Bolton Sarah Knowles
A Country Idyl and Other Stories
THE BLACK AND TAN
MRS. HENSON sat with her three children at their frugal supper. The house was neat, but very plain, and the dress of the children showed that they were only a trifle above actual want.
James, a boy of ten, sold newspapers and earned a little. Helen, between eight and nine, could help about the house when her mother was absent cleaning or washing, and Mary, seven, was the baby of the household, and the one for whom all the others sacrificed.
“Did you earn much this week, James?” said the mother, who had been a widow for several years. “You know I have been sick, and we can’t meet the rent this month, and we didn’t last month. I don’t know what we shall do,” said Mrs. Henson, in a tone of confidence with James, although she did not expect that her three small children could help her solve the problem. She knew that work alone would solve it, and this she was not always able to obtain, and had been too ill to labor even if the work were before her.
“I tried hard,” said the brown-eyed, slender boy, “but I didn’t sell as many papers as I do sometimes. I ran just as fast, but somehow I didn’t get so many customers, and there weren’t so many extras. You know a lady once in a while slips a nickel into your hand for a paper and won’t wait for change, and that helps a fellow along. But I didn’t have much of that last week. I didn’t spend anything for myself, either.”
“No, you wouldn’t do that. We all save for each other since father died. We shall get over these hard places when you are a little older.”
“Couldn’t you borrow of the lady on the hill who gave me the shoes?” said Helen. “She seems very nice, and she is rich.”
“She has been good to us,” said the mother, “but I hate to bother her. One can wear out generous people by too constant asking for aid.”
“I’ll tell you what to do, mamma,” said little Mary; “we’ll sell the black and tan to the big gentleman who always speaks to me so kind.”
“Oh, no!” said all the other voices together. “Blackie was given to you, and you have played with her, and we couldn’t spare her. She eats very little, and you love her very much. She is the life of the house, she is so frolicsome.”
“But he would pay money for her, and I could spare her if I had to. You said, mamma, we might be turned out of the house, and then what would Blackie do for a home? I think she would be happy in a big house, and we would give the man the basket she sleeps in, so she would be contented and remember us, too.”
“Well, who would take her to the gentleman?” said Mrs. Henson. “I fear he would think it foolish.”
“I will take her,” said the child.
In the afternoon Mary wended her way to the mansion, with Blackie and the basket, and asked for the Hon. Mr. Colebrook. That gentleman rarely had time to see adults, but he would not refuse a child.
When he entered the room he found little Mary Henson with her basket and her dog, her eyes very red with weeping, and the dog whining as though she had heard the whole plan of separation from those she loved in the poor home.
“I’ve brought you my Blackie, sir, to sell her to you. Mamma needs money for rent, and as you are rich I thought you would like to buy her. She will love you very much, and kiss your face. She always sleeps with me, and perhaps she would sleep with you.”
“And can you spare her?” said the millionaire. “I fear she would cry for her former home. It seems to me that you have been crying.”
“Oh, yes, I did cry some when I kissed her the last time, and mamma and Helen and James all cried, because, you see, Mr. Colebrook, she is all we have to love!”
“Well, what do you ask for her?”
“I don’t know. Mamma owes ten dollars for rent for the two months. I think, maybe, if you would pay that for her you could pay half now, and the landlady might wait for the other half, because she would know you would surely pay. I thought of selling Blackie to her, but Blackie needs a very nice home. Mme. Wainwright gave her to me, so you see Blackie comes from a good family, sir, and puts up with our poor home because we all love her so.”
“Well, I will take her,” said Mr. Colebrook, “and if she cries I will send for you to comfort her.”
All this time Blackie was laying her head close to the child, as much as to say: “We will not be separated.” When the millionaire attempted to take her she growled, and then looked plaintively toward her little mistress.
“He’ll be very good to you, Blackie,” said the child, who could not stop her tears. She wanted to sell the dog, and yet if she could only have the money and Blackie too! But that was impossible.
“I have no little girl to pet the dog,” said the great man, “and I fear she will be lonely. You must come and see her,” and he put the ten dollars into the child’s hand, bade her good afternoon, and closed the door on a very sad little heart. Blackie crouched down in her basket as though the fine house were of no importance, and whined piteously for the little girl who had left her.
