Bolton Sarah Knowles
A Country Idyl and Other Stories
A courier came to the crowded court-room and delivered the message. A hush fell upon the assembly, and then a cheer broke out, and tears rolled down the cheeks of the man accused of murder. The proceedings were stayed, and the townspeople waited eagerly for the coming of Miss Arnot, that she might tell the story of why she was left alone through those terrible forty hours.
The captain had taken Miss Arnot to his home till she should fully recover and be able to make the return voyage. One day as she was reading the daily paper her eye fell upon the words, “Supposed murder at sea,” and where was detailed the arrest of Mr. Farneaux and his unexpected deliverance by her cable.
“What if I had not been rescued,” she said, “and had died in the boat! Who could have saved my poor, dear friend then?” And anew she thanked God for her miraculous deliverance, and for saving the life of her friend.
A few weeks later Miss Arnot was home in her beloved island, her friends gathering about her. All were eager for her side of the story. “Mr. Farneaux has told the truth,” she said, “and I am more thankful for his life even than for my own. What would have been my agony if he had suffered death for me!”
Time will tell what the sequel will be! Whatever life has before them, neither will forget the awful experience of being on the sea alone, drifting helplessly, or on trial for murder with no power to prove one’s innocence. And each is thankful for that wonderful deliverance.
A NEW KIND OF WEDDING
“I DO NOT want the usual kind of wedding,” said the pretty daughter of Jared Strong, the millionaire of Huntsville. “I would rather use the money spent for flowers and supper in a way that pleases me better.”
“And what would please you?” said the gracious man, who loved his daughter with an especial fondness now that her mother was dead. “You are a queer girl.”
“I will spend the money wisely, if I may have it.”
“But what will the young man you are to marry think of a simple and private wedding, and what will the people in society think, who have entertained you?”
“They know already that I care little for parties or clubs. Going into one of the ‘Settlements’ and seeing how the poor live cured me of extravagance. Why, the money spent for one grand party would make one hundred poor people comfortable for a year!”
“Well, the suppers and making the fine silks give employment to people,” said Mr. Strong.
“But you forget, father, how much further the money would go if spent otherwise. A florist receives one thousand dollars for flowers. His family and a few workmen are benefited, but that thousand dollars would keep scores of families from starving or cold, if properly used. Many, unable to obtain work, – and we know from statistics that quite a large per cent. cannot possibly get it, because there is not work enough for all, – would be cheered and kept from discouragement if rent could be paid for a time, or clothes furnished, or coal given, or comforts provided in sickness.”
“Do as you wish, my child. You shall have the money to spend as you like. I fear, however, that the world will call you peculiar. You know there has always been poverty and always will be.”
“But we who are rich have duties to those who are not so fortunate. I learned at the ‘Settlement’ how the luxuries of the rich make the poor feel discouraged and unhappy. They work, and they see idlers all about them who are haughty when they should be kind and courteous. The poor see many of the rich waste their time in hunting or useless pleasure. They see people living for self, with no thought of the homeless or over-worked. They see clothes thrown away or hoarded, when they might be of use to somebody.”
“What does my dear Louise wish for her wedding day? No jewels and laces and rejoicing over the happy event?”
“Well, let us see how much I can save to use as I like. I prefer to be married quietly in our own home, with only a few friends together. I do not want many outside presents, for people give more than they can afford generally, and because they feel that social customs demand it. The flowers, if the church and house were elaborately trimmed, would cost a thousand dollars, the supper for a large company another thousand, the elegant wardrobe, which I do not wish, another thousand. Now I would rather have this to spend for myself.”
“You shall have it, daughter, and we will see how you will spend it. You will be the talk of Huntsville.”
Louise Strong, college educated, was about to marry a young man who was graduated from the same class as herself. He had wealth and did not need her fortune; besides, he loved her well enough to let her decide what would make her happiest.
Soon after leaving college she entered one of the college “Settlements,” partly because some of her friends were trying the experiment, and partly because she had an interest in those less fortunate than herself. She found it true, indeed, that “one-half the world does not know how the other half lives.”
While one part dressed in purple and fine linen and fared sumptuously every day, another had scarcely enough to eat or to wear, slept on poor beds if any, with insufficient bedding to keep them from the cold, in tumble-down tenement houses, with high rents and no conveniences. With pinched faces and oftentimes bitter hearts they looked on the showy equipages, elegant mansions, and extravagant dresses of many of the rich.
