Miss Fanny Borlan found Jack awaiting her at San Francisco.
"What made you run away?"
"Why, Fanny, didn't Tom tell you about it?" queried Jack.
"Tom? Oh, you mean Mr. Ruger. He only sent me down here."
"Just like him, Fan; very few words he ever wastes. Ah, sister, we don't have such men out East."
"So the stage-driver told me," said Fanny, demurely.
"There, Fan, you're poking fun now. Wait till I get through. Only for Tom, you would have found me at Ten Mile Gulch, hanging by the neck to the limb of that tree just in front of the Home."
"Hanging, Jack?"
"Hanging, Fan—lynched for a murder I never committed. Tom came along just in the nick of time, and—Well, Fan, perhaps you saw some of the Ten Milers before you came away?"
"Yes, Jack; and there was only one whole nose in the lot, and I do believe that was out of joint. But, oh, Jack! if they had taken your life!"
"Never mind now, sis. Tom was too many for 'em; and here I am safe. We'll wait here till Tom comes down, for I've got one of his horses, which he thinks more of than he does of himself; then for home, sis."
Mr. Tom Ruger went down, as he said he would, and remained with them several days. On the morning that they were to sail, Fanny said to Tom:
"I wish you were going with us, Mr. Ruger. We shall miss you very much. Won't you go?"
Mr. Ruger was talking with Jack at the time, but he heard Fanny—he always heard whatshesaid.
He did not reply at once, however, but said to Jack, in a low tone:
"Jack, you know what Ihavebeen—can I ever become worthy of her?"
And Jack answered, promptly:
"God bless you, Tom, you are worthy now!"
"Thank you, Jack—if you believe!"
Then he went over to Fanny.
"I will go," was all he said.
It was a great wonder to both Jack and his sister how Tom could have got ready for the journey on so short a notice; but one day, more than a year afterward, Tom said to Jack:
"Old friend, I'm not what I was, I hope. Ever since I first saw Fanny on the road to Ten Mile Gulch, I have tried to live differently. I hope I am better, for she said last night that she would take me for better or worse."
And Jack wondered no more.
CAPTAIN SAM'S CHANGE.
CAPTAIN SAM'S CHANGE.
"Well, there's nothin' to do, but to hev faith, an' keep a-tryin'."
The speaker was old Mrs. Simmons, boarding-house keeper, and resident of a certain town on the Ohio River. The prime cause of her remark was Captain Sam Toppie, of the steamboat Queen Ann.
Captain Sam had stopped with Mrs. Simmons every time the Queen Ann laid up for repairs, and he was so genial, frank and manly, that he had found a warm spot in the good old lady's heart.
But one thing marred the otherwise perfect happiness of Mrs. Simmons when in Captain Sam's society, and that was what she styled his "lost condition." For Mrs. Simmons was a consistent, conscientious Methodist, while Captain Sam was—well, he was a Western steamboat captain.
This useful class of gentlemen are in high repute among shippers and barkeepers, and receive many handsome compliments from the daily papers along the line of the Western rivers; but, somehow, the religious Press is entirely silent about them, nor have we ever seen of any special mission having been sent to them.
Captain Sam was a good specimen of the fraternity—good-looking, good-natured, quick-witted, prompt, and faithful, as well as quick-tempered, profane, and perpetually thirsty. To carry a full load, put his boat through in time, and always drink up to his peg, were his cardinal principles, and he faithfully lived up to them.
Of the fair sex he was a most devoted admirer, and if he had not possessed a great deal of modesty, for a steamboat captain, he could have named two or three score of young women who thought almost as much of him as the worthy boarding-house keeper did.
Good Mrs. Simmons had, to use her own language, "kerried him before the Lord, and wrastled for him;" but it was very evident, from Sam's walk and conversation, that his case had not yet been adjudicated according to Mrs. Simmons's liking.
He still had occasional difficulties with the hat-stand and stairway after coming home late at night; his breath, though generally odorous, seemed to grieve Mrs. Simmons's olfactories, and his conversation, as heard through his open door in Summer, was thickly seasoned with expressions far more Scriptural than reverential.
One Christmas, the old lady presented to the captain a handsome Bible, with his name stamped in large gilt letters on the cover. He was so delighted and so proud of his present, that he straightway wrapped it in many folds of paper to prevent its being soiled, and then stowed it neatly away in the Queen Ann's safe, for secure keeping.
When he told Mrs. Simmons what he had done, she sighed deeply; but fully alive to the importance of the case, promised him a common one, not too good to read daily.
"Daily! Bless you, Mrs. Simmons! Why, I hardly have time to look in the paper, and see who's gone up, and who's gone down, and who's been beat."
"But your better part, cap'en?" pleaded the old lady.
"I—I don't know, my good woman—hard to find it, I guess—the hull lot averages purty low."
"But, cap'en," she continued, "don't you feel your need of a change?"
"Not from the Queen Ann, ma'am—she only needs bigger engines—"
"Change of heart, I mean, cap'en," interrupted Mrs. Simmons. "Don't you feel your need of religion?"