Mary sobbed all the way home, but she clasped the ten dollars tightly, and was thankful that they could all have a house over their heads for a little longer.
“I’ve brought the ten dollars, mamma,” said the child, and she laid it in her mother’s lap and stole away to weep alone over her sorrow.
Mrs. Henson was very sad over the matter. If she could earn but ten extra dollars! But she could not. The dog was probably not worth over a quarter of that sum, and the rich man had bought her just to help the family. Well, Blackie would have a home of luxury, and that was a comfort.
Hon. Mr. Colebrook had become interested in the child, and called at the little home a few days later to see how the widow and her family were prepared to meet the coming cold weather.
He asked for Mary. She was not well, the mother said, and had no appetite. “I suppose she misses Blackie,” said Mrs. Henson, “though she never speaks of her.”
“And the dog misses her, too, for she will neither eat nor play,” said Mr. Colebrook. “I hope she will be better soon, for she is a winsome little creature. We are already fond of her.”
“We are glad to have her in so good a home,” said Mrs. Henson.
“How do matters look for the winter?” said the man of means. “Is the rent provided for, and the coal in the cellar?”
“I think we can get along now, since you kindly paid the rent for two months. I am in better health, and James seems to be selling more papers.”
When Mr. Colebrook had gone Mary stole out to ask about Blackie. She could not go to see the dog, – that would give pain to two, – but she was eager to hear about her mute little playmate.
“Mr. Colebrook says Blackie will not eat much and misses you greatly,” said Mrs. Henson. A smile crept over the child’s face as she said: “I thought Blackie really loved me. I would go to see her if she wouldn’t feel bad when I came away, and I mustn’t make her heart ache.”
“Oh, I think she’ll forget about us all soon, and enjoy her new home very much!” said Helen.
“I think not,” said Mary. “Blackie never forgets. She never did.”
It was late in the autumn, and Mrs. Henson was too busy with work to think much more about a dog. James was up early and home late, and Helen’s little hands were more than filled with work too hard for a child.
Christmas was near at hand, and the rich and the poor were planning according to their means for a merry time. Mrs. Henson’s presents must necessarily be small, and along the line of the absolutely necessary. James must have boots, Helen a simple dress, and Mary some mittens, with a bag of parched corn, a little candy, and a few nuts.
Mr. Colebrook did not forget the widow’s family. He sent coal, a barrel of flour, some money for rent, and some articles of clothing for the children. There was one quite large package for Mary. What was in it nobody could imagine, though Mrs. Henson was in the secret. Finally a low whining was heard; the box was hastily opened, and out sprang Blackie into Mary’s lap, and kissed her over and over again. The child cried, and Blackie nestled her face against Mary’s neck and cried also. She was home again as a Christmas present, and she liked the plain home better than the grand one.
“Did you really want to come back, Blackie,” said Mary, “and sleep with me again, and not be rich and great any more?” and Blackie wagged her tail and whined approvingly, as though it were the happiest Christmas of her life.
THE CHRISTIAN HUNTER
“THIS IS Mr. Graham, a leader in our church work,” said Miss Ward, as she introduced the fine-looking young man to her friend Miss Warburton.
“Oh, yes!” said the person addressed. “I remember seeing you at the lakes last summer. What a pleasant company we had at the hotel!”
“Yes, but I went especially for the shooting. Such fine game up there! Birds of many kinds, ducks, and now and then a deer. I went just for sport, though I didn’t care much about the things after they were shot. We went fishing one day, and the fish were so small we let a quantity die in the bottom of the boat rather than carry them home. We had quite an excitement one day when we found we had killed a robin and her youngsters were in a nest close by with open mouths.”
“What did you do with the little birds?” said Miss Warburton.
“Oh, they had to starve, of course!”
“And did you bring home the mother bird?”
“No, she was pretty badly hurt, and couldn’t live long. We had so many ducks and other things that we couldn’t carry all of them.”
“Don’t you feel badly to leave a wounded robin or duck to die slowly?”
“Oh, we men haven’t women’s hearts, Miss Warburton, or we shouldn’t shoot at all, I fear!”