True, there were some who, either because of their refined tastes or Christian principles, made little display, and gave of their surplus to bless humanity, but the majority lived for self and let the rest of the world struggle as it might. They would not take on responsibility, and in no wise regarded themselves as holding their property in trust for the betterment of the world. They had made their money and they would spend it as they chose. To God or man they did not feel responsible. Only when death came did they begin to ask if life had been well spent.
Louise Strong had gone into poor homes and cared for sick children; she had given sympathy and money; she had read to weary and lonely persons; she had encouraged the despondent, tried to find situations for those out of work, helped to make the “Settlement” a social home and place of elevation and rest, and learned, best of all, that life is worse than useless unless lived for the sake of others.
And now what should she do with the three thousand dollars that were to be spent for the wedding if she did not use them in charity? There were so many ways to spend it that one could scarcely select. The libraries needed more books; some of the children in the Sunday School of her church needed proper clothing; the people in jails ought to have books and papers; the poor who hesitated to ask charity because it was so often grudgingly given at the public institutions, and often to the unworthy, needed coal and food and clothes; many boys and girls longed for a college education and were helpless in getting it; the colored people in the South needed education and to be taught industries; the temperance cause needed money and workers. How should she use her three thousand dollars?
One of the friends she had made at the “Settlement,” Alice Jameson, had often said she wished she could visit among the poor and be their friend, but she had no means. Louise knew that personal contact with human beings is the best way to improve them. She went to see her friend Alice.
“I have a proposition to make,” she said to Alice. “I can have the money for my wedding to use as I please. How would you like to be my missionary? I to pay you a salary, and you to visit in your own field and tell me all the needy and helpless, so that you and I can find a way to brighten their lives.”
“I should be more delighted than you can imagine,” said Alice. “Call me the ‘Louise Missionary.’ And now, as the cold weather is coming, I think you will want to provide me with one or two hundred pairs of mittens and warm stockings, and perhaps you will like to use some of the money in Christmas gifts for those who rarely have presents.”
“Capital,” said Louise. “And I have another suggestion. I love animals so much, dogs and horses especially, that I want children taught to be kind to them. Let us put two hundred copies of ‘Our Dumb Animals,’ each fifty cents a year, into as many homes, for nobody can read that paper without being kinder all his life.”
Louise Strong was married quietly to one of the noblest men of the city, and Alice Jameson began her labor of love. After one year of work, and gifts supplied by Louise, of course a generous father and husband would not see the enterprise abandoned. The incidents of the next few years, told by Alice to Louise, the dying cared for, children saved and placed in good homes, men helped and women cheered, would fill a volume. Louise, thus kept in touch with the world’s sorrow, did not forget and become selfish. How many lives were blessed with that wedding money!
LOST HIS PLACE
“WE ARE sorry to let you go, James, but business is dull and we must cut down expenses.”
The speaker was the head of a hardware store, a man not unkind in nature, but who looked at business purely as a money-making matter. Men were not to be carried over a long winter if there was no need for their help.
James Leonard’s eyes fell on the paper where he was writing with a sadder expression than before, but he said nothing. Both of his parents were dead. He was not strong in body, and none too well fitted to cope with the obstacles one meets in the daily struggle for existence. He would, of course, look for work, but that it was not easy to find he had proved when attempting to get a situation several months before. He had very little money saved for his board, for wages had been small. He would keep his inexpensive room, eat but two meals a day, if need be, and hoped his money would last till a place could be found.
The next morning he started out, not over-courageous, but determined to be persevering. From store to store, from office to office, he asked for work, and received the same old reply – “We are discharging men, rather than hiring new ones.” Days went by and grew into weeks. He came home hungry, cold, and tired. There was nobody to confer with or to cheer him. He could not get bookkeeping – that was hopeless. He would take any kind of work that could be obtained, for his money was growing perilously scant.
Finally, despite his delicate appearance, a man hired him at small wages at heavy outdoor work. As might have been expected, his hands were soon blistered, insufficient food left him with little strength, and he broke down from the labor.
The woman at whose house James had his room cared for him as best she could, but she also was poor and could not long provide for him without remuneration. He must have money for food and fuel. He could not go to the poorhouse, he could not go to a hospital while half-way able to work, and he had no relatives upon whom he could depend.
Resolutions to do right are sometimes broken when everything seems against a person. James was cold and needed an overcoat. Possibly he could have begged one; possibly not, for the world is not over-generous with overcoats. He saw one in the hall of a house which he was passing; the night was bitter cold – he opened the unfastened door, stole the coat, and hurried away.
He was restless that night as he attempted to sleep. He was cold, and in his dreams put on an overcoat that did not fit him, and he felt ill at ease. As he wore it next day, though it was black, he thought everybody looked at it. The owner might recognize it by the cut of the collar or the sleeves. He was not happy, but he was warm, and by and by, as he walked, he forgot that the coat was not really his own and paid for with his own money.