"Ha! ha!" roared Captain Sam; "the idea of a steamboat captain with religion! Why, bless your dear, innocent, old soul, the fust time he wanted to wood up in a hurry, his religion would git, quicker'n lightnin'. The only steamboatman I ever knowed in the meetin'-house line went up for seven year for settin' fire to his own boat to git the insurance."
Mrs. Simmons could not recall at the moment the remembrance of any pious captain, so she ceased laboring with Captain Sam. But when he went out, she placed on his table a tract, entitled "The Furnace Seven Times Heated," which tract the captain considerately handed to his engineer, supposing it to be a circular on intensified caloric.
Year after year the captain laid up for repairs, and put up with Mrs. Simmons. Year after year he was jolly, genial, chivalrous, generous, but—not what good Mrs. Simmons earnestly wanted him to be.
He would buy tickets to all the church fairs, give free passages to all preachers recommended by Mrs. Simmons, and on Sunday morning he would respectfully escort the old lady as far as the church-door.
On one occasion, when Mrs. Simmons's church building was struck by lightning, a deacon dropped in with a subscription-paper, while the captain was in. The generous steamboatman immediately put himself down for fifty dollars; and although he improved the occasion to condemn severely the meanness of certain holy people, and though his language seemed to create an atmosphere which must certainly melt the money—for those were specie days—Mrs. Simmons declared to herself that "he couldn't be fur from the kingdom when his heart was so little set on Mammon as that."
"He's too good for Satan—the Lordmusthev him," thought the good old lady.
Once again the Queen Ann needed repairing, and again the captain found himself at his old boarding-place.
Good Mrs. Simmons surveyed him tenderly through her glasses, and instantly saw there had something unusual happened. Could it be—oh! if it onlycouldbe—that he had put off the old man, which is sin! She longed to ask him, yet, with a woman's natural delicacy, she determined to find out without direct questioning.
"Good season, cap'en?" she inquired.
"A No. 1, ma'am—positively first-class," replied the captain.
"Hed good health—no ager?" she continued.
"Never was better, my dear woman—healthy right to the top notch," he answered.
"It must be," said good Mrs. Simmons, to herself—"it can't be nothin' else. Bless the Lord!"
This pious sentiment she followed up by a hymn, whose irregularities of time and tune were fully atoned for by the spirit with which she sung. A knock at the door interrupted her.
"Come in!" she cried.
Captain Sam entered, and laid a good-sized, flat flask on the table, saying:
"I've just been unpackin', an' I found this; p'r'aps you ken use it fur cookin'. It's no use to me; I've sworn off drinkin'."
And before the astonished lady could say a word, he was gone.
But the good soul could endure the suspense no longer. She hurried to the door, and cried:
"Cap'en!"
"That's me," answered Captain Sam, returning.
"Cap'en," said Mrs. Simmons, in a voice in which solemnity and excitement struggled for the mastery, "hez the Lord sent His angel unto you?"
"He hez," replied the captain, in a very decided tone, and abruptly turned, and hurried to his own room.
"Bless the Lord, O my soul!" almost shouted Mrs. Simmons, in her ecstacy. "We musn't worry them that's weak in the faith, but I sha'n't be satisfied till I hear him tell his experience. Oh,whata blessed thing to relate at prayer-meetin' to-night!"
There was, indeed, a rattling of dry bones at the prayer-meeting that night, for it was the first time in the history of the church that the conversion of a steamboat captain had been reported.
On returning home from the meeting, additional proof awaited the happy old saint. The captain was in his room—in his room at nine o'clock in the evening! She had known the captain for years, but he had never before got in so early. There could be no doubt about it, though—there he was, softly whistling.
"I'd rather hear him whistlin' Windham or Boylston," thought Mrs. Simmons; "that tune don't fit any hymnIknow. P'r'aps, though, they sing it in some of them churches up to Cincinnaty," she charitably continued.
"Cap'en," said she, at breakfast, next morning, when the other guests had departed, "is your mind at peace?"
"Peace?" echoed the captain—"peaceful as the Ohio at low water."
The captain's simile was not so Scriptural as the old lady could have desired, but she remembered that he was but a young convert, and that holy conversation was a matter of gradual attainment. So, simply and piously making the best of it, she fervently exclaimed:
"That it may ever be thus is my earnest prayer, cap'en."
"Amen to that," said Captain Sam, very heartily, upsetting the chair in his haste to get out of the room.
For several days Mrs. Simmons lived in a state of bliss unknown to boarding-house keepers, whose joys come only from a sense of provisions purchased cheaply and paying boarders secured.
From the kitchen, the dining-room, or wherever she was, issued sounds of praise and devotion, intoned to some familiar church melody. Scrubbing the kitchen-floor dampened not her ardor, and even the fateful washing-day produced no visible effects on her spirits. From over the bread-pan she sent exultant strains to echo through the house, and her fists vigorously marked time in the yielding dough. From the third-story window, as she hung out the bed-linen to air, her holy notes fell on the ears of passing teamsters, and caused them to cast wondering glances upward. What was the heat of the kitchen-stove to her, now that Captain Sam was insured against flames eternal? What, now, was even money, since Captain Sam had laid up his treasures above?