“I never could see how a Christian man could find pleasure in giving pain. I know some of our professing Christians have hunted buffaloes on the American plains, and left them to die, just for the sport of killing, as some of the English hunters do in South Africa. And I suppose some who hunt foxes, and find pleasure in seeing dogs catch and tear them to pieces, profess Christianity.”
“Well, you ladies are eager to ride fast and get the brush.”
“I should not be. I would not take the tail of the fox after the poor thing had been frightened nearly to death before capture. We think bull-fights in Spain, where animals are killed for sport, brutal and wicked; but we seem to think that where foxes are killed for sport it is only a pleasant and exhilarating pastime. Does the size of the animal make the difference?”
“I think, Miss Warburton, you would deprive us of all pleasure. Nothing is more bracing than the eager run with the dogs over fields and fences, and the rivalry in reaching the game first is very exciting.”
“And the next day or the next week you come back and lead a prayer meeting, and urge us to be gentle and tender, and trust in Him who lets not even a sparrow fall to the ground without his notice! I think Cowper was right when he said —
“‘I would not enter on my list of friends
(Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility), the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.’”
“But, Miss Warburton, you must remember that animals are killed for food for you and me, and for others.”
“That should be done as humanely as possible, Mr. Graham. Our stock-yards and places for killing animals should all be under the most careful city or State supervision. We can easily brutalize people. At first, most men and women shrink from inflicting pain or shedding blood, but even those high in church or State can become callous to cruelty.”
“I fear you wouldn’t approve of letting ministers and presidents have a little fun from shooting.”
“No, not if that ‘fun’ took even birds away from their young, and helpless creatures were shot for the mere pleasure of shooting. The Princess of Wales, thanks to her womanly heart, has helped to put an end to pigeon-shooting for sport, and balls are found to answer the purpose.”
“This is getting personal. I fear you will not enjoy having me lead our meetings and asking sinners to become converted.”
“You are quite right, Mr. Graham. Some persons may not feel as I do, but for myself it greatly lessens the force of your words or prayers. I have spoken plainly because I believe your killing for sport has a bad influence over others. To me it does not seem consistent with your profession of kindness and love to all of God’s creatures. I hope you are not offended.”
“Oh, no, far from it! You have set me thinking. It has been thoughtlessness on my part, for as a leader in Christian things I want to do what is right.”
LOVE’S CHRISTMAS GIFT
“I THINK George Thomas is fond of Edith, for he comes to the house often, and always gives her a delicate deference which shows his appreciation of woman.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Sinclair in reply to his wife, “Thomas is a good fellow, a hard worker, economical, and worthy of any girl, though of course he isn’t rich. That doesn’t matter, however, for I have enough for Edith. I’ve often wondered why he didn’t offer himself.”
“I can’t imagine,” replied his wife, “except that he does not earn enough to support Edith in the way she has been accustomed to live. Young men are unduly sensitive about that, when often the young woman would value a true affection more than a fine house and surroundings. I am sure Edith is fond of him, for although she says nothing her face and manner show it.”
“I don’t see how we can help matters, wife. Probably time will settle it.”
But time did not settle it, for Edith Sinclair, for some unexplained reason, was growing pale and listless. Something was wearing her nerves, and at last she was really ill. Naturally frail, and loving one to whom she could not make known her feelings, the repression, uncertainty, and perhaps surprise that no word was spoken finally culminated in her illness.
A physician was called, a woman who had long been the friend of the family; she divined some trouble that was not apparent to the world. One morning when she came, taking Edith’s hand she said, “Dear, I think something is worrying you. Would you mind telling me so that I can help you, perhaps?”
“There is nothing to be done, doctor,” said the girl sadly, as tears came into her large, dark eyes. “I have everything in this beautiful home, but I don’t care for it.”
“But what would make you happy – to go away for a time and have change of air and scenery?”
“No, I would rather stay here. I am too tired to go away.”
“Edith, I must tell you what I think is the truth. You love Mr. Thomas, and are unwilling that he or anybody should know it.”
“I admire him very much,” said the girl slowly.
“But why have you never let him see that you liked him?”
“I couldn’t do that, doctor. He knows that we are good friends.”
“Has he ever spoken of marriage?”
“No.”
“Would you marry him if he asked you?”
“If he loved me – never without.”
“What if I should find out his feelings for you?”
“Oh, not for the world, doctor! Let that come of his own free will if at all.”