He could find nothing to do in the city. He could go out into the suburbs; perhaps in the homes of wealth they would feel neither the hard times nor the need for retrenchment in winter. He walked all day, and slept in a barn at night. The next day he went from house to house, and there was no more success than before.
As night came on he passed a beautiful home back from the street, where the windows were lighted and all seemed inviting and happy. He looked in at the window. The daughter of the house sat reading in the cosey library, and a servant was preparing supper in the kitchen.
He walked away, and then went back. There must be a good deal of food in so cheerful a home, and he needed some. He had asked for food before this, and sometimes a kind lady gave him hot coffee with his bread and butter, but oftener the servants refused.
He would wait till later, and then, unperceived, he would enter the pantry and take what he needed for the night and the day following. It was cold remaining outside, and the hours to wait seemed very long, but then he was used to waiting for everything. There was little else for him to do nowadays.
The lights were turned out early, for there had been a party at the house the previous night. He lifted the slightly fastened kitchen window, entered the pantry, and ate what food he needed, filling his pockets for the next day’s use.
He was going away when something bright gleamed before him. It was a basket of silver ready to be put into the safe, but carelessly left for the morrow. That, if sold, would give him money enough to last the winter through.
He had to think and act quickly. Before he had time to argue with himself the right or the wrong of it he had gathered all and put it into a satchel close at hand. The satchel was heavy, but he hurried away, secreting some of it, after he left the house, near or partly under a stone wall.
He feared somebody on the street would hear the silver rattle, or somebody in the street-car would hit his foot against it. Every eye seemed upon the satchel, and he was glad to get out of the car and take it to a pawn-shop. As usual, the pawn-broker beat him down in the price of the silver. He knew the young man’s necessities and offered him not over a fifth of its value. Young Leonard demurred, but finally took the money and hurried away.
Again he looked for work and found some for a day or two. He used his money carefully, and when it was gone went stealthily to the hidden place by the wall, dug up the silver, and took it to the pawn-broker. The police had an agreement with the dealer in stolen goods, and when Leonard came again to sell he was arrested, tried, and sentenced to prison.
The prison years, as those know who have tried them, went by painfully, with much of depression, much of good resolutions, much of hopelessness, much of weariness and mortification. When James Leonard was released he determined to begin life anew. He had the same old struggle to obtain a place, but finally succeeded as the coachman for two ladies. He was faithful, honest, and greatly liked by them.
One day a policeman recognized him. “Hello, James,” he said, “glad to see you in a good home. How did they happen to take you? Did they know you had been in prison?”
“Oh, no, and I wouldn’t have them for the world! They wouldn’t trust me, and would turn me off.”
“But they’ll find it out, I fear. Better be straight, I think. I would tell all and take my chances. If they hear it from outside you’ll be sure to lose your place.”
The next persons to recognize James were two servants, who, eager to be the bearer of news, told the cook who worked in the same house with James. To her a prison seemed an awful thing, and she told the ladies. They in turn told James they feared to trust a man who had stolen, and discharged him. They did not stop to ask themselves where the man would go for a home if they turned him away.
The old result happened. James searched for a situation, did not succeed, became discouraged, was without funds, stole, and again was sent to prison.
It is easy to say that James Leonard should have been strong enough to resist temptation. It is easy to say that all men and women can find places if they try long enough. At the same time, there is a responsibility resting upon the employer of labor when of necessity a man loses his position. To be our brother’s keeper is a vital point in a Christian community.
STRUCK IT RICH
“IT’S NO USE, Martha,” said Asa Scranton to his wife, as he came in from the street, tired and discouraged. “I’ve tried day after day for a job, and I’ve come to the conclusion that you and the children are better off without me than with me.”
“Oh, no, Asa!” responded the pale, thin woman, who was cooking dinner for some workingmen who boarded with her. “We shall see better days.”
But her words only were hopeful; the voice showed the weariness of one who was almost tired of the daily struggle.
“I don’t know how it is. I’ve worked hard from a boy. The grocery business didn’t pay, though I never left the store till the last man had gone home. Then the builder I worked for failed, and I lost several months’ wages. I guess I’m unlucky. We had quite a bit of money when we married, didn’t we, Martha? And I never supposed you would come to such hard work as this. My debts have hung like a millstone about my neck. They all say: ‘Asa Scranton, you’re a good fellow. You’ll pay principal and interest,’ and never think that a wife and children have need for food and clothing. Sometimes I’ve a mind to run away, and I would if I didn’t hate a coward. I can’t stand seeing you so pale and hopeless-like. I’d like to try the mines – maybe I’d strike it rich.”
