"'He professes to be,' said he.
"'I fear that it is only a cloak to his real character. If he is a
Christian, I do not know what grace has done for him; but if I do not
misread his face, he is constitutionally dishonest.'
"But every thing went on smoothly, and Joseph would say to me when we
met,--
"'My partner loves scandal a little too well--is apt to talk against
others; but one thing I'm sure of--he's honest.'
"One morning, some months after this conversation, I chanced to meet
Joseph as he was going to the office; he looked pale and careworn.
"'O,' said he, 'I have had the most singular exercise of mind. Some
folks are troubled with sleeplessness; but I never was until last
night. I went to bed feeling as well as usual, but could not sleep. I
was not unusually tired, had taken a light supper, and saw no reason
why I should be so wakeful. I turned and tossed in bed, and shut my
eyes; but all in vain. I even laid my finger on my wrist, that the
counting of my pulse might, by the monotony, induce slumber; when,
suddenly, before my mind's eye stood my partner; it seemed as real as
life; and with the appearance came little remarks of his, little acts
and words, which, as they ranged themselves along like the links in a
chain, revealed him to me, against my will, as a deceiver and a
dishonest man.'
"He was much excited, and hurried to town. Mr. Jacques, as I
afterwards learned, was there before him, and met him with his bland
smile and well-turned compliments; and, strange as it may seem,
scarcely an hour had passed before he had charmed away every shadow of
suspicion. Matters now went on as before for a few weeks, when Joseph
had another sleepless night, and a more convincing unfolding of his
partner's real character; and the next night, after the office had
been closed, he spent in examining the books of the concern, and
detected a number of artfully-contrived fraudulent entries in the
handwriting of his partner, for, according to agreement, the latter
kept the accounts. Further revelations showed that he had been
gradually abstracting the stock. As soon as Mr. Jacques saw that he
was being found out, his gentleness and politeness were all gone, and
he raged like a beast of prey. Joseph attached his furniture at his
dwelling, but found it had all been made over to his son--a young
lawyer in the city; meanwhile the dishonest man had fled with his
ill-gotten gains, leaving the business in a frightfully complicated
state. The result was, as is often the case when a man begins to go
down in his affairs, although he may be ever so deserving and
innocent, there are enough to give him a push. It was so with him. In
vain did Joseph, by his books, show that he was doing well up to the
cruel embezzlements, and that if he was dealt leniently with, he could
recover his standing, and go on as prosperously as before; his
creditors, one after another, ferociously pounced upon him; he got
through one trouble only to meet another, until utter failure came.
The effect on Joseph was lamentable in the extreme. He sat by his fire
at home, day after day, for weeks, with his head buried in his hands,
in utter despair. Had some kind friend stepped forward and started him
anew, what a deed of mercy it would have been! But the men whom he
accommodated with money, when prosperous, turned their backs upon him
now.
"Recovering somewhat from the shock, he sought again and again for
employment; but his short-sighted and relentless creditors would
factorize his earnings, and thus oblige him to leave."
"Factorize!" asked Tom, interrupting her; "what is that?"
"Why," said the mother, "if a man owes another, the creditor attaches
his wages, and when the man presents his bill to his employer, he
finds that he cannot pay him anything. In vain he went to distant
places to earn a subsistence. Shrewd lawyers were put upon his track;
he was ferretted out, until, discouraged, he came to me one day, and
said,--
"'Mary, the hounds are after me from morning till night. They dog my
steps wherever I go, and give me no chance to retrieve my fortunes. I
am going to the west; and it isn't right to hold you to your
engagement any longer, for I can never, on my part, fulfil it. The
odds are against me here, and, what is worse, I've lost my courage and
hope; I have come to bid you good by.'
"'If you do not care for me any longer,' I said, 'say so. You've
struggled hard, and have merited a better result; it isn't your fault
that you have failed. God forbid that I should break my promise. If
you must go west, you are not going alone. I shall go with you, and
shall this very night tell my parents all about my engagement, and get
their consent to our marriage.'
"He shook his head. But feeling that it had been cowardly in me not to
have mentioned the subject before, whatever the result might have
been, in a few words I frankly, and with a composure that surprised
myself, told them the whole story. My father was a quick-tempered,
imperious man, and my mother lived only for this world: the result
you can easily imagine. But I felt that my duty was plain; and we were
quietly married. Having a little money of my own, joining it with what
your father had by him, we started towards the setting sun. But what
was that?" said Mrs. Jones, stopping in her recital, as a strange
sound fell upon her ear.
It was a long, fiendish yell, swelling upon the still night air over
the unbroken solitudes of the prairie; it was most appalling. Tom and
his mother hastened to the window; they saw a noble buck, his antlers
held aloft, flying with his utmost speed, pursued by two dark-looking
objects, that gained rapidly on him.
"It's the gray wolf," said Tom, "chasing a deer. How I wish I had a
rifle! I could bring one of them down easy as not,"--as they dashed
by, with short, quick yells, following their prey into the woods that
skirted the river.
"I hope the poor creature will escape," said Mrs. Jones, with a sigh;
and she resumed her narrative. "I was not long in seeing, on our
journey out, that a dreadful change had been wrought in your father by
his business troubles. It had given him an unconquerable disgust of
society, which he has not yet outgrown, making him uneasy and restless
wherever he has been; and this, Tom, is the secret of his wandering
life; and this is why I never feel that I can complain at any of the
changes in our hard, unsettled career as a family."
Tom, who had listened absorbed to this before unread chapter in the
family history, was deeply moved, and, while the tears filled his
eyes, asked, in tremulous tones,--
"Do you think father'll ever get over it, mother?"
"Tom," replied she, "your father has a true heart and a good mind, and
I believe that, in some way, good will yet come out of this
long-continued trial. He's taken a great liking to the missionary; and
Mr. Payson seems to understand him better than most, and I am praying
that the acquaintance may lead to something brighter for him; and,
Tom," she added, "I have told you this that you may see a new reason
for not being in haste to leave your father and mother. There is one
passage in the Bible I often think of, which directs us to both hope
and quietly wait for the salvation of God. Your father's mistake, when
he went into business, was, that he was in too great haste to
accomplish his own will. This is apt to be the error of the young.
They are sanguine of success, and they rush into the battle of life
without waiting to put on the armor of faith. What the young want in
setting out, Tom, is a Guide and a Helper, who cannot err, and will
not forsake them. An old man in our town used to say, 'Never try to
kick open the door of Providence.' I want you, Tom, to wait patiently
till Providence opens the door for you. Then you need not be afraid to
go forward."