“But you are ill, child, and you are letting the matter prey upon your strength and health. Mr. Thomas is a noble young man, and I believe is fond of you.”
“We must wait, doctor. I shall be better soon.”
Mr. Thomas called a few days later, but Edith was too ill to see him, and he left his regrets with her parents. He went home sadly to think of his future. He loved Edith, he was happy in her refined society, but his salary was not large, and he could not support her as he desired. She would tire of the home he could give her, and be unhappy, he thought. He called again, but as before was unable to see Edith.
He finally resolved to talk with her parents and tell them of his love for her, and why he had waited until he was better able to provide for her; but she was an only child, and he hesitated to commit himself. Others liked her, and he loved her too well to take her into privation. Besides, the parents, while they liked him, might not be at all willing to give him their daughter. He would talk with her physician, and she, a woman, would know whether Edith were really interested in him.
He called upon Dr. Mary Armstrong as soon as possible.
“I have come to ask about my friend, Miss Sinclair,” he said, as he sat in the physician’s parlor. “Is she better?”
“No, she does not mend at all. There seems to be some weight upon her heart or life that is breaking her down.”
The blood came to the young man’s face, but how could he know that “the weight” upon her heart meant love for him! Perhaps he was too presuming. After an awkward silence he said, “Doctor, I must confide in you. I love Miss Sinclair, but I have never had the means to marry her. I have had a mother and sister to make a home for, and I could not ask another to share my poverty. I do not know that Edith returns my affection, though we have had a delightful friendship together.”
“She loves you, I feel sure,” said her doctor, “and I think your mistake has been that you and she have not had an understanding sooner. Edith is a sensitive, lovely girl, delicately reared, and almost too careful of the conventionalities of life, or she would have shown her love for you.”
“Do you think the time has come to tell her that I love her?”
“Perhaps not just yet. I will tell her of our conversation and make her ready for the meeting.”
Young Thomas went away with a lighter heart than he had had for months. At last Edith would know all and wait for him, if she loved him.
Dr. Armstrong came every day to the Sinclair home, but the sick girl grew no better. Soon after this talk with Mr. Thomas the doctor said to Edith, “I have had a visit from your friend, and, just as I expected, he loves you, but has never asked your hand in marriage because he has so many cares at home and a small salary.”
The white face grew eager and flushed with color. “I told him,” Dr. Armstrong continued, “that he had made a mistake in not having an understanding with you, and then both could wait for marriage if circumstances made such waiting wise. Do you want to see him, Edith?”
“Yes, as soon as I am a little stronger. I feel too weak to-day.”
Several days passed, and strength did not return rapidly, but a new peace had come into Edith’s life, for she loved and was beloved, and then there was a happy meeting of the two lovers, but a quiet one of few words and promises.
Weeks and months went by, during which time hope and love worked the same miracle that has been wrought thousands of times since the world began.
Edith walked in the sunshine of a new day and a new life of restored health and vigor. The autumn leaves took on their color, and red showed itself again in the young girl’s cheeks.
When Christmas day came, that precious day of giving and receiving, George Thomas and Edith Sinclair gave themselves to each other for life.
AN UNFORTUNATE SAIL
“THE SUNSET is so lovely we might take a row on the ocean,” said Mr. Farneaux to the young lady who was walking beside him.
“I don’t quite like to go on Sunday evening,” said the girl. “But we wouldn’t stay long, would we?”
“Oh, no, only till the sun went down! And we have just come from church, so where’s the harm?”
So a little rowboat was engaged for an hour, and two happy persons pushed off the Jersey Island coast. They chatted merrily as the red and yellow of the clouds played on the waters, and let the boat half drift toward the sunset.
Suddenly the young man dropped one of the oars. A shade of fear passed over Louise Arnot’s face.
“Can you reach it?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh, yes, don’t fear!” and he took the other oar and guided the boat toward the missing paddle.
The breeze was blowing off the land, and increasing. The boat was not easily managed with one oar, and the cheery face of young Farneaux grew a little troubled as the oar drifted faster than the boat.
Anxiety does not give a steady hand, and before he knew it the other oar had slipped from his grasp.
Miss Arnot’s face grew white. “What shall we do? We are drifting out to sea. Would they see us if we were to signal to the shore? Ours is the only boat out. Oh! why did we start at all?”