And the captain's presence, which had always comforted her, was now a perpetual blessing. Always pleasant, kind, and courteous, as of old, but oh, so different!
All the coal-scuttles and water-pails in the house might occupy the stairway at night, but the captain could safely thread his way among them.
No longer did she hurry past his door, with her fingers ready, at the slightest alarm, to act as compressors to her ears; no, the captain's language, though not exactly religious, was eminently proper.
He was at home so much evenings, that his lamp consumed more oil in a week than it used to in months; but the old lady cheerfully refilled it, and complained not that the captain's goodness was costly.
The captain brought home a book or two daily, and left them in his room, seeing which, his self-denying hostess carried up the two flights of stairs her own copies of "Clarke's Commentaries," "The Saints' Best," "Joy's Exercises," and "Morning and Night Watches," and arranged them neatly on his table.
Finally, after a few days, Captain Sam seemed to have something to say—something which his usual power of speech was scarcely equal to. Mrs. Simmons gave him every opportunity.
At last, when he ejaculated, "Mrs. Simmons," just as she was carrying her beloved glass preserve-dish to its place in the parlor-closet, she was so excited that she dropped the brittle treasure, and uttered not a moan over the fragments.
"Mrs. Simmons, I've made up my mind to lead an entirely new life," said the captain, gravely.
"It's what I've been hopin' fur years an' years, cap'en," responded the happy old lady.
"Hev you, though? God bless your motherly old soul," said the captain, warmly. "Well, I've turned over a new leaf, and it don't git turned back again."
"That's right," said Mrs. Simmons, with a happy tear under each spectacle-glass. "Fight the good fight, cap'en."
"Just my little game," continued the captain. "'Tain't ev'ry day that a man ken find an angel willin' to look out fur him, Mrs. Simmons."
"An angel! Oh, cap'en, how richly blessed you hev been!" sobbed Mrs. Simmons. "Many's the one that hez prayed all their lives long for the comin' of a good sperrit to guide 'em."
"Well,I'vegot one, sure pop," continued Captain Sam; "and happy ain't any kind of a name fur what I be all the time now."
"Bless you!" said the good woman, wringing the captain's hand fervidly. "But you'll hev times of trouble an' doubt, off an' on."
"Is that so?" asked the captain, thoughtfully.
"Yes," continued Mrs. Simmons; "but don't be afeard; ev'ry thing'll come right in the end. I know—I've been through it all."
"That's so," said the captain, "you hev that. Well, now, would you mind interdoosin' me to your minister?"
"Mind!" said the good old lady. "I've been a-dyin' to do it ever since you come. I've told him about it, and he's ez glad fur you ez I am."
"Oh!" said the captain, looking a little confused, "you suspected it, did you?"
"From the very minute you fust kem," replied Mrs. Simmons; "I know the signs."
"Well," said the captain, "might ez well see him fust as last then, I reckon."
"I'll get ready right away," said Mrs. Simmons. And away she hurried, leaving the captain greatly puzzled.
The old lady put on her newest bombazine dress—all this happened ten years ago, ladies—and a hat to match.
Never before had these articles of dress been seen by the irreligious light of a weekday; the day seemed fully as holy as an ordinary Sabbath.
They attracted considerable attention, in their good clothes and solemn faces, and finally, as they stood on the parson's doorstep, two of the captain's own deckhands saw him, and straightway drank themselves into a state of beastly intoxication in trying to decide what the captain could want of a preacher.
The minister entered, cordially greeted Mrs. Simmons, and expressed his pleasure at forming the captain's acquaintance.
"Parson," said the captain, in trembling accents—"don't go away, Mrs. Simmons—parson, my good friend here tells me you know all about my case; now the question is, how soon can you do the business?"
The reverend gentleman shivered a little at hearing the word "business" applied to holy things, but replied, in excellent temper:
"The next opportunity will occur on the first Sabbath of the coming month, and I shall be truly delighted to gather into our fold one whose many worthy qualities have been made known to us by our dearly beloved sister Simmons. And let me further remind you that there is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, and that therefore—"
"Just so, parson," interrupted the captain, wincing a little, and looking exceedingly puzzled—"just so; but ain't thar no day but Sunday for a man to be married—"
"Married!" ejaculated the minister, looking inquiringly at Mrs. Simmons.
"Married!" screamed the old lady, staring wildly at the captain—"married! Oh, what shall I do? I thought you'd experienced a change! And I've told everybody about it!"
The captain burst into a laugh, which made the minister's chandeliers rattle, and the holy man himself, seeing through the mistake, heartily joined the captain.
But poor Mrs. Simmons burst into an agony of tears.
"My dear, good old friend," said the captain, tenderly putting his arm about her, "I'm very sorry you have been disappointed; but one thing at a time, you know. When you see my angel, you'll think I'm in a fair way to be an angel myself some day, I guess. Annie's her name—Annie May—an' I've named the boat after her. Don't take on so, an' I'll show you the old boat, new painted, an' the name Annie May stuck on wherever there's a chance."