“Oh, Asa, don’t think of such a thing! Only the few make any money in mines, and most are poor to the end of their days. Keep up courage. The children are getting larger, and better days are coming.”
“That’s the old story, Martha. Things are not very even in this world, but I don’t complain. If I had work I wouldn’t care how rich other folks are. But just think, Martha! If I strike a mine, as some people have, how good it would seem for you to have a silk dress, and Alice a hat with a feather, like the little girl on the hill. I always wanted John to go to college, seeing that his father couldn’t go. He maybe would be more lucky than I have been.”
While Martha Scranton mended by the open fireplace that evening, Asa sat still and thought – dreamed dreams, half wildly perhaps, of better days to come. They would never come in his present poverty. He would make one last venture. His family could live without him, for his wife for some time had earned all the money which they used.
He was not an indolent man, not a man who lacked ability, but, like thousands of others, he seemed to be in the current of failure, and was drifting down the stream to despair. He dreamed about the mines of Colorado that night as he slept, and during the many waking hours planned how he could reach the favored land. He could sell his silver watch, and pawn his overcoat, even if the coming winter pinched him with cold.
By morning he had decided. He ate breakfast quietly; patted little John upon the head, with a look of unusual pathos in his blue eyes; told Martha that he was going out to look for work; obtained what little money he could; hurried down the street to the station, wiping, with the back of his hand, the tears from his cheeks as he looked only once toward his home; and took the train for the mines.
For days he ate little, hoarding every cent to keep him from starvation till he should find work. At Granite Camp, on the side of the mountain, all was bustle and confusion. The varied machinery, the eager miners, the enthusiasm, the warm-hearted familiarity, – all excited Asa. He was ready for any kind of work, and soon found it. Mining was hard, – no work is easy, – but he would earn and save, and later prospect for himself, get hold of claims, and “strike it rich.”
Weeks and months passed. No letter came from Martha, for she did not know where Asa had gone. She wept when she found that she was left alone – wept with that half-deadened sense of loss which persons feel who have had the cheer of life taken out of them by the blows of circumstance.
Asa had been kind to her and the children, but in these days she had little time to think of love or loss, for work was never-ending, and rent and fuel were certainties. So she toiled on, and guessed that he had gone to seek his fortune in the mines, and clothed the children as well as she could, and sewed and washed and prayed and waited.
Years came and went. Asa Scranton in the mines and Martha Scranton at home were growing older. The miners liked Asa, though he joined little in their merry-making, and got the name of being miserly. They could not know that he was saving his money to make Martha rich. Sometimes, when he had earned money enough to work a claim, and had gotten other parties interested, he dug for treasure, but always failed. Then the hole was left in the mountain, and Asa went back to his daily digging in the mines.
His hair grew grayer and his form bent. He would write Martha and Alice and John when he had made his fortune, but not now. He lived alone in his little shanty, often weary, always lonely, “forever unlucky,” as he said, but still hoping that better days would come. Every spare moment he searched the mountains, till it was common talk that Asa Scranton knew every vein of silver and lead in the surrounding country. He would make one last effort. He had been to one spot stealthily, from time to time, where, from the surface ore, he felt sure of success.
But how could he interest capital? He had failed in other projects, and the world did not believe in him. In vain he besought men to join him. He hoarded his money, grew thin from lack of food, dressed in ragged clothes, and still dreamed of future success.
Finally a little money was put into the venture, but no veins worth working were found. Asa was sure they would win if they probed further into the mountain. He labored with men in and out of camp to put in more money. The miners said he was crazy. He certainly was cold and hungry, and well nigh frenzied.
At last he found a German, Hans Bochert, who, like himself, had struggled for years, had lost and won, – with many losings to one winning, – but who, out of pity for the old miner, gave nearly his last dollar to push on the work.
Asa seemed in a half delirium. He would not leave the place day or night. Cold or rain did not deter him, though he seemed ill and broken. Finally the good news came that a big body of ore was struck. Asa Scranton’s face gleamed as though the full sunlight poured upon it. “I’m going to my shanty to write to Martha,” he said, and hurried away. He did not come back in the morning, and Hans Bochert and the other men hastened over to know the reason.
Asa sat in his chair with the same halo about his face – dead from an excess of joy. On a paper, on the little table, was the letter he had begun to write to Martha Scranton at Fairport: “Darling Wife: I have struck it rich, and you and the children” —
The pen had fallen from his hand.