“Accidents will happen. I must jump for the oars. I am a good swimmer. Don’t get frightened and let the boat tip and fill with water. I’ll soon be back.”
“But you may be drowned,” said the frightened girl. “I wish I could swim, and so help you.”
“No, no! Keep the boat steady as I jump, and I’ll have them in hand soon. I must throw off this coat, so I can swim.” He rose, put his hand on the side, and gave a leap into the ocean.
Her heart sank within her as he went, but there was nothing else possible to be done.
The boat, lightened of its freight, glided on further and further from shore. She wished she were heavier to hold it down. She wished she could reach one oar while he obtained the other, as both had now floated far apart. She watched him breathlessly as he swam away. Impeded somewhat by his clothes, he yet swam hastily and caught one oar, holding it up to Louise’s delighted eyes.
He did not see that the boat was drifting fast away from him. But he must have the other oar. Both persons were helpless without it, so he redoubled his efforts. He felt the breeze stiffening. What if he could not reach the oar? What if he could not reach the boat with its fair owner? What if Louise were to drift out to sea and be drowned, and her death be laid at his door? No, that should not be; and he put his whole strength against the waves. He gained in speed, and soon held the coveted oar in his grasp.
He looked toward the skiff. Alas! it was smaller to his sight and almost flying before the wind. He started with the oars, but he felt himself weakening. He must throw them away if he would overtake the boat, and then it would be certain death to both. The moments were agonizing. Even if he did reach Louise, he could not swim with her to the shore. If he reached the bank himself, he could get friends to put out and save her.
Thus reasoning, he sorrowfully dropped the oars and swam for life. The wind had now become violent and he was losing strength, but fear and despair nerve us to our uttermost; and finally, well nigh exhausted, he touched the shore. He was grateful, but almost overcome with sorrow as well as fatigue.
An excited crowd gathered around him.
“Where is the young lady?” they asked.
“We lost the oars, and she has drifted out to sea. God help her!”
“Coward!” shouted the crowd, who are usually blind and unreasoning.
“Nobody’ll believe such a yarn,” said one.
“We heard cries of ‘Murder!’ ’way back here on the shore,” shouted others, for there is always a class of persons who fill life with imaginary evils, as though it were not full enough of real ones.
“Arrest him – he deserves lynching,” said others, who knew and honored the young girl who was now missing.
“Man a boat and let us go and bring her back,” persisted young Farneaux, but the people laughed him to scorn. The case was plainly against him. He had taken her out and came back without her. He could swim and she could not, and he had basely deserted or murdered her. Besides, no rowboat could live in the fast-increasing waves. The officers hurried Farneaux off to jail, and he was indicted for homicide. In vain he protested; in vain he begged for clemency till the matter could be investigated. No, they would keep him close in hand, and if anything favorable developed they would give him the benefit.
Meantime what had become of the rowboat? It had drifted out into the deep ocean with its helpless occupant. The sun went down in a blaze of light, but the beautiful red and orange colors brought no joy to the eyes that peered in vain toward the horizon.
“Mr. Farneaux would not desert me,” she murmured. “Where can he be?” and she shaded her eyes with her hand, hoping to see the dim outline of a human being.
The stars came out slowly one by one, and gradually she knew that she was at the mercy of the great ocean and the God who rules over all. What might come she hardly dared to think. If a storm did not arise, she might float on and on. If the wind rose higher, more water would come into the boat, for it dipped already, and then death was certain.
She began to grow hungry and faint, but she must not give up. The hours grew toward midnight. There was no use to call aloud, for there was no soul to respond. The boat lurched, and was now half full of water. She could only pray and wait in agony.
One hour, two hours, three hours, four hours, five hours, which were as long as weeks, and then the sun streaked the eastern sky, and came up as grandly and joyously as though no hearts were breaking on land or sea.
“O Father in heaven, if some ship might only pass this way!” she moaned. So thirsty, but no water – so hungry, but no food – weak from loss of sleep, but with nerves strung to their utmost tension in the eager watching for a sail.
The whole forenoon passed. The mid-day sun grew hot and parching, and hope was finally giving way to despair. The whole of life had been reviewed, with thoughts of the dear ones waiting for her. The whole afternoon dragged on, the sun set, and the second weary night was to be lived through, or death might come before morning. Hunger and fear had blanched the face, and death even was beginning to lose its terrors from the numbness of the physical.