But the good old woman only wrung her hands, and exclaimed:
"Thar's a lovely experience completely spiled—completely spiled!"
At length she was quieted and escorted home, and a few days afterward appeared, in smiles and the new bombazine, at the captain's wedding.
The bride, a motherless girl, speedily adopted Mrs. Simmons as mother, and made many happy hours for the old lady; but that venerable and pious person is frequently heard to say to herself, in periods of thoughtfulness:
"A lovely experience completely spiled!"
The captain burst into a laugh.The captain burst into a laugh, which madethe minister's chandeliers rattle.
The captain burst into a laugh.The captain burst into a laugh, which madethe minister's chandeliers rattle.
MISS FEWNE'S LAST CONQUEST.
MISS FEWNE'S LAST CONQUEST.
How many conquests Mabel Fewne had made since she had entered society no one was able to tell. Perhaps the conqueror herself kept some record of the havoc she had worked, but if she did, no one but herself ever saw it. Even such of her rivals as were envious admitted that Miss Fewne's victims could be counted by dozens, while the men who came under the influence of that charming young lady were wont to compute their fellow-sufferers by the hundred. It mattered not where Miss Fewne spent her time: whether she enjoyed the season in New York or Washington, Baltimore or Boston, she found that climatic surroundings did not in the least change the conduct of men toward her. In what her attractions especially consisted, her critics and admirers were not all agreed. Palette, the artist, who was among her earliest victims, said she was the embodiment of all ideal harmonies; while old Coupon, who at sixty offered her himself and his property, declared in confidence to another unfortunate that what took him was her solid sense. At least one young man, who thought himself a poet, fell in love with her for what he called the golden foam of her hair; a theological student went into pious ecstasy (and subsequent dejection) over the spiritual light of her eyes. The habitual pose of her pretty fingers accounted for the awkward attentions of at least a score of young men, and the piquancy of her manner attracted, to their certain detriment, all the professional beaus who met her. And yet, a clear-headed literary Bostonian declared that she was better read than some of his distinguishedconfreres; while a member of Congress excused himself for monopolizing her for an entire half-hour, at an evening party, by saying that Miss Fewne talked politics so sensibly, that for the first time in his life he had learned how much he himself knew. As for the ladies, some said any one could get as much admiration as Mabel Fewne if they could dress as expensively; others said she was so skillful a flirt that no man could see through her wily ways; two or three inclined to the theory of personal magnetism; while a few brave women said that Mabel was so pretty and tasteful, and modest and sensible and sweet, that men would be idiots if they didn't fall in love with her at sight.
But one season came in which those who envied and feared Mabel were left in peace, for that young lady determined to spend the Winter with her sister, who was the wife of a military officer stationed at Smithton, in the Far West. Smithton was a small town, but a pleasant one; it had a railroad and mines; a government land office was established there, as was the State Government also; trading was incessant, money was plenty, so men of wit and culture came there to pay their respects to the almighty dollar; and as there were nearly two-score of refined ladies in the town, society was delightful to the fullest extent of its existence. And Mabel Fewne enjoyed it intensely; the change of air and of scene gave stimulus to her spirits and new grace to her form and features, so that she soon had at her feet all the unmarried men in Smithton, while many sober Benedicts admired as much as they could safely do without transferring their allegiance.
Smithton was not inhabited exclusively by people of energy and culture. New settlements, like all other things new, powerfully attract incapables, and Smithton was no excuse to the rule. In one portion of it, yclept "the End," were gathered many characters more odd than interesting. Their local habitations seemed to be the liquor-shops which fairly filled that portion of the town. About the doors of these shops the "Enders" were most frequently seen. If one of them chanced to stray into the business street of the town, he seemed as greatly confused and troubled as a lost boy. In his own quarter, however, and among his own kind, the Ender displayed a composure which was simply superb. No one could pass through the End by daylight without seeing many of the inhabitants thereof leaning against fences, trees, buildings, and such other objects as could sustain without assistance the weight of the human frame. From these points of support the Enders would contemplate whatever was transpiring about them, with that immobility of countenance which characterizes the finished tourist and the North American Indian. There were occasions when these self-possessed beings assumed erect positions and manifested ordinary human interest. One of these was the breaking out of a fight between either men or animals; another was the passing of a lady of either handsome face or showy dress. So it happened that, when pretty, well-dressed Mabel Fewne was enjoying a drive with one of her admirers, there was quite a stir among such Enders as chanced to see her. The venders of the beverages for which the Enders spent most of their money noticed that, upon that particular afternoon, an unusual proportion of their customers stood at the bar with no assistance from the bar itself, that some spirit was manifest in their walk and conversation, and yet they were less than usual inclined to be quarrelsome. So great was the excitement caused by Miss Fewne's appearance, that one Ender was heard to ask another who she was—an exhibition of curiosity very unusual in that part of the town. Even more: One member of that apparently hopeless gang was known to wash his face and hands, purchase a suit of cheap—but new and clean—clothing, and take an eastern-bound train, presumably to appear among respectable people he had known during some earlier period of his existence.
On the evening of the next day a delightful little party was enjoyed by the well-to-do inhabitants of Smithton. New as was the town, the parlors of Mrs. General Wader (her husband was something for the railway company) were handsomely furnished, the ladies were elaborately dressed, the gentlemen lacked not one of the funereal garments which men elsewhere wear to evening parties, and stupid people were noticeably rarer than, in similar social gatherings, in older communities. Mabel Fewne was there, and as human nature is the same at Smithton as in the East, she was the belle of the evening. She entered the room on the arm of her brother-in-law, and that warrior's height, breadth, bronzed countenance and severe uniform, made all the more striking the figure which, clad apparently in a pale blue cloud, edged with silver and crowned with gold, floated beside him. Men crowded about her at once, and the other ladies present had almost undisturbed opportunity in which to converse with each other.
At the End there was likewise a social gathering. The place was Drake's saloon, and the guests were self-invited. Their toilets, though unusual, scarcely require description, and a list of their diversions would not interest people of taste Refreshments were as plentiful as at Mrs. Wader's, and, after the manner of refreshments everywhere, they caused a general unbending of spirits. Not all the effects were pleasing to contemplate. One of them was a pistol-shot, which, missing the man for whom it was intended, struck a person called Baggs, and remarkable only for general worthlessness. Baggs had a physical system of the conventional type, however, and the bullet caused some disarrangement so radical in its nature, that Baggs was soon stretched upon the floor of the saloon, with a face much whiter than he usually wore. The barkeeper poured out a glass of brandy, and passed it over the bar, but the wounded man declined it; he also rejected a box of pills which was proffered. An Ender, who claimed to have been a physician, stooped over the victim, felt his pulse, and remarked:
"Baggs, you're a goner."
"I know it," said Baggs; "and I want to be prayed for."
The barkeeper looked puzzled. He was a public-spirited man, whose heart and pocket were open to people in real trouble, but for prayers he had never been asked before, and, was entirely destitute of them. He felt relieved when one of his customers—a leaden-visaged man, with bulbous nose and a bad temper—advanced toward the wounded man, raised one hand, threw his head back a trifle, and exclaimed:
"Once in grace, always in grace. I'vebeenthere, I know. Let us pray."
The victim waived his hand impatiently, and faintly exclaimed:
"Youwon't do; somebody that's better acquainted with God thanyouare must do it."
"But, Baggs," reasoned the barkeeper, "perhaps he's been a preacher—you'd better not throw away a chance."
"Don't care if he has," whispered Baggs; "he don't look like any of the prayin' people mother used to know."
The would-be petitioner took his rebuff considerably to heart, and began, in a low and rapid voice, an argument with himself upon the duration of the state of grace. The Enders listened but indifferently, however; the dying man was more interesting to them than living questions, for he had no capacity for annoyance. The barkeeper scratched his head and pinched his brow, but, gaining no idea thereby, he asked:
"Doyouknow the right man, Baggs?"
"Not here, I don't," gasped the sufferer; "not the rightman."
The emphasis on the last word was not unheeded by the bystanders; they looked at each other with as much astonishment as Enders were capable of displaying, and thrust their hands deep into the pockets of their pantaloons, in token of their inability to handle the case. Baggs spoke again.
"I wish mother was here!" he said. "She'dknow just to say and how to say it."
"She's too far away; leastways, I suppose she is," said the barkeeper.
"I know it," whispered the wounded man; "an' yet a woman—"
Baggs looked inquiringly, appealingly about him, but seemed unable to finish his sentence. His glance finally rested upon Brownie, a man as characteristic as himself, but at times displaying rather more heart than was common among Enders. Brownie obeyed the summons, and stooped beside Baggs. The bystanders noticed that there followed some whispering, at times shame-faced, and then in the agony of earnestness on the part of Baggs, and replied to by Brownie with averted face and eyes gazing into nowhere.
Finally Brownie arose with an un-Ender-like decision, and left the saloon. No one else said much, but there seemed to circulate an impression that Baggs was consuming more time than was customary at the End.
Very different was the scene in Mrs. Wader's parlor; instead of a dying man surrounded by uncouth beings, there stood a beautiful woman, radiant with health and animation; while about her stood a throng of well-dressed gentlemen, some of them handsome, all of them smart, and each one craving a smile, a word, or a look. Suddenly the pompous voice of General Wader arose:
"Most astonishing thing I ever heard of," said he. "An Ender has the impudence to ask to see Miss Fewne!"
"An Ender?" exclaimed the lady, her pretty lips parting with surprise.
"Yes, and he declares you could not have the heart to say no, if you knew his story."
"Is it possible, Miss Fewne," asked one admirer, "that your cruelty can have driven any one to have become an Ender?"
Mabel's eyes seemed to glance inward, and she made no reply. She honestly believed she had never knowingly encouraged a man to become her victim; yet she had heard of men doing very silly things when they thought themselves disappointed in love. She cast a look of timid inquiry at her host.
"Oh, perfectly safe, if you like," said the general. "The fellow is at the door, and several of our guests are in the hall."