The night wore away, long and weary and desolate, and again morning dawned. Louise was sitting in the water of the boat, her limbs chilling, scarce knowing now if she were dead or alive. It was growing toward noon again; forty hours alone on the ocean, and death seemingly near at hand.
Something appeared in the distance. What! Did she see with her half-blind eyes the smoke of a coming vessel? Could it be, or was it only a mirage which had deceived again and again?
Yes, it actually came nearer; but would it see her, a mere speck on the ocean? She would gather strength enough to wave her handkerchief. Ah! it really was a vessel. God help her now in her one last gleam of hope! She had no strength to call, and even if she had probably such call would be useless. How earnestly she prayed, gaining new lease of life from this new hope!
“There’s something ahead,” said the man at the lookout. “Perhaps a body floating out at sea; no, it looks like a rowboat – perhaps a drifting lifeboat of some steamer.” And word was given to bring the ship alongside.
“Heaven help us – why, there’s a girl in the boat alone!”
“Lower a lifeboat, boys, and pull out for her.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” said the men, with eager hearts, for none have warmer than those who sail the ocean.
Louise’s heart bounded for joy when she saw the sturdy oarsmen come near. She would have fainted hours before, but now she wept with gratitude.
“It’s a long way ye are from home,” said one broad-shouldered sailor, as he lifted her in his arms like a child, and carried her into the lifeboat.
She was too weak to tell the story now, and wondering how it all happened the men carried back their precious freight to the ship.
The captain and officers showed her every kindness, offering her food when she could partake of it, and giving her every chance for rest and sleep.
“But we cannot take you home,” said the kind-hearted man. “We are on our way to America. It must be weeks before our return.”
“I am so thankful for all your kindness. I can wait anywhere, only so I send them word of my safety.”
The steamer arrived on the Atlantic coast May 19, just one month after the almost fatal boat-ride.
On the other side of the ocean there was sorrow and suspense. Louise’s home was desolate for its lost one. Public opinion was still bitter against the author of her misfortune. With innocent heart, but blanched face, Mr. Farneaux was brought from jail to the crowded court-room for his trial on the charge of homicide. Every day and hour he had hoped for some word that would show him to be guiltless, but days grew into weeks, and neither the boat nor Louise Arnot was found. He supposed her dead, but hoped some vessel would report the empty boat, or have picked up at sea the missing one.
The prosecution made out a strong case.
“If Mr. Farneaux’s story were true,” said the attorney, “that he was unable to reach her, and therefore saved his life by swimming ashore, her body would have been found on the beach long before this. She was last seen in his company. It was an easy matter to sink the oars and then swim to shore after the deed was done. Thirty days have gone by, long enough for any vessel to have picked her up and restored her to her heart-broken family, if she were alive.”
And then for hours the enormity of the deed, the coaxing her to go upon the ocean that Sabbath evening, the cold-bloodedness of the whole affair, were gone over by able lawyers.
Mr. Farneaux’s face grew white, and his body trembled at the accusations. And then he told in straightforward language the story of his losing the oars, of the increasing wind so that he could scarcely gain the shore, of the impossibility of reaching her with his heavy oars in hands, and of the certainty of death for both if he attempted it.
“He talks like an innocent fellow,” said one.
“Yes, I have known him for years, and he’s a well-brought-up young man, but I’ve known well-brought-up people turn out to be fiends,” said another.
“Not often if they have Christian parents,” said a third. “That young man has a good mother, and it’s rare that the son of such a mother goes wrong. I believe in the man. I’d be willing to wager a good deal that his story is true.”
Several witnesses testified as to good character, but one fact was patent to all, that Louise Arnot went out with him and he came back alone, excited, anxious, and seemingly greatly disturbed. He could prove nothing, and circumstances were against him.
Away in America the sick girl, now coming to her usual health by care, was writing a cable message the hour the ship arrived. “How glad they will be! Poor Mr. Farneaux will be so anxious. He swam for the boat, I know, just as long as he could.”
So the words were sent: “Louise Arnot picked up at sea in open boat. Arrived in New York May 19. Well.”