Miss Fewne looked serious, and hurried to the door. She saw a man in shabby clothing and with unkempt beard and hair, yet with a not unpleasing expression.
"Madame," said he, "I'm a loafer, but I've been a gentleman, and I know better than to intrude without a good cause. The cause is a dying man. He's as rough and worthless as I am, but all the roughness has gone out of him, just now, and he's thinking about his mother and a sweetheart he used to have. He wants some one to pray for him—some one as unlike himself and his associates as possible. He cried for his mother—then he whispered to me that he had seen, here in Smithton, a lady that looked like an angel—seen her driving only to-day. He meant you. He isn't pretty; but, when adyingman says a lady is an angel, he means what he says."
Two or three moments later Miss Fewne, with a very pale face, and with her brother-in-law as escort, was following Brownie. The door of the saloon was thrown open, and when the Enders saw who was following Brownie they cowered and fell back as if a sheriff with hispossehad appeared. The lady looked quickly about her, until her eye rested upon the figure of the wounded man; him she approached, and as she looked down her lip began to tremble.
"I didn't mean it," whispered Baggs, self-depreciation and pain striving for the possession of his face. "If I hadn't have been a-goin', I shouldn't have thought of such a thing, but dyin' takes away one's reg'lar senses. It's not my fault, ma'am, but when I thought about what mother used to say about heaven,youcame into my mind. I felt as if I was insultin' you just by thinkin' about you—a feller such as me to be thinking about such a lady. I tried to see mother an' Liz, my sweetheart that was, just as I've seen 'em when my eyes was shut, but I couldn't see nothin' but you, the way you looked goin' along that road and makin' the End look bright. I'd shoot myself for the imperdence of the thing if I was goin' to get well again, but I ain't. Ther needs to be a word said for me by somebody—somebody that don't chaw, nor drink, nor swear—somebody that'll catch God's eye if He happens to be lookin' down—and I never saw that kind of a person in Smithton till to-day."
Mabel stood speechless, with a tear in each eye.
"Don't, if you don't think best," continued Baggs. "I'd rather go to—to t'other place than bother a lady. Don't speak a word, if you don't want to; but mebbe you'llthinkthe least thing? Godcan'trefuseyou. But if you think t'other place is best for me, all right."
The fright, the sense of strangeness, were slowly departing from Mabel, and as she recovered herself her heart seemed to come into her face and eyes.
"Ev'rybody about here is rough, or dirty, or mean, or rich, or proud, or somethin'," continued the dying man, in a thin yet earnest voice. "It's all as good as I deserve; but my heart's ached sometimes to look at somebody that would keep me from b'leevin' that ev'rything was black an' awful. And I've seen her. Can I just touch my finger to your dress? I've heard mother read how that somebody in the Old Country was once made all right by just touchin' the clothes Christ had on."
In his earnestness, the wretched man had raised himself upon one elbow, and out of his face had departed every expression but one of pitiful pleading. Still Mabel could not speak; but, bending slightly forward, she extended one of her slender, dainty hands toward the one which Baggs had raised in his appeal.
"White—shining—good—all right," he murmured. Then all of Baggs which fell back upon the floor was clay.
With the prudence of a conqueror, who knows when the full extent of his powers has been reached, Mabel Fewne married within six months. The happy man was not a new conquest, but an old victim, who was willfully pardoned with such skill, that he never doubted that his acceptance to favor was the result of the renewal of his homage.
MARKSON'S HOUSE.
MARKSON'S HOUSE.
Raines is my name—Joseph Raines. I am a house-builder by profession, and as I do not often see my writings in print, except as prepaid advertisements, I consider this a good opportunity to say to the public in general that I can build as good a house for a given sum of money as any other builder, and that I am a square man to deal with. I am aware of the fact that both of these assertions have been made by many other persons about themselves; but to prove their trustworthiness when uttered by me, the public needs only to give me a trial. (In justice to other builders, I must admit they can use even this last statement of mine with perfect safety for the present, and with prospective profit if they get a contract to build a house.)
I suppose it will be considered very presumptuous in me to attempt to write a story, for, while some professions seem relatives of literature, I freely admit that there is no carpenter's tool which prepares one to handle a pen. To be sure, I have read some stories which, it seemed to me, could have been improved by the judicious use of a handsaw, had that extremely radical tool been able to work aesthetically as it does practically; and while I have read certain other stories, and essays, and poems, I have been tormented by an intense desire to apply to them a smoothing-plane, a pair of compasses, or a square, or even to so far interfere with their arrangement as to cut a window-hole or two, and an occasional ventilator. Still, admitting that the carpenter should stick to his bench—or to his office or carriage, if he is a master builder, as I am—I must yet insist that there are occasions when a man is absolutely compelled to handle tools to which he is not accustomed. Doctor Buzzle, my own revered pastor, established this principle firmly in my mind one day by means of a mild rebuke, administered on the occasion of my volunteering to repair some old chairs which had come down to him through several generations. The doctor was at work upon them himself, and although he seemed to regard the very chips and sawdust—even such as found a way into his eyes—with a reverent affection, he was certainly ruining good material in a shocking manner. But when I proffered my assistance, he replied:
"Thank you, Joseph; but—they wouldn't be the same chairs if any one else touched them."
I feel similarly about the matter of my story—perhaps you will understand why as you read it.
When I had finished my apprenticeship, people seemed to like me, and some of our principal men advised me to stay at Bartley, my native village—it was so near the city, they said, and would soon fill up with city people, who would want villas and cottages built. So I staid, and between small jobs of repairing, and contracts to build fences, stables and carriage-houses, I managed to keep myself busy, and to save a little money after I had paid my bills.
One day it was understood that a gentleman from the city had bought a villa site overlooking the town, and intended to build very soon. I immediately wrote him a note, saying I would be glad to see his plans and make an estimate; and in the course of time the plans were sent me, and I am happy to say that I under-estimated every one, even my own old employer.
Then the gentleman—Markson his name was—drove out to see me, and he put me through a severe course of questions, until I wondered if he was not some distinguished architect. But he wasn't—he was a shipping-merchant. It's certainly astonishing how smart some of those city fellows are about everything.
The upshot was, he gave me the contract, and a very pretty one it was: ten thousand three hundred and forty dollars. To be sure, he made me alter the specifications so that the sills should be of stuff ten inches square, instead of the thin stuff we usually use for the sills of balloon-frame houses, such as his was to be; and though the alteration would add quite a few dollars to the cost of materials, I did not dare to add a cent to my estimate, for fear of losing the contract. Besides—though, of course, I did not intend to do so dishonorable a thing—I knew that I could easily make up the difference by using cheap paint instead of good English lead for priming, or in either one of a dozen other ways; builders have such tricks, just as ministers and manufacturers and railroadmen do.
I felt considerably stuck up at getting Markson's house to build, and my friends said I had a perfect right to feel so, for no house so costly had been built at Bartley for several years.
So anxious were my friends that I should make a first-class job of it, that they all dropped in to discuss the plan with me, and to give me some advice, until—thanks to their thoughtful kindness—my head would have been in a muddle had the contemplated structure been a cheap barn instead of a costly villa.
But, by a careful review of the original plan every night after my friends departed, and a thoughtful study of it each morning before going to work, I succeeded in completing it according to the ideas of the only two persons really concerned—I refer to Mr. Markson and myself.
Admitting in advance that there is in the house-building business very little that teaches a man to be a literary critic, I must nevertheless say that many poets of ancient and modern times might have found the building of a house a far more inspiring theme than some upon which they have written, and even a more respectable one than certain others which some distinguished rhymers have unfortunately selected.
I have always wondered why, after Mr. Longfellow wrote "The Building of a Ship," some one did not exercise his muse upon a house. I never attempted poetry myself, except upon my first baby, and eventhoseverses I transcribed with my left hand, so they might not betray me to the editor of the BartleyConservator, to whom I sent them, and by whom they were published.
I say I never attempted poetry-writing save once; but sometimes when I am working on a house, and think of all that must transpire within it—of the precious ones who will escape, no matter how strongly I build the walls; of the destroyer who will get in, in spite of the improved locks I put on all my houses; of the darkness which cannot at times be dispelled, no matter how large the windows, nor how perfect the glass may be (I am very particular about the glass I put in); of the occasional joys which seem meet for heavenly mansions not built by contract; of the unseen heroisms greater than any that men have ever cheered, and the conquests in comparison with which the achievements of mighty kings are only as splintery hemlock to Georgia pine—when I think of all this, I am so lifted above all that is prosaic and matter-of-fact, that I am likely even to forget that I am working by contract instead of by the day.
Besides, Markson's house was my first job on a residence, and it was a large one, and I was young, and full of what I fancied were original ideas of taste and effect; and as I was unmarried, and without any special lady friend, I was completely absorbed in Markson's house.
How it would look when it was finished; what views it would command; whether its architectural style was not rather subdued, considering the picturesque old hemlocks which stood near by; what particular shade of color would be effective alike to the distant observer and to those who stood close by when the light reached it only through the green of the hemlock; just what color and blending of slate to select, so the steep-pitched roof should not impart a sombre effect to the whole house; how much money I would make on it (for this is a matter of utter uncertainty until your work is done, and you know what you've paid out and what you get); whether Markson could influence his friends in my favor; what sort of a family he had, and whether they were worthy of the extra pains I was taking on their house—these and a thousand other wonderings and reveries kept possession of my mind; while the natural pride and hope and confidence of a young man turned to sweet music the sound of saw and hammer and trowel, and even translated the rustling of pine shavings with hopeful whispers.
The foundations had been laid, and the sills placed in position, and I was expecting to go on with the work as soon as Markson himself had inspected the sills—this, he said, he wished to do before anything further was done; and, so that he might not have any fault to find with them, I had them sawn to order, and made half an inch larger each way, so they couldn't possibly shrink before he could measure them.
The night before he was to come up and examine them, I was struck at the supper-table by the idea that perhaps, from one of the western chamber-windows, there might be seen the river which lay, between the hills, a couple of miles beyond. As the moon was up and full, I could not rest until I had ascertained whether I was right or wrong; so I put a twenty-foot tapeline in my pocket, and hurried off to the hill where the house was to stand.
Foundation three feet, height of parlor ceilings twelve feet, allow for floors two feet more, made the chamber-floor seventeen feet above the level of the ground.
Climbing one of the hemlocks which I thought must be in line with the river and the window, I dropped my line until I had unrolled seventeen feet, and then ascended until the end of the line just touched the ground. I found I was right in my supposition; and in the clear, mellow light of the moon the river, the hills and valleys, woods, fields, orchards, houses and rocks (the latter ugly enough by daylight, and utterly useless for building purposes) made a picture which set me thinking of a great many exquisite things entirely out of the housebuilding line.
I might have stared till the moon went down, for when I've nothing else to do I dearly enjoy dreaming with my eyes open; but I heard a rustling in the leaves a little way off, and then I heard footsteps, and then, looking downward, I saw a man come up the path, and stop under the tree in which I was.
Of course I wondered what he wanted; I should have done so, even if I had had no business there myself; but under the circumstances, I became very much excited.
Who could it be? Perhaps some rival builder, come to take revenge by setting my lumber afire! I would go down and reason with him. But, wait a moment; if hehascome for that purpose, he may make things uncomfortable for me before I reach the ground. And if he sets the lumber afire, and it catches the tree I am in, as it will certainly do, I will be—
There is no knowing what sort of a quandary I might not have got into if the man had not stepped out into the moonlight, and up on the sills, and shown himself to be—Mr. Markson.
"Well," I thought, "youarethe most particular man I ever knew—and the most anxious! I don't know, though—it's natural enough; ifIcan't keep away from this house, it's not strange thatheshould want to see all of it he can. It's natural enough, and it does him credit."
But Mr. Markson's next action was neither natural nor to his credit. He took off his traveling shawl, and disclosed a carpenter's brace; this and the shawl he laid on the ground, and then he examined the sills at the corners, where they were joined.
They were only half joined, as we say in the trade—that is, the ends of each piece of timber were sawn half through and the partially detached portions cut out, so that the ends lapped over each other.
Well, Mr. Markson hastily stacked up bricks and boards to the height of the foundation, and then made a similar stack at the other end of the foundation-wall, and then he rolled one of the sills over on these two supports, so it was bottom side up. Then he fitted a bit—a good wide one, an inch and a quarter, at least, I should say—to the brace, and then commenced boring a hole in the sill.
I was astonished, but not too much so to be angry. That piece of timber was mine; Mr. Markson had not paid me a cent yet, and was not to do so until the next morning, after examining the foundations and sills.
I had heard of such tricks before; my old employer had had men secretly injure a building, so as to claim it was not built according to contract when the money came due, but none of them did it so early in the course of the business.
Within a few seconds my opinion of Mr. Markson's smartness altered greatly, and so did my opinion of human nature in general. I would have sadly, but promptly sold out my contract with Mr. Markson for the price of a ticket for the West, and I should have taken the first train.
As he bored that hole I could see just how all the other builders in town would look when I had to take the law on Markson, and how all my friends would come and tell me I ought to have insisted on a payment in advance.
But, after several sorrowful moments had elapsed, I commenced to think, and I soon made up my mind what I would do. I wouldnotdescend from the tree while he was there—I have too much respect for my person to put it at the mercy of an ill-disposed individual. But as soon as he left the place, I would hasten to the ground, follow him, and demand an explanation. He might be armed, but I was, too—there were hard characters at Bartley, and they knew my pocket-book was sometimes full.
Hole after hole that man bored; he made one join another until he had a string of them ten inches long, or thereabouts; then he began another string, right beside the first, and then another.
I saw that his bit went but six or seven inches deep, so that it did not pierce the sill, and I could almost believe him in league with some rival builder to ruin my reputation by turning over, next morning, a log apparently sound, and showing it to be full of holes.
I didn't feel any better-natured, either, when I noticed that he had carefully put a newspaper under where he was boring to catch all the chips, and destroy any idea of the mischief having been done wilfully and on the spot; but I determined I would follow him, and secure that paper of chips as evidence.
Suddenly he stopped boring, and took a chisel from somewhere about his clothes, and he soon chiseled that honeycombed spot into a single hole, about five inches by ten, and six or seven inches deep.
It slowly dawned over me that perhaps his purpose wasn't malicious, after all; and by the time I had reasoned the matter he helped me to a conclusion by taking from his pocket a little flat package, which he put into the hole.
It looked as if it might be papers, or something the size of folded papers; but it was wrapped in something yellow and shiny—oil skin, probably, to keep it from the damp. Then he drove a few little nails inside the holes to keep the package from falling out when the sill was turned over; and then he did something which I never saw mixed with carpenter-work in my life—he stooped and kissed the package as it lay in the hole, and then he knelt on the ground beside the sill, and I could see by his face upturned in the moonlight, showing his closed eyes and moving lips, that he was praying.